#the fuck do you mean falling into a routine makes you feel safe and warm?

[rotteneldritchhorror]

I will stop at nothing to make my blorbos autistic, that includes Rafe Cameron

[zialltops]

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

Cowboy!Joel (41) X F!Reader (25) | 42.1k words | wip | explicit | 18+ minors dni | enemies to lovers | slow burn | au: no cordyceps outbreak | oral (f receiving) | (semi) public sex | vaginal fingering

masterlist | ao3 | spotify playlist

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his mouth connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck.

a/n: this chapter was so fun to write, I accidentally made it 9.5k words lol, but it was such a relief (ish) to write. Some new warning apply to this chapter, so please be advised of those. We get to see a whole new side to Joel this chapter and we’ll get to see some “in the making of” this chapter in the following one. A little bit of context on why Joel changes so abruptly and the reasoning behind his decisions. I hope you all know how much i love love love you guys for being here for me while i struggle to find time to write. I’m working on getting back on my feet every day and this is the one safe place I have to escape and indulge in my favorite coping mechanism. Much love, H 🤍

Chapter 7–You Don’t Want That Smoke

Your birthday falls on Friday this year, (lucky you) but it also means the First Friday dance falls on your birthday this year as well. It’s the first community event after the cold winter months and by that time, most people are itching to get out of their snow-buried homes. The town usually puts on the event to celebrate the coming spring, hosting venders of all sorts and games for the families. Growing up, your parents would take you to the petting zoo and let you ride the ponies, like you didn’t have a horse at home, like there wasn’t a whole ranch to attend to, animals to raise up and sell, like you could just for a moment, be a normal little girl from a quiet street who’d never sat in a saddle in her life.

If only that had been the case, ever. If only you’d had parents who pursued safe, reliable careers, where they had pensions and retirement, insurance and benefits, instead of breaking their backs for a ranch that had been dying long before it was left to your mother by her parents. Was it obligation that kept them here, or was it something else? Was it the same thing that got you through years of college, all in an attempt to keep your parents' dream alive for a little while longer?

It’s Wednesday, which means you have two more days before your birthday and Melly’s plane lands in a few hours from Colorado, but so far your morning has taken you five rounds in the octagon and is currently coming back for more.

“—No! The statements I just got in the mail yesterday said we have ninety days to come up with three months worth of the mortgage before the property faces foreclosure.”

The woman on the other end of the phone sighs at you and you can hear the way her hands hit her keyboard. “I know that, ma’am, but that was a month and a half ago and we still have not received any payments. The bank sent another letter, requesting that the entire six month worth of back payments be received by the end of the ninety days or the property will be foreclosed on.”

The routinely scripted response feels like an open handed slap to the face, white hot pain snapping through your veins like lightning on the Wyoming plains. You sink down into the dining room chair and let it soak in all the way.

“How many days do we have left?” You hear yourself whisper into the phone but it’s not you speaking, not really—its a absent reflex like blinking or breathing.

“That's…51 days, ma’am. We’ll contact you again in thirty days if we have not received the entire amount by that time.”

Your eyes burn and blur, tears for the years of your life wasted on a useless education, until they surge past the dam and plummet to the paper below. When you look down at the document, your tears are stained red by the ink on the foreclosure notice. “How much will it be, again?” Defeated, Inadequate and Doomed.

“Fourteen thousand, three hundred and forty dollars, for six months worth of the Mortgage and late fees accumulated.” She sounds annoyed when she reads off the obscene number, like she isn’t sealing the fate of your family home, the dream your parents have worked their whole lives for to pass down to you—all wasted on a backed mortgage that your parents took out on the farm when you were born.

The full circle indicates that losing your family’s livelihood was your fault, from start to finish. You didn’t make it in time. All your hard work, and you’re still going to lose it.

“Is that everything, ma’am?”

Click

You drop the phone and sob into your arms, your whole body shaking and heaving with every sharp inhale. In your best attempt to keep quiet, you attract the attention of the one person you long to keep this from, your sweet, well meaning mom.

She’s soft spoken when she soothes you, rubs your back while you dry up your tears against her chest and she doesn’t ask why, just kisses your forehead and smiles one of those sweet sweet smiles at you and says, “We’ll get through this, Honey, don’t you worry about that. We’ll figure this out together.”

And you believe her, enough to reel in your hiccups, enough to ease your searing tears. “Why don’t you take a break from work, Melly gets here soon, yeah? You got everything you girls need?”

You smile at her, thankful for her ability to distract you from the things that keep you up at night. She knows you better than anyone, she’s your best friend. “Maybe we can stop at the store after we get her, but we gotta leave soon—“ you check the time, one hour until her plane touches down in Jackson and it takes forty five minutes to get there alone.

“Actually Honey, about that…I can't go with you. I’m not feeling up to it and I thought I would whip up dinner for you girls. But I got someone to go with you,”

You stand up from the chair and put the papers back into the envelope. “Mom, I really can go alone, I drove all the way here—“ she stops you with a quiet scuff. “You got stuck in the snow and Joel had to pull you out.” Joel, that son of a bitch…that big, sexy cowboy son of a bitch who left you in the snow. Who huffs and puffs and walks around like the sweatiest, filthiest, most delicious version of every nasty fantasy you’ve ever had. Of course she would drag him into this, maybe she’s the one who’s after the help.

“Speak of the devil,” she has this knowing look when her gaze travels past you to the doorway of the dining room. You glance over your shoulder to find yourself smack dab in the middle of one of those filthy dreams, dressed in green plaid and his brown Carhartt jacket, his black cowboy hat resting atop his head with curls peeking out of the sides, kissing the tips of his ears. His beard has grown out a tad too, making him look soft all over, scruffy and curly with a dimpled smile. The sight of him comes with a sudden rush of soothing comfort, warm eyes that make you feel safe, hidden in the shadows of his hat.

“Heard I was takin’ you somewhere?” He’s broad and sturdy, with a slight sheen of sweat on the peaks of his collarbones under his shirt. Under his beard, his neck is taught and his muscles are strained, his pulse visible beneath his skin despite his cool composure. If you know Joel, he did a days worth of work this morning to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon. He probably smells like sweat and dirt, like horses and leather under all that damn southern charm he possesses.

Actually, you can take me anywhere. On the couch, in my room, hell—in the glow of a fridge light.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite off your involuntary groan, shooting your mom a sharp look. She may play coy, might act like she's this innocent and sweet, cookie baking, laundry folding, house making mom who knows no better, but you see what she’s really up to. How she hides behind her little false oblivion, a facade she usually only uses for good. This doesn’t feel like it was for the greater good.

“You—“ you sneer at her quietly and she smiles with a “Not sure what you mean dear, but you better get a move on. I have to get dinner in the oven!” She scurries out of the room and into the next, letting the door swing closed behind her. Joel remains in the same spot, one shoulder pressed against the white wood frame of the old door, his muddy boots on the dark hardwood floors. Your eyes drag up the rest of him, his pants are tight in the middle, hugging his hips and probably just barely restraining what lays below the dark blue denim. There's a soft curve to his belly, made apparent when his arms cross over his chest and pull his shirt tight against his front.

His belly looks so damn soft. So fucking round and bite-able. A few more clicks up, his chest nearly bulging out of the buttons of the flannel. The buttons hang on for dear life, but you’re afraid if he flexes, they will scatter to the floor with your resolve.

He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes. “Doin’ alright there, darlin’?” If his presence wasn’t enough, the bourbony southern drawl and the way he cocks his hip makes your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “Yeah—Yep, just need to get dressed and I’ll be ready.” You’re still in a big sleep shirt, have been all morning because work for you doesn’t require pants half of the time. When you start to breeze past, his eyes drop to the exposed skin of your thighs.

“Been wonderin’…” he stops you with a big hand, pressed against your sternum when you try to pass by his solid form. He’s still faced the opposite direction than your body, only his head turns to look down at you, gone still beneath his stern fingertips. “If you always walk around naked under these shirts, or if you’re wearin’ somethin’ under there when mom and dad are ‘round?”

His eyes flick back to the door leading into the kitchen, where your mother is currently hiding from your scowl, then back down to the hem of your oversized shirt. The hand on your ribs shifts when you haul in a deep, stuttering breath. It slips a few inches lower, the tips of his thick fingers dipping into the flesh of your stomach, just below your belly button. He’s so close and so fucking firm where he holds you in place.

“Why don’t you have a look for yourself, Cowboy?”

You challenge him back and you swear he stops breathing beside you. He meets your dare with a low growl, reverberating inside his rib cage like a shout in a vast canyon. What the hell is happening right now, did he hit his head or something? Is he finally getting the fucking hint? How desperately you want him to have his way with you? Then again, the last time he saw you dressed like this, you were bent over, knowingly showing off everything you had to offer, the place you wanted him most, while you listened to the guttural sounds leaving the unsuspecting man behind you. You aren’t going to complain about the sudden shift in his attention, hell no—you’ll soak in what you can get from the leery cowboy.

You hardly register the way he moves until he leans forward and warm fingertips graze the skin just under your ass. He’s looking when he lifts the shirt all the way up to your tailbone slowly, covered by smooth black satin, a thong that hugs your hips but leaves your cheeks exposed to his greedy sight. His eyes are everywhere, your thighs and the curve of your bare behind. His fingers dip just under the black satin band on your hip, his expression is just shy of a devoted man as he drinks in the contrasting sensation of your smooth skin and the silky material.

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, letting his hand slip from your panties to travel back down, unsure fingers tracing along the crease of your ass, curling under your cheek when he gets to the bottom. It’s the softest touch you’ve ever felt, full of admiration and barely restrained desire. It sets your skin on fire, radiating behind your eyelids. “Those are…damn pretty, sugar…but you better go get yourself ready, before you’re late.” His hands slip away from you completely and he turns in the direction of the door, already on his way out before you even fully process what just happened. What flipped inside of Joel on a random Wednesday afternoon in late February?

He leaves with a satisfied smirk with intentions of starting the truck while you stammer against the doorway and remind yourself to breathe. When the front door closes behind him, you lean against the wood he was just propped against, hoping his heat will still linger there. He instigated something, a secret whisper of want, the thought makes a grin break out from one side of your face to the other, pulling your cheeks tight. He wants you.

You get dressed with that same stupid grin plastered on your face. You shift through your closet a few times, but you keep falling back on the same outfit. A pair of flared jeans, light in color with stitch work on the sides. With a pair of boots, they make your ass look like a dream—just what you are going for, just so you can rile Joel further. You find a tight top and a thick wool flannel to throw over it, before tracking back down the stairs to the front door.

It’s the rush of adrenaline that shocks the agony from your brain, but the moment you bound down the front steps to his waiting truck, the door already propped open, you pause.

You stop at the foot of the stairs and turn, looking up the steps you’ve known your entire life, the screen door you’ve spent numerous summers swinging in and out of. The porch you’ve watched storms roll in from, the porch swing where you had your first kiss. All this and…your heart sinks. When you turn back towards the running chevy, Joel is staring back at you, his once knowing smirk traded in for a furrow of concern on his handsome features.

You climb into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt while Joel puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the house.

There’s a long stretch of road that passes in near silence, before it’s you who just can’t take it anymore. Joel, sweet fucking Joel sat beside you, respecting your emotions and your boundaries once again. “Ranch is ‘bout to be foreclosed.” You tell him. Once it’s spoken aloud, you realize just how imminent your family’s demise really is. How quickly you are going to lose everything, watch your parents walk away with no retirement and nothing to show for themselves, for generations of hard work.

You expect something, questions about how you know, how long you have, if there's anything he can do to help you, but the questions never come. Instead, Joel reaches over and presses his fingers into the latch on your buckle, pulling it off of you with one click.

“C’mere, sweet girl.” His tone is low, soft enough to not interrupt your thoughts, but enough to have you drawing across the bench seat and slipping under his sturdy arm while he drives. He keeps you tucked in close beside him, his hand trailing up and down your arm to ease out the pain residing in your veins. He takes one glance down at you and leans forward, his lips connecting with the crown of your head. “We’ll get through it. We ain’t goin’ down without a hell of a fight.”

We

We

Because after the years you’ve spent away from this place, Joel has come to think of the Rising Sun ranch as his home just as much as it is yours. He’d raised every one of the cattle on that ranch, he’s worked day and night to ensure its survival, he’s lost sleep and nearly limbs fighting to keep them afloat while you were gone. This is his home, his fight right alongside yours. Finally, the weight seems to ease up, shouldered by Joel's sense of responsibility for your family’s livelihood.

Beside you, he’s solid and warm, he’s alive and overflowing with strength, enough to spare, for something to cling to. You turn your head and bury your face in his shoulder, covering yourself in the shield of protection he has to offer, sturdy, devoted support that makes you feel lightheaded with security. He doesn’t push you further, doesn’t prod you for details. He just hangs on, keeps your body tucked in close to his while he drives into town. At some point, the rattling of the old truck along patchy highway roads lulls you into sleep with your head against his shoulder and one leg across his lap.

Joel, with all the strength he can muster—holds on tight.

“Hey,” your senses come rushing back when the truck comes to a stop and your warm pillow jostles under your head. You lift up off his weight a little and glance at him through a sleepy gaze, a soft smile present on his lips. “As much as I like you droolin’ all over me…” he gestures to wet stain on his flannel. “Think your friends plane lands soon, don’t want you to miss it.”

You get yourself together enough to look out the window. Joel parked right outside of baggage claim at Jacksons little airport and his arm still sits tightly around your shoulders. A deep sigh sets in to your bones and you lean against him for just a moment longer to soak in the warmth. “Hey, look at me, darlin’,” his hand wraps around your chin gently, coaxing your eyes up to his. “Don’t think about the ranch, at least till the week is over. Ain’t nothin’ you can do right now, so don’t let it ruin your birthday. Everythin’s gonna be alright.” His words trail off when a broad thumb swipes across the underside of your bottom lip, his gaze caught in yours so tightly you’re half sure the jaws of life couldn’t draw you apart. He breaks out into a grin and heaves a shallow laugh. “Had a little drool there.”

The little laugh that bubbles up in you breaks the eye contact and Joel shuts off the truck, untucking you from his arm. You check the time for safe measures, there's still a few more minutes before the plane lands and she still has to make it out the gates.

“Joel?” He’s fiddling with his key chain, adjusting a few backwards keys. “Hmm?” He barely makes eye contact—is he embarrassed? From holding you while you slept? “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me—for my family while I’ve been gone. I can't think of a way to…repay you for everything.”

Joel glances over at you and something flashes in his brown eyes, something that looks like discomfort and shame. He takes a sharp breath in and squeezes his knuckles around the keys. “I didn’t do it all selflessly…please don’t take this wrong. I haven’t felt a sense of belonging in years. Me and Tommy have been drifting since I was twenty eight, working on one ranch after another. We’d stick around a town for six months and he’d get antsy, stir up trouble and we’d have to hit the road again.”

He brings his hand up to his mouth and chews on the corner of his thumb. He’s anxious, you can tell by the way his eyes flitter to you then away quickly. “I’ve covered his ass more times than I can count because I don’t know if I’ll be the same if I have to leave here. It feels fuckin—selfish, like I’m usin’ your folks. M’gettin’ old, my bones are tired and all I want is to…stop. Slow down for once in my life. I’ve never been more at peace than I am here, with your parents and the ranch. I was doin’ so good, gettin’ my mind right, hatin’ myself a little less and then—“ he trails off with a distant look in his eyes.

And then…what? What’s caused Joel to lose that sense of peace and stability? “What happened?” You sink back in the bench seat, run your fingers along the stitched pattern of color adorning the warn padding. “S’big snow storm came in…I was comin’ back from town because I took Tommy to pick up flowers. He’d been a real asshole to a sweet lady who didn’t deserve it. Was pissed off he was smokin’ in the truck, pissed he was jeopardizin’ our home again, when we see this little car stuck in the embankment, met this—real pretty girl, and she…” he sneaks a glance over at you, but he’s doing his best to find anywhere, anything else to look at. Cars passing by, the sun reflecting off the bright white paint on the cross walk. The older woman in-front of you, helping what looks like her daughter, load her luggage into the trunk.

“She got under my skin and I was flustered for the first time in a really long time. Kinda freaked me out—and then I left here there—‘cuz I was scared shitless and nothin’s ever been the same since. Sorta think she hates my guts half the time for it.”

There's this unsettling silence in the cab, Joel's nerves and his admission hanging in the air between you. He’s never ever been this vulnerable and honest with you before. You’ve talked to him more times than you can count now, a meaningless little conversation where you found everything you needed to change your mind about him. But he’s never opened himself up like he was right now, in the damn pick up line of the Jackson airport.

“Joel I…I already forgave you for that.” You forgave him for that when he gave you your necklace for Christmas. You forgave him when he carried a newborn calf half a mile through a snowstorm for you. You forgave him when you came down the stairs to him in that damn cowboy hat.

You forgave him when he came back for you and looked at you with those pretty brown eyes.

“What?” He looks over at you and you hold onto the eye contact for as long as you possibly can. “I don’t hate you. Furthest thing from it actually—I do hate how much you avoid me. Like I’m going to bite your head off any second—“ he snorts, cracks a white smile at you and his eyes crinkle at the sides, making your stomach flutter, little blue butterflies soaring through your abdomen. “You do bite my head off—often.”

Okay—maybe he’s a little right, maybe you let it get too far a few times, spent too many afternoons angry at his distaste for you, when all you wanted was a taste of him. “Well, I’m sorry…for all the things I’ve said to you, the things I’ve called you. But I’m not upset about that anymore. I forgave you for that a long time ago. You’ve already made up for it a million times, Joel.”

He’s grinning at you like you just told him he won the fucking lottery, his nervous hands drumming a absent tune against the steering wheel. He’s looking at you like it’s the first time you’ve ever met him, his eyes shining with mirth and admiration. “Think…you could give this ol’ cowboy another shot?” That nervous little shake of his jaw, the tick in his voice and the hopefulness in his eyes is enough to break anyone, but you? You’re so lost on him you never want to find your way back. Throw away the maps, toss the keys somewhere you’ll never find them again—you never want to go anywhere else in the world. Another shot? You’d give him all of them.

“Pretend you’ve never met me before.”

He blinks, cocks an eyebrow and makes a face of confusion at you. “I’ve never met you?” You nod, turn your whole body to face him on the bench seat of his old beat up chevy. “Like it’s the first time we’ve met. I’m Hank's daughter and you’re picking me up from the airport to take me home for the first time in years. We’ve never met. Try again, shoot your shot, cowboy.”

You’d like to imagine that's how it went—your mom and dad were too busy to come get you and you decided to fly because you knew your little car wouldn’t make it. They send Joel, because he’s trustworthy and punctual. They know he’ll treat their daughter with respect, they trust that he’ll use his better judgment, because they know he’s a good man. You know that under that rough, hard exterior is an anxious man searching for belonging, a good man.

Joel takes a deep breath, lets his mind drift out the window before he turns it back to you with a charming smile, one you’ve never been on the receiving end of. It’s smoldering, flirtatious—everything you imagined Joel to be after all those years of pinning after a man you’ve never laid eyes on. A Joel you’ve never met and desperately need to get to know better. “Prodigy daughter finally returns,” his drawl is thick and his eyes rake over you once, twice, before settling on your own. “I’m Joel.”

You giggle—rightfully so, because this Joel? This Joel is all quick wit and chivalry. You fake introduce yourself back, your grin mirroring his own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joel.”

“Pleasure is…all mine, darlin’.”

You could stare at him forever with that damn goofy smile on his face. “Anyone ever tell you—you look good in this?” You tell him, reaching up to flick the brim of his hat, but it stays firmly in place despite your efforts. He snorts and snaps up to catch your wrist, holding onto it tightly in his big hand. “S’funny, I was just thinkin’ about how good you’d look in my hat.” His thumb circles the inside of your wrist slowly,’ pushing down the fabric of your sleeve with the effort. Slowly, he draws your appendage closer, till his mouth hovers just above your skin. His eyes are like witnessing something tragic, so devastating you can't bring yourself to look away.

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his lips connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck. There’s an image you’ll never get out of your mind—your hands on his sweaty chest, the brim of his hat falling in front of your eyes while you try to keep it in place, despite the way you ride him—

“Joel—Jesus, you can’t just—“

He breaks out into a chest filled laugh, his eyes slip close and his head falls back. His whole body responds to the way he laughs, his legs kick up, his chest heaves and his belly bounces. He’s a menace, a damn trouble starter—he makes you see hearts around his head and a sparkle in his eyes you’re sure you’re imagining. He calms his laugh down with a few deep breaths, a grin still plastered on his handsome face. “What can I say? I’m really bad at first impressions.”

He is, but it doesn’t bother you like it used to. Joel isn’t and never will be the perfect man you’d envisioned. He’ll never be the Joel you’d made up in your head for so long, because that Joel was made solely for you, from your interpretation of a man who’s perfect for you in every way. But that Joel and the one in front of you are two vastly different people—this Joel is gruff at times, opinionated and flawed. He wasn’t made perfect for you, but you find that the things that make him the least like the Joel in your mind—are the things that you like most about him. He’s gruff, but he’s punctual and takes no shit. He’s opinionated, but he’s wise about life, he’s earned the right to voice his beliefs. He’s flawed—he has crows feet by his kind eyes, graying curls and weathered hands—but it’s his flaws that entice you to learn more about him. They make him real in front of you instead of a made up, faceless man in your dreams.

Your phone chimes in your pocket and it sucks you from the void in the cab of this old truck, away from Joel's charming smile and his burning hand on your wrist. He pulls away and the moment dissipates into dust on the dashboard.

Melly: I just got my bag, headed out now!

“Be right back,” you slip out the door with a firm shut and try your hardest not to glance back at the man in the cab of that blue and white truck.

Finding Melly is easy, she sticks out like a sore thumb with her blonde hair and too-blessed chest. What did she do in a past life for tits like that, anyways?

She comes out the double doors and jogs to you with a grin your wearing on your own face. “Oh my gosh!” She squeals, finally getting close enough to throw your arms around each other. It’s been months since you’ve seen each other after spending everyday together for the last two years. You tumble around together in your hug for a few minutes before she pulls back to look you over, in a pair of flared jeans and boots. “Oh man, the country got you.” She jokes, faking a deflated sigh. “Would you fuck off?” She laughs menacingly, slinging her bag over her shoulder for more security. “Let me guess, you’re still trying to drive that cowboy crazy, right?”

With a deep eye roll, you finally look back at the truck. He’s looking right back at you, an easy smile on his lips when your eyes connect. You look back to your best friend and make a face. “He uhm…he actually drove me…to come get you. He’s in the truck, please be nice to him, okay?” She sneers and you know she means trouble when you help her with her things on her way to the truck.

“Please don’t fucking embarrass me, I swear dude—“ Mel gives you a little shove and huffs a laugh when you put her suitcase in the bed of the pickup. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ruin your shot with the old dude.” She looks around you, eyeing him from outside of the truck without his knowledge. “Holy shit, dude he’s hot. He’s like, stupid hot.”

You look over at him too and like he can feel your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, smiles warmly and you know it—

Know you’re fucked.

“Not a word.” Mel throws her hands up innocently and follows your lead when you open the door of the truck and climb in the middle, sliding in right beside Joel, reclaiming the space you’d taken up on your way here.

