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lovenona · 3 years ago

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ON THE SACRED BONDS OF BROTHERHOOD.

synopsis; choso may be their beloved frat brother, but he’ll always be your brother first. (for the frat au collab.)

pairing; frat boy! choso x f! reader

contains; stepcest, dubcon (reader is under the influence but having a good time), extensive descriptions of knife play and blood play, marking (choso carves his name into you), oral (f! receiving), borderline yandere/possessive choso (he loves you A Lot), choso goes from mean to Soft, consumption and romanticization of drugs and alcohol, (1) use of ‘angel’, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns, this is essentially all foreplay and ends before the fucking because i got tired, minors do not interact or perish

word count; 6.5k

the yard outside is clean, well-kept. there’s talk that the house’s landlord is a retired gardener who receives great joy from keeping up the hydrangeas and peonies along the sidewalk. it’s certainly award-winning, that front yard, with its colorful blossoms and plush bees circling the mailbox.

they’re so lucky, students bemoan on their way to and from class. i can’t believe the frat boys get to live there. i bet they don’t even know how lucky they are.

it’s a seemingly kind house from the outside – recently renovated with navy blue paint and white trimming, a large front porch and a few inviting windows. the place that omega lambda now calls home is, simply put, a dream. it sits just a few minutes from campus and it tells the street proudly, fondly, that there is no better place to be than here.

it’s true, in some respects, that omega lambda likes to see themselves as above the sweat and grime of their fellow frat brothers. they don’t spend their weekends “fucking and drinking” and tracking dirt across the carpet like animals. their fun is calm, refined: to be invited to a night with omega lambda means a night of smoke curling into the air, of gossip over olive-colored couches, of pills under tongues, of ease and relaxation.

it’s slower than the others, they say in the back of monday morning lectures, but no less extreme, no matter what those boys try and tell you.

i think i was tripping for days, the girl from psychology 101 boasted. whatever the fuck yuuji gets is strong.

such stories amaze you: and even as you stand on the sidewalk outside the perfect blue house, petunias curling inward with the evening breeze, you cannot believe they are real. it’s hard to imagine the face of your beloved stepbrother tied to these antics. it’s hard to imagine that the boy who used to come home every winter and summer with bloodshot eyes and a beat-up skateboard also swore a loyal, unbreakable oath of brotherhood to a band of boys you’ve never met.

it’s hard to imagine that your own stepbrother, choso, the one who taught you how to ride a bike and how to apply eyeliner and how to kiss without teeth, quite literally runs what has been dubbed the chillest fraternity on campus.

but yet, here you are, new to university, fresh-faced and eager, cowering outside the door of the omega lambda residence. your favorite skirt hovers around your thighs and you tug at the collar of your shirt, fiddle with the charm of the necklace choso gave you for your birthday a few years ago.

he’d invited you here almost immediately after learning that you and your roommate had tried your hand at partying with beta pi epsilon. naoya is trash, choso’s fervent texts read the next morning. absolute dick – don’t trust him. come hang out with us instead. he’d attached the address of the blue house along with a reminder to have a snack and take some medicine for your godforsaken hangover.

the message had taken you a little by surprise. choso’s always been sweet to you – doting, even, if you wanted a better word for it – but you hadn’t been sure how he’d handle attending the same university. your other friends all complain that they’d rather die than see their families; twins separate after orientation, brothers and sisters look the other way if they pass each other in the quad. you feared choso would be the same, that the omnipotent attention he gave you at home would completely dissipate the moment you moved into your dorm.

but his text reaffirms you, if anything. and although your roommate had opted to be wined and dined by the boy from calculus this evening, you don’t mind attending alone. her absence from your side only means you will be able to see your stepbrother without a distraction.

the music buzzes through the door as you knock and wring your fingers on the doorstep. should you just walk in? should you text choso and wait for him to fetch you? the ins-and-outs of frat etiquette cloud your mind until the door swings open and you’re met, face-to-face, with a young pink-haired man dangling a blunt from one hand and his phone, opened to his spotify playlist, from the other.

“hi,” you say, words foreign in your throat. “choso invited me?”

“oh, cool,” itadori yuuji says, shrugging his shoulders like he never would have questioned it. “come on in. you can put your shoes over there.”

while omega lambda is not packed from wall to wall as your night at beta pi epsilon had been, the various couches propped against the walls and surrounding the living room coffee table are nearly packed to the brim with the frat brothers and their guests. the air, hazy with smoke and desire and drinking, shifts and swirls as it curls around purple LED lights before fogging up the windows and disappearing up the stairs. it is warm here, easy, like dropping into the depths of a pleasurable dream.

“there’s drinks in the kitchen,” yuuji is saying, voice thick with his high, “and we’ve got some other stuff on the table, although you’ll have to pay yuuta for those–”

yuuji’s narration is cut off as a familiar figure crashes into yours, sweeping you into a hug so tight you fear your bones will snap from the pressure. choso smells like the cologne you bought him for his birthday, like fresh laundry and comfort; you breathe him in, deeply, and let yourself relax into the soft cotton of his black t-shirt.

“glad you could make it,” choso mumbles into your skin. he draws back slightly, drinks you in, your little skirt and your dainty socks that he’s always been partial to. he looks from you to yuuji, still vibing to the side with his playlist, and his eyes crinkle in what must be mirth.

“it’s good to see you,” you say.

“you saw me at lunch with mom last week.” choso smiles, the black line across his nose crinkling when his eyes light up.

“you get what i mean.” you tap his shoulder, lightly, as emphasis. the anxiety dissolves; it’s you, and him, like it’s always been. it’s your stepbrother choso who watches your shadow and wraps you up to keep the rest of the world at bay.

but the tender moment is broken when someone, a tall blonde girl with the aura of a lioness, calls out to choso to ask him for assistance. he looks at you, a bit forlorn, before telling yuuji to help you get settled in and making his way to the other end of the living room.

“yes, this way!” yuuji grabs your arm and drags you across the floor like you’ve known each other forever. “i make some fucking good drinks if i do say so myself.”

which, consequently enough, is how you find yourself losing your mind within the walls of omega lambda.

it’s not that you’re a virgin to the world of cocktails and lime and pills: it’s that you’re too sweet to know when to stop. it’s hard to tell yuuji no more, thanks when his face is so bright, when he and the strange, blue-haired frat brother mahito are asking you to try this and try that and to let us know what you think.

so you let yourself sway through the house, from couch to couch, listening to this mahito boy tell you about his latest philosophy courses as he dances cold fingers across your shoulders, listening to yuuji explain the very serious business of pulling an all-nighter without coffee, watching the LED lights shift from purple to blue and back again.

(you’re not sure where choso is. perhaps, in your altered state, he’s sitting just across from you and you don’t even know it. but you don’t mind, because his brothers get along with you just as well. you don’t mind, because you’re too drunk or too high to know any better.)

“and how are you doing?” a dark-haired man slides into the empty couch space next to you. arms littered with various tattoos and dark hair pulled back into a casual half-bun, he could have been your beloved choso had he not exuded such finesse, such arrogance, which choso could never be capable of doing.

“i’m alright,” you say, but you’re more than alright. the room is so warm and your brain is so fuzzy that you might melt into the couch if someone looked away for even a minute. “i don’t think we’ve met before? i’m choso’s stepsister.”

he simpers, a humid thing, one that coils around your eyelids and sets your insides alight. “ah! i’ve heard a lot about you. it’s nice to meet you.” he holds out a manicured hand; black nail polish glimmers in the dim light. “geto. i’m one of choso’s frat brothers.”

his handshake might take your soul with it. his hands are smooth, refined. you swear he can feel your quickening pulse as you introduce yourself. he watches you like you might be the only person in the room, like you might be the sweetest thing to have ever crossed the threshold. and filled with rum and liqueur and confidence you take it, gladly, because you’re young and the thought of university still puts stars in your eyes.

