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tinyshyteacup · 19 days ago

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• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…" Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?" Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

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kiwanopie · 2 years ago

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Overnight Lovin’

Sakusa Kiyoomi x Reader

cw: smut, alcohol mention, oral sex(f!receving), dumbification, dirty talk, whipped!Kiyoomi, mutually cumdrunk, PnV sex, creampie. Minors do not interact.

wc: 3.2k

This is not your bedroom.

As much as you’d kill for it to be. Silk cotton stuffed duvet a rich maroon in accordance to equally as soft sheets. Carefully shined mahogany floors checkered in wine colored Persian, a bedroom that’s more fantasy love suite than any commonplace bedroom and fuck if this mattress isn’t like heaven to lay on.

But this isn’t your bedroom.

You point your nose to the oversized shirt flooding a little under your collarbones. It’s just a simple horror tee. Dark colored kanji hovering over an illustration of Jason half obscured by cartoon blood and soft to the cotton touch. It’s big enough to cover a good portion of your thighs that are… not dressed with anything. Huh. Yeah, you are- You feel up your modest covering with a quick pat down of your hands. - Completely naked under this. And honestly a little sore. A certain shift of your hips has your pelvic area throbbing back at you like it’s already tapping out, fingerprint bruises on your thighs that feel tender when you poke them; even your tits are sore - nipples perking under your shirt like they’ve already been prodded and played with. Whoever the hell you went home with last night gave you a run for your money.

Come to think of it, what the hell even happened last night? Last you remember you were twisting your hips against a bar stool while your college buddies raved on ecstasy and coke on the dance floor. — A Shirley temple was enough to start your party high without indulging in any illicit drugs, but you’ve never been much of a drinker. That fizzy cherry vodka already had you buzzing, a few more of those and who knows what’ll happen.

You bite your lip against the grain of new life and newer feelings of lechery. You look too good and too soft not to be bent over a sink somewhere.

“That sweet?” His voice turns your fine hairs into goosebumps. “Looks tasty.”

You gaze up at him with doey eyes so filled with mirth that it makes his palms sweat. “It is.”

You slide your bottom lip through your teeth. Voice as pretty as you are. “You want a sip?”

He’s the smell of Dior and vetiver as he lifts the glass cuplet out of your hands. “Sure.”

You don’t remember who he was or what he looked like but just the memory of his raspy voice turns your sore throbbing into a needy ache. — If the way the sink in his bathroom abruptly stops with a moment of sluggish shuffling, you’re about to find out who exactly it was that rocked your world last night.

You’re already looking up at him when the door opens with a neat click, his muscled limbs stretch his boxers in a way that can only be described as appetizing.

And then you get a good look at his face.

Oh. Holy shit.

There’s… That’s-… How? He looks exactly like he does on his team’s magazine covers. JSM’s top ten lists, Bungeishunjū, and news outlets that brandish his face for a chance at watchability. He’s even more handsome in person. Trademark resting bitch face does little to dilute how painfully attractive he is and if anything the intimidation factor is a bonus. As well as the fame, the money, and of course his position as one of the top most well known athletes in all of Asia.

His name precedes him, the renowned Olympic volleyball player feels even taller than the humble 6’4 his Wikipedia pages cite him as,

He’s Sakusa Kiyoomi.

If it weren’t for the disorienting confusion you may have screamed. This is the guy who fucked you last night within an inch of your life.

Your voice is a little raspy which is expected, but when you open your mouth your jaw is sore. “Ohayō Gozaimasu-“

He clears the floor from the bathroom to the bed in just a few footsteps, you can barely react when he’s grabbing you by the jaw and tilting your head up for a better angle.

And then he’s kissing you.

The kiss is slow and sensual, so sultry that you moan a little in his mouth and he breathes into it with a deep hum. He’s kissing you like he loves you, like he’s crazy about you and like he just can’t get enough. The current of the kiss follows a savory kind of spit swapping that turns your inner thighs misty, and he pulls away with a soft smack that all but leaves a gossamer trail.

His thumb rubs circles on the soft of your cheek. “Ohayō.”

Your heart skips at the little peck he leaves on your lips before finally pulling away.

He runs a large hand through his tousled hair as he moves for a dresser near the vanity. “I ordered us some breakfast that should be here within the hour,”

He pulls out a shirt. “I’d make you some breakfast from scratch but,” Sakusa tugs it over his head. “I figured it’d be cruel to subject you to my cooking this early on.”

You blow a humored breath out of your nose. “I appreciate the sentiment regardless,”

He approaches the bed again and sits himself down across from you, there are love bites on his neck that probably match yours. “I hope you slept well.” He hums. “I slept like a rock because of you, actually.”

Oh god, you don’t even wanna know what kind of raunchy shit you were up to last night.

“I slept like the dead.” You crawl up to him, he’s already opening his arms for you. “Whatever you did put me out like a light.”

You fit in his arms so well it’s almost scary, he wraps his arms around you like he might never let you go. “Uh, Sakusa-san?”

He furrows. “Last name?”

You smile apologetically. “Kiyoomi,” You correct yourself. “I don’t… remember a lot of last night. We came back here from the club, right?”

“You…?” Kiyoomi’s eyebrows shoot up incredulously. “You don’t remember?”

“Not a lot.” You shake your head.

He frowns.

But even still his hand rubs fond lines up and down your back, still holding you just as faithfully, and looking up at you like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. “We marathoned a few drinks and then I had us dropped off at my place. I think… we started in the car, and then in my living room, and then the kitchen, the hallway, my bedroom finally; and then after a few hours we finished each other off in the shower. Around five we kissed until you eventually fell asleep.”

Kiyoomi traces the curves of your lips as he gazes fondly. “Last night was the best night of my life, I think. I don’t know if I’ve ever been with someone who could make me feel so good.” He proclaims. “I hope it’ll all come to you eventually, it was really something special.”

Well with the way he’s been treating you up to this point, it’s not like you’ll have a hard time believing that. Every earnest caress and look of adoration, the way his voice timbres into a loving hum, so smooth it makes you shiver. Hopefully those memories do come back at some point. You’ll never live it down if you actually missed the best night of your life.

You muse it with a little pout at the thought of that, Kiyoomi debates leaning forward and sucking your bottom lip into his mouth. “Hopefully I do remember then. It sounds like we had a lot of fun,”

Your pout drops after a short moment of consideration and you lean in even closer. The soft tip of your nose grazes in feather strokes as you skim it over his and slowly ease your lips down the path way to his, tasting his shuddering breaths as you hover there for a few painful seconds. But he all but melts when you finally meet. A chaste lingering kiss at first, a few sensuous short ones; you do him the courtesy and suck his bottom lip in your mouth instead. — Letting it snap back before you’re starting a trail down his cheek and kissing up until you're nosing under his jaw, using your loving hand to tilt his head up and give you the access that you seek.

He could buy you a ring right now, he wouldn’t even regret it. You don't even remember what you two got up to last night and still you’re caressing him in a way that gives him goosebumps. If you keep this up, he might wind up funding your entire life.

You bring your head up again and pull him into another kiss. Slow and open mouthed, and he damn near purrs when you start pushing your fingers through his hair. “Regardless, you feel amazing.” You whisper against his lips.

God, you might be trying to kill him. “I wouldn’t mind a refresher if you’re up for it.”

He sighs through his nose as he ducks his head to burrow himself into the crevasse over your shoulder, already peppering in searing kisses down your throat. “I was hoping you’d say something like that.”

Kiyoomi sucks in a love bite that makes you whimper so pretty. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good you can’t take it.”

With the way you’re already making a mess in his lap, you believe him.

—

He’s a good kisser.

Regardless of where his lips end up. He’s a little messy, a little heavy with tongue, slow when it matters and firm when it counts. He’s great with his mouth. Surprising since he’s known for being somewhat of a recluse in the opinion of the public eye. Some call him aloof, others call him cold, the majority call him intimidating, but right now what comes to your mind is giving.

The way he spits on your already messy pussy makes your eyes roll.

You inadvertently hump into his face as the combination of his tongue and fingers set the pit in your stomach ablaze. He’s fucking you with his mouth so thoroughly that the skewlch of your building arousal reverbates throughout the room. You almost feel bad about how much your thighs are all but compressing the sides of his head, but every effort to lighten up on him has him tightening his hold on you to keep him locked against your sloppy cunt.

You hiss through your teeth as your fingers card through his hair. “F-Fuck… Omi…!”

Kiyoomi moans against your clit at the wanton sound of your pitched voice. Airy, and breathy, and intoxicating. He’s grinding himself so desperately into the mattress that he’s sure he’s gone sticky.

The veins in his arms pop as he persistently fucks his fingers into your tight little hole, sloppily sucking your swollen clit as the way you roll your hips into his face drives him crazy. “You’re gonna make me cum…!” You whimper. “Fuck, Kiyoomi!”

That crude mixture of his spit and your cum is starting to form a little puddle under your backside, every bit of you he doesn’t get to swallow he doubles his efforts to drink you up sprucely.

Hearing you teeter over the edge makes him feel like he’s following close behind. Your moans are so astonishingly pretty that it’s turning his brain all fuzzy. “Ffffuck! Oh fuck. Oh my god, baby! Fuck-! I-I’m…I’m cumming…!”

Kiyoomi groans drunkenly into your cunt as it suckles on his fingers, he’s so determined to drink every last drop of your cum that he almost comes off as depraved. Lewdly slurping you up as the way he desperately sucks on your clit makes you whine into the air. Still indulging himself in your mess even as you whimper from overstimulation.

He only pulls away because the way you’re begging for him to fuck you is sending him into a frenzy. “Wan’ it so bad, Omi. Please? Do whatever you want to me. U-Use me up!”

“Yeah?” Kiyoomi hums into your mouth as you suck yourself off of his tongue. “Want me to use you? I’ll fuck you till you cry, you know.”

Your misty eyes make his heart skip, the way the head of his cock catches your entrance feels like stepping into heaven all over again. “Please, baby? Give it to me. ‘Wanna feel you inside!”

He gapes a little as he presses himself in, so overwhelmed that his head falls into your shoulder and it’s an effort for him not to outright cry out at how fucking unreal you feel.

He thinks he might just be falling in love with you. Having a pussy like this may just be a hazard for his mental health, there’s no way he’s letting this slip throughout his fingers. “Oh my god,” Kiyoomi chokes. “O-Oh my fucking god.”

“You feel… unbelievable, angel,” He starts his pace. God, fucking you is actually pushing him to the brink of insanity. “…oh my fucking-… s-so tight! So fucking wet for me, angel… holy shit…- you’re so good to me, baby.”

His breathless praises are sending you alight. He’s so deep in your guts that you’re sure you’d find a bulge if you looked down at where your bodies meet. “So good…! So, so good!”

The way you hold each other is so desperate and devoted that it feels biblical. “I can feel you in my stomach, Omi… So deep…! Y-You’re… too deep!”

Kiyoomi grunts as he pushes himself in to the hilt and holds himself there for a blissful second. Grinding his hips in shallow circles that make you choke on your tongue, but you barely know the half of until he’s lifting up one of your legs.

And then the other, lifting on his knees till he’s hovering over your pretty face, - and then he starts pistoning.

The way your face contorts from a flustered glimmer of welling tears to a blissed out gape that cutens as your tears fall is enough to make his balls feel tight enough to burst. Never mind how fucking amazing this new angle is, watching you lose your mind under him as those pretty tits move to the current of his thrusts is making his brain feel all cloudy. — He’s sure the eye contact he’s keeping is transparent in the fact that he’s turned a little love drunk. Ducking his head to press tempered kisses on your throat, but he can’t help himself from the way his lips skim up to your ear and his mouth moves without him really thinking about it.

It’s a pleasure induced haze, he’s sure. But he can’t be forgiven for the absolute filthy things he’s saying to you.

“You hear that?” He drags in a few particularly forceful thrusts that make you sob so prettily for him. “You’re really soaking me up, huh.”

“Is it that good? You feel me deep in your tummy?” Kiyoomi swivels his hips. “S-Shit. What a pretty fucking noise that just was. Fuck, baby. - Oh, are you crying?”

“Too much?” But even still he presses more of his weight on you until every thrust is hitting you to the hilt. So deep that every other press of his hips forces a yip out of you that makes his face hot. — He’s really starting to think he might be ruined for anyone else at this point.

“You’re g’nna take it for me anyway though, huh? Slutty baby… You’re gonna let me fuck you brain dead? Fuck you till you’re all stupid for me?”

You sound as far gone as he is. “Y- Yes! Yes!”

“Yeah, that’s it, angel. Such a… fuck… good fucking girl for me.”

You must be close to cumming cause you’re really starting to milk him for all he’s worth. Sucking him back in every time he pulls away and every moment he continues to fuck into you you only get tighter.

He’s losing his mind. “Ohhh fuck. Fuck! I swear to god I’m gonna break you. G’nna - shit - gonna fuck you till you’re all mine, yeah? H-Holy shit-“

Kiyoomi groans at the way your fingernails start to dig groves into his back. “Mhm. Mark me up, angel. Wanna see you all over me when we’re done.”

You grab a helping of his hair and hold on to it for dear life, you’re drooling at this point. “Oh my god… oh m’ god, Kiyoomi… I’m- I’m gonna make a mess!”

“Yeah?” Which obviously means he’s reaching down to rub messy circles on your clit. “Gonna make a mess? Wanna soak me in your pretty cum?”

“Give it to me then, baby. I’ll fill you up so good when you do.”

You croon in his ear and it sounds like gospel.

And then you’re soaking the bed with your cum.

Kiyoomi doesn’t let up even as your juices wet down his pelvis and legs. He doesn’t stop his punishing thrusts or the rhythm he’s keeping on your clit, still whispering words of filth and praise in your ear, — and it looks like you’ve completely lost yourself to the pleasure at this point. The way his name is clipping so desperately off your tongue is making his eyes roll into his head. And it’s just a few more moments of fucking into your spasming pussy till he’s following you off the edge.

“Oh god. Oh my god.” He hisses. “Mmmh - Oh fuck, baby. I’m cumming… f-fuck! I’m cumming. I’m cumming.”

Oh god, even after last night there’s still so much of it. So much and so hot. Just the feeling of clenching on his hot cum as he continues to fuck into you is sending you over the edge again. God, the sounds you’re both making. Thank goodness his penthouse is big enough to not worry about disturbing any of his neighbors, reinforced flooring probably snuffing out the sound of your debauched love making. He’s never been the most vocal in bed but you’re making him whine into your ear like a cheap whore. And the sounds you’re making - Fuck, the sounds you’re making, he wouldn’t be surprised if he turned his head and found the decorative plants near his terrace sprouting flowers. It shouldn’t even be possible to sound that fucking good and feel this fucking amazing all at once.

Kiyoomi doesn’t even realize that bed making firm clicks into the wall until he starts to slow up his thrusts. Gradually coming down from his high until his desperate movements become slow and sensuous grinding, still rocking into you even as you settle again in his arms.

He lifts his head to bring you into a lazy kiss, a little sloppy, a little butterfly inducing.

You sigh into his lips. “…Holy shit.”

Kiyoomi pulls away to press a few slow kisses into your jaw. “I think I just might be addicted to you.”

“You’re telling me…” You cross your legs over his back. “Is it too early to suggest we go steady?”

He snorts a little. “As if I’m letting you go anywhere after that.”

Kiyoomi raises his back to gingerly kiss you on the lips, so tender it feels loving. Even as he pulls away he seems ailed by it. He is ailed by it. He can’t even imagine how he’ll fare when he has to get up eventually.

His breath is warm against your lips. The way he speaks to you feels reverent. “You’re stuck with me now.”

You smile. And he goosebumps. “Aren’t I lucky then?”

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pedropascallme · 1 year ago

Text

After The After Party

Pairing: Damien Haas x f!Reader

Summary: “‘Have you ever noticed,’ Courtney popped her lips together, spreading the gloss, ‘That Damien only ever offers to host when he knows you’re going to come?’ She turned to you again, leaning back, elbows on the sink. ‘Almost like he just wants an excuse to have you over.’”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI) p in v sex, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, dom/sub dynamics, praise, creampie, soft!dom Damien who is also incredibly needy, mentions of drinking/alcohol, brief mention of gambling. If I missed anything please let me know!

AN: This is so dialogue heavy and I won't even apologize for it. Dedicated to the idiots to lovers mfs out there <3 (part 2 | part 3)

Long shoot blocks, you’d learned, usually devolved into long nights out. The cast and crew—or, at least, those of whom had the time and the desire to let loose—often found themselves in bars with high ceilings, with music playing too loud, and drinks that were just strong enough. There were nights when you lost Arasha and Amanda to the grimy dancefloor as soon as you passed the threshold, and nights when you watched from afar as Chanse cozied up to a beautiful stranger.

You liked listening to your friends talk and laugh as if you weren’t all exhausted after the grueling work week.

You liked feeling like part of something.

Some nights, though, when Shayne and Spencer got tired of hugging the wall, and when you’d all realized how expensive it was to go out as often as you did, someone would offer their house as a respite from the outside world. It was a chance to avoid prying eyes and the same top 40 hits that seemed to play at every bar.

Now, you found yourself at Damien’s house; someone had dimmed the lights, and from your spot on the couch you could hear glasses clinking in the kitchen as Tommy poured various liquids into a makeshift mixer. Your friends held mugs of alcohol, pretending to be above the culture of red solo cups.

You watched Amanda and Angela play a card game you didn’t know on the coffee table in front of you.

“Your pile is huge—your pile is huge, oh my god!” Amanda’s voice carried over the other noises around you. You leaned against Angela’s shoulder.

“Because you’re playing wrong! You’re cheating! You’re literally cheating and it’s so uncool.” Angela tried to grab Amanda’s cards, and you smiled at their back and forth. You were admittedly distracted, but trying to play it cool, pretending your mind wasn’t elsewhere as Angela jostled your head.

You watched Damien out of the corner of your eye. He stood across the room, toying with one of his rings, nodding along to something Alex was saying.

You tried not to stare, but there was something so attractive about the way he looked in a space all his own; he didn’t command attention—Damien hated being the center of attention, especially when it was easily avoidable—but he had a way about him tonight that just seemed so relaxed, and it was hard to ignore. Especially when he was already taking up most of your thoughts as it was.

For as long as you’d worked with Damien, he was someone you looked forward to seeing. He wasn’t the only reason you got out of bed, but he was certainly up there on the list. Thoughtful, considerate; he was a generally good-natured person. He made the days go faster, making jokes and ensuring you felt included as a newer member of the cast.

And you liked his laugh, and the way he listened, and the soft color of his hazel eyes that looked somewhere close to green in the light.

It was no secret that you found him alluring, but you felt that it was better to keep those thoughts out of his orbit. If not for your sake, for his. It just seemed unfair to come onto him after you’d spent so much time together as friends, especially when he had given you no reason to think that he felt anything for you beyond camraderie.

You sat up from your position on Angela's shoulder, moving your head to get a better look at Damien. He noticed, shooting you a smile. You reciprocated it, offering a small wave, keeping your elbow low and fingers folded near your palm. He waved back, and you both quickly returned to your respective conversations.

Amanda and Angela had gone back to playing their game, light-hearted fighting words replaced by laughs as they smacked cards down.

There was a tap on your shoulder, and Courtney pulled you up from the couch.

“Come to the bathroom with me.” She set a cup of something that smelled strong on the table.

The rules of the bar still applied to house parties, and you had no problem tagging along on trips to the bathroom, sitting pretty while your friends fixed whatever makeup was still left of that morning’s full beat. You followed Courtney down the hallway and into the bathroom.

“You’re bright red, you know,” They wasted no time in grilling you, running the water and dabbing it under their eyes to wipe away streaks of mascara that had rubbed off.

“I had a Tommy special.” You sat on the edge of the bathtub.

“That’s not—you can handle your liquor.” Courtney turned, combing through their hair with her fingers, “You’re not blushing just because Tommy gave you one vodka cran.”

“It wasn’t a vodka cran. It was a vodka soda.” You could tell where the conversation was headed, and you tried to veer it off track.

“You’re not as slick as you think you are.” Courtney raised a brow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. He hasn’t even spoken to me tonight.” You contradicted yourself, markedly aware of what she was referring to and feeding into the topic, but disputing what you could.

“You’re oblivious.” Courtney laughed, fishing lip gloss from her pocket and turning back to the mirror.

“What do you mean?” You stood behind them, watching her reapply the color to their lips.

“Have you ever noticed,” Courtney popped her lips together, spreading the gloss, “That Damien only ever offers to host when he knows you’re going to come?” She turned to you again, leaning back, elbows on the sink. “Almost like he just wants an excuse to have you over.”

“He doesn’t do that. Damien is always offering to host. Doesn’t matter if I’m here or not.” You retorted.

“Not true,” they shook their head, “On days that you're not around and we don’t feel like going to the bar, Tommy always hosts. Or Amanda. Or Ian.”

“Tommy has more alcohol at his place.” You ignored the rest of the list, still trying to change the subject.

“Dude,” Courtney was laughing now, “It’s like you don’t want to see it.”

“See what?” Your ears began to feel hot.

“That he likes you as much as you like him.” The words had a tone of finality. “Why are you so nervous?”

“Bec—are you serious? Why wouldn’t I be nervous? Why would I run the risk of ruining a perfectly good friendship? Or, you know, whatever it is—however you might describe what it is!” You started to ramble, digging yourself into a hole, “What happens if something happens and then—it could ruin work, Court. It could ruin everything!” You suddenly became aware that you were whisper-yelling. You cleared your throat, returning to a normal tone of voice. “It could ruin everything. That’s why people don’t fuck their coworkers.”

Courtney said nothing, just held up their hand and made a point of showing you the wedding band around their ring finger. She cleared her throat.

“That’s different.” You tried to backpedal.

“How?” Courtney looked amused, eager to hear your half-baked reasoning.

“Cause of course that worked out. Look at how Shayne looks at you. Look at how obvious of a pairing you two are.”

“Same way Damien looks at you.” Courtney smirked.

“You’re reading into this more than I am.” You shook your head at them. “He would’ve made a point to do something by now.”

“Are we…talking about the same Damien?” Courtney laughed, and you responded with a tight-lipped scowl. “In what world would he ever make a first move?”

“The ideal one. Where everything goes my way.” You scoffed, folding your arms.

“Right,” Courtney put a hand on your waist, and you looked at each other. “Approach this with more confidence, is all I’m saying. Give yourself—give him—the opportunity to make something happen.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, unfolding your arms and rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Yeah, no, you’re right.” She gave you a cocky look, and you slapped their arm gently, “Don’t rub it in.”

“You’re hot,” Courtney rubbed her thumb over the exposed skin of your waist, “And sweet. You deserve the world. And I love the both of you more than words, but you act like you’ve never had a crush before.”

“Not like this.” You admitted, and they smiled.

“I know. But you have nothing to lose.” They looked around as if they were afraid someone might be listening from behind the shower curtain, “I have it on good authority that he feels just as strongly about this thing—” she gesticulated vaguely, “as you do.” She smiled, turning to open the door. You grabbed her by the arm.

“What did Shayne tell you—what did Damien tell Shayne?” You tried to pull them back as they turned the door handle, but she wiggled from your grasp.