The whole drive back to the ranch, your body is on fire along the parts that connect to Joel, pressed so close you’re afraid you might melt into him.

Two days pass in a blur.

You spend a lot of time with Mel, catching up on how she's been doing since graduating, how she likes work—she’s a wildlife biologist in Colorado, who’s still learning the ropes of the job but she’s never been more excited to be a part of something. You don’t tell her about the ranch for a good reason, but she still asks and doesn’t say anything if she notices the look on your face when you lie to her.

We’ll get through it

You love spending time with her, but you don’t see a lot of Joel besides meals. He’s pleasant and soft, smiling at you like he’s never worn a frown on that handsome face. He sits too close at dinner, draws your gaze in far too many times for it to be an accident. It’s not anymore but it’s still so damn hard to make yourself believe that this isn’t just a fleeting moment—temptation breathing life into you for the first time in years, teasing you with possibilities.

He makes you burn but he doesn’t push further, doesn’t chase that desire down its narrowing path. It’s so close—you’re so close to finally making him yours.

When your birthday rolls around, he’s nowhere to be seen at breakfast. When you head out to the stables, the horses have already been fed and there's no trace of the man who plagues your every waking moment. The truck is gone and the tire-tracks in the driveway look old, like he’s been gone for hours. It’s not that he’s required to see you on your birthday, but you thought things were going to change. You thought that re-meeting him in the truck at the airport would restart everything, he’d realize you want him around more than the ranch hand who got under your skin and made you desperate for his attention. It feels naive, to watch out the window for his truck for most of the morning, pining after that faded powder blue and rust.

“This is depressing to watch from the outside, you know that right?” Comes Mel’s voice from the other side of your room when you check the window for the first time in the last half hour. She's painting her nails on the chair in your room while you peer through the blinds like he might appear out of thin air without you hearing the rumble of his old chevy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You do your best to defend yourself, stepping away and crossing your arms as you trudge to your bed.

“Don’t play dumb with me, I know you. You’re pacing your room wondering when you’ll see him. You know everyone can see the way you guys look at each other right? When are you guys going to like…kick it up a notch, get in his pants?”

You toss yourself on the fluffy sheets and close your eyes tight, letting your mind wander for a moment. “I don’t know…” what are you going to do, if you cant even see him long enough to get him alone? Tonight is the dance and you were hoping he’d be there, maybe he’d ask you for a dance. You’ve never told a boy in your hometown yes to a dance at this thing, but you’d change that for Joel. If he asked, you’d let him spin you around all night long.

Only problem is, he can’t do that if he’s still avoiding you like you're an illness he can’t afford to catch. “He’s so confusing. One second he acts like…he wants me, the next he’s hiding from me, probably—ugh, I just wish I could get him out of my head if he wants nothing to do with me!”

The room is silent, still for all of five glorious seconds before Mel breaks it. “Does he still run away to jerk off?” You snap your eyes over to her with a sharp glare. “Yes! And he drives me up the fucking wall, dude! All I want is to get my hands on that delicious man and he runs away every time. How am I ever supposed to accomplish anything if I can't even get him alone for five minutes. And every time I do, something happens and ruins it all.”

You can't seem to get a second with him no matter how hard you try. The last two days, he hasn’t been around aside from his work in the morning, a few meals he makes it to in between. If you’re being honest, it's painful to think about the way he’d smiled at you a few days ago and the way he doesn’t have the time of day now.

“If he shows up at that dance tonight, I’m making sure you get your second alone. Now come on, let me help you pick out your dress. He won't know what he’s missing out on.”

By the time you’re headed out the door for town, Joel is still nowhere in sight. You thought you’d heard his truck for a moment earlier, but when you’d peered out the window a few minutes later, there was no blue chevy in the driveway. No cowboy waiting out front for you.

You trudged to the car in your black dress, two slits up the sides where your thighs peak out and a back so low your half afraid your ass is going to fall out of the damn thing. You do your best to hold it up when you walk through the dirt, a pair of knee high red cowgirl boots are the only thing saving you from the mud right now.

Melly isn’t far behind, but she's not dressed in anything nearly as revealing as you. She’s making friends with Tommy who surprisingly hasn’t tried to flirt yet and claims to have no idea where his older brother has disappeared to. He’s endearing, but you know he’s playing for both sides here, hiding something for his brother.

On the drive into town, your parents take your dads truck, leaving you, Mel and Tommy in your car. When you get about half way, you finally break and ask if Tommy has seen Joel, if he knows if he’s coming. Tommy shrugs in the rearview mirror with a smile.

“I’m sure we’ll see ‘em.” Is the only answer you get.

It doesn’t happen for hours.

Hours of forcing a smile through mind numbing conversation with people you haven’t seen in years. The same old how have you been in the big city? and you tell them it was hard work and commitment. They ask no plans for the future? like you’re doomed without a ring on your hand at your age. You keep your head up through every comment, back handed compliment and pick up line that passes you by for a whole fucking hour on the dance floor alone.

“I think I want to go home soon. I’m having the worst fucking time, my feet are killing me and I think my eyelash is falling off.” Your whining and limping, faking distress and discomfort for any shot to get the fuck out of here, go home and maybe you can chance a run in with Joel.

Maybe he’s coming in from the north pasture where he’s probably been hiding all day. He’d be covered in muck and sweat, dirt clinging to the creases in his face. He’d be tired and worn out, vulnerable to the way you’d take advantage of his weakened restraint. “You sure you don’t want to stay a few minutes longer?” Melly muses beside you sipping on a tall glass of tequila on ice, watching the small town’s people converse and dance, laugh and gather together under the low string lighting.

You take a long drag of the drink in your own hand, your third of the night that's finally starting to warm your insides. It’s not enough to ease the ache of wishing Joel would appear. You know he won't, there's only a few hours left and people are starting to get tipsy. “I think you might want to rethink that…the devil himself just walked in, twelve o’clock.”

You look up at her, in a pretty green dress with curly hair framing her face. She’s smirking over your shoulder at something—or someone behind you. You turn the rest of the way around and swear you’re in the middle of one of those movie scenes.

The ones where the love interest walks in and sexy rock plays while they walk in slow motion. With wind blowing this hair back even though they are inside. Joel fucking Miller was doing exactly that at this very minute, striding through the hall in his cowboy hat and a black button down, dark wash jeans and his boots. He looks like a wet dream standing there, looking a little bit lost and so damn handsome. Under his hat, you can see that his hair is slicked back and he looks clean like he’d gone home and gotten ready.

He’s here.

“Oh he looks…if you don’t ask him to dance, I will. He’s hot.” You wish you could explain to her that Joel is more than that, that he’s funny and endearing, that he’s honorable and loyal to a fault. He’s so many more things than just hot. You swivel around as he makes his way through the crowd, he’s bound to find you and you don’t want him to spot you gawking at him. “Do I look okay? Fuck he looks so good—is my hair alright?” You try to do a quick pat down but Melly grabs your hand with a smile. “You look fine. He’s not going to know what hit him, I promise—but he’s coming this way so whatever you do, chill out.”

She sets her drink on the tall table, the ones that adorn the outside of the dance floor for people who want to mingle. You take a long drink of yours and move to set it down when someone clears their throat behind you. The drink hits the table and you turn slowly, till you rotate around to face him completely. He’s even more devastating up close with pearl snap buttons on his shirt, his arms nearly bulging out of the damn thing. His facial hair looks shorter, his eyes shimmering with reflected light.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’, standin’ here all by herself on her birthday?” He grins at you and takes another step forward. “Guess I’m just waiting for the right cowboy to ask me for a dance.” You tease back, reaching out for him once he’s close enough for you to touch. You start at his stomach, soft under his dress shirt. When your hands make contact, a visible shiver runs through Joel.

There’s suddenly two more hands to join the party, one high up on your waist while the other curves around low on your hip, his digits digging into the top of your ass. “I’ll be real’ honest with you here, doll—askin’ you for a dance is the only reason I came tonight.” He smells good for once, usually you catch a hint of his shower under the smell of dirt and manure, a faintness of his once clean skin. Now, it’s all you can focus on—how he’d taste like his soap, smooth and clean, every part of him reachable by your watering mouth. “Well, Cowboy…go on.” Your hands slip up his chest and over his broad shoulders, like you’ve imagined yourself doing a thousand times. He’s responsive, lowers his shoulders so you fit along him perfectly.

“Would ya make this old man's day, let me have a dance?” His hand drops lower, along the side of your thigh until he can dig them into the curve under your ass. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to hoist you up, drag you into that vice-like grip you want to be at the mercy of every day of your life. “Can’t get me any closer, Joel.” You giggle, hiding your face against his neck. He smells like after shave and a little like whiskey. “I thought you were giving up drinking?” You nip at his jaw lightly, just to listen to the way he rumbles against you.

“I’m—tryin’ to keep my cool here, but you look fucking incredible tonight. Needed a little courage to walk up to you, s’all.” He leans back slightly, looking down at the way your dress squeezes your tits together, nearly pouring out of the black satin. “Fucking…gorgeous in this thing, you know that? You knew how sexy this little thing was, didn’t you?” He pulls at the slit that exposes your thighs, raking it up a little higher, until he can get a handful of bare skin. He’s not wrong—you’d put the dress on and thought about all the ways it would drive Joel crazy if he saw you in it.

“You better take me dancing before you take this off of me.” The dance around you has started to fade away. Melly took her cue to go and has started to make conversation elsewhere. “With pleasure, darlin’.”

Joel all but carries you to the middle of the dance floor before you notice his obvious nervous ticks, the shake of his hands and the way he’s fighting the urge to gnaw on his thumb. He’s anxious despite his obvious attempt at faking composure. When you wrap your arms around his shoulders again, he stammers. “Need to tell you somethin’.” His voice is a little shaky on the inhale when his hands find your waist again. “I went into town last week, there’s this dance studio on sixth street and I thought, maybe I could trade work for someone to…teach me how to use my damn feet.” For added flair, he reels away from you and spins you once before drawing you back into his chest as he moves. “So, I take it someone taught you?”

The song changes, something slow, romantic and sweet that couples join in around you, swaying together around the dance floor. “Lady said she’d been lookin’ for someone to replace the dance floor. Told her I just wanted to learn to dance, so I’d stand a chance against the other schmucks askin’ you.” He dances you around for a few more moments, pulling out all the stops—every new move he learned. Was that why he was gone so much, disappearing every time you turned around? He was replacing a damn floor and learning how to dance, all for you?

“Joel—“ you start, trying to grab ahold of him for long enough to make him still. “There's somethin’ else,” he dips you back and your insides flutter, looking up at him with those big brown hopeful eyes. He stands you up right again and the dancing slows to a stop, right there in the middle of the dance hall. You’re sure the towns eyes are on you, your mom and dad, friends from high school, older people you’ve been around your entire life. “She wouldn’t let me leave without payin’ me for it, said dancin’ lessons don’t cost that much after all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a envelope, sealed tight with a number written on the front.

“Ranch needs it a whole hell of a lot more than I do. S’just two grand, but I’ve found a few other odd jobs, so there will be more comin’, but it’s a start—“ your hand clasps over his clutching the envelope. You push his hand down, stepping forward until you're nearly standing on his own feet. “Joel Miller…are you going to stand there all night running your mouth, or are you going to kiss me?” This endearing man, this big, expressive cowboy who can’t seem to get anything right in his own eyes, but everything right in yours.

He chuckles, the hand not holding the envelope finds the side of your face, sliding his thumb along the apple of your cheek. He’s not the one to make the first move after all—after all the leading him towards it, the teasing and the showmanship. It’s you that stands up high on your tiptoes and drags him the rest of the way in, until his mouth finds yours in the lull of the dance hall, surrounded by swaying bodies and sweet music.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and his mouth opens, slots your lips between his when he finally, fucking finally gives all the way in. It’s sweet, chaste while you stand there, smack dab in the middle of the floor. Joel stuffs the envelope back into his pocket and his other hand finds your body again, yanking until you're flushed against him, digging your hands into his shoulders when his tongue licks along the seam of your mouth, begging to be let into the slick heat. What was slow and steady, soon becomes frantic, hot and needy. Your fingers tug at the buttons of his shirt and someone shoots off a whistle from across the room, enough to have you reeling apart. Joel's mouth is red, his lips swollen and shiny from your spit.

“You want to get out of here?”

Yes. Fucking hell yes you wanted to, you’ve wanted to all damn night, but with Joel standing in front of you, a strained tent in his dark jeans, it’s all you can think about. Instead of a response, you grab him by his hand and all but drag him out the back doors towards the parking lot. It's quiet, dark—the dance isn’t even close to being over so there’s next to no one in the parking lot.

You never stood a chance, looking back on this moment right here. You never would have stood a chance, with Joel’s ragged breathing behind you when he closes the door tight behind him.

One look at his wild eyes and parted lips, you should have known how this night was going to end.

Joel was desperate. He needed you, needed to touch you every second of his day. He thought about you every second he spent awake and he dreamt of you all night long. When he’d heard about the dance, he wanted to kick himself for not learning sooner. Finding the dance studio was a fluke, learning to dance was a damn nightmare and the floor wasn’t much better, but he’d do it all again for another opportunity to press you up against the brick wall with your thighs pressed apart and his hips slotted between them while he all but devoured your mouth.

He’s ruthless, relentless as he drags your bottom lip between his teeth. You—you can't keep your sounds to yourself, hiking your legs up higher around his waist when he presses in closer. He can feel himself straining through his jeans, can feel the heat of your core against his painfully hard cock. He’d take you right fucking here if you let him. “Joel—Joel,” your hips roll down to meet his uncontrollable press forward. “I know—fuck, baby, I know.” His movements are hurried and frantic, like this might be the only shot he has to get his hands on you. His mouth finds your jaw and he bites down on your flesh, relishing in the salty taste of sweat from dancing, the tang of your perfume and the sweet taste of your skin. It’s your sharp whine that gets him in motion again, his stilled teeth still hanging on to your delicate jaw. “Touch me, please—please, touch me.”

In a scurry, he drops his hand between your bodies, pushing the fabric of your dress to the side so his fingertips can work under the elastic of your panties, past the soaked material to the place he’s always longed to touch, always wondered what it would feel like.

And you are fucking drenched under his exploring digits. He slips them through your lips, your slick already dripping down his knuckles when he finds your clit and presses the pad of his thumb to it, swirling it around in a swift motion. Your head falls back and your mouth hangs open, a silent scream on your parted lips.

“There it is, huh? S’what finally gets you quiet? Just needed me to touch your pussy, didn’t you?” He groans when your thighs tremble against him, trying to tighten up around his waist where he has you pinned to the cold wall. His thumb keeps its rhythm while his fingers dip lower, making him breathless at how easily your body draws those fingers in. You come apart like you were meant to do just that, your body rapidly chasing him towards the brink. If he hadn’t gotten himself off twice today, he’s sure he’d already have cum in his pants from just this. “Yes-Yes, Joel—make me cum, please!” Your voice is wrecked.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, your chest heaving in that pretty little dress—your tits are about to bust out of the damn thing. He picks up the pace, slams his fingers into your heat and curls them while his thumb makes quick work of your clit. It’s been so long since he touched a woman, but he’ll never forget the signs.

You are dangerously, furiously close in mere minutes alone. “That’s it, pretty girl—cum on these fingers, let me feel her squeeze me.” You cry out sharply and he nearly covers your mouth with his other hand, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he revels in the pulse of your pussy on his fingers, the way you grind down against him while your body grasps for release. It comes to you with a whole body shake, a ragged gasp of his name and his tongue on your jugular.

When he pulls his hand free, it’s with a wet sound that makes his gut tighten and his knees weak. He has to get you somewhere more secluded, away from the prying eyes of the town folks. “Wunna taste you,” he growls lowly, dragging you away from the building despite the way you stumble, the lightheadedness from cuming on his fingers.

His truck is parked in the back for lack of a better spot, due to his tardiness. He’ll thank his lucky stars for it later, if he can remind himself of it. Now, he slings the door open and nearly throws you down on the bench seat. “C’mere, girl.” He’s running out of will power and common sense, the only thing driving his mind right now is sheer want, carnal desire to get his mouth all over what he’s already ruined. He’s lucky for the part of his brain that slips off his hat and sets it on the dashboard. “Lemme see that fuckin’ pussy.”

His hands find the backs of your knees and he yanks you to the edge of the seat. At this angle, he can spread you out and kneel beside the truck, let you use the door jam to rest your foot on. When your eyes find him, he thinks you’re just as far gone as he is, blinded to the world unfolding around you, to rubber hitting asphalt nearby.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you, babygirl. Only word you’ll know is my name when I’m finished with you.” He pushes your dress up with your hurried help, both of you desperately trying to rid you of your clothes as quickly as possible. The second he has your panties dangling between his finger tips, he pushes his head between your spread legs and buries himself under your dress.

The thing about Joel is, he’s always been too good at this. Half the time, it's the only reason women stick around. It must have been the only reason he got his ex wife to marry him.

He’s abandoned his shame and better judgment. He’s starved, famished for a taste of you. This man, this unhinged version of Joel eats pussy like he’s going to die without it. From the very second his mouth finds your center, he’s lost to your immodest cries, your mindless begging for him to keep going, never stop, never stop, Joel—please. He opens his mouth wide, slops his tongue through your folds like he’s trying to lick every drop from your sensitive skin. He pulls away for a breath and his eyes bounce up to meet yours, transfixed on his relentless attack. “Wunna split this little pussy open on me,” he says, muffled against your soft mound. He takes another long lap and moans at the heady taste of you on his greedy tongue.

“I’ve been practicing—I got, oh, fuck Joel, like that,” your head tips back and he pulls his mouth away completely. “You got what, baby, use your words.”

Your body clenches on nothing and his eyes track the movement with a low rumble. “Got a toy that’s as big as you so I could practice. So I'd be able to take you.”

You’d thought about this, about him. You’d thought about him while fucking yourself on a toy you’d bought to train yourself.

He doesn’t have the words to express the way it makes his chest tighten, so he presses his face between your thighs again and gets back to work, drawing out every secret you can no longer hold onto, how good he makes you feel, how hot and devastating his tongue is—how the sound of a car pulling up doesn’t even register until—

“Jackson Police department, step away from the vehicle!”

You should have known.

[ashecampos]

WEB HEAD SEVEN

(TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️ DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU STRUGGLE WITH SELF HARM, PTSD, DRUG MISUSE, FLASHBACKS⚠️you have been warned)

Sweat and blood stains my suit as the rugged man drags the knife across my skin again. All I can think of in this moment is my family, tessa, Emily and Kate. Thankfully Tessa is with me in the room. Yet unthankfully she isn’t responsive at all. Through all of my screams and pleading all I can see is the man’s face. Black slicked hair with a taper fade, a few strands falling onto his cold face. Thick eyebrows, one with a scar running through it much like my own. His piercing black eyes, his defined cheek bones and large nose. His small lips and his tidy beard. The tattoo that runs up his neck and the uniform that reads HYDRA. He swings the hammer to my face as I scream once again. Darkness.

-

My body shoots up. Sweat covering my body, a cold feeling lingering as I take in my surroundings, assessing the potential dangers. With heavy sharp breaths my eyes dart around the room, a mixture of dark purples and blacks decorate the walls.

A warm hand reaches for my shoulder as a light is flicked on. I prepare myself for another slash to the face but it doesn’t come.

The person instead positions themself in front of my face. One of their hands fall onto my waist as the other reaches up to caress my cheek. I wince in pain as their finger traces the newly stitched cut on my jawline. A lavender scent fills my senses and it hits me. It’s just Kate. Looking up at her she gives me a lopsided smile. Concern evident on her face.

She speaks but I cannot hear what she says, her lips move but I cannot listen. I’m zoned out completely.

I try to concentrate on her face. The raven haired girl, comforting blue eyes, full lips, a cute nose and shaped eyebrows. Her hair is down and wavy. She is wearing my purple sweater. One of her favourites of mine.

Once again she speaks but this time I listen “Milo, I swear to god if your high again I will murder you in your sleep with a pillow. I mean I’m not saying you’re not allowed to get high of course, but you are completely out of it right now. It’s getting bad, Nat and Wanda are staring to ques…” she pauses suddenly as my arms wrap around her waist and my head falls into her shoulder. I let out a small sigh which is a mixture of relief and pain. I can’t let her know that I’m having nightmares, I need to ‘be a man’. I need to ‘man up’ as Tessa’s father would tell me when Tessa and me where playing with one of his guns and she accidentally shot my in the arm.

I take deep breaths, breathing in as much of Kate’s lavender scent as I can to calm me. She strokes her fingers through my hair, slowly to not trigger anything but fast enough for me to count how many times she’s done it without getting distracted by something.

“time?” I mumble not knowing if Kate even heard or understood what I was asking. Without missing a beat she turns her head and replies “it’s 6am Milo, remember you have to go meet your brother at eight, then you have training with Natasha at ten.” She starts to list off things in my new/forced to do by the avengers daily routine.

-

I grab a pair of black chucks, I make quick work of lacing them up and webbing one of Kate’s many bracelets onto my wrist for safe keeping. She had left for training with Clint half an hour ago now. I check the clock on my phone and it is half seven. Fuck. I stumble out of the room putting my phone in my pocket and walking straight into someone.

Just as their body moves to hit the floor I web their waist and pull them up to their feet. “Fuck shit I’m so so sorry I wasn’t looking at what I was doing I’m sorry” I say flustered and rushed, I look up toward the victim of my clumsiness and it’s none other than Wanda. A sigh of relief escapes my lungs, Wanda lets out a laugh at my actions before shaking her head and telling me to run along.

-

Luckily my brother Brogan had a first class pass into Tony Starks school for the future geniuses of the world. Is my little brother a genius, absolutely not, however his big brother is and got him a scholarship to the school, he is safely accommodated in a private mansion built specifically for the students who attend the facility, meaning he is no longer than a five minute stroll away.

Walking across the hallways of the building I hear gasps and chattering, students gawking at me like I’m iron man or something better. The next thing I know a weight is rested on my shoulders, looking down I see legs dangling from my shoulders, a pair of black and white high top Jordan’s on those legs. I don’t even need to look up to know that brogan has safely planted himself on my shoulders. A low laugh escapes his throat as he jumps off of me. We walk around campus for a few hours, I help him improve on a new mode of weaponry for hero’s he’s been working on. Before I leave I give him a long needed hug which weirdly he reciprocates, wrapping his arms around my nearly healed shoulder blade.

-

Now for the worst part of this travel. The walk home, yes I know I can just web my way back to the compound but why do so when walking is so much more fun.

Reaching into my pockets I search for my favourite thing. Eventually finding it, my weed pen. I know Kate said I have training in like 20 minutes but just a few little drags won’t hurt. It helps with everything, the pain, the anxiety, the flashbacks. Everything.

A tall brown haired man walks into me, brushing past my shoulder, he has a beard, slicked back hair and is wearing black work out gear. I don’t take another breath before taking off, my legs taking me as fast as I can. Before I know it I’m back at the compound. Running up the stairs and collapsing into my room I don’t even turn back to greet Tony or cap who both say their hellos to me.

