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skzdarlings · 11 months ago

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birthday girl ; skz ; seungmin x reader

requested by anonymous: “You keep your hands where they are or I’ll tie them up” with Seungmin + requested by anonymous: ❛ i'm sorry, what was that? i can’t hear you over all that noise you’re making. ❜ is SO seungmin I can’t 😭 + requested by @sealovesbts : ❛ is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them? ❜ x Seungmin djjdjjdjd 🫣

pairing: kim seungmin/reader content info: friends to lovers. boy next door!seungmin, stripper!seungmin. reader is kinda vanilla but gets a couple kinks unlocked: stripping, some power play, seungmin giving orders and her following it, having sex in privacy but a public venue overall. word count: 4100 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy!

You open the door and jump, startled to find Seungmin already standing there with his hand raised to knock. He also looks surprised but he doesn’t shriek like you do. You were already jittery before the jump-scare.

“Seungmin! Sorry!” You put a hand over your heart. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I can see that.” He speaks in his usual dry tone but smiles a lopsided smile.

Kim Seungmin lives in your neighbourhood. You have been amicable a long time so you like to consider him a friend as well. He is an admittedly private person and his personality can be brash, but you find charm in his quirky cheekiness. He is reliable whenever you need a hand.

He is dressed in a hoodie and jeans which is not unusual; he is not very flashy. His bangs sweep his forehead and he smiles a wide, boxy smile as he hands you a gift bag.

“Happy birthday, neighbour,” he says.

“Oh my goodness,” you say, flustered. “Seungmin! You didn’t have to!”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m the greatest,” he quips. While you open the present, he asks, “I guess you’re going out? You’re all dressed up.”

“Oh, um, yes.” You feel shy as he looks at you.

“You look good,” he says.

It makes you even more flustered. You are dressed a little sleeker and sexier than usual. Your sister has arranged your birthday party but you do not know where, only that she said to dress for fun. You are not great with surprises and your sister is a little wild, hence your nerves, but you have decided to leave your comfort zone for one night.

You were not expecting to run into your neighbour, friend, and crush.

Because, yes, you like Seungmin. A lot. Seungmin is very modest, low-key, and hard-working. You know he is at law school and works a few jobs to pay for it. You are not sure where, but he is intelligent and you can imagine him doing anything. His snark is amusing but his dependability and steadfastness is a sexy combination. Your sister has never met him but has often teased you for your so-called boring infatuation, but you disregard the thought. You like Seungmin, shaggy bangs and law school textbooks and all.

A flirtation has been subtly brewing over the last few months. You think the unexpected birthday gift is a step in that direction. Especially when you unwrap a recipe book you off-handedly mentioned a few weeks ago, touched he remembered it at all.

“Oh, thank you, Seungmin,” you say, gushing and sweet. You go to hug him but falter nervously and end up giggling.

He brushes some hair out of his eyes. They seem to sparkle with mirth, or maybe you are just ridiculously head-over-heels.

“You’re kinda goofy, you know that?” he says, but smiles. “I like it.”

“Oh gosh,” you say.

It makes him laugh. Then he says, “I’ll let you get to your party.”

“Oh, it’s just my sister and some girl friends,” you say. “I don’t even know where we’re going. Probably just some food and stuff. You know me. I’m very simple.”

“I do,” he says. “I’d like to know you better, though. Maybe you can make me one of those recipes some time. I like the one on page fifteen.”

You burst out laughing at his audacity, making him laugh too. His teasing successively obliterates your nerves.

“I will,” you say, smiling so big. “Page fifteen. Noted.”

“It’s a date,” he says. “I’ll let you go now. Enjoy your birthday dinner.”

“You too,” you say, then realize that response made no sense so you stutter through a retraction. You stop when he leans in and kisses your cheek, a quick peck that makes your eyes go wide.

“Goofball,” he says and bops your nose while smiling. “See you around, neighbour.”

“Bye, neighbour,” you say, giggling helplessly.

He smiles as he walks away, hands in his pockets, and you are still hugging your book and smiling.

The conversation with Seungmin is your last wholesome birthday moment. You meet your sister and friends only to get whisked off to a placeof complete and utter depravity.

Otherwise known as a club full of male strippers.

You are sitting at a little table, astounded at the room around you. You hold no judgements whatsoever, but between the flashing lights and loud music and, um, prominent bare chests and even more prominent bulges, you are sufficiently overawed.

You cannot help but gawk, mouth open as you look around at everything. It makes your sister and friends laugh. It is not mean but they are undoubtedly amused. Your shy character is the opposite of… this.

“You guys are crazy,” you say, only making them erupt into more giggles.

“You like logic and traditions so consider it a rite of passage, baby sister,” your sister says, slinging her arm around your shoulder and squeezing. “Or, hm, an act of feminism! It’s about equality. We need to objectify and ogle the sexy men on behalf of womankind.”

“How noble of us,” you say dryly, setting off another round of giggles. You shake your head, smiling with amusement too. You are a little embarrassed but it is quite funny, and there is a part of you enjoying something so opposite of your usual quiet scenes.

Amusing is the best word for it, though. None of the men are remotely your type and the relentless hip-thrusting is a bit much. You find yourself laughing into your drink and swaying to music as a few choreographed routines are performed. Some of the more elaborate dances are entertaining.

“The birthday girl likes a pretty boy,” your sister says, conspiring with your friends to find the perfect man to entertain you.

“No, I don’t,” you say. You roll your eyes and playfully shove her shoulder.

“Well,” she says, “there are no boring lawyers on that stage, so a pretty face will have to suffice.”

They proceed to point out a few of the prettier dancers while you shake your head. You turn to watch the stage where a different set of men are in the middle of a routine. There is a very rowdy bachelorette party in front of your table, occasionally blocking the view of one side of the stage. You are sipping you drink when a few girls move, opening the view.

You promptly spit your drink everywhere. Your friends squeal while you choke and there is enough chaos at your table for one of the dancers to look directly at you.

Not just any dancer.

Kim Seungmin.

You have seen that face twice a day every day for months and you still barely recognize him. It is no wonder that even a slightly obstructed view warped him entirely.

Your modest, low-key friend is dazzling under the stage lights, face lightly made-up and his usual shaggy hair pushed back off his face. Is it possible for a glimpse of forehead to so drastically change the composition of a familiar face? He looks like a new man, his features striking on his bright, open face, all framed by neatly styled dark hair. The familiar sparkle in his dark eyes is accentuated by the gleam of something shining around his neck. Necklace? Choker? Collar?

He is in a white dress shirt and blue jeans, ripped at the knee, but everything about him seems illuminated. He is the bold, blazoned fantasy version of the boy next door. Very literally in your case, which is maybe why you think it, watching him cross the stage with more verve and confidence than you knew he possessed. Your Seungmin walks in a casual shuffle, hands in his pockets. He does not stride.

He certainly does not… gyrate. Which is what he is doing when he catches your eye. There is a moment of shared recognition and subsequent surprise, wide-eyed as you hold gazes across a noisy room.

Seungmin, a seemingly consummate professional, blinks the surprise off his face and goes back to his routine.

You are not so practiced. Your surprise stays plastered there, your mouth open and eyes wide as you stare at him. The dance that seemed so exaggerated and ridiculous on the other performers is something else on Seungmin. Maybe it is his character, the boy next door with his ripped jeans and smirking grin. Or maybe it is because he is your boy next door.

He is not ridiculous. Quite the opposite. He makes it look natural, fluid and unhurried with the swivel of his hips and teasing grin. He seems to somehow make eye contact with everyone in the room.

You remind yourself that is his job when his eyes wander back to you. It does not slow the race of your heart.

He sits on a chair and opens his shirt. Some of the other dancers are more than half-naked, but he has a captive audience with the simplest action. Keeping each step to the beat of the music, he reclines and undoes his belt, which makes your lips part. Then he lets his shirt drop down his arms and reveals his shoulders, which makes you gasp. Then he cups a hand between his legs, curving his palm over the not-insubstantial bulge in his jeans. Heat fills the core of you.

He looks right at you with a tilt of his head and a lazy smile, the subtle sort of smirk that does not need to exaggerate. He knows he has you.

“Oh my god,” your friend says. “Not birthday girl eye-fucking a stripper.”

“What!” You rip your attention away all at once, flushed hot from head to toe. “I am not!”

“Well, he was eye-fucking you.”

You take a gigantic gulp of water, though it does not to quell the heat inside. Until today, the most you dared to fantasize about Seungmin was a prolonged kiss on the porch. Seungmin is polite. He does not eye-fuck.

Except you glance over the rim of your cup. He is still looking at you. It is not the way he looks at everyone else, who he skims with a cursory glance and flirtatious wink. It is a lingering, penetrating stare, like he is calling you to him with his eyes alone.

Oh. Gosh. He is eye-fucking you.

“I think,” your sister says, “we found a pretty boy for the birthday girl.”

And that is how you find yourself sitting in a small private room, barely bigger than a coat closet and washed in a dark purple light. You are perched on a plush little seat, holding your handbag so tightly your knuckles start to hurt. You let go and clear your throat, embarrassed even though you are alone. You place the bag on the floor and smooth your hands down the skirt of your dress.

You squeak like a frightened little mouse, jumping when Kim Seungmin startles you for the third time tonight. Once on your doorstep. Once on stage. And now in this little room, silhouetted by the hall lights until he closes the divider. He is still in his ripped jeans and dress shirt, neatly buttoned and composed again.

He runs a hand through his hair which makes your heart skip beats. You feel a little preposterous, scandalized by a forehead, but it makes his gaze so direct. You melt under the intensity of his stare.

“I hear it’s your birthday,” he says.

You imagine yourself as a stranger to him, the same line recited with the same confidence. For some reason, it is just as tantalizing. You like abrasive, quirky law student Kim Seungmin in his hoodie and jeans. But you find yourself irrevocably spellbound by this other version of him, who is so seductive it has women drawing money out of their purses.

“Yes,” is what you say, instead of all that.

He tilts his head, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. He is always clever but his open face makes his scrutiny more apparent. You swallow when he approaches, when he sinks down on one knee while holding your gaze in thrall.

“Breathe,” he says. “That’s not a request.” He rests his hands on the seat, framing your body between them. He does not touch you. He does not need to. Your breath spills free in a rush and he smirks. “Good. All right. So… neighbour… Should we talk?”

You think a thousand thoughts. Yes, a conversation. No, your friends paid for this room. They think you will get a lap dance or something, then return quickly. You want to ask when he is free for dinner. You want to ask how long he has worked here. You want to know him. You really, really want to kiss him.

You say instead, “I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

He looks at you for another moment, still studious. You swallow again. Then he smiles that dastardly grin, wide and a little mean.

“And you want to?” he asks. “Do this sort of thing?”

“Only if it’s you,” you say, then avert your gaze out of embarrassment. Maybe that was too much cringe-worthy honesty.

He touches your chin, drawing your gaze back to him. You blink at him, helpless but to study his face in turn. He was always decently good-looking but he is driving you to complete distraction. You find yourself staring at his lips well before he starts speaking.

“I think you have more depth than either of us know, don’t you?” he asks.

“Maybe,” you say, laughing a little. You look at him with wide, earnest eyes. “Don’t we all?”

He touches his tongue to his upper lip, looking thoughtful but undoubtedly smiling. Then he smacks his lips and nods, his hair bouncing.

“Right,” he says. “In that case, birthday girl…”

He stands and your eyes follow. He holds your gaze until he starts unbuttoning his shirt, then your eyes drop to his hands, the deft flick of his fingers as they crawl down his chest.

A professional, you think. It gets you undeniably hot. You meet his eyes again when he tugs his shirt off and drops it behind him. He is more slender than chiseled, especially compared to some of the other dancers, but there is a firmness to his body, a control he has mastered.

He grabs a bar above your head that you did not even notice, using it to lift and lower himself over you. He lands in a smooth straddle with his knees cradling you under him.

You sit back, breathing harder already. Then he takes your hands and lifts them over your head, making your fingers twitch with anticipation. You are still fully clothed but your dress is sleeveless and low-cut and this feels like a vulnerable position, arms raised with a half-naked Kim Seungmin straddling your body.

He curls your fingers around the bar then drags his knuckle down the bare skin of your arms, making you shiver despite the packed heat of this little room.

“You keep your hands where they are,” he says, “or I’ll tie them up.”

You nod a little frantically and it makes him laugh. Then he is leaning back just enough to rock his body over yours, bringing your attention to every flawless plane of his body as he moves on you. He touches you sparingly, making you watch, making you wonder. Looking and fantasizing about what his hips can really do, what strength is hidden in the body he has mastered. He follows the low music, ever deep thrum of a bass, every heart-pounding beat.

He brings his face close to yours, so close your lips almost touch. It steals your breath like a real kiss would.

“I’m going to touch you,” he says. “Be good for me, birthday girl. Maybe there’s a present in it for you. Only if I like you.”

You cannot find any witty quips to return. He is definitely the experienced one, as effortless with his words as with everything else. You can only gawk at him as he slides smoothly off. Then his hands are on your legs, making them quiver, your body startled with the direct touch despite the warning.

Your skirt gathers just a bit, his hands curling under your knees. Then he is spreading your legs, not enough to see anything but enough you feel the empty space between them. Oh yes, emptier than you have ever felt. You are surprised by the way you clench, your body aching for more. He only teases, makes you feel that emptiness and picture every what if. He helps you with your fantasy, pushing your legs back like he would if he was fucking you deep, rolling his hips so close to yours in mimicry.

“Oh,” is the only sound you make. Your breathing is very loud. It says a lot on its own.

He is breathing a little harder too. He is still between your legs when he starts unbuttoning his jeans. He shuffles them down his hips but not all the way off. You can see he is wearing nothing underneath, the denim itself a suddenly tantalizing piece, slung low on his hips with the subtle sloping v of his body drawing your gaze to his middle.

“I don’t usually go further than this, you know,” he says. He slowly pushes the next button loose and you can feel the rush of heat from your belly swoop lower. His bulge looks obscene at this vantage, pushing at what little remains of the denim around it. “But I think I like you, birthday girl.” He opens another button. “I think I can make an exception.” He pushes the last button then grasps his jeans at the hips, grinning as he says, “Our secret.”

Secret, illicit, that’s what this feels like, looking at the gorgeous man you have been pining after, watching as he pushes his jeans down his hips and thighs. You are tucked in a small room not far away from a rowdy crowd, Kim Seungmin dropping the last of his clothes then continuing his slow and sensual movements.

You feel dizzy, your arms shaking. You close your mouth when you literally salivate, because his dick is right there, hard and curving up in front of you as he moves with skilled ease. You giggle a little nervously when he notices and swipes a thumb across your lips. Then he reaches up, curling his hands over yours on the bar as he leans in close to your face.

“You wanna touch me?” he asks, palms over your knuckles. You nod frantically and he grins that mean smile, tilting his head as he looks down at you. “What will you give me for it?”

“Anything,” you say. “You can do anything to me. You can have all of me.”

It occurs only seconds later he might mean money, but he just laughs, that familiar ha-ha-ha you have heard a dozen times before.

“Is that how you usually get out of these situations?” he teases. “By fucking your way out of them?”

“You’re so mean,” you say with a helpless pout.

“Yeah,” he says, brushing his nose with yours. “I am. I could be worse, but it’s your birthday.” He takes your hands and lowers them, guiding them to his shoulders.

You touch him carefully, as if he is fragile, or like he could disappear beneath your fingertips. This moment hardly seems real, ethereal and bright, all neon and purple haze. This is not like you and that is thrilling. This is all new, but he is also familiar. You are enjoying this, him, you together.

You touch him slowly, with intention, just the gentlest caress across his bare shoulders. It wipes his grin, makes his breathing get all slow like he is savouring it too. He looks at you with more intensity.

“You said I can anything?” he asks.

A nod is all it takes, then he is sinking to his knees. He pushes back a few loose strands of his hair, then his hands are under your knees and he is pulling you to the edge of your seat. You make a little noise of surprise, clutching his shoulders until he manoeuvres you. Then it is your legs on his shoulders and he is running his tongue along your inner thigh.

“Seungmin,” you say, breathlessly.

“Shh, shh,” he says. “Our secret, remember?”

Then he is tugging your now wet panties to the side, his mouth on you in a ravenous motion. You cover your mouth to try and stifle most of your moaning, but you cannot help the few sounds that escape, especially as he takes you closer and closer to a climax. He surfaces, still using his hand to get you close, his lips wet and eyes searching. He smirks, sliding two fingers into you while rolling his thumb across that distended bundle of nerves.

“That’s not quiet, birthday girl,” he says. “Don’t make me gag you.”

“I’m quiet,” is your rasping reply.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asks, fucking his fingers roughly through all the wet desire between your thighs, making you shake. “I can’t hear you over all that noise you’re making,” he says. “It almost sounds like you’re about to come for me. That’s pretty dirty. What would everyone out there say?”

Shocked. They would be shocked if they even believed it. You would not have believed it of yourself a few hours ago. But now you are coming all over his face and hand and it is still not enough. You have never begged for anything but the words are on your lips, your mouth open and eyes wide as you stare at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, fingers swirling at your entrance. He pushes in and out, just his fingertips, tormenting you. “That just made you needier, didn’t it? Tsk.” He sighs dramatically. “I don’t usually offer that. It’ll cost you.”