“You didn’t hear it from me!” She called back to you, leaving you alone in the bathroom to ruminate on the conversation.

~~~

It was still early when people started to trickle out. You knew when Shayne and Courtney left that the party was over.

“Do you guys need a ride?” You sidled up to Courtney where she stood in the foyer with Shayne, “I don’t mind driving you home. I’m sober. Stone cold.”

“Oh my god—Steve Austin, I love your work!” Spencer called over to you while he herded a cheerfully inebriated Tommy through the door. Shayne let out a quick, barking laugh.

“No, don’t worry about it. We’re ubering.” Courtney moved hair from your face, and you saw something dubious hidden in her smile. She leaned further into your space, lowering their voice, “And you’re not going anywhere.”

“What?” You made a face.

“Give yourself,” they pressed a finger to your chest, “an opportunity.”

You grasped her hand, squeezing her fingers. Shayne looked on, and if he knew what you were talking about, he kept it to himself.

“I’m leaving. I’ll be gone—out the door right after you.” You argued, and Courtney raised her eyebrows, waving you off before exiting. Shayne followed close behind her.

You didn’t leave right after them. As it turned out, you didn’t really want to leave at all.

You liked Damien’s house. It was spooky year-round, warm in both temperature and color palette, and his couch was cozy.

It wasn’t just the furniture; Damien’s presence was equally as, if not more, comforting. He walked around picking up whatever had been misplaced during the night, trying to find the right spot for it all. He hummed quietly to himself, shooing the cats away with his feet.

“I’m sorry for not helping,” you shifted on the couch, lying on your side.

“Don’t be sorry,” he smiled, “It’s fun to organize.”

“That is such a you thing to say, you know that?”

“What is?”

“That organizing is fun.”

“It is. Especially when I have company while I do it.” He looked pointedly at you. You held eye contact.

“You can tell me to leave. If you’re done for the night.”

“Why would I want you to leave?” He looked genuinely curious as to why you would think he’d want you gone.

“If you’re tired, or something. I get it.”

“No,” he shook his head, grabbing a cup that had been left half-full on a bookshelf, “I like having you around.”

“Can I get that as a written statement? Signed, dated…” You sat up a bit, positioning your head on the armrest of the sofa.

“Absolutely not. Nobody can ever know.” He laughed, and you couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

“Come sit with me.” You leaned over to pat a cushion before returning to your reclined position.

It could’ve just been the liquid courage you’d ingested, but you’d only had one drink. It was hardly enough to make you feel a buzz, let alone get you drunk. Maybe you were just thinking too much about what Courtney had said, about giving yourself a chance, finding an opening to let him in. Or maybe you were just really, really comfortable where you were spread out on the couch. For once, though, the confidence seemed to be your own doing.

Damien put down the cup in his hand and settled on the couch. You rested your feet on his thigh, and he placed a hand on your shin.

You’d always felt that any one-on-one time you got with him had a deadline, like you were on a time crunch based off of when the next video needed to be filmed or when your friends would join the conversation. It made the moments alone with him all the more enjoyable.

You liked being here, alone with him.

You liked it a lot.

“You wanna do something?” Damien leaned his head back on the couch, stretching his arms out beside him. You tried not to pay too much attention to the way the fabric of his t-shirt hugged his arms and the broad expanse of his chest.

“Like what?” You quirked a brow.

"Something low energy that makes us feel like we’re doing something…” He mulled over the possibilities, “Smash Bros?”

You nodded. “Wanna make it interesting?”

“I’m not putting money down.”

“Because you’re scared?”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “Scared you’ll lose. Wouldn’t wanna take a chunk out of your day rate.”

“You fucking wish,” you kicked at him gently. “I wasn’t thinking the gambling route.”

“So what were you thinking?”

“You ever played strip poker?”

Damien looked taken aback, and you regretted your proposal almost instantly. “Are you suggesting we play strip Smash?” He broke into a fit of laughter.

“We don’t—it was just a thought.” You tried to retract your suggestion.

“I didn’t say no.” He held your gaze, and you felt a tug in your stomach. “But if you get cold, tell me.”

“You say that like I’m going to lose.”

“Oh, is that what that sounded like?” He tossed you a controller, “Good. Cause that’s what I meant.”

You kicked at him again.

You lost your socks first. Then your shirt. You didn’t know whether or not to thank or chastise yourself for remembering to wear a bra. Your pants quickly followed, and though it was far from a matching set, you were relieved that your undergarments were at least presentable.

You were acutely aware of your own body now; the rise and fall of your chest and the way you moved your legs when you got caught up in the game. You didn’t notice Damien: how he bit the inside of his cheek so hard when you took off your shirt that he flinched; how he nearly lost his grip on the controller when your jeans came off; how he kept shifting in his seat.

You especially didn’t notice the way he looked at you. His eyes flicked over your face with a combination of pride and adoration, and they darkened significantly when his gaze dropped below your collar and took in your half-naked form.

“How far are you gonna take this?” Damien was grinning, his voice the only other sound against the backdrop of in-game blasts and the click of thumbs on controllers.

“Down to my skin.” You shot him a glance and he cleared his throat.

“Won’t be long, then.”

“Yeah?” You bumped your shoulder against his lightly.

“You’re oh-for-three.” He pointed out, and you pushed against him again, harder this time, in an attempt to throw him off his rhythm.

“Let me choose a different character.” You tried to reach for his hands to grab at the controller. He held it up and away from his body.

“I don’t think the character is the problem,” he laughed, face lighting up at the way you sneered in frustration. “I’m not pausing just so you can be Kirby.”

“Who said I wanted to be Kirby?” You chastised him.

“Did you want to be Kirby?” He looked smug when he turned to face you, his hands still out of reach. You realized how close you’d gotten to him over the course of your teasing exchange, and suddenly recognized that the opportunity Courtney had been alluding to was right in front of you.

You moved to straddle his waist, legs framing his body and tits inches from his face as you stretched out to grab his hands, removing the controller from his grasp. You tossed it to the side and Damien was frozen as you shifted to look behind you at the screen, your victory now swift thanks to the lack of any opponent.

You turned back to him with a smile. “Did you want to be Kirby,” you imitated him, echoing his taunt. “Lose the shirt, Dames.”

Damien looked up at you, frozen. The tension was almost visible, like fogged glass, and you had no idea how to clear the air. You were nearly certain that you had made a terrible mistake, that everything about tonight was about to go wrong.

You were unable to make eye contact with him—afraid that by looking at him you would completely fall apart and lose the edge you’d only just found. Throughout your mental battle with yourself, Damien still hadn't moved, his gaze fixed on your face.

You tried to make your fear dissipate by breaking the silence.

“What?” You laughed, a little awkwardly.

Damien swallowed. “I...sorry,” His eyes were wide as he spoke, “I just got…very nervous and—and really turned on.”

Oh.

He let out a small, huffed laugh, smiling up at you in a moment of awe. He blinked hard a few times before moving his arm to rest behind his head.

“That…that makes two of us, then,” you stayed where you were, placing your hands on your thighs. You licked your lips, exhaling, before finding the nerve to continue. “You still have to take your shirt off, though. You lost. Rules are rules.”

“Didn't you get to take your socks off first?” He narrowed his eyes playfully.

“You can take them off," your words were coy. "You want me to move?”

“I never said that.” He shook his head, leaning forward just enough to grant him the space to remove his t-shirt. He tossed it to the side, and you felt your whole body flood with nerves and anticipation when he leaned back against the couch on full display for you.

“Are you cold?” Damien brought his hand up to cup your elbow, and it was only then that you became aware of the goosebumps that had broken out over your flesh.

“No…No. Just…” You swallowed, moving slightly on his lap. “Just nervous.”

He let out a small laugh. “Do you—I mean…” He was entranced, unable to remove his eyes from your face for the fear that if he looked at any more of you, you’d be able to feel his reaction. You reached out to trace a hand over his chest, admiring him and letting the heat of his skin warm your palm. “Would you mind if…” He bit his lip, closing his eyes while your fingers grazed his flesh. He took a deep breath. “Can I kiss you?”

You stopped your hand, letting it linger on the center of his chest, just above his stomach. Damien gingerly placed a hand on your waist, and for just a moment you wondered if he could feel the desperation seeping through your skin.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can kiss me.” you nodded, maybe a little overzealous, “Please.”

You leaned forward into him. You could feel the weight of his hand on your body and the thrum of your own heartbeat in your chest as it threatened to break through your ribcage. You watched him suck in a sharp, deep breath before his other hand cupped your face. You closed your eyes, letting him guide you into the kiss.

It was tender. You moved slowly, in tandem with him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, letting yourself settle into him as you got lost in the way his mouth felt on yours. You let your lips part, making space for his tongue to dip between them and explore you further. You let out a quiet moan when he licked into you, and you let your own tongue delve beyond his lips to take a taste of what you’d been craving so urgently. His grip on your waist tightened in response to your sounds, and you took it upon yourself to test the waters, rolling your hips against him. You were rewarded with the feeling of his stiffening cock between your legs, and a gruff sound that caught in his throat. His hand moved from your face to the back of your head, applying light pressure to keep you steady as the kiss became hungrier, and he bit at your bottom lip.

When you parted, both of you pausing to catch your breath, he looked up at you, quietly chuckling to himself.

“What?” You let your hands wander over his shoulders, “Was it that bad?”

“What? No—god, no. No, I’ve just…I’ve always wanted to do that.” Damien smiled, moving his thumb in a soothing pattern over your hip, “I’ve always wanted to do that…” He trailed off, raking his eyes over you and letting both hands move up and down your sides.

“Really?” You posed the question with your eyes closed, lost in his touch. You let yourself fall forward on his chest.

“Really.” He sighed dreamily, “I can’t begin to explain to you how much space you take up in my head. The real thing is a lot better than the imaginary version.”

“But you can do whatever you want in your imagination.” You pointed out, pressed against him and tracing lines over his collar with one finger.

“Yeah. Sure. But nothing I think up could ever beat this.” His fingers grazed the clasp of your bra, “And, full transparency, I’ve thought up a lot.”

You laughed, pushing yourself up with both hands on his chest to really look at him; his hair was messy, and his cheeks were flushed pink.

He looked flawless. You felt flawless.

“Damien,” your tone was saccharine, still tinged with a shy edge but steadily coming into your own with help from Damien’s clear reciprocation of your feelings, “Do you wanna show me all the thoughts you’ve had?” You watched his face go stern at your words, still hinting his amusement with a small, nearly hidden smile. “Do you wanna act on them?”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him; somehow the feeling of your tits pressed against his bare chest was almost more intimate than the kiss you’d just shared. You squealed, tossing your head back, which he took as an opportunity to leave dainty kisses on your throat, muttering against your skin.

“I don’t think you’ve ever seen my room.” His voice was gravelly, parched from the kisses he left on your skin as he picked you up. You gasped, suddenly off the ground and in his arms as he carried you down the hall; one of his hands trailed down your body, and you felt his fingers dig into the flesh of your upper thigh to keep his hold on you. You hid your face in the crook of his neck, letting him overwhelm your senses.

You got lost momentarily, like time had paused or sped up or stopped completely, but then you were in his room. The lights were dim, just as they were in the rest of the house, and the shelves stacked with various tchotchkes and books that you were too distracted to care about in the moment.

You realized that a person could look like their home, in a way, and you recalled the moment earlier in the evening when you had found yourself so attracted to how Damien carried himself in his own space. It’s because the space was just as welcoming, just as comforting and soothing as he was.

He let his grip on you loosen, and you landed on his bed, hands still wrapped around him and tentative of letting go. But you didn’t have to; he lay next to you, rolling onto his side and pulling you against him in a swift maneuver that placed you comfortably on his chest.

He didn’t kiss you, maybe out of anxiety that he was moving too fast for your taste, or just because he felt the moment didn’t call for it, but he brushed his nose against yours and let his hands linger on your waist.

“Is this what you thought about?” You whispered, letting him continue his quiet ministrations, “Taking me to bed and touching me like this?”

“And so much more,” he breathed, hands moving up your back, trying to commit your entire body to memory. “I hope you—I didn’t mean for it to come off like I’ve only ever thought about fucking you.”

You moved to rub your thumb over his cheek. “What did you mean?”

“That I don’t want you to be my friend,” he smiled, and your heart dropped for a second before he continued, “That I think about you all the time in ways that friends don’t think about each other. And I…” He searched for the right words, “Even after a night like this, even after, you know, seeing everybody and having everybody over—even when a place is full of people, and noise…You’re still the only person I can pay attention to. Or think about.”

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, and he pulled away from you to meet your gaze.

“Does that sound really stupid?”

“No,” you reassured him, pulling him back towards you, “No, it’s…you put it into words, Damien.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I get it. I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe what you mean to me, and you just,” you laughed again, trying to collect yourself, “You did the work for me.” You smiled, tilting your head back with your chest still pressed against him, making sure he paid attention to what you were saying. “I love you.”

You watched his face change, something in his eyes and the curl of his lips looked different in a way you couldn’t pinpoint. You couldn’t look for long, because he was on you again in a flash, arms wrapping around you, engulfing you with his body and tugging you into him. His lips crashed against yours, and it was hungry, and messy, and passionate, so much so that you couldn’t be bothered to care about the clack of teeth or the small bead of spit that fell from the corner of your lip.

“I love you,” Damien’s voice sounded tight, higher than it had been all night, “I love you.” He freely explored your body now, big hands reaching over your ass and offering soft squeezes before grazing your sides and the swell of your breasts.

“You know how,” you managed to get a few words in between heated kisses, “you said you didn’t want it to come off as if you only wanted to fuck me?” You let out a small moan when he licked a stripe up your neck and to your earlobe, mumbling quiet curses to yourself at the feel of his tongue on your body.

“Mhm,” Damien acknowledged your words without breaking away from you, still nipping at your neck while you let your breathing mellow so that you could continue speaking.

“Want you to fuck me,” you put a hand in his hair, forming a fist in the silver strands and pulling him up to make eye contact. “Damien, I want you to fuck me.”

He looked almost surprised, like he had forgotten physical intimacy beyond kissing you was even an option. The look of mild shock was replaced with clear enthusiasm as he moved to get off of the bed. “I’d hate to make you ask twice.”

He shed his jeans, and you realized this was more of him than you had ever seen before; standing next to you was the man that took up all your thoughts, ready and willing to give you what you wanted, his eyes like pools of reverence as they trailed over your form.

You couldn’t help but feel excited, uncaring if you came off as desperate. You sat up and moved to the edge of the bed, situating yourself on your knees. Your hands found purchase on his chest and slowly moved down his stomach until you reached the waistband of his boxers.

“Eager,” he let your hands wander, watching on as you explored. You paused, looking up at him to wordlessly ask if you were allowed to go further. “Don’t be shy, baby,” something about his tone had changed, and the cheerful voice you’d come to know and love was replaced with a deeper, rasping sound that you thought you might like even more. “You can touch. Take what you need.”

The words reached your core before they fully hit your ears, and you shifted on your knees, pressing your thighs together to give yourself some relief. Sliding your hand under his waistband, you were met with the solid, smooth skin of his cock. He helped you pull his boxers down and over his length, letting it spring free, and you felt your mouth water.

He was big, thick, and while not surprising in the slightest, you couldn’t help but whine at the sight before you. You looked up at him, your hand wrapped around his cock, thumb brushing the reddened tip; you expected him to look smug, proud of himself, maybe, but he looked dumbstruck, in awe of the way your hand looked wrapped around him—in awe of the fact that it was you.

“Damien,” you prompted, and it broke him out of his haze. He nodded. “Can I…”

“Please,” he took a deep breath, “God, yes, please.”

You smiled. “Well, I’d hate to make you ask twice.” He laughed at your mimicry before quickly silencing himself with a shaky moan when you licked an experimental stripe up the bottom of his cock. He tilted his head to the side, unable to decide whether to get lost in the pleasure or to enjoy the view he had of you, bent over yourself on your knees and using your mouth in a way he’d only ever dreamed of.

You spit in your hand, gliding it over him and appreciating the way he felt in your hands; the warmth, the pliant weight. You made sure he was looking when you finally took his tip in your mouth, circling your tongue over him. You moved your hand in sync with the way you bobbed your head. He groaned, hand flying to rake his fingers through your hair, and the way he sighed out your name spurred you on more.

His other hand caressed your back, tugging cautiously at the straps of your bra.

“Take it off,” you pumped him in your hand, letting your tongue flick out to deliver barely-there licks to the tip of his cock. “Take it off for me.”

“Fuck.” He huffed, hypnotized by the way you used your mouth on him. He undid the clasp with one hand, and you let the straps hang off your body. You didn’t want to pause your movements, didn’t even want to slow down at the risk of having to go for even a second without hearing him moan your name; you shook the constricting material from yourself, taking him deeper in your mouth until tears pricked your eyes so that you could slip your bra off your arms. Damien let out a low groan, tightening the grip he still had on your hair.

You took him deeper still, hand working what you couldn’t fit down your throat. When you gagged on him, he let out an absolutely filthy sound.

“You like that?” He was smiling with his mouth open, chest heaving with every breath, “You like choking on me?” You answered with a garbled “yes,” his cock still pressed against the back of your throat, one hand on his hip to keep yourself stable as your other hand stroked the base of him. He moaned. “You look so pretty. Always knew you’d look so good with my cock down your throat, baby.”

You couldn’t help the noise that you let out, something between a gasp and a moan that sent vibrations up Damien’s spine. You continued to move up and down over his cock before removing your mouth from him, spit dripping down your chin and a dopey smile on your lips.

Damien grabbed your face in one hand, fingers pressing hard against your cheeks as he pulled you up to his level. “You really are just so fucking perfect.” He kissed you, letting the drool that coated your chin drip onto his face. “Can I taste you? Can I taste how sweet you are?”

You nodded, the hand he still had on your face moving with you.

“Yeah? Say it.” He demanded, and you whimpered, enjoying the look of dominance on him.

“Want you to taste me, Damien.” When you spoke, his fingers pressed the inside of your cheeks against your teeth. “Want you to taste how sweet I am.”

He growled, moving his jaw in a circle as if to stretch the muscles in preparation for what he planned on doing to you. “How do you ask nicely?”

You felt an adrenaline rush deep in your stomach. It was one thing to be here with your pleasure in his hands, but to hear Damien say the things you’d fantasized about for so long made your head swim.

“Please…” One of your hands grabbed impatiently at his arm, “Please, Damien…want…want you to fuck me with your tongue. Please.”

He kissed you again, smiling against your mouth and removing his hand from your face to push softly against your chest so that you fell back onto the bed. He knelt on the mattress, holding your calves and pulling your legs open. You sank into the pillows at the head of the bed, letting them cradle and support you at an angle that allowed you to look down at Damien, whose face hovered over your core. His fingers danced over the waistband of your panties, and you wondered if he had felt the same tingly sensation when you toyed with his boxers as you did right now with his hands running over your hips and stomach.

He pressed his face against your clothed cunt, impatient and greedy for you. You moaned, one hand fisting the sheets under you while the other came to rest on your thigh, holding your legs open for him when your muscles threatened to snap them closed following the sudden contact.

“Fuck, Damien, that feels—that’s so good.” You squirmed under him as he licked over your panties, tongue brushing your clit through the fabric. You tried to push the material down, wiggling your hips to ease your panties off your body, but Damien caught your hands in his.

“Let me play, baby.” His doe eyes stared up at you from between your legs with a devious glint. You didn't listen, and instead continued to move your hips in an attempt to wriggle out of the fabric that kept his mouth from making direct contact with you. He pressed down on your hips, forcing you to cease your fidgeting. “Be patient.”

He licked a stripe from where your panties threatened to reveal your hole and up to your clit, and you arched your back in an attempt to encourage him further.

“God, Damien, please!” You pleaded, begging for him to touch you without the obstacle of the fabric that remained on your body. “Want it—said you wanted to taste me, you can taste me—you can taste me, I need it. Please, let me feel your tongue, please—”

Damien snapped your waistband and you yelped, effectively ending your rambling.

“You’re pretty when you beg," he kissed your stomach, and you let out a whimper. "But if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll fuck it.” Damien’s words weren’t harsh, you could hear the joviality buried under the severity in his voice, and somehow that made it even sexier.

Your arousal was heightened when, as you moaned at his words, you felt two thick fingers plunge into your cunt. Your breath caught in your throat, and you choked out his name.

“Oh my god!” You cried out, looking down to see that he had moved your panties to the side to give himself access to your entrance. His fingers pumped in and out of you, curling to hit your more delicate spots, and the sound was utterly indecent.

“You’re soaked,” Damien was smiling with his top teeth, watching his fingers as they disappeared inside of you. “What got you so wet, baby?”

“Because…s’cause…” You didn’t have the energy to talk, too focused on the way his fingers pushed against the walls of your cunt, forcing your body to make space for him.

“Because why?” He goaded, thumb rubbing circles on your clit as he pushed his fingers deeper, “Because you like the way I touch you? Hm? Because you’ve been thinking about this as much as I have? For as long as I have?”

You nodded, mouth agape and eyes threatening to roll back; maybe you looked pathetic, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, completely content with his fingers thrusting into you.

“Aw, come on. If you still want my mouth, you’re gonna have to do better than that.” He removed his fingers from inside of you, using the slick that coated them as lubricant to massage your clit.

“Wanted this for so long—so fucking long, Damien.” Your words came out rushed and breathy, “Thought about you like this all the time. Thought about—about you when I came, every time I came.” You couldn’t stop yourself from telling him the truth, the words tumbled from your lips as easily as taking a breath.

Your admission made him pause his movements, and for a moment the dominance in his face faded into something more tender. But he gathered himself, finally pulling off your panties in one fell swoop, then taking one of your legs and hooking your knee over his shoulder while you continued to babble to him.

“Keep talking, princess,” the nickname made you dizzy with desire, and you whined out for him, your eyes wide and watery when his breath fanned over your now bare, slick coated center. “Keep talking. Tell me all about it while I taste you.”

The first swipe of his tongue against your clit sent shockwaves through you, and you whimpered before recollecting your train of thought.

“Th—oh!” You quickly lost your words again when Damien began to ease his tongue into your entrance, toying with your hole before plunging into you with a purpose. He squeezed your thigh, and you took it as encouragement to continue. “Thought about this all the time—about your mouth against me. Using your mouth on me until my legs got sore from the way you’d hold me open.” He groaned against your cunt, and you extended a hand to comb your fingers through his hair. “Thought about all the ways you could use me. All the ways I would let you use me—fuck, like that, please!”

He had his face buried in you, your slick dripping down his chin and his nose pressed against your clit. You could feel the movement of his tongue inside of you, and you tugged on his hair as the sensation spread over your body.

“Thought about getting on my knees for you. I would let you have me whenever you wanted—wherever you wanted.”

Damien growled. “Yeah?” His brow quirked and he looked up at you momentarily before diving back into your heat, “Have to take you up on that.”

You whimpered, the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tensing from the onslaught of pleasure, and the feeling let you know that you were approaching your peak.

“Knew you would make me feel so amazing, Damien, knew you’d make me cum like nobody else ever could.” You were stringing words together faster than your brain could think them up. But even if they came out jumbled, every last word was true.

“Want you to cum on my mouth,” Damien was grinding his hips against the mattress, the relief he got from the fabric of the sheets dulled his intense arousal only momentarily, but he chased the feeling. “Please, baby, give it to me.”

You pulled his hair, admittedly harder than you had intended, but with the moan he let out, it seemed he didn’t mind. His tongue worked wonders as he extended it over and into you. Right when you thought you were already done for, limbs going slack and the pleasant tingle in your core reaching a fever pitch, Damien wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, letting his tongue flick against the sensitive bud.

It felt good to scream out for him, to let his name fall repeatedly from your lips as you yanked on his hair, but it felt better to hear his voice and the words that rang out from between your legs.

“Beautiful,” he was mumbling, still licking into you, trying to savor the tangy flavor of your cum. “So fucking beautiful, baby. Look at the pretty fucking mess you made. Did such a good job.”

You tugged again on his hair and he let you guide him up to face level. When he leaned in to kiss you, you opened your mouth instantly, and he slid his tongue between your lips. You sucked on it happily, eager to taste yourself on him, eager to experience everything you'd always imagined being able to do with him.

In turn, he held you close, so you wouldn’t slip away like you did when he woke up from his dreams.

You let the kiss linger, leisurely grasping at each other and appreciating the newfound lack of constraint. You curled yourself into him, lying on your side and tangling your legs with his in an effort to get as close to him as you could.

“You look so pretty when you cum,” Damien mumbled, lips grazing your pulse point, dipping down and sucking faint bruises onto your collar. “I want to see it again.”

“You can see it whenever you want,” you closed your eyes, relishing the gentle pressure he was putting on your skin so that the marks would form in small spots across your chest. You cupped his cheek in your hand, and he reluctantly stopped licking the bruises that had begun to pop up. Your thumb stroked the skin under his eye. “I want you to see it again now.”

Damien leaned into you, trailing kisses over your jaw. “You want me to fuck you?” He licked a stripe up your neck and over your chin. When his tongue reached your mouth, you opened for him, letting him lick between your lips, kissing him fervidly and moaning softly. “Yeah? You want me to fuck you? Want me to fuck you even though I just made you cum?" He growled into your mouth. "You need more already?"

“Yeah,” you smiled shyly, rubbing your face against the stubble on his cheek.

“Needy thing.” He removed his hands from you, then snaked his arms through the gap in your bodies and put his hands on your shoulders, pushing you against the mattress and onto your back.

He straddled your legs, keeping you immobile on the bed and kissing down your chest. He nipped at the plush flesh of your breasts, unable to contain himself, unable to hide the obvious pleasure he took in seeing you this way.

“Damien—” You sighed when he circled his tongue around one of your nipples, your fingers wrapping around his bicep.

“I know. I know. Sorry, I just—God, you’re beautiful.” He smiled, more to himself than to you, but the joy on his face was palpable, and you were sure he could detect the pride you felt at being the one to make him feel this way.

He used his knee to spread your legs, opening you up for him, moving his own legs to situate himself between your thighs. One of his hands ran up and down your leg as he stroked himself, lining his cock up with your entrance. When the tip of him rubbed between your folds, you whimpered, moving your hands down his arm and squeezing his forearm.

“Is this what you want?” Damien was looking down, examining how perfectly his body meshed with yours. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yeah,” your words were barely above a whisper, “Want you to fuck me.”

He moved his hand further up your body and squeezed your hip. “Where are your manners, princess?” He smirked, “Say please.”

“Please, Damien,” you stared up at him wide-eyed, captivated. “Please.”

“There you go.” He squeezed your hip again in recognition of your obedience. Slowly, as if he was worried he’d break you, he pushed into you, watching your eager, waiting cunt swallow every inch he offered you. You moaned, squeezing his arm and leaving small, curved marks where your nails dug into his skin. You watched his eyelids flutter, head tilting back with his mouth ajar, letting out a deep groan as he squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again to meet your heavy-lidded gaze.

“Big.” It was all you said, stretched and full of him in a way nobody had ever filled you up before.

Damien swallowed a laugh, flashing a domineering smile. “Big?”

“Too big.” You clarified, not entirely meaning it; you were thrilled to be this packed with him, but it had been so long since you’d felt a satisfying sting like this that it would take you a moment to get accustomed to it.

“You can take it, baby. I know you can.” He pressed his palm over your stomach, brushing his thumb across your skin soothingly. “You tell me if it’s too much, ok? Use your words, say it’s too much, and I’ll stop.”

“Don’t want you to stop.” Your voice came out strong momentarily, so eager for him that the possibility of him leaving you empty made you tense. “Waited so long…” You said, mellowing slightly, “Want you. Want you to…to use me.”

Damien made a throaty noise, something between a laugh and a moan that both relaxed and lit a fire inside you. Unhurried, he pulled out of you, his hands on your hips to give himself proper leverage. You exhaled slowly, mind set adrift by the feeling of his cock dragging against your walls; his rounded tip, every vein that ran up his length—you were certain you could feel it all.

You whimpered when he had pulled out enough so that nothing but the head of his cock penetrated you. You swayed your hips, trying to spur him on, but even with just the tip you felt you had ample stimulation.

He didn’t stop you, just watched on as you tried to fuck yourself with the tip of his cock just barely inside of you.

“You need some help?” He raised an eyebrow at.

“Please—fuck me, please.” You nodded excitedly, aching for him.

He smiled, eyes fixed on your face as he rammed back into you, watching your mouth contort and your tits bounce as your body absorbed the force. You screamed out for him, arching your back, which gave him the ability to push the remainder of his cock as far into you as he could.

“Fuck Damien! So—feel…so full!” You felt a tear fall over your cheek, overwhelmed by the bliss of having his cock buried inside of you and the rough way in which he made it happen. He leaned over you, supporting himself on his forearms as he caged you between them, and met you at face level. He thrust in and out of you shallowly, bringing his lips to your cheek and kissing the path of the delighted tears you had shed.

“Yeah? Feel full?” He whispered, still moving his hips, his cheek pressed against yours so he could speak directly into your ear.

“Yes, Damien—God, yes!” You wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to immerse yourself in all of him. You searched for any part of him that you could reach with your mouth, planting sloppy kisses on his collar, his shoulder, the crook of his neck.

“Good.” He kissed your cheek again, before licking the wet, salty trail that your tears had left behind. “Want you to feel me for days after this.” He found your lips and kissed you, the pace and intensity of his thrusts increasing. “And when you can finally walk straight, I’m gonna do it to you all over again.”

You scraped your nails up his back, moaning for him and desperate to have him follow through on his threat. He buried his face in your neck, and you could feel the tug of his stubble on your skin as he panted against you, fucking into you aggressively in a way you’d always dreamed he would.

Each thrust felt deeper, and there came a point where you felt a pleasant pain in your side as his cock brushed your cervix.

“Damien—Christ, you’re so fucking deep,” Your nails jabbed harder into the skin of his back and he let out a hiss. “Please, like that. Just like that, don’t stop. B-bruise me, please, please!”

“I won’t stop, princess,” Damien’s words were snarled, gruff in your ear as his lips grazed just below your earlobe. “I promise. Wanna leave this pretty pussy so nice and sore.” He sucked a mark under your jawline, "Wanna ruin you."

You moved one hand, fingers lacing through his silver hair and yanking at the brown roots to pull him from his spot in the crook of your neck. He took the hint, rising up to meet you, his mouth finding yours and biting at your bottom lip.

“I love you,” you couldn’t bite back the words, not even if you tried; not when his cock was hitting spots you didn’t even know were there, not when he was using all his upper body strength to stay above you just so he could gaze down upon your tear-streaked, fucked out face, not when it was something you’d been dying to tell him in this capacity for as long as you could remember. “I love you, Damien—I love you.”

“I love you,” he echoed your words, voice softening and face relaxing. “I love you so much. I do, I love you so much.”

You raised your hips to meet his thrusts, and Damien moaned out your name, muscle in his jaw tensing before he let his mouth fall slack. He paused momentarily, sitting up while still buried inside you, to take your legs in his hands and press your knees back to your chest. You were bent in half, completely at his mercy and loving it. You yelped, the new angle giving him the ability to drive harder and deeper into you; the control he had over your body made your head swim and your cunt squeeze around him. He leaned over you, smiling through the pleasure that clouded his mind to jeer at you affectionately as he continued to escalate the manner in which he fucked you.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He watched you, your head lolling to the side and practically drooling as you looked back up at him, pitiful moans and gibberish the only way you could communicate. “Lose your voice?”

You swallowed hard, gasping for air and overcome with the feeling of him. You searched for the right words.

“Make me—oh!—feel so good,” you panted, “so fucking good.”

“Who makes you feel so good?” Damien pressed, plunging his cock as deep as he could, his hips firm against the back of your thighs.

“You do!” You felt all of him, and still, somehow, you craved more. “You do—you, you!”

“Yeah? Say it princess. Say Damien you make me feel so good.” He grabbed your chin, forcing you to stare up at him with your lust-blown eyes. “Say it.”

“Da—Damien,” you whimpered as he fucked you in quick bursts while waiting for you to speak. “Damien, you—you make m-me feel so good.”

He pressed his lips to yours, further enhancing the way your body was already contorted, and you moaned into his mouth at the feeling of being used like a toy by him.

“That’s right,” Damien licked into your mouth, “You make me feel so good, princess.”

He pulled back from your face, straightening once more; he grabbed your legs and threw them over his shoulders, gripping your thighs close to his body and using them to pull you onto his cock. The sounds you made were high pitched and pathetic, eyes rolling back while he placed kisses on your calves where they were slung over his shoulders; he nipped at you, teeth just barely grazing the flesh of your legs as his lips did a bulk of the work. The tickle of his five o’clock shadow was a welcome match to the gentle pressure you felt in your abdomen brought on by the way his cock stretched you.

He wrapped one arm around your legs, leaving you powerless to his movements as your head pushed back into the pillows from the sheer delight of feeling him inside of you, heightened by the depth and momentum with which he fucked you. He let his other hand drop to hold your hips, thumb caressing your skin with unidentifiable shapes.

You couldn’t remember getting fucked like this before—if you ever even had been fucked like this before. Somehow Damien knew you inside and out better than anybody else did, maybe even better than you knew yourself. This was proven by the way he drove his hips into you, hauling you over his cock and making you feel the delicious drag of his length in a way that made you feel full to the point of near discomfort. The electrified jolts of satisfaction when the tip of his cock pressed up against your more delicate, hidden spots, were eased by the soft way he touched you. The feeling wasn’t confined to your walls; his fingers brushed your clit, the ghost of a touch sending shockwaves through your system. You wriggled your body, unable to contain yourself and responding physically to the way his digits teased you while he ruined you with his cock.

He was rough, wild, and everything you needed. When you looked up at him, you could still see the kindness in his features, hear the compassion with which he moaned your name, feel the romantic way he squeezed at your body even while he was fucking you stupid. His groaned words of praise, of affirmation, when he managed to gasp your name between panting thrusts brought you to the edge just as much as his physical prowess did, and you let it be known how you were feeling.

“Damien—” You reached out, grasping at his arm where it wrapped around your legs, his other hand kneading your clit in slow circles. You felt your cunt tighten around him, walls fluttering in preparation for your oncoming orgasm, hips bucking on their own accord as you chased the ecstasy he brought you.

“Give me another, princess,” he grunted, pounding into you, his fingers deftly tracing over your clit. “Doing so good, give me one more.”

You turned your face to the side and buried it into the pillow under you, biting into the cloth to silence your increasingly loud screams. He reached down to grab your face, once again pushing your knees to your chest and earning a loud gasp of his name as you wiggled your hips against him, relishing the feel of his cock throbbing deep inside of you.

“Show me that pretty face,” he cooed, sweat lining his temples from exertion, “Let me hear those pretty sounds.” He pressed hard against your clit, and your body responded explosively; you screamed for him, reaching for his shoulders to pull him to your chest and kiss him as a warm feeling spread from your center and out to your limbs. You could feel it in your chest, the fulfillment traveling over every inch of your body, muscles responding in kind with small twitches as your cunt squeezed him tight.

Your legs squirmed free from underneath him, and you wrapped them around his waist, keeping him close to you while you rode out your high, circling your hips over his cock. He moaned into your mouth, the kiss devolving into a messy exchange of spit and sweat and teeth, lips chapped and swollen with passion. You bit his lip and he growled, leisurely swaying his hips and punctuating his thrusts with eager whines.

“Where,” he was breathing heavily, once again finding solace in the crook of your neck. “Where do you want it, baby. Tell me. Please.” He was practically whimpering, begging you for permission to finish by communicating where it was you wanted his cum.

“Inside,” you moaned, the aftershocks of your orgasm lulling you into a sleepy heap of oversensitivity and devotion.

Damien growled as he took in your request. “You’re—fucking christ, you’re sure?”

“Please,” it was all you could say, desperate to feel the culmination of his pleasure inside of you. “Pill. Need it, Damien. Cum inside me. Let me feel it, please.”

Damien groaned at your words, brow knit and mouth open. He sped up his pace, pushing himself up from you and supporting himself on his hands. You whined, content and aching for him.

“Fuck, I'm gonna fill this pussy up so deep.” Damien squeezed his eyes shut momentarily before opening them and looking down at you, “Fuck—gonna cum, baby, I'm—fuck!” His hips stuttered, and you wrapped your legs around him tighter, keeping him secure against you. He dropped down onto you, still providing shallow thrusts, though much gentler than before. “I love you,” he whispered, lips pressing against your neck as he engulfed you with his own body, cock spent and twitching inside of you, “I love you.”

“I love you,” you repeated quietly, and when he kissed you, you could feel that he meant it; the words echoed in your mind as he eased his lips against yours, taking time now to really savor the way you moved against him and enjoy how perfectly you fit together.

You focused on catching your breath, and he removed himself from atop you as he collected himself. When he slipped his cock from you, you whimpered at the new emptiness, and he kissed your temple.

You both stayed there, lying in bed together while you came down from the high-energy tryst. You still couldn't remove yourselves from each other completely, limbs tangling together and hands gliding over sweaty skin as you appreciated the tranquility together.

“Do you want water?” He asked, nose rubbing against your cheek.

“Yeah,” you gulped a breath, “Yeah. Thanks.”

He got up on shaky legs and found a pair of sweatpants, walking to the kitchen only to return seconds later with a glass of water. His face was radiant and his cheeks dusted pink as he beamed at you.

“Thank you, baby,” you guzzled the cool liquid, mouth dry from the way he'd made you scream.

“Say—” Damien looked down at you, giddy, “Will you say it again?”

You smiled, tired eyes taking in his form. “Thank you, baby.”

He sat down next to you. The mattress shifted with his weight, and you inched yourself towards him.

“I like hearing you say it.” He seemed timid, like after all that had happened, he was still worried you’d reject him.

“I like saying it,” you nuzzled your face into his stomach, resting on his thigh. His hand came down to pet your hair, thumb occasionally brushing over your temple.

“Will you stay here tonight?” He asked, “Only if you want to, I mean—but, I’d like it if you did.” He laughed to himself, “And then, you know…if you wanted to stay every night—I’d like that, too.”

“Well, good, cause the U-Haul is on its way over.” You turned your head to look up at him from your spot on his leg.

“Wow, those guys work fast,” he smirked down at you. “And then, when you, uh—when you finish moving in…could I take you out on a real date?” His face looked so gentle, “You know, away from everybody we know. Just…just us?”

“I would like that.” You smiled, turning to place a kiss on his stomach. He examined your face, still stroking your hair.

“I’m sorry if anything I said was…if you think I was moving too fast—or if I said something you want to pretend I didn’t say yet. Or at all.” He winced, nervous.

“Damien,” you sat up, shuffling to kneel in front of him and cupping his cheek, “I love you. I don’t want to pretend you never said it.” You placed a kiss on his nose, and he tackled you back onto the mattress, kissing your face.

“Thank god,” he breathed a sigh of relief, “Because I don’t think I could ever take it back.”

“You’ve said it before,” you laughed when his head dipped under your chin to suck new marks onto your neck to match the ones that he had made prior.

“I know,” he mumbled against your skin, “But it’s—this is different. I mean it…different…” He smiled, sharp teeth on display, and you laughed again, enamored.

“Good,” you played with the hair that curled against the back of his neck, “I mean it different, too.”

Damien pulled you against his chest and rolled over, leaving you to straddle his waist and rest your head on his shoulder.

“I love you,” he sighed happily.

“I love you, too.” You left kisses on his collar bone before pressing your face against his neck.