Once in my room I see Tessa. Thank god it wasn’t Kate. “Milo” Tessa screams while looking up from her phone as she throws something at me, before my mind can comprehend what she threw I catch the it, looking down at a pillow. I look up giving her the ‘seriously’ face before we both burst out laughing. “Your tingle is getting better” she says between laughs. Groaning I throw the pillow at her, not looking at where I aimed, the pillow goes flying into her face, earning another laugh from the both of us. “you wanna come train with Natasha?” I ask knowing either way I’m going to make her take self defence classes now that hydra knows she is associated with me.

My brain fuzzy and my vision fuzzier, Nat lands another punch to me. Sparring was never my strong suit in the first place. “Seriously Milo you have to try” she shouts as she goes for another punch, I swerve my body so she barley misses my ribs, then i sweep her off of her feet before walking over to my water bottle. Tessa sits there observing me and fangirling over Nat.

I pour some water into my hands then rub my face with the ice cold liquid. A hand grips my shoulder and spins me around. It’s Nat, I can sense it is but why is she attacking me? I’m out of the ring. She pushes me back to the ring.

We go a few more rounds before she stops randomly midway through a segment. “Milo” she says using her intimidating voice. “Look at me milo” she demands. Fuck. I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with the older widow. She takes a few steps towards me and grips my chin moving my face so I have no choice but to look her in the eyes. “for fuck sake milo” she mutters before letting my chin go and stepping out of the ring, grabbing her phone and typing something. “Sit down right now” she orders, I follow her order like an obedient puppy. I stare at the clock on the wall trying to act normal. Nat and Tessa converse for a few minutes before someone else storms into the gym. Probably the hulk. A hand grabs my arm and guides me out of the gym, leaving Tessa and Nat to talk or train. looking around I see who the culprit is, Wanda looks at me, sadness in her eyes. Panic engulfs my brain as I think the worst. She takes me into her own room and sits us both down.

“When I was younger, around your age actually, me and my brother joined this family, fresh out of HYDRA’s torment. My brother struggled with his new found powers and the new environment” she says in one breath, confused I nod allowing her to carry on, she takes a deep breath before starting again. “He started associating with the wrong people. Started taking substances, he was suicidal. He died on a mission while he was high, tried to grab Thor’s hammer while it was flying through the air” she finished before holding my hand. “I’m so sorry Wanda” I say genuinely, she shakes her head. “Milo me and Natasha have noticed you’re acting weird, coming home later than curfew and Kate has informed me that you have been struggling with sleep” she looks me dead in the eyes. Shit. “Wanda I’m fine, nothings weird about my behaviour. Even ask Tessa” I say praying she won’t ask Tessa. I’ve just got this avenger job and I can’t loose it now, I need to protect everyone.

Wanda stays silent and nods letting me off with a warning, I leave her room and head back to my own, not risking going to Kate’s as Nat has probably already told everyone now.

-

(TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️ DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU STRUGGLE WITH SELF HARM)

I run straight to my bathroom, my back hitting the cold tiles of the wall, I slowly slide down it and press my knees up to my chest, trying to take deep breaths. Without thinking or even hesitating my right hand shoots a web onto a set of draws attached to a vanity, I open the drawer and pull out a small metal box with my ‘shaving’ tools in it. I make quick work of grabbing my chosen weapon. A small razor blade, the silver glistens against the harsh light coming through the windows from the suns rays. I pull my hoodies sleeves up to my biceps and look at where to start. Angry red lines mock me as I stare at them. Ignoring the pain I slowly and harshly drag the blade across my wrist making a multitude of lines ranging from my wrist to my inner elbow. Then the same on my other arm. It’s only when my vision starts to become blurry that I realise how much shit I’m in. My eyes start to close and darkness.

A knock on my bedroom door startles me awake, with spotty vision I manage to make out that I am on the bathroom floor, not sure why though. I hear the bedroom door click open then a few seconds later I hear it click closed. That was a close call. “Hey Milo I noticed you haven’t been out of your room in hours I decided to bring you some food” I hear a woman’s voice, a hint of sokovian dripping off of the American accent. Footsteps come closer to the bathroom door and then another knock. “Milo? I can see you have to light on in there, please let me know your okay” she says quietly. Another few seconds passes and for some reason I can’t bring myself to answer. Maybe it’s because I know if I speak my shakey voice will give it away or maybe I’m frozen in fear and confusion. “Milo I’ll give you three seconds to either come out or say something or I’m coming in” she says a little louder. “One” fuck she must be bluffing she wouldn’t actually come in, right? “Two” say something Milo or she is going to find out, I grab a towel and press it to my arm, grabbing another and doing the same to the other arm. The once white towels turning red. “Three” she twists the door knob and starts to open the door, fuck she wasn’t bluffing.

Once the door is fully open she scans the room before lowering her eyes to meet my own. Not even a second passes before she is running over and knelt down beside me gripping the towels to my arms. “Fuck fuck fuck what the fuck Milo” she whispers while caressing my cheek with one hand “bandages, where do you keep them” she mumbles while standing up and opening all of my drawers. Without needing an answer from me she finds a first aid box, one that every room has, kneeling back down and opening the box she starts placing things on the floor, alcohol wipes, bandages, and scissors. She opens the wipes and takes the towel off of my left arm, looking me in the eyes, her own turning a hint of red, she’s using her powers. She quickly disinfects my wounds and wraps both of my arms before letting me out of her mind control.

She does as she intended and escorted me to Kate’s room, first making sure I pulled the sleeves of my hoodie down and had eaten some food so I didn’t end up loosing consciousness on the way to the room next door to my own. Kate is none the wiser to what had happened. Me and her cuddle until we both end up asleep.

-

Kate wakes me up with breakfast in bed while informing me that tonight we are attending a stark party. I eat a little bit of the breakfast before giving her the majority of it, I then make my way to hang out with Tessa, kissing Kate on the cheek before I leave of course.

-

Me and Tessa stay in her room most of the day gossiping about our time and what we have seen in the compound, she scolds me for showing up to a training session high before realising we need outfits for the party tonight. We always match for these things, this will not be an exception.

After searching for what seems like forever, Natasha agreed to let Tessa borrow one of her dresses and Tony handed me one of his vintage suits a simple yet elegant black suit with a black dress shirt, I pair these with my favourite pair of doc martens, then to complete the outfit I tie my hair up into a slick man bun, combing down any loose hairs. I get pushed into the bathroom by Kate and Tessa to put it on while they put theirs on. I stumble out of the bathroom before straightening my posture and looking at the two most beautiful girls in the multiverse.

Tessa is in a floor length satin gown, a modest yet revealing slit runs down the front of the dress revealing a glimpse of her legs. Her hair and makeup is done, not too much but the perfect amount.

Alike to Tessa, Kate picked out a Lilac coloured satin dress with a lavender glitter on the top of the sweetheart neckline. Kate’s hair is half up, half down, she has mascara and a winged liner on. Both of their dresses are paired with heels making them a little taller than me.

While walking into the party me and Kate loose Tessa on the way in while we greet people, Tessa probably just went to the bathroom to freshen up Kate reassures me.

Looking into my eyes as a slow dance song plays, she wraps her arms around my neck, mine take their respective place on her waist, she smiles. A gentle, genuine smile. You don’t see many of those these days. I smile back a goofy one, earning a chuckle and a slap on the shoulder from her.

As if on que a loud bang is heard throughout the party hall. I wasn’t planning on this type of workout tonight but I guess it’ll have to be done. All of the avengers look between one another and sigh, running to the noise. A few of us are commanded to stay behind and keep the guests safe and entertained. Those people being me, Kate, yelena, Clint and some woman named Jennifer, she has some relation to Bruce but I haven’t really met the whole extended team yet. What better time than in the present though I guess.

[jaeyleo]

LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 4

OBJECTIVES: ???

MAJORITY VOTE: STAY PUT AND WATCH THE MOVIE

CHASE IS LOSING SIGHT OF HIMSELF.

tws: check tags, let me know if i should add more!

sorry this part took forever :"))

tags: @the9645archives

. . .

He's on a good streak, and chained to the couch anyways. May as well enjoy the rewards, right?

Chase keeps his eyes on the screen, content in his little bubble of peace. Minute after minute passes him by, and it isn't until halfway through the movie he realizes Pseudo's been standing in the kitchen.

"Fuck-" he startles, sitting up straight. The monster tilts his head.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Pseudo says. His eyes trail to the chain, back up to the puppet. "Are you enjoying the movie?"

"Yeah," Chase replies. He feels a little warmer, a little sleepier, and rests his head on the back of the couch.

"Good. Well... I didn't realize, I don't have all the supplies I need for the garden today."

"You don't?"

"No. I need to make a trip."

Heavier and heavier with every word, Chase realizes what's happening. Out of instinct, out of routine, he sits back up and tries to regain some of his strength. He fights the magic pouring into his head, fights the urge to keep eye contact, fights the need to lay down and breathe it in.

Another wave hits and Chase lazily stands up. Pseudo doesn't shift.

"What's the matter, Pink?"

The puppet stumbles, placing his hands on the arm of the couch for support. It takes more and more strength with each passing second.

There's nothing he can do. There's nothing he can do, so why is he fighting? Why is he standing? He's been good all day, he's made Pseudo happy all day. Why is he fighting now?

Chase rubs at his eyes with one hand. "I- I j... I wasn't..."

Pseudo takes a step closer. "You're alright," he says. His voice is awfully pretty.

".... wasn't prepared," the puppet finishes his thought, feeling his body get too heavy to hold itself up anymore.

His knees buckle, but Pseudo's there to catch him. Pseudo's there, warm and strong and pretty and safe. Pseudo's there to help lower him to the floor, Pseudo's there to make sure he doesn't fall and hurt himself.

The puppet chokes, but the angel helps him breathe.

"Slow down, Pink. You're alright."

Everything rushes at once. He's sick, he can't breathe, he's scared. He's happy, he's safe, he's loved, he's Pink.

Guided through hypnosis, Pink settles down, and Chase is a forgotten name today.

"Can you hear me?" Pseudo asks. The puppet nods in response, a wide, dopey smile taking up his face. He can't help it, not when an angel, a God, is looking right at him!!

"Remind me your name, darling."

Darling. Pseudo called him darling. Pseudo called him darling and he's looking right at him and sitting right next to him and he lives here and he called him darling and-

"Come back to me, come back. Tell me your name."

".... P- Pink," the puppet whispers. "Pink," again, louder this time.

The monster smiles.

"Good boy...... now, I need to make a trip to the store. Do you want to come with?"

He speaks as if talking to a small child. The puppet can't understand anything more complicated than that yet.

"Yes! W- when? Oh when?"

"Today, right now."

"Righ- r- right now??"

"Right now," Pseudo repeats again, and unlocks the chain from the toy's ankle.

It takes about 20 minutes to get Pink ready. Not dressed, not eaten, not bathed- he already did all of that. Ready to step foot out the door, ready to remember how to put a seatbelt on (even though Pseudo did it for him), ready to remember Pseudo isn't taking him back to Brighton, "Just the store, Pink. For the garden. Do you want to help me garden?"

And each time reminded, the puppet wipes away his tears and says "Oh..... right.."

A little more hypnosis along the road to the store. The puppet hasn't seen the outside world in who knows how long, but he doesn't care for it. He doesn't care to watch the trees he would daydream for, the air Chase would sob if he felt again, the sky he'd kill to live in. All he watches is Pseudo, because that's all Pink cares about.

Before he knows it, they're parking, and Pseudo walks around to the other side of the car to help Pink get out.

"You'll help me pick out what I need, won't you?" Pseudo asks, clicking the seatbelt out.

"O- of course, anything!"

Pseudo grabs the puppet's hands, helping him step out of the car.

"That's good," he praises, and Pink melts.

"I need you to find someone with lots of muscle. Big and strong, yes?"

"Yes."

"Tell me who you're looking for, Pink."

"I- I'm looking forrrr.... I'm looking for.. strong. B- big and strong!"

"Yes!" Pseudo kisses Pink's forehead. "Good job. Big and strong. Don't forget now, alright?"

"I won't, I promise."

. . .

NEW OBJECTIVE: FIND SOMEONE BIG AND STRONG FOR PSEUDO.

Pink doesn't let go of Pseudo's hand the moment he got it. Not that he's allowed to anyway. It's a rule he'd follow whether it existed or not.

Throughout the store, Pink has to make a conscious and great effort not to stare at Pseudo's hand holding his own. A great effort not to look at the scars on Pseudo's skin, his hair, the way his clothes fit him or what shoes he picked out and why. He has to keep reminding himself what he was told to do: watch for others. For a specific other. Someone big and strong.

Pink finds a few, waiting for the perfect moment to tell Pseudo. This needs to be perfect.

PERSON A: MALE, 34, SHOPPING CART CONTAINS HEALTHY FOODS, SHOWER SOAPS, INCLUDING CHILDREN'S BRANDS.

PERSON B: FEMALE, 45, CART CONTAINS FROZEN MEALS, PROTEIN SHAKES, AND SNACKS, (CHIPS, GOLDFISH, OREOS, ETC).

PERSON C: ???, 36, CART CONTAINS VARIOUS FRUITS, PLANTS, BABY DIAPERS, GIFT BAGS, WRAPPING PAPER.

[4dtk]

i rmb reading a drabble b4 about calling gojo 'satoru' and that it makes him feel human and seen. idk. i loved it a lot but i'm not sure who wrote it :( this is just a little word vomit on the same concept. i love him so much :(

just a side thing i wanted to write in between requests, hope y'all don't mind <3

"satoru, come to bed, it's late," yawning, you pat the space beside you. he's doing his nightly skincare routine, patting his face gently with the retinol serum he just bought.

"ya sure you don't want to try it out?" gojo offers out the dropper, a hairband cutely pushed up to prevent his bangs from interfering.

"i don't like slimey stuff on my face." you cringe, realising your mistake too late.

"and yet you give me your face to cu-"

"shut the fuck up," you severely miss him, pillow landing on the floor beside him. he didn't even bother to activate his technique, laughing out loud at your failed attempt.

gojo never did switch it on when he was with you. not when he decided that he'd give his all to you, not even he asked you to move in with him on a desperate full of nightmares, not when you first said i love you.

gojo satoru was soft around you, a sight that many would like to see yet only disclosing it to you. the you who got him falling when you'd hang out with his students, giving as much pointers as you could on cursed energy. that was when he decided, he's sure. but again, there were countless other times where gojo recalls falling deeper and deeper in love with you. he smiles at that, capping the skin care bottle before quite literally jumping onto the bed.

"argh! satoru, what in the hell?!" his weight was crushing you, emphasised more when he leans down to plant kisses on your features. the feigned anger turns to giggling and shielding hands which he easily seizes between his fingers.

"s-stop! 'toru!" your smile is like the first few hues of dusk. it makes him feel all warm and mushy inside, something the strongest normally wouldn't have the luxury of feeling. satoru says, fuck it, because even i deserve love, even i deserve to be held. he repeats those words you said to him the first time he broke down in front of you, and he does it all the time, now.

gojo is brought back to reality when you cup his cheeks gently, not minding the 'slimey stuff' as you caress his skin. your hands accommodate his smile, cheeks filling up with how he's grinning down at you.

"you're insanely beautiful, satoru," you say it like it wouldn't boost his ego, but you can't care much when that much is true, noticing how much his hair resembles starlight and how his azure eyes catch the moonlight so perfectly.

gojo could say the same about you.

he sucks in a breath when he hears the compliment, the familiar cocky smirk and corny line lingering on his lips. he figured it's just different when the words come from you.

"say it again."

"hm? you're beautiful, really so-" your mouth parts in surprise and the other lowers himself to your side, which prompts you to lie on your lone shoulder.

"no, my love, i meant my name." gojo pulls you closer.

"oh! okay! uhm, sa-toru?" you giggle, the name falling weirdly from your lips now that you were demanded to say it. you try again, "satoru."

your lover smiles, scooting closer, "again."

"satoru." the syllables leaving your lips makes him feel dizzy and giddy. while he enjoys being told his voice sounds like silk and syrup, he finds that it fits you better, bringing his face to rest only inches from yours.

"again."

"satoru," you whisper, a shy smile overtaking your lips. soon, they're captured by gojo's, moving tenderly against yours. you're certain you see the sky painted in many different colours before your eyes close, the mere thought of gojo sending you reeling and cheeks flushing.

gojo's kisses are slow tonight, savouring every part of your mouth before he slips his tongue in, entwining with yours as he continues to make you fall harder. it works. breathlessly, you smile into to kiss to hopefully get a bit of air, feeling the reply of a grin on your lips when his irises open up to look at yours.

"love you." you murmur, ghosting along his lips before he smashes his lips against yours again, albeit clumsily that you two let out collective laughs.

people only ever call him gojo satoru, the strongest. he's never found much identity, always a pawn for the higher-ups to play with, but when sa-to-ru falls from your lips? god, he can compare it to being caught in cupid's arms. you give meaning to his name—satoru, satoru, satoru you whisper, knowing that it meant enlighten, and he's certain that's all you do whenever you're around.

you're always lighting up his life, always loving him with no restraint.

"angel?" gojo whispers in between kisses. you respond sleepily, tracing incoherent patterns along his chest. the words are caught in his throat when you fingers go over the 悟 of his name, three syllables packaged into a single character. he didn't expect you to remember, but it breathes some life back into him when you do it over his heart. he can't remember the last time he let someone trace his name so intimately.

"your first name is beautiful, satoru, just like you," you peck his lips. "now rest, you have a long day tomorrow."

"i love you too," the other replies a little late. his heart clenches up at the sight of you, caged and safe in his arms that he isn't sure what to do with his hands. "i love you. i love you. i love you so much."

with one last lingering kiss, you both succumb to slumber in peace, with gojo satoru's first name in the palm of your hand, and his last name aching to take its place in front of your own.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

A/N: If there’s anything I learned from doing this, it’s that vampirerry is an utter WHORE. Good for him!!!! As for myself, I’m done with the semester and my term projects and finals left my singular brain cell fried, so this was a nice way to get back into writing again. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you to the anon that suggested it, this was super fun to do! :D

read you’re someone i just want around here

word count: 6k

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Harry is very attentive when it comes to aftercare with Y/N. The sex they have is often rough and includes toys, degradation, and multiple rounds, so he believes aftercare is non-negotiable. Rough sex can be fun, but if it’s not followed by a lot of communication and post-performance support, it can take a hard emotional toll on a person. Even when intimacy isn’t meant to be inherently sentimental, there has to be a certain level of connection and etiquette surrounding it, or it could end badly for both parties involved. He always checks on her immediately after they finish, simply to gauge her headspace and how her body is responding, and after he’s made sure she’s alright, he goes into his usual routine of skin-to-skin contact and gentle coddling. Reassurance and praise is just as important afterwards as it is during, because it’s good to let a partner know that your appreciation runs deeper than just the physical need felt in the heat of the moment; everyone deserves to feel valued beyond their body. 

Harry proceeds to clean Y/N up after every session, because it’s the least he can do since she’s usually the one getting the brunt of the work. He’ll fetch a clean towel dampened under warm water to wipe her clean, or he’ll offer to help give her a bath or a shower— whichever route she prefers. Harry dresses her, and changes the sheets if need be, and tucks her into bed to ensure she’s nice and comfortable. If it’s been a particularly intense session, he’ll go the kitchen and bring back a snack and a drink— a granola bar and a Gatorade, or some chips and her favorite juice, or if she’s feeling especially hungry, he’ll happily go out of his way to prepare her an actual meal— and he insists on feeding it to her bit by bit until she’s come to enough to handle it on her own. If she’s not hungry, he at least brings her a glass of water and urges her to drink it; better to be safe than sorry. After that, more cuddling is the status quo, which normally ends in Y/N falling asleep in his arms, and Harry has absolutely no problem with that at all.  

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Harry’s favorite body part of Y/N’s is probably her chest. Yes, he likes it for sexual reasons— obviously— but there are innocent reasons for his fascination, as well. He likes how responsive she gets when he touches her there— how he can get her going just by groping her the way she likes it, or by using his mouth to tongue across her nipples until she’s writhing in pleasure and whining for more. He loves leaving hickies all over her tits, probably more than she likes receiving them. It’s just so fucking hot seeing himself marked all over her, especially when she’s putting on a bra and he can see all of the dark bruises scattered across the cleavage spilling from the undergarment. Filth aside, he also enjoys loving all over her chest. Absentmindedly cupping them while they’re snuggling, nuzzling his head between them while they’re watching television, massaging them under her shirt with his large palms as she sits back against his chest, sipping a glass of wine and chatting away, unwinding after a long day. It’s a form of intimacy; it provides a type of closeness nothing else can. 

As for his own favorite body part, it’s a tie between two different areas. He loves his thighs— they’re one of his most prominent features. They’re thick and meaty and sensitive, so they’re the perfect sweet spot to touch when he wants to get riled up. Given his previous response, it can be easily deduced that he likes to get hickies there, as well. The marks look great peeking out from under his briefs (for the short amount of time they last, anyways) and they make a great accessory to the large tigerhead tattoo along his left thigh. It’s artwork, really; a proper Picasso. 

His other favorite body part...well, take a lucky guess. It’s likely not that far off— literally, considering it hangs right between his thighs. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Harry’s personal preference is cumming inside. He adores feeling the way Y/N tightens around him when he finally orgasms (she’s just so warm and soft and unbelievably tight; it’s like she was made for him), almost as much as he loves seeing her reaction. Her body will immediately start to wriggle and her back will arch as she releases broken little whimpers, clinging to his shoulders with her nails and begging him to fill her until he’s milked his worth. Hearing her ragged breathing and feeling her sweaty chest stutter against his is enough to do him in, but when she goes as far as to gnaw on his ear and whine a soft little, “Want it all, baby. Want you dripping out of me when we’re done.” Well, that’s enough to kill him all over again. 

Of course, there are times when Harry likes seeing himself all over her, too. On her outstretched tongue, or smeared across her pretty face and plush lips (she looks particularly cute when it ends up all over her eyelashes), or streaked over the valley of her tits, or pooled at the center of her tummy. If he’d been taking her from behind, then he likes seeing it run down the backs of her thighs, or splattered across the dip of her spine. And if she’d been giving him a handjob, then seeing himself dribbling down her fingers is just as good. Why? Because those fingers usually end up in her mouth, which means he ends up all over her tongue, and so the cycle comes full circle. How poetic. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Did Harry suggest wearing a matching set of a vibrating cock ring and buzzing bullet to do grocery shopping once? Yes. Did he drop three glass jars of peach preserves by accident as a result, causing them to have to book it out of the bread aisle while trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, which failed horribly because they were literally hobbling like a crippled elderly couple? Also yes. Did they end up fucking in a Target fitting room? Definitely. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

A lot of experience. Tons. Immense amounts. Insane amounts. Two hundred years of the same seven continents just means two hundred years worth of sex across every single one. And it gives you plenty of time to find the clitoris, as well as giving you a chance to learn the female anatomy like the back of your hand. That being said, Harry doesn’t doubt he could make Y/N cum with his wrists tied behind his back and a blindfold strapped to his face. In fact, he’s made her cum just by using his thigh, so that in itself is enough credibility to last him several more lifetimes. The toy chest in his closet and the fact that he’s well-endowed are bonuses— he knows more than enough tricks to keep her satisfied with just his tongue. Not to mention his fingers— they’re long for a reason.

