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nereidprinc3ss · 4 months ago

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just like heaven

in which flirty!reader finally confesses her feelings to a pining spencer reid after a night out. she's slightly buzzed. it's complicated.

fluff (some angst) warnings/tags: fem!reader, reader drinks alcohol, dirty jokes, so much flirting and banter, some arguing kinda, but spencer is such a gentleman, everyone gets flustered at least once, they really wanna kiss, happy ending a/n: gif :D I hope u like this! not bandages reader but like same vibes. like an AU for my AU

“Emily!”

You drawl the ee sound long, the same way you reach across the table and wiggle your fingers at her half-empty glass. Thin dark brows dart up beneath that glossy sweep of reddish-black hair.

“Oh, wow. That’s unsettling. What?”

It’s been at least an hour since you had a drink of your own, but enough alcohol is still flowing through your veins so as to render her offensive comment inoffensive. You love Emily. You love the Tequila Sunrise sweating onto the sticky table in front of her which she’s not going to finish.

“I think she wants your drink,” JJ assists, cheek balanced tipsily on a propped up fist.

“Uh…”

Emily’s doe-sweet eyes flash uncertainly behind you.

“I’m basically sober,” you insist, laying your head on your outstretched arm and letting your hair cascade as you bat your lashes, offering her your sweetest smile. “Please, Em?”

It does not go according to plan. She scoffs.

“Are you flirting with me right now?”

“... Would that work?”

“Oh my god, just… cool it with the fuck-me eyes,” she laughs. “You can have the drink.”

You sit up, turning just barely over your shoulder to address Spencer.

“See? Emily buys me drinks. Basically.”

She slides the drink toward you, with a subtle roll of her eyes that you choose to interpret as affectionate under the dim canned lighting. As you sit back, content and free drink in hand, her eyes slide to Reid in the seat next to you, brows arching.

“Are you sure you can handle her all on your own?”

“Handle me?” You frown deeply as Emily gathers her purse and slides out of the booth, followed shortly thereafter by JJ. “I don’t need handling.”

“Then why do you have a handler?” JJ teases.

You slump against the worn vinyl, stirring what is mostly orange juice.

“He most definitely is not my handler. He’s my science project.”

“I got it,” Spencer assures your friends, with his trademark flattened smile. You can’t help but watch him with a grin of your own, flipping the straw in the drink and nibbling on the end until it’s stained sparkly pink. Goodbyes are issued, and soon it’s just the two of you. Perhaps it’s a tipsy delusion, but you think he seems to relax slightly when you’re alone. His eyes are easy on you. “You know, you’re not actually decreasing the amount of germ transmission by using the other end of the straw.”

“Mm… pretty sure alcohol kills germs, Doctor.”

At that, you giggle.

Doctor.

Soon you’re covering your face and having a full-fledged laugh attack.

“What?” Spencer asks. From between your fingers you can see that he’s smiling guardedly, brows furrowed in a way that reminds you he’s often worried about being the butt of a joke and not knowing it. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” you assure him quickly, gathering yourself. “I just… can’t believe you’re a doctor.”

“Why not? What’s so unbelievable about that?”

“You’re so young.”

And handsome.

“I’m not that young. I’m older than you,” he defends. Only by a handful of years, but you know he’s defensive about his age after a lifetime of being told he looks young for—well, everything.

“You’re… 32?”

That’s not right—you know as soon as you say it.

“Thirty three.” He very politely captures a hand—your hand—that had at some point ended up a little too close to his eye. You’re not sure what you planned to do once it got there—you don’t recall moving it at all.

“Sorry.” You take your hand back, choosing to instead fiddle with a button on his coat ponderously. “33 is a good age.”

“Yeah?” Spencer laughs, angling his head as if to regard you from a new angle. It warms you all over. Burns in some places, like a shot of liquor down your throat. Makes you just as dizzy, too. “You have a lot of experience being thirty three?”

“No, I just…” your cheeks heat and you wrestle with a timid smile, averting your gaze and dropping your hand for fear his grin this close up might actually kill you. “I like 33 year old you.”

“So… you didn’t like me when I was thirty two?”

“Stop,” you beg, a self-effacing laugh into the cup of your palm. “I can’t banter. I’m not at peak performance.”

The truth of it hits you, and you sigh, folding your arms on the table and resting your cloudy head. Only then, from this new perspective, do you allow yourself to fully admire Spencer Reid. He is smiling at you, and your heart does skip a beat like you’ve got some school girl crush. These days he wears his hair falling over his face, messy on purpose, and always smells so nice. You wonder when he started caring about that stuff. You want to see what products are in his shower, and learn why he chose that cologne, or how he decides to pair his socks. He probably has some sort of algorithm.

“Spencer,” you begin, the serious quality of your voice diminished by the smush of your cheek against your arm. Still, he tries to respect your tone, zipping the smile and answering with a playfully twitching brow.

“Hm?”

You want to push the hair out of his face. Why is he looking down at you like that? Like he likes you?

“You’re a very good handler.”

His eyes narrow as he considers this, but the glimmer in them could still spark a forest fire. You’re probably grinning like an idiot.

“Oh, I couldn’t handle you. You know this.”

You hum thoughtfully.

“I bet you could. Wanna try?”

Spencer shakes his head, huffing a laugh through his nose. To his credit, your bold-face innuendos don’t always send him into a tailspin these days.

Just sometimes.

“You need a ride home, don’t you?”

You sit back up, stretching your arms out.

“You don’t have to. I could get a cab.”

“I know,” he assures you, still a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. Why. Is. He. Looking. At. You. Like. That?

“Will you let me drive?”

“I would. But, you know, my affairs aren’t in order.”

You roll your eyes as he gets out of the booth and offers you a hand.

“I’m not that drunk.”

Spencer just wiggles his fingers.

“If you can recite the alphabet in reverse you can drive my car.”

You roll your eyes again. Obviously he’s fucking with you, because 1. He’d never let you drive even the slightest bit inebriated, and 2. He knows you can’t say your ABC’s backward when you’re dead sober.

The truth is you’re more buzzed than anything. You could get up and walk fine without any assistance, but he’s offering you his hand, so you take it. After you’re standing, you wonder how many excuses could you possibly dream up to get it back in yours. Should you pretend to fall?

No. Not quite worth your self respect.

“You know…” you muse, reveling in the brief brush of him against your back as he holds open the door for you, “it’s a good thing you didn’t become, like… a medical doctor.”

Now walking side by side on the street, he glances over at you, a poorly veiled smile on his perfect face. Like a trap door brushed over with a few leaves. He wants you to see it.

“Why’s that?”

A breeze ruffles your hair. The brisk cold and the walk seem to be making things crisper already. You shrug, bunching your sleeves in your hands against the increasingly frigid night. The skirt and tights you’d chosen were perfect for a stuffy dive bar. Not so much for an early DC spring.

“Nobody wants a hot doctor.”

He looks down at the sidewalk, hands pocketed, but the curve of his lips doesn’t lessen.

“Hm. You’re drunker than I thought.”

“What? No! I’m—barely!” Again he laughs at you, and again you flush, looking down and counting the cracks in the pavement as you journey slowly under the bath of yellow street lights. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you called me hot.” He sounds almost delighted as he grins sheepishly around the final word.

You snort. You’ve said worse things, more��graphic things within the past few hours alone—but you suppose they’ve all been more like dirty jokes than compliments.

“Yeah. You think you aren’t?”

Sandy locks fall side to side as he carefully measures a response. His cologne is warm—sort of smoky. It’s very nice. He doesn’t seem like he’d wear cologne. Have you already thought about his cologne tonight? Once was probably enough.

“I just think sober you wouldn’t have said that.”

“But don’t you prefer it when I’m aggressively flirting with you? I mean, I know I do it sober too, but it's not as good, right?”

A silent stretch begins and shortly ends, and you don’t mind it. Right now, everything is a winding path through the woods. You’re willing to follow any fork off the trail if it means spending more time with him.

“I guess I wasn’t aware that was what you were doing.”

“Oh, bullshit,” you laugh, and it echoes through the canyon of a nearby alley, “I’m not subtle, Reid.”

“I don’t know! You—for all I know that’s just how you are! I mean, what did Emily call them earlier, your—your fuck-me eyes?”

Like he does when he’s flustered, he gets shrill and stuttery. It’s nice to be reminded that he’s still a complete dork on the inside—and the outside, too, as pink stains his cheeks like watercolor. You smirk at him in your periphery, watching him against the darkened city backdrop.

“You noticed those, huh?”

“No,” he denies forcefully, but his brow is pinched like he doesn’t quite believe himself, “I mean, yes, I notice when you look at other people like that, but that’s not what I would call them—I wouldn’t call them anything, I’d just call them your eyes, you know? Not that you always look like you’re soliciting… the implication isn’t there, it’s just—I notice when you flirt with other people! With Emily, and Derek, like, not even half an hour ago. You’re lucky Hotch wasn’t there. You’d probably have given him a heart attack.”

“I’m more concerned with yours, to be honest.”

“My heart is fine,” he laughs. “Worry about my dignity.”

“Hm. I was going for both. Guess I’d better try harder.”

You don’t notice you’ve come to a stop until you’re face to face in front of his vintage Volvo. Spencer is standing closer than usual, hands perpetually stuck in that nice wool coat. He’s all windswept and pretty, smiling crookedly and eyes sparkly with humor. A strand of hair sticks to your lip gloss, and you brush it away, tucking it behind your ear and squinting up at him against the chilly breeze. The flush is either from the nip in the air or your brazen flirting.

“Or, you could go easy on me. I’m frail. Like a… sickly Victorian child.”

Again his brow knits and he smiles like he knows what he’s said is ridiculous. But his tone is gentler now. Softer. Invites you to fall in deeper and see what you might find.

“And ruin all my fun? Toughen up, Reid.”

For a long moment, you don’t get a response—only his eyes, soft and thoughtful on you, before you’re distracted by the sweet bow of his lips. If he notices you’re staring, it doesn’t seem to bother him.

But something evidently does, as when he next speaks, it’s troubled. Curiosity straining against a rope that says maybe it’s better if I don’t ask.

“Do… do you actually flirt with me? When you’re sober, I mean.”

He expects to be ridiculed. In his most vulnerable moments, he’s still bracing for rejection—turning his cheek slightly so he’s ready for the stinging blow. It opens a fissure in your chest. You frown, and speak gently.

“Yeah, Spence. More than anyone else. You really don’t notice?”

Sometimes his face is so expressive, in the pull of his brow and tightening of his eyes and the way he wets his lips. But he probably doesn’t know that. And he can’t seem to meet your eyes, instead choosing to study the leather of your heeled boots. Sounds of late-night traffic, of tires on wet asphalt buffer the pauses between sentences.

“I notice… when you talk to Derek and Emily and JJ and Penelope the exact same way you talk to me. I didn’t think…”

Another gap in conversation, filled with the chatter of some group pouring out of a bar somewhere. You realize he’ll need some gentle prompting to bridge it.

“You didn’t think what?”

When his eyes flash back up to meet yours, you have a feeling like he’s shutting the pipes off.

“It’s—uh—” he clears his throat— “it’s not important, we can—we’ll talk about it a different time. We should—”

“Wait.”

He’d been turning away but snaps right back to look at you as if on command, wearing a brand new face that tells you he’d like to wipe the past minute or so completely away.

“Yeah?”

“Spencer. I wanna know what you were going to say.”

“I told you. It’s nothing.”

“You didn’t tell me. You mumbled evasively and walked away. We were in the middle of something and I want to know what you were going to say. Please?”