“I’ll cook the recipe on page sixteen too,” you say, making him laugh naturally again.

“What a bargain,” he says. He grabs his jeans and fishes a condom out of the back pocket. He even seems to make a show of that. He puts it on and fists his cock for you, standing above you while you catch your breath. When you reach for him, he grabs your wrists and yanks you up. He is effortless and quick, as always, spinning you around and pressing your hands to the back of the seat.

“You know the rules,” he says. “Hands there or I tie them up. That’s my girl.”

You follow his directions and bend over, feeling utterly debauched before he is even inside you. He lifts your skirt and tugs your panties aside again. You are fully dressed and he is completely naked, but you somehow feel more exposed, more vulnerable in his confident hands. He holds your hips and eases inside you, inch by solid inch until he is pressed up against your backside, buried to the hilt.

“That’s it,” he says, tone still cocky though it soon gives way to panting. He makes a few rough sounds of his own, fucking you quick and dirty in this small room. You are going to walk out of here smelling and looking like sex itself, dishevelled and shaky and well-fucked. Practically a new woman, one you are eager to know, containing as many contradictory dualities as Seungmin.

Seungmin, your goofy friend, who throws his head back as he drives into you again and again, shushing you when you get too loud. He muffles his own cry in your shoulder when he comes, still rocking against you for a moment after that.

“Fuck,” you say, dropping onto the seat after. He is tugging his jeans back on, though his eyes are on you. It is a scrutinous stare again. You undoubtedly have questions for each other. For now, you just smile, taking another shuddery breath as you come down from your high. “Well,” you say. “That might have been worth page seventeen too.”

His gaze softens, the corner of his eyes crinkling with his smile. He leans over you, brushes his nose against yours, and finally kisses you. It is the soft, tender kiss you dreamed about so long ago. It leaves you as breathless as everything else.

“All right, neighbour,” he says, “it’s a date.”

#kim seungmin x reader #seungmin x reader #kim seungmin smut #seungmin smut #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz x you #stray kids x you #kim seungmin x you #valentinesdaystories #kpop fanfiction

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goldenlikedayl1ght · 1 year ago

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lover, you should've come over - m. schmidt

a/n: you guys should have seen this one coming! as always i appreciate any likes and reblogs and hope you enjoy :) warnings: suggestive themes, big angst, lots of talk about tattoos and pain and needles, mike having horrible anxiety and commitment issues, reader is mostly gender neutral except for one thing ! tattoo aftercare, hurt/comfort, kissing word count: 3.6k summary: you get a tattoo, and it terrifies mike. mostly because he realizes how much you love him. pairing: mike schmidt x gn!reader now playing: lover, you should've come over - jeff buckley "my body turns and yearns/for a sleep that won't ever come/it's never over/my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder."

Penny has done almost all of your tattoos, save for the stick and poke star you gave yourself while you were way too high to be handling that sort of equipment, and a few flash designs you’ve gotten for holidays. And usually, you keep it simple and easy, pitching a design idea and getting a finished stencil a few hours later.

But this time, you go into the shop a few months before you plan to get the tattoo and describe to her what you want. She’s shocked that you want a half sleeve—It’s a big step, she tells you, and it’ll mean sitting for a few hours while she does her work. It’ll be painful, and the design will take a few weeks to get made, because she wants to give you the best possible design.

She does good work. When you visit again in about three weeks, you put down a deposit and make an official date to get it done. October 9th.

You go home that night to your small, but warm home to find your boyfriend trying to make chicken parm. His goal all year has been to learn how to cook, not just to make things out of a box. You know a bit better how to cook, but you let him improve his skills, always providing helpful, gentle critiques.

Abby is worse at being gentle.

She’s brutal with her brother’s cooking, and even though Mike loves your gentle words, he appreciates Abby’s feedback, and just wants her to eat a full plate of food before bed each night.

Tonight, his food smells good. You mentioned about a month ago how you missed your mom’s chicken parm, and since then, he’s been reading and researching different recipes at work. Ever since he quit working at Freddy’s, he’s put down the book of dreams and has picked up cookbooks, working his way up slowly.

You tell him he’ll be making Thanksgiving Dinner in no time. You kiss his jaw when you say that, and later, he returns the favor by placing a kiss to your shoulder.

You go to him, standing in the kitchen, as he squints at the recipe book in front of him. He wears washed blue jeans, an old Foo Fighters tee shirt and a pair of blue fuzzy socks. A towel hangs over his shoulder as he mutters to himself, as he gets ready to put some garlic bread in the oven.

You’re still in your work clothes, though, it’s not as if you’re wearing anything fancy. Just a different pair of jeans, and a tee shirt with your shop’s logo on it. Your hair is messy, and you smell vaguely of dirt. The smell has become comforting to him in his time knowing you.

You step closer to him, a hand resting gently on his shoulder. He relaxes at your touch.

“Hey, Mike.” You say softly, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Hey, how was your day?”

“Not too bad. The food smells pretty good.”

“You think so?” His voice is hopeful, especially since he’s trying to live up to your memories of the dish as a kid. It’s his way of thanking you for being so good to him while he’s gotten his shit together.

“Mhm. I’m gonna go wash up and have Abby help me set the table.” You tell him. You kiss his jaw quickly before heading off to the bathroom to scrub the dirt from beneath your fingernails. You wash your face and arms too and begin to realize how domestic this all is.

You never saw yourself having kids, and never thought of yourself dating someone who did.

And you still never think about having kids, but you did find yourself treating Abby as if she is your own. This has nothing to do with how much you adore her brother. Abby is just easy to love. You wonder if anyone’s ever told her that.

When your work boots find themselves at the end of your bed, you change into a muscle tee. You’re awfully fond of them. You find a pair of Mike’s fuzzy socks and slip them on too. You take a moment to stare at your shoulder in the mirror, imagining how it’ll look when ink covers it. Most of your tattoos are on your legs, and for a long time, this arm has been bare of any ink. You’ve been saving it for this project for years.

You go to Abby’s room and knock gently before entering. You find her painting at this aisle you got for her birthday. She’s been working on this painting for a few days now, and it’s turning out quite nice.

“Hey, Abs.” You say softly, and she puts her paintbrush down to give you this big, toothy grin. “Go wash up and help me set the table?” You ask.

“Sure.” She hums and starts to skip along to the bathroom, but you stop her at the door.

“And remember, even if Mike’s food is bad, what do we say?”

“Mm, this food is so good and not horrible at all!”

“Abby.”

She sighs.

“This is unlike anything you’ve made before, and I appreciate the effort?”

“That’s it.” You let her go wash up, and then go to set the table.

When Mike eventually serves dinner, you’re starved. You don’t care if it’s bad, or if it’s burnt, you know you’ll like it because you weren’t able to take a lunch break that day. But it genuinely looks good.

He cuts up Abby’s food and puts the plate in front of her before sitting down and looking to you two for a reaction. You take a bite, and you have to pause.

Did Mike really cook something not just edible, but… good?

Not fine, not decent, really good.

“Mike, this is—”

“Amazing!” Abby gasps, going in for another bite. His cheeks flush.

“You guys don’t have to pretend, it’s alright—”

“No, Mike, we’re not pretending, it’s really good!” You defend, going in for a second bite yourself. “Try it!”

He does, and he even looks shocked at the quality of the food he’s produced. And it sets the mood for the whole dinner, until you eventually blurt out,

“I booked a tattoo appointment for next week.”

“What are you getting?” Mike can’t ever admit this to you, but he adores your tattoos. He thinks the placement of them are all wonderful, even if they’re smaller. He likes to kiss them, to trace his fingers over them, to just admire them in the summer.

“It’s a surprise.” You tell him. Owning your own shop and being your own boss has its perks. You have no worries about people judging you for your half sleeve, deciding that you can just ban them from your shop.

Your conversation drifts off and you focus on other things. When you’re done, you and Mike begin to clean up with him, letting some of the pan soak in the sink. You sit on the counter, drying some of the plates as Mike rinses.

“Thank you for dinner.” You tell him.

“I’m glad you liked it.” Comfortable silence fills the room. “You’re really not gonna tell me what you’re getting?”

“I told you, it’s a surprise.” You smile softly. He dries his hand and steps between your legs. His hands land on either side of you, caging you in.

“Tease.” He mumbled, leaning forward, and kissing your shoulder. A hand goes to his hair, your fingers tangling in his locks.

“I’m not teasing, I’m just being a little secretive.” You tell him, playing with his hair. You’re a fan of the scruff he’s been growing out lately.

“Isn’t it gonna hurt?”

“Yeah, but I’ll take breaks and remember to eat.” You tell him. “This isn’t my first tattoo, Mike.”

“I know, baby.” He says softly, “I just get worried—”

“You get worried about me? And yet, when I’m worried about you, you ignore me but—” He cuts you off with a kiss, and your hands land on his jaw, the scruff tickling your face.

•��• •

The ink swirls around your shoulder, a moth wrapping around your shoulder and reaching to the top of your arm. Vines wrap around the moth, as flowers bloom in different places. Your birth flower is one of them, as well as your mother’s. You also place Abby and Mike’s around the moth, maybe protecting it. Thorns poke out of some of the vines, and the ink covers your shoulder, and down to just above your elbow.

You got it done on a Saturday afternoon, leaving late enough so Mike could sleep in without having to deal with Abby, but being able to give them some time to relax together.

It takes a few hours, and by the end of it, you’re exhausted. As with all your other tattoos, you’re sore, but this is a new type of sore. You ache for Mike’s hands on you, to hold you and kiss your shoulders, even though he can’t kiss your left shoulder for a few days.

The second skin will remain on your arm for a day or two, and then you’ll have to go through the process of moisturizing your tattoo.

You have Penny take lots of photos of it before you head home, Mike and Abby both waiting in anticipation for you to come home and show them your new ink. You’re excited to show them, since there’s a connection to them in the art.

When you open the door, Abby runs to you and immediately starts to look for the ink in question. She gasps when she sees it, all wrapped up on your arm.

“It’s a moth,” You tell her, “With my favorite plants.” You crouch down to point out different plans in the works. “These are my mom’s birth flowers, they’re carnations.” You tell her, “Do you know what these are?” You point to another flower.

Abby shakes her head, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the fresh, raw flesh of the person she considers to be her caregiver.

“They’re lily of the valley flowers. They’re your birth flower.” You reach out and tuck hair behind her ear. Then, you point to the third flower. “And these? They’re honey suckles. They’re Mike’s birth flower.”

Mike watches your interaction, listening to your explanation of the tattoo. Suddenly, this anxiety pools in his chest. You’ve been living together for a few months, but somehow a symbol of him and Abby being engraved on your skin makes things all too real.

He could cry.

“Did you get the flowers because you’re a flower person?” You grin, knowing she doesn’t remember the title of your job.

“Botanist, you mean? Sort of, but you two mean a lot to me, and I wanted to tribute something to you guys.” You confess.

She grins and turns to look at Mike.

“I wanna be a tattoo artist when I’m older.” Mike is pale with anxiety.

He wants to tell you it looks good, that it’s brilliantly done, but he doesn’t find it in himself. He wants to run, to abandon this relationship at the door, to never speak to you again to avoid the fact that he wants you desperately and thinks he might marry you one day.

He walks off to the bathroom, and he’s unsure if it’s to throw up or to cry.

You’re disappointed, because you wanted him to like it desperately, since this tattoo is now on you forever, and you wanted it to be a tribute to him. It almost hurts you that he doesn’t love it. Or at least pretend to. Instead, his disdain is visible on his face, and you do your best to turn your attention back to Abby.

“Wanna help me make dinner?” You smile softly, and she nods.

“Did your tattoo hurt?” She acts gently.

“Yeah, but with a good artist it goes quickly, and they don’t aim to torture you.” You explain, as you begin to make mac and cheese.

As she sets the table, you turn back to her and ask, “Can you go get Mike for dinner?” She nods and skips along to your bedroom, where Mike sits on the bed, frustrated with himself.

“Mike?” She asks gently. “We’re making mac and cheese.”

“I’m not hungry.” He says softly, and Abby can just tell something isn’t right.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t feel well..”

“Oh…” she suspects this is a lie.

“I’m sorry. Tell them I said sorry.” Tears prick Mike’s eyes. He’s unsure why he’s like this, and why he can’t just admire your tattoo and love you and tell you how much you mean to him. But he can’t. He gets the words out. He wants to love you so badly but something in him demands to not let him be happy.

He lays on the bed and tries to stay quiet as he cries.

• • •

Hours later, you sit at the table anxiously, your hands tapping on the wood, a cold bowl of Mac and Cheese on the table. You decide to get up to clean up dinner, and just as you do, soft steps creep out of the bedroom and into the kitchen area.

Mike stands and stares at the cold dinner that he feels bad for rejecting. He should just tell you what’s bothering him. Instead, his gaze turns and looks at you, doing the dishes.

“You didn’t have to make dinner.”

“You didn’t seem well, and Abby needed to eat.”

This comment sparks a much larger fire in Mike, and he isn’t sure why he’s angered by how much you care about his sister, his world.

“You aren’t her mom, you don’t have any reason to make her dinner or put her to bed—”

“Yeah, Mike, well, You’re not really her dad.” You glare. “I’ve taken care of her for months, fed her, made sure she’s taken care of, I’ve picked her up from school, and now suddenly, you’ve decided I have no right to just care about her? Fuck you, if you don’t love me anymore, then don’t take it out on your sister, talk to me like a god damn grown up and stop acting like a child.” You spit, angrily turning back around to keep doing your dishes so that Mike doesn’t see your red face or your tears.

With your back turned, he can see the moth on your shoulder blade, and he aches to trace the lines of your tattoos, kissing the skin around it. But cotton fills his mouth every time he tries to sew the gap between you two.

And your words strike him. He knows why you might think he doesn’t love you anymore, but he does. He loves you deeply and finds himself enamored with you, and yet he can’t even compliment this tattoo that you have obviously put a ton of time, effort and money into.

“I’m sorry—” You start, but he cuts you off.

“I think we should give each other some space.” The words hit you like a ton of brick, and you’re ready to get on your hands and knees and beg him, beg him to not leave, beg him to forgive you (for what, you don’t know), beg him to touch you, beg him to want you.

“What..?”

“I just think I need some space.” He said softly, leaning against the kitchen doorway. You want to ask if he’s hungry, to kiss away all the sadness in the worry lines of his face.

You nod, bite your tongue. He wants to hold you and tell you he doesn’t mean it.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” You mumble, sighing softly. You also plan to leave early before Mike gets up.

Mike steps towards you, maybe to apologize. You step past him to go get pajamas from your dresser, not letting him grasp onto you. You don’t want him to apologize now. You want him to sit in his regret and you want to sit in your anger.

As you attempt to fall asleep that night, you pray Abby didn’t hear your conversation with him.

Both of you try to drift to sleep and salt streams from your eyes and into your ears.

• • •

A few days pass. Your tattoo starts to heal, and you take the second skin off your shoulder and arm and begin the process of aftercare.

You and Mike exchanged a total of about thirty words over the next few days. Abby noticed your angst towards each other and tried to get the two of you to make up. She figured that Mike was being an idiot, and just needed to apologize.

She was right, but he didn’t want to admit that to his kid sister.

It’s hell. You have to pretend that you don’t want to beg for his forgiveness, but you know that neither of you are blameless. Your pride tells you not to be the first one to cave. His anxiety tells him that you hate him.

When he gets home one afternoon from work, you’re napping in bed. He knows the couch isn’t that comfortable and he’s sure you’re home because you’d mentioned to Abby that you weren’t feeling well. You probably didn’t expect to still be asleep when he got home.

But you’re wearing one of his shirts. He kisses your head and leaves a glass of water and cold medicine on the nightstand, before going to make himself busy somewhere else, as if not to disrupt your rest.

He takes one last glance at you before he leaves.

One night, he comes home from work late. You take it as an opportunity to take a hot shower after putting Abby to bed and taking a few minutes to sit in the bedroom that you missed while sleeping on the couch.

Besides, your bones ached from that uncomfortable couch while you were spoiled, used to Mike’s warm bed.

You barely hear the front door open as you continue your nightly routine. You need to apply lotion to your tattoo, to keep it moisturized as it heals. But you find yourself struggling to reach your shoulder.

Mike watches you from the doorway of the bedroom, biting his lip. The bags around his eyes have grown darker since your fight.

He takes off his boots first, and then strips his top down to an undershirt, then takes off his jeans. If you weren’t so busy, you’d acknowledge how handsome he looked in just his boxers and a gray tee shirt.

The bed dips behind you, as he sits behind you. You stop what you’re doing.

“Give me the lotion.” He says softly, and with a sigh of defeat, maybe even a bit of relief, you hand him the lotion. He squirts some lotion on his hands, then begins to rub it into your skin. You shudder at the contact, and he feels tears in his eyes again. He missed you. “I’m sorry I didn’t say I liked your tattoo. I love it.”

“I’m sorry I said you didn’t love me, and I’m sorry I said you weren’t Abby’s dad.”

“But I’m not—”

“But you are her parent.”

“So are you.”

A silence fills the room.

“What happened on Saturday?”