F = Favorite position  

Funny enough, Harry doesn’t have one. He’s spent so many decades cycling through every possible position in existence, it’s gotten to where he can’t pin-point a preference; all positions are unique, and they each have their own appeal. Reverse cowgirl is nice because he likes watching the way he stretches Y/N open with every plunge of her hips, and it also gives him the luxury of marking his rings across her ass in the process. Regular cowgirl is nice, too— having her chest bouncing in his face is nothing short of a divine miracle, in his opinion. Doggy style is a staple, and there’s always different add-ons he can apply to spice it up; for example, taking her from behind with her wrists tied to her ankles, or bending her over the kitchen counter with her face pressed into the marble, or fucking her against his glass wall with her hands and chest flushed to the cool surface as their breaths fog the floor-to-ceiling window. 

Missionary is a tried and true option, and just like it’s prior counterpart, it can be enhanced with a variety of extra tricks. Bondage is a good condiment, against the wall is always a nice touch, spread-eagle never goes wrong, and just having her legs wrapped around his lower back is more than enough. However, he does have two favorite variations of the position. The first is when he mounts her legs onto his shoulders or along the inside of his elbows to open her up more, and then just ramming his hips down at a very specific angle that hits her g-spot just right, pounding her into the bed so hard she tears the sheets off the mattress. The second is a cowgirl-missionary hybrid: he sits back on his heels and uses the steep downward slope created by his thighs as elevation, pulling her ass onto his tilted lap and swinging her legs over either side of his hips. He gropes her waist with his palms and yanks her forward, bouncing her against his cock and watching her completely dismantle as he nudges all the right places with as much speed and force as she deems fit. 

And then there’s fucking from the side, but that’s a whole other extensive conversation he doesn’t have time for. 

Actually, maybe Harry will entertain it for a minute or so. He usually throws one of Y/N’s legs over his neck to get a deeper range, manhandling her roughly onto her side and yanking her closer to his body by her waist, grasping it with stern vigor and holding her down against the mattress, grunting out a gravelly, strict command along the lines of, “Stay fucking still.” He’ll drill into her at a brutal, consistent pace, staining his fingerprints along the curves of her torso and sponging damp kisses onto her ankle, smirking into her skin as he watches her fist at the duvet in a futile attempt at maintaining her bearings. It’s pretty evident that she can’t, though; the way her eyes lull around their sockets from his harsh stride does a terrible job at hiding her lack of self-control, alongside the fragmented curses she gasps out whenever he nudges her g-spot with the head of his cock. 

“Oh, that was such a pretty noise. Did I hit that little spot you like?”

Her response will be begrudging, as always, which he thinks is ridiculously useless considering he can see her burying her face into the pillow to hide how her jaw drops open in sheer rapture. “No.”

“No?” The vampire leans forward, stretching her leg towards the headboard and preening at the garbled squeak that escapes her gritted teeth, plunging deeper as he lowers himself to her level. He knots her hair around his knuckles, tugging sharply until her face is tilted back enough to meet his fiery gaze. “Then why are you starting to shake?

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It depends on the mood, honestly. There are definitely serious moments, but Harry enjoys the humorous ones just as much. He already adores making Y/N laugh and smile on a regular basis, and that desire only grows when he’s buried between her thighs, simply because she just looks so fucking cute laughing with her hair splayed around the pillows in a messy halo, her sounds of glee stuttering due to how sharply she’s jolting against the bed. He loves feeling her giggle into his mouth as he cracks sarcastic jokes and makes stupid witty comments that break the intensity in the air, especially because she’s usually clever enough to return them with some of her own. Then they both end up snickering like idiots as he tries to keep a solid pace, which eventually tapers to a messy, haphazard stride as their laughter drowns out their goal to the point where he has to take a genuine break to collect himself. There’s tons of examples— how could there not be? Sex is hardly ever perfect, so awkward moments are not only expected, but guaranteed. What better way to handle them than with a bit of humor?

There was an incident once where Harry accidentally knocked their foreheads together so hard, they both bruised (which he responded to with, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Cosmopolitan meant when they suggested matching couples tattoos.”). Another time, he got so into the moment he didn’t realize he was jack-hammering the top of her head into the backboard until she brought it to his attention (and made a comment saying it sounded like a sped up version of the beat to We Will Rock You). A bad case of the hiccups. Y/N burping right in his face halfway through his orgasm. A random leg cramp that made him think he was going to need amputation to survive. Accidentally rolling off the bed or couch onto the ground and nearly dislocating both of their spines in the process, getting his cross earring tangled in her hair and nearly ripping off his ear trying to get it out, and the unfortunate collapse of a pillow fort he’d spent over an hour building. He even sneezed in her face once, and when she instinctively went to shove him back, she wound up slamming her palm into his nose so hard he nearly passed out. Nose bleeds aren’t necessarily sexy, per se, but he just dug blindly through her nightstand until he found two new tampons somewhere in that black hole she calls a drawer, shoved them in his nostrils, and kept going. No one can ever accuse him of being unresourceful. 

Queefing. Lots and lots of queefing, which he usually starts mimicking with his mouth, and then she responds to that by whining and telling him to cut it out, and then he takes to mocking her whining instead. It normally finishes with them laughing so hard that Harry’s cheeks hurt from smiling so big, but it’s a good type of pain. The best type of pain. 

H = Hair (how do they groom?)

Harry likes keeping himself neat and orderly, but he doesn’t enjoy going bare, so trimming is his grooming preference. There’s just something so unappealing about a completely smooth dick— it looks like raw chicken and it’s fucking disgusting. He doesn’t have anything against a good bush, but it tends to get unruly and he’d rather not have to overcomplicate his shower routine. And honestly, he can’t trust himself because last time he had a full front yard going, he got shitfaced and tried to braid it on a dare. Keeping the hedges trimmed is the ideal landscaping option, and it just looks way hotter— a uniform dusting of hair is a good accessory and it just makes everything look more cohesive, given that he also fancies keeping his happy trail thick. It’s all about aesthetics, isn’t it? 

I = Intimacy (the romantic aspect)

It’s no secret that Harry’s been somewhat detached from intimacy for the last two hundred years or so. Intimacy is reserved for genuine romance, and that’s something he hadn’t entertained since before the lightbulb was invented. But now that he has Y/N, intimacy has crawled its way back out from the deepest recesses of his subconscious, where it had been shoved into a bottomless pit with the rest of his trauma. He likes it— he likes opening up to her in any way he can, because sharing those obsolete parts of himself with someone again is more fulfilling than he ever imagined. He likes kissing her randomly when she’s halfway through a sentence, just to feel her words die off abruptly in her throat as she gives into his gentle gesture, a delicate smile spreading across her satin lips. He likes whispering sweet phrases of encouragement into her hair when they’re tangled amidst sweaty limbs and rumpled sheets, reminding her of how much he cares for her and how beautiful she looks when she’s so far gone and how she makes him feel like his entire body has been set alight. He likes sponging soft pecks across the stretch marks along her thighs and across the dimples on her belly, her skin candy and velvet on his tongue as she releases a watery sigh that lets him know he’s doing all the right things in all the right places. He just likes letting her know she's special to him, in any and every way he can. 

Intimacy forges timeless bonds, and he reckons that assumption is unarguable, considering he knows a thing or two about eternity. 

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Harry likes to jack off, obviously. Who doesn’t? It’s why he has an entire section of his toy chest dedicated to self-pleasuring tools. Vibrating cock rings, an array of lubes that range from temperature-changing to sensation sensitivity, and a few pocket vags that get the job done whenever Y/N is out of commission (usually because of work). His favorite one is an electronic sleek black model that is made of a premium silicone material and has a variety of massage settings, suction strengths, and internal textures. It’s designed to make the session feel more real, and yes, it was expensive, but self-love is always worth the splurge. 

The beauty of living on his own is that he can get off wherever and whenever he wants, without having to stress about someone interrupting an important step in his pampering routine. He usually does it in his room and on his bed, simply because Y/N’s pillow is close by and the experience is heightened when her scent is swimming around his hazy, bliss-drunken mind. If Harry is feeling particularly needy, he’ll ditch the toy all together and just hump one out against the mattress or cushion. If it’s a particularly restless day, he’ll take a toy downstairs and lazily play within himself on the couch while browsing through Netflix. Those instances usually average a few tamer orgasms rather than a single large one, but he’s not complaining; his stamina comes in unapologetic waves that stem from a never-ending supply, and he certainly has the time to kill. If Harry gets the sudden urge in the shower or while he’s relaxing in his jacuzzi, he won’t bother fetching a trinket; he’ll just stroke one out with his hand, using the cool metal of his trusty lionhead ring to tease the tip until he brings himself to orgasm. It turns out daylight crystals have more than one use. 

There is one common factor amongst all these different choices, though: Y/N is present in every fantasy. And if the vampire is feeling especially bold, he’ll grab his phone and take a video of whatever he’s doing to himself, and then she’ll have a nice little gift waiting for her once she gets out of the café for the day. That usually leads to him receiving a present in return later that evening, and then he’s dialing her contact before the clip is even done playing, and then what he does during his alone time doesn’t require him being so alone anymore. 

K = Kinks 

Harry has tons— in fact, he has so many, he can’t really keep track. And he also has the sneaking suspicion that if he were to ever jot all of them down, he’d end up locked in some type of sex addict rehabilitation center. Bondage is a big one, so he’ll start there. He’s great with ropes, given that he learned his way around them ages ago. Chains are nice, but they can be a pain to set up without the right equipment; he’s thinking of getting a reinforced metal hook installed into his ceiling, like the one in his storage closet, which he uses to keep his punching bag secure. Handcuffs, obviously— velvet-lined, straight metal, fuzzy coverings, he’s got it all. Dominance, degradation, Daddy, Sir, choking, brat-taming, spanking, flogging, slapping— impact play in general, to be honest— spitting, wax, praise, begging, masochism, branding (mild stuff, no molten metal shit), collaring, discipline, dirty talk, edging, exhibitionism, face-fucking, face-sitting (with him on the receiving end), giving oral (is that a kink? It is now.) gagging (both the action and using the actual object itself), breeding (he hates that term but that’s the official name, unfortunately), teasing, voyeurism, role play, and… he thinks that’s it. Oh, and blood, but that doesn’t really count for apparent reasons. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Y/N’s couch is sacred, at this point. Their entire relationship started on that lumpy, worn excuse of a sofa, and it’s seen them through their progression from strangers to friends with benefits to lovers to more. It’s comfortable enough, the dark color hides any explicit stains, and the cushions always smell of her signature mixture of honey and lavender combined with Snuggle fabric softener. It’s finicky, but irreplaceable. His kitchen counter is a close second. It’s provided a lot, taken a lot, been through a lot— through a lot of Lysol wipes, to be specific. If it wasn’t marble, it likely would have been reduced to chunks and rubble by now, courtesy of his enhanced strength gripping the edges as he slams her against the smooth surface. The backseat of his Cadillac is consecrated, as well; there’s just so much erotic appeal to fucking in a car with rock music blaring in the background, muffling the obscene sounds of bodies connecting and a mixture of fever-pitch moans. The couch, the counter, and the Cadillac— the Unholy Trinity. 

The jacuzzi is nice, too, but for the sake of his clever little “c” alliteration, he’ll leave that one as an implied token. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

As much as Harry claims he likes full submission in bed, he can’t deny that he loves being challenged. Delivering punishment and coaxing out an orgasm is so much more satisfying when he has to fight for it; it’s so fucking hot watching his girlfriend try to best him in a power struggle, especially when she finally— and undeniably, since he always wins— caves under his will and winds up begging him for what he otherwise would have gifted her freely. That’s where the brat-taming kink comes into play. He likes it when she mouths off and makes snarky digs, and he enjoys it even more when he tries to set her in place and she amps her disobedience as a result. There’s nothing more attractive than a battle of wits with someone who is a perfect match in every way. And when she channels her attitude into physical gestures, it riles him up beyond compare. For example, when she smirks and rolls her eyes, despite the fact that there’s trails of tears staining her cheeks and mascara smeared all over her waterline? Christ, he could go feral. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

No feet, no feces, no beastiality. There’s probably more, but those are the ones off the top of his head.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Receiving oral is great— he highly recommends it, solid ten out of ten— but giving it is so much better. Harry’s always been a giver, even when he was young and barely knew his way around a woman’s undergarments. The stereotypical expectation for a person who is beginning to explore their sexuality is that everything they do, they do for their own gain. It’s a selfish realization, yes, but it’s a primal type of selfishness that no one can truly be blamed for. It’s a simple concept: when you start having sex, you want as much personal benefit as possible. It’s only natural. But from the second Harry became sexually active, he came to find that providing release to his partner outweighed the bliss he could get from letting them pleasure him instead. It’s not direct pleasure, but rather cognitive, which more often than not translates itself physically. And when it comes to Y/N, that euphoria manifests tenfold. 

Nothing compares to having his face buried between her legs as she tugs and yanks at his hair desperately, her chest heaving and jaw falling open as he uses his tongue to unravel her from the inside out. Spitting sloppily onto her folds and hearing the raw gasp of aroused shock that escapes her sore throat, which causes his swollen lips to spread into a dirty grin as he latches onto the sensitive bud at the thick of her core, fiddling with it until her legs are trembling uncontrollably around his sturdy shoulders. Watching her features go slack as he bobs his neck fervently between her thighs, swiping the bridge of his nose across her clit over and over until the entire bottom half of his face is drenched in her excitement. Fucking his tongue into her and feeling her buck against his jaw as she holds him in place with her fingers tangled in his curls, whimpering his name repeatedly in a voice so shattered, he could probably build a mosaic with the fractures. Feeling her drip down his chin and into the collar of his shirt, savoring how sweet she tastes as he pins her hips down against the bed and groans feverishly into her cunt, his ego idolizing the image of her so disheveled under his influence. 

A measly blowjob is hardly any competition to that. Harry could very well cum just from eating Y/N out. In fact, he has, and that in itself is all the proof he needs. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

This is one of those other factors that depends on the mood. If Harry has been waiting all day for it, his impatience bleeds into his rhythm, which means he settles for fast and hard. It means he settles for bending her over the back of his couch with one palm around her throat and his other fingers in her mouth, pounding into her with so much force, the sofa starts shifting across the ground. If Y/N has been teasing him endlessly for a decent amount of time, it’ll be rough and deep, but not fast; he’ll drag it out for as long as possible, just to make her regret acting like such a spoiled brat. That’s when he brings out the paddle, or the crop, or just manhandles her across his lap and spanks her until she’s apologizing profusely through her whines. If he’s in a soft, romantic headspace, it’ll be slow and sensual, with lots of gentle caresses, giggly kisses dusted across eager lips and droopy eyelids, and penetrating strokes that make his toes curl and tummy clench. 

Pace is relative, but the message behind it is all the same: I want you more than anything, and I’m going to show you just how deeply I mean it. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are fun, Harry will admit. They’re filthy and messy, and they show just how far gone two people are for each other to the point where they can’t wait to feel one another at a later time; that they need to be together now, or they’ll go absolutely insane. Quickies are saved for when the urge strikes at random times. For when he’s out with Y/N at a park, sitting under the shade with his head in her lap as she combs his curls out of his eyes and thumbs over his chin affectionately, and the sun filters through the tree canopy just right to where it illuminates her lashes and the suppleness of her cheeks in a manner he deems ethereal. For when they’re at the mall, walking hand in hand and licking at ice cream cones as they survey the shops, and she reaches over to wipe a bit of Rocky Road off the corner of his mouth, replacing the stain with a soft stipple of her lips instead. For when they’re out eating dinner and playing footsie under the table like immature teenagers, and she’s trying to steal a French fry from his plate but he keeps fighting her off with his fork because, “I told you to order your own, but you wanted those disgusting potato skins instead!” And she’s laughing so brightly and unapologetically, giving him a look that so obviously tells him she can’t wait to get him alone, and nothing seems quite as flawless as that fraction in time, then and there and nowhere else.

These simple but memorable moments cause him to get love boners, which he jokingly refers to as “sniffy stiffies,” where “sniffy” has to do with being sentimental, and “stiffy”...well, that one is pretty self-explanatory, no? It always ends with them shagging in the car, or in the family bathroom of a diner, and in the case of the park, in an obscure area of the forest that lines the jogging trail. 

Quickies are just that— fast, but meaningful nonetheless, because they come from a place of genuine emotion. They’re fleeting, but unforgettable. Sniffy stiffy quickies, if you will. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Taking risks is the norm in Harry’s life, especially when it comes to his sex habits. He’s proven time and time again that he has no problem riding along the seams of a dare and just barely making it out unscathed, so experimenting outside of the bedroom is just another day in the life. Fingering Y/N in a music room in an antique shop, getting road head during a two hour drive back to Los Angeles, ripping his girlfriend’s panties out from beneath her dress at one of California’s most prestigious restaurants— the list is endless, really. Harry likes to think he has a gift for coming up with inspirational quotes on the spot, so he’ll lend his expertise here and now: “A life without risks is a life that isn’t worth shit.” It even rhymes, so he knows sorority pledges will have a ball putting it in their Instagram bios. A bit of charity work for the bird-brained. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Endless stamina. Literally. Vampires don’t stay tired for long, so he could be ready to go again within seconds. And he can last long, as well; his stubbornness and pride depend on it, and he likes making his partner cum first as an ego boost. He can go as many rounds as Y/N can and more, though he won’t push it. He doesn’t want her to end up in the ER with a bruised cervix. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Harry could run a sex shop from his closet; Y/N doesn’t take the piss by calling him “Fifty Shades” for no reason. He uses them on himself, he uses them on her, and he got high once and tried to sword fight Y/N with a dildo, so it’s safe to say he definitely uses them quite a bit. If his Lovesense Lush 3 vibrator could talk, he’d be drawn and quartered for excessive debauchery. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Harry loves teasing, that’s no mystery. Winding people up is one of his most practiced skills, so of course that would channel into his intimate life. He’s mastered it, though it’s not like it’s hard. A drawn out blink here, or a feathery touch there. An inch of space between his and Y/N’s lips to establish some tension, or squeezing her inner thigh with his palm hard enough to draw a tiny squeak from her chest. Touching her through her clothes, or leaving a trail of wet kisses down her throat and stopping right at her cleavage. Biting the sensitive skin along the inside of her knee, or dragging the tip of his cold nose down the center of her twitching tummy. Lapping slowly at her nipples until they perk up, or sinking a single long digit inside her and keeping it there just to feel her clench around it needily. And once he gets a pattern going, teasing molds into edging, edging molds into begging, begging molds into praise, and before he knows it, he’s hit four of his kinks with one roll of the dice. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Harry is very vocal in bed, and he’s not ashamed of it. He knows for a fact that Y/N loves it, and if him being loud gets her worked up, then he’ll let his throat go out in the process. He’s noticed that in different situations, he has an arsenal of sounds for each. If he’s being rough and dominant, he tends to groan, grunt, and growl. If he’s being desperate and needy, he turns to whines and whimpers to communicate how he feels. If he’s too zoned into the moment to distinguish all his emotions, broken moans and stuttered mewls are his default. No matter the circumstance, they all take the same route: they start low and soft, and escalate in volume proportional to the intensity of the moment. So what if half the building is hearing him orgasm for the third time as he mocks his girlfriends sobbing pleads and calls her his “dirty fucking whore”? Let’s be honest, it’s probably the highlight of their week. He has a great voice— a sultry, deep baritone that compliments his English accent nicely— and anyone would be lucky to hear it spew the filth it does. He’s yet to get many complaints, so he doesn’t intend on stopping. 

W = Wildcard (random headcanon)

An honesty hour moment seems interesting, so he’ll confess a few tales from his past. The first time Harry ever went down on a girl, it was against a tree in a garden and he nearly asphyxiated under all the layers of her gown. A couple of years later, he ended up getting oral from a reverend’s daughter against a tree, too, for the morbid irony and associated religious revenge. And to drive the point home, oral was only the beginning of what she gave him. His first decade as a vampire was definitely his pettiest. 

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

It’s not uncommon knowledge that Harry’s well-endowed. He remembers how insecure he was the first time he had sex— a shocker, he knows; he was insecure?— and how he knew barely anything regarding sizing and how to use his assets accordingly. But it’s been ages since then, and now he definitely knows his way around his own body (let alone his partner’s), and he most certainly knows that he’s above average not only as a person in general, but when it comes to what’s in his trousers, as well. Harry won’t specify inches— he loves how speculation drives others mad— but it was big enough to give Y/N a decent pause the first time she pulled down his pants, and it’s big enough to leave her absolutely fucked every single time, without a single miss. If that’s not credibility at its finest, then he doesn’t know what is.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Harry’s sex drive is insatiable, to say the least. His vampirism combined with his narcissistic tendencies makes the ideal cocktail— cocktail— for the constant fuse that’s always burning under his skin. He’s ready to go at all times; Y/N just has to say the word and he’s pulling on a pair of sweatpants as he grabs his keys, hopping down his complex’s corridor toward the elevator on one foot as he tries to get his last shoe on the other. Lazy morning sex is probably his favorite; he’s come to find it’s when he’s most pent up, usually after a sleepless night of feeling Y/N’s body heat radiating through all of his cold limbs. It also sets a great tone for the rest of the day, and he just loves seeing Y/N wake up to him lying on his side with his temple resting on his fist, his elbow propped against the mattress as he poses the other on his hip in a theatrical diva stance. He’ll smile at her giddily with all his pearly teeth, dimples twitching as his lashes flutter dramatically, dirty intentions written clear all over his face (“Good morning, hon—” “Wanna have sex?” “Harry, it’s ten in the morning.” “Is that a yes? Because it’s not a no.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth!” “That’s fine, I’m gonna stick my dick in there anyways.”) 

All in all, his libido is insane, and he’s lucky that Y/N’s is up to par or else he would have worked her into an exhaustion-induced coma by now. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Harry just...doesn't. Maybe once every few weeks, but definitely more often now than before he had his girlfriend. Sleeping just comes way easier when he has someone he cares about resting beside him, their inherent warmth thawing the stiffness from his muscles and putting his racing mind at ease. He feels safe enough around Y/N to let his guard down— both literally and metaphorically— and that seems to help with his supernatural insomnia; it sedates that nocturnal hyper-instinct in his brain that demands he be aware at all times, muffling the animalistic part of him that has been manning the reins for the better half of the last two hundred years. He doesn’t need to be so on edge anymore when everything he needs is just an arm-length away. Especially when she���s usually willing to lend her chest as a pillow, and who is he to neglect her wishes.   

[pufflocks]

hi bestie! here's a concept for u: think about sitting in arans lap after taking an (eventful) shower after practice. his skin warm against yours and the towel hanging loose around his hips does nothing to stop his bulge from pressing into yours. his kisses are slow and purposeful, sucking on your chest and neck while you apply product to his damp hair, massaging his scalp in that circular motion he likes. it's soft and intimate how you crane your head to get a better look at his scalp, brushing down and around in a clockwise motion a couple times until the waves curl in on themselves and he's looking dashingly handsome per usual.