~~~

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but when you awoke the next morning you momentarily feared that it had all been a dream; that you were back in your own bed, alone, hungover and suffering from the memories of some distant fantasy.

But you were still with Damien. His arm draped over your waist and his face pressed between your shoulder blades as he snored quietly.

You could get used to this.

You leaned back against him, eager to tell him that you loved him when he woke up.

The sun was just barely up, and the minuscule amount of light that made its way through the window illuminated tiny bits of dust that passed through the rays. Zelda had made her way into the room at some point in the night, and her soft purring sent tiny vibrations over the blanket, her body nestled into the curve of Damien’s knee behind you.

You stretched, aimlessly reaching out and inevitably grabbing hold of your phone. You dimmed the brightness, scrolling through notifications you had missed the night before; tagged pictures, drunken Instagram stories, a few Venmo requests and a few more Venmo payments.

Courtney had texted you only about 20 minutes before you had woken up.

Court: How was the rest of your night 👀

Court: Does Shayne owe me $10

Court: Or did you end up going home

You let out a silent laugh, rolling your eyes a little at the betting pool that seemed to have erupted over your love life. You twisted in bed, opening your camera and zooming in on Zelda where she sat comfortably against Damien’s knee, the backdrop of his bedroom on full display. You took a picture and sent it to Courtney with no explanation, amused by your own vague confirmation that you had spent the night with Damien—and planned to do it again. Often.

You put your phone down and it started to buzz on the nightstand, lighting up with Courtney's contact picture. You considered picking it up, but then Damien’s arm tightened around you, pulling you to him while his hand spread out over your ribcage just under your breast. He kissed your back, still half-asleep, before he resumed snoring.

You decided that you would talk to Courtney later, turning over to bury your face in Damien’s chest, letting his breathing lull you back to sleep.

#damien haas #damien haas smut #damien haas fanfiction #damien haas fic #damien haas x reader #damien haas x you #smosh #smosh fanfiction #smosh fic #smosh smut #smosh games #smosh pit #smosh mouth #smosh squad #smoshblr

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buzz-in-your-veins · 1 year ago

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Oops, did i do that?

Accidentally sending a spicy pic to your crush.

The reader is more fem dressed and has a vagina in this- if you want a part b where they don’t have outfits just let me know!

CW: Gender Neutral reader with a vagina and fem-like fashion, reader wears bras, no mention of having boobs.

Vox

Vox hadn’t known you for very long, you were one of the newer demons working for him. You’d applied for the job a few months ago.

In that time he’d seen you about four times, but he was honestly thinking of promoting you, you were amazing at your job, good with both the data and the customers, the only thing it seemed you couldn’t do, was look at your contacts.

You weren’t working tomorrow, so you’d gone out with your friends, you’d purposefully gone to one of the only clubs in the pride ring that wasn’t owned by a member of the V’s, in an effort not to run into your new boss.

You’d gone all out tonight, spurred on by your friends, see, you had a minor crush on the TV demon, not that you’d ever entertain it. However, your friends had picked your outfit tonight, and you ended up in a gorgeous (if a bit slutty) royal blue dress, sleeveless and short, with a glittery tulle overlay, and some beautiful electric red heels.

You were messing on with your friends in the bathroom, taking photos and just genuinely having fun, already beyond tipsy now. You were sending a photo of you and another friend in the mirror to your group chat, your friend had taken the time you were fixing your hair to add Vox onto the ‘send to’ people, you never noticed.

You also didn’t notice your phone go off when Vox opened it.

If only that was the worst part.

You finished the night absolutely trashed, your friends working together to walk one another home, most living near one another. You, of course, were the odd on out, and the odd number.

You assured your friends it was fine, you lived in VVV tower for Lucifers sake, you’d be fine! Your friends wouldn’t hear it.

One of your friends, less drunk, had messaged one of Velvettes models, whom she used to work with and asked for them to walk you back.

You got back safe and sound, still not having realised you’d sent Vox the bathroom photo, or seeing the demon’s expression as Velvettes model walked you in.

You weren’t quite tired enough to sleep when you were dropped back in your room, so you messed on on your phone for a bit, before undressing. You hadn’t got to taking your make up off or undoing your hair, you’d gotten your dress off, and just.. stopped.

You were in an ethereal lingerie set, clearly made with Vox in mind.

Pretty blue panties hugged your hips, red electric bolts providing straps, the lace comfortable against your pussy, your chest coved with a light blue bralette, lace spilling against your skin, and the most beautiful glitch effect chain snug around your belly.

You matched this with a black thin choker with a hanging blue electric bolt, and posed against your bed, taking a few photos, changing poses and taking more.

Your favourite was one where you were laid flat, the photo taken from above, you could see your entire body, including the heels you still hadn’t taken off, and you were stairing straight at the camera with your painted lips parted.

Satisfied you went to save your photo.

Never noticing you’d sent the same photo to your boss.

Afterall, you hadn’t know to take him off your list.

You were cuddled up asleep, still in the underwear, when Vox opened your photo.

You never noticed the power surge then go out, nor did you notice Vox’s name pop up on your phone.

Angel Dust

Angel had seen you around the hotel more than usual, Charlie said you’d recently quit your job to work for someone else, and it gave you more free time and flexibility.

Angel was happy for you, your boss had been a real price of work.

Still riding the high off getting a better job, you’d invited your friends out clubbing, having received a handsome final salary.

You had chosen to go to Hyper-Tech, one of Vox’s clubs, and one of the best. They had some off the greatest drinks, and, unbeknownst to you, that night they also had Angel Dust dancing.

You friends teased you relentlessly about your crush on the porn star already, and they played this off as purposeful on your part, even though you’d had no idea.

You had started the night feeling confident and pretty in your oulfit, but seeing the spider you felt a flash of self consciousness, after all, your outfit was styled on the spiders own colour theme, an off the shoulder soft pink velvet crop-top, above-knee white loose pleated skirt, and pastel pink heels with a hot pink belt and nail polish.

You friends quickly took care of that, telling you how wonderful you looked, that anyone would be lucky to see you.

And getting you drunk definitely helped, the endless stream of cocktails bought with your money, and eventually dipping into your friends supplies brought on a happy buzz.

They also greatly diminished your ability to think critically.

You never saw how Angel Dust watched you the entire time you were in the club, as you progressively got drunker, to the point Angel was shocked you could still stand, never mind walk.

Your friends however, saw how the renowned demon was watching you with concern and admiration.

They quickly concocted a plan without your input.

Angels set finished around 2 in the morning, he waited in his dressing room for you to leave.

You had planed to walk home with your friends before splitting off to the hotel, but one of your friends changed the plan, stating there was no need for you to walk them home, after all, didn’t you like live in the complete opposite direction? Another friend had ‘needed the bathroom’ and had walked right by Angels door, talking about how you were leaving with the third friend.

As you were arguing about the principle of walking your friends home, Angel Dust came out of club, and said he didn’t mind walking you home, you lived together anyway.

Your friends quickly agreed and left, not allowing you to argue.

The whole walk back you were showered with compliments about your outfit, your dancing, your hair, your ability to drink, everything.

Angel walked you all the way to your room before leaving you.

You started to undress, but decided you wanted a photo for this occasion.

In your underwear, a pretty pale pink push-up bra, and a silky white thong, still in the hot pink heels, you took a photo in the mirror, sat on your knees staring in the mirror.

For some reason, you decided to send that to yourself instead of just saving to camera roll.

Only, you never send it to yourself. After the walk home, Angel had messaged you to sleep well, meaning he was your top contact.

Never thinking to check, you simply threw on a pale pink baby doll, took your heels and make up off, and went to bed.

Alastor

Alastor showing up to help at the hotel had never been in your plan.

The radio demon was always an unobtainable shadow, someone you could safely crush on from your own mind, because he would never be in your reach.

Except..

Now he was.

Now not to be foolish, you had figured from his interactions and reactions that Alastor was most likely somewhere on the Ace or Aro spectrum, and you would never push anything onto him.

But you could never even get close enough to talk to him, never mind ask about the possibility of him being on the spectrum.

So you hid. Everytime Alastor was around, you weren’t.

Alastor was cooking? You weren’t hungry. Al was helping with the daily running? You had work. Alastor was in the library? You didn’t want to read anyways.

Alastor always noticed your absence.

Instead you poured over everything and anything about the radio demon.

When he appeared, what he did, where he could have been in the seven years, his rise to power, his ability’s, his domain, everything.

Your crush on the radio demon was a foolish one, but that didn’t stop you from having it.

From dreaming of picnics and ice cream dates, of long walks down the streets of hell, to him taking you apart with his words alone, voice wrapping around you.

And when he stopped those muggers?

You went weak.

So, yea, your crush was unobtainable, in the highest scene.

You could still dress up though.

And you did, frequently.

In pantsuits of dark crimson, to the bloody scarlet ball gown, for the party.

Alastors eyes never left you that night.

Mostly, it was under your clothes.

Pretty crimson baby dolls. Black lacy thongs. Scarlett bralettes. Everything. Your camera roll was full of photos of yourself in the underwear, posing this way and that, full of imagination and hopes you would never act on.

Oh how you’d positively die if anyone saw.

That didn’t stop you.

Right now you were dressed in a darling crimson corset, embroidered with darker lace, tied tight, paired with dark scarlet panties, pussy damp against the lace as you lost yourself slightly in a fantasy, black heels and a black necklace, you had posed side on to the camera, staring straight ahead, knees folded underneath you and head tilted slightly up, arms held behind your back.

You heard your shutter go off and stood, getting dressed in a black lace camisole, taking of the corset and heels before heading to bed.

Picking your phone up on the way, you saved the photo to your folder.

Surely, you should have expected naming your folder ‘Alastor<3’ to backfire, but..

Maybe this was a Freudian slip?

It’s not like you even noticed you’d sent it, and you were asleep by the time your phone when off.

Lucifer

You’d seen the King of Hell maybe twice, once in passing, and once when he came to the hotel.

It was more than enough for you to crush on the child-like King, falling in love with his attitude and personality, drawn further in by his looks and kindness.

By the time the charity ball came around, you were completely lost for him.

Lucifer showed up in a white suit, not too different from his normal attire, only more fancy, more Kingly, so to speak.

You had taken Angels advice and dressed to impress.

Angel Dust was the only one who knew about the feelings you had for the fallen angel, and he took every opportunity to tease you for it, but he was also your biggest supporter.

You and Angel had knows each other almost as long as you’d been in hell, so his help was soothing for you, and you smiled as the spider laced up the golden gown you’d picked.

It was a golden off-the-shoulder ball gown, with a soft cover of glittery tulle over the top, the skirt flaring out, reaching the floor, covered in rose embroidered embellishments, and paired with bloody red heels, and a glittering clutch.

Charlie had told you all to go all out, and you and Angel did not disappoint.

The two of you descended together, and you caught site of the King before quickly moving your eyes, your blush almost matching your clutch.

Charlie swanned around you, telling you how amazing you looked, and look at your hair!

Angel got you a flute of champagne before leaving you to find Husk.

Traitors.

You walked around the party, dancing with people here and there, doing your best to avoid looking at the King.

You never saw that his eyes never left your form, or how he glared at everyone who touched you.

The king had tried more than once to get close to you, if not to dance with you, to at least tell you how amazing you looked, but you always seemed to move at just the right time.

Charlie had been snapping photos of you the whole night, sending them to her dad, even she saw the two of you pining for one another.

Your flute was never empty, and unfortunately for you, Angel could always recognise when you were about to bolt, and he and Husk would step in to talk to you and prevent it.

Did you mention traitors?

By the time you were finally able to leave, you were definitely tipsy, clutching Angels arm as the two of you ascended the stairs, congratulating yourself on managing to avoid the King.

Angel saw the way Lucifer was watching you, but you didn’t.

By the time you were in your room and Angel had left after unlacimg your dress, ‘we went all blessed with long arms, A——y!’, you wanted a special photo.

So you got ready.

You kept your heels on and striped to your underwear, a strapless golden bra with a red bow in the center, trimmed in lace, and panties to match, also trimmed in lace. You kept the sparkly fishnets on too, and your makeup on, before finiding a pose you liked.

Finally settling on a pose wherein you were laid on your back, your knees up and tilted slightly to the side, one hand on your breast, the other just above your head, and your face tilted towards your phone, positioned slightly higher than you, and just above your head.

You smiled at the photo, and went to save it.

You never looked.

Lucifer had got your number of Charlie to tell you how nice you’d looked. Your response?

A photo.

You were asleep by the time Lucifers own response came in.

Husk

Husk hadn’t taken much notice of you at first, only that you seemed to come and go with Angel, Husk later learned you were Angels shadow so to speak, Valentino payed you prettily just to follow and protect the star.

Husk noticed you more as you came out more without Angel, not being needed as often when you were in the hotel.

You and the barcat had had some quite good conversations, and some even better discussions.

You knew your way around cards that was for sure, and the cat loved talking with you about card tricks.

Sure no one could match him in card tricks, but hearing you talk about them? Something just felt different.

Husk worried about you and Angel a lot, especially when you both came back late, Angel looking trashed, and you looking slightly high on those nights. It took Husk months to realise Valentino was drugging you both, more so Angel. On those nights, Husk would stay up late to make sure you and Angel ate and drank before going to bed.

Husk never brought it up, and Angel didn’t remember, so you never spoke about it. If the cat didn’t want to bring it up why should you?

Husk did notice his favourite snack appearing on the bar in the mornings however.

Your crush on the cat had started before you even began talking to him, but those conversations, the way he treated you, how he never made you seem unimportant, the way he looked after you and Angel after Val had been upset?

You were gone.

And the cat was your new home.

Not that you’d ever tell him of course, you would never risk ruining such a wonderful friendship like that.

Of course, there were also nights like these. When Val needed Angel for publicity, those were the best. You both got to dress up and basically just party, no forced drugs or alcohol, just fun.

You’d dressed in an orange one-shoulder skin-tight slip dress, with a split up-to your thigh, paired with glittery purple heels, a clutch and jewellery, with black card themed earrings.

Husk had seen you just before you got into Vox’s limo and dropped his bottle of cheap alcohol, sending Niffty into a cleaning/laughing fit.

You and Angel didn’t get back until 1 in the morning, both of you slightly buzzed, but pretty much sober, not having been forced to fed any drugs and having eaten at the gala.

Husk had tried to stay up.

You feel deeper when you realised the barcat was asleep at his post because he was waiting for you. Sending Angel to bed, you walked over to the barcat and gently shook him awake, telling him he could go to bed.

From here Husk noticed the earrings, and flushed, jolting backwards and falling.

You giggled a little before apologising for startling him, which he waved off.

He headed to bed and you got back to your room. Taking your dress off you caught sight of your self in the mirror.

Pretty orange panties with a tiny club embroidered in at the side, deep orange plunge bra with a spade on the left cup, purple bracelet, necklace, and shoes, pretty orange make-up, and a heart and diamond earring set.

You needed a photo.

Fussing around a bit you finally settled on a pose with you laying slightly over the end of the bed, head and chest tilted down, knees pulled up to the side, camera angled too capture everything, arms by your head, and full body on display.

You changed into some sleep clothes after the photos, and in your sleepy state sent them to Husk, instead of simply saving them.

You didn’t wake up until well after Husk responded.

Lute.

Lute had noticed you as soon as you’d joined Adam’s ranks.

Of course she had.

You were the prettiest exterminator Lute had had the pleasure of seeing.

She pestered Adam until he agreed Lute could have her own assistant.

That of course, was you.

Lute loved having you work with her.

Yes all your conversations were about work, and you treat her like your boss, not a colleague, but it wa a better than when you weren’t talking at all.

You were still reeling from the change in position so fast, and now having to deal with the angel you were crushing on at all hours of the day?

Your poor heart couldn’t deal.

You were a blushing mess under your mask every time Lute spoke to you, praising yourself every time you got through an answer without stumbling or stuttering on the words.

Your friends were relentless with the teasing, going as far as to create hand signals to tease you even on the training fields.

Regardless you excelled.

You had to be the best.

And so you were.

Lute often asks what fuels you, and you always stumbled through a bullshit answer, never remembering what you’d said before.

You never gave her the same answer.

You couldn’t exactly tell your now boss the reason you did so well was so she would notice you, could you?

Shadowing Lute meant shadowing Adam. He usually left you alone for the most part though.

It meant going to fancy angel party’s. With out your mask.

You forced your friends to help you get ready.

Gorgeous black knee length dress, clinched at the waist, with silvery heels, a silver necklace, a silver clutch, and purple earrings, your hair done all nice and make up to compliment the outfit.

Your friends told you you looked stunning, and when Lute saw you, she had to agree.

You spent the entire party following Lute around, you didn’t know any of the people here and you were anxious.

Lute kept your champagne topped up, eventually switching you to something a little harder when it became clear you wouldn’t settle on the sparkling liquid alone, not used to the alcohol you got drunk fast.

Adam allowed Lute to leave early, so she could take you home.

Lute got you in safely and even placed an aspirin and water on your bedside table, before leaving you, messaging your phone to let you know what’s happened.

Meanwhile, you’d striped down to a gray lacy bralette, with matching high waisted panties, pretty silver heels, make-up still on and earrings still in.

You wanted a photo.

You set your phone up, and posed, on you knees on your bed, heels just visible, leaned back slightly, one hand behind your bed in a stretch and one on the bed, eyes looking just beyond the camaraderie.

Happy with the results, you went to save the picture, instead, sending it to Lute, who opened it as soon as she got home.

Bye the time Lute replied, you were curled up ontop of your covers, heels still on, sleeping deeply.

Feedback is always appreciated <3

If you want more people added feel free to ask and I’ll do a part two!

Comments are my high.

They make me write faster.

~Vyrus

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llamagoddessofficial · 11 months ago

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knightmare.......... (⸝⸝๑ ̫ ๑⸝⸝⸝)

The air was hot, and heavy. It always was, in the Summer Court, where the inescapable sun remained high in the sky for eternity. In this particular moment, however... the heaviness in the atmosphere was not caused entirely by heat.

The new knight, the stranger, had won yet another joust. Not only that, he had won a golden rose; the coveted prize for unseating five knights in a row. His opponent was still limping back to the competitor’s tent, their wings low in shame - and the stranger remained tall on his steed, alone in the centre of the ring. The raised stands surrounding the jousting arena had fallen deafeningly silent... he looked like a demon, horned helmet branching behind him, black ichor still leaking from between the heavy segments of his midnight armour.

The knight he had unhorsed was one of Dream’s favoured guards. Nobody knew what to do. Cheer? Boo? He held the rose he had just been presented with as if someone had handed him a dead bird; he seemed to observe it with a peculiar and detached sort of disinterest.

Amongst the dozens of rainbow-clad fae surrounding him, he appeared a single black spider in field of butterflies.

The fae who had presented him the rose hurried out of view, ducking back under the fabric of the stands. The stranger’s horse had attempted to bite her, and she had only just moved away in time. You would’ve run, too, if you were her.

“... Your prize, visitor.” Dream, naturally seated under the shade at the head of the tourney, spoke with his classic eloquence. And you couldn’t deny you admired his ability to speak so loudly, and with such friendliness, as if nothing was wrong. But you knew him well enough to know that his teeth were gritted. He looked down at the knight with an unreadable expression, golden circlet winking in the light. “Well earned.”

You didn’t have the luxury of sitting further back, in the top of the stands, sheltered from sunlight. You were sat on one of the far wings - to the very front, with the rest of the common fae.

... You used to be at the back. But you couldn’t think about that anymore. Ever since you had lost your humanity and grown wings, Dream’s eyelights had wandered to newer, more interesting people. You were relegated to the long and ever-growing list of Dream’s “old favourites”, the fae who had committed the ultimate sin of becoming boring.

You weren’t even one of the preferred old favourites. You would be surprised if Dream even recalled your name. You sat at the front now, far from him.

... So when the knight ignored Dream, and turned his great horse in your direction, even though the stands provided a moderate height advantage you felt fear seize every muscle.

You had suspected, from the dramatic moment this terrifying stranger arrived, that he had been stealing glances at you. Little tilts of his helmet - flashes of an eye underneath the metal. You had done your best to talk yourself out of it, why would he care about you? He was clearly here to mock the King. You were seeing things, or he was looking past you to other, more beautiful fae.

The horse was more beast than steed. It was frothing and biting at its bit, muscles straining beneath its armour, midnight hide rippling with barely restrained energy; it stood at least three hands above every other horse at the tournament, wild eyes blank like parchment. How the knight stayed so easily seated upon the monster was a mystery - but a loud testament to his own strength. Anyone who could tame and ride such a thing must be worth his salt.

You watched, in horror, as the beast drew closer. Each hoofbeat struck like thunder into the sand; you couldn’t help but feel a childish fear that the approaching steed might lunge forward and eat you. The fae around you were murmuring, wings were fluttering, seats creaked as tens of bodies attempted to lean away without committing the impropriety of leaving their place.

The horse pulled up alongside the stand. Its wild eyes, that had so hungrily observed the competition (and even the rose-bearer), didn’t so much as glance at you. It was like you weren’t even there.

The knight’s gauntlet-clad hand extended. The golden rose, tilted toward you. It all but glowed in the sun reflecting off its crafted petals; water-like ripples of light cast from it across his fine dark armour. Within his midnight hand, it only seemed to shine brighter.

You looked down at him. From the gap in his helmet, could see a single eye staring back at you, the brightest azure you had ever seen. He spoke - his voice was far softer now. Not at all like the proud, booming tones of when he had declared himself a contender for the joust.

“might this simple knight be so bold...” he murmured, “as to ask for your favour?”

It took a moment for you to speak. Your own voice was choked, barely audible to anyone but him.