“so what are you studying?” geto is saying, prying you apart, picking through your history. he’s in his final year and you’re in your first and he knows all there is to know while you still have nothing. you latch onto him because he gets it, because he’s handsome, because you’re silly and desperate and drunk. somewhere along the way your thighs touch and his hand greets your shoulder and you think that you finally made it into his lap because mahito complained that the couch was too full.

geto smells like expensive cologne. you smell vaguely of lemons and shampoo. yuuji jokes with you from across the table and you like it, the way these brothers’ eyes fall on you.

so you spiral, further and further, into a daze you cannot escape from. you barely react to geto’s firm hand snaking up your bare thigh because you are too busy trying yuuji’s latest creation and asking mahito for more of whatever he gave you. it’s fun, it’s weightless; you feel beautiful, supreme, like the kind of college girl you’re supposed to be. you’re desirable, cute. you’re the girl to be in love with, the one who sets the scene.

those rumors were right. the party is certainly slower than the other frats you’ve visited, with more emphasis on sitting and vibing than on dancing and drinking games, but no less extreme. you’re so far out of your brain that you wonder briefly if it will ever be possible to come back down. maybe you’ll be her, on monday morning, the girl who’s still tripping.

“you know,” geto is saying, his breath eerily close to your pulse, a moment away from pressing a kiss to your cheek, your neck, “you should stop by more often.”

“yeah?” you hope you sound sexier than you are. “i’d love to–”

“excuse me,” choso’s voice cuts through your lazy fantasy like the sharp fall of a guillotine. “i’d prefer if you didn’t hit on my sister, geto.”

geto’s laugh reverberates against your back, your ears. his grip on you lightens immediately, and whatever words he’d saved for you die away. “i’m not,” he says, but his voice is too easy to be honest. “just keeping her company. right, sweetheart?”

you’re finding it hard to see straight. caught in this game of cat and mouse you find you can do nothing but sit lamely in geto’s lap and watch choso’s favorite necklace reflect the purple light. it’s only after a revolution around the sun you realize you haven’t spoken, that you’ve done nothing but hover, a lot of drunk and a little high and a little nervous, between one man and the other. you mumble a yes in affirmation but it’s clear from the tension that choso doesn’t believe it.

“oh, for fuck’s sake,” choso sighs. “come on, then. you’ve had enough for one night.” familiar arms lift you off the couch and you stumble, much like a baby gazelle, into the safety of choso’s chest. the room spins with the sudden change; you cling to him like a lifeline as you abandon the party to head upstairs.

of course, bedazzled out of your mind, you do not question when choso leads you to the end of the hallway and over the threshold of his bedroom. it feels expected in a way, safe, as if the party had always been meaning to end here. as if there was no other place you should be.

“so?” choso asks, casually, shutting the door behind him with a damning click. “did you enjoy being a little whore with my brothers?”

his words take a long moment to settle in your ears. you’re caught in the swirl of euphoria in your brain, the black t-shirts scattered across the floor, the small houseplant you once bought him seated on the windowsill. it warms your heart to see it there, after all this time.

“well?” choso demands your attention. he takes your jaw in his hand and lifts your eyes to meet his gaze. his silver rings, imposing and cool on slender fingers, burn into your heated flesh like embers. his eyes swim with distaste and you know it’s your fault, somehow, but when the walls tilt and your rationality fogs over, you can’t quite pinpoint why.

“i–” your words catch in your throat. it’s clear, from the darkness in his eyes, from the way his nails dig into the soft flesh of your jawline, that anything you say to defend yourself will be futile. it’s choso’s world, you’ve always known, and even now, you’re merely living in it.

“i invite my sister to see me, because i miss her,” choso’s words nestle themselves deep into your bloodstream, settling amongst the brandy and wine, “and she chooses to spend the night bending over for my brothers. how do you think that makes me feel?”

it’s a look you know: a look that has haunted you for hours and days, a look that you know better than any other. it’s the look that guides the hand between your legs at night and the look you recreate in your mind’s eye when your vibrator just isn’t enough. you’re crumbling already, like sand beneath his touch.

“i’m sorry,” you say to him, but the words are soft and whispered things, shy beneath the weight of your own guilt and disappointment. “i didn’t mean to–”

“no,” choso admonishes. he steps closer, guiding you backwards until his bedsheets brush the backs of your knees. “of course you didn’t. you’re still too dumb to know what you’re doing.” his voice, evenly condescending, hardly matches the gentle brush of his fingers as he moves to cup your cheeks. you close your eyes against it, savoring the shivers he sends across you body with every heartbeat, every movement. “still need your big brother to keep you in check.”

you do not respond: he does not intend for you too. instead choso presses you back until you fall onto his bed, crawling over you to cage your body beneath him like a predator and its prey. your brain falters with the sudden movement, with the lateness of the hour and the depravity of your position, but you can do nothing but look at him with your helpless doe-eyes while something saccharine pools in your belly.

“look at you,” choso says. “high out of your damn mind. good thing i caught you when i did. who knows what would have happened.”

you believe him, you do, especially when choso dips his head to kiss you and demands your subservience. his tongue licks the aftermath of your cocktails from your lips and claims the expanse of your mouth, your teeth, your sanity. you let him take you, body and soul, even when you’re clamoring for air and freedom. there is no safety but choso’s lips, flavored with his cinnamon chapstick, no sacred home but the warmth of his mouth.

“there’s my girl,” choso breathes, nose brushing against yours as he pulls back for air. “going to be good for me now? going to make it up to your big brother?”

he doesn’t wait for a response; fingers dance along the silk of your blouse as he undoes each button, one by one, letting his fingers dip slyly against the newly exposed expanse of your collarbone and your chest and your stomach. you make no move to stop him, caught somewhere between choso’s aura and reality and time.

(and maybe in another life you would have stopped him. maybe in another life you would have been ashamed. but it’s choso, your sworn protector and god among men, and you would be a fool to try and stop the one who knows best. he is safety, protection. who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t taken you away when he did.)

“is this new?” choso asks, studying the curve of your bra as he rests against your hips. “who are you trying to impress?”

it’s thin lavender lace, choso’s favorite. your face warms at the observation and you turn your head away, nestling among the sheets, as if you could escape choso’s eyes: but his fingers still trace the material and you can still hear him breathing and you know he will never look away.

“i just got it,” you answer, humbled and mildly humiliated and certainly a little fucked up. the words are slow and imprecise as you stumble over your own tongue. “i wanted to…treat myself.”

choso’s exploratory hands move from your bra to the waistband of your skirt. “could’ve just asked me,” he says earnestly, intently. “i would’ve gotten it for you.”

your affirmative hum is lost when choso mindfully pulls your skirt down your legs and discards it somewhere in the shadows of the room. he says nothing of it, of the thin fabric or the way it flattered you just right. perhaps he is jealous of it. perhaps he does not want to remember the way his brothers looked at you when you wore it, the way geto’s hands caressed the places no other man should go.

“they match, i see,” choso gestures towards your underwear. terrified and knowing and aware that you’re growing damper with each passing minute, you press your thighs together. “they’re cute.”

“t-thank you,” you whisper. “i… i got them for you. your favorite color.”

he smiles, a precious and glorious thing, a smile that causes flowers to grow and birds to sing. you electrify at the sight of it, blissful only when he is.

“i’d hope so,” choso says, “because i don’t think i could take it if this was meant for someone else.”

he reaches over to the nightstand while his words claw through you. choso smells like cinnamon and safety and pleasure; your heartbeat quickens as his t-shirt brushes against you, as your world collapses into nothing but choso’s profile, his butterfly hair-clips and his glowing skin and his power.

when choso settles back over you, resting against your thighs until you think you might die of it, something silver and shiny rests in his palm. you’d recognize it even if your eyes were closed, if the room were so dark that you couldn’t see if you tried. a searing and insatiable sensation lodges itself in your veins; it is fear personified, it is anticipation of a behavior you cannot even name.

choso twirls his beloved switchblade deftly between his well-manicured fingertips. it reflects the low-light of the room. it calls out to you, the beautiful and dangerous thing, a siren’s song that promises both your misery and your fortune. choso’s face is relaxed, serene, as the envy and the fury seemingly melts away from him and leaves only a disinterested vessel behind.

he lets you study it, lets you study him, and you know he’s pleased when he can feel your thighs tense, when you try so damn hard not to let choso know just how affected you really are. he shifts, grinding gently against your pelvis as he moves, causing you to bite your lip in a desperate attempt to surpress the gentlest of moans.