"gonna put the duey on too?" he grins and you humm in reply. confirming his assumption when you lean in to press a kiss to his plump lips, simultaneously tugging the baby blue silk material off his desk. you secure it to his head with ease and slide your fingers along the seams to ensure the fabric doesn't press into his forehead while he sleeps. "there. all good" you whisper.

arans lovestruck smile is blinding, he looks at you with dark, hooded eyes that unleash butterflies in your abdomen. then a pulse of wanting warms you from the inside out when he rasps "mmm, thank you prince"

Summary: When- when I say I look dumb ash smiling hella hard in my bed- I say that with the highest confidence cuz. ✌🏽😛 I dont think yall understand but Aran is literally a fucking- *bangs on the mf table* BLACK GOD— lemme do this before I bust a nut in these damn pants. Also I love yo ass for this. ❤💙💛 { Hope you don't mind I got carried away. This req might make me do a part 2. 🚶🏽‍♂️}

Warnings: NSFW • Aran being fine ash • proof read

Cast: Bottom!M!Reader! X Aran Ojiro

○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○

Steam clouded shower windows with two intimate silhouettes crossing eachother. Coming for the second time is when your mind started o slip into something darker than your own lust. You draw your body closer to the chest of your lover, Aran, as his heavy hands squeeze near your rigid hip bones as if it was routine.

In an hushed voice to your ear, "So out in the open for me, sweets." He smirked when you turned to plant a messy kiss under his jaw. Not meaning to linger longer than you need to.

Due to everything basically falling in slow motion, breathing felt more difficult as you felt him pulsate inside of you. Ugh, his girth was most definitely something you favored.

Anything that required moving felt hard, though. How could he be conscious while you were barely on your own feet ? God complex anyone would think, honestly.

Minutes passing while your heart sped up for the umpth time as you felt your orgasm come in reach. Not even a break ? You could only guess he was still pumped with adrenaline from the winning game earlier.

He hit the finishing touch to the ball as the audience roared with excitement and cheer. He deserved it. And as the greedy and lovestruck thing he was, he also thought he deserved some shower sex from his favorite person. You.

"Baby- g- Mm-! Gonna cum, bae. Fuck !" He held you close as though someone would take you from him. Broad shoulders hunching over as he jerked you off under lukewarm water.

He mumbled a, "Come on baby boy.. Come on daddy and show me how much I deserve this tight ass." That sent you over the moon immediately, having you shooting a quivering load. Breath racked in your lungs and head thrown back as your curled in closer to the much bigger body. "There you go. Good boy. Fuck, such a perfect lil' thing." Ending the sex with tender kisses to his lovers back.

He did deserve it.

●•》☆《•●

After a long while, you both made yourselves present in his room. Aran not even bothering to adjust the towel around his hips considering the light bulge he had underneath rudely pressing against your own.

"I love you so much Y/N." He started with purposeful kisses occasionally giving your ass a firm, but a gentle stroke of his enlarged hands. He loved you alright. He couldn't stop himself from nipping at your warm wet skin on your chest to your neck. The hickies already looking as red as a rose in spring. You doubt he would apologize for them since he enjoyed hearing you complain in the morning.

"I love you too. Too much.." You were in sync with his body language and movement. Had you not drawn yourself back, you probably would have had him have his way with you again. That sounded pleasant to the ears though you both needed rest.

"Give me the comb and oil bottle." Your boyfriend stopped his idle ministrations and quirked and eyebrow at you.

"Give you what ?" He waited for a response before you giving him a playful eye roll.

"Please. Please give me the comb and oil. Stop play with me, Aran." You said. He stifled his laugh as you were handed the comb. Soft stroking his head with it as you crane your head to get a different angles at a specific area. His hair was one of the things he cherished secretly so you and some other family members were only aloud to touch it.

A minute later or so you realized his eyes were lingering near your chest down to your idle member. "Feel good ?" You whispered. Scooting yourself closer to his body.

"Yeah. S' good to me, baby boy. Thank you." He murmured. The movement to hug your waist nearly made you drop the oil bottle out of your hand.

He sat up straight to look up at you only to give you a lingering smooches to your jaw. "Gonna put the duey on ?" He asked. You hummed. Raising your shoulders a bit from the ticklish sensation he was giving you to your jaw.

"So sensitive." He poked your sides making you jump, while in the process of grabbing his silky baby blue durag from his desk.

"Stop before I choke you with this string, boy." You giggled. He snickered. Not funny.

"You wouldn't." He pestered on. You would, but you weren't in the mood to act goofy after kickass shower sex.

He started to trace his fingers under your towel, rubbing on your thighs while you were at work putting on the duey. It was silent in the room besides him humming every now and then some songs.

"Done, you look sexier now." You kissed his forehead as you smoothed your hand over his head. He smiled then his face turned into confusion.

"I wasn't sexy before ?" He said chuckling. It was cute and funny how your day started with a win of a your boyfriend's game, then ending in you both in his room giggling and cackling like dumbasses.

"You are ! But this baby blue on yo big ass head gonna make me bust one. Stay safe." You chuckled lightly as you pulled away from him. Finally standing on your own legs on the cold wooden floor. The water on both of your bodies dried up now aswell.

"'M finna put on some clothes. It's cold in here." Before you could even step closer to the dresser he grabbed you by your waist. The both of you falling into the plush bed as he made quick ministrations to cover you both in blankets and his sheets. The towels you both had around your bodies long forgotton.

"You are literally something." You mumbled scooting closer to his warm chest. Having a slightly bigger person to cuddle with was always a blessing and he took that role with a smile.

"I may be something, but I'm your something and you're my prince." So sappy. He planted a kiss to your temple. You hummed in appreciation as you placed chaste kisses to his chest and underside his clipped beard.

"Sleepy now.." you said. Yawning felt really good at the moment. Letting your eyes hang low and mind rest fully. Aran held you closer to his chest as he brushed back any hair from your forehead.

"Go to sleep my prince. You deserve it." He murmured laying the final kiss to your upper eye lid. You don't know what you did to deserve it, but knowing how humble and forgiving your man is, you might have deserved it at this point if he said something.

Yes.. Yes.

[tommyspeakycap]

Can we get baby little Shelby find a bunny and ask Tommy and John to take it home. And get scolded by Polly when they at home? 💕💕

more pre war Tommy fluff ;) 

Bunny

“Tommy!”

The dark haired man’s heart flies into his throat, his mind immediately kicking into gear as he drops the coin he was about to flip. He was deciding whether or not to buy a horse with a new inflow of cash they had recently gotten. That horse is lost the second he hears the shriek that came from somewhere behind him. The heavy boots on his feet make easy work of crushing through powdery snow, but give a very little to prevent him from tripping and slipping; although the fear coursing through him and his extreme haste may well have contributed to his somewhat uncoordinated limbs.

In the maybe a minute that it takes form Tommy to get from where he was to where he had traced his little sister to, a million and one thoughts race through his mind. He fears every worst case scenario his mind can conjure up and immediately blames himself for bringing you out to the country to play in some fresh snow with John and Finn. The air was much clearer out here and so too was Tommy’s mind. He could think, be free of the city smoke and the harsh environment that appears to be tacked to his work in the family business. There was so much pressure on the raven haired bookmaker to uphold his own personal morals while also living a notoriously immoral life. He tried to keep his hands clean, prevent himself from muddying the line between pointless violence and the necessary survival and protection of his family.

So going with his 5 year old little sister out to the county was something not uncommon for him. And the snow had only given him more reason to. He regretted that now.

“What-” Tommy wheezed out, unable to speak for lack of his breath after attempting to run through the deep, deep snow. “What’s happened,” he coughs, “Are you alri-“

“Tommy!” The little girl whispers harshly, waving her hands at him disapprovingly, “Shhhhh, you’ll scare it away!” Tommy snaps his mouth shut, instead opting to take the five year olds outstretched hand and crouch down as she instructs him. On her other side is John; crouched down with one arm around Finn to keep him still. “What are we looking at?” Tommy asks quietly, his neck craned to try and spot whatever his other siblings had noticed. 

“It’s a bunny, Tom. Look.” (y/n) points with her little hand and Tommy follows the general direction in which her hand is showing him. In doing so, he squints and finds his gaze falling upon a small white rabbit sitting picking a blade of grass that it had pulled through the snow. “They want to take it home.” John states, grinning at Tommy something like a Cheshire Cat because he knows for a fact that man isn't able to say no to the puppy dogs eyes of (y/n) and Finn Shelby when they truly wanted something.

“Hm, I don't think so.” He mumbles, trying to keep his eyes off of the disappointed face of his younger siblings. “You know Aunt Polly’ll go mad.” The second he does turn his head to see his youngest siblings gazing up at him in the desperate way he knows always works, he regrets it. “Please Tommy, pleeeease?” (y/n) begs, clasping her cold little hands together and pulling her most convincing puppy eyes Tommy might've ever seen. “Yeah Tommy, please? Pretty pretty please?” Finn joins in, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement and anticipation at the idea of having the little bunny as a pet. 

“Yeah Tom,” John sniggers, stubbing out his cigarette on the snowy ground. The elder brother puts on a pout to mimic (y/n) and Finn, not serving to make things any easier for Tommy as the youngest two weren't able to pick up on John’s teasing nature and sarcastic reiteration of their words. They took it as encouragement while Tommy knew John would be going home to Martha and his own kids, thus wouldn't have to be on the reviewing end of Polly’s temper. Tommy rolls his eyes and inhales deeply, thinking briefly about how angry Polly would be compared to how much it would make you and Finn giggle to have a pet even if only for a while before Tommy would free it back into the wild and tell some lie about a magic bunny farm. The kids chanting brought his mind back. “Please, please, please!” 

“Alright,” Tommy cuts them off, “Alright. But we’re not chasing it around all afternoon.”

--

How on earth Tommy ended up holding his little sister as he stood in the doorway of the Shelby family home kicking the snow off his boots while said little sister had his big trench coat wrapped around her and her smaller jacket used as a blanket for their new bunny rabbit friend, he will never know. He genuinely felt like if he had been outside for one more minute he would have actually frozen stiff, however it was always his top priority that his littlest sibling was as safe as she could be; so it was suffice to say the idea of her getting frostbite and slash or hypothermia after she insisted on wrapping the little rabbit in her own coat was less than appealing to Tommy, so she could keep his warm winter jacket as long as she desired.

“Right Finn, straight into the living room and not a peep to Pol alright?” Finn nods vigorously in a show of his determination to follow his brothers order as he places the wrapped up bunny into the young boys arms. Finn tries to run as unsuspiciously as he can past Polly in the kitchen to go through to the living room where only Ada sat, reading a book by the fire underneath a blanket. 

“Tommy?” The little girls voice draws an “Mhm?” from him as he battles to get her stiff winter boots off of her tiny cold feet. “What're we going to name him?” She enquires, her voice as inquisitive as any other curious 5 year old is. Tommy hums in thought, tapping (y/n)’s other foot in the way that he does that tells her to put her foot down and lift the other one for Tommy to pull that boot off too. There was a distinct routine between the two that had been established in the last five years of her life with Tommy acting as her primary caregiver.

“I don't know, love. Whatever you want to call him. Just remember to stay quiet about it yeah?” He looks up to see his little sister nodding firmly, placing her finger over her lips just as Tommy had done so many times when secrecy or silence was needed. 

“Alrighty then.” Tommy says, lifting both the pairs of boots easily in one hand and putting them by the other shoes. He moves his hands to under the small girls armpits and hoists her gently back up onto his hip as to avoid her stepping small puddles of water that had collected from the snow on her boots and his by the door. “Shall we go see what your brothers gotten up to with that-” 

“Jesus fucking Christ Tommy.” 

Both siblings turn their heads quickly to face Polly when they hear her speaking with her stern scolding tone turned on. Polly immediately notes how Tommy looks slightly secretive, like he was ready to start either lying or making some form excuse for something for which her niece looked rather guilty. Deer in the headlights kind of expression. “Look, Pol...” Tommy begins, but is interrupted by his aunt firmly shaking her head and marching towards him. 

“I’ve told you a million times Thomas. She’s five. That means you do still need to put her bloody hat on when you take her out in the cold but you don’t need to fucking carry her everywhere.” She huffs, pressing both her palms against (y/n)’s cold rosy cheeks, “Shes bloody freezing.” Her scolding tone never fails to make Tommy feels as though he’s still a young boy who’s been caught misbehaving by his aunt. However now he’s an adult with responsibility for his little sister and somehow, he ends up on the receiving end of that tone far more than the littlest member of the family ever will. Polly peels Tommy’s coat away off the little girl in his arms so she could hang it up to hopefully dry some before he next needs it and (y/n) doesn't mind not wearing her brothers jacket anymore, however the words that Polly speaks about putting her back down only serves to make her cling a little tighter subconsciously. 

“She's only little, Pol.” Tommy defends, “And we had long day, haven’t we sweetheart?” Polly wants to scoff when (y/n) nods her head and offers up that angel smile that wins the hearts of her entire family, but the woman can’t help but smile back and shake her head. “Well,” she huffs slightly, her hand reaching back up to the little girl to to brush the snow off (y/n)’s hair, “I think the very least your brother could do if he was going to have you out in the freezing cold all day would be to put a bloody hat on you.” 

The little girl giggles, flicking her eyes to Tommy to inspect his reaction to their aunts words. 

“Remembered.” He notes flippantly with a grin and Polly knows fully well that it was not remembered because putting a hat on top of that little girls soft locks of hair was something he had never once remembered to do without a reminder since she was merely a little bald baby. 

“Course.” She responds teasingly, “Dinner’s out soon.”

Tommy nods his head before Polly walks away in the direction of the kitchen again, where Tommy had no doubt Arthur is now lingering to pick off the scraps of dinner before its put out on the table for everyone else. 

“That was a close one, Tom.” The little girl on his hip whispers quietly, her wide eyes causing Tommy to chuckle heartily as he takes them both through to the living room to see what Finn and now likely Ada were doing with this rabbit. “Yes,” Tommy agrees, walking into the living room “It very much was. Hello Ada.” Ada immediately rolls her eyes at the sound of Tommy’s voice. 

“Pol’s going to kill you, you know.” She states, standing and crossing her arms firmly over her chest as Tommy sets his youngest sister down on the floor to run over to where Finn sat with the bunny close to the heat the fire was giving off. “Probably.” Tommy nods.

Ada turns away to wrap her blanket around her only sister, the one she had wished and prayed for since she had been merely a little girl herself. Tommy vividly remembers the many occasions when Ada was not only his youngest sibling, but also his only sister and recalls how unhappy she had been about those facts. Finn being born eased only one of those issues, but Ada rested a while for the time that Finn was a baby before again pestering their mother about wanting a little sister again. 

She had been ecstatic when (y/n) was born, and she had been besotted with that sweet little girl ever since. 

“You always forget to put her hat on, Thomas.” Ada chastises, the reprimand drawing a chuckle from her brother who takes a seat down on the couch and crosses one leg on top of the other. “So I’ve heard.” Tommy mumbles under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear and stretch out her leg to kick his when she too sat back down on the couch.

“Twat.” She hisses. 

It was Tommy’s turn to role his eyes at his sisters flippant comment, paying no mind to her words thrown in a light tease that he knew she only ever half meant.

“That’s not very nice, Ada.” 

(y/n) doesn't do so much as turn around when she chides those words in dismay to Ada’s insult aimed at her Tom. There was no hiding how the little girl adored Tommy. “Exactly Ada,” Tommy grins widely, giving Ada the biggest shit eating look he can muster as he tried not to laugh, “And that’s why you're my favourite, aren't you my love?” The 5 year old simply nods her head in response to her brothers words before turning straight back to play with her new pet. 

“Well, she might be your favourite but you certainly won’t be Polly’s once she sees you’ve brought that home. She’ll go mad.” Ada nods her head in the direction of the fluffy white animal in their living room. Tommy shrugs his shoulders indifferently, “They're happy though, aren't they? and quiet. Worth it really.” 

Ada knew very well that Tommy was right, although it was likely that she wouldn't even think to much on that in his vicinity, just incase he even got the sensation that she was thinking he was in the right. They’ve got a big family and a lot of hard work had to go into making business run smoothly to provide for everyone. The younger kids can sometimes go amiss to the elder siblings on particularly busy days. Sometimes playing and talking to them gets overlooked or their clothes go on back to front because everyone forgot they sometimes still needed help with things like that. 

So giving them the simple pleasure of almost a normal childhood - not one living with the Shelby name and subsequently the future of the Peaky Blinders tacked to them - by letting them a pet that they can look after and love on for a few days at least was something Tommy was willing to grin and bare the wrath of Polly Gray for. 

He was a sucker for that little girl, so when she’s happy there are few things in the world Thomas Shelby wouldn't endure to keep it that way. 

[subwaysurf45]

Ghost Rider

summary: on a mission you drop and few flirty comments to Bucky,  he might not pick up on them but Steve helps him figure it out. 

pairing: Ghost Rider!Reader x Bucky Barnes. 

words: 2375

warning: fighting, violence, burns(?), sexual innuendos 

Masterlist!

the whole “demon with the skull on fire” look was kinda hard to keep hidden, not that you wanted to. You were recruited by S.H.E.I.L.D. after a fight, the Ghost Rider needed to be stopped but you had info on the real bad guys that made you who you were, you helped the Avengers with hunting. 

your performing days were over, after crashes and trauma you tried to hide away...like before, the head on fire thing was very memorable; but you wanted to forget. 

Tony and Banner worked together to find a face for you, and after sometime -and a little input to make your hair fire-red- you looked normal, for an Avenger. 

The team sat in the conference room, Cap was leading the discussion. He was going over the plan and all the different ways it could end and the proper ways to handle the multiple endings. 

Bucky was sat beside you, he always found a way to be near, not too close but just enough. “I like the face, forgot to tell you- I mean, I didn’t see the skull because you were in a cell and only Banner and Tony saw it but still...looks nice,” he whispered, you smiled and nodded. When you looked back to Steve, out of the corner of your eye you saw Bucky shake his head, he muttered  something to himself before listening in again. 

“Like the hair,” you whispered after a couple seconds so you didn’t get caught like school, Bucky had just cut the long locks to a nice trim. “looks strong and healthy, like someone could pull it.” you joked 

“Thanks, it really stays out of my eyes-”

“Buck.” Steve slightly raised his voice, “c’mon, man.”

“Sorry,” Bucky whispered before looking out of the corner of his eye to you, you felt like kids trying to be proper in front of the adults. Bucky flashed a smirk before really listening. 

*****

You were all in the quinjet, your combat pants were full of knives, you preferred knives rather than guns; it just happened like that. Bucky sat across from you, you tried not to look at him because of his intense stare you thought your new face was going to melt off if you really focused on it. 

Everything was ready, your uniform was set. or so you thought, Bucky stood and kneeled beside you, His nimble fingers going to your left calf to zip up an open pocket. His hand rested on your knee as he took one final scan, looking at your legs and pockets. His thumb swayed back and forth as he checked, as he stood he used your thigh to get a little push up even though he didn’t need it. 

“Wow,” he dusted off his own knee from the dirty floor, “great thighs, you should teach me your workout routine.” He smirked before going back to his seat, his tongue flicked up and rested on his tooth, he was really going for it. 

and you weren’t one to lose in a battle of flirty comments, the first thing that came to mind was blurted out with the coolest tone. 

“they make great earmuffs,” you winked, but Bucky just nodded, he didn’t get the joke and you were now wondering if that complement he gave you wasn’t supposed to be sexy, he just thought you were strong.

*****

You were all camped out by the building which was deep in the forest, everyone was in position. The rain was beating down hard, you could hear thunder from afar but you knew it was getting closer. You were slightly slipping up in the mud, your boot would get caught and would almost fall off. 

the earpiece was buzzing, everyone was confirming their status and what they saw. The tall trees covered the moonlight so you would have to rely on the earpieces way more than a typical mission. 

“west entrance, clear.” you whispered. 

slowly everyone worked their way inside, your door was open so you went right in. You did have a gun on you but you knew if anyone came to fight you’d switch to knives, but long distance needed guns. 

All you needed was files, this group had too much information. 

Bucky was on the second floor, he and Nat were getting files loaded on the hard drives. She was typing away while Bucky covered her six, he scanned around and around even though the building was extremely dead and quiet. It didn’t look dead, there were no cobwebs or any tipped chairs, it looked like an office that was in use. 

“this isn’t right, they would have someone protecting the files.” Bucky muttered and left Nat’s back, going to the doorway where he came in to look again. When he turned, she was there. “I have this feeling, I don’t know wha-aah!” 

You heard a scream from upstairs, you dropped what you were doing and headed up, gun ready to open fire. Nat was looking around and breathing hard. 

“what is it?” you asked. 

“Bucky- he was there- and then not there- they’re like assassins, they are so quiet.” She was paranoid, you’d never seen her like that before. “I have all the info, but we need to find Bucky.”

the earpieces were constantly running, everyone else was listening. “We have to roll out, we’ll get Bucky soon.” Sam said, “this place is freaking me out.” 

“We can’t just leave,” you shake your head, but Natasha was already leading you out.

As you reached the outside Natasha let go of her death grip, you shook off her hands and looked back to the building, something was wrong; there should be sounds of movement.

“It’s too dark in there and this won’t end well, I’m calling the shots and I say no.'' Steve put his foot down and towered over, you were a little shorter but the build of that man made you feel small.

You turned back and headed to the door, Steve tried to grab hold of you but he retracted his hand with a hiss. He looked at the palm of his hand and saw it was red, there were already pus bubbles forming.

“You burnt me?” Steve yelled.

You closed your eyes as Steve yelled nothing at you, you needed to help Bucky and you were going to do whatever you needed to do. Your head started to heat gradually, like boiling water. The fake couldn’t hold your heat, the jaw began to melt exposing the skull you used to sport; a little melted near your left eye. But what changed the most was your hair, like a bonfire it was big and tall; you were now taller than Steve. Red flames licked the air as the blue flames in the middle stayed almost still, a ball of light from the actual fire on your head lit around you, allowing you to see.

“I did burn you, third degree.” You sneered and walked to the door, “and if you’re gonna leave Bucky and make me save him, get me Steve’s bike.” You left them with the sound of the door slamming to echo around the vacant forest, it rang louder than thunder and rain.

You walked around, trying to hear for any sign of life. Your heart dropped when you heard a muffled scream, it had to be Bucky. Your feet stomped and echoed up the stairs and the screaming got louder and more despite, when you turned the corner you saw Bucky strapped by the ankles and wrists to a medical table, his eyes were wide with fear and his mouth was stuffed with some rag. 

“oh god,” you muttered and ripped out the cloth in his mouth. 

Bucky didn’t even give himself time to breathe, “ghost! It’s fucking ghosts- and they went through me- i can see your jaw bone- and then they could-your head in on fire- and then I’m tied- and- BEHIND YOU!” 

you turned and saw a ghost, your flaming hair swooshed and shot out sparks because of how fast you turned. The ghost had a knife in his hand, and three emerged from behind him. They were opaque and seemed like ghost zombies, parts of them were missing. 

There was a stand off for three seconds before the fighting started, and Bucky could barely see what was going on. You danced around the ghosts with ease and it seemed as though you knew what was coming, he wanted to help but as much as he tugged on the restraints he couldn’t break free. HIs body was about to give out, he was in shock and he was tired like everyone else; but being tied up made him remember his Hydra days and that was enough to make him become small. 

“I got you,” you muttered and untied him, the ghosts were gone. 

“how did you-...?” Bucky didn’t need to finish his sentence. 

“I took one of their knives and used it on them, they couldn’t die from our real weapons so I had to use theirs, it was easy.” you got him out and helped him up,  Bucky was putting most of his body weight onto you. 

“You’re warm,” Bucky tiredly muttered, he was about to pass out. 