“I got anxious when I saw Abby and I’s birth flowers on you. Like how much I loved you was just engraved in your skin, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t mean to push you away, I was just terrified. Terrified that you’re going to leave. Terrified that I won’t be able to protect you.” His voice cracks at the end, and he leans his head against your shoulder that isn’t inked.

Your head turns to kiss his head.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know..” he says softly, but a part of him doesn’t believe it. You and Abby, you’re the only ones who have stayed, the only ones he’s been able to save. He doesn’t know who he is without the two of you. “I’m sorry, I was such a dick.”

“Yeah, but so was I.” You tell him.

“I love your tattoo. I love all of your tattoos. All of them. I love kissing them. I’m desperate for this one to heal so I can kiss this shoulder again.”

“Thank you for helping me with it. It itches like a son of a bitch.” You tell him, a weak smile on your face. Tears stain your shirt.

“Can we go back to normal now? I’ve missed you.”

“I miss you so much.” You turn and wrap your arms around him, the warmth radiating from his body as he holds you close. You wonder if either of you will ever be able to let yourselves be loved.

You hope to let each other try.

You kiss him, salty tears mixing, as you hold him close. He’s careful of your tattoo, not wanting to scratch or hurt you. He’s gentle in a way that betrays him. He desires you in this way that transcends want or need, something that is vital, as if it were breathing.

Yet his hands remain respectful. Gentle. You’re the one that adjusts your position to be over him, as you gently push him back against the bed, kissing him deeper.

He decides he will marry you someday. That maybe the idea of being with you for the rest of his life isn’t scary.

Not when you kiss him like that.

#mike schmidt #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #movie!mike #five nights at freddy's #fnaf movie #five nights at freddy's movie #abby schmidt #abby schmidt platonic #mike schmidt angst #hurt/comfort #josh hutcherson

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an4stitties · 2 months ago

Text

bella swan d1et ♡

below: guidelines, d1et (+recipes), & w0rk0ut

❤︎₊ ⊹ you just moved to a new town and everyone is obsess3d with you. all the boys want to be with you, the girls want to be you, but you're busy with your v4mpire boyfriend and w3rewolf best friend. you have so much stuff going on, that eating has become a chore.

guidelines:

put on bootcut jeans and longsleeve henley tops in moody colors. it's always cloudy in forks, so throw on a jacket that's way too big for you.

always have hot drinks (black coffee, tea, hot cocoa). edward's hands are already cold enough, so you'll need something to keep yours warm.

have light snacks throughout the day, and save your calories for dinner with your dad at the diner.

make sure to run your hand through your hair loads of times.

listen to music in your wired earphones and always have a book in hand

wear antique jewelry and a locket, with both edward and jacob's pictures in it.

— ❤︎₊ ⊹

d1et:

❤︎₊ ⊹ breakfast

have a small bowl of oatmeal with honey or cinnamon (200c4ls) + black coffee or tea, preferably without sugar

❤︎₊ ⊹ lunch

snack on a medium sized apple (100c4ls) + diet soda of your choice (0c4ls)

❤︎₊ ⊹ dinner

have a small burger (350c4ls) and a small serving of fries (200c4ls) + diet coke with ice (0c4ls)

total: 800-850c4ls

— ❤︎₊ ⊹

w0rk0ut:

— do some stretches in the mornings, before school — walk everywhere. try to get around 7-8k steps in every day — hike in the woods often (with your vampire boyfriend) — bike a lot !! — do mostly cardio based workouts

— ❤︎₊ ⊹

hope this helps !! i'm taking requests, so lmk any ideas you have or what you'd like to see next <33

(inspired by @h0neysugarfree)

pics from 📌

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incorporealbombchelle · 30 days ago

Text

Friend of the Family

Mr.Reed × Fem!Reader(Mid-20s) [18+]

Synopsis: Part 1 - (y/n)'s boring family Christmas vacation to Colorado doesn't exactly go as anticipated...

⚠️TW: Boring Family Dynamic, Age Gap, Alcohol Consumption (all parties of age), Oral Sex (Male & Female Recipients), Raw P in V Penetration, Breif Mutual Masturbation, General Smut. ❄️

"So do I even *actually* know this guy?" I interrogate, unsure why we're staying there instead of some mountainside Airbnb. "Of course! (y/n), you've met Mr. Reed plenty of times, you were just, y'know...smaller." Dad explains, cheery. "Okay... but when you said 'Colorado Christmas Vacation' I thought we'd be like... snowboarding, or hanging out in a cute mountain town, or at least renting a cool cabin in Telluride... not like... the middle of nowhere part of Boulder with some guy I haven't seen since I was a kid..."

He sighs, defeated by my expectations yet again. "Listen. He's my best friend, a few years back he lost his wife, and its true, I haven't gotten around to seeing him in person since you were four, Bug."

He drones on,

"He's a really nice guy, and super cool. He loves that Lana Del Rey girl you're always talking about, and he's got a really nice collection of records and books, its like a mini Barnes & Noble in there! You might find you have more in common than you think!" He offers.

And I decline : "With a 64-year-old retired engineer from England? Yeah thanks, I'll pass. I'm just gonna stay out of the way, keep my headphones on, and let you two reconnect."

I pull out my phone, pop in my earpods, and open Tumblr, pretending to care at all about the latest posts on the Spencer Reid tag. Out of the corner of my eye I can tell I've hurt his feelings, but fathers never say the right thing, and he can withstand a little sting every once in a while. It's what he deserves for not telling me where we were staying til halfway through the plane ride.

Our plane finally touches down and we funnel through Boulder Municipal into a cab and I won't be the first one to speak. I take one earpod out just in case, which Dad takes as an invitation. "Just got a text from Mr. Reed, and I hope you're hungry Bug, because there. will. be. pie." He beams as though this is some great revelation, elaborating "He's got this wild recipe with earl grey in the crust and lemon zest in the filling, it's award-winning. Seriously! He enters it in the local contest every other year and it's only lost once!"

Despite how riveting my father finds Mr. Reed and his Great British baking exploits, I do not, and apparently it shows as his smile tamps down to a simper. "Sweetie, I'm really trying here. I can't convince you it's gonna be the best Christmas ever, hey, we'll probably both have altitude sickness the entire time, but let's just make an attempt, okay? Nothing has to be perfect." He's an idiot but he's right and I agree. "Okay, yeah. I'll be nice." I sigh "That pie does sound pretty good, I guess..."

The cab rolls through the city of Boulder as Lana lilts gently in my earpods about 'haaa-aa-ow toooo disappear~' and maybe this trip won't be so bad after all.

We're finally dropped at the gate to Mr. Reed's house and -you're fucking kidding me- his driveway, long and winding, is gravel. I wince inwardly at the realization that I'll have to lug two wheeled suitcases up that path and flash Dad a fake 'I'm so glad We're doing this' smile before yanking them out of the trunk and making my way up to the stoop. This pie better be incredible.

Once Dad and I are situated on the stoop, out of breath and travel-weary, I assault Mr. Reed's doorbell. It's cold and I need a shower.

ding. .... nothing. ding-ding. nope. dingdingdingdingdingdingdingding-

The door opens, finally, and a sweet-looking older man in a well composed cardigan-button down combo and jeans answers the door, smiling bright as his eyes fall on Dad.

"Jonathan!!"

"Reed!!"

Laughter ensues as I observe their embrace, holding back a heavy eyeroll. Somehow I am already third-wheeling.

"Oh my god, Mr. Reed, you remember (y/n)? She's just finished a semester at Oxford!" Dad smirks, gesturing to me and I give a shy wave as Mr. Reed's eyes scan over me, widening in surprise.

"(y/n)? As in, little (y/n), (y/n) who was- ?" He holds his hand flat, bringing it down by his knee as he looks between me and dad in disbelief.

"The very same, can you believe it?"

I purse my mouth into a smile, just completely overwhelmed by how awkward this interaction is.

"Well look at you! You've certainly grown up, haven't you?"

"I suppose so!" my best fake laugh.

Mr. Reed's eyes trace my form again and he pulls me into a quick side hug. He's warm and smells like lemon zest with a hint of vanilla.

"Let's get you two in then, supposed to be a blizzard tonight."

He grabs one of my suitcases and we follow him as he shuffles back inside.

His house is simple and a little cramped, but I do smell pie. 'Bless This Mess' reads a framed piece of embroidery on the wall, and if there is a God, I hope he does.

We toss our bags into our respective guest rooms at the top of the stairs and I finally get to take my shower before making a way back downstairs to the dining room.

We sit through a meal -shepherd's pie, what is it with this guy and pie?- and my dad and Mr. Reed discuss people they both know who died or lived or have moved or haven't moved and I am in hell until-

"Little after dinner drink then?"

My eyes snap up from my plate to meet his, a small smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. His eyes crinkle at the ends when he smiles and his smile is warm and comforting and it occurs to me for the first time that Mr. Reed is...handsome... If he were 20 years younger he'd definitely be my type, in fact...

"Alright! So that's one, me makes two, Jonathan, little shiraz with your pie?"

"Well how could I say no to such a generous offer?" Dad beams.

We move back into the living room and sip and I pick at the pie. It is good and after a glass and a half of shiraz Mr. Reed looks just as appetizing, but I decide I'm not going to eye-fuck this old man in front of my father, or at least not in an obvious way.

So I sit, tepid, on my phone and pretend not to be bothered by the lack of service while I half listen to their conversation, looking up strategically to ogle Mr. Reed every now and then. His eyes find mine and I watch him nibble at his lip and does he know?

"So then (y/n), Oxford, hm?"

"Uhm, yeah, I'm in their creative writing masters program right now... its... interesting."

"Interesting boring or interesting incredible?" He crosses one leg over the other and leans in, attentive.

"Uh, I mean it's going well, people in my classes are a little...er.. pretentious..?" I giggle, nervous.

"Exactly as I remember it, then!" He laughs loudly, and dad joins in, snickering along. His laughter is infectious and this wine is making me blush and I smile.

"You're an alum?"

"What, the accent didn't give it away?" A chuckle, "Yeah, yeah, I was lucky enough to take about an eon of courses in engineering sciences there, immigrate in the 90s, build this place, blah blah blah, but enough on me, it seems we may just be in the midst of the next great American novelist, eh Jonathan?" A wink.

"I don't know about that," I tear my eyes away from him, focusing in on the details of a floorboard.

"Oh (y/n) don't be modest, Reed you'd love her stuff, she's got some of the most well-metered prose, and-"

"Dad." I warn, eyes wide with embarrassment.

"Oop, sorry bug," He cringes "Didn't mean to dad-out on ya."

"I'd love to read some of your writing sometime, granted you'd be comfortable enough to share." Mr. Reed interjects.

"Uh, yeah. Maybe. Sometime..."

"Can I top you up?"

"Sure." He fills my glass just to the midpoint and does the same for himself.

"Jonathan?" He smirks playfully at dad.

"Ah, I dunno, I should probably be getting some shut-eye actually."

"Aw come on,"

"No, no, these days if im up past 10 with a drink in hand I'll be totally useless the next 24 hours." He stands, patting my shoulder. "Night, y'all. Don't have too much fun without me!" And there go the finger guns so now it's my turn to cringe.

He finally leaves the room and I'm alone with Mr. Reed. There's a heavy silence in the air and I take a small sip of my drink.

"So, (y/n), big on Lana Del Rey I hear?" He smirks.

"One of my favorites." I breathe, forcing a smile.

"Norman Fucking Rockwell or Blue Banisters?"

"NFR."

His eyebrows raise "it's okay to be wrong."

"But I'm not."

"Lust for Life or Born To Die; Paradise Edition?"

"... you ask hard questions, Mr. Reed."

"And you... answer them."

"And if I give you another 'wrong' answer?"

"Why would it matter? Are you trying to impress me?"

"...Paradise." I squint at him.

"Mm, see? We agree on something."

I'm powerless to the smile that forms on my face.

"Yeah?"

He lets out a low laugh. "Yeah,"

"What drew you to her, originally I mean?" He looks me over.

"Well, like a lot of young women I do have the obligatory depression diagnosis and Tumblr account combo, and things spiraled out from there I guess..."

"Ah, and here I thought it was just your ill-suited attraction to old men!" He lets out a warm chuckle at his own joke and I must've misheard him.

"What?" I shift a bit in my place on the couch, called out.

He scoffs. "Come on, (y/n). Let's not play this game. You've been eyeing me up since dinner, sitting there and sipping your drink and sucking berries off your fork in the most salacious way, letting your gaze linger, innocent and doe-eyed yet so apathetic to it all," he rolls his eyes like he might be as well, "when in reality, it seems, correct me if I go wrong, but you've been looking at me all night like you want me to touch you. Is that accurate or am I projecting a fantasy?"

The tip of his tongue trails his lip and my eyes follow its path and I'm warm. His eyes search mine, that was supposed to be a question.

"Uhm... no that... that sounds...accurate..." I admit almost silently, eyes boring into the floor as I sheepishly take another sip of my wine.

"Hm. I see. And in front of your father too...tsk, naughty girl. Lucky for you the man's terrible at reading body language or subtext of any variant,"

Mr. Reed rises from his chair across the coffee table and plants himself on the edge of the sofa next to me. "I, however, do not have that problem." I look up at him and his eyes are two blue marbles behind those wireframed glasses and his cheshire smirk is enough to melt me, it's overwhelming.

My face is hot and my body is tight as he delicately removes the wineglass from my hand, sets it down on the coffee table, and leans down to kiss me.

He's tender and gentle and his lips are soft, his tongue stained with blueberry filling as it finds mine, and he strokes my cheek. I place a shaky hand on his knee and one of his covers it as he presses his forehead to mine, breaking the spell. "Are you certain this is something you want, (y/n)? I wouldn't want to impose-" I cut him off with another, more assertive kiss because I need this.

The holidays are stressful and I'm horny and he's here. Fuck it.

As we continue making out, Mr. Reed scoots onto the couch beside me and I find his zipper. His dick jumps to meet my hand through the fabric as one of his hands slips under my sweater and he moans at the softness of my breast.

I pull away to unzip his pants and stroke him a couple times before moving to kneel between his legs. I look up to him, reverent, then back down to his cock, throbbing in hand. Giving him a few steady strokes, I lean forward, parting my lips.

"Can I?" I blink.

He nods eagerly, transfixed.

I take as much of him into my mouth as I can and swallow as his tip hits the back of my throat.

I hear him suck in a breath and his hands find my hair as I start to bob my head over the length of him, holding his balls with one hand and methodically stroking his base with the other. His breath catches, ragged and I feel him spasm in my mouth. I need him. I finally come up for air with a gasp and wipe a tendril of spit off my lower lip as I look up at him. "Mr. Reed, I want to fuck you," I breathe.

"Well all you had to do was ask," he sighs and I pull myself up off the floor, undoing my jeans and tugging them off my legs as quickly as I can before tearing off my sweater and within seconds I'm standing before him in just my panties and bralette. His eyes trail over me. His teeth sink into his lower lip as a hand wraps around his dick and I place a knee on either side of his legs, straddling him. Fair is fair and my fingers slip under the hem of my panties so I can work myself for him as he takes me in.

"How do you want me?"

"Turn around."

I follow his blunt instruction and as I do his fingers hook into either side of my panties, pulling the dampened fabric down my legs.

"Now, you're going to squat down for me... slowly."

I do as I'm told and he guides my hips, lining himself up with my center. Mr. Reed rests his hands on the tops of my thighs, pushing me further down into his lap and I gasp as I feel him begin to penetrate me. I knew it was big, I mean, he could barely fit in my mouth, but christ. I swivel my hips in an attempt to adjust to him, and hear him draw in a breath.

"(y/n), I want you to bounce for me, and you will. not. make. a sound. understood?"

"Y-yes Mr. Reed."

I start to raise and lower myself slowly on him and gasp sharply as I feel myself tense. He holds me steady by my biceps and guides me up and down.

"Good, that's- ohh that is good, just keep going... mm, mhm, just. like. that. you. Are. Brilliant..." he murmurs, squeezing my ass and I bite back a moan

"Shhhh-shh..."

"Ssorry Mr. Reed," I manage quietly.

He continues to guide my movements, faster now, and lets his head tip against the back of the couch. I feel him twitch inside me and gasp sharply.

"(y/n), stand for me?" And I do.

He turns me around by my hips and I blink down at Mr. Reed and he's panting, glasses perched on top of his head, looking me over hungrily.

"Lay back on the couch here, pet."

He sets a pillow down for me to rest my head on and I do as he says, watching him part my legs, settling between them as he presses gentle kisses up my inner thighs, staring intently into my eyes as he does.

He hovers over my core and I gasp at the warmth of his breath. I watch Mr. Reed's eyes close for a moment as he inhales the scent of my sex and smirks to himself.

"Does your pussy taste like Pepsi Cola then, (y/n)?" He lets out a low chuckle at his own corny little quip, bringing his mouth closer "Shall we find out?"

He pins my thighs open and slowly licks a wide stripe up my vulva from entrance to clit. I can't hold back the whimper that slips from me at the heat of his tongue, and it's even harder to silence msyelf when he dips two fingers into me, curling the pads of his fingertips just slightly as he steadily works me, his tongue moving in a synced rythym against my clit.

The sensation is almost too much and I gasp as I feel myself spasm a couple times around his fingers. He hums into me and the vibration sends a shudder through my body. He tilts his head up, panting as he continues fingering me, and my hips arch up to meet his hand.