“well,” choso says, disregarding the state he’s slowly working you into. he shifts down your body and runs a lackluster hand across the lacy expanse of your underwear. shivers pierce your navel, silver rings poison your skin. it’s all you can do to watch him, his heartless eyes and his casual form, as his thumb prods at the place where you underwear crosses your hip. “let’s get these off. i’d hate to have anyone else see you in them.”

you feel the blade before you see it. cold, unfriendly, it rests against the gentle skin of your hip, a killer ready to take a life. a humiliatingly choked whine is out of your mouth before you can swallow it; your gasp reverberates throughout the room, the sound of one who knows they’ve lost a fight.

“choso–” you breathe, but you don’t know quite what it is you’re asking him for.

he doesn’t answer immediately, opting instead to tease you further with the blade as he presses it against you until goosebumps rise in chorus. your fingers curl in on themselves, desperate for purchase, while fear and longing hum everywhere in your being.

“don’t worry,” choso says. “i’ll buy you more. now be good and stay still.”

you want to writhe, to lash out and squirm beneath the intensity of the moment, but you fear choso’s disappointment more than you crave such release. your big brother choso has never been afraid to hurt you: to pierce the skin where it hurts, to draw blood where he means it. if you move, the blade will move with you. you know this as you know every scar choso has left behind.

it’s agonizing, this pace. choso’s tongue peeks out from between his teeth as he works with the ease of a great master. it’s like watching paint dry, like waiting for grass to grow or continents to shift. he cuts away at the expensive lingerie you bought just last weekend like he has all the time in the world, like he does not care if the sun rises and you are still crying beneath him.

(and he does it, you know, because you’ve never been one to be patient.)

“choso,” you whine, drawing his name out, long and frustrated, as if in song. “go faster.” your legs twitch in protest and the blade comes ever closer.

“no.” choso does not even spare the kindness to look at you, his beloved little sister. “stop whining.”

the rest of your complaints lodge in your throat. you fear disobeying him, so you grip the comforter like a lifeline, exasperated tears pooling in the corners of your eyes as the blade cuts through your clothes and ghosts across the bare skin beneath. it’s embarrassing, really, the way you can feel yourself becoming more and more desperate the further choso drifts away from you, the more he refuses to indulge.

you wonder if he can sense the arousal on you, feel it, smell it, even, like you’re nothing but his own little plaything in heat.

after an eternity, the blade finally cuts through your panties with a satisfying rip. the torn fabric sits pitifully against your hips, a reminder of your own subservience, until choso peels it away from you with enough condescension to move you to tears. the cool air of the room hits your thighs, your cunt, like a ghost who’s taken up residence beside you.

blissfully unaware of your feelings, choso studies the remains of your ruined underwear, the thin fabric and the obvious stain of your arousal. locking eyes with you, he bring it to his nose for a brief and pleasurable inhale before he discards it somewhere on the other side of the room.

“there we are,” he says, as if he hadn’t just smelled yourself in front of you. “now no one will ever know about it but me.”

“choso,” you whimper, hot. it’s a gift and a humiliation to be beneath him like this, to shake with need and yet to be denied it, to ask for something, for anything, in a voice so unabashedly loud that anyone who passes by the door might hear it.

he ignores you, again, and turns his attention to your bra as it flutters against your fervent chest. you watch with wide eyes as the blade comes closer, closer, dancing against your ribcage and sending ice into your lungs until it slices through the front of your bra, down the center of your chest, like the thin fabric was made of nothing but water.

“get rid of this,” he says; you listen. with quick and quivering fingertips you shimmy your way out of the delicate material and toss it over the side of the bed faster than the speed of sound. choso, pleased with your obedience, intently traces the curve of your breasts, thumbing your nipples until you find yourself arching into his touch.

(choso, you mumble, eyes falling shut at the feeling. still, as always, he does not listen. he draws his hands away.)

it kills you, the way choso’s eyes possess you, own you, dictate the movement in your bloodstream. it’s akin to being pulled along on marionette strings, a puppet of choso’s own design, made to dance for him and him alone.

it’s the prize he deserves, your big brother, to own you and protect you, body and soul.

it’s that very intensity which moves you to misty tears, which causes your hands to fly out to meet him against your better judgement. choso lets you pleasure yourself for a moment with the texture of his t-shirt and the outline of his shoulders before brushing your hands away like unnecessary flies.

“did you whore yourself out like this when you went to naoya’s?” choso prods. the patronization lies beneath feigned and genuine curiosity. there are no inflections, no signs of anger. this is how your big brother gets you, every time: it’s the neglect, the disinterest, that breeds your guilt. “are you really so easy for every boy that comes your way?”

you shake your head and wish you could bury yourself further into the bedsheets. no, never. try as you might the first-year college boys here just haven’t been enough, the older ones too preoccupied with better cunts to look your way.

“just because those guys are my brothers,” choso continues, shifting further and further down your body, spreading your legs until he can fit himself comfortably between them, “doesn’t mean i have to share everything with them.”

“i’m sorry, choso,” you try again, “i’m sorry. i don’t want anyone else–”

“that’s right,” choso interrupts. “you don’t need anyone else. no one is ever going to love you the way i do.”

the way your big brother does, his eyes say, but he doesn’t have to voice it. you already know. it’s true that no one knows you better than choso does. no one understands your limits and your desires the way your brother has for as long as you’ve known him. no one knows how to caress you when you cry, how to run their tongue across your lips to silence you when you’re too eager. it’s always choso. it’s always been choso; but sometimes you’re just too much of a fool to see it.

the blade, cool and demanding, presses against the soft flesh of your thigh, just below the hip. you twitch in surprise at the sensation and curl your toes to quell the ache in your cunt. it’s slick, weeping; you can feel it, the arousal, as it pools and pools and drips quietly onto the comforter.

“choso, what are you–” you ask, breathily, pitifully, but choso’s quick glare reduces you into obedient silence.

he licks the cinnamon chapstick on his lips. a stray hair falls across his eyes and kisses the dark line across his nose. he is love and danger, a cocktail of possession and surrender. “i think,” choso says, the words slow and thoughtful, “you need a reminder of who loves you the most.”

a strangled cry escapes your lips when the blade pierces your skin just enough to draw blood. the sting travels up through your spine and fogs up your senses, causes your cunt to weep in horrible anticipation. it hurts, it does, the first cut, but still you find yourself waiting for more of it, more, in terror and lust and love.

“choso–” you cry, a misty tear escaping out of the corner of your eye, but the call is met by another stroke, longer this time, drawn out, until your knuckles clutch the bedsheets so tensely they might as well turn to stone.

“stay still,” choso admonishes amidst the burn of it. “you’ll hurt yourself.”

as if you were the one in control. but you listen, obediently as always, and the alcohol from earlier combined with the need in your chest mixes together until your body is as taut as a desperate wire, until you no longer have control of yourself or your limbs. the knife cuts easily, choso’s hands as steady and precise as ever. you can feel the blood dripping onto his sheets like a series of hot tears.

it’s too much, all at once. it is a fire which destroys you, which renders every coherent thought into ash and causes you to sob nothing but drawn-out cries and pleads of choso’s name into the dark bedroom. he has you just where he wants you: pliant, dumb, obedient. if he asked you to fetch him a star, you would have asked him which one he needed.

choso’s tongue darts between his teeth as a steady hand continues its masterpiece. you sob unabashedly in reply with every stroke, with every flex of his fingers as he works his blade against your tender skin. and yet, as the pain grows, so does your need for something, for anything, for release; with every aching minute your cunt grows hotter and lonelier and emptier between your thighs.

you crave something, anything, choso, perhaps even more than you wish for air.