“Y-you wish to exchange your golden rose... for my favour in the rest of the joust?”

You could hear his smile through the metal. “indeed.”

Your brow furrowed. “That hardly seems like a fair exchange for you, lord.”

“any fool with coin could have a hundred golden roses.” His eye sharpened. “but the favour of the fairest creature in attendance? alas, there is only one of those. a metal trinket, in exchange for something truly priceless.”

The heat in your cheeks was undeniable. He extended his hand a fraction further; you sat forward in your seat and extended yours in turn. As he placed the delicate rose into your awaiting palm, you felt the cold metal of his claws trace gently over the back of your knuckles.

He settled back into his saddle, retaking his reigns.

“... I-I...” You swallowed, gently nodding your head to him, slightly raising your voice. “Good fortune to you, Lord.”

The knight lifted the reins. The horse shook, making a sound like a great bonfire, hooves beginning to paw at the ground once again.

... He bowed his helmeted head. The horse turned, tail whipping, and moved back toward the centre of the joust range.

You froze in your seat, hands clasped around the rose. Everyone noticed that. Whispers immediately began to ripple across the crowd; you quickly darted your eyes away from the head of the seating, where Dream sat, hair prickling as you desperately avoided the overpowering urge to look to the Summer King for his reaction.

The mysterious knight had not called Dream “King”. Not once. And despite having every opportunity, for the duration of the tourney he had not bowed to him.

... But before the entire court, he had just bowed to you.

#llama writes #my brain is still in fae mode but #huehguehgu here #bad sanses #fae au

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dreamauri · 2 months ago

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♪ — 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨 - five mafia! charles leclerc x wife! reader ( angst + smut ) series summary . . . after preparing your whole life to be married off to a mafia boss, you now have the difficult task of figuring out your new marriage and life, ensuring they don't turn out to be miserable.

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The paranoia settled in your bones like an ache, constant and impossible to ignore.

Max was bold—too bold. His words still echoed in your head, the quiet assurance that he would take Monaco, take Italy, take you if he wanted. And maybe that was just his ego talking, but you knew better than to dismiss him outright.

Because Max didn’t make threats. He made promises.

And if he had the confidence to stand in a room full of powerful men and all but dare them to challenge him, that meant he wasn’t worried about opposition.

That meant he had eyes on the inside.

You had spent years in this world. You knew how these things worked. Information was power, and if Max had his hands on it before you did, then Charles was at a disadvantage before the game had even begun.

You weren’t going to let that happen.

So you moved quietly.

Arthur was your first and only call, the only person you trusted with this. If Max had spies, they were woven deep within the organization—embedded where you least expected them. You needed someone sharp, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to cut out the rot before it spread.

Arthur, as always, was already a step ahead.

“Security’s got cracks,” he admitted when you met in the office later that night, leaning against the desk as he scrolled through his phone. “We’re running background checks on some of the lower-level guys again. I don’t trust the newer ones.”

You exhaled, tapping your fingers against your thigh. “It’s not just them. Someone higher up must be feeding Max information. He wouldn’t be this confident otherwise.”

Arthur’s expression hardened. “You think it’s one of our people?”

“I think it has to be.” You folded your arms, eyes scanning the dimly lit office. “We need to check everyone. Contacts, transactions, who they’re meeting with, who they’ve been speaking to. If someone so much as breathed in Max’s direction, I want to know about it.”

Arthur nodded, already making notes. “I’ll have our guys sweep for wiretaps too. Last thing we need is someone listening in.”

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders not easing in the slightest. “We need to move fast, Arthur. Max is making his move. If we don’t clean this up now, we’ll be two steps behind when it matters most.”

Arthur glanced at you then, reading the sharp edge in your voice, the unease in your eyes. For all your usual confidence, for all your ruthlessness in handling business, you were rattled.

Max had gotten to you.

And that? That made Arthur furious.

He nodded once, firm. “I’ll take care of it.”

And you knew he would. Because Arthur, unlike you, had never been close to Max. Arthur had never trusted him.

That was your mistake.

One you wouldn’t make again.

The tension had Been simmering for days, building slowly like a storm on the horizon. But now, as the door to the study slammed shut behind you, the storm finally broke.

Charles stood there, fists clenched, his face a mask of frustration and anger. His usually calm demeanor was gone, replaced by something raw and fierce.

"What the hell were you thinking?" His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the heat behind it. "You went behind my back, talked to Max of all people, and didn't tell me? I trusted you, Yn!"

You took a step back, not from fear, but because his anger was enough to make the air between you feel suffocating. "It’s not like that," you started, voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and defensiveness. "This isn’t your fight, Charles. I didn’t want to drag you into this mess—"

“Not my fight?” His voice grew louder, and you could see his jaw clenching with every word. "You’re my wife, Yn! Everything that involves you is my fight. You think I can just sit here and pretend like I don’t care? You think I didn’t notice you’ve been keeping things from me?”

Your chest tightened, but you refused to back down. "I wasn’t trying to hide it, Charles. I just— I don’t want you to get involved. Max . . . he’s dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me."

The words hung in the air, thick with emotion. Charles stared at you, eyes narrowed with a mix of hurt and anger.

"And you thought not telling me was the best way to protect me?" His voice was shaking now, his anger breaking through. "I hate that you didn’t tell me. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, waiting for you to trust me enough to open up . . . and you didn’t." His hands balled into fists, shaking at his sides. "You should’ve told me, Yn. We should be able to trust each other with everything—everything—especially when it comes to this."

You turned your head away, your own anger building with each word he threw at you. "You don’t get it, Charles," you spat, throwing your hands up in frustration. "This isn’t just your fight. This is mine. I’ve had to deal with Max on my own for years, and I’m not about to drag you into it—especially not when you have so much at stake."

His face twisted in frustration, and before you could blink, his hands shot out, gripping your shoulders roughly. The shock of his touch sent a jolt of anger through you.

"Stop!" you shouted, trying to pull away, but he held you in place, shaking you with an intensity that made your head spin.

"No!" he yelled, his voice breaking. "This is our problem, Yn! It’s not just yours to deal with. You shouldn’t have to deal with him alone. I won’t stand by and watch you go through this by yourself."

You shook your head, the frustration bubbling over. "I can handle him, Charles. I’m more than capable of defending myself—"

Before you could finish, he cut you off, his lips crashing into yours, silencing you completely. It was rough, hard, desperate, as if the only way he could get through to you was by pressing his mouth against yours. You didn’t have time to react before he had pushed you against the wall, his body looming over yours, pressing you into the cool surface.

You gasped, trying to push him away, but his grip on your shoulders tightened, keeping you trapped in place.

"Shut up," he growled against your lips, his breath hot and frantic. "Just for once, let me help you."

His kiss deepened, more forceful, almost angry, and you could feel the weight of everything—his fear, his anger, his need for control—all of it pouring into the way he kissed you.

But all you could think about was the way Max had made you feel, how much he had gotten under your skin. It was enough to push you to shove Charles away, breaking the kiss with a breathless gasp.

"Don’t you dare," you spat, your voice shaking with the intensity of the fight. "You can’t just kiss me to shut me up, Charles. That’s not how this works."

Charles’s eyes darkened with a dangerous mix of frustration and something deeper. His lips curled into a tight smirk, but there was nothing playful about it.

“Well, fucking watch me,” he muttered, voice low and almost predatory. Before you could process his words, his mouth was on you again, more aggressive this time, as if he were trying to prove something. He kissed you hard, his lips bruising yours with the force of his anger. His hands grabbed at your waist, pulling you flush against him as he pressed you into the nearest surface, his body a solid weight against yours.

You struggled for a moment, trying to break free, but he held you with an intensity that left no room for escape. When you finally pulled away, gasping for air, you opened your mouth to speak, to tell him this wasn’t okay, that you didn’t want this right now . . . but before a single word left your lips, he snapped at you.

“Shut up,” he growled, his voice rough, and without warning, he tossed you back onto the leather couch, the impact making you grunt in surprise.

You didn’t have time to react before he was on top of you, his body pinning you down. His lips trailed down your neck, hot and demanding, and you could feel the urgency in every movement. His knee pressed firmly between your legs, and you couldn’t suppress the startled squeak that escaped you as your body jolted under him.

Charles didn’t even flinch, his lips never leaving the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands roaming as if he needed to feel every inch of you. His knee pushed against you again, and you gasped, feeling the heat and tension rise between you like wildfire.

“Charles . . .” you managed, voice shaky and breathless, but your words were drowned out by the feel of his mouth on your skin. He was relentless, moving with a possessive hunger, pressing you further into the couch, his body grinding against yours in a way that left you confused, angry, but undeniably . . . affected.

You clenched your fists against the soft leather beneath you, trying to regain some control over the situation.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathed, your voice a low warning. He ignored your warnings and proceeded to rip off your shirt anyways.

"Not tonight," he muttered against your skin, his voice thick with frustration, but his hands were still moving eagerly over your body. The fire in his eyes burned hotter, more urgent, as if he was driven by something he couldn’t control.

You struggled under him, but his grip tightened. "No," you said, trying to get a word in, but his mouth was back on you, kissing you hard and needy. He was everywhere, his body enveloping you, his hands tugging at your skirt, hastily pulling it off until you were just in your panties, exposed beneath him.

“Let me deal with this. Your problems are mine too,” Charles said, his tone almost possessive. “That’s what being husband and wife is all about. That’s the whole point of marriage.”

He kissed you again—demanding, rough. It was as if he needed to remind you of what belonged to him. His hips pressed into yours as you felt the hardness of him against your thigh. Your breath hitched as your body betrayed you, the heat between your legs growing, despite the anger bubbling in your chest.

“No,” you gasped, trying to push him off, but Charles was already lifting you, his hands gripping your thighs and hoisting you up against the wall with surprising strength. You let out a breathless gasp as the gravity pulled you downward, your body pressed against his chest with his cock teasing your entrance.

“Relax,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot, making you shiver. "Let me take care of you."

You gripped his shoulders for balance, trying to steady yourself, but the position was making everything feel out of control. The weight of his body pressing against yours, his cock pushing just inside you with slow, deliberate thrusts. The force of him was overwhelming, and you cried out, the shock of the sudden change in position leaving you breathless.

Charles’s eyes darkened, his face flushed with desire. "You feel good, baby," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "So tight, so fucking good."

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall as your body strained to adjust to the position. Gravity pushed you down onto him, each thrust deepening as you gasped, feeling him fill you completely, his thrusts getting more desperate as your body rocked against the wall.

"Charles, I—" you gasped, your words cut off by the intense rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders as the tension in your body built. But Charles wasn’t stopping, his hips snapping into you harder, more urgently as he leaned his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut, the strain on his face evident.

“I’m not gonna last,” he groaned, his thrusts turning into frantic movements, pushing deeper, faster, harder.

You couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips as you finally gave in to the overwhelming pleasure, feeling him fill you completely as you came, your body trembling beneath his touch. His name fell from your lips in a breathless cry as you felt the heat of your orgasm crash over you.

But Charles wasn’t done yet. He continued to thrust into you, his pace growing erratic. Finally, with one last deep thrust, he came, his breath ragged as he stilled inside you.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your breaths. Then, as he pulled away slightly, still holding you against the wall, he whispered three words that shocked you to your core:

“I love you.”

You froze, your heart stuttering. His gaze was soft now, vulnerable even, and his lips barely touched yours as he whispered again, “I love you, Yn.”

Your mind went blank. He’d never said it before—never once since the day you’d become his. The vulnerability in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice, left you stunned, unable to speak for a moment.

“Say something,” he murmured, running a hand through your hair, his touch softer now, as if he feared he'd broken something inside you.

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81pastrys · 2 months ago

Text

Grid Flirt

Part 4 / 13

Summary— The race weekend feels off and when her dad comes storming through shouting in the RedBull garage she knows why.

Warnings— Yelling (at Horner) ; slight panic attack ; Christian Horner being a dick.

A/N— It’s heating up.

Series List

A few races pass by quickly. This race has an eerie feel to it. We do interviews and get the cars ready, it’s a clear day to race. We’re in the paddocks getting ready when my dad walks in to our paddock in a rage.

“No you aren’t racing her in that death machine!” He yells. “I refuse!”

“Papi, papi what are you talking about?” I ask.

“The upgrades on this car failed in development and they still put them in the car!” He said.

“Papi, I saw the charts and statistics. They didn’t fail.” I say confused.

“They’re lying to you.” He said. “You aren’t racing today.” He says my full name catching my attention, he isn’t joking or messing around.

“Where is this coming from papi?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

“I am telling you, do not set foot in that death trap.” He said.

He walked away still upset. I look back at my team confused. “What is he talking about?” They all look at me like I’m stupid. Horner walks in and I pull him aside. “Are the new parts failed?”

“No, why do you ask?” He said.

“My father just stormed through saying they were, and that I shouldn’t race.”

“Well they failed last attempt but we put newer ones in, that passed. Media doesn’t know that.”

“Why do I feel like you’re lying to me?” I ask, now enraged myself. “Are the parts, in my car, the ones that failed in development?” I yell for the paddock media to hear.

“No, Díaz stop yelling or I will take you out.” He whispered, trying to clear the cameras.

“What’s going on?” Max asked, crossing his arms. “Why am I hearing we put failed developments into a car?”

“We-“ Horner hesitates and my jaw drops and my eyes go wide. He never lies to Max. “They weren’t horrible fails Diaz.”

“I can’t fucking believe this!” I yell. “This is complete bullshit!” My tantrum attracted other teams to become concerned. “All you talk about is trust, but how am I supposed to trust you when you put failed parts in my fucking car?!”

“Diaz, calm down.” Horner says.

“I most certainly will not, I’m not fucking racing. Take the constructor points and shove them where the light doesn’t shine.” I yell. “This is unbelievable. Fix my fucking car within the next hour or I’m ripping my contract to pieces and never coming back.” I continue. “I can guran- fucking- tee that.”

I’ve gained some of the other teams attention, McLaren boys were staring, my dad and Lance were also. I’ve gotten all of their attention.

“This is why women are scared to even join this sport Horner!” I say exhausted now. “Because they’re scared of having shitty parts in their car, this is dangerous. You’re basically trying to send me out to crash and die.” I say. “While my dad is on the same grid, I’m done with you.” I walk to the back of the paddock and calm myself down. Once I feel calm enough I walk back out and everyone is still in shock of my tantrum. I walk to my dad and hug him. I start crying.

“I’m sorry mi flor.” He said. “I saw it on the charts and freaked out immediately.” He looks at my charts that are publicized from the FIA, to make sure shit like this doesn’t happen.

“I can’t believe he’d do that to me.” I sniffle. “It’s like he wants me to get hurt!”

“As soon as another team wants you, take it.” He whispers to me. “I don’t care how bad, take it.”

“I am, I will.” I say. I walk back to my paddock and no one acknowledges me. I go to the mechanics and ask about the parts. They admit they didn’t even want to do it. Horner threatened their jobs if they didn’t. They assure me they took the parts out and put the previous ones in. Without Horner knowing.

I pull max aside and no one notices. “Are you okay?” He asked. “Don’t race unless you know for sure they took those parts out.”

“I just spoke with the mechanics, they put my old parts in without Horner knowing.” I say. “He threatened their jobs.”

“What the fuck?” He asked. “That’s got to be illegal.”

“Both were, failed parts in my car, threatening them?” I shake my head. “I’m going to win to fuck with his head.”

“From P2, I believe in you.” He said. He got P5 so if he’s on my side, he’ll let me.

We get ready to race, I get in my car. Praying the mechanics weren’t lying. We line up for grid. Lando in first, me second and so on. The lights come on and I take a final breath of trust in the mechanics words.

We start and I pass Lando with ease around the second turn. Pits went well and I stay P1 throughout. I know Horner is biting his tongue right now. I created a 10s gap with Norris with 5 laps to go. When I hear the familiar voice in my ear.

“Diaz, if you win this, you’re off my team.” Horner said. I hear the commentators comment on it and realize I have nothing to lose. I’m not in the wrong. I use the cars advantages and win the race, my first race, maiden win. The grand stands go wild, I scream on the radio.

“I FUCKING DID IT!!!” I say. “P1 IM SO HAPPY HAHAHAHA!!!” My engineer stays silent. I may have fucked my contract but I could not care any less. I pull to the first position, get out my car and the crowds were so loud. I take my helmet and everything else off and celebrate.

Max was P3 and Lando was P2. I jump up and down so excited. Once my dad pulls in P10 I run up to him and hug him. He picks me up and spins me around. “You did it mi flor!!”

“I did it!!” I say back. The adrenaline was pumping in my veins. My dad puts me down and I look at him, coming back to reality. “I fucked my contract.” I laugh. “He told me I was off the team if I won.”

“Not if I have a say, once everything comes out, he’ll be done for.” My dad smiles at me.

“What a win.” Lando says congratulating me. “Good job!”

“I’m so excited!” I say, hugging him. Max walks up to me smiling like crazy. He picks me up and spins me like my dad did. “I won!!!”

“You won!” He said. “That showed him.” Max laughed.

We do media for a bit then go to the cool down room. My pulse skyrocketed sitting there. “Oh fuck, I’m going to have a panic attack.” I mumble. “It’s all hitting me.” I say shaking my hands.

I walk out the cool down room. I find an alley with no media and crouch down. I cry and shake in disbelief. I’m going to lose my contract, lose his trust. I’m fucked. Max found me quickly.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He said. “What did they tell you?”

“Horner said-“ I start, still hyperventilating. “I’m off the team, if I win.” I finish. “I gunned it not caring, but now.. now what did I do?” I ask.

Fun right!

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #formula one #f1 fluff #f1 grid imagine #f1 grid fic #f1 grid x reader #Lando Norris #max verstappen #dad fernando alonso #female racer #Christian Horner is a dick #81pastry series

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fairy-writes · 4 months ago

Text

BIRD IN FLIGHT

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Kaiju No. 8

Pairing(s): Hoshina Soshiro x Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Siren!Reader, Myth AU (I referenced the Trojan War in the last part), Enemies to… Something…

Notes: PART TWO TO SIREN SONG

I’M JUST SAYING THE ITHACA SAGA HAS BEEN ON REPEAT SINCE IT DROPPED

Tag List: @hanniejji

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Admittedly, Soshiro was in a bit over his head with trying to gain your trust.

Every time he went down to check on you in your cell, or read to you, or talk to you, you just cowered with a snarl in the corner of the prison they had trapped you in.

You wouldn’t actively try and escape anymore, but you refused food and water, withering away in your cell.

Soshiro has to do something. You’d be no good to them for bartering passage if you were dead.

So he began to think.

And think.

Until he was struck with an idea.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?” Ichikawa Reno asked. He was a newer addition to their crew, much like Kafka, but Kafka was busy, and Soshiro needed help with his idea.

“Of course not. This could go horribly. But she’s no good to us dead, so it’s worth a shot.” He said as he adjusted the length of rope looped around his arm.

The stairs down to the brig creak horrendously, quickly alerting you to their presence. It takes Soshiro’s eyes a moment to adjust, but you’re in the corner, as always. Reno swallowed thickly when he saw you and your emaciated body and wings.

Feathers were scattered around you, and he watched as you took ahold of a feather and plucked it from your wings, letting it fall to the ground. You almost did it again, seemingly entranced by the twirling of the feathers from your fingers when he put the key in the lock and unlocked the cell door. The sound of the key jiggling in the iron lock roused you from your stupor, and your face soured with distrust when you realized who it was.

You were surprisingly emotive for a creature of myth. Almost human-like. It was almost eerie to see such a pretty face surrounded by feathered hair and sharp teeth.

Reno stepped hesitantly into the cell and shut the door most of the way as he waited for Soshiro’s next move.

Soshiro crouched in front of you, not stepping on your scattered feathers and just out of your reach in case you tried to attack him.

“I have a proposal for you.” He said, and you merely curled your lip in a snarl. At least, you did until you spotted Reno. Then, your face morphed into one of confusion.

You were likely wondering why he was here. After all, you hadn’t seen him before, and the list of people who saw you most commonly comprised of Captain Ashiro and Soshiro. Kafka, Aoi, and the ship’s doctor came down to treat your injuries, but even then, that wasn’t a common occurrence.

So, someone new was probably exciting.

Soshiro continued speaking.

“We’re willing to let you out. Supervised, of course, that’s why I have this rope. What do you say?” He said and didn’t miss how you perked up at the mention of being let out. However, almost immediately after, you shrank back when he held out the rope. Soshiro frowned but didn’t scoot closer. The memory of you trying to claw his eyes out was still fresh in his mind.

“Might I try?” Reno asked, and Soshiro nodded after a moment of hesitation. He handed the rope off to Reno, who took his place and knelt before you. You huddled back warily, one wing drawn in front of you as if trying to protect yourself. You peeked through your feathers with untrusting eyes, but that didn’t sway Reno’s attempt.

“Can I come closer?” He asked gently, like trying to soothe a spooked animal. Your eyes narrowed, and Soshiro noticed you were rubbing the scar around your throat. But you weren’t attacking or saying no…

Reno picked up on this and shuffled the barest bit closer.

“What if I tie this around your wrist? Would that be okay?” He asked again and it was then that something changed.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

You spoke.

Reno looked as shocked as Soshiro felt. But both soldiers recovered quickly, and Reno shrugged.

“I suppose I feel you could use some kindness.” He said honestly, and now it was your turn to be shocked. Your wing drooped enough so they could both see your astonished expression.

And then…

Your eyes began to shine with unshed tears. Reno panicked as Soshiro was left with a feeling he couldn’t quite define in his chest.

You were slow going up the stairs from the brig to the deck. The pain was evident in your frame as you stepped up the stairs. Soshiro couldn't help but stare at your balding wings as he walked behind you. Reno held the rope as he walked ahead, just in case. But Soshiro had the feeling that you wouldn’t be able to fly any time soon.

Not with your wings the way they were.

If they even healed.

All conversation ceased on deck when you reached the top of the stairs. Almost immediately, you shrank back and bumped into Soshiro, who had come up behind you. You winced, though you tried to hide it, as he aggravated your healing injuries. You looked back to glare, but he didn’t let that stop him from smiling in your direction,

“Are you going to go up and get some fresh air? I imagine the brig is awfully stuffy.” He said and could see the resolve steeling in your bird-like pupils.

You squared your shoulders, pulling them back as much as the bandages and scabs would let you, and walked out into the sunlight.

The relief in your shoulders as you step into the ocean air is palpable. Your wings, which had been held high and proud behind you, dropped in a sudden calm. Even your hands, which were tied in front of you, relaxed in their bonds.

Reno tied the other end of the rope to the mast while he was instructed to return to his work. Soshiro was ordered by Captain Ashiro to watch you. So he sat on a barrel of rations as he studied you. Slowly, everyone went back to their duties, and soon, you were ignored.

Soshiro had the feeling that was how you preferred it.

He watched you watch everyone else with curiosity. Your eyes were wide as you scanned the ship and everyone on it. You even sat down of your own volition and not because there was nothing else to do, like when you were back in your cell. You sat with your back against the mast, feet curled beneath you so you were out of the way of tramping boots and those scrubbing the deck.

It didn’t take long for Soshiro to get up and approach you. You flinched with surprise as he sat down beside you and looked at him incredulously.

“Figured you might want some company.” He teased and you just rolled your eyes.

But… You didn’t scoot away.

This became somewhat regular for you. You’d be bound by your wrists and brought up to the deck, where you were tied to the mast and allowed to watch the people working. You started to eat and drink again.

Soshiro found you absolutely fascinating.

You recoiled from his touch, yet you looked like you wanted to interact with him and his fellow humans. You eventually got to the point where he could touch your wings to check the splints, yet you wouldn’t let him touch your scars.

He wondered why.

He got his answer one night when he was at his post while everyone slept in the belly of the ship. You were tied at the helm of the boat while he used the stars to navigate them home. They had been nearing the land of sirens for days now. He could see the craggy rocks where your sisters resided.

Was he ready to let you go?

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” You asked, and Soshiro jolted in surprise. You spoke little, if at all. Your voice was rough from disuse and the injuries marring your throat.

“Because we need you to barter passage through siren territory.” He said. He didn’t see any point in lying. But his resolve wavered when you barked out a harsh laugh.

“That’ll just get you slaughtered. Why do you think I was in the water in the first place? We aren’t exactly close.” You bite out, and he frowns.

“I thought sirens lived in flocks?” He said, and you shrugged, tilting your head back to look at the stars you passed under.

Soshiro looked up too, able to name the constellations used to guide them home.

“Typically, we are. But not when you’re different, apparently.” You mutter under your breath, and it is then that the dots connected.

“Did your sisters give you those scars and injuries?” He asked, and you stiffened. The splints had been taken off your wings at this point, and the feathers shifted uneasily behind your back.

Eventually, you nod, somewhat upset that he figured it out.

“I’m sorry,” He said and could see out of the corner of his eye how your head jerked up in surprise.

“Why are you sorry?” You snap, and he shrugs. Flashes of his family pass behind his eyes.

“I suppose I know what it’s like to not live up to the expectations of others. Or to be different. I’m… Not on the best terms with my family.” He said, and now it’s your turn to frown.

“I’m… Sorry…” You say awkwardly, and he laughs out loud.

“Don’t be. I got my own little family right here.” He said, gesturing to the boat where he could hear the wood creaking and the faint snores of his fellow soldiers.

For whatever reason, you looked sad.

Things came to a head when they finally passed through the land of sirens.

It was quiet at first. Soshiro didn’t see anyone or anything in the rock caves. But as the helmsman steered the ship past craggy outcroppings of stone, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

They were being watched.

You could tell, too. Hunkered down under the stairs that led to the helm, and your wings were pinned tightly against your back. Soshiro kept his hand on the pommel of his sword and wedged some beeswax in his ears. He had heard about a siren’s song. The mystical ability to sing and hypnotize a sailor and bring them to their doom.

He wasn’t sure why you hadn’t done that to him when you initially woke up, but he had the feeling it had to do with what your sisters did to you.

He wasn’t even sure the wax in his ears would work. But it was worth a shot.

And suddenly—There! Just on the edge of his hearing! A noise!

And it was then that the boat came to a stop, and the soldiers around him dropped their weapons. Captain Ashiro looked on blankly, her sword slipping from her hands as she fell under the siren’s spell.

All the while, Soshiro watched on.

He tightened his grip and drew his sword as the first siren dive bombed the ship.

The scaly talons dug into the helmsman’s shoulders and yanked him off the ship. There wasn’t a scream or cry for help. Just silence as you cowered under the stairs.

And then… They all came at once.

Soshiro cut down siren after siren, but he didn’t have the time to put wax in anyone’s ears as they were pulled from the ship to their deaths.

A pair of talons dug through Soshiro’s armor like it was nothing but butter and lifted him from the ship. He slashed and cut, but the siren wasn’t like you. This siren was well-fed and strong. Her wings had a healthy sheen, and she actually had all her feathers.

At least until you stepped in.

He heard a guttural screech that he knew all too well, and suddenly, he was plummeting to the deck.

What?

He looked up and rolled to the side a split second before the siren hit the deck, missing one of her wings. Soshiro scooped up his sword and prepared to cut her down, but you were on her in a second. The two of you rolled and flailed and scratched and bit until you came out on top.

The other siren didn’t move.

You threw your head back and let out a deafening screech that he heard even through the wax in his ears.

And… One by one… The sirens left.

The remaining crew seemingly snapped out of the spell and looked around, confused.

You had protected them.

Protected him.

And it was beautiful.

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Things not pictured because I’m not smart in fitting things in:

-Narumi Gen

-You trying to rip off Narumi’s head

-Just shenanigans with Narumi in general.