He removes his fingers, pressing them against the plush of my lower lip and into my mouth. I suck and lick impatiently, and before long his mouth is on mine again as I feel his cock slip into me. I can't help the soft moan that escapes my lips as he begins to slowly rock his hips into mine.

"Mister Reed?" I breathe

"Mm?"

"It's... you're just...so big...." He smirks.

"Oh, I'm aware dear." He picks up his pace some "You're taking me so well, though..." he presses a kiss into the side of my neck and I gasp.

"Being so good for me..."

A loud creak interrupts us from overhead and Mr. Reed stops moving, eyes glued upwards as he clamps his hand over my mouth.

Heavy footsteps make the floorboards groan above us as he slowly starts to fuck me again and I take in a sharp breath through my nostrils, looking up at him, panicked.

"Shhh, shh-" another low creak.

Mr. Reed quickens his thrusts and I involuntarily whine against his hand which finds it's way to my neck instantly, holding firm.

"I said. Be quiet." He whispers sternly.

I bite my lip in an effort not to cry out, nodding and I begin to feel that familiar tension coiling inside as he bucks into me, my mind going totally blank at the way his hand feels wrapped around my throat.

The footsteps and floorboards finally stop and his grip on my neck releases some and I feel warm and hazy as he continues to forcefully piston into me. I feel myself starting to tense up and I struggle for breath as I unwind completely under him.

Seconds later, Mr. Reed lets out a low groan and I feel his orgasm pulse out acutely within me as I weather my own.

We lay there for a few minutes and as we come down together, the weight of our indiscretion settles in some.

I've just fucked my dad's best friend. Three days before Christmas. And I liked it. A lot.

"I needed that so badly."

"I could tell," he chortles.

Mr. Reed slips out of me, grabbing one of the discarded linen napkins from the coffee table to clean himself off with, before gently tucking it between my legs.

"Oh, and... it does, by the way."

#em.fic4 #friend of the family #hugh grant #mr reed #heretic #mr. reed #mr reed x reader #mr. reed x reader #mr. reed x fem reader #friend of the family fic #mr. reed smut #smut

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hvlcy0n · 5 months ago

Text

TEMPTRESS . . . toma hiragi x fem! reader

+ you think that having a small chest isn’t attractive. hiragi thinks that’s fucking ridiculous.

+ 5.7k words

+ NSFW (MDNI) // UNEDITED //oblivious reader // reader is written to be a B cup or smaller // intentional pov switching // tit play at the very end // you’re on this man’s last nerve // mentions of insecurity/self-consciousness // themes of noncon if you squint // mean!hiragi

+ yes i remember the poll i know BUT!! BUT BUT BUT i suddenly got the motivation to finish this one. it was supposed to be 1k words for hiragi and 1k for sugishita but yeah. i still haven’t gotten to sugishita yet, but it will be nowhere NEAR as long.

you’re doing this on purpose. you have to be.

beads of sweat dapple hiragi’s hairline as he sits rigidly at your kitchen counter, doing his best to occupy himself by thumbing through a recipe book you’d abandoned on the counter after your second failed attempt at baking some confectionery he’s never even heard of. the marble surface is cold against his skin as he hunches over the book in feigned interest, but it does very little to quell the heat running rampant through his body. he can spot your figure moving about in his peripheral vision, and he has to wrestle with the urge to sneak a glance at you.

something that he’s learned about you after becoming a frequent presence in your home is your newly developed habit of parading around your apartment in some of the smallest or most revealing tops he’s ever seen in his life—dainty bandeau–style tops that either cover the bare minimum or are adorned with a curtain of sheer fabric that baits him with flirtatious glimpses of your soft stomach as you move about; flimsy, little camisoles that seem more than fucking thrilled to show off the contour of your nipples and areolas; even tiny tops that appear to be nothing more than thin, delicate triangles of fabric bound together by a loose bow resting between your breasts that could be undone by a tug of his fingers.

you’re completely casual about it as well, shamelessly flaunting your new purchases and excitedly showing off to him as if the sight doesn’t leave his cock swelling with desire and straining against his jeans. he does his best to be a gentleman and prevent his eyes from lingering on your chest, only allowing them to briefly roam your figure when you ask for his opinion on the newest addition to your closet.

it seems as though every time he crosses the threshold into your apartment is a renewed clash between his wish to treat you with reverence and the flame of carnality you never fail to stoke, and it’s all he can do to remain respectful. you just make it so fucking difficult. how can he be expected to remain composed when you so brazenly seek his attention and have no problem cozying up to him dressed like that?

he recalls the first time he’d showed up to your place to find you clad in a loose–fitting, baby–blue tank top with a neckline that plunged so low that it was a miracle he didn’t catch a glimpse of your areolas. you had seemed perplexed when scarlet flooded his cheeks and he was rendered speechless, only to then grin when he awkwardly asked you if you were hot and wanted him to turn up the air conditioning. he was stunned when you dismissed his concerns with an airy wave of your hand and laughed that you didn’t think anything of it.

and truthfully, you didn’t.

it wasn’t that you were necessarily insecure about the size of your chest--at least, that's what you told yourself. you didn't like to think too hard about it. but what you could say for certain was that you didn’t believe it would ever be viewed as a catalyst for desire or as anything more than “cute” at best. the idea that men preferred large breasts had been hammered into your brain for as long as you can remember, but you had reached a point of utter exhaustion where you figured that the right person for you surely wouldn’t be deterred by something as trivial as that.

so, with that in mind, you decided to indulge the skimpier styles that your insecurities deprived you of, and you ended up wearing them around your apartment to grow accustomed to them. so what if you didn’t have the biggest tits on the block? the clothes were too cute to pass up. plus, you could get away without wearing a bra most of the time, so why not?

you definitely didn’t think that hiragi would think twice about it, either. in your eyes, he never expressed a particular interest in your breasts, so you figured that it would be alright to continue dressing however you wanted around him. surely he wouldn’t mind if you went without a bra or if your tops covered only the bare minimum, right?

wrong.

in fact, if it were up to hiragi, your chest and collarbones would be littered with hickeys. the only reason he’s refrained and kept his attention off your chest thus far is because he feared making you uncomfortable or frightening you off with his fervor. the way his large hand could completely engulf your breast alone was enough to cause saliva to pool on the cusp of his tongue, so he was less inclined to discover what would happen to his brain and you if he indulged himself.

it frustrated him. you seemed so unabashed, so certain that you could do whatever you wanted and that it would be a cold day in hell before he ravaged you. after all, you knew that at the core of his magisterial and somewhat jagged exterior existed a heart of gold and an unwavering desire to protect those he cared about. he was a natural-born leader, a protector. but, in unearthing such passion and being granted glimpses into the softer parts of his soul, it often slipped your mind that the influence of his exterior was still very much present. you’re none the wiser to his desires to hold you accountable, to make you just as flustered as you’ve made him.

“hey,” hiragi hums in surprise when you appear beside him, neck craning to take a peek at the contents of the page he absent–mindedly flipped to. “what are you looking at?”

momentarily forgetting his internal debate, he turns his head to acknowledge you, only for his eyes to subconsciously flick downward at the sight of exposed skin in his peripheral vision. he had forgotten that about two hours ago, you’d caved beneath the summer humidity and stripped off your oversized tee, leaving your torso bare aside from what you’d eagerly explained to be a “bralette.”

according to you, it served the same purpose as a bra; it just looked nicer. this one in particular is fashioned out of transparent, baby–pink lace and embellished with delicate floral patterns, the fabric plunging into a softly curved v-shape that converges at the middle of your sternum.

pretty.

he inhales sharply, ears flushing, when he notices that the petal designs adorning your chest do almost nothing to conceal you. despite the color of the material, your areolas are plainly visible, causing a zing to rocket up his spine. his grip on the book tightens until his knuckles blanch.

your brows furrow with concern when he doesn’t respond. “you okay?” you casually clasp your hands behind your back, consequently pushing your chest outward. he immediately tears his gaze away.

goddamnit. “uh, yeah. ‘m fine.” his tone is a bit more curt than he’d intended it to be. “just reading.”

“yeah?” you smile. “i never pegged you for a history guy, but i think the history of the blueberry muffin is pretty fascinating, too.”

“huh?” his eyes finally focus on the paragraph before him, and he winces when he realizes that he’s been “engrossed” in a story about sacks of flour and ripe blueberries being hoisted over mountains. “oh . . . yeah. pretty cool, huh?”

at first, he expects you to tease him for his perceived interest, but you’ve already reverted back to your worrisome expression and are now searching his face with troubled eyes. “you sure you’re alright? you look a little flushed. you might have a fever.”

“no, i—”

heat flares in his cheeks when you step closer—close enough for your chest to graze his bicep—and press the back of your hand to his forehead. “yeah, you feel a little warm.”

“i’m not sick!” he barks, succumbing to his vexation for a split second. you sharply withdraw your hand at the aggression sharpening his tone, and a thorn of guilt twists deep into his gut. he exhales deeply, raking his fingers through his soft, unstyled locks. “sorry,” he mutters. “it’s just . . . look, i don’t have a fever or anything, ‘kay? i didn’t mean to raise my voice at you.”

“then, what’s up?” the softening of his voice emboldens you to gently place your hand on his back and rub small circles over the cotton material of his sweatshirt. “is something else bothering you?”

is something else bothering him? he blinks, incredulous, at the innocuous twinkle in your eye. do you really not know? how could you not think anything of walking around for the past hour donning sheer fabric that shows him everything? he can’t fathom you behaving so boldly without at least possessing some sort of awareness.

he raises a brow. “you bein’ serious?”

you stare, taken aback, and your hand slows to a halt. “huh? yeah, why wouldn’t i be?”

he can’t tell what has him further suspended in disbelief—the fact that you genuinely don’t understand or the fact that you have the gall to then proceed to adjust one of the straps on your bralette without breaking eye contact. his mind insists that you have to be fucking with him, but the earnest perplexity in your gaze argues otherwise. this makes zero sense to him. surely, you can’t believe that he should be indifferent to something like this. there’s no way. you should know better than that. he idly taps the fingertip of his index finger against the counter. but, if that’s not the case, then . . .

he needs to figure this out. “you, uh . . .” he’s reluctant, uncertain as to how to phrase his dilemma or how he’s even supposed to approach the issue to begin with. he offers a small nod toward your chest, but he keeps his eyes firmly planted on the space beside you. “it’s not necessarily botherin’ me, it’s just that your . . .” he mumbles. “is it s’posed to be see–through?”

“what?” you tilt your head slightly, only for your eyes to pop open in realization. “oh! you mean this?” you pinch the lace hem between your fingers. “it didn’t come with an extra layer, so i guess so. sorry. it’s supposed to go under clothes, but it’s just you here. plus, there’s not much of anything there, so whatever.”

a small, apologetic smile punctuates your final statement, but it hardly registers in his brain. rather, his brows are knit together in confusion, and he stares blankly as you nonchalantly shift your attention to something across the room. “huh? what’s that matter?”

“huh? what do you mean?” your eyes flicker back to his.

his lips part, but he remains silent, his jumbled thoughts tangling around his tongue as he processes your words. everything finally clicks into place, a wave of clarity sweeping away the stains of bewilderment obscuring his understanding of the situation. do you think . . ? certainly not. certainly, you aren’t insinuating that you anticipated indifference simply because of the size of your chest. that would be ridiculous.

but, he has to be positive.

after a beat of silence, he inhales deeply. “lemme ask you something,” he slides off the stool to stand before you. “what was goin’ through your mind an hour ago when you had the bright idea to strip?” he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slowly rolling back to acquire that extra inch that brings him to his full height.

“uh . . .” your eyes widen a fraction of an inch at his close proximity. “i don’t know what you mean, toma. i was just too hot. i wasn’t really—”

“you were.” he insists. he removes a hand from his pocket to lightly tap a finger against your forehead. “don’t lie to me. you’ve always got something goin’ on up in that head of yours.”

“no, it really wasn’t anything important!” you insist. “i just—” you hesitate, a shadow of hesitation crossing your features. “i know that guys don’t think anything of small boobs, so i thought it would be fine! i thought you would just see it as like, y’know . . . just as whatever. that’s literally it. that’s all i was thinking!”

you’ve got to be fucking kidding.

“so,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “lemme get this straight. you think that just ‘cause you don’t have big tits means that i wouldn’t care about you prancin’ around wearin’ shit like that?”

you flinch, and he regrets not having selected his words more meticulously. but, before he can backpedal and correct his mistake, you avert your eyes and fold your arms petulantly over your chest. “well, if you say it like that . . .” you mumble, “then it sounds bad.”

“well, then you’re really not gonna like what i have to say next.” he crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. “thinkin’ that guys don’t care about their girl walkin’ around half–naked is about as stupid as firing a gun straight up and expecting the bullet not to come back down. i dunno what kinda guys you’ve been talkin’ to, but something like . . . that doesn’t matter.”

“have you seen literally any piece of media or met any other man? it does—”

“no, it doesn’t,” he grunts. “look,” he sighs, shaking his head. “i’ll be honest. i wasn’t readin’ shit out of that book. i was only pretending so i didn’t keep starin’ at you and make you uncomfortable, ‘cause i thought you knew that any man with a shred of common sense would have a damn field day with you wandering around like that.” he kisses his teeth. “doesn’t matter if you’ve got the biggest tits in the world or the smallest. any guy that wouldn’t look twice at you when you’re this pretty and dressed like that has to be out of his damn mind, and i gotta say . . .” he allows his gaze to roam for a moment, catching the stutter of your chest as you listen to him speak, “i’m disappointed you think that low of me.”

this time, you don’t have a retort already rolling around in your brain. it’s as if his words have wiped it blank and scattered your thoughts, leaving you to stare at him in what can only be described as sheer wonder. for a moment, hiragi’s shoulders relax, believing that he’d managed to get through to you. but, almost as soon as he dares to exhale, the corners of your lips twitch upward, and your laughter splits the air.

“aw, toma,” his eyes round when they search yours and find nothing more than twinkling mirth and mischief. your arms unfold to swing playfully down to your sides. he stiffens, head retracting slightly when you lean in with a jocose grin.

you’re close—close enough for there to only be a hairsbreadth of an inch between your bodies. a shadow of molten lust seeps into his emerald irises, melting them down into muted, viridescent pools lit only by the smoldering flame flickering beneath the surface. but, you don’t seem to notice, head too stuffed with cotton and saccharine adoration to realize that your antics have landed you in the perfect position to be ensnared and swept off your feet before you can even think to smear that pleased grin off your face.

it doesn’t matter if it’s your intention or not—you’re pushing him, testing the waters, steadily chipping away at his last fragments of discipline until they’re whittled down into tapered fangs poised to sink greedily into your soft body. but, he resolves to remain still, letting you handle him as you please. after all, he’s done all that he can. the consequences of whatever you decide to do with the information he revealed to you will fall entirely on your shoulders.

your hands raise to cradle his face between your palms, and you coo, “i have the sweetest boyfriend ever! always the gentleman.” when you release him and take a step back, he notices a glint of something almost wistful in your gaze. “but, you don’t have to say any of that. i’d rather you be truthful than try to make me feel better, and you really don’t have to! it doesn’t really bother me anymore. it just is what it is, y’know?” you shrug.

disbelief flares inside him as he lowers his arms back to his sides and stares at you, aghast. he can’t believe it. even after all of that, you’re still not taking him seriously.

“you think i’m lying?”

“i have to admit,” you confess with a chuckle, “it made me happy to hear you say that. but,” your index finger lifts to tap against his chest, and the sparkle in your eye has returned, “i’ve heard it before. it’s the same, old story, but there’s never any follow–through.” you chuckle, but his features soften in surprise when he notices the slightly wry edge to it. “see, half the time the guys saying it are just hoping that girls will be insecure or ‘appreciative’ enough to fuck them just because they’re ‘different’ and ‘not shallow,’ or whatever.” suddenly, your eyes widen, and you rush to correct yourself. “oh! but that’s not to say i think that’s what you’re doing. i know you’re not like that. but, like, for example, up until literally today, you’ve never really expressed any sort of interest in that part of me, and it’s okay, toma. seriously. i’m not expecting you to or anything, so you don’t have to feel bad.”

it’s right then and there that it truly dawns on hiragi that this isn’t about you toying with his restraint or playing dumb. rather, this is about a misconception that’s so deeply rooted in your psyche that you believe it to be the truth. he had a difficult time wrestling with the idea, but now . . . a dull ache of culpability bleeds throughout his chest as he realizes that in the end, it doesn’t even matter why he kept himself reserved. what matters is that he did, and now he doesn’t even have a leg to stand on in convincing you, because all you know are his actions—or, he supposes, his lack of action.