“Well, you’re drunk,” he finally sighs, and it’s a bit sharp. Stinging.

“I am not drunk,” you defend, and it feels true, with a bitter cold lashing at your cheek and blood heightened from the walk. “You know I’m not too drunk to have a coherent conversation. Why are you being weird?”

“Because I asked you to drop it! We can’t have this conversation right now, all right? I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Your stomach flips, and your breath comes a little heavier. Spencer is clearly frustrated with you. Maybe being on the wrong end of this mild vexation, and so suddenly, should make you feel guilty, or some kind of bad—but all you feel is a sort of buzz in the tips of your fingers and the thrum of your heart, something deeper than excitement pooling in your veins at having inspired this sort of passion. It means he feels something. Something for you.

“I’m sorry,” he tries halfheartedly, unable or more likely unwilling to stay angry at you for very long, “you didn’t—”

“What conversation?”

It’s jarring how quickly this has spun on its head. The very air you’re breathing seems to have changed. The metropolitan soundscape is a rife undercurrent of tension and louder from all the words unsaid.

Finally he swallows.

“There’s no conversation. I’m—it was a poor choice of wording. I just meant we should get you home.”

Before he can make it to the driver’s side door, you’re calling out.

“You think I don’t like you. And I just flirt with you ‘cause I flirt with everyone.”

Spencer stops, and turns to face you once more, sighing and head dropped to one side like you’re doing something incredibly inconsiderate. He’s never looked at you like that before, but you don’t let it shake you.

“That’s what this is about, right?”

He says your name, but you don’t let him get further than that.

“No, I think there is a conversation here, and saying I’m not sober enough to have it isn’t fair and you should have said something before and I think you should just say it now.”

You’re pushing his buttons with a heavy hand, though your own voice shakes. He’s feeling it too—you’ve never been so short with each other. His voice is raised.

“What am I supposed to say?”

It boils over.

“That you like me!”

It rings.

Then it’s silent.

His face is mostly blank. A little sorrowful around his eyes.

It’s cold, jumping into the deep end like this.

“We can’t talk about this right now,” he finally says, glancing to the side as if to suggest a situation the size of the whole city.

“Spencer, I—”

“It’s impossible to have a meaningful discussion until your judgement isn’t impaired, otherwise it’s—”

“I am telling you that I flirt with you because I really like you.”

“I—”

It appears you’ve truly thrown him for a loop. For a moment his jaw works at nothing, a soliloquy of words go unspoken, and then he’s stuttering and fumbling for the right thing to say, looking everywhere but at you.

“I can’t—that’s—regardless of whether or not it’s even true—”

“It is true.”

“Could you—stop?” He pleads. “You can’t tell me that. I mean, the power imbalance when you’ve been drinking and I haven’t—it’s—I mean, it's coercive. Because I brought it up, I asked an inappropriate question—or at least started to ask it, and you—not that it was your fault, I’m the responsible party in this instance, but if tomorrow you realize you never wanted to tell me—so I have to take that with a grain of salt. I’m just—I have to pretend I didn’t hear that, alright? And you can’t say it again.”

He’s ridiculous. You shift your weight onto one foot casually.

“That’s not very nice. I just confessed to having a huge crush on you and you’re gonna leave me hanging?”

There is an undeniable sort of pleasure in the bright of his eyes, and you phrased it that way on purpose, just to see him preen and glow—also to see if you could make him trip all over himself some more. Right now, despite the liminal space your relationship may or may not be occupying, you’re teasing him like you always do. Like he’s a friend, because he is. Before anything else.

He tries to glower, barely.

“Were you listening to me at all?”

“It was hard with all the stammering. I thought you might pass out.”

“I might,” he grumbles, and the admission pleases you greatly. Your lips tug as you admire him for a moment—watch his defenses go down and his features ease into something more inviting.

God, maybe you really had been too hard on him. Maybe he really didn’t expect that you would like him back.

You’re struck with the need to reassure.

A dampened clack emits from your shoe where the heel hits the ground as you step down off the curb.

“You know… I do like you. A lot. I mean it. And I’m glad I told you, because... you like me too, right?”

He raises his brows, like don’t do anything stupid, as you approach unhurriedly. It’s good to see that you haven’t broken his spirit completely.

Less than a foot away, you stop. Close enough to be in his space. Too far for him to have the grounds to step back.

His eyes are careful on you, analytical as always, constantly predicting an infinite number of outcomes to any given scenario. That’s how he keeps his footing in the world. But he’s never very good at predicting you. And it helps that his razor sharp intellect is dulled, some, with affection. Attraction.

It shows in his eyes. He’ll let you push boundaries he knows he shouldn’t. More so if you keep speaking to him this softly. Almost whispering.

“Tell me you like me, Spencer.”

Because he hasn’t yet. All the heavy lifting has been done for him, and that just won’t do.

First, he opens his mouth, and you watch the internal debate, a million things he could say, spinning round in his eyes like pinwheels. Rules, and buts, and caveats.

In the end, he just clears his throat. Speaks in the same secretive tone. Low enough to be intimate.

“I like you.”

Such a simple thing has never made you feel so airy before in your life. You steal another glance at his lips.

“So it’s really not that complicated. We could probably just kiss.”

He tinges pink.

“We definitely can’t.”

“You also said we couldn’t talk about it, and yet…”

“Talking is different. As far as I’m concerned, nothing you say to me tonight is binding. Whatever just transpired happened completely off the record. We can… talk about it tomorrow, but right now, you and I are friends.”

You shrug.

“Friends can kiss.”

“No, they can’t,” he says definitively, though not without a healthy dose of sardonic self-awareness and a dark smile. His hand finds your waist, and it’s glancing, if anything a light push, but you’re delighted nonetheless. Almost as pleased as if he really had kissed you. “It’s cold. I’m ready to leave.”

You’ve pushed him enough for one night. And it is cold. So you shuffle around the car with quick steps to the passenger side door, hooking your fingers under the biting metal handle and waiting for him to unlock the vehicle.

You’re shivering as your thighs press against leather upholstery, only the thinnest layer of synthetic material protecting your legs. Spencer is already starting the car, but the engine is too cold to bother turning the heat on yet.

“I think it’s colder in here than outside. Look at my hand.” You hold it up for him, and it is discolored, waxy, as he mindlessly takes it between his own much warmer ones. “I thought alcohol was supposed to keep you warm. Didn’t that chef on the Titanic survive hours in the ocean because he was hammered?”

“That’s a myth. Not the chef—he did survive, but it was a complete anomaly. Alcohol causes vasodilation in the dermis layer of the skin, so you feel warmer, but it draws blood flow away from your internal organs and significantly raises your likelihood of developing hypothermia.”

Does he notice how he’s holding your hand? Carefully pressing his thumbs to the center of your palm and pushing up through your love and life lines, cupping the fingers, before sandwiching them between his own and generating friction the way a child furiously rolls a play-doh worm?

“I guess I’m really not that drunk, then.”

He’s not expecting it, and maybe he doesn’t know what to make of your exceptionally gentle tone at first. It was a mistake, you think, as he relinquishes his hold on your hand, and you curl it to retain the memory of his warmth. But then he tucks hair behind your ear, like he’s done once or twice before, and smiles in a way you don’t quite understand.

“I know.”

You won’t push him. You won’t ask for anything else, and you won’t demand an explanation. Spencer is special. It can all wait, because you have something good with him already. Something important. Something like holding hands.

It comes as a surprise when he leans across the console, and you lean in a trance to meet him, and another surprise when he gently redirects, pressing his lips to your cheek, close enough to match the corners of your mouths and nothing more.

You’d let him do it a hundred times over, but he draws back after a fraction of a lingering second, and finds your hand to stroke the back of it, forgotten in your lap.

“You said no kissing,” you murmur, as if in a dream. If you had the wherewithal to be embarrassed maybe you wouldn’t be ogling so much.

“Compromise.”

If anything, you should be the cheek-kisser. But there will be time to feel slighted about that later. Time to amend. For now, you look ahead robotically.

“Is there a rule against friendly hand-holding?”

“Probably,” he says.

But he lets you hold his hand in your lap the whole drive to your apartment, anyway.

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mondaymelon · 8 months ago

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₊⊹ "𝐧𝐨𝐨𝐨, 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝…" | xiao, childe, alhaitham x gn!reader

「 "𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐚𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮!!"」

— in which you've gotten drunk... drunk enough to fail to recognize your own lover.

— silly fluff. soft xiao, had this one in the drafts for far too long and its about time i choke it out... happy white day !!

the moment your slurred words reached his ears, XIAO knew that he never should've let you get your hands on that cursed rice wine.

in a way, he supposed it could be his fault. the one time he had decided to indulge in trivial mortal matters like alcohol due to your constant insistence... well, just look at you.

red-faced, the tips of your ears and cheeks stuck in a helplessly drunken flush, you babbled incoherently with half of your face smushed against the table. xiao could only stare in contempt as you feebly reached towards the already-emptied bottle,

( xiao had taken one sip and refused any more indulgence, claiming it was bitter, when in fact, you had gone out of your way to find a sweeter drink ),

and sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose with a certain disillusionment.

"come on, you're getting to bed." the man was just about done with your hopeless actions. he grabbed your wrist and tugged, only to be met with resistance. you're pouting like a child, brows furrowed lazily as you stare upwards at him.

"nnno. m'not going with you."

"...excuse me?" what in the archons was the problem now? he tugged again, this time with a small margin of force, and was met with an even larger pull back, this time paired with a low whine. "hey, it's late, and all the wine is gone, so just comply with me won't you?"

"i already told you... i have a husband..."

your complaint met the cool night air and the adeptus' silence. his lips were slightly parted as his round eyes blinked once, then twice, in a sort of stunned stupor. "...love, i am that husband."

archons, how had he found himself such a foolish mortal to love?

"don't lie to me!" you shook your head profusely, wiggling around in his grasp relentlessly until the adeptus had no choice but to let go. "i know my husband when i see him... and he's way handsomer than you, stupid..." you stared him up and down with squinting eyes, eyeing the way his ears were beginning to turn pink, and sat heavily in thought as you pondered the man before you.

definitely not your husband.

idiot. with a huff, he easily hauled your body over his shoulder as if carrying something as trivial as a sack of potatoes. you hung loosely over, landing a couple weak punches on his back as you proceeded to prattle on, your defiance seemingly having little effect.

then, you were silent, and xiao had to look back to make sure you hadn't gotten hurt. sure, he had considered once or twice leaving you out there all passed out on the balcony, but not without reason, yet he'd decided against it. you seemed fine, mouth hung slightly ajar as you snoozed peacefully, your eyes shut and cheeks still warm from what you'd downed. the audacity to fall asleep... xiao couldn't deny that his sigh was one of fondness.

"night, this husband of yours loves you."

strange, wasn't the wine from liyue supposedly far less intense compared to the vodka CHILDE had tried back home?

that, or the people here simply were more susceptible when it came to the topic of intoxication. you were no exception — he'd taken you out drinking, his mistake, thinking it'd be an easy, splendid time.

and don't get him wrong, it was! not just, well... conversation was rather hard to make when the other person was practically unconscious. you're practically splayed across the mahogany table, eyes nearly drooped close and fire across your cheeks.

you giggled. it's a muddled sound, when you're mostly mumbling into the table. "hhhey, pour me another glass~"

childe scans your less-than-ideal state and procures an answer in a little under a second. "love, you've had too many."

you seem shocked at his words, leaning forwards a little with narrowed eyes. your figure sways as you shake your head lazily, from side to side. "wwhhhat? nnno, that can't be right..."

the man holds back an amused chuckle. it's entertaining. "and how many fingers am i holding up?" he holds up just one hand, displaying a reasonable amount of three.

there's a beat of silence. "...nineteen?" you blink a couple times, as if to shake you out of your stupor. "...nineteen," this time, with confidence.

childe claps his hands together, a sudden sound that makes you startled, and he moves to apologize immediately. "we're getting you to bed, love. clearly you've had more alcohol than you can handle."