“there you go,” choso says, just as you release another cry so piercing there’s no way even yuuji wouldn’t have heard it. “all done.”

you sit up on your elbows to peer down at the masterpiece below your hip. smeared with blood, aching and raw from the blade, the word CHOSO spreads across your upper thigh in an uneven but heartfelt script. it makes you dizzy, this marking, this sign that no one owns you better than your sacred brother does. you wonder if it will leave a scar, if it will heal; and even more so, you wonder if choso will merely rewrite it, again and again, until every cell in your body knows that you are nothing without him.

you say nothing; a whine escapes your lips as your eyes flit from the mark to choso’s eyes, dark and possessive, as he looks back at you.

“you like it?” he asks, once again the sweet thing, the doting one.

“yes,” you whisper back, never one to lie to your perfect big brother.

but you cannot hide the insatiability. choso notices the way your thighs twitch from the intensity, the way your cunt drools and your eyebrows furrow because you cannot relieve this ache on your own. you’re helpless, entirely at his mercy. choso tilts his head with a soft and unreadable simper at the sight.

“you’re really worked up, huh?” he pretends your distress is not blatantly obvious. he twirls the bloodstained knife between his fingertips for a moment before bringing the flat edge of the blade against his lips in a somber kiss. “this little thing’s got you down bad, i see.” he flashes the switchblade at you like a diamond. you watch, entranced, as choso slides his tongue across the metal until any traces of your blood disappear into his mouth.

your belly’s on fire. the switchblade shines with choso’s spit and he smiles, your blood on his tongue, while he prods your legs apart, further, until you’re entirely open for him with nothing to hide. you whine lowly as choso’s eyes flicker between your eyes, dazed and helpless, and the slick on the bedsheets.

“choso,” you repeat. “please, help me.” your eyes are wide and your voice is small and you crumble beneath the weight of your own needing, of your own body working of its own volition, of the high that collapses all over you.

perhaps it’s the way you call for him, your big brother, in your time of need. perhaps it’s the way choso can never really deny you, even when he feigns disappointment or rage or neglect. he’s bound to you, your protector, and you can see in the way his eyes soften ever so slightly that choso will not deny you this request.

“sure thing, angel. let me clean this up for you.” choso’s voice is generous as he bows his face towards your hips with the reverence of one before the altar. he leaves no room for your answer. an eager tongue swipes across your thigh and laps at the blood which pools there. his movements are indulgent, refined, as he holds your legs open with intimidating palms and drinks you in like medicine.

“choso–” you gasp, unable to look away. his eyes flit back to meet yours in reply but he continues his ministrations, slow, teasing, as he ignores your cunt entirely and licks at the fresh wound until it’s finally, sacredly, clean. your newly beloved CHOSO glimmers with his spit when he pulls away. he smiles at you then, praying over your hips, lips stained red with your blood, with your being.

“i may be their brother,” choso gestures towards the door, to the party which must still rage below, “but i’m your brother first, and now you’ll never forget it.”

the words are followed by his tongue on your inner thigh, fervent this time, as he travels downwards, downwards from his name on your leg until his nose is a breath away from your clit. you thrust your hips towards him impatiently and he accepts it, gratefully, burying his face deep into your cunt like he’s searching for gold. choso lavishes your clit with plump lips and an eager tongue, drawing the bud into his mouth and kissing it until you cry, until your legs tremble as they ensnare him in your garden.

“choso–” you’re crying, voice transcendent throughout the frat house, his favorite song. there’s a tongue prodding against your hole and a silver ring on your clit and you lose yourself within it, within choso’s breath on your folds and the fire which erupts into chaos.

when it comes to pleasing you, choso does not require air. he refuses to resurface as his tongue explores every inch, as he laps away at you with the passionate abandon only an older brother can provide. what you need, he needs, and what you desire most, choso is always willing to provide. he holds you steady as he works so you cannot escape him. he forces you into stillness as he abuses every sacred inch of your cunt, as he works you into a frenzy with his fingers and his tongue until you can think of nothing but wanting to cum.

and then, then, at the precipice of pleasure, choso pulls away. you pause as you catch your breath, heartbeat like an earthquake, and recollect your shock. why has he stopped? where has he gone? you’re about to sit up, to feign sobriety, to demand what the matter is, when something cool and smooth presses against your clit.

choso’s cheek rests against your inner thigh as he presses the flat edge of the switchblade against your cunt. it’s cold and dangerous and sublime and you cannot help but think of the way it could ruin you, that if you shifted or choso wanted it everything could end here, now, forever. and it is this fear, coupled with the coolness of the blade suffocating your clit, with the alcohol in your bloodstream, that sends you into a place from which you may never return.

the orgasm is as violent as a hurricane. the moment you tense and begin to quake with a strangled sob choso replaces the blade with his tongue and rides you through it, coating his lips with your cum and swallowing the vibrations and heightening the sensation until you are tortured by it, by the sting of pleasure and overstimulation and want.

(“that’s it,” you think he says into your skin, but your ears ring too loudly to know. “cum for me, just like that.”)

it takes some time for the waves to recede and for your body to become still again. with a head comprised of of jelly and limbs made of water you lie still, panting, as choso nonchalantly licks your slick from the switchblade with a hum and gingerly sets it back down on his dresser. you watch as he slides the belt out of his jeans and tosses it into the dark room, as he hovers above you like an angel and its lover.

“better now?” he asks against your parted lips. you nod. he kisses you, deeply, a kiss made of iron and cum and blood, tongue swiping across your teeth before he draws the air from your lungs. your vision swims when he plants a kiss on the tip of your nose, your cheeks, your forehead, between your eyebrows. he plants his love until there is nowhere left untouched, until you are buzzing with the security only your brother choso can give you.

“yeah,” you mumble back to him, content, satisfied. even the sting of his name on your body is a pleasantry now.

“good.” choso wipes the perspiration from your brow. his jeans scratch against your pelvis, and it is only then that you finally register his cock, hard and eager, waiting patiently for its turn. it is only then that you realize choso’s lesson is not yet over, that your brother’s desperate need has only begun.

“now,” he purrs, gently, lovingly, “can you show me how much you love me?”

(as always, forever, you do. you show him your love, endlessly, even when the party ends and the house falls eerily silent. you show choso everything, all of it, loyally, just as he asks, with an only you, choso, and a no one else loves me like you.

because although choso offers his love to the brothers downstairs, he will always, forever, be your brother first, til death do you part.)

#tw incest #tw dubcon #tw knife play #tw blood play #tw marking #tw yandere #choso smut #choso.#it's dark in here #it's hot in here

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s1ater · 4 years ago

Text

the older boy, part two. eli moskowitz x reader

summary 📣: in which reader’s friends warn her about the older boy with the red mohawk but she doesn’t listen

warning/s 🚫: swearing

slater’s note 🗯: omg slater finally uploaded 😮

part one, part two

hawk: miss me princess?

you squinted your eyes from the bright glare surfacing from the screen of your phone. it had to be about close to midnight and it was almost something you expected, this text.

he always texted late, always catching you minutes before you decided to clock out for bed, and always drawing out your sleep schedule. so instead of going to bed at 11:30 like normal, you ended up wide awake well around two hours later.

y/n: you flatter yourself too much

hawk: is that so? thought you always looked forward to our nightly convos

y/n: other than them being nightly, sure

hawk: i’m a busy man

you rolled your eyes, “sure you are.”

y/n: that’s probably why i never see you outside of school then huh

you couldn’t careless on why you never saw hawk outside of school. it seemed to be rather a blessing from all the things you had been hearing about him lately. it was just fun to tease.

he liked being teased as weird as it sounded, it fired him up as he stared at the screen of his phone, smirking. hawk knew you knew why you never saw him and why he never saw you. you guys weren’t friends, barely acquaintances, only two oblivious lonely people who wanted someone to fill their hormonal needs.

hawk: you never see me sweetheart because you never want to

y/n: that’s a lie

hawk: is it?