#hoshina soshiro x reader #hoshina soshiro x you #soshiro hoshina x reader #soshiro hoshina x you #hoshina x reader #hoshina x you #kn8 x reader #kn8 x you #kn8 x y/n #kaiju no. 8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 x you #fairy writes

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serumandsteel · 19 days ago

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The Shape of Silence | pt 2

part 1

pairing: tfatws bucky x (f) reader

summary: after years off-grid, you’re pulled back into the field by Sam Wilson. a freezing safe house, surveillance feeds and one tense comms line are all that stand between you and the past you’ve been trying to outrun. when John Walker blows the op wide open, you’re forced to step out of the shadows. this isn’t how you pictured seeing Bucky again — and by the look in his eyes, it’s not how he imagined it either.

word count: 3.4k

warnings: cannon level violence, emotional trauma, unresolved tension, swearing, and John Walker, well being himself is enough of a warning on its own.

a/n: I wrote this so quickly, so happy people liked part one & really hope you like this one! appreciate the love - msg me to be added to the tag list for the next chapter xx

You weren’t picky about your accommodations these days — so long as they had four walls, a lock, and zero rats. But this place? This place had the distinct charm of a war criminal’s final hideout. How did Sam even scope out this place. The building looked like it hadn’t seen a tenant since the Cold War. Probably because it hadn’t.

The mattress on the floor to your left looked like it had once hosted either a tragic breakup or a quietly successful murder. The walls were yellowing and cracked, plaster curling away in strips. A TV was bolted crookedly to one corner, eternally stuck on static—though you weren’t convinced it was even plugged in.

Outside, the sky was bruised grey, heavy with snow that hadn’t started falling yet but was definitely coming. The cold was creeping in through the gaps in the window and through the cracks of the wall. Every part of the room felt like it was waiting to collapse.

Across the narrow, cobbled street, the neighbouring buildings leaned inward like they were watching. Judging. Or maybe you were just tired.

You stood, stretching out your legs, and glanced at the battered radiator under the window. It coughed, sputtered, then made a sound like it had lost the will to live entirely. So, no help there.

But the wifi was solid, the walls were thick, and Sam hadn’t asked too many questions when you told him to ditch the Google Maps pin and send coordinates in a cipher you’d created for Natasha many years ago.

You sat cross-legged on the floor. There was no way in hell you were putting your ass on that mattress. The floor wasn’t much better, but at least it didn’t feel like a biohazard.

Your gear was scattered around you in a loose, familiar orbit. Some of it was yours, worn but reliable. The rest, newer additions Sam had left in the room for you. But the essentials? They never changed. Burner phone to your left. Gun to your right. A half-drunk Red Bull within arm’s reach. The only warmth in the room came from your laptop, buzzing steady against your thighs.

The headset clung tight against your ears, the cable coiled at your collar like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. It was the only thing keeping you tethered, something solid to focus on while your hands shook and your palms ran cold.

You exhaled, slow. What the hell were you even doing here? You should’ve said no. You could’ve said no. If you’d kept your shit together, maybe you’d be in Fiji right now. Using a rich politician’s credit card you hacked, sipping cocktails and abusing the room service. But instead—this.

Because Sam called. And because deep down, maybe it wasn’t just Sam you said yes to. You swallowed hard and squared your shoulders. You were here now. No backing out. No running.

He asked for your help—and whether it was about the mission or something else entirely, that alone was enough.

“Okay,” you muttered to no one. “Back in the saddle.”

A chime pinged from the laptop. It was Sam

SAM WILSON (incoming): You live?

You rolled your eyes and typed back:

YOU: unfortunately.

The comms link opened with a pop of static. Sam’s voice crackled through the speaker. “What’s crawled up your ass?”

You dropped your head into your hands to avoid punching the laptop. “I’m running on four hours of sleep in a shithole you call a safe house.”

“So business as usual.”

If looks could kill, Sam would be forty feet under.

“We’re just doing a ground sweep. You’ve got eyes on?”

You toggled to the tactical grid you'd just cracked, four security cams stuttering in grayscale. Two guards on the roof. One smoking near the loading dock. A fourth hunched over some kind of device.

“Eyes on and ears in,” you said, adjusting your headset. “You sure you don’t wanna warn Barnes I’m here?”

“He’ll figure it out.”

You arched a brow. “That your version of easing him into it?”

“Look, I didn’t not mention you. I just didn’t... announce it.”

Anxiety crawled up your spine like a spider up a web. That old, creeping feeling—like your body already knew something was about to go wrong even if there was a slim chance it might not. Your stomach twisted, the same way it always did when you let yourself care too much. About him.

“He’s going to be so pissed, Sam.”

A pause.

Then, as smug as ever: “C’mon. Bucky’s never pissed at me.”

You gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. He might make an exception.”

Sam hesitated. Just long enough to make you wonder if he was starting to realize this wasn’t just about you disappearing.

“Just promise me you’ll keep your mic on,” he said, switching lanes like he could steer the whole conversation out of a skid. “If something goes wrong—”

“I’ll improvise,” you said, already back at the keys. “I always do.”

You’d been staring at the same cracked patch of ceiling for forty-seven minutes. The waiting was the worst part. Not the gear, not the tech, not even the mission—just the stillness. The kind that buzzed beneath your skin like something old and familiar, the kind that told you no matter how far you’d run, you were exactly who you’d always been.

It scared you, how easily you’d fallen back into it. One call. One voice on the other end. And you didn’t just say yes, this was you surrendering. Giving in to that voice that you had ignored for so long.

You should be angry. At him. At yourself. At how fragile the illusion of your new life had been, how quickly the walls you built for peace caved in the second someone mentioned his name.

But the anger never really came. Just that quiet hum in your chest. That thing you couldn’t name. Maybe anxiety. Maybe anticipation. Maybe the kind of pull you didn’t want to admit had anything to do with him.

You told yourself it was the mission. That it was about doing the right thing. But deep down, you knew: it was always going to be about Bucky. You would follow him anywhere. You always had. And that truth—raw and echoing—still scared the shit out of you.

So now, sitting in this freezing room with your comms gear spread across the floor and the familiar itch of adrenaline crawling up your spine, it felt like you’d time-traveled. Like the years in hiding never happened. Like you’d never tried to break away.

You were back in it. And worse—you weren’t sure you ever really left.

The low buzz of static in your headset snapped you out of the spiral you’d been caught in. It was go time. No backing out now.

Your eyes swept across the four camera feeds on your screen. You spotted Sam first—he gave the signal you’d worked out earlier. Simple. Precise. It was the first time you’d seen him in a while, and even through the grainy security footage, there was something different about him. Something steady.

Confidence, sure—but not the cocky, reckless kind. This was heavier. More grounded. The kind of confidence that came with responsibility, with leadership. The kind of presence that made Steve hand him the shield without hesitation.

But still—why had Sam given it up?

It was something you never really got your head around. He was the right choice. He always had been.

Your gaze flicked to the next screen—stairwell cam. John Walker. Great.

You didn’t care where he was. Didn’t want to waste so much as a second of bandwidth tracking him. He could cover his own six. If Sam really thought you were going to drop everything and play backup for Walker, then maybe he’d forgotten who the hell he called in.

Then… you saw him.

Mid-movement on the far-right feed. A flicker of motion caught your eye—and just like that, the air left your lungs.

Bucky.

The footage was rough—washed out and slightly off-kilter from the old camera—but even from a distance, there was no mistaking him. His figure cut clean through the frame, sharp and purposeful against the industrial backdrop.

The light skimmed the gold detailing on his vibranium arm as he rolled his shoulder back, smooth and practiced, like it was flesh and not forged metal. The new arm had a quiet menace to it—sleek, dangerous... maybe even a little sexy.

No. Don’t go there.

You’d never really seen this version. You weren’t there the day they gave it to him. By the time you even had a chance, alien warships were tearing up Wakanda and the world was falling apart again.

His suit was black—tactical, minimal, zipped up to the collar like armor he never quite took off. Every piece had a purpose. Every seam looked built to carry weight. It hugged him like it was made just for him. No frills. No distractions. Just Bucky.

His hair was shorter now.

You remembered the way it felt between your fingers that night—the softness, the weight of it. Gone now. Cropped clean. Less wild. More... controlled.

Like everything else about him.

You watched him flex his left hand once, then go still. That kind of stillness that wasn’t calm—just focused. Like a wolf, watching. Waiting. On the edge of violence.

He didn’t look at the camera.

Didn’t need to.

But somehow, you still felt like he knew someone was watching

The feed pinged. Another motion alert lit up red in the corner of the screen. You adjusted the mic.

“Sam—left corridor is clear. Take the next door on your right, and loop around. Avoid the stairwell. You’ve got a nasty surprise waiting if you go that way.”

You heard Sam’s voice crackle back through comms, calm as ever. “Copy that.”

Your eyes stayed on the screens, tracking every shadow, every flicker of movement. You called it like muscle memory. Fast. Sharp. Detached. But your palms were still sweating. And your heart was beating in a way you really wished it wasn’t.

Then—

“Who the hell’s on comms?”

Bucky’s voice cut through the channel, low and clipped. You could hear the annoyance already curling at the edges. Great.

He hadn’t even finished the sentence before Sam sighed.

“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Bucky shot back, dry. “You bring in her, and you think I’m not gonna start?”

Your throat tightened.

There it was. The moment you knew was coming—the crack in the silence you’d built your entire life around for the past few years. All the distance you’d put between yourself and this exact situation? Useless now.

Still, you cleared your throat and forced your voice through. “The Dealer’s moving. Two agents coming up behind you, fast. You’ve got ten seconds.”

Silence.

Then, begrudgingly: “Copy.”

You caught Sam’s faint grunt of amusement. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Bucky muttered.

“No, I did,” Sam shot back. “Because I needed someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. Someone who can watch our backs while we’re in the fire. And if you’ve got a problem with that, Barnes, I suggest you keep it to yourself until we’re not under assault.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Bucky didn’t answer, but the way he moved on the screen told you everything. Jaw locked. Shoulders tense. You’d seen that posture before. It was the one he used to get when something was digging under his skin and he didn’t know where to put it.

And god, you hated how familiar that still was.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Part of you wanted to disappear again. Fade back into static, let them finish the mission and figure the rest out later. But Sam had asked for you. Trusted you.

And Bucky—

Bucky had every right to be angry. Because you had disappeared. Left him in the middle of a war and never looked back. Not really. Not in a way that mattered.

Your voice was steadier when it came through again.

“Third floor corridor, west wing—two heat signatures holding near the service elevator. Might be backup. Sam, take Bucky and flank them from the north stairwell. Don’t go in loud unless you have to.”

Another pause.

Then Bucky’s voice, gritted but composed. “Understood.”

You stared at the screen, watching them move. Watching him move.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, the weight of it all settled in for real.

This wasn’t just a mission. This was the start of a reckoning.

You tracked Sam’s heat signature as he cleared the west corridor, voice calm as you fed him directions through the earpiece.

“Two coming up behind the generator. You’ve got thirty seconds until they cross your path—”

A new voice cut in, all bravado and static.

“This is Captain America. Copying channel—what’s the plan, boys?”

You froze.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You didn’t even try to filter the disdain in your tone. “Wow. Rolls off your tongue real easy, huh?”

Silence. Then a very slow, very deliberate sigh from Walker’s end.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Someone who’s been doing this longer than you’ve had that overcompensating shield,” you muttered.

Bucky’s voice came in next—low, barely more than a breath, but you caught the huff. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh smothered by annoyance.

“Keep moving, Walker,” he said flatly. “You’re blocking the channel.”

You swore you heard Sam mumble something that sounded like Jesus Christ under his breath, but he didn’t correct either of you.

John scoffed. “Real professional mission you’re running here, Wilson.”

“You’re welcome to leave,” Sam replied, bone dry.

“Gladly,” you added. “I’d put my money on you getting lost in the stairwell anyway.”

You heard Bucky click something—probably a fresh mag sliding into place—but there was a half-second pause before he added, “She’s not wrong.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t have to. The channel was quiet for a beat, and that silence said it all.

A rare kind of solidarity.

Between you and Bucky.

Not forgiveness. Not even trust. Just… alignment.

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how cold the laptop had gone against your thighs. Your hands weren’t shaking anymore, but the weight of what came after this—when the mission ended, when you weren’t safely tucked behind a camera feed—pressed in sharp at the edges of your ribs.

Sooner or later, you were all going to have to face each other in the same room.

You were mid-sweep of the external hallway feeds when a sharp crack split through your headset. The kind of sound you knew too well—the kind that meant something had just gone very, very wrong.

Your fingers flew over the keys as you switched to the north wing camera, the grainy feed stuttering before sharpening just enough to catch a flash of movement and pinpoint the source of the noise.

John Walker. Weapon raised. One guard already slumped at his feet. Another bolting, shouting into a radio.

You yanked your headset closer. “Walker, what the fuck are you doing?”

A pause—

Then another crack of static flared through your earpiece like a whip of white noise. Followed by gunfire.

Of course. Trust Walker to blow the damn mission.

“Sam,” you said, pulse kicking up. “Shit—Walker’s compromised.”

Your hands blurred across the keyboard, flipping between feeds. Walker’s figure flickered from one hallway to the next—his movements all bravado, no strategy. Too loud. Too proud. No subtlety. No sense.

“Walker, stand down,” Sam barked. “We had a plan—what the hell was that?”

“I handled it,” Walker snapped. “Wasn’t gonna sit around waiting for orders while they closed in.”

You didn’t even try to filter your disgust.

“Yeah, well it shows. So easy calling yourself Captain America when you don’t even know how to work with a team.”

A beat of silence.

Then a grunt. A thud.

“What the hell just happened?” Bucky’s voice, low and clipped.

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” Sam repeated, tighter now.

“I handled it, alright? Situation changed. I moved.” Walker again—defensive, arrogant, like he hadn’t just jeopardised the entire op.

“You moved without backup,” Bucky snapped. “And you just blew our cover.”

You sat frozen on the floor, heat crawling under your skin. Not from the cold. Not from fear.

Because you already knew what came next.

Then Sam again, quieter this time. Grim.

“Hey, Y/N? Remember when I said to improvise?” A pause. “I think it’s time to improvise.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Bucky’s voice came through like a blade. “You said she was only eyes.”

“She was,” Sam said sharply. “Plan just changed.”

On-screen, more guards were closing in on Walker’s position. Sam and Bucky were two floors over, too far out. There wasn’t time. And if Walker went down—if anyone found out he got hurt when this was Sam's mission. It’d blow back hard.

You stared at the camera feed. At the crumbling mission. At the familiar fury in your chest. You didn’t want to help Walker. You didn’t owe him shit. But you owed Sam. He’d trusted you. Called you in when no one else could.

Goddamn it.

You were on your feet before your brain caught up.

“I’m going,” you muttered into the mic, already yanking on your jacket and sliding the pistol from the floor into the holster at your hip.

You cut the line before anyone could stop you.

This was it. No time to think, no time to prepare.

All those nights you’d imagined how it might go—how you’d run into Bucky again, what you’d say, how he’d look at you—gone.

No carefully scripted reunion. No chance to brace yourself.

This wasn’t about what-ifs anymore.

The only thing that mattered now was whether you remembered your hand-to-hand training well enough to survive this—or if pure adrenaline would do the heavy lifting for you. The only weapons on you were your brain and a gun, and if those failed? You better pray your fists remembered what to do.

Cold wind slapped your face as you sprinted across the alley behind the building, boots slipping on snow-slick cobbles.

The exit you’d mapped as an extraction route had just become your entry point. You yanked open the rear stairwell door, the metal groaning on rusted hinges, and tore up the steps two at a time.

Voices ahead. Movement. No hesitation.

You found Walker in the hallway, back to the wall, still trying to play the hero.

Three guards. One bleeding. Two armed and ready.

They didn’t see you until it was too late.

You ducked the first swing, landed two solid strikes of your own, and drove your knee into the second man’s ribs with a satisfying crunch. The third reached for his weapon—You slammed his head into the wall hard enough to leave a dent.

Walker blinked at you like you’d dropped out of the sky. “Who the hell are—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, grabbing the front of his vest and dragging him behind the nearest cover. “Stay down and try not to make this worse.”His mouth opened—probably to argue—

But footsteps thundered from the stairwell behind you.

“Down!” Someone shouted.

You dropped without thinking. Instinct.

Just as Bucky rounded the corner, gun raised.

Everything stopped. Just for a beat.

His eyes locked on yours.

Not through a camera. Not through surveillance feed and memory.

Right here.

Close enough to hear your breathing. Close enough to see the years in his eyes.

He froze.

You didn’t.

“Sam,” you said into the comms, voice steady despite the burn in your lungs. “Walker’s secure. Threat’s neutralised.”

“Copy that,” Sam replied. “Sit tight. We’re coming to you. Bucky, are you—”

But Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just stared at you.

And you stared right back, bracing for whatever came next—the confrontation, the anger, the past you hadn’t outrun.

Because nothing about this was going to go the way you wanted it to.

a/n: YASSSS they have reunited!!! I'm actually SO excited to write the next chapter! how are you guys feeeeeelingg

Taglist/ @awkwardgiraffe726 @mcira @greatenthusiasttidalwave

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #the falcon and the winter soldier #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #TSOS

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peppertoastuniverse · 9 months ago

Text

more than a late night snack: – gojo satoru chapter 3: green tea

contents: gojo satoru x reader, tw!ptsd, swearing, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, satoru being down bad and not knowing it yet, satoru not being good at feelings summary: after trying to cheer you up after a bad day, gojo starts to wonder what these growing new feelings towards you mean.

wc: 2.5k

oh no. were you crying? did he make you – now gojo really didn’t like this, he’s almost panicking, heart racing to an unfamiliar rhythm. he winces, “shit, babe.” refusing to meet his eyes, you wordlessly shake your head.

previous chapter ll master list ll next chapter

you will yourself to unclench your jaw as you rustle into your pockets to fish out your loose change. today was just not your day – after a week of decent sleep you had your first setback in the form of a vivid nightmare that frustratingly did not allow to you go back to sleep. sighing, you add some coins into the machine and press the buttons on the right side to select your favourite bottle of green tea.

grinding your teeth while you shake off the residual panic that’s rooted within your subconscious waiting at the vending machine for your drink to dispense. you were making progress – the nightmares weren’t happening as frequently but you were getting frustrated at your slow progress. sure, other students had nightmares but never as bad as yours were. were you that weak that you couldn’t fight off your own imagination? if only you had moved quicker, fought harder … maybe everyone wouldn’t have died and you –

you shook your head at imposing thoughts and impatiently rubbed your temple to calm down the consistent migraine you had. at least the green tea would awaken your drained head and provide some relief from your racing thoughts. you breath hitches as you watch in slow motion as your bottle of green gets jams against the glass of the vending machine.

you blink, biting your lip. luck was not on your side today.

you sighed heavily, feeling tears at your waterline. oh god, you were going to cry. okay, okay. that’s okay, you just needed to recollect yourself, right? no biggie, it happens, it’s not the end of the worl–

“ooooooh fuck, babe that’s unlucky,” says a sing song voice from behind you.

not this, not now, not gojo.

you unfortunately hear his cheeky smile before you see him. if you were having a bad day and satoru gojo showed up, it was just about to get worse. creeping into your peripheral vision you see messy white hair, dark sunglasses and an infuriating grin. if you turned around you weren’t sure if you were going to yell at him or burst into tears, so you clenched your fists, shut your eyes and hoped he got the hint to leave you alone. you at least hoped that geto was with him, at least if his trainer was there the blue eye beast would be more tolerable.

but luck was not on your side, only hearing one set of foot steps drawing closer and closer, you hold back an audible groan. you shut your eyes tighter around the sound of his voice, hoping that the darkness would smoother his presence. if you cried here – in front of him – you would die of embarrassment. you knew that he would never let you live it down. he still teased you that time you cried when you ate something too spicy after a mission with ieri and geto 4 months ago.

“- last time, it took like 6 colas to unlodge my original cola from this piece of shit. suguru practically died laughing. this one’s the worst,” he said banging his fist on the side of the vending machine hopelessly. “ya gotta go to the one near the gym, babe! that one is waaaaay newer and better stocked too, but i mean shoko keeps hogging all the strawberry milk. i mean… i guess– we could also just break on the vending machine if-“

yikes. how long had he been talking?

you sigh and finally open your eyes to find him animatedly talking, hand on his hip, other hand on his chin, looking closely into the machine - nose almost touching the glass - trying to figure out a plan to get your bottle of green tea out. if you were stronger or if you had less pride you’d admit that it was almost endearing.

“- or I could- hey? babe? how come you never listen to me???” gojo turns to look at your vacant expression, his lower lip jutting out exaggeratedly, blue eyes burning bright with a tinge of annoyance.

shit, he caught you.

you sigh trying to drain the increasing flow of water in your eyes. “im just having a bad day, gojo. sorry,” you say sheepishly.

gojo eyes widen to take in your appearance, you slightly hunched shoulders, cheeks flushed at being caught. wait.. were your eyes more watery than usual? rims with a tinge of red, eyebrows downcast, you were fidgeting with your fingers unable to look at him in the eye. something explodes in gojo. did.. did he make you upset?

oh no.

the thought of him being the cause of your sadness almost made him want to throw up. he did not like this at all. but.. why was he feeling this way? maybe he needed a cold drink too. or- or maybe.. was it the tea that was the cause of your reaction? oh god, did he have to fight a bottle of green tea? he was one of the strongest he could do it; he’d definitely break the machine in half to get it for you, he would if that’s what you wanted. is that what you wanted? hell, he’d buy you green tea everyday - he’d buy out every store in Tokyo for you if it meant you’d smile.

he was a good friend - he’d do the same for Suguru or shoko, right? he just wanted you to be happy. but when you turn your back to him, gearing up to make an escape, he feels something else drop in his stomach.

“hey - hey it’s okay! i’m not mad, i swear,” he says moving closer to you, awkwardly bumping your shoulder with his.

perhaps it was the combination of his unusual sweetness and the acknowledgment of your fragile state, you feel your eyes grow misty once more. why was he so infuriating? you didn’t want to deal with him, you didn’t want to hear his taunts or his obnoxious comments. you didn’t have the headspace to come up with a witty response or to roll your eyes at him right now. but luck was not on your side today.

attempting to save yourself from the embarrassment from him seeing your threatening tears fall, you begrudgingly lean your forehead gojo’s shoulder, nose facing his arm conveniently hiding your face. why did embarrassing moments always happen when he was around? you hated it but the need to hide, to disappear was far greater. you sniff softly.

realisation widens his blue eyes. oh no.

were you crying? did he make you – now gojo really didn’t like this, he’s almost panicking, heart racing to an unfamiliar rhythm.

he winces, “shit, babe.” refusing to meet his eyes, you wordlessly shake your head.

c’mon keep it together. gojo can’t see you like this. “i-is this about the green tea- like it’s not your fault! the machine does that all the time, you didn’t break it or anything! it’s just like – “ “c-can you just.. just shut up for a sec.. please,” the weariness and fatigue coating your words. you sniff, fully succumbing to your bad day, hands moving quickly to rub the tears that lightly fall from your heavy eyes. gojo immediately quiets – a rare sight. fidgeting with his hands, he’s at a loss for what to do. you’re so close, so willingly close to him. your skin is comfortably warm and he’s surprised at how pleased he is that you’ve chosen to get close to him.

he raises his hand and pats your head as he listens to your breathing, trying to offer some semblance of comfort to you even if he knew that you wouldn’t fully accept it from him.

your eyes shut, unconsciously you lean into his soft touch. it felt nice, almost reassuring. “..what’s going on, babe?” he asks quietly, not wanting to upset you more than you already were.

“im.. im not babe.” he hears you muffle against his shoulder, voice still raspy with an abundance of unshed tears. “ and .. my head isn't for patting.”

gojo snorts and makes a point of fluffing your hair to your annoyance. “yes, you are,” he mumbles, uncharacteristically gentle, his hand stilling on top of your head.

“are you… are you okay?” he asks, concern in his voice. this new sense of helplessness from you was strange to him. even that night when you made udon together, you were out of it but you were still composed albeit exhausted. you’ve always had a bit of fight, but today your meekness and defeated tone started to make him worry.

“i.. i’m just…” you say as you struggle to find the words, unwilling yourself to vocalize your weakness to him. “..i’m not sleeping well," you put simply.

“how come?” he takes his large hand off of your head, instead moving to unconsciously play with a lock of your hair.

“… thinking too much, i guess.” fragile voice threatening to crack. you clear your throat swiftly. “i’ll be fine.”

gojo’s hand settles behind your neck, his warm hands offering a strange and new comfort. he stares at you with a look that you don’t understand, his blue eyes shining. was it understanding or knowing gojo.. pity?

you flush. you detach yourself from him and turn your back swiftly to hide yourself from him. hopefully you’d disappear if he didn’t look at you.

“y’know you don’t have to do that, right?”

you turn slightly angle your head to look back at him with a questioning stare. what is he getting at? “well.. you always hide.“ he states plainly like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “you don’t have to hide with me.”

you blink, red rimmed eyes not looking at his face, instead choosing to focus on the ground beneath him. you weren’t used to gojo being like this towards you, but maybe –

“..and ‘member, babe? six eyes i’ll catch it anyway, so don’t even bother trying- ” yeah he ruins everything. you shoot him the most murderous look you could muster.

getting the hint, he backtracks quickly “..uhhh I just mean, i'm – we’re here for you, you know? shoko, suguru and me. but since i’m the best -“ “nope. you’re at the bottom of that list.”

“wha- the bottom?” he gapes at you disbelievingly, hand over his quickly beating heart. “nuh uh! wait whose at the top then?! don’t tell me that it’s sug-“

you chuckle at his playfulness, you found amusement in seeing him all worked up. his eyes would blaze brightly, slender nose scrunched up, plump lips sculpting into a pout.. he was ridiculous. tilting your head up, your eyes finally meeting blue.

there was so much you wanted to say to him, but you settled on something that nicely encompassed everything:

“you’re so dumb, gojo.”

gojo slowly blows air out of his nose, he swallows his whines and instead pouts slightly at your comment. good this was good, if you were being mean to him then things were getting better - you were feeling better. calling your name he gestures you closer to the vending machine. you follow slowly, unsure of his intent. he inches closer to you, so close that you could feel the warmth radiating off his lanky frame and the fresh smell of his shampoo.

did this guy know the concept of personal space? why was he so close?

“i’ll get your tea out for you. i can blue the machine if you want! or-or I can –” he says with an easy grin.

your cheeks twitch up, threatening to smile. “you’d blow up my drink then you idiot,” you say voice infinitesimally stronger now, tone more playful.

“yeah, but if i were you i’d want revenge!”

“what, on the machine?” your eyes roll before looking down at your green tea bottle still hopelessly stuck. just like you were.

“dude of course! the bastard stole your green tea! let’s fuck it up!” his eyebrows wiggle, bright blue laced with mischief.

you snort. “you’re crazy, gojo. if you want to burn some energy go spar with suguru!”

“what, him?” his nose wrinkles at your first name basis with his best friend – and not him. “why ask him when you’re here already? but y’know, i feel like we’d make a good team don’t ya think? we could do some damage together!” if you didn’t want to tell him exactly what was going on, he could take your mind off whatever is making you upset, it’d be a win. and he always wins.

“i’m not fighting the vending machine.” you deadpan, fingers coming to pinch your nose bridge, exasperation eclipsing sadness.

“what, babe? you don’t think I’d win???” gojo incredulously whines.

“are you seriously asking me that question right now?”

“all im hearing is that you don’t think i’d win against a cheating vending machine!!” gojo huffs dramatically, crossing his arms and turning away from you.

you fully laugh. his ears perk up happily at the noise, he bounces on his feet while mentally patting himself on the back. he made you laugh – perhaps luck was on his side today.

he claps his hands suddenly. “right then babe, let’s go!” gojo practically shouts. giddy from his win, gojo quickly grabs your wrist and drags you behind him, the pathetic bottle of green tea forgotten still suspended, leaning on the glass. your eyes widen as you feel the warmth of his hand around your wrist.

“he–gojo! HEY! where are we going?! gojo, slow down, why are we running?!” you ask jogging to keep up with his long stride. "hey!" you sharply shake wrist connected to him to get his attention. “we’re going – oh sorry!” he turns his head, white hair catching the light as he notices your increased pace, he slows down to accommodate your shorter stride. “we’re going to the convenience store to get some green tea, duh. oh my god, can we get some cake too? oooOOOHhH, let’s get the new strawberry cream cake they have! can we??”