“I know, I have fire hair,” you said with a smirk, the fire helped you out of the building. Just for safe measures you leaned down and allowed your hair to light the wall, the rain that was pouring outside would put out your fire and you’d just have normal hair but it would also put out the fire that would start in the building; you didn’t want it to burn the entire forest down. 

Bucky was about to collapse on you, his eyelids hovered and barely stayed open.  he looked sick, his face was green and extremely pale. 

“I-I need to sit..” Bucky slurred and fell against the bottom of the staircase, “I think they drugged me...” You tried to pick him back up again but he was heavier than you. 

“Buck, we gotta go,” you warned. 

he sloppy grin covered his face, “you’re cute when you’re stressed, I love it!” he sang, “you’re always so cute, I just wanna put you in my back pocket and take you everywhere with me- Oh! I could put you in my backpack and... oh that a good idea, good one, James.” Bucky giggled as he thought of taking you everywhere with him. 

“You’re definitely drugged,” you giggled and got him up again, when he protested you thought of staying for a bit longer but the fire you light was fast approaching, “Shit!'' you yanked Bucky up and headed for the door, only then did you notice a oxygen pipe running down the wall, “Bucky was gotta go!” 

you busted through the door and smiled widely at Steve’s bike waiting there for you, you carried Bucky over and put him on the seat and you got in front of him. 

“My butt is wet!” Bucky yelled like a child, it had been there for a while because of the pool of water on the seat.

“Hold on!” you yelled, the engine revved and as your feet left the ground the bike took off. There was mud everywhere, little potholes and murky water splashing up. you spotted a ramp-type-mud-thing near a tree and went for it. Bucky saw it too and grabbed hold, “Bucky!” you yelled. 

“What?” his voice was shaky. 

“That’s my boob!” you screamed as you went up the ramp, the building exploded behind you and Bucky forgot to move his hand, the loud noise made him hold tighter, “Ow!’ you grumbled as you landed, going at top speed. 

Bucky lowered his hand, “sorry, sorry, sorry, god i didn’t mean to, sorry,” he kept repeating himself, you could feel the blush radiating on his cheeks from behind you. 

“Never said I didn’t like it...” you muttered. 

“What did you say?” Bucky asked, but he didn’t get an answer because you were back with the rest of the group. 

You all went home, Bucky was wheeled to the medical ward to see what he was drugged with and you went to your room. 

*****

Steve was holding a laptop as he walked into Bucky’s room, he was still in a hospital bed in the med center, it had been a couple days and Bucky was feeling fine; it was a mix of shock and some random drug they never really identified. 

“Alright, I’m showing you something,” Steve’s eyebrows were knitted together, he opened the laptop and it had the audio recordings from the earpieces from the last mission. 

“Those earpieces save?” Bucky groggily asked. 

“Yes, and I’m showing you this.” Steve had pulled audio clips, “you and y/n need to stop flirting and actually do something, I can’t keep hearing this in my ear all the time.” he sighed and hit play. 

‘great thighs, you should teach me your workout routine’

‘they make great earmuffs’

Steve deadpanned to Bucky, Bucky just shrugged, “I didn’t know what she meant by that so I just smiled and nodded.” 

“Bucky!” Steve yelled, “where does your head need to be for her thighs to make earmuffs?”

“between her legs?” But was picturing a really fatal choke hold that Nat did once. 

“what else is between her legs?” 

“her- oh...” his face went from confused to red, “oh...!” Bucky bug eyes met Steve’s knowing face. 

“and you grabbed her boob, and just listen to what she says when you moved it.” Steve scrolled a bit and then hit play. 

‘never said I didn’t like it...’

“I was drugged, I didn’t know what she was saying!” Bucky cried, “I can’t believe it went over my head.”

“go talk to her!” Steve said. 

Bucky stood up and rolled his shoulders back, he walked out of the med center and to the rooms, and at one point he thought about turning around and wimping out but he held strong and kept going. Once he was at your door he knocked and you opened pretty quickly. 

“I-” he cleared his throat, “I was thinking about you,” Bucky said. 

“really?” you smirked. 

“ya... I was wondering if you had a pair of earmuffs I could try on?”

[novamirmirsblog]

FwB minor safe

THIS IS SAFE FOR MINORS. and by minors I mean 15+ cause there's still some kissy kissy and implied sex. AND SWEARING. Seriously tho, no under 15s reading this.

When you had first met Natasha, she hated you. Or at least that’s what it seemed like. She ignored you, refused to train with you, and when she did train with you, you always ended up in the medical bay, and she always, always had something to say when you came back from a mission. You had really hoped to at least had a friendly acquaintance with the other woman on the team. You always had Wanda but she was often pining after a certain red synthezoid. You only realised Natasha wanted to be friends when Clint let it slip that she was like a cat. He was clearly sick and tired of the two of you constantly fighting and wanted it to end. Or perhaps it was Steve who finally wanted it to stop. It didn’t really matter who because now you had a way in.

Your friend’s grandmother used to rescue stray cats and while Natasha certainly wasn’t a cat, you figured the same rules applied. First, you would make extra food when you knew she would be there, telling her there were leftovers if she wanted them but never pressuring her into eating with you. Then, you slowly began just sitting in the same room as her, always a distance away from her so as to not make her uncomfortable. Eventually she began to warm up to you, even going as far as letting you sit on the same sofa as her.

Things all changed one night when Natasha came back from a mission gone wrong. She had been given bad information and the data she was supposed to collect wasn’t there. She was pissed. Steve called you into the lounge and told you to stay out of her way if you valued your life. It made you slightly nervous. The two of you were friends but you weren’t that close. Not close enough to know for sure whether or not she would hurt you. Everyone retreated to their rooms and locked their doors, not wanting to be in the way of an angry Black Widow. Because that’s who was coming back. Black Widow, not Natasha Romanoff.

You couldn’t sleep that night so when you saw a figure enter your room, it scared you shitless. You grabbed the gun from under your pillow and pointed it at the figure.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s kinky babe and maybe we should revisit that idea but right now I want to fuck you senseless.” Natasha - no the Black Widow’s voice spoke out in the dark. It was that kind of muffled sound that you only heard in the depths of the night when no one else was awake.

You lowered your gun but didn’t take the safety off. Just in case.

“There’s no need to be nervous darling. I’ve seen the way you act around me.” Natasha walked towards where you were on the bed, leaning down and lifting you by your chin up to her lips. “Just tell me to stop and I will.”

You moaned as Natasha’s lips connected to your neck, roughly sucking and biting her way to your collarbones. She leaned you back and wrapped a hand around your neck as she looked at you. Even in the darkness, you could see how black her pupils were and feel how heavy her breathing was.

“I need you to understand that this doesn’t change anything. We are still just friends.”

"I understand." You leant up to kiss her but she just laughed as she pushed you down and kissed you harder, leaving you alone once she had finished playing with you.

Nights like that became routine between the two of you. If either of you had a bad mission, or were just feeling lonely, you would end up in your bed. It was never Natasha's bed and most of the time Natasha was in control. Occasionally however, if you had a particularly bad mission or Natasha had seen unspeakable things, she would relinquish control and you would savour every minute of it. Perhaps if the two of you were dating, you would be able to have control more- no you couldn't think like that. It was a dark hole that you couldn't go down.

Somewhere between the rough nights and the friendly movie nights the two of you had, you had fallen for the fiery woman. Natasha made sure that you always remembered that it was just a 'friends with benefits' arrangement by never sleeping in your bed. It was a tricky balance for her though because she would cuddle you all the time during the day. It was almost as if she regretted sleeping with you.

The friendly flirting between the two of you drove the team absolutely crazy. It was like everyone except you two could see how perfect you were for each other. You just fit together. Yet whenever they asked either of you about it, you both denied it vehemently with a sad look in your eyes. The team had had enough. They were done with the two of you fucking, flirting and then crying yourselves to sleep when you both realised you didn't have the relationship you wanted.

It was Wanda's brilliant idea to have a game night. She had watched a sitcom where the characters played truth or dare and confessed their love for each other.

"I'm not so sure that will work witchy." Tony said after Wanda had finished explaining her plan. "Maybe we should play 7 minutes in heaven or spin the bottle."

"Why? How is that better than my plan? All they do is suck each other's faces off. We need them to admit their feelings for each other." Wanda stood up, slightly defensive over her plan.

"I...I think I have a better idea." Steve spoke up and everyone turned to look at him. "How about we kidnap Y/n? Y/n wont believe us if we tell her Natasha loves her and Natasha isn't going to admit it over a game of truth or dare. If we kidnap Y/n and stress Natasha out a little, then she might finally admit she loves Y/n."

The room was silent. "Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you" Clint muttered, causing the rest of the room to break out into a slightly nervous laughter.