y/n: i’d love to see you

hawk: i’m sure you would, but face it princess, you’d chicken out halfway through before you’d even see my face

y/n: lies, you sure you’re not talking about yourself?

but was it really a lie? you wondered, thinking whether or not your wits and nervousness would overcome you before you actually saw the face of eli if you were to ever hang out with him.

you bit your lip thinking about earlier today when moon said to stay away from eli for rather obvious reasons. one being he was violent and angry a lot of the time and two... he was a teenage asshole who’d fuck you over the minute you showed vulnerability.

hawk: let me come over if you’re not a pussy

you bit your tongue at the sight of the message. great, you thought. now you had to come up with some excuse only to prove hawk right; that you were a pussy. the thing was, you didn’t actually think he’d want to see you.

it was like a silent agreement that your relationship was flirting only, nothing else. he was like a side hustle along with all the other boys who hit you up through your snapchat.

y/n: sorry babe, i only let boys who actually talk to me in real life come over

hawk: alright, fuck you lmfao

eli mindlessly smiled at his phone screen while shaking his head. he knew you’d be a challenge, and he knew you’d turn him down any minute or mention of hanging out.

he found taunting and teasing you amusing and sometimes the highlights of his days but sometimes it also got boring with how you didn’t put out as easily as the other girls.

y/n: sorry bud

hawk: alright, goodnight princess ;)

°•

it was uneventfully windy as you stood outside waiting for moon’s red car to pull up and drop you home. you almost swore as you came into realization that she probably forgot about you, again.

you tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear as you checked your phone once again, absent of any notifications that would relate to moon.

you were beginning to feel sick, the kind of sick that resonated in your stomach from a sprout of loneliness. you shook your head, pushing yourself off the brick high school wall deciding you better start walking now if you wanted to get home before five.

your feet begun to burn five minutes into walking the shortest route you could think of as a way home, “fucking, moon.” you shook your head, taking out your phone again. she always had the strangest memory problems and seemed to always goes m.i.a. the moments you need her the most, such as.. when you were desperately in need a ride home.

“need a ride?”

you almost jumped in surprised, not realizing a car had pulled up next to you as you were focused on your phone. you dipped your head down to the low window of the old red cadillac pulled up next to you, their windows rolled down, old rap music turned down low in order to speak to you.

eli.

“nice car,” you quirked your brow with a slight impressed smile. he was one of the last people on earth you would expect to give you a ride despite your conversation the last night.

“you want a ride or not, princess?” “oh, i wouldn’t want to ruin your special me time, hawk.”

“get in the fucking car, y/n,” he rolled his eyes, quickly done with your bullshit as he put the car in drive. you reluctantly got in the nice car, swinging your bag to the floor as you couldn’t help smile to yourself.

“you know i’ve never been in a karate kid’s car before,” you mumbled lightly, examining the interior of the car better, your fingers running against the smooth dashboard, impressed by how well restored the old car was.

“is that so?” he glanced at you, a slight smirk on his face.

“who restored the car?” you mumbled, your eyes still looking around almost like a kid in a candy store, only more subtle, trying to hide the fact how impressed you were with the car.

he glanced at you again, almost taken back by the question. it was never a question he had heard before, especially by a girl. he smirked, trying to hide his own surprisal, “you know larusso? guy helped me out with it.”

“nice,” you mumbled, leaning back into the seat, done with your examination.

it was silent now, and you almost sat comfortably if it weren't for the voice in the back of your head yelling at you that the whole thing was a bad idea. you wanted to ignore it so badly, because you had never actually ever saw a red flag from eli other than the fact that it’s basic knowledge he’d a fuck boy.

he seemed like a generally good guy. no not a good guy, a guy that was your type. eli wasn’t at all the good guy type but more or so the douche that was only nice to certain group of people, you being on of them.

because he wanted to fuck you.

“got something on your mind?” he glanced at you, almost nervously like you'd hop out the window with any wrong move he made.

“no,” you said it fast making him smirk, almost as if he knew what you were thinking, almost as if he were familiar with the typical female anxiousness. familiar with the fast talking, redden cheeks, lip bites, fingers fiddling, all of it, it seemed as if he just knew.

and eli was, it hadn't taken him long when going through girls to pick up on the similar body language they all seemed to have. because really, down to the bottle, they all did the same thing; always rubbed their lips together prompting for kisses, using a different fragrance than usual when finally alone, fingers tapping, lessening the clothing on their body than the usual outfit. all similar, and he could almost see it in you despite this being an unintentional meet up... and you weren't trying to pounce on.

“actually.. yeah,” you lightly bit your bottom lip as you looked at your lap, trying to think of the best way to ask him the question that had been on your mind for awhile; “what do you expect from me, eli?” wow, what kind of question was that?

it was an honest and upfront one, something he wasn't used to, practically sending him into shock as he had to look at you fully to see if you were actually serious and not pulling his leg, seeming like something you'd do.

but you really wondered.

“uh- i, what?”

you awkwardly laughed, looking to him, “no, i mean i really don't give a shit, i’m just not about to lead you into something you think you’re going to get nudes in, because your really not.”

wow, really?

he almost swore aloud, biting his lip hard, now realizing you really weren't going to be easy, not as easy as the girls who put out the moment you called them pretty, or even the ones who you had to take on a date before they even sent.

fuck.

he laughed it off, shaking his head as if you were a fool for thinking that, “you really think that low of me?”

no worries, there’s always plan b; make you feel bad.

you laughed in return, “yeah, i really do.”

but he forgot you weren’t that stupid to fall for feeling bad just for something you weren’t about.

“wow.”

“you wouldn't be the first.”

“so, I've heard,” he gripped his neck, eyes now glued to the road before turning into a neighborhood off from the main road, his mind following the map basically glued in his mind from driving past your house to dmitri’s.

he parked, now seeming to ignore you as his whole plan begun to fall apart right before him.

“thanks, eli,” you nodded to him, jumping out of the car with your bookbag in hand before beginning to trek up your front yard.

“anytime, princess.”

masterlist

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join the taglist lil doggy

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eurynome827 · 4 years ago

Text

A Whiskey & A Dance

A/N: see this post for the picture that inspired this story. This story is a standalone oneshot and is not connected with my other 1940s Bucky stories.

1940s preserum Steve x Bucky x reader (female)

Word Count: 3,033

Warnings: 18+ ONLY for m x m x f (taking turns), protected sex (this is the 40s so I used the word 'rubbers'), loss of virginity (Steve), oral (m receiving), smoking and alcohol, masturbation, language and dirty talk, cumplay, Steve is having thoughts about Bucky that he's trying to understand but there are no overt acts of Stucky in this fic.

By clicking the Read More below, you affirm that you are 18+ as this fic contains adult content!

"Slow down already, punk!" Steve struggled to keep up with Bucky's quick footsteps on the sidewalk, sidestepping the other pedestrians, out of breath and wheezing. "What's the big rush? Afraid you'll miss out on your doll?"

Bucky stopped suddenly on the pavement and Steve ran right into his back, damn near bouncing off. "First off, jerk, she's not a doll. She's a dame." Bucky emphasized the word, drawing it out with a raised eyebrow. "And tonight's not for me. It's for you."

Bucky whirled and took off down the sidewalk again as Steve shook his head, dazed. "For - for me? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you - dancing. Smooching. Maybe more." The mischief on Bucky's face made Steve swallow, hard. He pulls on Bucky's arm to stop him again.

"Buck...you didn't...pay her, did you?"

"Will you listen to yourself?" Bucky pulled his arm from Steve's grip. "No, I didn't pay her. She's not like that. She just likes to have fun. Lots of fun."

Steve can't help himself. "Have you...had fun with her?"

Bucky nods, but it's written all over his face anyway. "Oh yeah."

"What's she like?"

Bucky looks up towards the two stars visible in the Brooklyn sky. "Like heaven, Stevie. Like walking through the gates to heaven."