“okay, but you’re paying.” you say amused at his excitement. gojo grins happily, “you think I’d let you pay? c’mon!” shaking both of his hands excitedly, jostling your whole arm when he holds your wrist.

“you can let go now, gojo…” you say, barely noting the way that his grip on you grows a little tighter.

gojo blinks as he hesitantly drops your wrist. quickly recovering, gojo exclaims, “awwwwwww, i thought we were just starting to get alon -” offering you a teasing smile.

“oh my god, let’s just go.” rolling your eyes. taking large strides to walk past him before turning back in a huff annoyed to see that he wasn't following you.

you sigh dramatically, “I’m going by myself if you don’t –“ he quickly falls in line with your steps. “im coming, im coming! jeez babe, you’re so demand–“ you slap his arm sharply, eyes blazing, all previous sadness forgotten, suspended for the time being. gojo laughs loudly at your expression.

gojo’s day just got better and judging by the pep in your step, he smiles to think that yours did too.

A/N: i loooooove him, he's such a lil puppy here. -- head image credit: unknown! credit goes to the rightful artists dividers from: @/adornedwithlight

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sugurusdiscordmoderator · 1 year ago

Note

Halo bby! <3

Do u perhaps take request? I have been thinking about husband!gojo who feels offended after wife!reader told him about how men can only ejaculate 3 times a day after after she saw it on facebook :3 So Satoru had to cum in wifey more than what she believes because the truth is better than rumours, right? 🤔

hi anon! my inbox is always open for requests (it just might take me a little to finish them lol)

Sorry I’ve been working on this for like 3 weeks lol, I am going to take a break from writing Gojo for a little after this though (:

I didn’t proof read this my apologies

MDNI

cw: smut lmao, handjob, 69, riding, missionary, doggy, daddy kink (oops), shower sex, etc.

—

You scroll through your Facebook feed, when an article from Cosmopolitan magazine pops up called “How To Make Your Man Orgasm Better”. You read through some of it, not really absorbing much until you see an actual doctor’s name listed as research for the article. I mean of course if there’s a penis doctor listed in this article it must be legit!

‘Generally, a person with a penis can orgasm no more than 3 times a day. It can become painfully overstimulating the penis after that I’m afraid. In fact over 80% of this study shows that the person with the penis could not go longer than one orgasm, and 95% could not continue after the second one. That leaves just 5% of the population able to orgasm a third time in a day. There is the possibility for an asymptote - a line that never actually reaches zero although approaching it rapidly after the number 3.’

After reading through the article you decide to scroll through the comments, reading about middle aged women’s sex lives and how their husbands are rather bad at being intimate.

But oh, you could not relate.

After all, you are married to the Satoru Gojo. As a newer married couple with no kids, the two of you fuck at least once a day, usually after work or before bed. You like to get a little more creative on weekends, with morning sex, shower sex, kitchen counter, couch (and just about any surface in the house he can bend you over he’s already fucked you on). You guys can have sex for hours, pulling multiple orgasms from you, but the most he’s ever came in a day is three! So that doctor must have been right.

Just then, your lovely husband Satoru comes home to your beautiful little house, strolling in with a smile on his face like usual. He sits his bag down and takes off his blindfold before making his way over to you and kissing the top of your head where you sit on the couch.

“Hi baby, how was your day?” he asks

“Good, I was just reading a medical article!” You giggle mischievously, getting up to join him in the kitchen with your phone in hand.

“You can read?!” He sarcastically responds, pretending to be shocked before coming up behind you to hug you. This time he kisses the side of your head near your temple, smelling your freshly done hair and you can smell the remnants of his cologne that he sprayed before leaving this morning. “What were ya reading baby?” He kindly asks, not joking this time.

“Well this doctor says guys can cum at most three times a day! And I was thinking about it and even when we stay in bed all day on the weekends having sex the maximum you’ve hit is 3 so it must be true!”

Your husband breaks out laughing, a truly angelic sound, but you’re not quite sure what he’s laughing at. He breaks your hug turning you around to face him with his hands on your shoulders.

“Oh. You actually weren’t joking.” He says reading the expression on your face.

“No babe. Here read it!” You shove your phone towards him with the article pulled up. He reads the same paragraph as above and makes a mental note of the doctors name and credentials and thinks about how he’s going to contact him once he proves this theory wrong.

“Oh, interesting babe. Since you’re so into these ‘medical’ articles you find on cosmopolitan, why don’t we test this theory for ourselves?”

You giggle and blush at his sentiment, still getting shy when initiating sex even after being together for 5 years! You close the distance between your bodies, wrapping your arms around your husbands neck and pulls him down for a kiss.

“Yes please” you whisper against his lips. Satoru deepens the kiss, taking control over you like always. He continues kissing you and backing you up until your back reaches the refrigerator. He plants kisses all over your face before moving down to your neck.

“Y’know, I think we’ll have to make me orgasm all different ways for it to count. Something about a control variable.” Satoru mumbles against your neck.

You’d protest but your pretty little head is thinking about the way his mouth is on your sensitive spot, too horny to shut him up. He pats the back of your thighs for you to jump into his grasp, and you do wrapping your legs around him like a koala. The two of you continue your passionate make out before heading to the bedroom.

Leading you to the gorgeous master bedroom satoru closes the door behind you even though nobody else is there. He begins unbuttoning his jacket and throws it on the floor followed by his undershirt and black jeans. He lays back, his stiff member pulling his boxer briefs tight as he looks over to you expectantly. You waltz closer to the bed, only wearing your matching silk tank top and short set that satoru bought multiple of and loves so much.

He bought every pastel color and loves when he can see your somehow always hardened nipples through the silky fabric. Today’s outfit was baby blue, which happened to be his favorite. Being Satoru’s housewife really isn’t so bad, he makes good money and takes care of you in every way. You just can’t help but be submissive to him when he asks you to wear certain things or cook a certain food. For this man, you threw feminism out the window, and oh how he knew that.

Satoru pulls you onto his lap, looking up at you with those stupidly beautiful eyes as he gently squeezes your hip. “Cmon princess let’s start this experiment,” he winks at you before helping you take off your tank top.

While yes, you play a submissive role in your relationship, he doesn’t always dominate you in the bedroom.

That being said, you roll off satoru so you are laying beside him, leaning to him to resume your steamy make out session.

“Mmm.. I love making out with you, we need to do this more,” he mumbles against your lips. You “mhm” in agreement before proceeding to enter your tongue into his mouth. One hand grips into his white locks while the other reaches down to rub his erection through his boxer briefs. He moans at your touch, reaching his slender arm around you and firmly grabs ahold of your ass, as if you would run away. Satoru takes over the kiss a little more, but as you’re still trying to be in control you stick your hand inside his underwear, rubbing your thumb against his slit.

You break the kiss so he can lower the underwear, before spiting on your hand to lube his shaft as your soft hand runs up and down. He shudders and rolls his eyes back, putting both of his hands behind his head, showing off his sculpted physique completed by the tufts of white hair on his armpits.

You try your best to talk dirty to your lover, being shy in bed like usual is not going to work if you want to make him cum more than 3 times.

“Such a pretty cock belonging to my pretty man”

Satoru knows he’s in for a wild ride when you start to talk seductively. It doesn’t happen often because while you’re vocal in bed… it doesn’t usually include words or full sentences. 😉

You keep eye contact with your lover while you rub your thumb in circles against his sensitive spot, on the back side of the shaft where it meets the head. He lets out a mixture of a whimper and moan while closing his eyes. You add the dripping precum to the tip of his cock will you rub him up and down just like he had shown you previously. He likes when you start towards the middle and rotate up and down, not too fast and not too slow, but not too much pressure and not too light of a touch. He openly told you before that you weren’t very good with the whole handjob concept even though you’re basically professional at everything else, and so he went into great detail, and now you can really make the man quiver.

You sit up, moving so you can use both hands, because his balls look just a little too neglected. You straddle his left leg, allowing him to feel your bare soaking pussy against him. He grunts at the new feelings, getting to be too much for him to handle.

“Baby please make me cum,” he whines as you start to grind yourself on his leg, matching the rhythm that you’re stroking his length. Your other hand gently caresses his full sack, you know he will be cumming so much tonight and you cannot wait.

“Satoru, baby, please? Cum for me?” You let out a small moan as he rubs his leg against you for some extra friction, which simply sends him over the edge. Looking into your big sweetly innocent eyes he shoots his seed all over his abs. Neither of you even look at his cock when he cums, too mesmerized by the lust contained within the eye contact.

Finally, you let go of his penis as he catches his breath with his eyes closed. You want to give him some time to recover but not too much, because it will mess up the variable data!

“My sweet, are you ready for more?” You ask innocently already devising a plan for what you’ll do to him next.

“Whatever you want princess,” he breathes out finally opening his eyes when he has caught his breath.

You try to remain confident as you shift your weight off of his leg and swing your body around.

“Can I sit on your face please baby?” You ask again sounding way too innocent for the words coming out of your mouth. Satoru lets out a moan at the unexpected question, his cock growing hard again.

“Please, fuck yes, please let me make you feel good,” Satoru begs, grabbing your legs to help you get adjusted.

“No baby, I want to face the other way.”

“Oh,” Satoru breathes out, knowing what is coming next.

You get adjusted, your warm soaking cunt hovering over your husbands mouth, thinking about how long it has been since you’ve done this position, surely it won’t take him long to reach peak number 2.

Satoru wastes no time diving in like a starved man. That is the thing about your husband, is he loves pleasuring you almost more than he likes being pleasured himself. Seeing and hearing and feeling you feel good drives him crazy, being the reason he loves sixty-nine so much.

Pulling out all the stops tonight you lean down, licking a strip down Satoru’s abdomen, the exact line where all of his previous cum was. You lick from the bottom of his pecs down the whole way until you reach the base of his dick, proceeding to lick a stripe up and wrap your lips around his tip.

“Oh my fucking god baby that was the hottest thing ever”

Now he really starts eating you out with a passion, tongue circling your clit before plunging in your hole. You attempt to match the bobbing of your mouth on his cock but he simply goes too fast. You come off his cock to let out a guttural moan of his name, which only eggs him on further.

“I’m - I’m not going to last long - ahhha - if you keep that up S’toruuu”

“Mhmmm,” he hums against your clit, knowing how good the vibrations feel for you.

You close your eyes before going back down on his cock, feeling him twitch as you messily tongue his tip.

“-m sensitive hmm” a muffled Satoru says but you don’t care. Using your previously covered in cum hand, you run up and down his shaft while moving down to suck on his balls. This sends toe curling electricity through his body, and he reaches his arm around your thigh so he can access your tight hole with his thumb. Sucking and licking while you feel his thick thumb being sucked into you. Being as turned on as you were, a first orgasm is almost instantly ripped from you, catching both of you off guard but you moan against Satoru’s balls. The combination of feeling you convulse against his thumb plus the sensitive state of his dick in your hand sends Satoru over the edge, but he at least gets to give you a warning.

“Cummin for ya again baby please take it all,” he says barely coherent being so overtaken by pleasure. You attach your lips back to his tip and finish sucking him off until you feel cum stop coming out. You try to get off of him as gracefully as you can, moving to lay down for a minute to give you both some air. You look at the lower half of his face as he licks his lips, and you hold out your tongue showing him you swallowed all of it.

“Cmere pretty girl,” he murmurs, wrapping his right arm around your shoulders and pulling your sweaty bodies close.

“Don’t get too comfortable my baby were only half done, at least,” you smile up at him and watch as he realizes you really weren’t kidding earlier.

Once you’ve recovered from your orgasm, you crawl back on top of Satoru, but this time straddling his pelvis, his semi-hard cock under you. He still looks a little out of breath, but you’re going to do all the work so he doesn’t need to worry right?

You grind your soft wet folds against his growing erection, “can I have it in my sweet pussy this time baby?” You ask doing your best to give him puppy eyes. His eyes roll to the back of his head, humping his hips up a little to give more friction.

“You can have anything you want Princess, you’re being such a vocal good girl t’night,” he sounds out of breath, whiney, and desperate as he watches you reach your hand down to line him up with you. You smile as you playfully rub his tip on your clit.

His hands cover his face, “please. Please stop teasing me, please baby,”

Without further notice you slip him inside, slippery from the previous orgasm Satoru ripped from you.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he whispers before a porn like moan courses through him, “y/n I’m so sensitive, I don’t think I can do it!”

You slowly ride and grind up and down his shaft, one hand on his chest to support you, the other rubbing at your clit. “Please, daddy… for me?” You emphasize that word, knowing being called that drives your husband crazy.

Satoru’s large skinny hands find the squishy sides of your hips and he squeezes hard. Not that he meant to, but there will definitely be 10 small oval bruises on your ass and hips tomorrow.

“Say it again…” he moans.

“Say what again?” You smile innocently, batting your eyelashes. With that he lifts one hand off your hip and lashes out a spank on your ass check, making your tight hole clench down on him more.

“You know what I meant.” God, something just slightly feral comes out of Gojo when you play so innocent but also act so seductive for him, especially when he hears that word from your lips.

“Daddy, I need two more orgasms from you, please?” You whine as you find a particularly good spot that his cock is rubbing inside you. It’s like your words revived Satoru’s stamina, firmly grabbing your hips again before helping you lift off and on him at almost inhuman speed. Each thrust goes so deep in you, you think you feel it in your stomach. A few more hard thrusts and he is pulling you off of him, and pushing you straight back so your back is on the bed now. He hovers above you, reclaiming his dominance, before pushing back into you with both legs dangling off his shoulders. You know he is holding out as long as he can, but he’s going to want you to cum first so he can feel you clench around his cock and push him over the edge. He leans down kissing your lips, forehead, and cheek before whispering seductively, “such a good girlll,” while emphasizing the last two words with two particularly rough thrusts. He continues his praises inbetween licks and sucks on your neck

“You looked so pretty on top princess but I just had to have my way with you,” before he leans down to suck which will surely leave a hickey. When he comes back up for air he breathlessly groans,

“And you just taste so good and your throat knows my cock so well!” You think he may be slightly going insane and wonder if orgasm numbers 3 and 4 are necessary. Moaning with him, he knows you love his dirty talk because he can feel you squeeze his cock without trying.

Satoru fucks into you with relentless speed, causing your chest to bounce up and down, and all you can do is grip onto his shoulders and let your toes curl from pleasure.

“Mmm, daddy, g’na cum for you,” you barely breathe out, getting closer to the edge as your back arches off the bed. At this he puts your legs together and pushes them back towards you, knowing exactly how to hit your favorite spot in this position.

“Come on princess, cum for daddy, that’s it,” he groans, temporarily forgetting about his overstimulated cock while being so focused on your eyes rolled back and mouth hanging open in pleasure. Just a few more thrusts and he has you squeezing his dick so tight, he knows he won’t last much longer. Your orgasm hits you, not even able to control the beautiful sounds coming out of your mouth, face red, tears threatening to spill from pure bliss. Satoru slowed his pace to let you finish your orgasm before pounding into you harder than before

“Sa-tor-u” his name comes out of your mouth broken up not being able to catch your breath.

“I-I’m gonna - toru!” Being fucking into overstimulation has made you squirt all over Satoru’s cock and lower abdomen, which puts him over the edge, two more hard thrusts before he pauses, spilling his third load of the evening into your throbbing cunt.

His breathing heavy, sweat making his usually fluffy white hair stick to his forehead and his whole body seems to be glowing from the shine of sweat covering him. God you feel so bad for him but also do you really? As he’s said before “your pussy is heaven” so like it’s not really bad that you’re giving it to him…

“Let’s get you in the shower hun,” you whisper next to his ear, having plans for how you can get at least one more orgasm out of him. Still huffing, he gets up and his glorious skinny body looks so beautiful you feel yourself getting horny again. At least you weren’t as tired as your husband!

You set out 3 fluffy clean towels from the linen closet and turn the shower on a good temperature. Satoru has his arms wrapped around you from behind as you both wait for the water to warm up. “I love you,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

“Love you too, Toru” you smile up at him, turning around in his grasp. You kiss him sensually slowly at first, on your tippy toes gently rubbing your fingers along his cheek and neck. You deepen the kiss, knowing exactly how your husband loves it. He reaches down, each hand grabbing each ass cheek and squeezing before giving you a light spank, causing you to giggle.

“Naughty girl, still haven’t had enough?” He asks down to you. Without responding you gently wrap your had around him and pull him into your beautiful giant shower. The water is perfectly hot , making your eyes roll back in relaxation. You pull Satoru under the water taking care of him first. He turns into your big baby, leaning down to let you shampoo his hair and wash his body. When you get to clean his pelvis area you gently lather his soft penis with soap. He whimpers just from you touching it, but you have to clean it! Next you fondle his balls, massaging the soap in. His erection slowly starts to grow again and you know orgasm number 4 won’t be too far away.

“My turn,” you say looking up at him and turning around so you ass rubs up against his hardening member.

Satoru pumps a generous amount of your fancy smelling body wash onto your pink loofa, his frontside still pressed up against your backside. His long arms maneuver around your smaller frame, using all his energy to make sure he washes you in every hard to reach spot, only detaching himself when he had to wash your back and ass. He ignores the boner that impossibly came back after cumming 3 times already, and thought you didn’t notice.

He opts to hang the loofa back up and uses his hands to sensually rub the soap in, starting with your tits, although they needed no extra attention. Your nipples have always been sensitive in the best way, so when he starts rubbing them you can’t help but feel your core heat up again.

“Spread your legs hun,” he whispers, barely able to hear it over the running water. You do as satoru tells you, and he runs his hands down from your chest to your folds, making sure the area is soapy and clean. Your eyes close, leaning your head back against his chest while he massages your slightly tender pussy.

You take this opportunity to reach behind you, grabbing your husbands hardened shaft, and lining it up with your slick cunt.

“Baby…” he groans, voice laced with concern.

“Shhh, it’s okay I’m going to take care of you,” you answer back and with that, push yourself back onto his cock. You both moan in unison at the connection, like a melody between the differences in your voices. You can tell Satoru is tired by his rather lazy thrusts, so you hold onto the shower wall in front of you, fucking yourself back onto him. He is back there whining and groaning uncontrollably, being such a trooper for letting you do this experiment on him.

He puts his hand over yours on the wall, while snaking his other around your waist and under you to rub at your swollen clit. Immediately when he touches it you gasp, not realizing just how sensitive it was from this evening’s fun.

“-hmygod, don’t squeeze me like that,” Satoru whimpers, you turn your head to the side to see his eyes squeezed shut, a blush covering his whole face and chest, and his abs flexing over and over.

Seeing your hot husband so worked up is just the ammunition you needed to finish this last round. You ask him to sit on the little stone bench you have in the shower, which the two of you don’t utilize enough. He sits and you turn around, reverse cowgirl, and bounce up and down with as much energy as you can.

You didn’t even realize how loud your own moans had gotten, his hands on your waist, with yours resting on his knees.

“Please Satoru, let go for me, cum for me please,” you babble and moan with your head empty. Satoru is completely pussy drunk and fucked out in a way you’ve never seen him before.

“Love you ‘Toru,” you moan out as you reach your last peak and the combination of words and friction send him over the edge. He nearly convulses, gripping your hips to the point it actually kind of hurts. No moans, whimpers, or grunts can even come out of his mouth at this point, his jaw is just slack and eyes pressed shut.

You still on his lap, he leans forward and presses his head against your shoulder, and you think you may have made him pass out.

“Babe, cmn, let’s get you out of the shower.” You stand up turning around to see your husband in all his glory, looking half dead on the shower bench with his cock softened and red. You give him and yourself one more rinse over to get the last rounds residue off and turn the water off. You help Satoru stand, although nearly a head above your height, he wraps his arms around your shoulders and lets you guide him out. You wrap his fluffy extra large towel around him and he slowly grabs the edges, just standing there letting water drip off and making no attempt to dry himself. You wrap your hair in a towel, and quickly dry your body off, tired yes, but not nearly as worn out as your husband.

You look over to him, head thrown back, holding onto the towel. You decide to pamper him for the rest of the evening, drying him off, putting his usual hair product in for him, helping him put on a clean pair of boxer briefs and crawl into bed. It’s not even 8 pm and the sun is just starting to set, you giggle but he hasn’t eaten dinner since being home from work. For christs sake he hasn’t had dessert either. He rolls onto his side scrolling through his phone as you get yourself dressed and brush through your hair.

You kiss his forehead and he tiredly smiles up at you. “Thank you babe,” you whisper, “you helped me prove that article wrong.”

His eyes roll jokingly, “well thanks to your damn article I don’t think my dick is going to work for a few days, so who’s loss is it really?”

You ignore his question, “do you want takeout babe? Are you hungry?”

“Can I just have ice cream..?” He squints up at you like a kid asking their parent to have dessert without finishing their vegetables.

“I guess..” it’s your turn to roll your eyes at him, “stay here I know how you like it.” That brings a smile to his face, snuggling into your cozy bed.

You leave the room to head to the kitchen and Satoru goes back on his phone. He googles the doctors name from the article that he noted to himself earlier and finds the email address.

Dear Doctor Yeager,

Please note that my partner and I experimented after reading your article, and I would like to inform you I am an outlier, and finished four times before nearly passing out. If you would like to do any tests on me please let me know.

- world famous Satoru Gojo

he pushes the send button as you walk back in with his ice cream.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #jjk smut #satoru gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo #jjk satoru #satoru smut #jjk requests #sugurusdiscordmoderator

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munsonsmixtapes · 1 year ago

Note

Saw you had requests! And this may be a trigger warning but it’s a fix I’ve thought about for months.

Eddie, bestie female reader. You are newer to Hawkins and go to a party with Eddie robin and Steve. Not big into drugs or drinking to stick with punch.

While Eddie is off making some money you’re not paying attention to your cup. And someone slips in something.

Soon you start to feel weird… and scared. Someone finds Eddie who is by your side in a second. Friends freak out your crying and scared possible culprit is found and Eddie wants to kick his ass but he is taking care of you. And then from there where ever you think it could lead? Ed’s taking you home but staying and helping you through your high/trip so sweet doesn’t even need to be secretly in love or it could be but nothing happens because… well after a scary thing like that… no thanks.

Idk it’s been stuck in my head and again don’t write if you’re not comfortable.

Im not going to anon because I’m afraid I may miss if you do write. But again if not that’s totally okay!

Hey, thanks so much for your request!

Word count: 1,723

CW: reader gets roofied, let me know if there’s anything I missed!

Eddie x bestie!fem!reader

You looked around Steve’s house which was filled a bunch of people you didn’t know. You hadn’t really liked parties, but Eddie had begged you to go and you found yourself unable to say no to him. He was just so cool and pretty that you wanted to do whatever he asked when he flashed you those doe brown eyes.

You were still new to town and in no position to pass up friends so that meant hanging around people you didn’t like just so full your social circles. People like Brad were who you despised the most. He had been trying to sleep with you for months only to be met by rejection. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, approaching you every chance he got and that night hadn’t been an exception.

“Hey,” he smiled, leaning over the back of the couch. Eddie was always quick to jump to your defense, but of course he was nowhere to be found, taking an opportunity to sell, it being a huge party and all.

You ignored him, looking down at the red plastic cup in your hand. Eddie had given you some punch that had just been a bunch of different types of alcohol mixed with some juice. You didn’t drink much so it was perfect, the juice completely covering up the bitter alcohol taste that you weren’t a fan of.

You thought that not speaking to Brad would help him get the hint, but that only made him speak again. He took your silence as playing hard to get and goddamn was he determined to get you.

To Brad, you were just another body to use. He loved that you were innocent, having never slept with anyone. He just wanted to add yet another notch to his bedpost, wanting your name to be on the list of virgins he had fucked.

You had felt bad for the girls who had been desperate enough to sleep with Brad and you definitely weren’t going to be one of them. He was gross and you had eyes for only one man. That man being nowhere to be found when you needed him.

You hadn’t been paying attention and Brad had slipped something into your drink, quickly moving away before anyone could catch him. If you wouldn’t say yes, he was going to take matters into his own hands.

But Robin had caught him and hurried over to you to stop you from drinking the now contaminated juice. You had already taken a sip before she was able to get to you. She watched in horror as you swallowed the liquid and quickly took the cup from you. She pulled you in the kitchen to keep an eye on you and poured the juice down the sink.

She then grabbed onto Steve who just so happened to also be in the kitchen and turned him around to face her, panic in her eyes.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He could see the look on her face and started to worry. Robin was known to freak out on a regular basis, but this was different. He could feel it. Something was wrong.

“Y/n was roofied.” He felt his knees go weak at her words and looked at you for any signs of sickness, but you seemed fine. It was only a matter of time before the symptoms took over.

“I’m gonna go get Eddie. Take her to your room,” she told him, looking around the house for the curly head of hair.

Robin was quick to run from the kitchen, pushing through all of the partygoers to find the metal head. She didn’t have much time and it didn’t help that Steve’s house was packed and there was no trace of Eddie anywhere.

Steve took you to his room so you could have some quiet. You already felt dizzy, having trouble walking, feeling like the place was spinning. Everything was distorted and didn’t look right.

You continued you to try to walk but fell to the floor, the drugs in your system quickly taking over. You fell face first in the foyer and people were quick to part like the Red Sea as you laid there in the middle of them.

Everyone just stared at you while Steve was picked. He looked down at your face to see that your nose was red from where it hit the floor. He carried you up the stairs and to his room, hoping that Eddie was going to be there soon. You were fading fast and you looked so scared, it was terrifying to him. He didn’t know you as well as Eddie, but you were his friend and he hated seeing you like that. So scared and helpless.

Steve opened the door and closed it behind him with his foot before carefully laying you on his bed. His heart was racing and he was wondering where the fuck Eddie was. It didn’t take long to get to his room no matter when in the house you were coming from.

Steve sat you up against his headboard, making sure you didn’t fall asleep. He laid next to you awkwardly, not taking his eyes off of you.

“I need Eddie,” you slurred. Steve wanted Eddie too. He was the only one who always knew what you needed. Steve was going to try his best, but he was terrified for you. He couldn’t imagine going through something so scary.

“Eddie’s coming sweetheart. He’ll be here in a second.” Steve wasn’t sure how sure his statement was true, but he was going to believe it anyway.

The door burst open and Eddie and Robin rushed into the room. She sat on the bed next to Steve while Eddie made a beeline for you. He took you into his arms and the two of you slowly lowered yourselves to the floor. You cried into his chest and he let you, knowing how scared you were. You needed to let it out and he was going to let you talk about it if you wanted to.

Robin and Steve made themselves scarce, wanting to give to two of you some space. Eddie pulled you onto the bed and you cuddled up into his side, feeling nothing but dizzy. Everything was doubled and you had to close your eyes so it would go away, but it didn’t. It only got worse when you closed your eyes.

“I’m so fucking sorry, sweetheart. I should have been there with you.” Eddie was going to blame himself for the rest of his life. Sure, if he had been with you, you wouldn’t have been drugged, but it wasn’t his fault. It was just horrible incident and the only person to blame was Brad.

“Eddie, it’s okay,” you slurred. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I should’ve been paying more attention.” He was getting angry that you were blaming yourself. It wasn’t your fault at all. You should have been able to have a drink without worrying whether there were drugs in it or not.

“No,” he said a bit too harshly, sitting up he so could look you in the eyes. “None of this is your fault, y/n. It’s Brad’s.”

“Exactly,” you opened your eyes. “So you shouldn’t be blaming yourself. You should be allowed to leave me for a few minutes without worrying about me.”

“I always worry about you. You’re my best friend. That’s my job. And I didn’t do my job for one night and something horrifying happened to you, y/n. You were assaulted.” That word made it sound so much worse. You knew that was what happened to you, but didn’t really have time to think about it until Eddie had said it.

Just because Brad hadn’t done anything to you physically didn’t mean that you weren’t a victim. Eddie wanted you to know the severity of what had happened and wanted to you to know that you had every right to feel scared.

You fell silent after that, the words heavy between the two of you. Your heart rate quickened as everything set it. You didn’t want to believe it, very much in denial of the severity of the situation. In your mind, if you didn’t acknowledge it, it wasn’t actually happening.