“shit,” his voice is so quiet that it’s intelligible, and his eyes flutter shut in resignation. all at once, every ounce of the tumult and guilt churning in the pit of his stomach roils into a surge of agitation. had he known what to say to dismantle your misconceptions, had he taken the initiative to demonstrate his feelings, had he been more attentive or perhaps more in–tune with you as your boyfriend—then maybe neither of you would even be here, the helpless frustration simmering in his gaze reflecting off the jumble of unreadable emotions in your own, standing on opposite sides of the same spectrum with zero intention of budging on your views despite there being only a fraction of an inch of space between your bodies.

but, you are.

he loathes the feeling of being powerless in the face of turmoil—of being unable to fully comprehend or relate to the depth of your issues and thus being left to scramble for a solution unattainable by his own wisdom or the hardened fists he’d relied upon for years. he doesn’t know what to do, and it’s both disheartening and vexing.

this is nothing like when he’d mentored his underclassman or tried to boost morale among disheartened gang members in the past. he’s never been quite skilled at appealing to women or handling their emotions, either his intimidating physical appearance or his rough and occasionally crude manner of speaking tending to spark more anxiety than comfort. the rational part of his brain reasons that a more delicate, gentle approach would be suitable for handling your insecurities. but when all he’s left with is dogged determination, internalized frustration that he hasn’t yet found an outlet for, and a particularly agitating throb of desire that’s been wreaking havoc on his self–control for the better part of a week, he finds that his composure is wearing thin.

“hey,” he’s snapped back into focus at the feeling of your ticklish fingertips sliding over his hands, coaxing open the fists he didn’t realize he’d balled them into. “either way, i appreciated it.” he expels a deep, drawn–out breath at your reassurance. perhaps it’s due to the heavy sense of responsibility that’d been drilled into him during his time in furin, but he can’t bring himself to accept your words. he should have done more. he should be able to do more. he’s mowed down countless opponents in the past and garnered respect from even more, yet he can’t manage to do his job as your boyfriend?

that can’t be true.

when he doesn’t reply, you toss your arms around his waist in a loose embrace. “c’mon, quit sulking,” you tease. “if you keep frowning like that, you’ll have wrinkles in three years.”

“i’m not sulking,” he gripes, but the way he folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the counter tells you otherwise.

“you are.” you retort playfully. you’re intent on closing the distance, and hiragi can’t help the rosy blush that blooms along his cheeks when you push your chest up against his forearm in the process. you’re quick to notice, and a devilish smile crosses your lips. “oh, don’t tell me. what, is my voluptuous bust bothering you? is it distracting?” you snort, suggestively raising your brows. but hiragi doesn’t find your taunting amusing.

“what’s the matter? why are you so quiet?” hiragi’s jaw ticks, the mirthful twinkle in your eye exacerbating the heat welling under his skin. “you’re pretty red—oh, was i right all along and you do have a fever?”

“you’re pushin’ it.” he grunts.

“i’m not doing anything.” you protest, but you both know that you’re full of shit. “i can’t be worried about my boyfriend’s health?”

a vein pulses in his temple.

ignoring the murkiness seeping into his gaze, you lift your hand with an ostentatious flourish and make a show of placing your palm flat over his forehead, melding your body flush against his. “just as i thought. not only are you flushed, but you’re pretty warm, too. say,” you release him and step back, planting your hands on your hips in feigned contemplation, “it’s still kinda hot in here, isn’t it?

“no.”

“mm, i think it is,” you grin. “at least, i’m a bit warm.” you reach out and tug on the hem of his sweatshirt. “maybe you should take this off.” your eyes light up with a new idea, and he feels his jaw slacken, world slowing to a crawl, when you hook your fingers beneath the band of your bralette with a wicked glint in your eye. “or, maybe, i should take this off—”

all at once, the maelstrom swelling in his chest detonates, splattering his muscles and veins with a white-hot smattering of frustration that licks over every fiber and striation until he can practically feel the steam emanating from his skin. your laughter cuts off into a surprised gasp when his large hands clamp down on your hips, calloused fingertips dimpling the soft flesh just above your waistband as he hoists you up and slams you down onto the counter as if you were nothing more than a glass paperweight.

he scoffs when you have the audacity to look shocked from your place seated atop the marble surface, pretty eyes wide with surprise and hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders for balance—or maybe it’s to keep him at bay, he isn’t certain. “toma . . ?” to his satisfaction, your voice is now hushed, stripped of every salacious undertone and taunting lilt that had been driving him up the fucking wall.

your eyes nervously flicker down to his hands when they brace themselves on the edge of the counter on either side of you, sinewy arms bracketing you in and barricading every quick escape route. you wither under the dark intensity of his gaze, and when he speaks, his low, gravelly tone borders on a growl. “so, you still think i’m lyin’, huh?

you flinch as he renews the topic that you’d been adamant on dismissing. your lips form words, but your voice is still wedged in your throat as your brain struggles to comprehend the sudden shift in the atmosphere and the fact that you were literally swept off your feet.

pride sears his chest as he realizes that he has you exactly as he needs you—subdued and finally ready to fucking listen. all you needed was a little jolt back to reality, it seems. it is a shame, really, how you’ve forced his hand. maybe if you had teased him just a little bit less . . . or maybe if you’d refrained from pulling that very last stunt, he’d have been ready to demonstrate his gratitude to you for dialing it back. unfortunately, now he’s wound too tightly to let you off the hook without returning the favor.

he chuckles dryly. “what’s the matter? why’re ya so quiet? had the biggest mouth just a second ago.”

indignation sparks in your eyes as he shamelessly throws your words back in your face, but such tiny scintillas aren’t enough to sustain the steadiness of your voice as you mumble, “i don’t . . . i don’t know what you want me to say.” your fingers curl into his sweatshirt, drawing the loose material into your fists.

he scoffs. “‘course not. that brain of yours always stops workin’ right about now, doesn’t it?”

“hey!” you object. “i’m not—”

but, he’s reached his limit, and he doesn’t intend to let you hold the reins anymore. you will hear him, even if he has to pluck at a couple of your strings to make you.

you owe him that much.

“you think you’re real cute, huh?” he cuts you off, the sunlight glinting off the sharp points of his pearly white teeth a drastic contrast to the shadow of bated need swallowing up his irises. “tell me. you been havin’ fun runnin’ around and hangin’ all over me with your tits on display? bein’ a damn tease? almost makin’ me pop a blood vessel tryin’ to keep my eyes up? all ‘cause you thought i wouldn’t care?”

a wave of something unreadable floods your gaze, and you wince. “wait . . . you were being serious?” you pipe up timidly.

“deadly.”

reluctance tinges your features, and he can practically see your internal divide as you drift between the past and the present—between the words of some asshole and the unfiltered, undeniable need flaring in hiragi’s gaze. “i didn’t know you were actually . . .” your voice trails off. “but why? it’s like every guy—”

“doesn’t matter.” he leans forward until his face is level with yours, and the conflict swirling behind your eyes is clearer than ever. “this isn’t about anyone except for you and me.” his voice is a low rumble. “no one else.” you don’t answer. instead, you break eye contact with a slight downward tilt of your head, cheeks warm with embarrassment. his palm moves to cradle your jaw, blunt fingernails sinking harmlessly into your cheeks as he angles your head up and redirects your line of sight back to him. “you understand?” his voice is firm yet not unkind, bearing an edge just rough enough to get his point across.

his grip yields under the tiny nod you return. “i understand,” your response is timid, but there’s a tiny seed of a newfound acceptance beginning to take root in your eyes that makes his stomach flip.

in one smooth movement, he releases your face and slips his fingers beneath the dainty straps of your bralette, sliding them off your shoulders and down your arms. your petulant, mild whine of “hey!” is kicked to the backburner as he hooks his fingertips over the band at the center of your chest and yanks the fabric down to expose you entirely.

you yelp in surprise and snatch your hands away from him, but he hardly notices. his mouth waters as his eyes brazenly roam the expanse of your chest. “christ, look at you.” he mutters, occupying his tongue with skimming over the tips of his teeth to ward off the urge to pop one of your nipples in his mouth and abuse it until it’s swollen and shiny with saliva—exactly like he’s been dreaming about. “fuckin’ perfect.”

embarrassment is scrawled across your features at his crude language and the sudden barrage of attention as you sit, stone–still and rigid with uncertainty. your skin is hot to the touch, and hiragi watches in displeasure as your shoulders bow forward ever–so slightly, as if curling into yourself to evade his view. it becomes clear to him that your brain is still suspended in limbo as you try to comprehend his behavior. it’s almost amusing. for as much as you were running your mouth before, now you can’t bring yourself to raise your eyes any higher than the silver chain peeking just above the collar of his hoodie, and your arms instinctively snake across your chest to conceal your breasts.

“don’t.”

the stern authority in his voice splinters the tension between you, and you immediately freeze in place, eyes shooting up to his. there’s a moment of heavy silence that stretches between you, suffocating and cumbersome as it drapes itself over hiragi’s shoulders. it’s a moment of waiting—waiting for you to cleave through his control with a single word, waiting for you to push him away and establish boundaries, waiting for any sign of rejection that would cause him to withdraw entirely and give you room to breathe.

but, you refrain.

it’s slow, akin to a flower’s petals unfurling under the kiss of sunlight. but he can see it in the ebb of the guarded furrow of your brows and the shift of your expression into something more open and trusting; the measured bloom of need that’s beginning to emerge from beneath the gossamer sheen of embarrassment and inhibition veiling your eyes; the gradual relaxation of your muscles until your hands fall acquiescently into your lap and your tense shoulders decompress—you’re making the step toward relinquishing yourself to him, trusting him.

the sight provides the assurance he needs, and just like that, the dynamic resumes.

“spent all damn week showin’ off. don’t know what you’re gettin’ shy for now.” he mutters, and you frown at his words.

“no—” you gasp softly when he dips his head down to plant a heated kiss on your shoulder, “wasn’t showing off. you’re just being mean.”

he can see the goosebumps scatter across your chest when he huffs a low laugh, warm breath caressing your collarbone. “me? if anyone was bein’ mean, it was you. you know how difficult you were makin’ it to keep my hands off ya?”

“how was i supposed to know?” you whine, squirming under the ticklish sensation. “you never . . . i thought . . .”

“i know i didn’t, and ‘m sorry. i should’ve.” he can hear the hitch in your breathing at his murmured confession. “just didn’t wanna scare ya off.” he retracts his head to meet your eyes and places a warm hand on your thigh in an attempt to reassure you. but when he feels the prickle of goosebumps beneath his palm and spots the heated dilation of your pupils as you observe him, he chuckles. “although, it looks like i never had anything to worry about to begin with.”

“of course not.” you mumble shyly. “just tell me next time.”

“deal.” he cracks a lopsided, wolfish grin. “so, you gonna give me the chance to make up for it?”

your eyes round, flustered at the implication of his offer. it’s one final chance for you to back out—for you to successfully extinguish the lecherous flame stirring within him, because he’s not sure how well he’ll be able to wrangle himself back in once you finally let him have his way with you. instead, your head bobs forward in a quick, little nod, and you confess sheepishly, “i would like that.”

his heart thuds in his chest at your permissive words, and god, he hopes that you know what floodgates you’ve opened. . .

you squeal when his head dips low without warning, fingertips rough with greed as they eagerly pinch and grope at your supple nipples, sharp teeth already grazing over your skin in search of the best place to leave the first mark of many. it happens so abruptly that you choke on the gasp that’s punched from your chest, body trembling beneath the blitz of stimulation.

. . . because he’s certain that by the time he’s satisfied, weeks from now, long after the marks of tonight have vanished, merely catching a glimpse of your bare skin in the mirror will be enough to remind you exactly how he feels about you.

#windbreaker x reader #windbreaker x you #windbreaker smut #hiragi smut #toma hiragi smut #toma hiragi x reader #hiragi x reader #hiragi toma

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littlexdeaths · 6 months ago

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who doesn’t love a little double feature sabotage?

older brother’s best friend eddie x fem reader

warnings: sid really is the worst, so many dorky cliches and tropes oops, poor steeb just can’t catch a break, and a little bit of some boob grazing.

it’s a recipe for disaster masterlist.

it was the perfect plan, in theory.

a date night at the hawk and a movie that no one cared about. the darkness and the promise of a practically empty theater would offer you the cover you needed to spend the night with your actual boyfriend.

but as you’ve experienced thus far, nothing ever works out the way you want it to.

the trailers had barely started before he was on you, leaning over the armrest and cupping your jaw in his palm. the bucket of popcorn was knocked to the floor in his rush to get his mouth on you, but you really didn’t mind. it had been well over a week since you’d be alone together, and both were about to burst at the seams.

“i.” kiss. “missed.” kiss. “these” kiss. “goddamn.” kiss. “lips.”

he pulled back with a large grin, brushing his thumb over your swollen lips before they were back on yours.

but like all good things, this had to come to an end.

the opening scene of mystery date had begun to fill the screen when you heard the theater doors swing open. and the boisterous but familiar laughter of your brother and gareth spill into the mostly empty theater.

“god dammit… son of a bitch,” he curses harshly under his breath before he slides out of his seat and onto the floor.

eddie could feel the sticky soda and crushed popcorn beneath his knees, inwardly cringing as he began army crawling toward the end of the aisle.

“wow, what a crazy coincidence!” sid says when he finally spots you, but his shit eating grin told you this was anything but a coincidence. “didn’t know you were on date, mouse.”

they both look at you with a snicker, seeming to enjoy the scowl on your face.

“since when were either of you a fan of rom-coms? thought you’d take heather to see this sid, not gareth.”

they both seem a little taken aback by your response, and gareth sheepishly rubs the back of his neck.

“well speaking of dates, where exactly is yours at?”

that’s when the panic begins to trickle in.

“… he’s uh, getting us more popcorn.”

you gesture to the dumped bucket at your feet, and your ability to keep both your brother and gareth distracted gives eddie the opportunity he needs to get up from the floor and promptly book it out of the theater.

you let out a sigh of relief when you hear the theater door close, and you quickly shoot up from your seat.

“you know… he’s actually been gone for a while, i’m gonna go check on him.”

you scoot out of the aisle and past both males, quickly descending the stairs before either of them could say anything else.

once you’re out of the theater, you’re quickly yanked by the collar of your jean jacket and into a storage closet. you trip over a mop bucket and tumble forward into his strong chest.

“you know if you really wanted me all to yourself munson, you could’ve picked a more romantic spot,” you tease.

while it’s pitch black in the closet, but you practically feel him roll his eyes.

“oh yeah, real funny, baby.”

his hands reach up to cup your cheeks, and he leans down. only he completely misjudged the distance between you, and in a rush to feel your lips again— he ends up smashing his nose right into your forehead.

“oh jesus, fuck!” he groans, leaning back against the wall as he holds his nose.

“god, this is going so swell.” you sigh, “you know, we might as well just go in there tell sid everything.”

you turn to leave, blinding reaching for the door handle when he gently pulls you back.

“whoa, whoa, sweetheart— there’s no need to do anything drastic now.”

“well what do you expect me to do, eddie? it’s not like i can just waltz back in there with steve, now can i?”

it’s silent for a beat, then you feel him beginning to toy with the tips of your fingers.

“so, about that...”

eddie had somehow convinced steve to go see a different movie with a date just a few screens down, as a fail safe in case your brother decided to pull some shit— which of course he did.

and in the process of executing this idiotic plan, you pissed off not only steve’s date but half the theater full of people as you practically begged on your knees for him to help you. which ended with his date storming out, but not before slapping him square across the face.

you’d be working a lot more saturday shifts to make up for that humiliation.

but that is how you wound up sitting between your real boyfriend and your fake one… with your brother and gareth on the other side of steve. luckily both sid and gareth were convinced that eddie had gotten their message and showed up to the theater to help them sabotage your date.

absolute idiots.

but when eddie takes the seat beside you instead of the one next to your brother, sid looks at him like he’d grown a second head.

“don’t worry, sid. just making sure harrington here keeps his hands to himself.”

while it was said in jest, your brother somehow missed the underlying jealousy behind his words.

but you don’t.

so when you slip your hand in between the seat to hold onto eddie’s, you instantly feel him relax beside you. while it’s not the most ideal set of circumstances, you’ll still take the small victories where you can get them.

and later when eddie “accidentally” grazes the underside of your boob when he reaches across you for some popcorn, you have to stop yourself from swatting at him. all while trying to hold back a smile.

“and you were worried about steve being handsy.” you say under your breath, and he gently squeezes your hand.

“i don’t know, looks pretty handsy to me.”

you quickly glance down to where your arm was resting against steve’s, the tips of your fingers barely brushing against his larger ones.

“you’re an idiot,” you whisper to him fondly, before turning your gaze back to the screen.

you hear his small snort of laughter, which he quickly disguises as a cough.

“good thing i’m your idiot, sweetness.”

series taglist: @nailbatanddungeon @angel-eyes-and-devil-hearts @mugloversonly @eddiemunsonfuxks @munsonhoneybaby @alagalaska @creative1writings @missmarch-99 @stolen-in-moonlight @xxbimbobunnyxx @calumfmu

let me know if you would like to join the taglist!

#the freak writes 🫧#eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #brothers best friend!eddie munson #brothersbf!eddie munson #[ the munson files ]#[ series: it’s a recipe for disaster ]

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morte-par-le-chocolat · 1 year ago

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Lussekatter (Swedish Saffron Buns)

For best results, make your saffron milk and start soaking your raisins 1 hour before you would like to start your bread.