The dance hall is loud and crowded when they arrive, and Steve's heart is hammering in his chest. He stares listlessly at the bodies moving on the dance floor until Bucky elbows him.

"There she is..."

You're not like any other girl Steve has seen.

You're definitely older than the other girls they know, and Steve doesn't recognize you from when they were in school. Your heels are a little higher, your dress is tighter and your smile is knowing, worldly. Bucky mentioned that you have your own apartment and you work in Manhattan, someone's secretary or something. You're drinking whiskey in a glass stained with the red of your lipstick and Steve's mesmerized by the column of your neck as you lean back to swallow. Bucky's right - you're not a doll, you're a dame. A woman.

"C'mon, Steve, let's dance."

You hand your glass to Bucky and grab Steve's hand and he's afraid for a moment that his palms are too sweaty or that you can hear how hard it is for him to breathe. The music changes from a fast song to a slow one, and you take Steve's hands and put them on your waist, drawing him in close. You're looking at him like he's the only guy in Brooklyn and in that moment nothing else matters - just you and your red lips and your perfume in his nose tickling the back of his throat.

"Bucky said maybe we could go back to my place and have a few drinks." You're whispering in Steve's ear, and you giggle when a shiver runs down his spine, his hands trembling on your waist. "Would you like that, Steve?"

"Y-yeah. Let's go."

You sneak the boys in through a side door, you tell them it's to avoid the nosy landlady. Bucky and Steve tiptoe up the stairs behind you and wait while you unlock the door and then you grab them both by the lapels of their jackets and pull them inside, your giggles floating out into the hallway. Bucky is laughing softly and he ducks his head to kiss the back of your neck while you're locking the door from the inside and Steve wonders again what am I doing here? What's going on?

"Let's have a drink, gentlemen," you kick off your shoes and grab the bottle of whiskey off the counter in the kitchenette. Bucky's taking three glasses out of the cabinet and it's clear he's been here more than once. You take a cigarette from your pack and offer one to Bucky, who takes it but opens a window before lighting yours, and then his.

"Oh," you look over at Steve, "will you be alright with the smoke?"

"He's fine with the window open," Bucky answers, sitting on the couch and leaning his head back, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

You pour out the whiskey, three glasses neat. The cigarette is perched between your pouting lips and Steve's mesmerized. He's never been in a place like this with a woman like you. You catch him staring and smile, soft and knowing.

"I'm going to get comfortable. Is that alright, Steve?" You ask, voice low as you hand him a glass. Bucky smirks at you when you hand him the other glass.

"Um, sure," Steve answers, taking a tiny sip and wincing at the burn. "I don't mind."

You drink, and Steve's watching your neck as you swallow again, everything about you soft but sophisticated, in Steve's eyes anyway. Putting down your glass and the cigarette in the ashtray, you unbutton your dress with your eyes on Steve the whole time. His mouth goes dry, his body feels numb, and he knows he's staring as your skin is revealed to him but he can't stop himself. You toss your dress on a chair, pick up your cigarette and lounge on the couch, next to Bucky in only your undergarments and stockings.

Steve can't breathe and it has nothing to do with the smoke. Bucky draws lazy circles on the inside of your thigh with his fingertips, and you open your legs wider for him but your eyes are fixed on Steve. You sigh before drawing more smoke into your lungs, exhaling a cloud around you and Bucky that looks like a magic spell hanging in the room.

"Do you want to touch me too?" You ask, quietly, like you're trying not to frighten him off. "I want you to. I like to play." Your lips curl up in a smile, and you put the cigarette in the ashtray again to beckon him forward, crooking your finger with a mischievous giggle. "Come here, Steve. Come and play with us."

Steve's mouth and throat go dry, and he takes a drink but starts coughing when the whiskey burns down his throat. You shake off Bucky's hand and stand up from the couch, walking to Steve and cooing, "oh, sweet baby boy, are you alright?" Steve's eyes nearly pop out of his head when you kneel in front of him, rubbing your hands up his thighs closer to where he's suddenly hard in his pants at the sight and presence of you. One of your hands rubs over his clothed cock and his head falls back, his eyes closed as he struggles to control himself.

"Steve," you're whispering, your hands unbuttoning his pants, "I know you want me, and I want you too. Will you let me make you feel good, baby?" A strangled moan escapes from Steve's throat as your hands grasp him and pull him free and he opens his eyes in time to see you lick the head, humming at the taste.

It's too much, and he has no experience and he knows he'll embarrass himself. "I can't - I won't be able to -"

"Yes, you will. Let me take care of you." Your red lips smile at him once more before you take Steve in your mouth, lipstick smearing on his skin and he raises his hips before he can stop himself, completely lost in the warmth of your mouth. You hum again, swirling your tongue and holding his hips, pushing him back down to sit and looking up to catch his eye, looking filthy and beautiful with your mouth full of him. Steve thinks he may have to close his eyes again but then he looks over and sees Bucky.

Bucky - he's unbuttoned his shirt, dog tags laying on his chest. His hair's a mess from how many times he's pushed his fingers through it, his lips are bitten swollen and pink from how aroused he is and his hand is slowly fisting his hard cock, watching you suck Steve further down your throat.

Steve's pretty sure this sinning will be worth a lot more than ten Hail Mary's, but he's in for whatever reckoning is coming his way. He gasps, feeling himself getting too close, but you know too and you pull off, tightening your hand at the base of his cock and holding him off. "I told you," you say breathlessly, "I'd take care of you." You surge up to capture his lips, rubbing off what's left of your lipstick on his mouth. You lick along his bottom lip, and Steve opens his mouth, letting you tangle your tongue with his and tasting himself in your mouth.

Steve's still painfully hard, but he could kiss you all night long. He wants to touch you but he's not sure where to put his hands, finally resting them on your shoulders and pulling you closer. Steve thinks you're about to straddle his lap and he's wondering how he'll control himself with that when you suddenly giggle and pull away from Steve's mouth and he opens his eyes.

Bucky's behind you, his hands smoothing over your skin, his mouth pressing open, wet kisses along the skin on your back and shoulders. "Sorry, sugar," he murmurs into your skin, his nimble fingers pulling the straps down your arms, "I couldn't wait to touch you."

"Bucky," you try to scold, but your voice is light and amused, "you have to be patient. Steve's first, remember?"

Steve watches as Bucky strips you, his eyes following Bucky's hands and breathing hard at every curve revealed to him. Bucky cups your breasts and teases your nipples with his thumbs as you lean your head back on his shoulder, closing your eyes in pleasure. "Bucky," you whine, "you're being bad."

"You love it," he chuckles in your ear, and Steve watches as Bucky slides a hand down to feel you between your legs. "Stevie, she's so wet for us," Bucky licks his lips and winks at his best friend. "Told ya you'd have a good time tonight."

Steve laughs, nervously. Part of him still can't believe he's here, that Bucky would share you with him and give him this experience. But then you're slapping Bucky's hands away with a soft, "behave," and pulling on his dog tags to bring him in for a rough kiss that has Bucky's hands wandering again. "Patience," you breathe out when you break away again. Bucky grins and kisses your forehead before helping you to your feet and extending a hand to Steve as well.

"The lady says you're first, pal," Bucky teases, and you pull Steve to your bed as Bucky follows.

"Why don't you lay down on your back," you tell Steve, pushing him back gently. "I'll take care of you, remember?"

Steve nods, his heart racing. He lays back on the mattress and watches you rummage in the drawer by your bed. You pull out rubbers - you're a real woman - and you straddle Steve with one in your hand. "Do you know what this is?"

"Yes, ma'am."

You smile, and lean over to kiss him, and Steve shivers at the feeling of your bare skin against his. You're so warm and wet between your legs and Steve can't believe this is really happening. "Do you trust me?" You ask, whispering into his ear.

"Yes!" Steve answers quickly, nodding when you sit up and take him in hand, rolling the rubber on and soothing him when he hisses at how sensitive he is. Then you're hovering over him, lining him up and sinking down - and oh shit Bucky was right.

Heaven. Like walking into heaven.