You slowly drifted to sleep and Eddie kept an eye on you to make sure you were okay. He felt sick seeing you like that. You hadn’t been acting like yourself and even after your discussion, he was still blaming himself for what had happened to you. He’d get over it eventually, but for now, he was going to let himself drown in his guilt.

You woke up the next morning from the sun shining through the window. You felt so much better, but you were still a little groggy. You sat up and panicked when Eddie wasn’t by your side but let out a sigh of relief when you saw him sitting at Steve’s desk. He had some toilet paper in his nose and a bag of frozen peas was sitting onto top of one of his hands, his other hand of top of the bag.

He smiled when he looked at you and you returned it, his smile always infections. You eyed the peas once more and wondered what had happened while you were asleep. It seemed like Eddie was always up to trouble.

“What did you do this time?”

“I punched Brad.” He said the words so proudly and for once, you didn’t feel like scolding him. If anyone deserved to have the shit punched out of them, it was him. He deserved a lot more, but you were going to take what you could get as far as his ass kickings went.

“Steve helped. We went to his house this morning and taught him a lesson about dragging women before calling the cops. They arrested him an hour later so he’s definitely not to be bothering you anymore.”

You didn’t think anyone had done something so nice for you. Unbeknownst to you, Eddie would have done anything for you. He would have even left Brad alone if you asked.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You walked over to him and planted yourself in his lap. He wasn’t caught off guard at first, but arm quickly wrapped around your waist while you rested your head on his shoulder.

“I know,” he nodded. “But I wanted to. And that was the least that fucking dick deserved.” It was true, and even though you would probably never to get over what had happened to you, knowing that Brad was behind bars made you feel a whole lot better.

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you

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shiorimakibawrites · 1 year ago

Text

The Accident (Happy Little Accident #1)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 7, 368 Summary: You tripped in the elevator and covered your neighbor in paint. Your ridiculously hot neighbor that you have an enormous crush on. Warning(s): Anxiety, Female Gaze, Referenced Sex, Referenced Character Death, Reference to assumed Attempted Murder, Thoughts about sex Happy Little Accident Masterlist My Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. EDIT: Cleaned up some typos.

The Accident

You were painting in Central Park when your phone rang. You let out an irritated huff as you fished your phone out of your apron’s pocket and looked at the caller ID. Abby, your boss at the Daily Grind. It was tempting to ignore the call, pretend like you had forgotten your phone. Very tempting. It was a lovely spring day, one you would much rather spend painting than working. But in the end the knowledge that Abby wasn’t prone to bothering her employees during their off hours without a good reason had you accepting the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Abby said, sounding apologetic. “Can you cover for the afternoon shift today? Peter is in the hospital.”

“The hospital?!” you repeated, feeling immediately concerned. “What happened? Is he okay?”

Peter was one of the cafe’s newer employees. You didn’t know him very well yet but he seemed like a nice kid. If a little absentminded, given how often he arrived for his shift at a rush. And possibly even more clumsy than you are since you had often seen him with bruises which he claimed were the results of tripping over things.

Assuming he wasn’t lying about how he had gotten hurt. Which you thought that he was . . . some of those injuries didn’t look like they had came from a fall . . . It worried you. It worried others at the cafe too. Abby wasn’t usually so forgiving of such frequent tardiness and absences.

“He got hit by a car. Claims that he’s only got minor injuries but the hospital doesn’t want to discharge him without running some tests first. So can you come in today?”

You suppressed the urge to sigh. You didn’t want to send the wrong message. Because you weren’t actually annoyed with Abby or Peter but the situation. These things happen. Sometimes people got hurt or got sick. And when they did, someone didn’t get their day off. Today was simply your turn.

And well . . . it wasn’t like you couldn’t use the money.

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks! You’re a lifesaver!”

You ended the call and slipped your phone back into your apron before starting to gather up your things. Your newly acquired shift started at three. It was only a little after noon, plenty of time to get back to your apartment and get ready, but you didn’t like to rush. Rushing tended to make you even more of a klutz.

You swirled the used brushes in the water jar, trying to get as much paint off of your brushes before rolling them in a small towel. A second towel, already stained with old paint, was used to wrap up your palette. The paint was thrown back into their carrying box. Which was technically a small tackle box but you had repurposed it for art supplies. The box went into the bottom of your tote bag along with the water jar, double checking that lid was screwed on tightly. You didn’t need to ruin another sketchbook. You squeezed your current sketchbook behind the tackle box. Next went your pencil case, followed by the towels and their respective cargo. Now the only thing left was your painting and the portable easel.

You removed the painting from the easel, careful to avoid the spots where the paint had spilled over onto the tacking edge. Your fingers already had enough paint on them. The painting was propped against a tree, fingers crossed for two things. One that the wind wouldn’t pick up and send your painting flying. And two, a police officer wouldn’t start yelling at you for it. You didn’t think using the tree as a momentary support while you packed up violated any park rules but you weren’t entirely sure. You had read the park rules but they were written like a legal document . . . which it probably was . . . but that made you feel like you probably weren’t understanding it right. After all, you weren’t a lawyer.

Luck seemed to be with you. You were able to get the easel broken down and put away without incident. You swung your bag into your shoulder before picking up your painting. After making sure you had a good grip on the stretcher and the tacking edge, you took a quick look around to make sure you weren’t forgetting anything. Then you started making your way home.

Your lucky streak continued. You didn’t drop anything. No one dumped into the wet canvas or you while you were walking. The subway was busy as usual but not packed to the gills. Your feet resisted the urge to get tangled up in some random piece of debris. Or your own feet. Or the absolutely nothing that you somehow managed to trip over sometimes . . .

In hindsight, you should have realized that it was too good to last.

Things began to go awry when you were waiting for the elevator to arrive. You looked down and saw a tube of paint in your aprons’ pockets instead of the tackle box where it belonged. Normally, you’d shrug and try to remember to put it away later but it looked like the cap hadn’t been screwed back on correctly. Your frown deepened after you transferred your painting to one hand and realized that the cap was loose. Loose enough that it was a minor miracle that it hadn’t fallen off somewhere between the park and here . . . you hoped the paint hadn’t gotten dried out . . .

You heard the elevator dings its arrival as you pulled the paint out of your pocket. Trying to one-handedly shift the tube so its cap could be gripped between your fingers and twisted close, you didn’t look when you heard the elevator door slide open. You just moved forward. And immediately tripped over . . . something . . . you had no idea what.

You just knew that you were falling, that you had lost your grip on your painting as your hands instinctively rose to protect your head from the oncoming impact. An impact that never came. Someone caught you before you could hit the floor. Unfortunately the hand holding the paint had squeezed down, spraying paint on yourself and the chest of your rescuer.

It was like a train wreck. You didn’t want to look but you also couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. You stared in horror at the giant splash in the middle, the magenta color of the paint shockingly bright against the light gray suit, white dress shirt, and blue tie . . . Your eyes darted to the array of smaller droplets that radiated outward like shrapnel . . . you raised your eyes with the growing dread. Because you recognized that suit and tie, that broad chest . . .

Sure enough, when you looked up, you were greeted with the very surprised face of Matt Murdock. You felt your heart sink. Of course it was Matt. It couldn’t have been someone else. Anyone else. Preferably a random stranger that you would never see again. But no . . . it had to be your neighbor. It had to the man you had developed an enormous crush on.

Your face felt like it was on fire. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you. You wanted to cry. Matt returning your feelings had always been a long shot . . . but now? There was no chance. You had turned out of his nice suits into a terrible Jackson Pollock . . . you were going to be lucky if he ever talked to you again . . .

You don’t know when you started apologizing. One minute, you were frozen in humiliated shock, the next increasingly frantic words started spilling out of your mouth. What words you couldn’t say. You couldn’t hear anything past your heart pounding in your ears . . .

A hand cupping your cheek was so startling that it immediately pierced the panic clouding your mind. Big, warm hand . . . you blinked and realized that someone was speaking to you. A familiar deep, soft-spoken voice . . .

“. . . shh, shh, sweetheart, it’s okay . . .”

Sweetheart?! You could hardly believe your own ears. But that was definitely Matt’s voice, his face that you were looking at, and those oh-so-kissable lips were moving . . .

This wasn’t the first time that Matt had called you sweetheart. He had been doing that since the first time you meet. If literally running into someone counts as meeting them. You would like to say no but it wasn’t like your second encounter with your then new neighbor had gone much better. You weren’t always a klutz around him but your bouts of clumsiness did occurred around him with embarrassing regularity.

And provided he was nearby when it happened, Matt always caught you when you started falling . . . so finding yourself in his arms also happened on a regular basis.

This had some upsides. For one, it gave you an appreciation for how much muscle must be hiding under those suits of his. Because he never had any trouble catching you or helping you get back onto your own feet. There was something very hot about the way he could lift you up like you weighted nothing. For another, he is very warm. Which had been especially nice during the recent autumn and winter months. And he smelled good. Like plain soap, ink, paper, and something woodsy like sandalwood with fainter notes of leather, cooper, and something else familiar but that you couldn’t quite remember what it was or where you had smelled it.

On the downside, you were never in his arms for very long. Certainly not long enough to really enjoy being held by those strong arms. He’d catch you, make sure you were steady on your feet again, then his arms would slide away and he stepped back. Taking all of his warmth and good smells with him. Which was always a little disappointing even if you did appreciated that he didn’t assume that he had permission to hold you longer than was absolutely necessary. And that he didn’t use those moments as an excuse to get handsy. Which you knew some people would have.

Further on the downside, being in his arms for any length of time made it very hard to pretend that he didn’t get you all hot and bothered. That having his warm breath brush against your neck and ear when he said something like ‘Careful, sweetheart’ didn’t make the skin there prickle and the rest of you shudder. Or, last week, when your shirt had gotten ridden up, that feeling those callused fingers against your bare skin didn’t make you shiver. Or the absolute worst, when you had to act like you hadn’t just been touching yourself while fantasizing about him, that you hadn’t just been moaning his name, that being in his arms hadn’t renewed the heat between your legs . . .

Those moments, it was really difficult to stop yourself from doing something crazy. Like ask him if you can find out if those pouty lips are soft as they looked . . . or if how much of that beautiful ass you could fit in your hands . . .

You suppressed the urge to groan. Serena, your best friend in the world, was right. You needed to get laid. Because even at the most embarrassing moments of your life, when you were half-considering changing your name and moving somewhere far away, you still couldn’t keep your mind out of the gutter.

Your imagination was out of control. It kept trying to convince you of the wildest things. Like that there was something more to the way his fingers had rubbed that little sliver of bare skin last week than just some mild curiosity when his hands didn’t encounter the expected shirt material. Or those tightening grips on your waist was anything other than making sure he wasn’t about to drop you. Those moments when his voice went deeper and huskier weren’t due to attraction but Matt was obviously coming down with a cold or something.

You ignored the grumbling inner voice that pointed out, aside from when he had the misfortune to get stuck in the elevator with that guy from the third floor who smelled like he bathed in cheap cologne, you had yet to see Matt so much as sneeze. Or that none of those moments had overlapped with the times Matt had looked ill – tired and moving like his body ached.

You weren’t going to get your hopes up. Matt was way out of your league. So far out that you weren’t even playing the same sport. He was incredibly good-looking, easily one of the most handsome men you had ever meet. You were the textbook definition of Plain Jane. Not ugly but not beautiful either. He was confident, outgoing, and charming. You were anxious, shy, and awkward. He was a lawyer with a successful law firm. You were an artist whose work didn’t sell well enough to make a living off of it. Hence the waitress/barista job at the Daily Grind.

Maybe not the most sensible job choice for a shy klutz but there were only so many options for someone with an art degree. Plus you had been working there since college and Abby had displayed remarkable patience for your clumsiness (and the periodic broken dishes that went with it). Mostly because you were otherwise reliable. And while you would never enjoy making small talk with strangers, you could do with a smile. It helped the majority of the regulars were nice . . .

“Sweetheart?”

Any blood that managed to drain out of your cheeks immediately flooded back. You were really batting a thousand today. First you spray him with paint, then you babble incoherently at him, then you stand there like a moron ignoring him for god only knew how long. If Matt didn’t already think you were awkward and weird, he certainly did now.

“Sorry,” you said, not sure of what to say.

He smiled at you. That sweet one that seemed . . . .dare you say it? . . . fond? Which did nothing to diminish the flush in your face. Neither did the little circles his thumb was rubbing into your right cheek or the reassuring squeeze from the hand at your waist.

He’s just trying to keep me calm, you told yourself sternly. It didn’t mean anything. He just didn’t need you panicking again. Lawyers are busy people. He probably had things to do and didn’t want to waste anymore time on you.

“And to answer your earlier question, no, I’m not going to sue you.”

You had actually said that? Out loud? You closed your eyes and let out a low groan. Everytime you think this situation couldn’t get more embarrassing . . . that idea of moving some remote mountain which hopefully had no insanely hot lawyers living on it was sounding better and better. The only thing thing that would have been worse was if your word-vomit had decided to detail just how attractive you found him. Then, in addition to everything else today, you’d have to listen to him say ‘I’m flattered but . . .’ while your heart shattered into a million pieces . . .

“Sorry,” you repeated. Because what else you could you say to something like that?

“No need to apologize again, sweetheart,” he said as his hand slide off of your face before joining its fellow in helping you get back on your own feet. Then, as usual, his arms pulled away entirely and he took a small step back. As usual, you told yourself that you weren’t disappointed or felt colder. Both were a lie.

“It was an accident,” he continued. “You said you were sorry. No harm done.”

You couldn’t stop your eyes from flickering around his suit. The mess hadn’t miraculously disappeared. It was still here.

“No harm?” you repeated. “You’ve got magenta splattered all over your suit!”

“Which one is magenta?”

“What?”

“I don’t think I remember what magenta looks like,” Matt said, sounding thoughtful. “Can you describe it for me?”

“Er . . . pink?” you said, trying to think of how to describe it. “This particular shade is darker than bubblegum, more purplish-red? Like some plums just under the skin or a pomegranate?”

“Sounds pretty,” he said. “Foggy has been telling me that I need to wear more color.”

“I think he probably meant new clothes that are different colors, not paint splattered on your existing clothes,” you said slowly, unsure of what to make of this conversation. It was not turning out at all like you would have expected it to.

He grinned. “Most likely but he never actually said clothes. Just more color. He knows better than to leave the terms of a contract that vague.”

While you didn’t know Foggy Nelson very well, you had the feeling he would not be impressed. You had also seem him and Matt needling each other at Josie’s often enough to picture the irritated look he would level at his partner if he returned to work looking like this and tried to make that argument. The image was so absurd that you had to giggle.

“Not sure that is a winning argument, Mr. Murdock,” you said,

“Sure it is,” he said. “Any ambiguity in a contract favors the party that didn’t write it. Foggy wrote the contract without defining his terms. So I am free to interpret those terms as anyone might reasonably expect them to mean.”

Which only made you giggle even harder. He was being so silly. “It’s not very professional?”

“Regretfully, I have to agree,” he said, sounding almost like he genuinely disappointed about that. Provided you couldn’t see the cheeky grin on his face. “Will I need anything special to remove the paint?”

“No,” you said, silently thanking Past You for choosing to work with acrylics today instead of oils. The faded spots the turpentine would leave would be less noticeable than magenta but still probably not something he wanted. Also even the low-odor version didn’t smell good. You didn’t know if there was any truth to that whole ‘blind people’s other senses get stronger’ thing but real or not, Matt seemed to have a pretty sensitive nose. “Acrylics are water-based. As long as it is still wet, warm water and soap is enough.”

“See? No harm done,” he said, giving that flirty smile that always made your heart go pitter-patter. Even when you tried to tell yourself that it didn’t mean anything. Matt was a charming guy who flirted a little with everyone. You had seem him get a little flirty with Mrs. Gonzales, the third resident of the sixth floor. Who was, as she pointedly reminded him, old enough to be his grandmother and scolded him for shameless flattery. She had rolled her eyes a little when he retorted the truth wasn’t flattery but did seem pleased. Pleased enough to make him tamales. Which honestly made you a little jealous. The tamales you had bought from her during the holidays had been really good . . .

Serena thought Matt wasn’t flirting with you just to flirt. That he actually liked you. But she was your best friend. It was her job to believe that you were wonderful and agree that the hot guy you had a crush on was into you. And if it turned out that he wasn’t . . . well, then he was an idiot who wasn’t worth your time. You wanted to believe her . . . you wanted that to true so badly . . .

But you had seen the women Matt used to bring home. And the ones who flirted with him at Josie’s. Beautiful, self-assured women with successful careers. They were everything that you weren’t. Granted, you hadn’t seen one of his paramours leaving or arriving at the building for a while. And the only ones you had seen him leaving Josie’s with lately were his friends.

Or you. Which you refused to read anything into either. Matt just didn’t think you walking home alone at night was safe. And it wasn’t. The Kitchen might have Daredevil, its guardian in red leather, but he couldn’t be everywhere. Couldn’t save everyone through if the rumors were to be believed, it certainly seemed like he tried.

The point was that Matt would the same thing for anyone. Even someone who really didn’t need it. Like Jessica Jones. Through he claimed that was just to save himself or Foggy from needing to make another late-night trip to the police station because she had punched some creep into a wall. While he agreed that yes, they deserved it for treating someone like that but the police didn’t see that way, Jessica . . .

Regardless of his reason, you always ended up agreeing because you were too weak to say no to spending just a little more time with him. And it wasn’t like you were making him go out of his way since you both lived in the same building . . .

“As long as it’s still wet,” you repeated. “It’s harder to remove once its’ dry.”

“How does that take?”

“About half an hour.”

“Good thing I’m so close to home then.” Then he seemed to hesitate. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Absolutely,” you said, cringing a little at how eager you sounded. But you had gotten paint all over him. A favor was the least you could do.

“Can you help me get this cleaned up?” he said, gesturing toward the paint. He gave you a self-deprecating smile. “Otherwise I might miss a spot.”

“I can do that,” you said. You had been intending to offer help anyway. You had made the mess. You should help clean it up.

He frowned suddenly, his head tilting to one side. “Are you sure? I’m not keeping you from anything?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t need to be at work until three and it’s . . .”

You tried to check the time on your watch but it had a smear of paint across the face. Unfortunately the hands were hidden by said smear of paint. “Probably not three.”

Matt’s lips twitched. “Problem with your watch?”

“Paint is hiding the hands.”

He gave an amused grin as he ran his fingers around the edge of his watch. “The downside of wearing non-tactile watches. It’s a quarter til one.”

“Plenty of time,” you said. And even if it wasn’t . . . Abby was a reasonable person. She would completely understand not leaving any neighbor, let alone your blind neighbor, to clean this up.

He smiled before reaching down to pick up his fallen cane. You felt your face get warm again. Both because you just realized what you had gotten tripped over (which made you feel like a jerk) and because that action had pulled those trousers taut over his ass (which made you feel . . . other things). But you couldn’t stop yourself from looking. Not when you had a front row seat to one of the best asses in America. Possibly the world.

Matt couldn’t possibly know that you were checking out his ass but that smug little smirk that he flashed in your direction made you feel like he did. You averted your eyes and tried to find a distraction. Before thinking about his ass (or other body parts) got you worked up. More worked up. Which not only would be awkward but make you nervous and prone to say something embarrassing.

Then you remembered your painting. You had dropped it earlier. Where was . . . you let out a distressed groan as you picked it up. The good news was that your painting hadn’t landed paint-side down. Which had saved the mostly dried paint from smearing or chipping. The bad news that hadn’t escaped The Magenta. It didn’t get hit as nearly badly as Matt but there was still a giant splat right in the middle of the lake . . .

“What’s wrong?”

“There is a giant glob of magenta in the middle of the lake,” you said.

“The lake?”

“In my painting,” you said. “I was doing one of the Bow Bridge in Central Park.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Maybe,” you said, looking at the mess and trying to think of how to incorporate the random splatters into the image. You could remove some of it without taking off the underlying layers but not all of it. That would have to be incorporated somehow . . . Maybe a boat? Or a float . . . some of the smaller ones could be turned into leaves if you switched the setting to autumn just as the leaves were turning . . . or a flowering tree with pink blossoms . . .

“We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents,” you reminded your inner perfectionist.

“That sounds familiar.”

“It’s something Bob Ross said a lot,” you said. “He was–”

“That guy on PBS who painted the landscapes?” Matt said. “Soft-spoken, sometimes had a squirrel in his pocket and talked about happy trees?”

“That’s the one,” you said. “The Joy of Painting. I watched it religiously as a kid. How about you?”

An odd little smile spread across Matt’s face. “Not often enough to qualify as religious but you could call us regular watchers. My dad wasn’t much of an art guy but he found the show relaxing . . . and it was quiet. I could turn it on in the morning without waking him up after he had worked late.”

He sounded nostalgic, like these were fond memories but also deeply sad. Then you remembered that Matt’s father was dead. Killed when he was a little boy. Which you only knew about because you had once given into temptation and googled Matt Murdock. Most of the search results had been about his law firm and the Castle trial but further down the page, articles about the accident that blinded him and his father’s death had also appeared. But by then, you had felt guilty enough about snooping into his life that you hadn’t read any those of articles beyond their headlines.

“Did you ever try to follow along?” you asked softly.

“A few times with the watercolors from my school supplies,” he said. “I was terrible at it but my dad hung up every picture on the fridge like it was the Mona Lisa.”

“Mine did that too,” you said. “My mom might still have a few of them tucked away with the baby pictures, waiting to embarrass me with them.”

He chuckled. “Did you ever fall asleep watching the show?”

You laughed. “Yes. Usually after I had stayed up too late reading.”

“Same,” he said, then gestured to the control panel. “Shall we go up?”

“Yes, we shall,” you said, a little amazed at how well this was going, despite the mishap. And that the elevator had remained here at the ground floor for this long. Probably it was the middle of the day and therefore most of the other tenants were either at work or school right now. As the elevator rose, you tried to think of something to talk about. You didn’t mind quiet but your earlier anxiety about his reaction had been replaced by your more usual nerves at being around the man you had spent almost half a year pining over.

Nervous You tended to be a chatterbox with chronic foot-in-mouth disease. Nervous You might blurt out that you liked him. Might detail how you wanted to go on dates, snuggle on the couch, hold hands while you took long walks, call each other by cliché nicknames like honey or dear. Basically be one of those disgustingly adorable couples . . . And behind closed doors, mind-blowing sex. The kind of sex that would leave you walking funny with a big smile on your face . . .

That thought alone made your cheeks warm. Among other places. Maybe work? Work should be a safe enough topic. Nothing naughty about work . . .

“What brings you home this early?” you asked, injecting as much cheer as possible in your voice to disguise your nerves. “Does no one need lawyering today?”

He chuckled. “No, we still have plenty of people who needed lawyering. I just forget my phone this morning and this was the first chance I’ve had to retrieve it.”

You hummed in acknowledgment as the elevator dinged your arrival to the sixth floor. The doors slide open and you walked out. Or rather you tried. But apparently you just had no luck with elevators today because you managed to slip on nothing. For the second time today, you started to fall. Only backwards this time.

And despite what happened the last time, Matt still caught you.

“Sorry,” you said, feeling the earlier flush to your cheeks deepen.

“No need to apologize, sweetheart,” he said. “I like having a beautiful girl in my arms.”

Which only made the warmth in your face start to spread down your neck. Even if he didn’t meant it, it was nice to be told that you were beautiful. You couldn’t help liking it. You did your best to ignore the nasty voice in your head – the one that sounded a lot like those awful girls in high school who had bullied you – saying how would Matt even know that you were beautiful or not . . . he was blind . . .

Your more optimistic side – which sounded like Serena – pointed out that for obvious reasons, that Matt was unlikely to find someone attractive based solely on their appearance . . . so maybe he really did find you beautiful . . .

You blamed those pernicious thoughts for making you feel like there was hint of hesitation, of reluctance, in Matt’s hands as they slide back off of your waist once you were standing upright again. But not matter how many times you told yourself that it was just your overactive imagination . . . part of you couldn’t help but hope.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Matt said as you followed him into his apartment. While he disappeared down a hallway, you propped your unfinished painting against a wall before slipping your tote off your shoulder with a sigh of relief. It wasn’t very heavy but those almost falls had jerked it and its contains around, making the straps dig into your shoulder. After sitting down the tote, you prodded the area. It was a little sore but it lacked the tenderness you associated with oncoming bruises.

You walked toward the kitchen and looked around, curious. In some respects, his apartment was a lot like yours. Both displayed the buildings’ previous life as factory in the exposed brick, scuffed hardwood floors, and visible HVAC and pipes. Both had large windows that let in a lot of natural light if even the old glass was a little wavy or different colored. Both had galley-style kitchens and generally open floor plan. Both of you seemed to have opted for a mismatched collection of secondhand furniture in either earth tones or neutral colors. But that was where the similarities ended.

The first and most noticeable difference was size. His was a lot bigger than yours. Which honestly you had expected, knowing very well that your side of the sixth floor had been turned into two units whereas his was left as one. Yours didn’t have access to the roof but in all honesty, you were fine with that. You weren’t afraid of high places in and of themselves but you were afraid of falling from high places. The outside of your windows wasn’t dominated by The Billboard. Which even during the day looked rather bright.

Matt’s apartment struck you as unfinished, like there was something missing but it took you a moment to figure out what. There was nothing decorative. The walls were bare and furniture were bare. It was sharp contrast to your place where the walls had been turned into a gallery for your unsold paintings and the furniture was festooned with the efforts of Serena’s knitting or your embroidery. You wondered if this was due to preference (Matt was simply a minimalist who considered decorative items to be annoying clutter) or to circumstance (Matt hadn’t found anything that he liked yet).

Another difference was the level of tidiness. You weren’t outright messy. You cleaned up after yourself. But there was always a certain amount of controlled chaos. For example, you were just as likely to find your pincushion and scissors on the kitchen table as in the sewing bag where they belonged. Or how your books often ended up stacked on the floor by your reading chair instead of being put back on the bookshelf.

Matt’s place, by contrast, looked very well organized. Everything obviously had a place and was always returned to its spot when not in use. Which made sense when you thought about it. No one wanted to go on a scavenger hunt every time they needed something. And given how busy Matt was, he also didn’t have time to be doing that.

Plus there were things that no one would want to get mixed up. Like grabbing the shampoo bottle when you wanted the mouthwash. Yes, there were other things that would clue him in before he inadvertently washed out his own mouth with soap. But, as your grandmother liked to say, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.

“Will any soap work?”

You jumped at a little at Matt’s voice. He sounded close. Much closer than you would have thought he could get to you without you noticing. Especially on these old hardwood floors which had so many places that creaked or groaned when stepped on.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s . . .” you started as you turned toward the sound of his voice. And promptly felt your intended words get tangled up in your throat. Your heart began to race as blood rushed back to your cheeks at the sight before you.

Your eyes greedily took in his broad shoulders, then down arms so thick that you doubted that you would be able to fully wrap your hand around it. Back up and across to the well-defined pectorals, then down through to sculpted abdominals until they disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. All covered in a skin that looked like it was as soft as satin.

You swallowed hard. You had known for a while that Matt had some muscle. He had saved you from your own clumsiness too often for you not to know that. But this . . . you had no idea he was hiding all this under those fancy suits of his . . . It was like someone had brought the statue of a Greek god or Michelangelo’s David to life . . . and then someone had apparently convinced him to put on pants. Whoever that idiot was should be fired . . . because if the rest of him looked this good . . .

“Sweetheart?”

Once again, you jumped at his voice. You raised your eyes up to his face. Your breath caught for the second time. Because Matt wasn’t wearing his dark glasses. You had never seen him without those glasses. Predictably, his eyes were just as pretty as the rest of him. Big, brown eyes sparkling with amusement and confidence. It matched that cocky little smirk he was sporting. The same one he had given you earlier. Only this time, you were positive that he knew that you were staring.

But it was so hard not to . . . he was so beautiful . . . it filled with you competing urges. The artist longed for your drawing pencils and a couple of hours to sketch. You weren’t sure you had the talent to fully capture his beauty but you would love to try. The woman, however, wanted him to fuck you. For him be inside you. Cock, fingers, tongue . . . your cunt didn’t care which. Any or all of them would do.