"what, was i wrong??" there's tears forming in your eyes, and your lips tug downwards in a frown. "u-uhm, fifteen? nno, four...?"

"still incorrect, love. i'm afraid it's time for you to go to sleep. you'll wake up with a hell of a hangover tomorrow morning, but..." he sighed, thinking back to his time in shneznaya, then made a mental note to prepare you a hangover drink in the morning. his hand found its familiar place in your hand, unnaturally warm with your skin rosy from the alcohol. he smiled, turning to glance at you, but ceased when he saw you on the ground, tears now falling from your eyes, quietly sobbing as you shook your head back and forth.

panic immediately sets in. what has he done wrong?? "love, what-"

"nnnno, don't call me that..." you squinted upwards at him, looking quite displeased. "no 'love', 'kaaay? i'm not your love, mister."

he paused. wait, you didn't possibly think that... "love-" oh, old habits died hard, and the word had already left his lips before he could process what you'd said.

"i have a husband, you!!" in some sort of fit, or perhaps better worded as a tantrum, you stood, wrenching yourself from his grip and then hitting him repeatedly in the shoulders, chest, anywhere your fists could reach, really. the alcohol had surely affected your capabilities of combat — you missed half the time, and what punches did land caused no pain at all.

as your anger subsided, your step faltered, body swaying in the open air before childe reached over to catch you in his arms. he was concerned, naturally. "lov- are you alright?" his worry only grew when he heard no response, but it ebbed with a chuckle when he saw you were already fast asleep in his arms, snoozing without a care in the world.

"a husband, hm? whoever it is, he must quite be the gentleman..."

ALHAITHAM knew his night was fated to end in idiocy the moment you knocked on his door.

it didn't even strike him that you were holding wine, of all things, when you waltzed into his house like it was your own. sure, it wasn't as if these occasions weren't frequent, but really anyone would be surprised to glance up from a quiet reading session only to see their (annoying) lover pressed against the door, repeatedly calling out his name in a sing-song, satire-like voice.

like... calling a cat. it was a realization he made with not too much contentment. silently, he thanked the archons that kaveh was not home — they knew that he could not handle the both of you.

it was only when you sat down at his table, where he'd been reading up to the point when you barged in, that he noticed. green-tinted glass, a little wind motif on the front... dandelion wine from mondstadt. now, just how did you get your hands on that?

"connections," you had stated. with a note of pride, he might add. what, was he supposed to congratulate you on being able to talk to other people? even he, a person who generally hated people, could do that.

ah, but he didn't hate it. your voice, that is, when you rambled on for hours on end. he didn't have the heart to interrupt you, especially when you were so heated on a topic — be it work troubles, an especially annoying sailor, or you accidentally dropping your pita pocket into the water when walking along the port, he didn't mind.

"...mmbottle. haaithammm, the bottle..." your drunk complaints reach his ears, and he his irritation is more so disrupted with inward amusement as he watches you in the predicament you've landed yourself in.

"the bottle?" he questions, raising an eyebrow. his hands are crossed over his chest; he's clearly getting a ruse out of this. "just what would you need the bottle for, love?"

your eyebrows scrunch together. he can tell your brain is working at its max capacity. "...im. thirsty?"

"you've already drunk two thirds of this bottle." he holds said bottle high above your head, hopelessly far from your reach. "if you're so thirsty, drink water."

"i don wanna."

"..."

"just... one drop?"

"hah..." he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply, and places a hand on your shoulder. you barely react, and don't even glance at the sudden weight. "love, you're staying over. you're going to bed."

"bed...?" horror crosses your face, paired with evident irritation. "y...you, who do you think you are, to suggest such things!?" your face is bright red, and you're hugging yourself with one arm and pointing an accusing finger towards the male with the other. "i have a husband!!"

ah. "...what's his name?"

"and why do youuuu want to know?" you narrow your eyes suspiciously at him, but seem to come up with an answer to your own question, for you answer him anyhow. "haitham."

"do you love this 'haitham'?" alhaitham's enjoying himself. when he teases the sober you, all you do is retort back, but now... he can see your flustered expression on full display as you stammer out an answer.

"o-of course! a-and, if you wanted to know, he's waaaaay handsomer.. than ... you..."

just like that, you topple over and sink into the couch, knocked unconscious. a trace of a smile crosses alhaitham's lips as he looks at your sleeping form.

"fortunately for you, this 'haitham' you speak of loves you too."

(a/n) bye i was gonna add kaveh to this one too but i realized oh fuck its white day i said id post a month ago what the fuck am i doing so i just like regurgitated this out and spat it onto your dashboard. ahodfjlds

tags (id paste the aesthetic thing but i cant find it so we're just gonna roll w this):

@manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @ @falors, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @lupicalbestwolf, @justyoureader,@fiannee, @aether-darling, @ceneid, @avensuersa, @solxima

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bitterrfruit · 1 month ago

Text

southpaw

boxer!Ghost x reader, ghost is lefthanded and i won't argue about this cw: dubcon - 18+ mdni So this was supposed to be one long fic but then i got carried away, here's part one of two. forgive me. [read on ao3 if you want]

You met Simon at the pub, on a Wednesday.

It had been an arduous day at work, and a long week, despite having only made it halfway through - and you were on a knife edge, exhausted and sour. It was visible at first sight of you, you wore it like a greasy, raggedy cloak when you leaned slump-shouldered over the bar.

He had drawn your attention like a magnet the moment you spotted him, the towering buzzed-blond behemoth standing alone at a tall table, a half-empty pint glass in his thick fist. You’d shoot furtive little glances in his direction, and each time they were caught.

Caught being the operative word - when you met his eye you were trapped there, forcibly hooked on him as he glowered at you like he was angry. His eyes were shadowed from where you were perched - requesting a gin and tonic, short - and you should have found that frightening. Instead the adrenaline in your belly fizzed like a pinger, a girlish buzz that made your hairs stand on end and your cunt all warm.

You would not have begrudged any male attention, in fact you were long starved of it; but you felt guilty, in a way, subjecting a man to the state you were in. Short-fused and frazzled, thin knitted scarf wrapped tight around your neck, autumn coat slipping from your drooping shoulder. You dug around in your bag for your wallet when the bartender handed you the card reader, scooping frantically through the piles of receipts and hairclips and loose tampons. Offered sheepish apologies to him; so sorry, it’s definitely in there. I’m a mess! Long day, sorry. So sorry. Sorry.

You jumped when you heard the thud of a light slap on the counter, the low huff of an exasperated man, sick and tired. Looking up from your bottomless satchel, you saw the tenner left beside the card reader, and the bartender nodded in thanks before taking it swiftly.

“No problem,” came the gruff voice from above you, implicitly chastising your lack of thanks when you tilted your head upward to blink at him.

He was pretty - your first thought - in a dirty, brutish sort of way. Heavy-browed and amber-eyed, with thick blond lashes and a deep golden stubble. He was adorned with freckles and little scars, slivers of pink and white, some fresh and some old. And when he smirked knowingly at your silence, a dimple pulled in his cheekbone, the crater of an injury once sustained.

He had just been to the gym, you could smell it on him; ripe and heady, a musk you should have been more repulsed by than you were. Instead you savoured it like some little animal, turned your head at the raw pheromones as though a doe sniffing out her stag during the rut. You could also tell as much from his gym gear, grey marled wife-beater under his unzipped black hoodie, stained with dried sweat, navy blue sport shorts that sat high on his hefty thighs and strained over their magnitude.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you said abashedly, giving him an awkward smile in the hopes of concealing your flustered embarrassment.

“I didn’t,” he agreed, and he leaned on the bar by his elbow to get a shred closer to your height. Through a haughty growl, he insisted, “You gonna thank me?”

His brazen arrogance should have put you off. You quickly got the sense he was well used to these encounters - a presumption that you’d be grateful for his interest, a raffish ease that reeked of habitual sex. You wouldn’t have called him well-practised, nothing about him was suave or carefully preened. No, instead, he was viciously masculine in a primal sort of way, rugged and unkempt around the edges. A cold gaze and a serrated smile. The kind of man that oozed testosterone and potent virility without needing to utter a word in his own favour. The unashamed lack of effort was bait in itself.

You might have dismissed him if it were a Saturday, and you had friends to discourage you and drunkenness to embolden you. But, worn-out and sober, you felt obliged to entertain the man that had paid for you. Besides, something about him gave you the impression his attention was non-negotiable.

And once you had thanked him as requested, soon followed a superficially understated conversation, though every word felt laden with some lude prescience. A simple question, then a simple answer, each delivered with more weight than the last. I’m a mechanic. Was in the army. This one’s from a scrap, got hit with a chair. From Manchester. Don’t normally come here on Wednesdays, maybe I should more often. No, not married. Yourself?

Minutes bled quickly to hours, and you didn’t spend a cent on your own alcohol. Soon you had migrated to a booth, and your sticky table became the graveyard of three gin and tonics, tired lime slices floating in the melted ice as you mindlessly prodded at them with a soggy straw. You ogled him shamelessly from the other side of the table, resting your tilted head in your palm, elbow extended on the wooden tabletop.

He was a gladiator. Broad shoulders, pure meat - every part of him was thick with muscle and padded with a warm layer of fat. Winter bulk. You imagined his mammoth arms would be soft and pillowy if you were to squish them with your hungry hands, but that they’d turn as solid as rock if he were to engage them more forcefully.

You asked him if he normally did this, went to pubs on weekdays to prey on bored working women and got them drunk so he could fuck them.

He shrugged, shook his head. “Don’t need to get ‘em drunk.”

His tone was cocksure but insincere, and you didn’t yet have a good enough read of him to determine whether or not he was joking. It wouldn’t have surprised you if he were something of a lothario, given how quickly you had been sucked into his orbit despite his astonishing apathy - and yet, something told you he was more of a prowling wolf than a peacock. The kind of man that sets his eyes on his quarry and is unsatisfied until he has her between his teeth. It made your heart shiver to imagine yourself that meal.

“Just me, then?” You bit back, thanking the bartender when he brought over a fourth gin for you and a third pint for the Mancunian.

He dropped his pint glass down hard after he took his hefty swig. “You’re putting up more of a fight than they usually do.”

“Fighting the inevitable, am I?” You teased, facetious but not entirely unserious.

“You tell me.” Is all he said.

When you checked the time and decided it was far past your bedtime, seeing four fuzzy hands on your watch, he offered to walk you home - never know who’s out this time o’ night. You decided to take him up on it, the plentiful alcohol pumping through your blood blurred your already dubious sense of self-preservation.

His vast hand travelled boldly down your back while you walked, and in a more sober state you would have told him off. Instead you giggled demurely, flicked his hand away half-heartedly just to test how quickly he’d put it back. And when he took an audacious and greedy handful of your ass you yipped at him, falsely agog, but you did nothing more to stop him. He grinned as he did it, sharp teeth, kneading your soft flesh as though evaluating how it felt in his thick fingers. Determining its adequacy.

Arriving at your door he stood behind you like a shadow, watching you key the lock and breathing down the back of your neck. Such a lecher, already so bold as to assume you’d welcome him inside, spread your legs for him after so little effort. When his hand slithered to your waist and took a presumptuous grip, so confident, you felt your fortitude begin to waver. Would it hurt?