Yield: 24 (4 inch long) buns

Prep Time: 3 hours

Cook Time: 8 minutes

Total Time: 3 hours, 8 minutes

Course: Bread

Cuisine: Swedish

Servings: 24 people

Author: Sarah | Curious Cuisiniere

Ingredients

Prep Ahead

½ tsp saffron threads

2 Tbsp milk

½ c raisins

For the Dough

1 ½ c milk, warmed to 80F

2¼ tsp active dry yeast

¾ c sugar

6 Tbsp unsalted butter, melted and cooled

1 egg, lightly beaten

½ tsp salt

6 -6 ½ c unbleached all purpose flour

For the Egg Wash

1 egg

2 Tbsp water

Instructions

To Prepare

Place the saffron threads in a small bowl and carefully grind them into a fine powder using the back of a spoon (or use a mortar and pestle). Add 2 Tbsp of milk and set the mixture aside for an hour or two, stirring occasionally, to let the saffron dye the milk.

Place the raisins in a small bowl and cover with warm water. Set them aside to plump.

For the Dough

Place the warmed milk in a large mixing bowl. Mix in a few Tbsp of the sugar. Sprinkle the yeast over top of the milk and let it stand until the yeast has softened and begins to foam, 5-10 min.

Mix in the remaining sugar, melted and cooled butter, beaten egg, and prepared saffron milk.

Add the salt and flour, 1 cup at a time, mixing after each addition. Add just enough flour so that the dough comes together to a knead-able consistency.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured countertop and knead for 5-6 minutes, adding more flour as needed to keep the dough from sticking to your hands. Once the dough is smooth and soft, shape it into a ball and place it into a clean, greased bowl. Cover the bowl with a damp tea towel and let the dough rise in a warm, draft free place for 60-90 min, until doubled.

Once risen, turn the dough out on the counter and knead it a few times. Divide the dough into 24, roughly even, pieces. Roll each piece into a ball. Then, roll each ball into a 6 inch snake. Finally, roll each snake longer, to about 13-14 inches. (This dough has a tendency to spring back on you, which is why we roll it out in stages. Giving it time to relax will make it easier to get your long snake.)

For each snake, spiral the ends in opposite directions to form a scrolled “S”. Place the scrolled “S” onto a baking sheet that has been lined with parchment paper.

Drain your raisins and place them on a paper towel to dry. (Pat them dry if necessary.) Put one raisin in the middle of each spiral.

Continue with the remaining dough.

Beat together the egg and water for your egg wash. Brush the mixture on the buns.

Let the buns rise in a warm, draft free place for 20-30 minutes, or until the buns are puffy and have nearly doubled in size.

Near the end of this last rising time, preheat your oven to 425F.

Bake the buns for 8-10 min minutes, until golden.

Remove the buns from the oven and let them cool on a wire rack for 5 minutes before enjoying the warm rolls!

(These rolls are best if eaten within 2-3 days.)

#recipe courtesy of www.curiouscuisiniere.com #a favorite treat of Lord Skwisgaar #swedish treats #jean's recipe book #lussekatter #skwigelfskwisgaar

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pixeltwix · 29 days ago

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Life After Divorce for Emma May

For awhile now I’ve struggled to figure out what job Emma May could’ve taken up after the divorce as for so many reasons this is SUCH a messy topic.

Firstly, do y’all ever think about how the only reason Fiddleford was even going to Gravity Falls in the first place was to secure more money and provide a better financial future for his family (something he’d always dreamt of doing) only to then lose his memories, leaving the family in shambles, and ultimately leaving them in a worse financial situation with Em as a single mom?? Cause I think about this ALL the time-

To me it only makes sense that Fiddleford would marry someone just as lovely and sweet as him, but also someone who is tough enough for both of them. Let’s all nod our heads and agree that Fiddleford is a pushover and a major people pleaser. Most of his kindness to Ford is him outwardly wanting validation from an old friend he admirers because otherwise he feels useless and unintelligent. Ie Fidds whole, ‘I’m the builder, if I’m not building something than I’m useless’. So when he becomes too exhausted to build and Ford grows frustrated with this he tries to make up for it with gifts etc :,). That paired with some chronic anxiety is a recipe for a man who needs someone who can understand that and is willing to help him- his wife. mutually patient and kind as he, is happy to be that for him.

Regardless as far as her career goes, smart as she is, I don’t see her as book smart? Rather people smart? Emma May knows how to talk someone up, knows how to make a deal, knows how to defuse a situation, and could probably sell someone their own shirt off their back. Perhaps that could stem from the cult background I explain here and here, but regardless she’s witty in conversation and great at pretending she’s an expert on something she’s never heard of.

Naturally I thought sales would be a good place to put her, maybe rise the ladder that way? One of those late night tv marketers? But it didn’t feel like enough? The 80’s were a prime time for women to put themselves into the workplace, incredibly toxic as the environment was for them it didn’t stop women from being excited to be there. Ironically it’s the perfect time to divorce? Even if she didn’t want to, after the giant homicidal pterodactyl robot it sort of felt like a, ‘even if I still love my husband, if I value me and my sons life, I have to do this’ sort of thing

After taking that into consideration I thought ‘honestly bigger is better’ so I brainstormed harder to figure it out. And after a few lengthy rabbit holes I believe I figured it out. While Fiddleford acts as sort of the Bill Gates of the Gravity Falls universe I thought ‘who’s someone else deeply recognizable in Americas pop culture, but tv related?’ And then it hit me, ‘oh my god what if Emma May acts as the Oprah of the Gravity Falls universe? The Emma Dixon Show?’ (In the sense of a beloved tv personality that unexpectedly rose to great fame in the mid 1980s) The-match up felt perfect enough and a mid 80s timeframe feels realistic too as it gives her those three years to struggle and figure something out to provide for her son.

But also hi hello, I needed Emma May to peruse some sense of tv fame for the sake of her last name becoming a synonymous one. Considering I have no idea where miss Emmaline Butternubbins wound up after the fall of Billville (or hell if she’s even alive some twenty odd years later) but I love the idea of Emmaline recognizing the name ‘Dixon’, seeing the similarities on tv between Emma May and what she remembers of young Madeline, and wanting to reach out. Mainly out of fear that Ciphertology is rising again and she wants to talk some sense into her, sure, but once they meet or get in contact and Em couldn’t be further from that?? She’s relieved. Plus the two can bond over the absolute madness of the cult (also Emma May gaining a mother figure that isn’t Fiddleford mom? I love Bobbie Jean, but Em needs even more maternal support)

Also also?? I always envisioned Emma May as the type of gal to be super into photography. She just loves taking pictures of memories, people she cares about, and stuff she likes.

So this especially grew once she had Tate, the kid naturally being used to getting his photo taken for scrapbooks, and he loved being photogenic

But once his mom becomes a tv personality he begins to detest the public eye and the cameras of others

Its a hatred he keeps to adulthood especially, having zero tolerance for anyones cameras (other than his moms polaroid camera) pointed towards him

#gravity falls #emma may dixon #fiddleford mcgucket #tate mcgucket #the book of bill #book of bill #gravity falls fandom #gravity falls fanart #gravity falls oc #oc #fanart #young fiddleford #ciphertology #bill cipher #emmaline butternubbins #fiddemma #gravity falls thoughts #gravity falls analysis #ford pines

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dixonsbrat · 1 year ago

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𖥔 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍' 𖥔

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 ; steve comes home to find you more than just asleep

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ; steve harrington x girlfriend!reader, female oral seggs, slightly pervy steve, kinda exhibitionism, somnophilia. let me know if i forgot any !

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ; 1.3k .ᐟ

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ; steve makes brain go brrrr

the air was sticky, cascading a blanket of humidity over your body. a light sheen of sweat present on your now dewy skin. it was hot — too hot for your liking — and you cursed your shitty old air conditioner for breaking at the hottest time of the year.

given your losses, it was enough to warrant your desire of wearing absolutely nothing while having to spend the day cleaning your small apartment. you weren't sure how you had let things get so far behind, but with multiple loads of washing and a kitchen sink filled with dishes, you weren't about to slug yourself around and torture yourself with unnecessary layers of clothing.

you danced around the kitchen, twirling on the tips of your toes as you placed dishes into their designated spots. sticking the occasional finger up at the broken air conditioner for damning you to endure such insufferable temperatures, and for making steve take on more shifts at work so that you could afford to fix it.

after hours of cleaning, the warmth finally starts to take its toll, tiring you out until you couldn't possibly stand on your feet any longer. you seek refuge in the bedroom, falling into a heap on the bed where your book from this morning still laid.

the sheets are soft against your bareness, fitting into every curve and crevice. the window above your bed is open, letting in small gusts of summer as you slowly flip through the pages once more. but not even the words of your favourite author could keep you awake, and your eyes begin to flitter closed.

it's not until the late afternoon that steve finally ventures home from the video store, climbing the staircase in the building and letting out an exasperated sigh when he reaches the door to your apartment. his fingers are tired from constantly prying open video covers and sifting through tapes to scan — all he wants is to see your face.

his shoulders fall when he enters, expecting you to be sitting in the lounge reading a book or baking away in the kitchen like you always were — you loved to surprise him with new recipes — but you weren't doing either of those things.

he's surprised by the silence, and even more so when he makes his way to the bedroom and sees you in bed. the furrow in his brow quickly dissipates, and breath catches in the back of his throat. your face is all cute and puffy as you sleep, lips swollen and cheek squished against your book, but he's mostly surprised by the view he had been granted the second he walked in the door.

another gust of warmth dances across your body, causing your nipples to taut. it was a new sensation, one that you seemed to like, as you stir from your sleep, tossing and turning to get more comfortable atop the sheets. spreading your legs open for some sort of relief while also giving steve the perfect view of your flower as he stands at the foot of the bed. he swallows hard now, his jaw tensing as a heat begins to build up inside his pants, his member straining against the compact of his jeans.

there was nothing steve loved more than the sight of you opening up for him, showing off your velvety centre and letting him bury his head between your thighs. he loved the sight of you — the taste of you on his tongue — and as he stood there watching as you had unintentionally given him the thing he desired the most, he couldn't not think about how you tasted in that moment.

slowly, he slips off his shoes, unbuckles his belt and lets his jeans fall to the floor in a heap, giving his shaft some release as a growl forms in the back of his throat. his family video vest and polo shirt following suit, and with careful motions, he crawls across the bed towards your middle.

he wanted, no needed, you on his tongue now.

he moves forward enough to wrap his hands around the underside of your thighs, large fingers holding them apart in case you felt the urge to close them on him. then, taking in the sight of your beautiful sleeping face once more, knowing how much you were going to love his little wake-up, and with a smirk splayed across his lips, he slowly swipes his tongue across your goodness.

he revels in the taste of you. sweet on his tongue and already slightly wet. you must've been having a good dream.

it takes you a moment, slowly stirring from your sleep, grasping at the sheets around your head while steve laps up your taste. he begins to move his tongue at a faster pace now, making sure to get you nice and wet before starting on your sweet little bundle of nerves.

the instant contact sends a rush of goosebumps across your skin and sets you alight with ecstasy, a whimper leaving your lips as you finally come to. your chest is heaving, rising and falling so dramatically that it takes you a moment to collect yourself.

"w-when did you get home?" you ask between heavy pants, a moan escaping you at the end when he hits your most sensitive spot.

he pulls his tongue away momentarily and you instantly regret asking the question, wanting his touch back on you. his hair tickles your thighs as he moves to press a chaste kiss on your lips, letting you get a small taste of yourself, "a few minutes ago. i couldn't resist..." he smirks before delving right back into your sweetness, this time with the help of this thumb on your clit as he works magic on your core.

"well, i'm glad you couldn't - fuck, stevie." you cut yourself off, the pleasure consuming your every last thought.

steve rubs small circles on the nub, as he tongue-fucks your hole, insatiable moans leaving you. your back arches, hips jutting, and fingers snaking through his hair, gripping onto the loose chocolatey curls as he pushes you closer to your high.

“fuck, right there,” you cry as the pressure grows, a pulsing inside daring to break free.

you can feel the ball inside your stomach, a coil begging to snap, as your hips jut into steve’s face once more. hands now grabbing at the sheets, the pillows, anything to help you ride it out. “god, you’re so fucking beautiful.” steve mumbles, his big brown eyes staring up at you through his lashes and dishevelled hair.

it’s then that the orgasm hits, crashing down over you like a wave as you hold his gaze. he doesn't take his eyes away for so much as a second. he watches you intently, thumb still working you as his tongue licks up your slick. the only sound in your otherwise quiet apartment is the mixture of moans and curses leaving your lips.

steve doesn't stop, wanting you to get the most out of your orgasm, as he takes in the sight of your shaking body. your eyes now rolling into the back of your head as your mouth forms the most perfect 'o' shape. it was a sight he would never get sick of, one that would continue to consume his every thought for as long as he lived.

as your high comes to an end, steve can feel you pulsating on his tongue and presses a soft kiss to you before eventually pulling away. a roguish grin immediately takes hold as he moves to lay with you, slumping down on the sheets.

still breathless, you pant, "that was the best wake-up i've ever had."

"maybe you should be naked when i come home more often," he chuckles softly, brushing the hair from his forehead.

turning to him, a smile present on your lips, you say, "maybe i should."

#— 𝐯𝐞𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 .ᐟ ᡣ𐭩 #— 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 ᡣ𐭩 #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #— 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐟𝐰 .ᐟ

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rottenpumpkin13 · 1 month ago

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Sephiroth: quiet midnights, gleaming steel, faint incense smoke, the scrape of a whetstone, books lined perfectly on a bookshelf, cold rain against bare skin, polished black leather, bitter ginger tea at dawn, weighted blankets in winter, sharp ice crystals, scratched classical CDs, weathered angel statues with missing wings, sharpened pencils in neat rows, morning fog over empty streets, delicate frost patterns on windowpanes, steel-gray skies before snow, silent films in empty theaters, cat footprints on documents, mathematical equations, unopened mail, clean sword oil, abandoned chess pieces, mint tea leaves.

Genesis: spilled red wine on white papers, chipped maroon nail polish on piano keys, gold bangles clinking against wine glasses, vintage vinyl at dusk, steaming mulled cider with cinnamon sticks, smudged eyeliner after theater rehearsals, leather-bound books with gilded edges, dark chocolate with sea salt breaking under his teeth, dog-eared poetry collections, playing cards scattered across silk sheets, cherry candy staining his tongue red, cologne bottles on antique vanities, melted red candle wax on love letters, fresh ink bleeding through parchment, caramelized apple pie, packed jazz bars at 2am, velvet curtains, stage makeup, worn dance shoes, red leather gloves, theater tickets.

Angeal: petrichor on summer mornings, fresh ground coffee beans, sunrise training sessions, polaroid cameras with worn straps, mismatched lucky keychains, pencil sketches in margins, old photos in cracked leather wallets, soup simmering on stovetops, buzzing radio stations between cities, dappled sunlight through garden leaves, evening cicada songs, autumn leaves crushed underfoot, soft worn flannel shirts, pressed flowers, acoustic guitars, wrinkled maps with coffee stains, soil under fingernails, homemade bread, herb gardens, worn pottery, recipe books, wooden spoons, patched jeans, morning dew, pocket knives.

AGS: loud laughter, discarded pizza boxes, arguments dissolving into jokes, snorted milk, tangled legs under a blanket, whispers in a packed room, empty mugs littered around a table, quiet yawns, bitten apples, ring tones, a half-finished puzzle scattered across the floor, a messy kitchen, heads on each other's shoulders, rock-paper-scissors, scattered dice, sour candy, bumping elbows, the glow of a tv screen, borrowed hoodies, stolen phone chargers, dirty dishes, arms around shoulders, inside jokes.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #crisis core #ags #little writing exercise i did to trigger my synesthesia

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jolalibrary · 1 year ago

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xi. hold her, and tell her everything's gonna be fine

javier peña x f!reader | chapter eleven of late night texts

summary: It's the year 2000. Javi is minding his own business on the porch of his pop's ranch when a text from an unknown number vibrates his phone. The only problem is, no one knows he has a phone and no one has his number.

chapter warnings: sad!reader, talks of jobloss, comforting!javi, two idiots pining for one another. fluff. flirting. continuous romcom vibes. falling in love. idiots in love ✨ wordcount: 3.3k. an: i know, when will jo stop changing the banner, but I love this so much and feel it encompasses everything for these two.

text key: bold is you/reader | italics is javi

I have one last thing to research and then I’m all yours.

have you eaten

There is a piece of fruit in my hand, as I research.

you said you were gonna order

In my defence, I’m not super hungry.

if I was there id hide your notebook and make you eat tamales my mama taught me to make

Make me, ay?

oh baby normally i would be so down to talk dirty with you and make you blush but only when youve eaten

I really want this job, baby.

i know but i really want you to not be ill

Because you really really really like me?

i heard that in your voice and yes because I really like you

In the last few days, the two of you have managed to complete three crosswords. Something he’s impressed with and you’re disappointed in.

“So, another one—I’m still unsure what this even means.”

Laughing, he hears you crunch another piece of fruit—thankful to hear you eating. “What’s the clue, baby?”

He’ll never tire of it, hearing you call him that. A sweet sound, all wrapped in kindness—floating down the phone line all the way to his ear.

“‘Not a company man’, six letters,” he says, fingers rolling the bridge of his nose.

“Hermit,” you say, calm, casual. “Or, you know, me if I don’t get the job.”

“Baby,” he warns, pen scratching the paper as you try to laugh.