Watching that pink tongue dart out from between those oh-so-kissable lips before disappearing back inside his mouth did nothing to quell your arousal. Nor did the almost hungry look in his eyes. All it did was make you think about all things a man could do with his tongue if he was so inclined . . .

You dug your hands into your jeans to keep them to yourself. Silently you reminded yourself why you had to control the later impulse. First – Matt wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your neighbor and maybe a friend. Second – even if you were his lover and consented to having sex, neither of you had time today. He needed to go back to his office and you had to be the cafe at three. Abby would understand you being late because you were helping Matt clean up The Magenta. She would be far less sympathetic toward hanky-panky induced tardiness. So as much as you would like him to bend you over his kitchen table, you had to ignore that particular desire.

As for the artistic urge . . . since he didn’t seem to hate you for The Magenta, maybe he would agree to model for you? And you were friends of a sort. Friends could ask friends to model for them, right?

“L-liquid soap,” you said, doing your best to sound normal instead of incredibly turned on. “I-I found it easier to work with when cleaning up paint.”

Matt didn’t look like he was convinced by your non-existent acting skills. But he went along with the change of subject. Then gave you another heart attack by revealing that his shirt and tie were silk while his jacket was wool with a silk lining. You had no idea how to clean paint off of those without damaging them . . . isn’t stuff like that dry clean only?

The answer was yes and no. The shirt was made of a type of washable silk that he could launder at home – on the gentle cycle with mild soap. The suit and the tie, however, were both dry clean only. But Matt knew how to prevent stains from getting set in his fancy clothes and you knew how to handle paint. Between the two of you, you worked a plan that should get the paint off while preventing damage to his clothes.

Using an old gift card that you used as a painting tool as a scrapper, you removed the bulk of the paint from the tie and jacket while Matt used his bottle of liquid dish-soap and water to wash his shirt in the sink. Then, you dampened a white washcloth with lukewarm water, added a tiny amount of the soap, before dabbing the affected areas. Before dabbing again with a separate cloth that was just dampened with water, then carefully blotting with another washcloth that was completely dry.

You tried to keep your mind on the task in front of you but kept getting distracted. By his . . . everything. You wanted to trace every muscle with your fingers. Or your tongue. Either would be enjoyable. Or both. Both was good . . . the only thing that wasn’t making you press your thighs together in an effort to relieve the ache in your cunt were the scars.

Not because you thought his scars were ugly. The scars were like kintsugi. The healed but visible damage made the person more beautiful, not less. But because the scars worried you. It looked like someone had tried very hard to kill Matt.

You hadn’t realized that being a lawyer was so dangerous . . . but then, Nelson & Murdock had gone up against some powerful people. People like Fisk. Had Fisk or someone like him sent someone after Matt? You glanced at his hands. He had the same calluses on his knuckles as your ex who was a boxer. Did Matt know how to box? Was that how he had survived the obvious attempt on his life?

You were curious but realized that some of the answers you wanted might require a lengthy conversation. Which you didn’t have time for. Assuming Matt was even willing to answer those questions. He might not be. Which was fine. Trauma was rather personal and you didn’t really know each other.

You returned to your task. Despite your frequent distraction, soon the clothes were cleaned to the best of your ability. All three items were hung on hangers to dry in the case of the shirt or await a trip to the dry cleaners for the other two. Something that you offered to pay for.

“No need for you to do that, sweetheart. It’s about time for that suit to go to the cleaners anyway.”

“But it’s my mess,” you protested.

You didn’t win the argument. But it wasn’t a fair fight. First, he was a lawyer. He argued with people for a living. You painted or served food and drinks. Second, he still hadn’t put on a shirt. It was very distracting. And he knew it. His opposition in court was so lucky that he had to keep all his clothes on in the courtroom. Otherwise, they’d might never win.

“Stupid, sexy Murdock,” you muttered quietly under your breath as you washed your brushes and palette. Not quietly enough because he laughed.

“I’m sexy?” Matt asked. Warmth flooded your face. Judging by that cocky smirk, he knew the answer to that question. Yes, absolutely yes. But you were absolutely not going to say that.

“I plead the Fifth,” you said. Which only made him laugh harder.

He opened his mouth, probably to tease you some more, when his phone started ringing out, “Foggy, Foggy, Foggy.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he said.

“Go ahead,” you said quickly.

He flashed you a smile before answering his phone with a “What’s up, Fogs?”

You put away your things while Matt talked to his partner. From the sound of it, he was explaining why retrieving his phone was taking so long. A check on your watch – now cleaned of paint – warned you that you really needed to leave now if you wanted to be ready for work on time. You swung your tote up onto your shoulder.

Then found yourself in a quandary. It was rude to interrupt someone while they were on the phone but it was also rude to leave without saying good-bye. But it wasn’t like you could go just wave good-bye.

“Matt?” you called out.

“Hang on Foggy,” he said, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“I’ve got to go,” you said. “I’ll see you later?”

“You’ll have to. I can’t.”

For a moment, that answer confused you. But only for a moment. Blind joke. Not the first one he had made around you. It wouldn’t be the last. He seemed rather fond of them. Well, it was his disability. It certainly wasn’t your place to tell him that he couldn’t make jokes about it if he wanted to.

Besides sometimes the looks on people’s faces when he made them were very funny.

“Left myself wide open for that one, didn’t I?” you said.

“Yep,” he said. He looked very pleased with himself. “But yes, I’ll see you later.”

That made you smile. “Bye, Matt.”

“Bye, sweetheart,” he said before returning to his phone call. You closed the door to his apartment as quietly as you could, then made you way across the hall toward your own apartment. Time get for work.

Step one – a cold shower.

Notes

There are portable easels that are designed to be collapsed down and easily carried. I have one. Some of them come with an attached box that is meant to carry paint, brushes, and whatever else you need but that type is more expensive (about 70 dollars on the cheaper end) than one that is just the easel (which is about 20). Reader has a limited art budget and those fifty bucks she didn’t spent on an easel can buy a lot of paint and canvas.

I’ve found that tackle boxes and tool boxes make great carrying cases for arts and crafts supplies. The divided trays are very useful if the creative thing you are doing involves a lot of little pieces or tools like beading or jewelry making.

Reader took the subway for part of her journey because, according to what I could find, getting from Hell’s Kitchen to Central Park via subway takes about 14 minutes while walking that same distance would take about 40 minutes. So the subway it was.

Magenta is, generally speaking, purplish red color. The shades vary between more pink, more red, or more purple. Even paint doesn’t always agree. I have one set on acrylic paints that labels a color as ‘light magenta’ while a different set calls the same color ‘magenta’ and third just says ‘pink.’

Jackson Pollock (1912 – 1956) was an American artist who was part of the abstract expressionist movement. He is best known for his ‘drip’ technique where he would pour or splash liquid house-paint with frenetic movement onto the canvas which was laying flat on the floor. In some ways, his work reminds me of acrylic pouring which looks very cool but also very messy.

I mean no disrespect to those with an art degree. I started off majoring in fine arts and part of me wishes that I had stuck with it despite the challenges. One of my professors recommended getting your masters if you were going to major in art simply because then you could get teaching jobs in many places.

That contract thing is true but I’m not a lawyer and have never taken Contracts 101. Always get your legal advice from actual lawyers.

Turpentine is used to clean paint brushes and other tools when using oil paint. A low odor version is highly recommended but remember to only use it in a well-ventilated place as the fumes are toxic. It is also very flammable. You can use it to get oil paint off of your skin but it is very drying and probably isn’t be safe to use on places like your face. The skin there easily absorbs things (which is the primary reason that make-up has go through FDA approval).

For the record, blind people don’t have better senses than everyone else. They just pay more attention to the information from their other senses provide, things that us sighted people tend to ignore. And arguably have more practice identifying different sounds, smells, etc than someone who largely ignores that input.

While I cannot say that this happens in NYC, as I have never lived there, where I grew up (American southwest) and where I live now (Florida), the grandmas and aunties in the Latin community make and sell tamales during the winter holiday season. Maybe for some extra spending money for said holidays. In my experience, they are always excellent. I almost don’t consider it Christmas without some tamales.

The reason Reader feels like a jerk for tripping over Matt’s cane is that messing with someone’s mobility aid and/or not giving them enough space to use it is a dick move.

The Bow Bridge is a bridge in Central Park. You have probably seen it before since it is pretty popular for movies and television. Probably because it looks perfect for your sappy romantic moments, dramatic love confession, meet-cutes, etc. It also helps that it looks just as nice surrounded by leafy trees as it does covered in snow.

Bob Ross (1942 – 1995) was an American painter who was the host of an instructional art show called The Joy of Painting, which aired from 1983 until 1994, on PBS (public broadcasting station) in the US but also in similar public stations around the world. You can find the episodes on YouTube.

According to the internet, you can spot clean wool, silk, and other such fabrics like how Reader does without damaging the fabric. But it was the internet so take that with a generous portion of salt.

Yes, I do use an old gift card when I paint. To make smallish straight lines, very handy for fences and rain effects. I cannot speak for every artist but my painting tools aren’t limited to brushes and painting knives.

Kintsugi (“golden joinery”) is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer that has been dusted or mixed with gold, silver, or platinum. The point is not to hide the damage but highlight it, to treat the breakage and repair as simply part of the object’s history. And that having such a history makes it more valuable, not less.

#fan fic #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem! reader #matt murdock x you #happy little accident series

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kentosovertime · 1 year ago

Text

(n.) beauty that is more than skin deep

➳ sex shop owner!megumi x afab!barista reader - 4.3k

➳ a/n: 'gumi baby cone 'ere lemme give you a kith :* drooling over the absolute brain rot of megumi covered in tattoos

➳ cw: explicit content, explicit language, unprotected sex, fingering, light choking, sex toys and their usage, bondage, ropes, blindfolds, use of pet names (daddy, baby girl, sweetheart, angel), pining

✨Masterlist | Tag List | Ask Box | AO3 | Ko-Fi✨

The door to the sex toy shop looms in front of you, daring you to enter.

Take a deep breath. You chastise yourself as you stare at the door’s handle in apprehension. You’re an adult and this is nothing to be ashamed of. At this point you’ll draw more attention to yourself if you just stand here like an idiot.

Maybe some of your apprehension comes from the fact the cafe that you work at is almost directly across the street from this place. What if a co-worker saw you go in and started asking questions?

That puts your ass in drive and urges you to grasp the door and scoot inside. You cringe inwardly at the loud jingling of the bells that the door hits as you step inside the cool space.

Your eyes scan the large room, finding it devoid of any current inhabitants. Even the checkout counter is empty. It's perfect for your escape to the back of the displays to try and find what you saw online while you were figuring out what you thought would work for you.

If anything, looking at online listings was easier than this. You stare at the wall, filled with dozens of options of things you hadn’t seen before let alone considered.

How many types of dildos were the- You catch one out of the corner of your eye that’s obscenely large and you shudder. How the fuck?

Certainly it wouldn’t take this much effort to free yourself from the terrible run of men that you’ve slept with. You just wanted to get yourself off since none of them could manage it.

Out of habit, you peek around the display that you were standing at, looking towards the desk for a worker. You realize your mistake when you see who’s standing behind the counter as you duck back behind the display and debate making your escape.

The counter was next to the door. There was no way he wouldn’t see you leaving if you made a run for it. No way in hell would you be asking one of the coffee shop regulars where they kept the specific dildo you were looking for.

Megumi? You ponder over the name that you’ve written on his cup the dozens of times that you’ve made his iced quad americano with caramel, no milk.

It wasn’t that he was a creep… you just didn’t want to look him in the eye tomorrow when he came through the line thinking of you holding anything in this store. He wouldn’t even give any indication that he remembered you. He looks just as standoffish here as he does in the warm lighting of the coffee shop.

The newer hires were too terrified of him to make his order, afraid of what reaction would come out of someone like that if they got it wrong. Little did they know how good it felt for him to mutter how perfect the drink was before leaving a $20 bill in your tip jar.

You weren’t scared of some tattooed and pierced man with a coffee, but surrounded by all… this? Your appreciation of him didn’t extend this far, no matter how attractive or how good of a tipper he was.

Trapped in your nervous thoughts, you barely note the passing of time, looking back to the counter to see him no longer there, pulling a sigh of relief from your lungs.

Fantastic now you’ll just- “Do you need help with anything, miss?” A low graveling voice hums behind you, making you jump out of your skin and whip around, almost nailing him in the face.

“Fucking christ! You can’t just sneak up on people like that!” You squeak in horror, clutching the strap of your bag to your chest as you take a step back to give him some space, ignoring the fact that the display you were hiding behind has a wide variety of bondage equipment that was currently in the same field of vision as Megumi.

“I called out to you a couple times.” He leans against said bondage display with crossed arms and a slight smirk, toying with his tongue piercing. “I hardly call that sneaking up on someone.”

“You couldn’t approach me from where I could see you?” You argue, your eyes catching his playful smirk as your cheeks flush pink. “Not when you were so intensely focused on the spreader bars and gags, (y/n).” Scratch that. Your cheeks were a deep shade of crimson red. “I have to say… that's a shock. Did you want stainless steel or aluminum?” “I wasn’t- No! I was just stuck in thought-” You sputter, trying to choke out an answer. “Wait, why is that…? Assuming preferences is so rude-” “Hey, now.” He throws his hands up in surrender. “You learn an awful lot about reading people and their tastes when you own a sex shop. I apologize. Again, can I help you find anything, (y/n)?” “Um… a… toy?” You struggle to get out an answer, wondering what alternate reality you stepped into where you were being asked to explain what sort of toy you were looking to use on yourself. He only stares at you expectantly, his smirk growing as you get more and more flustered, needing to fill the silence. “I was looking for something to use on myself.” “You know we have an online site if you don’t want to be here?” He chuckles and cocks his head, waiting for your reply. “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone that I knew while shopping for dildos, sorry.” You hiss. “Besides, it's hard to picture how big things are from a picture online and your site said there were testers that you could touch before buying...”

You especially didn’t expect him. You had always assumed that he worked for the popular tattoo parlor around the corner with how he looked.

“Well…” He hums and a conspiratorial sparkle glimmers in his eyes. “I’ve already seen you here so you may as well let me help you out with what you’re looking for.”

You sigh in defeat because he has a point. You’re already embarrassed, you may as well get this over with and then never come back in here.

“I’m looking for a dildo… just a normal one?” You force out, looking up into his gaze for a reaction, but he only looks pleased you listened to him.

“It would help if you explained why you need it, If you’re comfortable.” He looks you over, loving how you seem to squirm in place. “You could also tell me your preference on what helps you finish so I can narrow down your options.

“Its for self use… and I don’t know…” You think it over, frowning at how none of your hook ups were able to get you to finish by just fucking you. “I guess I’d like something that vibrates. I don’t… finish from sex.”

God, you sound so pathetic, he’s probably embarrassed just speaking to you.

“That’s completely normal. Only about 25% of women can finish from penetration alone. Follow me.” He leads you across the store and away from the traditional dildos you thought you needed. “I’d suggest either a rose or a rabbit vibrator.”

You cock your head in question, not knowing what those were. Your skin flushes with heat as he gently grabs your wrist and tilts your hand so your palm is open to the ceiling before he presses a small hand sized item into your grasp that he takes from the shelf. You jump slightly when you realize it’s vibrating, sending shivers down your spine.. “T-that’s really strong.” Your throat swallows around a lump as you blink up at him.

“Oh that’s the lowest setting.” His gaze seems to darken as he explains further, turning it up three notches. “This is the rose… this is the strongest setting and after this you’d have 7 other patterned vibrations to choose from. You use this one on your clit and you can grind on it too. You probably need to have your partner stimulate you too if you’d like to finish.”

You find you need to press your thighs together as you picture yourself using it, but your previous fantasies of using a toy on yourself morphs. Now Megumi is sitting on the bed with you, coaching you through using it, bringing you to orgasm over and over. “You… suggested another one too?” Fuck you’re throbbing with need, you can feel yourself growing wetter with each passing second.

“Mhm. A rabbit.” He picks up another example toy, this one is much heavier than the first and part of it is shaped like the dildos you were looking at, only with an extra appendage is attached. “This one will give you penetration and this part rests on your clit… it is good for using it yourself or your partner would have a good angle to use it on you.”

He watches your reaction carefully, as he’s sure it's not possible that you could get any redder. You blink at it, looking over the buttons at the base curiously, jolting a little when the tip of the toy rotates suddenly and ratchets up as you press the up button.

“I don’t have a partner.” You mutter, clearly frustrated by the idea of the hypothetical partners he invented not being able to please you. He watches as you press the second pair of buttons, frowning when you don’t feel something immediately. “What does this one do?”

“Keep turning it up…” He hums, watching hungrily as you immediately obey his commands, watching with barely concealed lust as the extra appendage starts vibrating harder. Your head cocks to the side and you graze a finger across the little rabbit ears that would press against your clit, gasping at how strong it is, pulling a dark chuckle from his mouth. “Like it, sweetheart?”

You look up at him through your eyelashes with a sheepish look on your face, nodding when you realize you can’t trust your own voice.

“Aw come on, angel.” He grins, breaking you down slowly to trust him. He thinks he’s lost track of the amount of times you’ve pressed your thighs together to alleviate the pressure. “You can talk to me about it. You’re already playing with it in front of me.”

“Y-Yes…” You avert your eyes when his gaze becomes too much. “I can see that this one would be good for a… partner…”

“Mhm.” He grabs one of each from the stock for you to buy, knowing you want them both. He places the testers back on the shelf before tugging you back towards the section you had been hiding in, pointing at the items hanging from the hooks, including self adhesive bondage tape, ropes, and gags. “And if you’d like, these can be good for play with a partner if you end up finding one that can fuck you right. It makes everything feel so much better.”

He expects you to squeak in embarrassment at this point, or maybe try to tell him you’re good and ready to check out with your two items, but you surprise him with your curiosity again, touching the bundles of ropes closest to you.

“It’s softer than I thought…” You murmur softly. “I wouldn’t even know where to find someone who could handle doing this. All the guys I’ve been with are strictly… What do you call it? Vanilla?”

You sigh, dropping the rope back on the hook with a look of disappointment on your face. You’d never meet someone who was decent at sex let alone experienced enough not to hurt you with all of this.

“What here interests you the most?” He pries, wanting to know what he could do to please you and make you forget all the disappointment other men had put you through.

“Um… the ropes and the blindfolds?” You supply shyly, slowly getting more comfortable with communicating with him. Something about him makes you feel safe giving your fantasies to him. “But I’d want to eventually be able to try all of it. I’m not one to knock something until I try it at least once.”

“And you think that people don’t exist that can help you try these things?” Is it just you or is he getting closer to you?

“I’m sure they exist but it's the trial and error of sleeping with men until a woman is comfortable voicing what they want. I barely was able to walk in here…”

“But listen to you now.” Oh he is absolutely getting closer to you. “Talking to me like you’ve known me long enough for me to be able to have this knowledge about you. What’s a guy to think when you’re so open with him?”

“... that I’m trusting you for your recommendations?” You guess with a harsh swallow.

“I could also provide a… demonstration.” His hand reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Given I now know everything I need to make you sing for me.”

His voice is low with promise and heat lights up your insides and you lean into his touch as an invitation for him to take more.

“What’s to say you won’t be like all the others?” You whimper with pure need, if this disappoints you, you don’t know where you’d go from here.

“Oh, angel.” He coos with a light condescension to his tone. “It's my job to know how to make pretty girls like you feel good.”

“Y-Yes…” He blinks at you in surprise and you press on. “To your demonstration, that is.”

“Well then…” He smirks and grabs a bundle of rope and the blindfold you were eyeing. “I won’t ask twice. These are all on the house.”

A protest rises to your lips that you’re happy to pay for them, but he cuts you off with a harsh tug as his warm hand closes around your wrist again. He leads through the store to a door that opens to a staircase to the second floor. You pant with the exertion of keeping up with his pace when he seems to take two stairs at a time.

You take in the tidy studio apartment, breathing in the masculine scent that clings to the space as he tosses the boxes with your new toys on the bed with the rope and blindfold.

“You don’t like something, you just say so, ok? I’ll stop immediately.” He murmurs with gentle sincerity, as he steps back into your space. You can see how his muscles are bunched with the need to pounce on you, but he’s taking the time to make you feel safe. It makes the throbbing in your core intensify.

His gaze takes in your cloudy expression, his cock screaming to be freed from the tight confines of his black jeans as he drags a hand up the column of your neck, relishing how you swallow audibly and shudder when his grip tightens. Dark, hungry eyes meet yours as his eyes bore into you, waiting for the moment of sweet surrender that will allow him to snap his control.

“Ok, ‘Gumi.” Fuck you can already feel your legs turning to jelly and he hasn’t even started.

“Fuck, angel.” He groans loudly as he easily lifts you and carries you to the edge of the bed, tossing you down like you weigh nothing. “My name sounds perfect coming out of those fuckable lips of yours.”

You feel his control snap like the fragile thing it is. He doesn’t want one more moment to pass without you cursing and whimpering when he makes you feel more than all those shitty men you’ve let touch you while he’s been admiring you shyly from a distance whenever he goes for his coffee.

He has you bare in seconds, your shirt and jeans thrown across the apartment before he growls in appreciation at seeing so much skin.

“So fucking beautiful…” You whine out in frustration, not having his attention where you really need it yet. Your entire body squirms in impatience as you watch him grasp the rope and give you an appraising look. “Hands above your head, angel… There you go, so obedient and eager.”

“M’gumi-” Your bra clad chest pants, arching toward him as he runs the rope in loops around your wrists, tying it in a neat knot, pausing just enough for your eyes to seek him out. “Wh-what are you? Ah!” The blankets drag across your skin as he takes the ends of the rope and hauls you up the body closer to the headboard. He loops the rope around the slats in the furniture, leaving you pinned and unable to stop whatever he decides to do.

“Much better…” He mumbles and leaves you alone on the bed, going to stand at the end of the mattress to take in your prone form splayed out for him like a feast.

“Aren’t you going to u-undress?” You struggle with the bindings, testing the strength of the knot with a low moan. Your body jolts when you hear the tearing of cardboard, your eyes flying to where he’s opening up the rabbit, testing the battery before the bed dips under the weight of his knee.

“Not when you look like such a good slut all bared to me.” He snaps the band of your panties against your skin just to watch those cute little nipples pebble in your bra before he rips them off your body. He watches the slickness from your center drip from you as he kneels between your legs so you can’t shut them easily. “And this about making you cum, baby. Now tell me…” Your tongue darts out to lick your lips as you watch him spread lube across the toy’s length, eyes catching on how his hands flex around it. What you wouldn’t do to have those fingers in-

“Oh g-god-” Heat floods your system when those fingers leave the toy and press into your entrance, reaching deeper than your own have been able to.

“... How many men haven’t made you cum?” Shame and embarrassment pool in your stomach with the growing heat as his fingers seek out the spongy spot inside of you. “Come on, you can tell me. I won’t judge.” “T-three-” The feeling in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, building past what you’ve been able to pull from yourself. At this rate you’d be making a mess of his fingers within seconds.

“You let three men touch what’s mine?” He tsks, shifting to grind his palm into your clit in time with the thrusting of fingers, snapping the winding feeling in your gut with a shock squeak. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, muffling your moans as you shudder and shake helplessly. “We’ll start with three then.”

“Three w-what? Megumi?” In the next blink his fingers are replaced with the length of the vibrator and your walls clench around it, sucking it deeper as he turns the rotation first. He watches in rapt fascination as your arms fight against the ropes to grip onto something, even as your hips shamelessly grind further onto the toy, bottoming yourself out.

“Three orgasms, angel.” He palms his erection through the fabric of the pants, allowing himself a moan as he works the length of the toy in and out of your cunt, replacing it with his cock in his mind. “Fuck… didn’t even need the lube. You’re already fucking dripping.”

Your breath pitches up, bordering on hyperventilating, your hips moving on their own accord to meet each thrust. He waits until your eyes are glazed and you look to him with needy desperation before he maxes out the vibration of the piece resting against your bundle of nerves.

“Fuck-” You sob and try to escape the sensation, your legs kicking wildly to manage the stimulation. That commanding growl returns as his hand leaves rubbing his cock to dig his grip into your hip, pinning you to the bed as he doubles down with his speed, making obscene squelching pour from you as your cunts sucks it in deeper. “F-feels weird please you need to s-slow down-”

“Let it go.” He commands without room for argument, wanting to see what your pussy does when it's overstimulated and desperate for the real thing. “Give me that mess, baby. Daddy wants it.”

The image of you soaking his wrist as you shriek out your high and writhe under him easily tops anything he’s done and he has to dig his teeth into his cheeks to hold back from coming prematurely in his pants.

“Good fucking girl.” He comfortingly rubs the skin of your thigh, soaking up how you twitch and jolt at the littlest touch. He takes pity on you and gently pulls the toy from your center, leaning forward to kiss along your jaw. “You’re on birth control?”

He’ll get a condom, but he really doesn’t want to.

“M’ on p-pills.” You hiccup, slurring your words heavily from the orgasmic fog in your head. “Want y-you inside…”

The image of him filling your core with his cum has you shaking, wanting to feel a sticky trail leaking out of your abused center. He deserves it. You whine low, when he pulls away but it's quickly replaced by a loud moan when his skin becomes visible.

Every inch of his strong muscle is perfect and when his boxers drop and he bops free, your mouth goes dry with anticipation. When he crawls back above you he’s holding something dark in his hand and your vision goes pitch black.

“Just a blindfold. You’re doing amazing for me angel.” He coaches you through as he acclimates you to his touch again.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, tugging you down to take any slack out of the rope before he teasingly taps the angry, red tip of his cock against your clit, his length twitching as he slides himself through your folds.

When he enters you he does so slowly, but it's not for your benefit. He can feel himself tighten at how warm, wet, and snug your walls are around him, ready to blow his load into you already.

But he promised you at least one more orgasm and he wasn’t about to talk a good game without following through for you.

“Megumi-” You whine in desperation, feeling the way your walls are pulling him against your cervix. “P-Please move. Fuck I need you to- fuck!”

He rears back and thrust back into you before you can feel his actions.

“Is that what you wanted, angel?” He coos down at you, gripping around your hips as he sets a brutal pace. “Finally get a good cock and you turn into my limp little fleshlight?”

You suck down harsh breaths, your eyes watering beneath the fabric wrapped around your face. He tilts your hips just right, filling the room with the wet smacking of your skin against his. Each grunt and low moan that slips out of his normally calm composure builds your high and you thrash against the bindings, craving the bite of your nails in his skin as you cum.

“Fuck you’re gripping me so tight-” He can feel your cunt squeezing him, urging him to give in and empty into your swollen little cunt. But he slows just enough to have you crying out in frustration, refusing to let you fall over the edge until he’s sure he’s ruined other men for you. “Awww… what is it baby? Need more?”

“Please.” You croak, your voice a crackling, raspy mess from screaming. “Jus’ wanna cum, ‘Gumi.”

He almost pities you, but you’re just so pretty and drawn tight, your body fraught with tension, he has to play with you a little more.

“Say you’re mine, baby girl. Say you’re daddy’s and he’ll let you cum.” He teasingly gropes your tits, lightly twisting your nipple, just enough to add to your frustration.

You don’t even put up a fight or hesitate before you’re babbling that he owns you, that you’re his and only his. A sob of relief shakes its way from your chest as he reaches between you to stroke at your clit.

The sob quickly turns into screams that you can’t hold back, realizing that the sensation at your core was caused by the low buzzing of the rose purring against you, catapulting you into your high.

His eyes drink your trembling, vulnerable form greedily before his eyes roll as his head drops back with a satisfied groan, pumping his cum into as he paints your walls white, shuddering along with you.

The light in the room hits you suddenly as he lazily tugs your blindfold off and unloops your hands, his touch gentle again as he rubs the angry red marks left behind.

“I’m right here angel.” He assures, gathering you to his arms and rubbing your back with light caresses. He gently shushes you as you try to push yourself up and speak. “Rest, love. We’ll have time a little later.”

Cuddled to his chest and boneless with satisfaction, your eyes droop and you fall asleep with a satisfied smile.

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