"When's Y/n's next mission?"

~~~~~

You were sent out on a routine solo mission. It was something a lower level agent could have easily done but you were happy to get out and away from the compound for a bit. You loved your family but their constant questions about Natasha were getting too much. It was a constant reminder that you guys weren't in a relationship at all. The more you thought about it, the more you tried to convince yourself that a relationship wasn't even what you wanted. You had been on a few dates since your arrangement with Natasha had begun, mostly to throw her off the scent of your growing crush. However, when you returned from your failed date (because they always failed), Natasha was always there to fuck you hard and rough. Sure, she would leave it a few days, distancing herself as much as possible, sometimes completely ignoring you, but she would always come back. The mission was complete and you were making your way back to the Quinjet, too distracted in your thoughts of Natasha to realise someone was creeping up behind you. You were knocked out cold.

When you came to, you were in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair. It was all very James Bond like. You tried to look around, but everything seemed blurry.

"I can't believe you hit her so damn hard!" You heard a voice ring out.

"I didn't mean to! Oh my god she's going to kill me." A deeper voice, probably male, spoke.

The voices sounded kind of familiar but you couldn't work out where from.

"Natasha, we found her!" that was the last thing you heard before passing out again.

"I am going to murder whoever did this to you Y/n." Natasha told you as she carried you to medical. She refused to let anyone else touch you and didn't let you out of her sight for one second.

The usually fearless avengers all froze and turned slightly pale. They were 100% going to blame this all on Steve. If anyone had a chance of surviving the Black Widow, it was a super soldier and besides, it was Steve who had knocked you out. Bucky had told him not to use his shield to do it.

You awoke to find yourself in a hospital bed with a very concerned Natasha holding your hand. You gave it a little squeeze and smiled at her.

"Never ever ever do that again. Do you understand me? I thought I lost you..."

"It's okay Tash, I'm fine." In that moment it was so hard to remember that the two of you were just friends, that you would never be anything more than friends.

"Date me."

"What?" You were stunned and not completely sure you hadn't just hallucinated.

"I can't do this friends with benefits thing anymore. I know I was the one who said it was nothing more but I think I'm falling for you Y/n. Do you know why I was so distant with you to begin with?"

"Because you're a cat?"

Natasha smiled, she couldn't even bring herself to laugh she was so nervous. "No Y/n. It was because I really liked you. You walk into the compound all happy and beautiful and I dont know what to do. We would spar and I would get weird tingly feelings wherever you were touching me and it made me confused. I tried so hard to stay away from you but then you started leaving me food, or sitting with me, or trying to make jokes and I just couldn't stay away. When you didn't come back to me on time, I was so scared. I thought you were dead. When we found you..." She ran her hand through her hair, her other hand never letting go of yours. "The relief I felt nearly made me fall to my knees. I understand if this ruins our friendship but I really can't continue on just being your friend. I think... I think I love you." Natasha whispered that last part so quietly you almost missed it.

"I would love nothing more than to date you Natasha. I was so worried that I was reading too much into things and that my feelings were wrong and would ruin everything. It's why I dated other people for a bit."

"Well good. How about we-" Natasha was cut off by an announcement from F.R.I.D.A.Y.

"Considering agent y/l/n is up, Mr Stark request's both your presence in the lounge."

When the two of you made it to the lounge, hand in hand, they all clapped. Natasha scowled and held on tighter to your hand and you just laughed.

"Why did you call us here?" You asked

"Well, the thing is, we don't want to be murdered so we're really hoping you'll stop Natasha from doing anything drastic."

"What did you do." Natasha let out lowly, she knew you shouldn't be up and about, that it was better for you to rest until you were feeling completely better again so she wanted this over as quickly as possible.

"Well...-"

"IT WAS STEVE'S IDEA!" Wanda blurted out. "I just wanted to play truth or dare but nooo. Stars and Stripes over here wanted to make things all dramatic." Wanda waved her hands in the air.

"What was Steve's idea?" You asked, still a little slow on the uptake. Natasha wasn't though. You could feel her becoming tense and you held her hand a little tighter.

"...The kidnaping..." The team hung their heads in shame, trying to simultaneously look at their shoes and keep an eye on Natasha.

The room was completely silent before you burst out laughing. "You're kidding me? You actually kidnaped me just so Natasha would admit her feelings for me? Guys I'm dying." You wheezed as you tried to catch your breath from laughing so hard.

Natasha however, didn't find it nearly as funny.

"Natty, darling, it's fine. They did it because they care." You whispered into her ear, leading her out the room before someone could get easily injured. Getting blood out of carpets was a pain.

"Your days are numbered Super Soldier. I'm coming for you." she said, watching as Steve's face turned completely white before turning and leaving the room with you.

[reveniemus]

8 or 21 or 31 for the hug prompts. love your new look 😉💖

thank you!! i am obsessed with this photoshoot 😭😭 also i hope you enjoy some angst i guess?? bc i write that now???

geraskier in angst major, no. 1

pairing: gen with lite!geraskier rating: teen warnings: implied torture, mild descriptions of injuries jaskier is not having a good time

on ao3

Never say never, his mother had always said, and yet, Jaskier had foolishly done just that. He thought he was never going to feel anything worse than the heartache of what happened on the mountain, and yet, this moment was a very strong contender. It was such an obvious thing too, and Jaskier knew if Geralt had been there, he would’ve tutted at him for being so oblivious to the fact that the men giving him the eye were not, in fact, looking for a one night tumble.

Then again, if Geralt had been there, Jaskier wouldn’t have been flouncing about in a crowded tavern in plain view of some Nilfgaardian soldiers out of uniform. He would’ve been curled up in a bedroll on the forest floor, eating rabbit or deer and scribbling in his notebook while Geralt sharpened his swords.

“Bard’s tougher than he looks, huh?” he hears one of the guards say after he’s taken yet another beating. “That’s the third one today and he’s still conscious, somehow.”

“Barely. I bet if he got another one today, he’d tell us everything,” his companion says, and Jaskier’s body involuntarily winces at the thought of another beating so soon to his last one.

“Think the captain will let us? It’s not like we’re getting anywhere with the other prisoners,” the first one says, and he must lean against the bars because the scraping sound of metal against metal rings in Jaskier’s ears.

“Most likely. We haven’t tried branding yet,” the second voice answers, the gleeful tone to his voice making Jaskier’s stomach curl. Thankfully, it sounds like they’re finally, finally walking away and Jaskier lets himself relax when the sounds of their conversation dissipate.

He takes a deep breath and even that small, miniscule amount of movement makes his body ache. Jaskier tries to remember the things Geralt used to say about managing pain. The first step was to take inventory of his body to figure out what was wrong. It’s hard to do on his side, so Jaskier shifts, his face scrunching up as he lays on his back. It isn’t comfortable and the movement makes his bones feel like they’re on fire. How is it possible to feel this much pain and survive?

Okay, he can do this. He can take inventory of his body, just like Geralt used to.

Deep breath.

Something aches on his calf, near his ankle. Twisting it shoots pain up his leg, and Jasker bites down on his bottom lip to stop from making a noise. He can’t let the soldiers know he’s conscious enough to make noise.

Deep breath.

There’s a cut on his right upper thigh. He doesn’t know when he acquired it. This last beating? The one before? It’s not actively bleeding anymore, which is good. He thinks it means they didn’t hit anything major.

Deep breath.

A stabbing pain shoots up his left arm. Fuck. He hopes it’s not a break, because the implications of it makes his heart ache. Then again, he doesn’t know when he’ll see his lute again, so maybe it doesn’t really matter.

Deep breath.

His abdomen feels heavy. Is this what internal bleeding feels like? He should’ve asked Geralt how to know if you’re bleeding internally. Jaskier thinks he’d be colder if he were bleeding internally, or number.

Deep breath.

Jaskier’s head is pounding — not enough to distract from the rest of his pain, but just enough that his thoughts are verging on disjointed. Geralt would yell at him for not being able to focus.

Deep breath.

That definitely means there’s a head injury though. Jaskier remembers when Geralt had fought two fiends and they’d knocked him around. He had insisted that Jaskier not let him sleep, that it would make a head injury worse. Jaskier isn’t sure what worse means when the main part of your body that keeps things running is already hurt, but he thinks it means he shouldn’t sleep.

Deep breath.

If he’s asleep, though, he won’t feel the pain of his injuries. Jaskier closes his eyes, knowing Geralt would hit him for genuinely contemplating falling asleep while he’s got a definitive head injury.

Deep — Jaskier is jolted out of his breathing routine by a loud clanging noise, followed by thumps and screams and the sound of running. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, grimacing with the motion, to peer past the bars of his cell.

He should move back, maybe hide in the shadows and hope that whoever is attacking the prison will leave him alone. If he can have time to heal, he can get out of here and find … who? Geralt made it very clear he didn’t want Jaskier around, and it wasn’t like Jaskier could go around and find his old acquaintances. Anyone who was associated with him could be in danger because of his association with the White Wolf.

Maybe he could turn this prison into his home after whoever is out there finishes off the Nilfgaardians. Jaskier lays back down, closing his eyes and taking deep, slow breaths as the noises of fighting seem to get closer. If he lies here, maybe they’ll think this cell is empty of viable prisoners and they’ll keep going.

“Fuck,” he hears a voice grunt before the door to his cell opens. The voice seems familiar, but Jaskier can feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness and his already-vaguely-disjointed thoughts connect even less and less. “Please don’t be dead,” the voice says, and Jaskier vaguely feels a warm body next to him. The immediacy of the movement makes him flinch, and he hears another curse from the voice.

Familiarity blooms inside him, and he winces. His mind is playing tricks on him, it seems, maybe the Nilfgaardians decided an illusion would be more useful than a branding. Jaskier tries to curl into himself, but the pain that courses through him makes him scream.

“Jaskier, please, don’t move,” the voice whispers, gruff and gentle, and Jaskier whimpers as a hand brushes back his hair.

“Please, I don’t know anything, I swear,” he pleads, fighting back tears.

“It’s okay, Jask, you’re safe,” the voice murmurs, and Jaskier whines. The illusion feels so real it makes his heart ache, reminds him of the moments he clung to when Geralt’s fingers would barely brush over his skin when they were making camp, or when Jaskier made a stupid decision that got him hurt.

Suddenly, Jaskier is being tugged up, and he’s shocked into looking up. His eyes widen when he sees a shock of long white hair and amber eyes, a soft whisper escaping his lips.

“Yes, it’s me. We have to keep moving,” Geralt says, and Jaskier feels arms on his waist as he somehow gets on his feet. “Can you stand?” he asks, his eyes glittering with concern in a way that makes Jaskier’s head spin.

“You’re here,” he whispers, leaning back a little as Geralt’s hand moves from his waist. It’s not far, he can feel the heat of it against the ragged remains of his chemise, and Jaskier feels more light headed than he has in weeks.

“Careful,” the witcher murmurs, catching Jaskier’s arm as he sways on the spot. “I’ve got you, Julek.” His arm wraps around Jaskier’s waist and he brings him closer.

Jaskier inhales Geralt’s scent, a mix of leather and horse that’s difficult to duplicate, much less recreate in an illusion, and ignoring the sharp ache in his lungs at the movement. He’s probably got a broken rib, he realizes, as he involuntarily leans into Geralt more. “You’re here,” he repeats, his eyes fluttering.

“I am, but don’t fall asleep on me yet. You’ve got a nasty head wound,” Geralt says, his voice gruff and stern and the familiar tendrils of it makes Jaskier’s heart warm.

“Y’know, even if this was a dream, it’s a nice dream. I hoped this would be my last,” Jaskier whispers, like it’s a secret, as he leans into Geralt, wrapping an arm around the witcher’s waist. He has no balance, so he feels the sway of his body as he tries to recalibrate his center of gravity.

“It’s not a dream, and it sure as hell won’t be your last one.” Geralt’s response is angry, almost aggressive, and Jaskier thinks maybe he’s far too out of it to be affected by that. “Yen’s outside with a portal waiting for me to get you out of here,” he continues, tightening his grip around Jaskier’s waist and moving out of the cell.

Jaskier makes a soft noise, burying his face in Geralt’s neck as the witcher half-carries him out of the keep. “You came for me,” he mumbles, voice slurring as darkness starts to take a hold of his consciousness.

“I always will,” Geralt whispers. Or maybe it’s just a part of Jaskier’s dream. “You’re not dreaming, Jaskier, and I need you to stay awake.”

Did he say that aloud? Oh. Did that mean he was definitely dreaming or definitely not? Jaskier is about to say something else, he thinks, but putting words together has become very difficult. What a useless wordsmith he is, isn’t he? Not able to put words together! What a sorry excuse of a bard.

“What’s he babbling about?” a sultry feminine voice asks, and Jaskier’s body jerks, the pain shooting from his possibly-twisted ankle as he tries to run off. “Bard, what are you doing? Has he been doing this the whole time?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, shifting to hoist Jaskier towards the shimmering portal that’s just outside of his fuzzy eyeline.

“Why didn’t you Axii him like one of your horses?” Yennefer asks, her voice coming closer as Jaskier’s arm lifts and loops over someone’s neck. A lilac and gooseberries someone.

Geralt lets out a grunt that, if he were in the right state of mind, Jaskier would be able to translate, but for now, he knows there’s an underlying layer of softness to it that he wants to hold close to his heart.

“Oh, you stupid witcher,” Yennefer mumbles before Jaskier feels chaos surrounding him. It’s the last thing he consciously notes for himself before his vision goes black and his mind goes empty.

[lovelypale]

Narcotics // Addict!Senjuro x Dealer!Reader

Warnings: 18+, drug use, addiction, toxic relationship, suicide mention, it’s consensual but I’m gonna say dubcon just in case, mostly plot with a bit of spice, Senjuro is college aged.

Words: 1600

a/n: Had this idea plaguing me and I just needed to get it out. Sensitive topic here (as if I write anything that isn’t) but yeah may or may not give these two a happy or sad ending. Let me know I guess!

You opened the door to the large figure in front of you, dripping from the downpour that was tearing through the city. He was imposing in stature but still very skinny otherwise; a very meek man. He was shivering, but you had a feeling that it wasn't from the rain. 

"Why did you take the last train?" You tested the water with a small opener. It was very curious that he would show up so late, again. He knows what he's here for, but you wanted him to say it himself. 

He opened his mouth to speak but ultimately couldn't, instead opting for a shaky wave. You scoffed and opened your door wider for him before leaving to get a towel. When you returned he was still at the door, still shaking, still appearing utterly helpless. You handed him the towel and he took it from you, still avoiding your eyes. Everything was silent. 

"I'm not selling to you anymore Senjuro." 

He continued to stand there, blond and red locks frayed and dripping water on the floor. He looked beautiful, always does, it was a talent that even helpless and strung out he still looked breathtaking. He nodded and hugged himself tighter. "I'm sorry. I'll do anything, please." 

"You don't want anything from me." You put your hand against his cheek and felt his cool trembling against your warm skin. He was desperate again. He said he was going to quit plenty of times but he would always end up right back at your doorstep. You watched him grow from a slightly misguided kid to a truly fucked over adult. He barely knew his mom, dad's an alcoholic, and his brother seems alright but he was always busy teaching. You're sure he's messed up like everyone else and is just the type to let things fester in secret but Senjuro doesn't know that. He thinks he's the problem, the only one that couldn't cope, that can't contribute in the way that his older brother does. It messed with him so badly that it led him to you. The school's dealer. Not only can you make the pain disappear, you can make it feel good.

He doesn't need to feel good. He needs to never see you again. 

"I can't stop shaking, my family will notice. Please." 

"I hope you know they’d hate what you do for this more than the actual drugs itself." He looked at you with his dull red eyes through his foggy glasses, you remember when they used to sparkle. He wasn't like you, he was always so motivated and happy. At some point you used to envy his shy and upbeat demeanor. 

"I understand." He smiled at you but it looked eerie and unnatural. He wasn’t lying about his shaking though, it really did look bad.

You shook your head at him and sighed, turning around to a side room to check your supply. Lucky him, you had exactly what he needed. You took just one and dropped It in his palm. He looked at you confused. "I told you I'm not selling you shit anymore. You're getting one to tide you over, other than that I don't want to see you here ever again. Get help."

He looks at you with a plea in his eyes as he gently grabs your arm. "I don’t think I have anyone else y/n, please don’t leave me alone.”

"That's not my problem, do you even have money anymore?" You pushed away from him and he quickly latched back on to you. Your heart strained in your chest, you always hated this part. This stupid hug he gave you that brought you back to your youth, the days of being in high school when he hugged you before running off to his friends. This was always just business to you but he walked into your life and you’ve felt increasingly responsible for him since. It felt less and less like making money and more like assisted suicide. 

He placed the pill in his mouth and pulled himself even closer to you, ''Anything." You felt his still wet body pressed against you and you knew this fight was over.

You sighed before pulling away from him and walking to your room. He followed you, knowing exactly how this routine went. He watched you kick off your pants and your underwear. You sat on your bed in nothing but your top and watched him with guilty eyes. He was pretty, even with fading hair and way less weight than he started with he was gorgeous to you. Usually people as deep as him don’t maintain as well but he managed to keep his baby face. He looks tired, the type of tired sleep can't fix, but at least you can't tell that he's sold his life away for a drug. At least not yet, but he's getting there. 

You know you're taking advantage of him, but he's also hoping you do. He’s always been a people pleaser and you can’t say no to letting him please you. It started with him running you drinks to making out in your car and now...Terrible. As sinister as this courtship is, neither of you truly want to stop. You loved him, but not enough to stop him from hurting himself. "Hurry up, you have an 8 AM tomorrow." 

“I dropped that course.” 

You stared at him with pure pain in your eyes. “Of course you did.” 

He peels himself out of his wet clothes with a slight sway to his form, you can tell whatever issues that plague him are starting to float away. As usual, he keeps his glasses on. He smiles at you with weird reverence, like he's thankful that you're going to be the one to ultimately kill him. Your hand immediately takes hold of his pretty cock. Long, curved, and pink at the tip. You swirled your thumb around his tip as he patiently waited for you to tell him what to do. You made languid movements up and down his twitching dick, thinking to yourself that you should probably do something before he's completely spaced out. 

"Lay down." He listens and slowly gets on your bed before giving his attention back to you. You can never seem to get over how dainty he looks, it makes you feel even worse about your little situation. You get on top of him and he instantly starts bucking against you, not really even aiming for anything, just trying to get the burning sensation on his skin to cool down. You didn't prep but you didn't need to, taking him was easy. Power and pity is two things you've learned to sexualize when it comes to him. His vulnerability had to be hot or else it would quickly become sad.  

His legs squirm underneath you from the building sensitivity. He utters small "thank you" and gasps as you move up and down his dick. His slight curve rubbed against your upper wall, causing you to be noisier than you'd like to be.  He's getting warmer and warmer, feeling found inside of you. The world is fading off into something more obscure, something that isn't tangible. Your hips feel plush against his palm, he's digging down and tearing into your skin but he knows you’ll forgive him for it.

You watch him writhe in ecstasy, getting closer and closer to his high. He looked so beautiful with his hair all over your bed and his glasses threatening to fall off completely. You never get a warning with him, your orgasms are always so sudden and violent. Your thighs squished his as you curled into yourself, he was still thrusting, seeking his own relief. You thought you were going to pass out from the feeling of him still plunging deep inside of you. "S-stop." 

You pulled off of him and wrapped your hand around his sticky cock again, not wanting to leave him hanging. He seemed to be capable of the job on his own, thrusting into your warm palm with pure joy. "I'm getting close-." You didn't give him the chance to finish his sentence before you changed your hand motion to a slight twist. He came almost instantly in your grasp, you flinched from the slight splatter against your face as you continued to move your hand. He struggled to look at you. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that." 

You let go and grabbed the same towel you gave him to dry off. "You always say sorry so much, stop it." You knew he probably didn't hear that, he was past the point of holding an intelligible conversation. There's nothing but the sound of your sheets moving underneath his squirming body and the sound of faint moaning, it wasn't a pretty sight but you're used to it.

You watched him move around until he eventually stayed completely still, fully enraptured by his high. He was going to be stuck like this for a few hours. You shook your head, admonishing yourself for even letting him in. You can't keep giving him drugs, and you especially can't keep letting him pay you like this. You grabbed his glasses and put it on your dresser so he wouldn’t crush it, in that moment his phone lit up and you saw the message, it was his brother. His friends stopped asking where he disappeared to a long time ago, it was truly only Kyojuro that still cared about where he went to at night. He has to know the reason why his brother is slipping away.

Hey! I finished grading tests early and picked up your favorite on my way home. I was hoping I could talk to you tonight but don’t worry about it! Your food is in the fridge. Wherever you are, stay safe. We care about you.

You winced at the message and decided to respond for him. Thank you, I'm staying with a friend to study tonight. I'll be back tomorrow. 

Nothing but routine.

[twdeadfanfic]

Vows Pt.6

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Series Summary:

The last battle with Negan doesn’t go as it should, with Negan coming on top, and so reader, Daryl’s girlfriend, offers herself as a wife to Negan if he doesn’t kill Daryl or anyone else. Negan accepts, he won’t kill anyone but will take reader as a wife, and he’ll take Daryl and some of the others to the Sanctuary as prisoners, promising not to hurt anyone if reader is one of his wives and the communities work for him.

This has both flashbacks to reader and Daryl’s story since meeting to now, and the present with reader living at the Sanctuary as a wife, trying to keep Daryl and their people safe, and she and the other wives dealing with Negan, plotting… (This is not a Negan x reader fic!)

Warning, there are reader and Negan scenes in this chapter, but to make up for it, there’s also a flashback from when reader and Daryl got together.

Another few days passed, blurring with each other, and though your time with Negan still didn’t feel like routine, and you were pretty sure it’d never feel like that, you felt more and more like you wanted to take advantage of the situation and Negan’s crotch-driven brain like the other wives did…but you still weren’t good at playing him and keeping him happy as they did. Your biggest achievements were that you hadn’t slapped him again and that you hadn’t spat on him, which didn’t count much towards gaining likable points.

Finally, you decided to just go and ask for help. Abby was in the room that she shared with Frankie, while Frankie was in the main room watching one of the DVDs. You went to the room and flopped down next to Abby.

“I want to ask something from Negan,” you blurted out and Abby arched an eyebrow at you.

“What do you need? Maybe I can get it for you.”

“You can’t…” You let out a sigh. “I want to ask him to let my friend out of the cages sometimes.” They had been in there for days and days, they weren’t tortured, but it was pretty awful anyway.

“Pfff…yeah, no, you’re not getting it,” Abby said and you couldn’t even be annoyed. “I mean…don’t be mad. But you agreed to marry him, listen to him, and fuck him, and he doesn’t kill or torture your friends…he’s kept his end of the deal but…you barely keep yours, I’ve seen you just staring at nothing while he talks. We all think on something else while he talks and talks, but we smile and pretend to listen.” Abby chuckled.

“Yeah…yeah, I know…” You murmured…you felt like you had done enough by not snapping at him but you were supposed to pretend to be enraptured by whatever bullshit was he saying, and you…really didn’t feel like it.

“Also, fucking him…” Abby gave you a teasing look. “I bet you just lie there like a starfish…”

“Abby!” You gaped at her, flustered, and pushed her so she’d fall on the pillow. “Shut up!” She was laughing and you couldn’t help your own. “What do you want me to do, moan how good he is and what a big boy is he?” You snorted, that wasn’t you, even if it weren’t Negan.

“Actually, yes.” Abby chuckled. “But don’t go getting all crazy the next time he calls you, after being a starfish for weeks, he’ll know you’re trying to play him.”

You let out a sigh. “I really don’t think I can do it…”

“You can.” Abby squeezed your hand. Just…just start small, baby steps. Like, if he decides to talk to you, pretend that that time it’s something that interests you. If he makes a joke, let out a chuckle…like, maybe you didn’t mean to, you were trying not to laugh, but it was too funny even for grumpy you and you let out a chuckle against your will because he’s oh so funny he even made you laugh?”

You blinked at her. “Abby…there’s no way I can pull off that. It’s going to look staged, I’m going to look like a robot, it’s not going to be natural, he’s going to notice.”

“Just try.” Abby shrugged. “Is not that hard.”

“Yeah…I don’t know how you do it…”

You decided to try it, though, and so the next time that Negan was talking about something, you forced yourself to ask a question about it, as if you were interested in listening. Negan seemed confused and then pleased, as he turned his attention to you, talking to you about it, and you forced yourself to look like you were interested in it.

The next day, you tried to follow Abby’s idea, and when Negan said one of his stupid jokes, you let out a short and quiet chuckle, and Negan looked at you, arching an eyebrow.

“Well now…did I make Mss. Grumpy laugh?”

“No,” you scoffed, looking away, pretending that you hadn’t laughed on purpose but against your will.

“Oh…I’d say I did…” A smug grin spread across Negan’s face. “You laughed, sweetcheeks.”

“Yes, I saw it too,” Abby said, winking at you.

“Yeah…yeah, she did…” Negan kept looking at you with that smug face and you scoffed again, looking away, pretending to be embarrassed.

You kept that up, pretending to be interested in whatever Negan had to say, chuckling at some of his stupid jokes, for another couple of days, until Abby told you that you could try another step…you weren’t very sure you could though.

The idea now was to kiss back Negan whenever he kissed you, as if you really wanted to kiss him, and you weren’t sure if you could pull off that…

“Come on…pretend that you’re an actress, pretend to be someone else,” Abby tried to encourage you. “Some sort of seductress…” She winked at you and you snorted, shaking your head.

“I’m really not that…”

“Just pretend to be, you’re not yourself, you’re this hot seductress black widow…” Abby kept going, nudging you when you snorted again. “Come on…you must have seduced your man, I’m sure you’re more of a seductress than you think.”

“I’m really not…” You shrugged. “And Daryl…I don’t think I ever seduced him…”

Not even the first time that you’d tried to get with him, you had just gone ahead and kissed him, much to his shock…

Then…

You were at the CDC, sat down on the table after eating more food than you’d ever eaten since walkers began roaming the world. Everyone was happy, eating and drinking, celebrating, including Daryl. He was joking and drinking, smiling, you didn’t think you’ve seen him grinning like that before, and you had to admit that you liked it, he had a pretty smile, that seemed to light his whole face, the whole place, even…

You chuckled at yourself…what a bunch of corny shit, as Daryl would say, had you just thought. But it was true, Daryl was an attractive guy , there was no way of denying it, and it wasn’t the first time that you admired him.

You’d grown closer to him, during your weeks surviving together, and during the quiet nights at the quarry, or at least quiet when Merle shut up and fell asleep, in which you sat down next to Daryl in comforting silence, and sometimes you both even spoke…

Daryl could be a prick more often than not, he was harsh, sure he was. Just a day ago, you had a big, big fight with him, when he’d behaved like a prick after walkers attacked the quarry camp, when so many people had died…Even if you had tried to put in context that Daryl seemed to have just lost his brother, he’d been out of line, yelling those cruel things to everyone, as if he was heartless…but you knew he wasn’t heartless, you had seen his heart, how he seemed not to care, yet always helped you, how he strived to hunt and bring as much food as possible to the camp…but at that moment, he’d seemed to be a heartless asshole, and you’d been beyond upset and angry at him.

To your surprise, though, while you were packing your things, Daryl had gone to help you in silence, but you saw him stealing glances at you, and you thought he seemed remorseful. Later, you both had driven to the CDC in the pickup, sharing some words here and there, and if you were honest with yourself, you didn’t want to be upset with Daryl. He seemed regretful, and so you had tried to move past your fight.

It was easy to forget about that now, with him smiling like that, and you couldn’t help but smile back at him. Yes…Daryl was an attractive guy, with those beautiful eyes, strong shoulders and arms…For a while now, you had idly thought now and then what it’d be like to have those arms wrapped around you, when you felt lonely, or sad, or lost, when your spirit was low…

It wasn’t just that he was attractive, though. If Daryl were a complete prick, you wouldn’t be wondering stuff like that, no matter how attractive he might be…but for weeks, you’d been wondering and thinking that Daryl was more than it seemed under all those layers of harshness…

As he drank and smiled now, teasing Glenn and just joking around, you couldn’t help a warm feeling in your belly, that got worse when you looked at Lori and Rick…you wanted that, or the closest thing possible, even if it was just for a night, but you didn’t want it with anyone, you wanted it with Daryl.

You weren’t sure how he’d react, though, or how to bring it up…what were you supposed to tell him? Do you want to hold me? We could even sleep together? Yeah…no…

Later, you walked with him back to your rooms for the night, still wondering how to ask Daryl, how to tell him what was in your head, if maybe it was a bad idea…but you really wanted it… His room was next to yours, and you called his name before he walked into his, still with no idea of what to say.

“Daryl…” You called for him, and he turned to look at you, arching an eyebrow. He smiled and it made something twirl in your belly… “I, uh…I was wondering…” That smile was just making it harder to focus and find words.  “How much have you drunk?”

Daryl snorted at that. “Dunno…more than in a while, why?”

“Just wondering if you’re drunk…I mean, you are…” You chuckled awkwardly. “But I mean, you know what you’re doing…right?” Otherwise, you wouldn’t try anything.

“I know what I’m doing.” Daryl was looking at you, seeming half confused half amused. “Might get drunker, though.” He waved the bottle of booze that he’d taken with him. “You wanna?” He lifted the bottle in your direction.

“No…no, I was thinking…wondering…” It couldn’t be that hard, why were you struggling to find words. “If maybe you wanted to…like…sleep in my room…” Well, sleep with you, rather, but those words didn’t make it past your lips.

Daryl frowned, and you were sure he was going to tell you off, but he seemed concerned. “You think this place ain’t safe?” Oh…he thought you were scared of sleeping alone in the room or that you didn’t trust the place…it was nice of him, to offer to stay with you if you were scared… Maybe you should content yourself with that…

“No…well, I don’t know, that doctor is a bit strange, but I don’t think that he’s going to murder us in our sleep…right?” Now that you had planted the seed in your brain, you couldn’t help but worry.

Daryl snorted. “Don’t think so…but yeah, there’s somethin’ off with the guy…Alright, if you wanna I can take watch while you sleep.” Daryl shrugged, looking down shyly.

“That’s not fair, you gotta sleep too, even more after all you drank…” You didn’t want Daryl not to sleep, in fact, you wanted him sleeping with those nice arms around you, and the fact that this night he seemed to have decided to be all caring and sweet wasn’t helping. “But…I didn’t mean that…what I mean…”

You felt stupid, struggling with words like that, and Daryl was looking at you with those caring and pretty eyes, and so you decided to just go ahead and show him, feeling braver with actions than with words. You stepped closer and leaned to peck his lips, feeling all kind of butterflies in your belly.