Then you asked to change the conversation. Something he was more than happy to oblige, capping the pen, shoving the book away, leaning on the counter as you tell him about a new recipe you like. Talking fast, busy—almost far too energetic, but he knows why.

It’s all because of today.

The interview—the things he’s heard you jump through hoops for—arriving sooner than he could have relaxed you for.

You’d practised elements of your presentation and called him more than you usually would. Something he liked, enjoyed. The feeling of being needed. That his opinion mattered. It all weaving within him, stitching the parts of him that had weakened since the goodbye, since the drive home—alone and without you.

After a quick text in the morning, Javi had known not to expect to hear from you for a while. Likely not even immediately post your interview, probably needing a coffee—a breather.

If he lived there, where you were, you’d likely need him. Meet him outside, coffee in hand to give to you, a comforting hug, your breath on his neck as you let the tension out.

But he wasn’t there.

And he had thought he might have heard from you an hour later.

let me know how it’s gone baby

Javi tries not to be needy.

A battle he finds easy to lose when it comes to you. Digging his phone out the back pocket of his jeans periodically, ignoring the animals nuzzling their noses at him for food as he checks his battery, texts, calls…

Then the hour bled into two. Your interview was two-hundred and thirty-nine minutes ago, to be precise.

By now, he’s expected to have heard something, anything.

you still want me to call tonight

He tries not to worry. Even as his tasks dwindled, the sun beating down, his stomach growling and sweat building in parts of him that he should shower off.

But a part of him thinks if he goes inside, it’ll layer on top of him: the loneliness. The thing he feels, but pretends isn’t there.

Because normally, he’d have heard from you at lunch—if not more frequently throughout your day. The silence expected, very out of character. Which turns some cogs in him that twist and tighten, forcing his throat to burn and his stomach to flutter with a nervousness he can’t explain, except that:

Javi wants you.

Not just in the sense that he wants to run his fingers up and down your side, to crush his lips over yours, to bury himself inside of you as he feels himself falling, freely, and happily. But more that he wants to wake next to you, see you smile and laugh amongst the field, show you the water’s edge—feel some contentment there rather than boiling anger at the boats.

You could wear your jacket as the weather cools, and spread your warmth from the photo strip to the rest of the ranch.

youre doing that thing where you make me worry, baby

Eventually, after much internal fighting, he heads in and showers.

Hands washing the day as he hopes the water will take away his worries too. Pressing his palm flat to the tiles, he allows the water to beat down on him—eyes occasionally glancing to the phone on the windowsill, willing it to light up.

He suspects it’s why he stays in a bit longer.

Allows the soap suds to have long since vanished down the plug hole, letting the water begin to go cold as he uses all of the water up.

It’s only when he’s dried off, thrown some comfier clothes on—sunk into his usual chair, does he rotate the phone in his hand. His fingers slid along the underside of his chin, eyes fixated on a photo of him and his parents—their faces beaming, smiling, his hands in theirs.

even got me using punctuation and everything

Please, he whispers.

To no one. Not his Pop in the next room, some show bleeding into the air. Just to himself, as he works the spot on his forehead.

You don’t text him back, but you do call bang on time.

He’s spent the last half an hour pretending he wasn’t loitering, while his pop pretended he wasn’t coming in to make drinks to check on him. Giving him that look, the one Javi had seen so often when he’d first come back from Cali.

All concern, all deep lines embedded with worries as he ticks, tick, ticked.

This was different. Something in his gut telling him that you weren’t okay, a need inside of him to get to you—pack a bag, head to the airport and hope there was a flight or something.

He only hadn’t because a part of him, small—but loud—hummed that it could be him. He could be the reason, the cause. It all too good to be true. His fingers pressing keys to read back his texts, see if he can find the cause—the moment it all began to spoil and undo.

The last hour of investigation led him to nothing. Irritation threading into his muscles until he heard the phone ring—loud, punching holes with its noise into his unravelling.

Smirking, he wipes his hands on his jeans, cocking his head around the doorway—checking for the flickering television and no lurking pop, before he unhooks the ringing phone from its place.

“Took you long enough, was about to ring you and ruin—”

“J—Javi?”

Sniffle. A sob. The beginnings of you splitting in two.

That’s what he hears—clear as anything. It cuts straight through his attempt at teasing and slices through him as though the sound was laced with the edge of a knife.

It’s instant, barely explainable, the way his stomach falls to his feet. His smile vanishes, stolen and robbed, as another sob expands in the space of your two’s silence, making his throat dry, and the phone crunches a little under his grip.

“Baby. Talk to me, what’s happened?”

You swallow, all thick, as though it's a struggle. “I… I—I didn’t g-get the job-b.”

Slowly, his eyes close. Hearing you cry again, louder, less restrained and more freely, them rolling and rolling from you like a wave. The depth of it travels freely down the phone, in the same way, he usually craves when it’s your voice, noise, or presence.

“I’m… cariño, I’m so—”

“—I’m s-sorry, Javi. I’m so sorry…”

Frowning, he slides the fingers down his nose as you continue to apologise—them merging with your hiccups and tears.

“Cariño, wait. Stop.”

And you do. Your sniffles all of a sudden ceasing, more restrained—practically swallowing another one back. Trying to keep it on your tongue, rather than let it escape.

“Why are you apologising to me?”

You’re quiet for a moment, a second. Then you seem to let out a strange noise, before clearing your throat. “The job… I… we’d have been seeing each other more, and I’ve ruined it—I ruined-d it all.”

Frowning, he opens his mouth. Confusion there, all evident and brimming. Because he hasn’t got a fucking clue what you’re talking about. His brain runs, dashing through the notes it’s been making, the snippets here and there you’d spill about your day and your work.

“It was-s in Houston. I’d have been able t-to move. We’d have been c-closer.”

And then it lands.

The realisation. What it would have meant.

It appears in front of him before it slams straight into him. Forced his head to drop, sight lowering to a mark on the wall as his chest tightens. His eyes fixated, unable to tear his eye from the stain on the off-yellow wall—one likely made from him sitting on a stool or chair, maybe even his knee when he’s stretched, when minutes have quickly tumbled into an hour.

Even if he’s reeling, your ramblings have continued. They’re all in various pitches, spluttered and painted in painful cries and strangled sniffs.

“—I—I didn’t want to tell you at first, in case we didn’t, you know, get on.” You continue, some words slamming into the next as you try to level out your cries. “Then I didn’t want to tell you in case you got excited, and I fucked it up—and I did, didn’t I? I fucked it up. And now we won’t live closer, and—“

“Baby—“

But you’re tumbling, rolling right off the emotional cliff you’d been on the edge of. Thick, horrid sobs that shake his foundation and dart cracks through all of him continue to travel from you.

And it hurts. Makes him feel both horrid and weak—helpless. Unsure what he can say, do.

So he offers, “They’ll be other jobs.”

And as soon as it unfurls from his tongue, he wants to drag it back. Swallow each syllable, and letter, and never let you hear them again.

Because he’s sure you cry harder, louder. Even if it appears like you pull the phone away so he can’t hear how deep they go.

And you keep trying to spill out his name, a sentence here and there, trying to form as he pushes the phone against his ear, palm flattening against the wall—balling his fingers up—

“There won’t be…”

Sighing, he lets you take a breath. “Baby, of course, there will be. You’re good, I can tell, alright? And you’re brilliant and just cause those fuckin’ idiots can’t see—“

“I quit, Javi.”

The words he’d been about to say, fizz out on his tongue, die, fade. And it seems to only make you cry harder. His mind trying to catch up, to follow on with what is happening as you explain, in broken sobs, how your entire life seems to crumble apart all around you.

“I… I couldn’t take it. The reason, the explanation. How they gave it to the new guy, the one who doesn’t even know how Houston operates—and I just saw red, Javi. And I quit. Me? I… I just packed my desk up, left….”

He bites the inside of his cheek, listening as you take a breath—it sounds so much like defeat has replaced your sorrow.

“Then I just wandered. A box under my arm… and… I wanted to reply, but I didn’t know where to start. Like, ‘I miss you so much, but by the way, I didn’t get that promotion, and I snapped because they treat me like shit, so I quit. That my best friend is so excited because they’re paying for her to move this month for her new job, and my lease on my apartment is coming up’ and…”

“And what?”

It’s your turn to sigh, it more shaky and still embezzled with sniffles—fluttering down to his ear. “And…” you pause, his pulse suddenly quickening, waiting, mouth opening and then closing. “And, the person who would make me feel better isn’t even in the same State as me—because, I know this sounds crazy, but as soon as I heard why I didn’t get that job, all I wanted… well, all I wanted was you.”

Me?

His lips curl, sliding up into his cheek. His eyes look up, dancing around the marks on the wall as he straightens his spine, and swallows back whatever lump had been forming.

“I just…” you continue, “wanted to be back in that hotel room. Curled up in your arms.”

“You….” Clearing his throat, he tries again. “You know how we could solve that? You could come here—clear your head… just for a minute. Get all the hugs you want.”

You let out a noise, low, shifting it from it to a breath in record time. “Well, I wouldn’t be much fun. I’d just spend it in your bed.”

“That doesn’t sound all that bad, baby.”

“Sleeping and crying, do it for you, charmer?”

He grins, before rolling his lips. “Not if it’s not from how good I make you feel, no. But. I just—want you to have options.”

You go silent, far too quiet for his liking, until he hears the sound of movement, shuffling. His ears honing in, trying to work out what it is you’re doing, could be doing.

“What am I actually gonna do, Javi?”

Fuck. It suddenly dawning on him how unequipped he is for this. For comfort—for being there for another person. He barely looked after himself before, never mind since he came home. He hasn’t got a fucking clue what to say to even begin to make someone feel better, never mind someone who means as much to him as you.

“I… I quit my job. Without even finding another one—that’s… that’s crazy, insane—I don’t do these things and-and—“

Rolling his head on his neck, he ran a hand over his face. Trying to buy a second or two, digging deep for an answer—something comforting that would help.

“You, baby, are gonna get some sleep, and tomorrow we’re gonna sort it.”

He hears you swallow. Loud, followed shortly after by a sigh.

“We?”

You say it quietly, full of disbelief.

Because only you still wouldn’t realise how deep he is in with you. If he could, if he could risk hijacking the moment to explain, he’d tell you how worried he’s been, how he’s been obsessively checking and clicking, to the point he’s pretty sure he’s taken some life of his phone battery for it.

Swallowing, he bites his lip, nodding to himself. “It’s you and me, ain’t it, cariño? You’re not… you don’t have to figure this out alone, is all I mean.”

It’s soft—the way you reply, okay. Delicate. He’s hopeful it’s accompanied by a smile, one with a nose scrunch.

“Javi?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“Can you… can you stay on the phone with me?”

Pulling a stool over, he sits himself down on it. The ache in his chest widened, a lump in his throat forming. “Sure, baby. You want me to talk about anything in particular?”

“Not sure…”

“What would you do if I was there?”

He swears he hears you smirk.

“I would cook you almond saffron chicken.”

Shifting on the stool, he adjusts the phone in his hand. “Yeah? How come?”

“It’s the first dish Aish taught me to make, and I think you’d like it. And, I’m quite hungry, I… I didn’t really feel up to food before. But maybe, y’know, if I came to see you, had the chance to cook, maybe over a long weekend?”

Smirking, he lets out a content breath. “I like the sound of it already…”

“Because of me cooking in your kitchen?”

Laughing, he rolls his lips. “No, because it would mean you were here, cariño.

Morning baby, hope the cows aren’t trying to eat your shirt.

morning hermosa why are you up so early

Well, I thought of having a lie in but decided to grab a coffee, print off some CVs and not look as desperate as I feel.

if it makes you feel better im pretty sure my pop would hire you in a heartbeat

Bet I’d look real good in dungarees.

fuck baby

Could even wear your shirt, tie it so it’s a crop.

youre killing me

I’ll leave you with that, I have a list of places to beg to give me a chance.

wouldnt need to beg me

Stop, baby. Save it for later.

He’d barely dried himself off before your text came through.

Javi had found that the one upside to you being unemployed was the amount of time you had to reply or call—something he wasn’t complaining about in the slightest.

In a way (a small, acceptable way), it felt like a taste of what it would be like if the two of you lived closer. If there weren’t towns, cities and states between the two of you. If you lived close by, or better yet, on the ranch with him.

Across the last few days, while you’d seemed upbeat through text—just as you were when the two of you were in Houston—he quickly realised how much of a mask that was when he had you on the phone.

If not for the fact that when you ended the call, you seemed more yourself than when it started, Javi would have already begged someone from a ranch or two over to help, and book a flight out to surprise you.

“Hello, charmer.”

Grinning, he runs his hand over his chin. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Well, I have good news.”

“What’s that then?”

“Remember when I said I had to meet with someone in Houston, from imports? Well, apparently, they’ve been trying to get hold of me at work—one of the few nice people there let me know, even passed my details on.”

It begins—right in his stomach. A nervousness, a bubble—it rising and rising, sliding into his heart as it makes it beat just that much quicker.

“He wants to meet with me… apparently, I impressed him?”

“That’s—fuck, that’s amazing, baby.”

Javi can almost hear your grin as you laugh—can even picture you hiding your face in your hand at his happiness.

“Yeah,” you say, more in a sigh than anything else. “It’s obviously just an interview—maybe even a chat, but it’s something.”

Tracing the back of the phone with his finger, he runs his fingers up his neck, up his chin—

Pulse thumping in his neck. “I could… Could always drive up, see you after?”

“Oh… um?”

Oh? He thinks. The noise suddenly on repeat. It’s all he can hear—that little surprised noise rips from your throat and punctures his ear. His own fingers scratching at his cheek.

And then you clear your throat, and he grits his jaw. “Well, if you wanted, once I’ve had my meeting with him, I was going to ask if I could come to Laredo, see the ranch… and you?”

Just as quickly as it came, the earlier shame from your ‘oh’ vanishes. It bursts, erupts into a thousand pieces of nothing as the edges of his lips begin to curl up.

“For a second, didn’t think you wanted to see me.”

You don’t laugh, don’t ridicule his confession, and if you were here, he’d imagine you’d have tilted your head in that way you do.

“Javi, of course, I want to see you. I…” you take a long pause as though battling with yourself. “Baby, I’ve been trying to find my way back to you since the moment I left you. There’s nothing I want more than to see you. I promise.”

His shoulders descend from his ears, a smile spreading across his face so large—he’s not sure anything could take it. Something inside of him shifted, sliding back together.

“So, do you mind if I come to see you on your ranch? Bother your animals, let me admire your fence work?”

If he hadn’t been sure before, he’s sure now he would have kissed you. Grip you by your cheeks and crash his mouth to yours, stealing that question mark from the air and using his lips to remind you that with him, you never need it.

But, since he can’t, he finds words. One’s that are more eloquent than ‘fuck, yes’, but are close in family to it.

Because, of course, he wants to see you. He never wanted to let you go in the first place.

an: we have next weeks and then an epilogue, and LNT 'main story' will be done. honestly, thank you for all the love as we've gone on this journey. i never expected this for one second, and i'm so emotional right now at how well loved/supported this story has been. i'm gonna miss it, so much.