Steve lets his hands slide up your body as you roll your hips, touching all those valleys and curves he watched Bucky touch. He's drinking in your sounds and moans and he's loud too, he can't help it with how good you're making him feel. He fights to keep his eyes open and watch you above him, but he's falling fast and he can't stop himself. "I'm - I can't stop -" he stutters out, biting his lip, and you lean down to hold his hands and rock against him harder.

"You don't have to stop," you tell him, breathing hard, "I want you to feel good, Steve."

You're squeezing him inside you and he can't hold back, filling the rubber with a loud shout. You slow your movements, riding out his orgasm, and you kiss him hard before rolling off to lay on the bed next to him.

Steve's quiet, staring at the ceiling with a grin on his face, and you giggle and curl into his side. He's almost forgotten about Bucky - until he appears at the foot of the bed, rubber already rolled on and pulling at your ankle impatiently.

"Hope you had fun, punk, but now it's my turn."

You laugh, and move to your hands and knees, winking at Bucky over your shoulder before turning your gaze back to Steve.

"Should I go?" Steve asks, unsure, and you shake your head, balancing yourself to reach for his hand.

"No, sweet boy, you stay right there, and if you want to play more we can, but -" your voice is cut off by your moan as Bucky's pushes inside you, his hands gripping your hips. He leans over to brush a kiss to your shoulder before starting a quick and rough pace.

"But it's my turn now," Bucky groans out the words, jaw clenched and lips bitten. His dog tags bounce as he thrusts into you, and you - you're a vision, fists clutching the blanket, back arched, breasts bouncing and when you open your eyes you smile at Steve.

Steve's eyes are wide and he can't stop watching. He can't believe it but he feels himself starting to stir again, and he hurriedly removes and ties off the rubber, tossing it on the floor in a daze. Not like you care where he throws it, because the headboard's banging against the wall now with how hard and fast Bucky is fucking you.

"Can't get enough of you, you know that," Bucky's muttering, and your head falls to the mattress, moaning in response. "Dreaming about you, about fucking you everywhere, getting my head up your skirt and not caring who sees."

Steve can't believe the words coming out of Bucky's mouth, and the wild look in his eyes. Then those eyes drift to him, and Bucky grins, letting go of your hips for a moment to push his hair out of his eyes.

"You like this, Stevie? You like sharing a girl?"

Steve nods, too stunned to speak, and wraps his hand around his cock, stroking as he watches. He's not sure what he wants, but he wants more and he can't stop watching you, or Bucky.

You wail, something's happened and Steve's not sure what. Bucky pulls out of you and rolls you over and your head lands close to Steve's shoulder. You look up at Steve and smile, your eyes glassy and unfocused. Bucky crawls over you and licks a drop of sweat from between your breasts and you whimper. "Gonna cum for me again, baby?" Bucky asks you, softer now.

"Yeah, want more, Buck. Need more." Your voice is rough, and the slight begging tone shoots straight to Steve's cock.

Bucky grins, charming and roguish, and leans down to kiss you before sitting up and positioning himself between your legs again. Steve is mesmerized as he watches Bucky slide inside you again, watches the way Bucky's eyes roll back at the feel of you and watches how your chest rises and falls with the effort to breathe. Steve syncs his strokes with Bucky's thrusts into you, steady but longer this time, dragging in and out of you and making you moan.

You look up at Steve and then back at Bucky, and he understands what you want.

"Touch our girl, Stevie," Bucky says, nodding to him. "Let's make her feel good, huh?"

Steve nods, rolling on his side and figuring as long as he has permission he'll do what he's wanted to all night long. He lowers his head to your breast and sucks your nipple into his mouth, his hand keeping a steady pace over his hardening cock as your whimpers drive him faster and faster. His tongue flicks around you and Bucky suddenly groans.

"She's squeezing me, Stevie, she likes that," he encourages, and Steve lifts his head before moving to the other breast and sees Bucky wet his thumb in his mouth and then start rubbing you on a spot between your legs. You lurch up, back arched, and Steve files that away to ask Bucky about later.

"Bucky! Steve!" You're crying their names, and Bucky speeds up.

"Cum for us, darlin'," he demands, low and husky. "I'm right there with you. Look at Steve, he's gonna paint you up all pretty."

Steve looks at Bucky, and then down at his own hand flying over his cock, and he realizes what Bucky's saying. Is he - is that what he's supposed to do? You're wailing again, eyes closed and mouth open, and Steve shouts, his mess covering your breasts.

"Fuck..." Bucky swears, and thrusts into you twice more before he cums into rubber, pulling out of you slowly and collapsing onto the bed on your other side.

Steve watches you and Bucky, stunned silent. Your eyes open slowly and you look up at Steve, and you start giggling.

"You should see your face right now, Steve. Are you okay?"

Bucky looks over, and snorts. "Punk can't believe his good luck."

Steve smiles at you, sheepish. "Yeah, something like that, I guess."

You lift your hand, cupping Steve's cheek. "Was it a good first time, baby?"

Steve holds his hand on yours, moving to press a kiss to your palm. "Yes."

Bucky removes and ties off his rubber and looks over at Steve. "Do me a favor, grab a cloth from over there," he points, "and help me clean up our girl. She takes care of us, and we take care of her."

You move your other hand to Bucky's cheek, smiling up at him. "You were right. This was a really good idea."

#a whiskey and a dance #1940s preserum steve x bucky x reader #steve rogers x bucky barnes x reader #divider by imerdwarf #steve rogers #bucky barnes #female reader

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sugadaily · 3 years ago

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On tvN’s You Quiz on the Block, SUGA told stories from before his debut. The period of his life when he struggled with how to live off his music. SUGA and BTS have kept going and going for eight years, and now he’s on their grounds, where he can do anything he wants musically. What began with that long journey is the story of SUGA holding his head up higher and staring at the future, reaching for it.

How are you feeling after your shoulder surgery? You’re doing physical therapy in parallel with work. SUGA: I’m all right. I’m keeping up with the physical therapy, too. I had surgery last year because I wanted to be able to go back to work sooner. I have nothing else to do except music.

You said that there’s nothing for you to do other than music in the “BE-hind Story” interview on YouTube, too. SUGA: It’s true. I tried gaming, but I have no talent for it. The people I play with online get so frustrated if I do. I mean, I’m working hard and got some recognition in my life, and yet people bash me so hard in games. (laughs)

I wonder if there’s a game you can do better in than you do in your career. You’re currently at your sixth week at number one on the Billboard Hot 100 [with “Butter, at the time of this interview]. (laughs) How are you feeling these days? SUGA: When we were at number one for two weeks straight, I was like, Wow, this is so amazing! But after the fifth or sixth week, we really started to talk about it between ourselves: I really can’t believe this. Anyway, I feel like I have a responsibility. And I think I’ll end up thinking much, much more when we get ready for the next promotion. Even if I just try to enjoy this situation, it hasn’t sunk in. We can’t leave the country, plus there’s lots of issues in the world right now that are much more important than how well we perform on the charts.

As you say, it’s a tough situation, all over the world. How do you feel about releasing “Permission to Dance,” with its positive message, at this point in time? SUGA: It seems like everyone around the world is really tired of this situation dragging out. I wanted to convey a message that tells people to keep hanging on to hope until the very end. Whereas we released the album BE in this situation, seemingly without any certainty, I believe things will slowly get better now. I don’t know if we can go back to the way things were before, but I’m still working with the hope that we can return to a situation that resembles what we had before.

Aren’t you tired of the pandemic being in this prolonged state? SUGA: I look at it as, when you lose one thing, you gain another. I ended up being able to see my family more since I’m in Korea. In that sense, I feel more stable, so I’m not so much tired as hoping each day that things will become okay soon. I keep moving back and forth between work and home, and I’ve started to reflect on parts of myself I didn’t know about before. Like that I feel somewhat comfortable when I start and finish work at a certain time. While I used to have to go to bed at a certain time for work the next day or else I had a hard time getting up early, now I know I’ve figured out what time I should wake up at to make sure I feel good all day. What I pursue in life is emotional stability, and I don’t think there’s really anything too exciting or sad happening these days.