But as you spun on your heel you blocked him out with your body in the frame, and gave him a sweet and hazy smile. A chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Not lettin’ me in?” He asked, a grumble, with just enough mirth for you to lower your hackles.

You traced along the jamb with your fingernail. “Maybe next time.”

A test, you drunkenly thought, for if he were really an unashamed cunthound you’d expect him to sulk, or to get grouchy, or to call you a fucking bitch for leading him on. Maybe, you wondered, he might dismiss your refusal entirely, shove you into the apartment with an angry paw and make you fulfil your unspoken proposal. Not much of a fight you could put up, if he were such a beast.

Instead, he merely gave you a rakish grin, and brushed your chin with his thumb. “Next time, then.”

Next time came unexpectedly on the Friday, shortly after you had come home from work; freshly showered and lotioned, you answered the knock on your door in only a blue towel wrapped around your torso. Confronted immediately by the gargantuan man on your doorstep, you stepped back in fright.

There were smudges of oil on his ruddy cheeks, grime embedded deep into the fibres of his black work jacket. With his fists in his pockets, a cigarette jutting out of his pursed lips, he sniffed brashly in the cold. “You busy?”

Your eyes scanned him shrewdly for a short moment before the memory came speeding back to you, flew across your face like a slap, and he gave you a fleeting smirk when he saw your eyes widen and your cheeks go red. The stranger from the pub remembered your address. Not something you considered as you stupidly welcomed him to walk you all the way home.

“I’m not inviting you in,” you murmured, adjusting your towel higher on your chest when you felt his gaze warm the cleavage it failed to conceal.

“Come out, then.”

His imperious persistence was another warning you should have heeded, bright red and clear as day. Not often a man so obstinate is worth pursuing. Better avoided. His resolute silence compelled you, though, made unspoken demands that you dared not refuse. He wasn’t asking, he was telling.

You didn’t recall his name until he reminded you, after you had already gotten yourself dressed and met him out the front of your apartment; Simon. You smothered your more rational counterpart with a pillow, shutting her up when she warned you about going out with the man that showed up uninvited on your doorstep - particularly this one, who had your intuition screaming at you so ferociously. Play stupid games.

He hadn’t planned a date, no prior effort had gone in beyond the sudden compulsion to come and try his luck.

“Didn’t want you to forget me,” is what he told you when you asked.

You went with him to get fried chicken - his choice, an option wasn’t given - and ate it together on a park bench. Unsophisticated and to the point, a din of crunching and sucking on toothpick bones, broken up occasionally by your coy laughter. He made no effort to conceal a potently authoritarian nature, one you had as yet only caught glimpses of, and you were ruefully drawn to it. Reared its head when he told you where to sit, how fast to walk, what not to talk about. When you had demurely requested a single small punnet of hot chips from the food truck, and he had snorted at you; “Don’t take the piss. More than that.”

You shared a cigarette with him, sat under the bare elm tree and observed the chipmunks that came to feed on the crumbs of fried batter. Talked about nothing until the sun had set and the frost began to settle.

After returning you home he quickly had you trapped against the front door of your flat, laving your flushed neck with his ravenous mouth, tongue under your jaw like he was tasting you. Palmed your cunt through your jeans with a thick hand, uncaring of passersby, and you let him persist, just for a little bit - selfishly, you thought, because you weren’t going to let him sink his cock into you yet.

It was simply an experiment, you told yourself. Some part of you was well aware of the fire you were playing with, warning you vociferously about what happened to the curious cat. And that you were - dangerously eager to know for how long he would pursue you if you abstained from presenting your cunt to him off the cuff. What might happen if you dangled your prizes in front of his nose and continued to withhold them.

His hand was so big, warm, strong like he might lift you up by it. He knew exactly where to press the heel of his palm to push a needy whine from your throat, right at the throbbing crux of your heat. If you had let him continue kneading you unfettered you’d have pathetically come inside your jeans before you had even taken him inside.

You clutched his wrist to thwart his efforts, flustered and out of breath. Sheepishly warned him; “I - I don’t put out until the third date.”

Not a conviction you’ve ever held firm on, but it has been a long while since the last time you had taken a man home. You were slightly fearful that the second you let him fuck you, he’d be satisfied and spent and move on to the next helpless woman at the pub who couldn’t find her wallet. And, in truth, you relished in starving him. Delighted in the appetite you could see swelling in his belly, frothing at his jaws when he glowered at you under dark lids.

He huffed mournfully, patience waning, as he removed his hand from between your legs with a purposeful swipe. Grumbled huskily, “You’re really testing my strength o’ character.”

You chuckled breathily as you fondled the door handle behind you, letting out a puff of relief when it gave way to you and you stumbled onto your back foot into the foyer. You could guess what he implied from his crude remark - barely a veiled threat, and yet you were only more eager to peer under the shroud.

“Mustn’t be very strong if you can’t wait a little longer,” you prodded, emboldened by the false safety of being indoors.

He nodded, gritting teeth as he adjusted his jacket. “You make it weak.”

Your throat nearly closed at that, the air suddenly warm and acrid. “Well, I hope you can hold strong till then.”

He let out a hoarse groan, rubbing his neck with stiff knuckles. Dints pulled in his temple as he clenched his jaw, exerted no effort to mask his frustrations.

“Wednesday count as date one?” He asked stiffly.

You pursed your lips as you thought of a response, conscious that if it were the first ‘date’ - in heavy quotes - he’d expect your cunt on the next. You would likely not have bemoaned that, given the thumping you felt already in the peak of your swollen bud, the slick that you felt soak into the gusset of your underwear after such moderate attention. But it was a bit of a game, now, wasn’t it? A creature within you, one whose nature was perhaps a cause for concern, wanted to see if he would crack. Wanted to know what he would do to you if he did.

“No,” you told him.

With a terse nod, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and left.

Date two came to pass on the Sunday, as presumptuously as the first, but he had at least sent you a text from an unsaved contact beforehand; picking you up in 10.

You didn’t recall giving him your number, but wistfully assumed you must have put it in his phone on the drunken night you met him.

With nothing better to do, you replied, what am I wearing?

Dress.

Following his blunt text like it were an instruction from your manager, you dug through your closet for a dress that would suffice - nothing too dressy, you didn’t want to expend too much effort - and nothing too provocative, lest you provoke him. Settled on something plain and black, dense cotton with a bit of flow and sat low on your neckline, but not too low. Once you were dressed you snapped a photo of yourself in your floor-length mirror, concealing your face with your phone, and sent it to him for his approval.

He replied after a few minutes; No stockings.

You frowned as you typed out your answer. It’s cold though.

He never followed up, and you took off the stockings.

When he arrived to pick you up in his black off-roader pickup and you hopped inside - he didn’t open the door for you - you immediately spotted a big purple welt protruding from his cheekbone, fresh and throbbing and speckled with broken capillaries. You asked him if it was the result of another ‘scrap’, so he called it, and he shook his head.

“Match last night,” he told you, before shrugging it off. Then joked - or, intended to joke; “You should see the other lad.”

“Match?” You asked him to clarify, perhaps stupidly, as he revved the rumbling engine of the four-wheeler and drove off like he was in a hurry.

The cab of his truck smelled like tobacco, and the redolence of old sweat embedded in his seat; from how often he’d hop in unshowered after working out, you guessed. There was a tired old Evian bottle in the cup-holder of the centre console, next to it a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a clear orange lighter. The passenger seat was stiff and dusty, you must have been one of very few people to have sat in it.

“Boxing,” he answered.

A boxer, you thought to yourself, eyes clinging to his bulky arm as it gripped and shoved the gearshift; forearm turning stiff as you had imagined it would, where it peeked out from the rolled sleeve of his black crewneck. Thick veins ran in webs under his skin. Tendons bulged in the back of his hand. Now that you looked more closely, you could see the bruises on his knuckles - some turned ochre yellow with age, others fresh and plum and looked tender to the touch. He’d have to have been a heavyweight, given the fucking size of him. Built like a bear, wide set and heavy and so comically tall that he looked too large for the cab of his own truck.

He took you out for dinner, a proper date, he called it - a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant with four tables and a single waitress. Far more of a date than his last two attempts - you briefly considered counting this as date number one. He ordered himself two meals, an unsurprising quantity, and requested that both be as hot as the chef could make them.

You asked him about his boxing, and he said that he made some money from it but not quite enough to live on. That you probably wouldn’t have seen him on the telly, because he usually fought in the undercards and didn’t like the cameras.

Told you under his breath that he made more cash when the games were ‘under the table’. What that meant you weren’t certain, and he kept it thrillingly vague. “No gloves,” was how he explained it, “and no referee.” You told him that sounded illegal and he only gave you a shrug.

“Are you any good?” You asked with a kink in your brow.

He smirked at you, mouth full of rendang. “I’m alright.”

Something in his tone told you he was being humble. You felt a little giddy. “You ever knocked someone out?”

“Did last night,” he admitted indifferently.

You questioned him a little more. “Are you a violent person?”

He tilted his head either way as though considering his answer, shovelling a hunk of beef folded in naan into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. “Not all the time.”

A little shaken, you asked if you should be worried.

“I can be gentle,” is what he answered, with a lidded glare and the faintest smirk that flickered in his lips. You didn’t believe him.

After he paid for your meal - told you crudely to shut it when you offered to split the bill - he put you in his truck ostensibly to drive you back home. But when he missed the turn that he should have taken, you shuffled disquieted in your seat, lacking the bravery to mention it just yet. Perhaps he was simply taking an unfamiliar route.

He must have noticed your unease, because he turned his head to look down at you, but he did little to assuage your discomfort.

“Takin’ you to mine,” he declared bluntly, as though reminding you of a fact you already knew.

You blinked at him, felt the prickles of adrenaline creep down your neck like a nettle sting, an alert from your primal subconscious to a looming threat. “This is only the second date,” you diffidently reminded him.

“I know,” he said, through a toothy grin, apparently amused by your skittishness, “‘m not ready to let you go just yet.”

You nodded stiffly, chewing on the inside of your cheek and picking your nails in an anxious habit. You weren’t frightened of him - despite the awareness that you should be - if you truly were, you’d kick up much more of a fuss. But he was quite unreadable, purposefully so, and what could you possibly do if he decided he wasn’t interested in waiting any longer? Win stupid prizes.

“Don’t panic, love,” he asserted, reaching his burly arm over and taking hold of your knee, thigh dwarfed by his hand as he gave your meat a quick squeeze. “Not interested in takin’ what I haven’t earned.”

His terraced flat was modest and unadorned, a skinny three-storey house sandwiched between rows of similar boxes. Two windows per floor. A layer of tan stucco smeared over its brick. No garden, only some moss and a few sprouting weeds, and a wrought iron fence that lined the sidewalk out the front.

He pulled his pickup to a stop on the side of the road, killed the engine and barked an order at you as he opened the door, “Out y’get.”

The street was barren and dark, and every breath you let out echoed in the lifeless silence. Not even after nine in the evening and the neighbourhood seemed to be devoid of inhabitants, only one or two windows glowed from within - an indication of at least some life. You felt a chill as you stepped out onto the road, tightened your arms around your torso as you wandered bashfully behind him to his front step. He huffed impatiently as he jammed his keys in the lock, shoving and shimmying them loudly until the door reluctantly gave way to him.

He marched into the depths of his flat, swallowed by the darkness within - didn’t bother to turn on the light. You only saw which direction he had headed once a yellow light flickered on in a distant room down the hall. Shutting his front door behind you, leaving it unlocked, you quietly walked in the direction of the light.