#javier peña x reader #javi peña x reader #javi peña x you #javier peña x you #narcos x reader #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javi pena x reader #narcos javier x reader #narcos javier #pedro pascal x reader #narcos fanfiction #pedrostories #mm: late night texts #javier peña fanfiction #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic

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seokjinsonlyone · 2 years ago

Text

this how i think bts would be if you were pregnant

namjoon:

he’s kind of clumsy and brutish by nature so he would try his absolute hardest to be quiet gentle and out of the way when it comes to you

reads to your baby every night once their hearing develops; goes through tons of children’s books and buys the ones that have all the messages and lessons he wants his child to learn so you now have a very large carefully curated library in the nursery

your pregnancy becomes his new j hope like he’s gonna mention it at every given opportunity whether it’s related to the topic at hand or not

comes back with a new baby item every time you send him to the store; you have to draw the line once he starts buying jars of baby food just bc they’re cute and little

not too keen on going into the whole birthing thing blind so he persuades you into taking lamaze classes with him

seokjin:

has one of them pregnancy apps downloaded and updates you each week on which fruit your baby is the size of

thinks it’s unfair how you get unlimited time with your baby and demands he get one on one time with them; makes you put on headphones and play music so he can spend time and talk with them without you intruding

puts himself in charge of your diet; looks up different ingredients that are supposed to be good for you and the baby and makes recipes centered around that; feels guilty bc every once in a while he cooks something that baby decides they do NOT like at ALL and it makes you sick

once your baby starts kicking he lets them make final decisions on things y’all can’t or don’t feel like deciding on; what shirt should he wear today? baby chooses. can’t choose a restaurant for dinner? baby chooses. accent color for the nursery? baby chooses.

tbh his favorite thing about you being pregnant is that when y’all go out he gets to park in the spaces that be up front for expecting mothers

yoongi:

when you get to be too much for him he always threatens that he’s gonna go to the store to “get milk”

all you’d have to do is give him a theme and a color scheme for the nursery and he’d take care of the rest; would give your baby the childhood room of your dreams

always 10 steps ahead in planning; like you’re trying to figure out if it’s acceptable go out with your jeans unbuttoned bc they is not fastening no matter how hard you try and he’s trying to figure out if y’all should move bc he likes the school that’s zoned for the neighborhood 5 blocks away

tries to act all nonchalant but every time he talks about you and your baby his hand ends up clutching his chest and he has this undeniably soft fond smile etched across his face

daily foot and back massages and belly rub downs with stretch mark cream

hoseok:

most likely to get on your nerves; like most of time he is rainbows and sunshine and the absolute light of your life; but he gon catch you on the wrong day, a day when you’re already in a bad mood and your back hurts and your feet are swollen and he’s gon be hopping around making sound effects and you’re gonna absolutely lose it; he’ll try not to take it personally but you’re gonna have to give him quite a few kisses and cuddles to make up for your raging

would be even more terrified than you if you ever fell; like after the shock's worn off and you're calm again he's definitely gonna make you go to the hospital just to make sure everything's okay even if you told him you felt fine

carries the sonogram in his wallet front and center in the space where his ID should be for easy access to show any and everyone who asks about how you’re doing

buys all kinds of designer things for your baby; you have to beg him to stop spending thousands of dollars on clothes and shoes that are only gonna fit for a month and a half at best

has more of a nesting phase than you i think; like nursery is fully completed, go bag is ready, baby’s clothes are washed and organized, all the little gadgets, diaper genies, bottle warmers, etc are set up and placement tested for maximum efficiency by month 6

jimin:

the type to be uncomfortable with you doing anything; like if it was up to him you’d be in bed the entire time; you have to remind him that you’re pregnant not dead but you take it easy and let him help you as much as possible to ease his nerves

thinks it’s cute when you start needing help to stand up; sometimes he’ll just sit back giggling and watch for a while as you try to get up on your own before stepping in and helping you; videos the experience nd shows it to his friends

goes to every one of your doctor’s appointment with a notebook full of questions about your’s and the baby’s health and writes all the answers down very meticulously

spends like 3 hours building the crib for the nursery; there’s so much grunting going on that you’re concerned HE might be going into labor; gets inside the crib after he’s finally finished building it to prove to you how sturdy it is; ends up taking a nap inside of it bc he didn’t realize how laborious it was gonna he

completely empathetic to your experience so he’s up when you’re up no matter how late it is; will literally get up at 4am to get you a bottle of water and make you a snack and rubs your shoulders and back until you can fall asleep again

taehyung:

his hand stays on your belly the whole 9 months; like you’ll be 6 weeks looking completely regular trying to keep it a Secret until you make it out your first trimester but everyone is suspicious bc taehyung will just come up and start rubbing your tummy whenever he sees you

tries on your nursing bra and would be walking around the house flipping the cover off showing you his nipples at odd times

starts picking out names immediately; at the end of the day he’s always gonna yield to you bc he wants you to be happy but he really really wants to name his child

plays so much classical music bc he heard it makes the baby smarter that you start to feel like you live in the 18th century

knows he isn’t the best at cooking but wants to be better for his baby so he spends like 2 weeks perfecting his baby formula bottle making method

jungkook:

doesn’t understand how anyone could have the type of cravings you have but his curiosity is too strong and he tries each of one them; finds the peanut butter covered pickles absolutely disgusting but rocks with the dessert pasta

starts calling you ms penguin bc of the way you waddle walk when your belly gets too big

lactation kink

would be deep diving on the internet researching various things about pregnancy and then spend the next 4 months trying to convince you to do a water birth bc he thinks it would be “cool”

sits bam down and has a conversation with him about how he’s gonna have a baby brother or sister and what’s gonna be expected of him when the time comes; it’s definitely more of a pep talk for him than the dog

a/n: me posting this is just as much of a surprise to me as it is to you anyway 🫣 thoughts comments concerns are welcome

#bts #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts headcanons #bts x reader #kim namjoon fic #namjoon x y/n #seokjin fic #jin x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x you #hoseok x reader #jhope fanfic #jimin fanfic #park jimin x you #taehyung fanfic #kim taehyung x y/n #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fic

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uglypastels · 2 years ago

Note

i have to say this, eddie love fucking you when you’re in a messy bun and your glasses almost falling down your nose. Chef’s kiss

Chef's kiss indeed and i hope this is ok, but this gave me major librarian!reader vibes, and I meant to make this pure filth, but as I started writing, I realised that I adore these two wholeheartedly, so please enjoy the fluff fest around it.

warnings: 18+ only MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. p in v sex. sex in a public place. unprotected sex (dzon't dzo it). swearing.

masterlist // inbox //

Working in the Hawkins Town Library, you got to be in the presence of almost everybody who lived there, from the youngest readers to the eldest. Everyone needed books for one reason or another, let it be homework research, recipes or just some entertainment. There were the quiet readers who settled themselves somewhere in a corner to spend the rest of the day with their noses in between the pages; the ones who search for hours for the one book they had their mind set on the moment they walked in; the ones that, for whatever reason, forget to stay silent. There were fans of fantasy as well as historical non-fiction, philosophy and romance. There was a place for everybody here.

With such a variety in patrons, it was only natural you grew to have favourites. Some might be more self-explanatory than others. Of course, your heart doubled when Julie came in with her daughter, Sandy [who just turned six!], to pick out a new book every few weeks. Or old man Farrell who already knew all the facts in the books he checked out and was more than happy to share with you.

It could come to most people as a shock then that the person you looked forward to seeing the most was none other than Eddie Munson.

Surprisingly, he could be the definition of the perfect library patron. Besides the fact that he had never been late with book returns, when you started working there, the first few times Eddie came by, he scared you to death—so quiet was he, sneaking around the aisles and up to the counter to check his stacks of books out.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya there, sweetheart,’ he said as he put the books on the desk.

‘It’s alright.’ You started picking up books from the pile, stamping in the date on the inside sheet. ‘Might have to consider getting a bell.’ You smiled, ‘that way I could hear you coming.’

‘Hmm, too bad I don’t have a bell.’ Eddie clicked his tongue but reached into one of his pockets, ‘but… would these do?’ He pulled out a handful of thin metal chains. They rattle around.

‘Why do you have those in your pocket?’ You asked curiously as you gave him back the books.

‘Always have them on me– I mean, on my jeans, but I take them off when I’m hear. Don’t want to disturb anyone.’ And with that, he gave you a shy little smile that made your heart melt.

‘That is, actually, really sweet of you.’ If only more people were so considerate. ‘Thank you.’

‘Yeah, well, I have my moments.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I’ll see you around.’

‘See ya.’ You waved as he walked away, barely able to contain the smile on your face that the metalhead had caused.

Not a lot changed since that day, but your and Eddie’s conversations did begin to grow. You’d keep on talking while you checked out his books, sometimes for so long that another patron would have to interrupt to get their books. Then, Eddie would pop by your desk to ask for the location of some particular book— one you had never heard of, in all honesty, but he probably easily could have found it if he bothered to look through the cards.

‘Excuse me, sweetheart,’ he’d clear his throat, ‘do you have any idea where I could find Carrots Love Tomatoes?’

‘Sorry?’ You must have misheard the title.

‘Carrots Love Tomatoes: Secrets of Companion Planting for Successful Gardening. It’s for my uncle.’ Eddie would clarify, reading the title out from a scrap of paper he had scribbled on.

‘Right. Do you know who it’s by, perchance?’

‘I’m surprised you don’t.’ He reread the paper. ‘Louise Riotte– shit, I’m definitely mispronouncing that.’ He quickly spelt it out for you.

Well, you had to admit, you weren’t personally familiar with Miss Riotte’s work, but you knew this library inside-out and told Eddie to follow you into the section you thought it most likely to be. The non-fiction section was off in the corner of the library, with only rectangular windows blocks near the ceiling, letting in barely any daylight. The light was, instead, coming from the lamps above you; they flickered and buzzed on the off-moments.

Eddie stayed a step behind you as you navigated through the shelves, muttering the alphabet to yourself repeatedly as you tried to find the RI– shelf. Once you finally found it, you realised it was on the top of the bookcase, where you couldn’t reach it.

‘It’s up there.’ You pointed, thinking that maybe Eddie would just get it himself now. But instead, Eddie offered to pick you up. A bit flustered, you accepted the offer and tried to ignore the feeling of his hands on your hips, the way his rings dug into your soft skin. He picked you up, and you grabbed the book quickly. Once back down on the ground again, you handed it over to him. Eddie thanked you with a large smile as he looked at the book.

He frowned.

‘Something wrong?’ You asked.

‘No, no, it’s all good, thanks. It’s just that…I don’t know…’ He looked at the book a bit longer. ‘Oh, you know what? I think I must have read it wrong.’ He looked down at the scrap of paper again. ‘...yeah. That definitely says Catcher in the Rye. Well, thank you anyway, sweetheart. Really ‘preciate it.’

‘You’re an idiot, Eddie Munson.’ You laughed.

‘Uhm, I’ll have you know,’ he leaned against the bookcase by your side, ‘that this had actually all been an act of sheer brilliance.’

‘Oh?’ You were leaning against it, too, your shoulders almost touching.

‘Yes. I would say that the way I got you here with me, away from all those people, is MacGyver-level brilliance.’

‘Don’t you think it might have been easier to just… I don’t know, just ask me to meet you here.’ You would have been going on a break soon anyway.

Eddie grinned as he leaned forward to you, ‘Now, what would be the fun in that?’ You could feel his breath on you. The scent of excessive bubblegum chewing greeted you.

‘Fair enough,’ you tried to act cool, ignoring the hot flashes he was causing all over your body. ‘So, why did you want me to come out here? What couldn’t wait until my lunch break, Munson?’

‘Just wanted to say how cute you looked today.’ Eddie smiled, then, as if he remembered something– ‘Oh, and this–’ he leaned in, cupping your face in his hand, kissing you softly.

So, perhaps, some things had changed over time. Smalltalk and jokes at the front desk turned into stolen kisses and hushed laughter in the dark corners of the library. Just as with everything around, Eddie was gentle and soft. His grip on you was there for support, to make you feel how much he wanted you near him.

You pulled away with a small gasp, chest-beating fast, eyes fluttering open.

‘But I suppose I could have waited with that.’ Eddie said afterwards, his hand still on your cheek.

‘I’m glad you didn’t.’ Your voice was hushed, but you kissed Eddie deeply instead of breathing in the air you needed. You pulled at his shirt to bring him closer, and his other hand reached for your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

‘You should probably get back,’ he muttered between kisses.

‘Probably,’ you replied. Neither of you meant any of it, and you both knew it. You had no idea why you only saw each other at the library. Maybe because you always knew to find each other here; it was a certainty. Outside, it would be a mere coincidence to bump into Eddie. Here, you knew he would be here every week.

Maybe because it felt like a haven for both of you and it felt like a different reality—an escape from the real world. But it was precisely this that made everything else so fragile. Who knew what it would be like outside of these bookshelves? You didn’t want to know, so why risk it? What you had now, it was an unspoken agreement. One you both were more than happy with. It was special—a rarity.

Everything- the kiss, the hold, the emotions, the heat- all intensified the longer you kept going. It was getting messy and rough. Eddie had locked you in between him and the bookcase. You could feel him all over you. His hair tickling your face, his cold rings on your skin, his clothes pressing into you, his— fuck, he was huge. You could feel him against your thigh, no hiding it.

‘Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this the whole week.’ He breathed against your neck. ‘Haven’t stopped thinking about you.’ You would have told him the same if you could form an entire sentence. It was hard to concentrate daily when you had the memory of his touch plague you every day, and everything around you at your job was a heavy reminder.

‘Need… I need you, Eddie,’ you gasped out as he kissed your neck, right on the spot that made your knees go weak. ‘Please.’

‘Hmm, need you too, sweetheart.’ He was roaming his hand over your bare thigh underneath your skirt. Sometimes you wondered if anyone around had noticed that you really only wore them on days of Eddie’s library visits. Perhaps Eddie hadn’t picked up on that specifically, but he certainly enjoyed your style. ‘Drive my fucking wild in these short skirts of yours.’ The words rolled out of his mouth as he began unzipping his jeans. ‘Look so fucking good.’

‘Thank you,’ you moaned, giggling about how giddy you felt that he was complimenting you while preparing to thrust his dick in you. It was all so silly, so stupid. You were doing something incredibly risky, most likely illegal, but you couldn’t care one bit. All you could think about was how good he made you feel. How happy you felt with him.

‘C’mere,’ Eddie groaned, pulling you up by your thighs, holding you against the shelves. Luckily, they were pretty sturdy, bolted to the ground, so his force pushing you against them barely mattered. On you, however, it was another story.

‘Oh, fuck,’ you whimpered, trying to stay quiet at the feeling of him inside you. After letting you adjust quickly, he started thrusting in you hard and deep. The way he was moving against you, it made your whole body shake. You could feel your glasses slip down your nose. In the haze of it all, you had forgotten to take them off but were about to do so– when Eddie interrupted.

‘No, keep them on.’ He kissed your cheek.

‘Why?’ you didn’t see a reason for them.

‘Want you to see me fucking you.’ His smile was airy. ‘Besides, it’s hot as shit. The way you get so messy for me. And your hair,’ he punctuated each sentence with a deep thrust. One of his hands brushed some of your hair out of your face, ‘I wish I could take a picture of you right now. Would cum to it like every day.’

‘Gross.’ You joked, and in return, Eddie grazed his teeth over your collarbone, nipping at your skin slightly.

‘Calling me gross as if you’re not getting fucked in the middle of the library.’ Eddie’s smile was contagious. As he continued, your glasses were falling again, but he quickly pushed them back over the bridge of your nose. ‘You’re fucking filthy, sweetheart.’

‘I’m–’ you gasped as he went deeper.

‘Yeah, baby?’

‘I’m– I’m close, Eddie.’ You tried to whisper as best as you could, biting down on any noises that could be heard from afar.

‘Mmm, I know, you’re so tight. So perfect.’ he moaned through his last hard thrusts. You could feel your climax coming, knew how it would come, and quickly hid your face in the nape of his neck to muffle your scream of pleasure as it washed over you. Eddie rode it out with you, only moments behind.

He held you briefly, letting you come down and stabilise your breathing. You smiled at eachother sheepishly and kissed deeply once more. There was nothing else to say.

Eddie pulled out, the emptiness hitting you immensely. It was a strange sensation, and you still didn’t feel quite yourself as your feet touched the ground again. But Eddie’s hands stayed on you for stability.

‘You’re a dream, sweetheart. Just… unbelievable.’

Eddie brushed the loose strands of hair from your face again while you readjusted your glasses. There was nothing else to say.

Now came the awkward part where you timed your exit from the aisle and hid the guilty sex-glow look on your face.

It was a slow day at the library, so no one awaited you at the front desk. You took your place and tried to shake off all your emotions, and it worked for the most part, except for the giant smile. That you just could not get rid of.

It was still there when Eddie returned to you twenty minutes later, now accompanied by a new stack of books.

‘Found everything you were looking for?’ You asked as you took the books from him.

‘That and more.’ He leaned his elbows on the wood, grinning like an idiot. You had to tell yourself not to look at him, or you would get lost in those big brown eyes.

‘I’m happy to hear that.’ You stamped the date into all the books and returned them to Eddie. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ Eddie grabbed them under his arm. ‘Same time next week?’ He winked. Once, the words really were only meant for this little exchange. That had been all you were looking forward to—the small chat at the desk. Back then, you would have never imagined the things you would get up to with the metalhead in the barely visited sections of the library.

‘See you, Eddie.’ You shook your head, still smiling, of course. And that was that. There was nothing else to say.

At least, there wasn’t before. All those other times, that really would have been it. Eddie would have walked away, and you would have watched him do so while already awaiting his comeback. Yet this time…

This time, Eddie stayed in his place.

‘Can I… help you with anything else?’ You raised a brow.

‘Uhh–’ Eddie cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes, you could. See if I have these… these two tickets for this thing— a concert… and see, I have no idea what to do with this second one, so maybe you could help me with that.’ He spoke fast and like he was stumbling over an uneven pavement instead of words, but you followed it nonetheless.

‘Concert?’ You asked.

‘Yes.’ He expanded with the name of a band you had never heard of before. ‘This weekend.’

You thought for a moment, or at least pretended to, as you already knew your answer. ‘I might have a friend who would be interested in taking that ticket off you.’

‘Any chance this friend of yours wears cute glasses, short skirts and works at my favourite spot in the city?’

‘She just might.’ You bit the inside of your cheek.

‘Then it’s deal, sweetheart,’ Eddie slammed his hand on the table in excitement, then immediately cringed at the noise he made. That same noise seemed to have awakened a quick realisation in him: ‘Wait, we were talking about you, right?’

‘Yes, Eddie. I would love to go to the concert with you.’ You rolled your eyes at the needed clarification.

‘Cool, just checking. Great.’ he started walking away now. ‘Great. I’ll pick you up– wait; I don’t even know where you live.’

‘You can pick me up here.’

‘Do you live at the library?’ he asked quickly, and you were sure he was being serious.

‘No, Eddie, I do not, but I work weekends too. But you can bring me back to my place afterwards. Stay the night, maybe?’ Was that too much too quickly? You started to panic for a second, thinking you took it too far, but then Eddie replied, repeating his previous words.

‘It’s a deal, sweetheart.’

the end

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