When you pulled back, Daryl looked at you with wide, surprised eyes. He seemed to want to say something, but no words made it past his lips as he just stared at you in shock, and you felt your cheeks heating up. “I’m sorry…I just…I didn’t…I…I’m sorry…” You rushed into your room, closing the door behind you, embarrassed…Daryl wasn’t drunk enough to not remember it in the morning, but you’d try to pretend that you’d been drunk and you didn’t remember that you had kissed him…this was going to be so awkward…

You face planted on the bed and you winced, that mattress was harder than you expected it. You shifted until you could bury your face on the pillow, the closest thing you can get to the earth swallowing you. Not much later, though, there were some knocks on the door.

You frowned and went to open the door, and when you found Daryl there, you almost freaked out. You didn’t know what to say, and Daryl wasn’t saying anything either, just looking at you as he chewed on his thumbnail, but then he made to walk in, and you automatically moved back so he could step into the room.

Daryl closed the door behind him and looked at you, still silent, and when you were about to ask if he needed something, awkward, he finally spoke.

“Why you did that?”

“Wha…kissing you?” You felt your cheeks heating again, and Daryl nodded, looking down. You considered saying that you were drunk, but Daryl didn’t seem mad…and so you decided to be brave and say the truth, if he reacted badly, you could keep your plan of pretending to have been drunk once morning came. “I just…I felt like it, I wanted to…”

Daryl was back at chewing his thumbnail, looking down, but then he glanced at you. “Yeah?” He murmured, and you nodded.

Daryl stepped closer at you and your heart sped up. His face was serious, and you wished you knew what was he thinking, but you couldn’t read him. Then, he leaned down and surprised you by pressing his lips to yours. Butterflies bloomed in your stomach, and for a second, you were so shocked that you couldn’t kiss him back, but when you did, you felt Daryl’s hand cupping your cheek, fingers tangling in your hair, and you moved closer, wrapping your arms around him…

Now…

You had thought, back then, that it’d be a one-night thing between Daryl and you, unless he might want to join you any other night, but nothing else…you had been wrong. Since the next morning, Daryl had pretty much started treating you as if you were his girlfriend, and on your side, you weren’t about to complain, you had enjoyed it…little did you know, then, how deep and strong your relationship with Daryl would become.

But…you couldn’t say that you had “seduced” Daryl. You had just kissed him and hoped for the best. That wouldn’t work with Negan, considering that he kissed you whenever he wanted…maybe you should really start by kissing him back…

The next time that Negan kissed you, you forced yourself to kiss him back. Nothing spectacular, but you guessed that it was better than standing there frozen…

The other girls began sharing tips with you too, and also they’d try to boost your confidence in your seducing skills, either with words and tips, or dolling you up, doing your hair, makeup, choosing revealing outfits that you’d have never worn…every time that they did, you looked at yourself in the mirror, telling yourself that you weren’t you, but another woman, some sexy, seductive, black widow, on her way to eating another man for breakfast…

It was still hard to feel like that, though, you felt rather silly more often than not, but as you keep trying, practicing, and you kept looking so different from your usual self, you began to play your part better and better.

After a few days, you laughed at Negan’s bullshit and kissed him back easier, even tried to talk more “seductively” as some of the other girls were trying to teach you, even if you felt silly. In your head, you tried to see yourself as that other woman, that seductress, black widow, until one day you felt ready to try your luck and your skills at asking something from Negan.

You were sat down on his bed, half lying against the headboard, in which you hoped was a suggestive, seducing posture, even if you felt stupid, when the door opened and Negan walked inside, arching an eyebrow at you.

“So…they weren’t kidding when they said you were waiting for  me here…”

“I didn’t think it’d bother you…” You shrugged. “I wanted to see you alone.”

“Yeah?” Negan smirked, but he still seemed confused at what were you doing there. “You were alone with me a couple of days ago, but you need me again, don’t you?” He teased smugly and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“I do need you,” you said, hoping to sound seductive. “I need…I need to ask you something.”

“Oh…there it is.” Negan chuckled, shaking his head and sitting on the bed. “You girls, always wanting something from me…sucking me dry and not in the way I want it.”

“We do suck you in the way you want it too,” you retorted and Negan let out a laugh.

“Yeah…that’s true…” Negan smirked, looking you up and down. “So tell me, doll…what is it.”

“I…” You tried to go back to when you’d rehearsed it with Abby. “I think I’ve been a good girl, so I deserve a treat, right?” You felt more silly than seductive speaking like that, but Negan just nodded, still looking at you with that smug smile. “I want…I want chocolate, I know you have some here…please?”

Negan blinked at you, and then he chuckled. “Chocolate? That’s what you wanted?”

You shrugged. “I love chocolate…we had some in Alexandria…please?”

“Chocolate…” Negan chuckled again…you guessed that he’d expected you to ask something more serious, but you wanted to wait for that until you had tried this first. “Of course, sweetcheeks, you’ve been a good girl these last days, I’ll get you your treat.” He reached out to stroke your hair and cup your face, and you did your best to smile. “You wait here, I’ll get it for you right now.”

Negan kissed you and you kissed him back as you had trained yourself to do. He got up from the bed and left the room, and you took a deep breath once the door closed behind him. It had gone well, you thought, Negan seemed to like how you were behaving lately and he’d gone to get you the chocolate right at that moment…but sure, chocolate wasn’t the same than letting your people out of the cages…But still, it was progress…

Negan came back, that smug smirk on his face as soon as he walked in, waving a bar of chocolate. “Your treat.”

“Thank you, Negan.” You smiled as he walked towards the bed.

“Come here,” he told you, and you shifted closer. He tore the envelope from the bar and broke a piece of chocolate. “Open your mouth.”

You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes and did as told. Negan placed the piece of chocolate in your mouth, smiling, and as you savored the sweetness, you closed your eyes and moaned aloud, even if you felt silly.

“Good girl,” Negan purred, and you opened your eyes to find him smirking at you. He broke another piece of chocolate and you opened your mouth as he wanted. This time, though, he kept one of his fingers in your mouth when he placed the chocolate. You knew what he wanted, and so you stopped yourself from bitting him as you wanted, and instead sucked on his finger.

Negan chuckled, pulling his hand back, and you forced yourself to moan again while you savored the chocolate. You hoped that all this show was good for something…although, the chocolate was nice, at least.

Negan moved to sit on the bed too, against the headboard. “Come here,” he said as he waved another piece of chocolate, and you crawled between his legs, opening your mouth so he’d give you the chocolate. You closed your eyes, enjoying it, and Negan chuckled. “You really do love chocolate.”

“Well….you know what they say…” You shrugged. “Chocolate is better than sex.”

Negan smirked at that. “Nah…better than sex with the redneck dog, you mean. Better than with me? No way.” He chuckled, and you almost dropped your façade, barely resisting the urge to punch him. Instead, you snapped the chocolate bar from his hand, and Negan chuckled again, seeming amused at you. “Now I wonder…how’s our dog Daryl in bed, uh?”

“I don’t want to talk about that…” You muttered, bitting off some chocolate, trying your best to behave, even if you didn’t feel like you could keep playing the seductress that day…you just wanted Negan to shut up.

“Come on, doll, don’t get mad…” Negan chuckled, taking back the chocolate bar and bitting a piece too. “I’m just saying…I know I’m better than him.” You barely stopped yourself from scoffing, and you remained silent, trying to hide how upset you were.  “Come on…” Negan broke another piece of chocolate and waved it in front of your face. “Say it, or you won’t get your treat.”

Once again, you stopped yourself from rolling your eyes. “Yes, Negan, you’re the best ever, even better than chocolate.” You knew that Negan could tell you didn’t mean it, but he seemed amused anyway. He smirked, popping the chocolate piece in his mouth instead of yours.

“Good girl,” he purred, giving you that chocolate bar and another unopened. “There you have your treat, don’t eat it all at once,” he chuckled. “Now, put those aside and come here to see that I am better than chocolate indeed.”

*

Operation let’s try to play Negan without getting killed is on. I wonder how it’ll go.

If you enjoyed this, comments and reblogs are always more than welcome, thanks.

Also, as always, excuse my English, it’s not my first language.

New taglist for Daryl, if you want to be tagged let me know and also, please, if you are not interested in being tagged anymore let me know too (I have way more people tagged than notes this gets and it makes me feel a bit down).

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[lovenona]

and i repeat: anthropo-ceramics geto suguru is the type of toxic where he'd take your virginity, make a sculpture about the experience, then smash it on the ground as a metaphor

this ask is my entire life. this ask is my lifeblood. everyone please saddle up for the ride of a lifetime, otherwise known as 1500ish words of toxic geto featuring sukuna being a good fucking friend – please continue at ur own risk this absolutely contains geto being a pretentious toxic fucker and mentions of virginity/first time but yes i guarantee it does have a happy ending (link to the full college! cinematic universe here) 

let’s begin with the basics – why wouldn’t you fuck geto suguru? he has the type of beauty that lingers on the back of your eyelids even after you’ve long since departed from him; it’s the kind of fragrant, lasting beauty that you think sculptors muse over when they coax life from their marble. he’s smooth, like still water, and calming, like the sound of birds rustling and leaves swaying at dawn. he is helen: a beauty that nations would go to war over. 

and sure, he is pretentious, the kind of toxic pretentiousness that festers inside of all pretty boys who call themselves “leftists” but can’t be bothered to call their mothers or to care about their partners. but it’s the way he speaks, the way he looks at you with such fervor and attention in his eyes that you’re utterly willing to let him break your heart. 

and maybe it’s not often that someone looks at you the way geto does: it’s not often that someone looks at you like they want you, body and soul. and it feels nice to be cared about, to be flirted with, even if the figure doing the flirting condescends you in a way that is different, harsher, colder, than the way ryomen sukuna does. 

so geto suguru takes you on dates. after the avant-garde poetry reading, in which you feigned excitement as he recited a poem on global imperialism that you didn’t quite vibe with, he brings you to local bookstores with overpriced yuppie memoirs, farmers’ markets with organic fruit, human rights protests and philosophy meetings where greasy boys bitterly discuss the communist manifesto. he takes you to dinner, too, to vegan restaurants that you can’t help but rave about on yelp later and to bars where they serve your cocktails in mason jars. 

geto suguru, for all his faults, is incredibly lighthearted with you; he makes you feel beautiful and desirable and warm, even when he’s explaining anthropology to you with such intense vigor that you lose track of his meaning. after everything, you’d be lying if you said you regretted your time with him.

after awhile you let geto fuck you – and yes, he was your first time, which you were naturally quite nervous about. but you appreciated him because he waited for you; he never pressured you into behaviors you didn’t want; he never asked you for services you weren’t ready to provide. and so when you slept with him, after an invigorating open-mic night at the fair-trade coffee shop near campus, you felt ready for the intimacy. geto made you feel attractive, comfortable, safe. he praised you the whole night, gave you caresses that lit you up like fireworks, provided such a level of god-tier aftercare you still reminisce about it, even now. 

but that’s the thing about anthropology-ceramics major geto suguru: he’s quietly toxic. he’s a poison that sneaks up on you, infecting your bloodstream when you least expect it. 

you weren’t sure if geto wanted to pursue a relationship, either. you’d fucked, sure, and you went on dates, but he was always the type to avoid long-term commitments. rumors float around campus of the many partners he’s ghosted, of the relationships he exploited for his own “artistic musings.” they aren’t loud rumors, to be sure, but they hang around his aura like a strange, ghostly scent. 

geto is a pretentious little fuck. you’ve known it and agreed to enter his circle anyway. maybe you hoped, perhaps naively, that the rumors would simply not apply to you.

which was a stupid idea. three weeks after the experience, since which you have only spent one-on-one time with geto only a few times, mostly to talk about school, the art department hosts an art show. it’s a regular occurrence, where the art students show off their best works, grad students display their in-progress theses, and outsiders can browse the displays, drink wine, offer to give outstanding students jobs and internships. it’s truly a big fucking deal for the art department; many of the school’s the most successful artists received their first acclaim here. 

you’ve always enjoyed attending, even if the level of talent and expertise sometimes intimidates you, even if you know you’ll never be on this level. you know sukuna’s got a few paintings lined up to be on display – paintings you’ve modeled for, drawings you’ve watched him labor over for hours on end. you reckon that for all your begrudging time together, you might as well show your face in support. 

but what you didn’t count on was geto’s contribution.

at this art show, there are, every now and then, some interactive performances, speeches, explanations on certain works. so it happens that from the back of the auditorium you watch geto take the stage, wheeling a small, white sculpture behind him. from your perspective it could have been a flower – perhaps a lily, but you can’t be certain. 

(geto always did like sculpting precious, dainty flowers.)

he doesn’t call you by name, but he doesn’t have to. he talks at great length in that smooth voice of his about the construct of virginity, the purity culture plaguing the globe, the emotional sensitivity of having your first time. geto seguru tells an avid audience what you felt about fucking for the first time. he recreates the entire night for two hundred listeners: he recalls the foreplay, the insecurity, the orgasms. he doesn’t call you by name. he doesn’t have to. 

he may have asked for your consent the first time. but he certainly did not ask your permission to do this. 

you’re not sure if you should laugh or cry when geto dramatically smashes his own sculpture, citing the “destruction of virginity” and  the need “to demolish a social desire to classify one’s morality based upon their sexual activity” and “the symbolic popping of the cherry” among other phrases that are utter bullshit. you’re watching the fragments dance across the stage and you feel exploited. you feel used in a way that feels utterly worse than anything else geto could have done.

did he ever like you? or were you simply a muse for this moment? 

you’re about to ditch the art show and go wallow in self pity at your apartment when a familiar presence slides in beside you.

“that’s kinda fucked,” sukuna says, hands in his jacket pockets. he’s looking at you out of the corner of his eye. his tone tells you he’s joking. maybe he just doesn’t know. “no one gives a shit about virginity constructs anymore, idiot.” 

“yeah,” you respond, but the energy is gone. you feel strange, like you’re hovering outside of yourself. your head hurts: you’re angry. you decide you’d like to cry when you get home. “what a piece of shit.” it comes out strangled and lost. 

sukuna notices the dejection in your voice, the sag in your shoulders, the way you’re just barely able to hold yourself together. he may be arrogant, not ryomen sukuna is not mean.

a familiar arm around your shoulders, keeping your sanity together. “shit’s lame. let’s get the fuck out of here.” it’s a phrase that captures everything that remains unsaid between you: i’m going to beat the shit out of geto the next time i see him. that’s absolutely unbelievable.

you never explicitly told sukuna about your weird relationship with geto: you didn’t have to. it was always evident to the both of you. it was written in the way you’d look a little bit longer in geto’s direction, in the way you let yourself be strung along and become someone else. you’ve hung around sukuna long enough that you know his body language and that he knows yours. you’ve hung around sukuna enough that there are a lifetime of stories that never need to be told. 

you nod. “yeah.” thank you. i know. 

you’re both uncharacteristically silent when you exit the auditorium, when you collect sukuna’s belongings that are still lounging by his artwork as you prepare to leave. ryomen sukuna is famous for never shutting the fuck up. but as you button your coat, he’s silent, and it’s strange. comfortable.

“thank you,” you say with uncharacteristic softness as he throws a sketchbook back into his backpack and zips it shut. 

“why?”

“for asking my permission,” you say, gesturing to the gallery wall behind him, to the painting of you – “eros” – that you had posed for awhile back. even now, you find that it captures an essence you did not know you possessed. “he didn’t. ask, i mean.” 

ryomen sukuna has always craved your attention. and maybe he’s glad he’s got it back – but it feels sour. he doesn’t understand why he’s so fucking upset for you. he doesn’t understand why he wants so badly for you to be happy again. what he does understand is that he plans for retribution. 

“that’s fucked,” he settles on. “what bastard doesn’t ask for consent?”

you smile – and he does too, one that’s less feral and almost kind. and so you fall back into routine, already, some kind of weight lifting from your shoulders. ryomen sukuna may be a menace, but you can rely on him, trust him: that much you know. 

“you know,” sukuna says offhandedly as you exit the building and enter the parking lot. “i know where geto’s car is, i’m just saying. and i’d be lying if i said i didn’t have an extra precision knife in my backpack right now.”  

[myelocin]

of stars & skies | bokuto k.

Synopsis: Things sort of fall out of plan.

Genre: smut, fluff | WC: 1400+

Characters: Bokuto Koutarou

A/N: this is a commissioned piece by @hvnlydmn​

i love you more - son of cloud

commissions

If someone were to ask Bokuto Koutarou to summarize the things he feels about you, at best he’d answer with just a grin.

A grin, for now, because in the moment his thoughts are anything but coherent. He can faintly recall that it’s only sometime between four or five in the morning, and the both of you really should be asleep but that’s far from the case.

Still, it’s the feel of your fingers clawing at his thighs that make him grin. Head thrown back, groan hoarse and throat scratched, he parts his legs further apart.

It’s a nice sight, he thinks. 5ams and the dim light just barely starting to peek through from the blinds. Your hair, messy and sticking out in more places in one beneath him and the marks on his thighs in the exact shape of your fingernails painted red and angry. Bokuto knows by now that he really should be saying something before he busts a fucking nut right then and there, but you do the thing and swallow—again, and his head blanks.

You smirk; your jaw’s been aching for a while now, the skin on your knees not doing any better. When you inhale, you’re a little more careful than usual, trying to regain control.

Bokuto just arrived home from a game overseas a little over two hours ago, and you had planned for him to catch up on sleep before doing anything else—truly, but five steps through the door his tongue was shoved down your throat and his hands were behind you unclasping your bra and plans went to shit.

He groans again, hands tightening around your hair as he pushes his cock in deeper, profanities spilling from his lips. Beneath your fingers his thigh trembles, and when his grip relaxes, you take it as an opportunity to ease off of his cock, eyes locked on him.

He leans back, one elbow bent to support his weight as the other runs over the deep flush of his face at the sight of you. Bokuto had always been thick, and he’s always been more than aware of that, so it just does something to him to see you taking him whole despite looking so perfectly wrecked.

His cock twitches on your hand, and you smirk.

“Fucker,” he groans, eyes never leaving your form as you poke your tongue out and lean forward, swiping at the slick that’s gathered at the tip of his cock.

“Good fucking girl,” you hear him moan, the vibration of his voice doing its job in sending a shiver that shot through your body and right to your core.

And even though sex with Bokuto plays out like it’s some kind of routine, it’s little moments that differ from yesterday and today that makes things worth it. Much like him, you can never really get enough. The weight of his cock on your tongue is familiar, but the way his jaw tenses just a little different in today than last week’s makes your heart leap. Half lidded eyes that glimmer different every single time show you all the shades of the moon when it hangs like gold in the sky stare at you like you are the world itself, and even though your slick’s dripping down your thighs, all the feelings of love still beats in your chest.

Bokuto peers at you, words caught in his throat before he count think to say them, moans half groaned out, your name repeated like a prayer in pants.

He feels you swallow around his cock and he stills. By now he already knows that all it would probably take for him to cum was a couple more licks to his slit, and he should be focusing on that, but the dawn chooses the exact same moment to break through the sky.

Then it’s soft orange and pale yellow, filtered through the blinds. Spilling on the floor, climbing up the walls, and illuminating your eyes that stare at him.

You recognize the look too, and the timing of your lover’s sentimentality should be comedic if anything, but when his shoulders soften and you feel him pull you up and away from him, seating you on his lap, your brain blanks.

Love, like a wordless exchange in the mornings, because even if the dawn has broken through the black of the sky, you choose to let the silence linger just for a little while longer. Bokuto holds you by the waist, lifting you up and over his cock before he eases himself in with a low groan. Eyes locked towards you, from your end you see the colors of the stars while he’s awestruck, gazing at the sky.

He’s panting, and you’re shaking—a newfound presence that’s always blended itself in the atmosphere of the room even when you’re fucking enveloping the two of you like a warm blanket on a cold day.

“I love you,” he says, the truth in his words finally breaking past its earlier barriers.

“I love you, I love you, I fucking love you,” Bokuto whispers, the tone of his voice half a moan and a confession, bottom lip in between his teeth as he thrusts up, and pulls your waist down to meet him halfway simultaneously.

And you feel it.

The kind of love that’s always found you ever since you met him.  

Because love—the kind that’s raw and real and present, flows better through feelings instead of words. Though when he thinks of it, he had never been exactly the type to have been much for words, so he supposes the sentiment remains.

He likes to think that love—his sort of love—has a habit of being uncovered in the mornings. Mornings like 5ams right before the dawn breaks and the world stirs. The frost from last night’s chilly air still on the windowpanes and the sun just barely waking. A world that thrives in progress and motion, the days starting with the intention to be lived before it ends. The forgiving kind of sun during sunrise, because it feels more warm than scathing on his skin.

Bokuto likes to memorize everything about you under a light like this.

He knows he’ll see all the shades of blue when you open your eyes, but for now it’s the hue of the skin on your eyelids and blush of your cheeks that he sees. Bokuto chokes out another confession that reaches you, his fingers digging deeper into the skin of your waist, his breaths labored and roughed, perfectly matching yours.  

Another inbetween makes itself known, coming as the thought that mornings have always been your sort of thing. It’s always been funny how little epiphanies of just how in love he is with you choose to unravel in moments like these, but it fits.

The sound of your voice—his name on your lips, moaned, and huffed out in short breaths fits. If you lean forward and press your chest against his, which he knows you only do when you’re getting close and wanting to bury your face somewhere—fits.

(Like a puzzle piece that clicks in place, it fits.)

Love fits, and nestles in the cracks and corners of his life, and he’s only felt fulfillment since.

You feel his hips stutter, his grip tightening even more before he slams you to him once, twice, as he buries himself to the hilt and cums.

Bokuto feels you shaking, in a way he knows is good against him, so he laughs. And he’s quiet with his words as he sounds out the vowels of your name. Hands, gentle in the way it holds you—cradles you to him, because love is like that too.

As much as it bursts and makes him feel like he’s racing through a highway, blind and breathless, and euphoric—it’s also just holding you close to him at daybreak. You allow the silence to resettle, your hands reaching forward to cup his face as you open your eyes and look at the colors of the stars again, and Bokuto’s smiling.

(You are too.)

He sniffles, as do you.

Love hangs like the vines of a plant that resurfaces into the earth again and again despite the rough hands that time never ceases to bring.

“Hey,” you whisper, your forehead pressed against his, the smell of home and him a familiar one to you.

(I love you.)

And he knows you mean to say that, so he closes your eyes and leans in to your touch, because he’s safe, and here, and home.

(The way his thumbs rub circles on the skin of your waist tells you that he means to say I love you too.)

[jaskierswolf]

What I'm afraid to say

Part 5/6 - AO3

part one | previous | Next

Geraskier - T

Summary: Five times Geralt tries to tell Jaskier he loves him, and one time he succeeds.

______

Geralt follows Jaskier along the path, they don’t have any destination in mind and Geralt is happy to follow his bard as he struts and dances and twirls along the dusty road. Everyone always says that it’s Jaskier that follows the White Wolf, but Geralt knows differently. From the first day back in Posada it had been Geralt that spurred on Roach to trot after the bard as he strummed on his lute. Geralt has been following Jaskier ever since, taking contracts in the towns they visit, stopping along the path to forage for ingredients, and finding the best places to camp.

Geralt smiles, knowing his face is hidden from the bard as he chatters on ahead of Roach. Jaskier is beautiful like this. He may be a man used to the finer things in life, but travelling suits him. It invigorates him as he flits from town to town, like leaves on a breeze.

Jaskier talks about everything and nothing, weaving stories and ballads out of thin air about every little thing they encounter. Poetry falls from his lips as easily as a priestess’s prayer to the gods. Geralt had known only silence before Jaskier, but now that void would stifle him. Nothing is as peaceful as the constant tenor floating through the air, wrapping Geralt in its warmth, a reminder that Jaskier is alive. The bard may be born to travel, but travelling with Geralt puts him in danger. Geralt would do anything to keep him safe, anything, but it isn’t always enough. He cannot cage the bird that wishes to fly free.

Because Jaskier is free, almost like a force of nature that cannot be contained, and that thought makes Geralt chuckle. It seems only right that the bard named himself after a flower, and not for the reason many people would think. He isn’t delicate, and whilst he dresses as brightly as wildflowers, there is a nasty streak in the bard. He can be bitter, jealous, and condescending. He is not just a sweet little buttercup.

He is so much more.

He is the water that flows in a river, a breath of life and unforgiving all the same. He is the light of the sun, warm and yet blinding. He is the spirit of the forests, so alive and yet dangerous if you never learn how to respect it.

And Geralt loves him.

He loves him so desperately that the words are stuck in his throat. His tongue cannot seem to work anytime he thinks of how he might tell Jaskier the truth. So he finds other ways, and hopes, prays, that one day Jaskier will hear the full extent of his feelings.

His smile fades as he remembers the jagged scars on Jaskier’s skin, marks from the cockatrice that tried to take the bard from him. He would love to wrap Jaskier up in his arms and never let the bard leave an inn or tavern again, he knows it wouldn’t work. Jaskier chose his life with Geralt for the adventure, for the hunts that threaten him every time he ignores Geralt’s pleas for him to stay behind.

The Cockatrice hunt was the start of it, a catalyst that caused his feelings to spiral out of control. Now he’s barely able to hold on. Every day he feels like he’s falling over the edge of a waterfall but he never hits the bottom.

Fuck, he just hopes that Jaskier will be there to catch him when he does.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries, spinning round with his lute in his hands and a dazzling smile on his lips. “Can you hear that?” the bard asks, tilting his head.

Geralt frowns, looking around for any danger but even when focusing his senses he can’t hear anything, just the trill of the birds from a nearby tree and…

Oh.

Of course, Jaskier listens for the beauty in the world when Geralt only sees the evil.

“Hmm,” he replies, too ashamed to admit that he hadn’t even considered the birds until after he’d checked for bandits or monsters.

“I wonder,” Jaskier hums, deep in thought as his tongue flicks out and swipes along his bottom lip. “Do you think I could write a song based on the bird songs?”

Geralt doesn’t reply. He thinks that Jaskier’s songs are more exquisite than any bird song, but he doesn’t say that. He never says it. He wants to, gods he so desperately wants to. He wants to love his bard the way he deserves to be loved, but he is a witcher. He could never love Jaskier in the same carefree way that his bard loves everything and everyone.

Luckily, Jaskier doesn’t need any encouragement from Geralt, he never does. He just laughs, more musical than any other bard that Geralt has ever met, and spins back around. Disjointed notes fill the air as Jaskier tries to figure out the pitch and rhythm of the bird’s calls. He grumbles and swears under his breath until he gets it right. Geralt is no bard, but he knows as soon as Jaskier has cracked it, a sweet scent wafts through the air and Jaskier cheers, dancing forward with a spring in his step.

The rest of the day is filled with Jaskier’s attempts to find the right lyrics and rhymes for his latest song, an ode to nature, he calls it. Geralt is almost disappointed that Jaskier seems to have found a new muse. His heart aches in his chest as he considers that Jaskier may not need him anymore, that he’ll move on and leave Geralt in the dust.

Geralt isn’t sure what he’ll do when that happens.

Even the long winters at Kaer Morhen now seem empty without the bard to light up his life.

They set up camp quickly, falling into a well worn routine, moving around each other as they each complete their tasks, like nobles dancing at a banquet, completely in sync but never clashing. Soon enough they are sitting on logs opposite the fire, Geralt sharpening his swords in a steady rhythm as Jaskier plucks aimlessly at his lute. The bard stares up at the sky watching the stars that twinkle in the otherwise black sky. There is no moon tonight and the only other light comes from the fire, the orange glow casting eerie shadows around the camp. The soft light makes Jaskier look impossibly even more beautiful. There is a light stubble on his cheeks and Geralt tries to memorise the line of his jaw, his nose, his cheekbones.

“You know…” Jaskier breathes barely above a whisper, “we’re all rather insignificant when you think about it.”

Geralt wants to disagree. Jaskier is anything but insignificant, in the time Geralt has known him, the bard has become the single most important part of his life. Jaskier is the light in the dark, his guiding star on the path, the reason he fights so hard to survive in every hunt.

Geralt stays silent.

“The stars, burning bright and lighting up the heavens, each of them far larger than any of us. Even a witcher or a sorceress is nothing in the life of a star,” Jaskier murmurs, never looking away from the sky.

“It’s not about how long we live,” Geralt mumbles, his heart racing in his chest, almost as fast as a human’s. He feels the blush on his cheeks and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. This is the moment he will say it. I love you.

“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, finally looking at Geralt from across the fire.

“It’s about how bright you burn,” Geralt explains, and Jaskier burns so brightly, brighter than any star or moon or sun.

Jaskier’s smile widens as his expression softens, wrinkles appearing at the corner of his eyes and he bites his lip, a sign that he’s deep in thought. He hums and plucks a few notes from his lute that sound suspiciously like ‘Toss a Coin’. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll make a poet of you yet, darling.”

Geralt’s heart clenches at the pet name, but he knows it means nothing. Jaskier loves freely and Geralt is no exception, but it would never be in the way that Geralt longs for, he’s too damaged, too scarred.

And yet, Jaskier is also scarred now.

“Can I see?” he asks, knowing the bard will understand him. It’s the same question he’s been asking every night since the hunt. The scar has faded now, still visible but less red and jarring against Jaskier’s pale skin.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, a fond smile dancing on his lips. “And they say witchers don’t feel.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, only calming once the bard shrugs out of his doublet and pulls up his chemise. Geralt breathes a sigh, a weight lifted from his chest. The scar is exactly how he remembers it, fading and perfectly healed, and yet every night he worries, a nightmare plaguing him relentlessly that it has reopened and is bleeding beneath Jaskier’s colourful doublets.

“See, all fine, stop your nonsense,” Jaskier chides and pokes him on the nose. Geralt’s nose wrinkles and he sits back from the bard, causing Jaskier to let out a peal of laughter. “Oh dearest Melitele, how I love you,” Jaskier says between giggles, the words falling off its lips like the sweetest honey.

Geralt stammers wordlessly.

I love you too.

He opens his mouth, gaping, his cheeks burning hotter than the fire. Jaskier just laces their fingers together, as if it means nothing at all, and kisses Geralt on the cheek. “I know, dear heart, I know.”

A warmth pools in Geralt’s chest at Jaskier’s words, letting the bard’s voice soothe him. Those three damn words are still stuck, but he has time. Jaskier knows now, he’ll wait for Geralt.

He hopes.