His flat was painfully undecorated. Raw, messy with clutter and miscellaneous belongings, in stacks and piles, on tables and chairs. Torn open envelopes, old socks, misplaced boots. Jackets hung over the bannister and sweaters over the backs of his seats. You found yourself in an open kitchen and living room, bare save for the odd piece of secondhand furniture and empty bottles of beer dotted about the place.

You found him leaning into an open fridge, illuminated by its dim bluish light. “Can I getcha somethin’?”

“Um,” you pondered, failing to conceal your unwelcome nerves, a shiver in your voice. “No - thank you, I’m okay.”

He shrugged as he shut the fridge door with his elbow, a bottle of Carlsberg dwarfed in his hand. Stuck the top in his open mouth and popped off the cap with his teeth in a horrid crack, spat it aimlessly into the kitchen. “Suit yourself.”

He left you standing like a fool as he went to sit himself down on his sofa, landing in it with a gruff and satisfied sigh. Sunk into the cushions and spread his knees to make himself comfortable, big enough that he took up two seats of the three-seater. He reached for the remote and turned on the telly, volume low, but audibly some football game or other.

His eyes fastened on you, though - narrow and pointed as though you had been caught in his crosshairs. He tipped his beer into a jutted jaw, took a noisy and insouciant sip.

“All shy now?” He asked.

A defensive no caught in your throat and it emerged as a quiet hiccup. You wanted to smack yourself. “I just - I’m not sure why I’m here.”

He huffed testily. ”Want to go home, do you?”

You knew you should say yes. “No - no it’s not that. I’m - I’m okay.”

He cracked a grin, a flash of teeth before it vanished. “Do I make you that nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” you retorted, voice higher-pitched than would otherwise be convincing.

“C’mere, then.” He gestured a lazy hitherto with three fingers, an edge in his glare.

Your feet were moving before you disputed. “What for.”

“Siddown,” he grunted.

Better judgement hammering at you, you hesitated before you obeyed, standing in front of him but just out of reach.

“What’re you so afraid of, sweethear’,” he asked richly, and you blinked at him before looking down at your hands.

“I’m not,” you insisted. “Just not - not really used to this sort of thing.”

“No?” He questioned with aplomb, pride oozing from him like crude oil. “Been a while, has it?”

You fawningly shrugged. “Guess so.”

“Am I taking you home, then?”

The second time he had offered it, though this time there was something discerning in his tone; cocksure yet challenging, a last call. Resolved, you sat down mousily in the cushion next to him. Shrivelled so that you took up as little space as possible, held your arms tight to your body.

You shook your head, steadfast. “No, that’s okay.”

He let slip a grin at your answer, canines sharp and catching the glint of the dim television in front of him. You thought he might hang his mammoth arm over your shoulder, or rest a hand on your thigh; might test the waters with a noncommittal touch to see how you reacted to his crossing of the boundary.

But he had no such subtlety nor restraint - instead he slipped his hand behind you and hooked you by the waist, hoisting you one-armed from your distant spot with the ease of picking up a house cat. You let out a sharp gasp as he plonked you on his left knee so that you straddled it, back firm against his side as he riveted you in place with his forearm.

You yelped as you were made to forcibly bestride his thigh, left tongue-tied in your shock and momentarily unable to utter a word of dispute. Heart set to panic, scarcely able to subdue your hurricane of thoughts, you exerted all effort wriggle out of his grip - bucked and twisted and pulled, all painfully futile.

His strength was unfathomable and frightening, the muscles of his only restraining arm hardly even tensed to hold you in place. It was easy for him. He briefly leaned to the side to dump his beer on the side table.

You barked; “Simon - let go of-”

Me was muffled by the right hand that swiftly sealed over your mouth, fingertips burrowing into your cheeks, the top of his hand tucked under your nose and barely allowed you to suck in a breath.

He shushed you quick and sharp, and you let out a defeated moan as you persisted in your attempts to writhe free. You clamped your legs closed around his thigh as if you might seal off your cunt from him, but he simply let out a breathy chuckle - lightly bounced his knee to remind you that he had you wedged open as he pleased, and the force beared down on your centre with each jolt had you squeaking like a mouse into his palm.

“Settle down,” he chided, stern-toned, you felt the coarse stubble of his jaw scrape down the side of your face as he craned his head beside yours. “Don’t you kick up a fuss now.”

His colossal paw raked up your thigh, hitching the forgiving fabric of your skirt along with it and leaving pointy gooseflesh in its wake.

Still you squirmed, but your defensive tenacity was rapidly fizzling away - doused with the sobering knowledge that you had made the very bed he was now forcing you to lie in.

“You knew what you were after when you came out, didn’t you,” he snarled, accusing, lifting the hem of your skirt up to your belly.

You shook your head as ferociously as he allowed you to, his suffocating hand stifling both your movement and your breathing. You whined into his clammy palm, hoping he’d be able to translate the sounds you made in place of words; not yet.

Whether or not he understood, he ignored you; his fingertips clawed over your mound, catching in the thin fabric of the plain underwear you wore under your dress - dug into the leg hole where the hem sat against your groin, before yanking it to the other side. He tugged at the elasticated cotton, shimmying the gusset so it was entirely out of his way; cunt bare and exposed, your vealy lips rubbed raw against the rough denim of his jeans.

“Like a cat in heat, eh?” He grumbled, feeding his imperious hand between your legs where they were held open by his titanic thigh. Jammed his thick fingers into your folds without hesitation, indifferent to your whimpering.

His solid nose buried under your ear, right into the underside of your jaw, and he took a deep and wolfish sniff. “Can fuckin’ smell it on you.”

You winced as he pressed the pads of two fingers against your twitching opening, not yet slick; nudging at the precipice as though hoping to milk you of your nectar - but he didn’t puncture you. Instead, he languidly dragged them back up to your timid bud where it was hidden under its hood, used your scant fluid to barely lubricate his incursion.

He bucked his knee, making you bounce into a better position for him. Began chafing circles with the tips of mean fingers, kneading out your clit with a steady pressure that made you sob into the palm of his restraining hand.

He was deft, knew how to make quick work of you - you felt your watery blood turn viscous and hot, it flooded down the middle of you as though spiralling an open drain. Pumped warm right into the centre of your bud and made it shudder and swell, twitched with hypersensitivity.

Morally, you spurned it, fought against it viciously - the man so arrogant and cruel as to forcibly pleasure you despite vehement protest. But your feeble body spoke far louder, betrayed you with its carnal appetite. Your acrid resistance turned to pudding under his abrasive hand.

No longer wrestling, your hips leaned into him, spine arching and curling, flesh so pathetically desperate for purchase that it begged implicitly in spite of your expressed dispute.

He sensed your blossoming acquiescence, heard your grunts and moans of defiance melt into high-pitched, needy whines; you felt his wrenching grip of you soften and a rough smile curl against your cheek.

“Tha’s it,” he purred, low voice thrummed directly into your skin. You could only mewl into his palm like a trapped animal, his hand growing wet against your mouth. “Tha’s what you were after, eh? All that whingeing.”

A wanton oh, fuck, was muted by his palm as he slowed and eased his pace, no longer toiling to subdue you. With two fingers flat against the crux of your folds, he ran them up and down your seam - uncovering your puffy clit with each upward stroke and making you flinch with the shock.

You tightened your legs around his thigh on reflex, curling your pelvis away from his touch as you grew so sensitive it began to burn - but your range of motion was sorely limited, and relief you could not find.

He removed his smothering hand from your mouth and smoothed it down your waist, finding the meat of your hip and taking a fastening grip. Anchored your pelvis still and held you down, exacerbating the pressure on your cunt; parting it like a butterfly and grinding his coarse denim against flushed lips, you felt your slick seep out of you and soak the fabric underneath it.

You rocked your head back against his collarbone, feeling its rigidity at the back of your skull, and your eyes fluttered shut; you felt his hot breathing on the side of your head, an airy chortle at your whimpering capitulation. He only slowed his infliction, gently grazing your yearning clit as though to tease it, to force you to debase yourself as you pleaded for his brutality.

“F-fuck-” You mewled, face flustered, skin febrile - you were suddenly so infuriatingly close, wracked by a surging current that shuddered into your core and made you spasm and shiver. The dawning heat was abruptly overpowering, and you leaned desperately into his hand to chase it. “Simon - Please - I-”

Every attempt you made to speak or complain was bitten off by an indulgent sob, weak and pleading cries, begging him to release you.

“Please, what?” He gloated deeply, you could hear his smug grin without having to see it. “Speak up.”

Your mind was frayed, and your tongue was fat and heavy in your mouth. You squeezed out your answer through a strained whine; “I’m - I’m going to-”

“Y’gonna come, are you?” He mocked, voice rumbling and cruel. Seemed to find immense satisfaction in your pathetic desperation.

He pressed down on your scalding clit and forced a pained cry from your throat when you failed to answer him.

“Y-yes,” you bawled, driven close to pitiful tears.

He pinched your plump and angry bud between his fingers and made you jolt, before he let out a chuckle, and his hand glided out from between your legs. Left glossy trails of your syrup up your mound, your belly, as he abandoned you.

An agonised groan lept from your chest as you buckled forward, wrecked with desperation, suddenly and brutally hollow.

“Taste o’ your own medicine, eh?” He crooned, haughty, he smacked the side of your thigh with two firm pats as if to reassure you. “I don’t put out easy, either.”

You only sobbed, deafened by the thunder of your throbbing blood in your ears, cunt still so ravenous you were rendered a slave to it. You were unconsciously grinding your cunt on his thigh, rocking your hips, hissing at the abrasion of the denim on your clit - but it was better than nothing.

“Look at you,” he snorted, leaning back on the sofa with his arms hung over the back, as if to enjoy the show. As he reached for his abandoned beer, he chided; “Fuckin’ needy slut, aren’t you?”

He glided a hand up your spine as you rode his leg like a little animal, and maybe you could finish yourself off like that, if you tried hard enough - but his claw settled at the back of your neck and took malicious hold. He yanked you back by it so that your head knocked against his shoulder, the angle he had you at starving your clit once more.

“‘Nuff o’ that, sweethear’,” he muttered into your temple. “You can wait, like me.”

You whimpered, the humiliation finally having caught up to you - it rained over you cold and bitter, and you suddenly wanted to run and hide.

He put both paws on your hips, then, and hoisted you up and off of him - dumped you into the sofa cushion beside him and you landed with a bounce.

You grunted bitterly, still panting. “You’re such a-” you breathed, twitching. “Prick.”

“Careful,” he grumbled, scolding you, and you sealed your lips.

After a short and breathless silence, you heard him chuckle to himself as he stuck his beer between his lips, swallowing a frothy sip as if he hadn’t just left you a wreck.

You glanced at him, to see what was so funny - and you saw him swipe his thigh with his thumb, a mortifying patch darkened by your slick, more than you had thought, soaked through.

“Fuckin’ mess you made,” he jeered, voice low and harsh as though distracted. He grunted out a tiresome sigh. “Gonna be tough to wait for date three, eh?”

You only nodded, mind blunt and blurry, suddenly remembering the rule you had set.

“What’ve you got in mind,” you puffed, shimmying your dress back over your thighs to regain some of your stolen decency.

He sucked his teeth, rocked his head as he took another sip of his Carlsberg.

“Come watch me fight,” he said.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

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xneens · 1 year ago

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three cents

you butt dial your boss during a girls night … the girls night where you told them you’d fuck aaron hotchner for three cents.

Girls' night out was wild, no one knew where you would end up. One night, you ended up on a boat and the next you were on a train to NYC. After getting thrown in jail with Emily, JJ, and Penelope during another night out, you all vowed to keep whatever happened during the night a secret from everyone, specifically Derek Morgan. Derek Morgan who had bailed all four of you out of jail, Derek Morgan who teased you relentlessly for weeks after.

After a long case, Emily suggested another girl’s night which all of you agreed on, desperately needing a celebratory drink after saving a little girl. It was around one in the morning when you got back to Quantico and though Aaron gave you the day off for tomorrow–or well, later today–all four of you decided to crash at Emily’s and drink to your heart’s content.

Popcorn and Hersey kisses lay on Emily’s coffee table, bottles of half-empty wine and jello shots litter the floor and you’re all giggling about whether to prank Derek by getting phone cases with a picture of him shirtless. You’re all on board and Penelope is getting them custom-made through a website she’s found.

“Speaking of Derek’s abs.” JJ drags the ‘s’ creating a hissing noise. She turns to you, grinning. “I’ve wanted to ask ever since you went to that Doctor Who convention with him. Do you like like Spence?”

You giggled, taking a small sip of wine, thinking about the genius. “Noooo. Spence is my friend. And he runs with his gun like it’s weighing him down. Besides, I only went to that Doctor Who convention because he went to see Barbie with me. He’s, like, too young for me, too.”

“He’s older than you.” Emily points out, smirking, knowing full well you liked older men. “He’s adorable and sweet.”

“Spencer is definitely cute and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had a sex dream about him,” you confessed, smiling as the girls burst out laughing. “But he’s too … inexperienced. I like my men like I like my wine. Old.”

Your phone had been on mute since you entered the plane, not wanting to abruptly wake anyone up if they were resting, so not a single person in the room had heard your phone ringing or Aaron’s multiple “hello’s” trying to get your attention. All of you were oblivious to your boss listening in to the conversation.

“Is Rossi too old for you?” Penelope asked, inciting another round of giggles.

You nodded, finishing off your glass of wine. “Just a bit. I’ve seen pictures of him when he was in the Marines though, and I definitely would’ve been the fourth Mrs. Rossi back then.”

Emily cackled, a bit of red wine spilling from her full glass. “Okay, I have a question. Would you guys fuck Hotch for ten million dollars? Be honest here.”

“No!” both JJ and Penelope spit out. They all turned to you, grinning like madmen.

You shrugged, filling another glass. “I’d do it for three.”

“Damn, three million? That’s–“

“Nope,” you smirked, taking a sip.

Emily paused, head tilting in confusion. “Three … hundred thousand?”

“No.”

“Three thousand?”

You shake your head, grinning at the confused woman. “Nope.”

“Three hundred?”

“No.”

Emily’s eyes widened, jaw-dropping a little further as you denied her guesses. “Three dollars?”

“No.”

“THREE CENTS?” JJ was the one to shout, mouth dropping open when you giggled and nodded.

Penelope threw a pillow at you, and you giggled, dodging it, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “Hey! This is supposed to be a judge-free zone. I’d suck and fuck Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner for three measly cents.”

“Okay, I’d understand if you said Derek but Hotch?” Emily exclaimed, shaking her head at the thought. “He’s like twenty years older than you!”

“Exactly! That’s part of the appeal,” you replied. You were sure by tomorrow no one would remember your confession–though you were positive you wouldn’t either–and that they wouldn’t tease you too much over it. “He’s the literal definition of a DILF.”

The girls laughed at your words, JJ having to clutch onto a pillow to control herself.

“And!” you continue. “I was working out with Derek once and Hotch came in the gym with gray sweats and his dick looks humongous. It was a huge fucking bulge. I think I saw it twitching.”

Penelope slaps her hands over her ears, playfully grimacing at your words while Emily chugs the remains of her glass, absolutely baffled. You didn’t mind, sex and boys were common conversation topics during girl’s night (and sometimes when Emily would catch you making eyes at someone.

The rest of the night continued the same, though less talk about Hotch’s big dick and more on whether you all should make more jello shots. By the time you’re coming up with an answer, it’s five in the morning and all four of you are knocked out from the alcohol in your system. Even in your drunk state, you knew you’d wake up to a pounding headache.

When Derek calls in the morning, telling everyone about a new case, you’re all moody and grumpy. Hotch wanted everyone in even though he had given the day off, so no one was jumping for joy especially not in your hangover state.

Despite drinking the most, Emily drives the four of you back to the BAU, mumbling obscenities under her breath on the way. When you enter the elevator, Derek is there, causing all of you to groan at his presence. One look at you and he laughs loudly, knowing what had transpired the night before.

You wish you could shoot his foot.

In the briefing room, Hotch apologizes for having you all come in on your day off, pausing to glance at you before presenting the case. Truth be told, you hadn’t paid that much attention to it, your headache taking up your attention. Fire, serial arsonist, fifteen dead, Seattle.

“Wheels up in thirty,” Hotch announces, walking across the table. As the team filters out of the room, he calls your name. “In my office, please. I want to discuss something with you.”

Confused, you follow him to his office, pushing through your headache to think about what he could possibly want to speak to you about. You come up blank, even more confused when you see him lock the door to his office as you enter. “Did I do something wrong?”

Hotch shook his head, moving past you to his desk. He picks up something and turns around. In his hands are three pennies, and he’s holding them out to you. “Three cents.”

You’re getting deja vu on the words, and it’s not until several seconds of standing in silence and confusion that it clicks. Three cents. You blush, looking at the pennies. “I don’t understand.”

“You said you’d suck and fuck me for three cents,” he smirks at your shock, placing the coins in your hands.

“What–”

Hotch unbuckles his belt, causing you to stop mid-sentence. “You’ve got twenty-eight minutes to suck my cock. Get to work.”

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner smut

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superhoeva · 25 days ago

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bouncer!logan spotting you at a halloween party he's working the door for. it's annoyingly cute how you fumble about when you find out that the there's a door fee and you have no cash.

he lets you squirm for a bit, enjoying the troubled expression on your face before the pinch of your eyebrows forces a sigh from him.

"okay look," the man starts, arms crossing as he motions for you to lean in. thinking for less than a second, you follow the direction, not catching the way logan drags a hard stare across you and your skimpy costume. "'m really not supposed to be doing anything like this. but one, i don't give a fuck. two, you're cute enough to break a few rules for."

with his jaw clenching at the way you can't hide your pleased grin, logan continues.

"gonna let you in for free, but you're gonna have'ta owe me a little somethin' in return."

an eager nod from you has logan biting his tongue. his hand reaches to rub at he growing hair of his beard, pretending to consider his options. finally, he speaks, purposefully lowering his voice so you have to shift even closer.

"use this pretty face and get me a couple'a free drinks? since you don't have any cash and all..."

"okay," you nod again, teeth grazing the corner of your bottom lip. "what do you have a taste for?"

logan's skin heats at your question, shoving the first answer that comes to the very back of his mind.

"nothing too sweet." he's got to save that craving for the possibility of tasting you. "just beer. nothing special."

you're a wizard. logan's certain of it after you bring him the fourth bottle of beer, this time with a glass of something for yourself.

"jesus," logan huffs. "you're wringing 'em dry in there, pretty."

you shrug at the man, slinking atop the stool he brought to keep his back from aching during his downtime. he can feel your eyes on him as he chugs down half the bottle, staring at the bobbing of his adam's apple as he drinks.

lowering the bottle, logan swallows and turns to you. your gaze flicks to the side of him, pretending like you weren't just oogling the shit out of him and how tight the black v-neck he's sporting is.

logan takes the thick silence as a chance to really look at you. take in your costume of black spandex shorts, blue crop top, and empty thigh holsters.

"lara croft," logan finally figures it out, and you grin a little over the rim of your glass. "...you wear her well."

another smile from you and logan nearly squeezes the bottle so hard it breaks. a tiny laugh from you breaks another round of heated silence.

"i miss somethin'?"

"no," you promise him. "it's just... i've spent more time out here than in there. even after you let me in for free."

logan sniffs, meeting your eyes in his lean across from you.

"don't worry, ms. croft. i definitely don't mind."

after that, you end up staying with him for the rest of the night. leaving you his seat, logan standing all broad and strong whenever someone enters, letting you hold the cash he collects from each patron. he sends a wink your way every time he turns to hand out the money but nearly growls out at anyone that asks about you.

"keep movin', bub," logan warns the latest inquirer who lets his eyes linger a little too long for your liking. the guy isn't smart enough to heed the first warning, going as far as ignoring logan to lean in your direction.

"come find me later, yeah?"

you don't get a chance to answer. logan's got him by the back of the neck, shoving him out into the cool fall air of tonight's evening without a second thought. dusting off his hand, logan ignores the man's whines about the cash he wants back, and turns to find you blinking at him with a squirm.

he steps to where you now stand with his eyes hooded, slicking out one of the tens from your grasp. neither of you says a word as logan folds the bill, and encircles his arms around you. your breath hitches at the hand logan plants on one of your asscheeks. he glides the money into your back pocket, biting his lip.

"my shift ends in an hour. i can show you an actual party worth your time if you're up for it..."

warm and dazed, you nod. logan grins a little, squeezing the flesh under his hand before returning to his post of strong, crossed arms and back turned to you while he faces the door.

logan grins again, this time wider, at the way he can feel your gaze burning a hole into his ass.

#bouncer!logan #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett imagine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine imagine #logan howlett #wolverine

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cake-writes · 5 months ago

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Whoops

Pairing: Kakashi x Female!Reader

Warnings: smut, sex pollen, consensual somnophilia, substances, oral sex + rimming (female receiving), vaginal fingering, anal fingering + anal sex (female receiving), rough sex, playful sex, unprotected sex, edging, spanking, creampie, soft!dom!kakashi, this fic had no right being so fucking filthy, 'honey' used one (1) time as a pet name, safe word mention, so! much! banter!!!

Word Count: 5.4k

Summary: When you and Kakashi both forget to bring along something important on a mission, the two of you have to fight the effects of an aphrodisiac without.

—

You and Kakashi sit side-by-side on the sofa, staring down at the single white pill atop the coffee table of your inn room. His thigh presses against yours, allowing you to feel the heat radiating off of him—which is certainly, well, something, because your own body also feels way too hot. Stupidly hot.

“How could you forget to pack more detox pills?” Kakashi asks, looking over at you in mild disbelief. His cheeks appear rosy where they peek out above his mask, but you know it’s not so much from embarrassment as it is from the poison you’d both been hit by some hours ago.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare. “How could you forget to pack condoms?”

Your first aid kit really should have had more pills in it than just the one, but you can’t remember the last time you did an inventory. And Kakashi, by regulation, should have had condoms in his bag in the event of a situation like this. Maybe he’d forgotten to double check his reserves, same as you. Whoops.

The two of you would have been dosed just before dinner. That’s the only time an enemy trap had sprung, but there hadn’t been much of an effect until the middle of the night, long after the shops had closed and you’d settled in for sleep. At the time, you'd both assumed that it was just a bit of dust from the trap's explosion. Whoops, again.

With a weary sigh, your mission partner leans back against the couch, loosely crossing his arms over his chest in a deceivingly relaxed manner. “You take it,” Kakashi says, his uncovered eye drifting down your body before it flicks back up to yours. “You seem to have been hit harder than I was. I should be able to manage on my own.”

You swallow thickly at the mental imagery his words bring on. He’ll have to rub one out. More than one, most likely. “We should cut it in half. You’re still—”

“No. You’re smaller than I am, and you’re dealing with a stronger dose.”

He’s right. You can feel the sweat beading on your forehead, feel the warmth of a flush slowly creeping up your neck and onto your face, feel your skin burning for attention. Kakashi really is quite attractive—you’ve always thought so—and with the aphrodisiac coursing through your veins, your attraction to him has been cranked up to eleven.

Fuck, your pussy aches, and only he can fill it the way that you need.

“Now take the pill before it gets any worse,” he tells you flatly. “That’s an order.”

“Ugh, fine.” Annoyed that Kakashi would seriously pull rank on you in this situation, you grab the pill and pop it into your mouth, before you chase it with a glass of water. Then you frown at him. “If you can’t manage, let me know. I’ll help.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I mean it, Kakashi. Without a condom, we may not be able to, you know,” you jokingly make a rude gesture indicating sex, “but I know how shitty it can be to try and get through this on your own. If you need my help, let me know. Okay?”

If he’d brought condoms, he’d probably already be inside you right now. God, you feel so fucking empty.

“Okay,” Kakashi agrees, unfazed by the suggestion. The two of you are shinobi first, and people second. Your bodies are tools to be used in service of your village. You know that he knows that, same as you do. It’s definitely not the first time either of you have encountered an aphrodisiac; you’re both too experienced in the field to have that sort of plausible deniability.

The biggest issue, however, is that if it gets worse during the night, then his life could actually be at risk. Aphrodisiacs are still poison, albeit more pleasant than the usual suspects.

Kakashi gets a pensive look about him, then. “The pill will probably knock you out, you know. What then?”

You grimace. Right. So much time has passed since you last needed to take one that you’d forgotten. Forcing rest helps the body to heal more quickly, or some such. It’s terribly inconvenient.

“Well…” There really isn’t another option. If his hand isn’t enough, your unconscious body will have to be, because you sure as hell aren’t waking up to a dead teammate tomorrow. “You can use me,” you say finally, cursing your horny brain for actually enjoying the idea of it, of him using you for his pleasure while you’re asleep. “Take what you need, even if I’m knocked out. You have my permission. Just don’t hurt me, and don’t knock me up.”

A lick of heat comes into that dark grey eye of his, before he clears his throat and nods. “All right.” When he pulls himself to his feet, it’s impossible to miss the tent in his tac pants, though you make sure to keep your eyes above his waist out of respect for him. “Get some rest. I’ll try not to disturb you unless I have to.”

“Have fun,” you say sweetly, waggling your fingers in a wave as he heads back to his room.

—

Blearily, you wake to the sensation of fingers slicking through your folds.

The plush of your futon cushions your body, just as you remember upon going to sleep, though your yukata has since been pulled open at the front. The slight chill in the air brings goosebumps to the surface of your naked skin, bared to the night, and pebbles your nipples.

The poison seems to have worn off—of you, at least. You aren’t so stupidly hot anymore, but your tits and stomach do feel a bit sticky, a smattering of wetness cooling on your skin.

It’s cum, you vaguely realise. A lot of it.

Heat pools in your abdomen at the realisation that Kakashi used you—your nudity—for masturbation fodder. And now, he has your thighs splayed wide, allowing you to feel the heat of his breath against your soaked core while he spreads you open with his thumbs.

You should tell him that it’s okay. You should tell him that you don’t mind, that he can do whatever he needs to with you, but there’s something unbelievably sexy about him using you for his own enjoyment without you ever knowing. Then again, you’re still pretty out of it from the meds.

When his hot tongue slides up through your slit, a pleasured sound bubbles up from your throat before you can help it. He’s good with his mouth.

Kakashi chuckles against you, swirling his tongue over your clit until your hips jerk. “Finally awake?”

“M’sleepy,” you slur drowsily, rubbing at your eyes.

He hums in response, sluicing his fingers through your slick heat. You expect him to slide them into your aching core, but instead he moves a little lower, circling the rim of your ass with a fingertip. A glob of saliva joins it, before he coos, “I’m sorry for waking you. Is this okay?”

It’s been some time since you had anal, and the thought of it with him only makes you want it more. Maybe there is still some poison coursing through your veins. You’re too out of it for the pill to have fully done its job.

“Yeah,” you sigh, relaxing into his touch.

He flattens his tongue over your clit as he slowly eases his finger inside your tight hole. It’s a bit of a stretch, but you take it easily, moaning at the sensation.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” Kakashi murmurs against your heated flesh, sounding apologetic. “I would have loved to fuck you here,” he delves his tongue into your cunt for a moment, pulling a quiet gasp from you, before he drags it up to your clit again, “if I hadn’t already gotten off a few times. You’re so wet.”

It’s too risky for him to fuck your pussy with whatever semen might be lingering behind. He’s respecting your boundaries, but you’re sure he doesn’t want to take the chance, either.

“S’fine,” you answer sleepily. “Feels good.”

“If it hurts, tell me and I’ll stop, okay?”

“Mm. Okay.”

Time passes like a fever dream. You still feel foggy from the pill, and the pleasurable sensations that Kakashi bestows upon you only muddle your brain even further.

Soon your thighs are squeezing around his head, your fingers buried in soft, silvery hair as he edges you with his mouth for what must be the third time—or more, but you’re too out of it to really keep track. With each near-orgasm, he eases another finger inside, slowly but surely stretching out your tiny hole to take him.

When your body starts to quiver from pent-up release, he carefully withdraws his fingers from your ass and folds your thighs to your chest. Then, his tongue presses into your tight rim, tasting you directly.

The choked moan that rips out of you is nothing short of ungraceful. “K-Kashi,” you slur, cracking your eyes open to blearily meet his. “You don’t have to—mm!”

Kakashi gives you another long, savoury lick, holding eye contact the entire time to make his point, before he sits back up onto his knees and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re offering me your body,” he rasps, smoothing his hand along your calf where it rests on his shoulder. “The least I can do is make sure you enjoy it.”

Then he spits into his palm, messy and wet, and slicks up his cock with saliva. The action is so vulgar that your pussy clenches around nothing.

“Are you ready? I’m happy to prepare you more if you need it.”

“I’ll let you know if I’m not,” you answer breathily. It’s hard to see him in the darkness of your inn room, even if your body falls within the cascade of moonlight coming in through the window. You can still make out the shine of his eyes and the sharp, hard lines of his muscular form, but his face remains in shadow.

Damn it. You really want to see what he looks like under his mask.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises, and he does. Even though you can feel the heat coming off of his skin, and even though you can almost guarantee he’s just as horny as you’d been earlier, he takes it slow.

Kakashi has always had more self-restraint than you, even now.

His cock really is big, too—not bigger than you expected, but it’s definitely a stretch. He presses in carefully, not even an inch at a time, taking in every single one of your reactions to ensure that he doesn’t hurt you.

Your face screws up when the head pops in, locked inside by the tight squeeze of your body. “Fuck,” you choke out. “It’s big.”

He licks his thumb, before he brings it to your clit, rubbing soft circles over it to help ease you into the stretch. “Better?”

You make a soft, pleased noise in the back of your throat. It is better. It helps quite a bit, actually, by offering a distraction for when he slides in a bit further and you encounter a small amount of pain. Nothing severe; it just comes with the territory.

Even still, your hand flies down to jam against his thigh, keep him from going any deeper.

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “I’ll wait.”

And he does.

By the time he’s all the way inside, you’re practically panting like a dog because he feels so fucking good. Your empty cunt still aches to be filled, but the slow, beautiful glide as he pulls nearly all the way out of your other hole is a welcome alternative.

Kakashi adjusts your leg on his shoulder for a better grip. “Ready?”

You nod your head, peering up at him in the darkness.

Then he pushes back inside, all at once, and you both groan.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you gasp, and he lets out a laugh that sounds almost as winded as you feel.

“Neither am I.”

Kakashi treats you like glass in the way that he handles you, ensuring that it’s good for you, but there’s an undercurrent of need in his every movement, his every touch. You can feel it when his fingers dig firmly into the meat of your thigh; feel it in that slight loss of control every so often, when he thrusts hard, once, then reins it back in.

He’s prioritising your comfort, but he needs more.

“More,” you beg, because you need it, too.

He lowers your leg down and leans forward onto his hands, caging your body in between. The moonlight finally, finally reveals his face, and fuck, he just might be the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Strong, angular features paired with soft lips and a beauty mark on his chin—he’s gorgeous.

“More?” Kakashi asks amusedly. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

He snaps his hips forward once, testing your resolve.

“Yes, I can fucking handle—”

But you don’t finish, because when Kakashi shifts back slightly to allow another glob of saliva to fall from his mouth and onto the place where the two of you are connected, something in your brain breaks at the sight. It’s filthy, messy, wet—absolutely nothing like what you’ve come to expect from your mission partner, reserved as he is.

Or not. He’s just as much of a freak as you are. He just hides it better. Kakashi ate your ass without a shred of hesitation, and the memory is such a turn-on that you wiggle your hips impatiently.

Another soft laugh leaves him at that. “Needy,” he teases so affectionately that your cheeks burn, but you barely notice because he’s already fucking into you again, slow but so unyieldingly firm in his thrusts that you can almost feel the impact in your throat.

Cursing something unintelligible, you grab at the futon above your head to brace yourself. It feels so mind-numbingly good that you swear you might be going insane—or maybe that’s because the haze from the meds still hasn’t fully cleared.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Kakashi well and truly gives you more, just like you asked for. Every time he hits as deep as he can go, you feel another shred of his self-control slip until he shoves your thighs up next to your ears and leans forward to trap your knees in the crooks of his elbows.

Then he fucks you faster.

You can see the aphrodisiac plain as day on his face, in the beautiful flush that colours his cheeks and chest and the sweat that dots his brow. Some of his hair sticks to his forehead, and when his near-manic eyes lock onto yours, you’re held captive under his hungry gaze.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks raggedly. The muscles in his arms tense and strain as he holds himself above you, pounding into you, and then his lips curl up to reveal the slight point of a canine. “Maa, I just might break you at this rate, you know?”

It’s almost impossible to think, let alone string a sentence together, but you do it somehow. Each word punches out of your lungs with another forceful thrust. “Break me, then,” you demand, sounding breathless.

A dark note of desire comes into his features, sharingan swirling just a tiny bit faster when you reach your hand between your legs to play with your clit. As if the sensation wasn’t enough already, the sight of him looking so debauched could easily do you in.

And it would, too, if Kakashi didn’t bat your hand away. He drops down onto an elbow to change the angle, and although his cum smears wet between your bodies, neither of you notice because he plunges two fingers knuckle-deep into your cunt.

“You want me to break you, honey?” he asks, voice low, and a choked sort of wheeze rips out of you as he roughly crooks his fingers up into your g-spot. “All right. I’ll break you. Would you like that?”

Scratch that, he might be even more of a freak than you are, and you fucking love it. “Yes!”

Kakashi doesn’t pump his fingers in and out; instead, he uses them to bully your g-spot exclusively, dragging his thumb over your clit with every brutal snap of his hips. Your eyes roll back at the combined sensation, the overwhelm of it all, and you can’t even manage to get another word out—just an embarrassing mix of gasps and whines.

“Oh, look at you,” he sighs appreciatively. “Are you close?”

Your cunt flutters around his fingers as if to answer the question, and he lets out a knowing hum. Then, right before you crest, Kakashi pulls out of your ass and drops down to devour your pussy with an urgency that makes your toes curl.

“Shit,” you squeal, your body writhing under his sudden onslaught.

He rapidly pumps his fingers in and out, hooking them into your g-spot again and again, the wet, sloppy sound of you echoing throughout the room as he finger-fucks you into oblivion, all the while sucking on your clit until you can’t handle it anymore.

“M’gonna—fuck,” you swear, pulling at his hair. Your eyebrows scrunch together as you look down at him, admiring the sight of him, the way he’s focused so intently on your pleasure even as you grind your pussy into his mouth. “Yes, yes—”

The intensity in his eyes when they snap up to meet yours is what finally sends you over.

You shatter apart with distinctly wet gush that soaks your futon straight through to the tatami, but before you’re even finished convulsing, he’s already on top of you again, sliding right back into your poor, abused asshole until he bottoms out.

You choke. The size of him is even more noticeable after your orgasm, especially with the aftershocks still rippling through your body, but it feels good. Mostly.

He pauses, a flicker of softness in his expression. “Too much?”

“Never,” you say, offering what you intend to be a cocky smirk, even though you can barely keep your eyes open.

His brows raise in surprise, just for a split-second, before he laughs softly and starts to ease in and out of you in slow, patient strokes, giving you a chance to adjust in spite of your bravado. “It’s a shame we didn’t do this sooner,” he comments, tone teasing. “We could have had a lot more fun on all those courier missions last year.”

You snort. “Don’t forget those awful recon missions in the snow.”

“Would have been a great way to keep warm,” he jokes, before his gaze trails over your face for a prolonged moment. “Better?”

You offer him a grateful smile, before you lick your lips, relishing in how his focus drops to your mouth for the briefest of moments. “Yeah. Now fuck me like you mean it, Hatake.”

“Oh?” Kakashi tilts his head in his familiar way—just like when he’s about to knock you on your ass in a sparring match. “You don’t think I meant it before?”

“No,” you answer snootily, because you’re a glutton for punishment.

“I see, I see,” he hums. “My mistake.”

In one fell swoop, you’re flat on your stomach, your face buried in the plush futon; and then he’s spreading your cheeks, spitting crudely onto your hole, and hiking your ass up higher with his grip on your hips.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your cheek mashing into the sheets as he shoves his cock deep inside your stretched-out channel, deeper than he’d been previously.

All sense of softness is gone, now, replaced by a brutality that makes your eyes cross. Kakashi fucks into you hard, relentless in his pursuit to break you just like you wanted, and you love every second of it.

“What do you think, hm? Do I mean it now?” Kakashi asks lightly, after which one hand claps down on your ass when you struggle to piece together an answer. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you croak out, drooling onto the sheets.

“Hm?” Another spank, harder this time, and you hiss in pain. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes!” Your voice cracks on the word, and when he slows down to check on you, you rush to add, desperation in your tone, “Green, fuck, don’t—”

His hand embeds itself in your hair, before he yanks you up, making your back arch almost to the point of discomfort. His other arm snakes around your front and between your breasts, his fingers wrapping loosely around your throat as he pulls your body flush against his chest.

“You even have safe words,” Kakashi murmurs into your ear, grinding his hips into yours. “Why the hell didn’t we do this sooner?”

God, he’s so fucking deep.

“Probably—hah—because we work together,” you say breathlessly, leaning your head back onto his shoulder, “and because Lady Fifth would kill us for fraternizing.”

His laughter puffs hot against the shell of your ear. “What a way to die.”

He releases your hair, and slides his hand between your legs in order to messily work your clit. Your thighs tremble and shake from the added stimulation, your moans only increasing in volume the longer it goes on.

Five seconds, maybe? Ten? You can’t be sure.

“God, I feel like I’m drunk,” you groan, your words still slurring just a little. Time doesn’t feel like a real construct right now; all you know is that Kakashi is the only thing grounding you, keeping you from drifting away with the midnight breeze.

“I’m sorry. I waited as long as I could for the pill to wear off.” Then he presses an apologetic kiss to your temple, and a warm, happy shiver ricochets through you thanks to the affection behind it. “Do you want to stop? I should be able to manage from here.”

“No,” you breathe. “S’fun, just a little out of it.”

“Still want me to break you?”

You shake your head. “I’m getting sore.”

“All right.” He releases you, then, and carefully withdraws. “Lay on your back again. I’ll try to be quick.”

You do as he instructs, shifting onto your back with your legs spread. As you watch Kakashi smear a bit more spit onto his cock, you make a mental note to pack condoms and lube in your bag for future missions—you know, just in case.

He settles back between your thighs, his expression now reminiscent of what you’re used to: calm, serious, measured as he searches your face for any sign of discomfort. “Are you sure? We don’t have to keep going if you’re sore.”

“Mm, yeah. I think I can come again.”

“Yeah? Then I’ll make it happen.”

Kakashi holds himself at your entrance, still watching your face as he starts to ease back inside, and he does it so gently, so tenderly, that you might actually be tempted to fall for him. You’ve never seen this side of him until tonight, even though you’ve been working together off and on for years.

“You’re sweet,” you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot straight up onto his forehead, before he coughs to cover a laugh. “My cock is in your ass, and you think I’m sweet?”

Well, when he puts it like that, he has a point. “No, never mind, I take that back,” you respond haughtily, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re a dick. My bad.”

This time, he does laugh. Kakashi smooths his palm along your thigh as he hooks it over his hip. “Yes, yes. Now, how do you want it? Like this? Or…” He drops back down onto his forearms, pressing your bodies together, and studies your reaction. “Like this? What’s more comfortable?”

You wrap your arms around his neck and lean up to brush his nose with yours, teasing and affectionate. “Like this.”

His eyes shine warmly. “Can I kiss you?”

The question throws you, because he hasn’t kissed you yet. How the hell hasn’t he kissed you yet? “Yeah. Yes. Please.”

He smiles just a little before his lips slot over yours, and your body thrums electric as he begins to rock into you with sensual, fluid movements that alleviate that incessant ache in your abdomen.

“Touch yourself,” Kakashi breathes into your mouth, following the words with his tongue like he intends to explore every inch, maybe steal your breath while he’s at it. You’d let him, too. He’s that good of a kisser.

When you shove your hand between your bodies and find your clit, you throw your head back to bite out a swear. “S-Shit, that’s good—”

He kisses a blazing trail up the line of your neck, his teeth scraping pleasantly against your skin every so often. “You like it when I’m sweet to you?” he hums.

Of course he’d still be making fun of you for that. You can hear it in his tone, but you don’t pay it any mind because he feels so fucking good that you want to scream. It’s all you can do to make a soft little sound in the affirmative, your nails digging into his back.

“Good,” he murmurs, “because I like being sweet to you.”

You whine as he lovingly sucks a bruise on your neck, laving his tongue over the mark to soothe it after.

Then he pulls back just slightly to meet your heavy-lidded gaze. “Where do you want it? I’m not going to last much longer.”

Your breath comes out in short, sharp pants as he brings you higher—and himself, too, judging by his bitten-back moan of approval when you lock your ankles behind his back. “Inside,” you breathe. “Need it inside.”

“Fuck, I know you do. Are you—?”

You nod your head frantically as you hold the eye contact, though it becomes increasingly harder to do so the closer you get to the edge. Your eyelids flutter when he hits a particularly good spot inside of you, which he makes a point to target from then on.

“Oh, fuck. Oh my god,” you babble mindlessly, clutching at his shoulders with one hand, rubbing at your clit with the other. “Yes, right there, just like that!”

Kakashi holds you gently under your chin, his fingertips lightly pressing into your cheeks to ensure that you can’t look away, and there’s a fondness to his expression as he watches you fall apart. “Yeah? Like that?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, yes, yes—”

When Kakashi kisses you again, there’s no decorum to it, no finesse, and his teeth click against yours from the sheer need behind it. His tongue pushes deeply into your mouth, stifling your moans as you finally come undone, your muscles bearing down around him so tightly that he has no choice but to shove in as far as he can go and coat your insides with his cum.

He lets out a sound of male satisfaction against your lips, and the sudden burst of heat deep inside your body brings on a sense of warm, fuzzy contentment—the satisfaction of a job well done.

As the aftershocks fade, your heart pounds a frenzied tattoo within the confines of your chest as you work to regain your breath. Kakashi slumps against you, boneless and fatigued and heavy as hell, and you grunt when he all but crushes you under his weight.

“I don’t think I can move,” he says tiredly, muffled with his face buried in your neck. “I think I pulled something.”

“Oh, poor baby.”

At that, he only lays more heavily on you, purposely, which knocks more of the breath out of your lungs; but he does lift up after a moment, and the way he rolls off of you and onto the futon, splaying out spread eagle, would be funny if you weren’t aware of how exhausting the comedown can be from an aphrodisiac.

He’s probably thoroughly tapped out. It’s impossible to say how many times he got off, not to mention all the physical exertion he’d gone through to get there.

“Did you die?” you ask.

“Probably. Your ass did feel like heaven.”

When you groan at his terrible joke and give his side a playful shove, Kakashi chuckles, and god, he sounds beyond tapped out. You’re actually a little concerned, so you lean up onto an elbow to give him a once-over, make sure he’s all right.

That pretty red flush is thankfully beginning to recede from his skin, though you find a number of scratch marks from your fingernails around his shoulders and upper arms. A surge of feminine pride flows through you upon seeing them, and you absently trace one with your fingertip before you finally glance up at his face, only to find him watching you in amusement.

“Pervert,” he says.

You choke on a laugh. “Excuse me?”

Kakashi tucks one of his arms behind his head as a makeshift pillow, looking entirely too self-satisfied for your liking. “You’re just as bad as I am. I could have sworn you’d be more vanilla.”

You turn your nose up at him. “Well, I already knew you were a pervert. You read porn in public.”

“Erotic literature,” he corrects pointedly.

“Sorry, you read erotic literature in public. Because that’s so much better.”

The two of you look at each other for a moment, trying not to smile at the banter, before you roll your eyes in mock annoyance and lay back down, resting your head on his chest. Kakashi wraps his free arm comfortably around you, trailing delicate patterns along your shoulder with his fingertips.

“Are you feeling better?” you ask quietly.

“A bit. Thank you. I hope you aren’t too sore.”

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna feel it tomorrow. I haven’t done anal in months.” Then you lift your head to give him a cheeky grin, resting your chin on his chest. “Worth it, though. I mean, I finally got to see your face after all these years, so I’m not complaining.”

His lips twitch, like he’s trying not to laugh. “You could have just asked.”

You scoff. “Pass.”

Then you go to lay your head back down, but he stops you.

“Wait. Look at me.” When you do as he says, Kakashi brushes his thumb along the corner of your mouth. “You’ve got something right here.”

“What?” Frowning, you lift your chin a little so he can have a better look. “Well, get it, then.”

Before you can react, he leans in to give you a quick, unexpected kiss.

You blink at him, your heartbeat stuttering inside of your chest.

“Got it,” he hums, licking his lips.

Your cheeks flush all over again. “You—That’s—”

“What, am I only allowed to kiss you if I’m inside you?”

“No! Just…” Your face feels on fire, and you look away, embarrassed. There’s a difference between sex and intimacy, and you’ve just discovered the fine line between them. “Just warn me next time.”

“All right.” You can hear the amusement in his voice, but he doesn’t poke fun at you any longer. Instead, Kakashi leans up to grab the blankets with his free hand, after which he pulls them over you both and wraps that same arm around you, holding you closer than before. “Get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

Nestled comfortably in his arms, you finally allow your eyelids to flutter shut. “Night, Kakashi.”

His lips brush tenderly over your forehead, before he whispers, “Goodnight.”

—

A/N: yes they need a shower. no we do not acknowledge this. lmao

thank you for reading! if you could please please please keysmash in the comments or reblog to show your appreciation, it would give me sooo much dopamine :)) thank you!!!

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