What effect do those emotions have when you work on music? SUGA: They don’t have a big effect on it. I think it affects the way I write lyrics a bit, but I’m not working on any lyrics at the moment. I’ve been making music for a long time, so I think it’s possible for me to express emotions I’m not feeling in the moment. And it’s good that we released “Permission to Dance” in this kind of situation.

You sing rather than rap in “Permission to Dance.” In addition to rapping, you started singing more both before and after BE. What did you learn about your voice? SUGA: “Permission to Dance” was a little bit difficult. I don’t draw a line between singing and rapping or anything, but it was different from our usual style, and the vocals were a bit high, too. So even though it took a while to prepare for it, I worked hard, and even when I asked some older musicians for their opinions, they all said, “It’s good the way you’re doing it. Don’t try to sing better—just sing more.” I think my only option is to sing more, like they suggested.

As far as style goes, you’ve been doing a smoother kind of pop music. Did any differences arise as a result of these changes? SUGA: All things considered, the English was the hardest part. I paid close attention to my pronunciation in “Butter” and “Permission to Dance.” It wasn’t easy to capture that smooth feeling in the songs, so I practiced my pronunciation quite a bit. And I end up breathing a lot when I’m doing an English song, but the rap parts were a bit hard for that reason. There’s a clear difference from Korean songs, since English has so many syllables. But I don’t have any one method I stick with for my vocals yet, so I tend to try lots of different things out.

What do you make of BTS’s achievements over the past year with “Permission to Dance” and “Butter,” as well as the group’s change in style? In the space of a year, you’ve released songs in a style different from MAP OF THE SOUL: 7 or BE. SUGA: As a producer, I think reactions are important to an artist who works within the field of popular music. With that in mind, speaking as a producer, “Dynamite,” “Butter” and “Permission to Dance” were the best choices. And musical tastes are different from country to country, and the cultures are different, too. Given that situation, I think it’s important that we’re a group who can send such a universal message out into the world.

BTS has really grown and changed a lot, starting with “No More Dream” and all the way to “Permission to Dance.” SUGA: I think it’s a natural course of event for those of us who make pop music. Artists mix and match different genres as they grow, and the music develops as the people of its time listen to it. I’ve been listening to a ton of music lately, and thanks to the times we live in, if I listen to a song a few times, they recommend me more songs in a similar style. And after listening to them, I realized the style of hip hop is also changing and is splitting off into different offshoots. Other than hip hop, I also listen to a lot of instrumental music. I’ve always liked Hans Zimmer’s music. There have been many times where a movie I like turns out to have music by Hans Zimmer.

What is it about Hans Zimmer’s music that draws you in? SUGA: I like orchestral music. There’s a lot of pop songs that are under the three-minute mark now, and whereas it’s sort of predetermined that they’re always written with intros that are four bars long, orchestral music can do a lot within its framework.

But, as can be seen in IU’s song “eight,” which you both produced and featured on, you broke out of pop music’s typical composition style and tried out a highly condensed progression. The composition of the chorus is very straightforward. SUGA: Yes. I insisted that the flow be roughly cut in half from that of a typical song, and I expect more pop music will be like that in the future. And maybe even shorter as time goes on. I mean, these days there’s songs that are under two minutes, even.

Regardless, I felt the chorus in “eight” is extremely dramatic with its structure and the melody of the chorus. I thought it was rather grand in scale as well. Would you say that you’re attempting to mix your tastes and things you want to do into the structure of pop music? SUGA: As you know, I love hip hop, so when I was first making music I thought it had to be hip hop no matter what and that I had to take pride in my own ideas and not accept any compromise. But while getting some experience at the forefront of pop music, I figured out that you can keep being stubborn or inflexible because there are people listening to you. There was a time I made music without any listeners before I became a member of BTS. But if someone were to ask if I stopped being stubborn about the music I’m making these days, the answer’s no. As I grew up and became an adult, I came to realize that I have to negotiate between what I want to do and the kind of music the public wants without compromising anything. When I give up on something I wanted to do, I ask myself, What will I get out of this? And conversely, when I want to do something, I ask myself, What can I get out of this? That’s how I keep my balance to make it to where I am now.

You have no choice but to think about those things when you work on other artists’ songs, especially when you’re a producer. SUGA: I’m BTS’s SUGA, and I’m Agust D, and when I’m producing, I go by “by SUGA.” But when it comes to by SUGA, I make perfectly commercial music. I’m the producer for those songs, sure, but the owner is someone else, you know? In that case, they’re commissioning my work. But they wouldn’t think about just leaving it all with SUGA. The artist’s label has to think carefully about whether to commission me for producing and consider my situation, too, and those people must be hoping for something commercial. That’s the most important part of working with outside people. Actually, that kind of work isn’t much of a benefit to me, to be honest. Oh, he can write this kind of song, too. That’s all. The more valuable thing I can get from it is the recognition and records the artist or the company will get with the song instead.

As you noted in your previous Weverse Magazine interview, when you discussed your “interest in the music industry in the US,” you seem to constantly think about the things artists can do within the framework of the music industry. SUGA: I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve become more certain since the pandemic started that I’m the kind of person who always has to be doing music. That much I know for sure, so I want to keep on making good music. And the pop music market is something that came about because there were people listening, and there’s a long history to the US music market, and it possesses the most influential charts in the whole word. So then I thought, Wouldn’t they have gone through all the same things that we have? And really, whenever I talk to other pop stars, the situation is always similar. The US is also more realistic about commercial results than any other country. I wanted an accurate picture of how those people work. Right now, Korean pop music’s spread is in full swing and we need more good artists to keep popping up. From a producer’s standpoint, if that’s going to happen, I think the key is how well we can mix our music and the characteristics of overseas music industries overall.

How did it feel to be in the lineup for the Grammy Awards, one of the icons of the US music industry? SUGA: The feeling was less immediate because we couldn’t be there in person, and it wasn’t a huge distinction, but the performance made me think, This is different, because it’s the Grammys. What changed my view from the first time I went to an American music awards ceremony was, the first time I went, I was really scared of the world’s biggest music market. But when I look back now, I don’t think I had any reason to feel that intimidated. To be honest, I have only now begun to enjoy the awards ceremonies; I wasn’t able to then.

It’s no exaggeration to say that you’ve achieved most of the things that you can as an artist in the music industry. What steps do you think are necessary for the artists who follow after BTS? SUGA: The way artists work seems so difficult. They make an appearance on a different music show every day once the promotional period begins, meaning the exhaustion artists face is enormous, and that fatigue often results in injuries as it adds up. That kind of music show is for promotional purposes, so it’s not like the artists can earn a proper income from them. On top of that, despite all the promoting, there’s no visible outcome, so they inevitably lose morale. If possible, it’d be nice to have one of the performances be really high-quality, even if it’s just the one, but in this environment I’d say that’s pretty difficult. And since our job doesn’t fit the common conception of work, there’s ambiguous boundaries when it comes to issues of legal protection as well. We need a lot of improvements to be made to the industry and its system.

They demand a lot of things as collateral for success, yet success is extremely difficult to attain. SUGA: The great thing about the label I’m with is they listen to the artists’ opinions. I think both we and the label know to a certain degree what kinds of activities would be best commercially speaking. But the question is whether the body can endure it or not. If the fatigue builds up as you continuously do those promotional activities, it’s hard to do them the way you did when you first debuted. In that case, I think the label ought to actively accommodate the artist’s views about what they can and cannot do. An attitude that’s just like, Oh, we made you kids, and as long as you just do what we tell you to it’ll all work out, so just do it—I think that really doesn’t make any sense. Of course, there could still be situations where the label has to be pushy like that, obviously. But I heard there’s been times where a label will just say, Do it, without any explanation to the artist, or, Why are you talking so much? I think that’s the biggest issue and it’s destroying the industry. If you just see the artist as a product, how can they do anything creative? I really think it’s very contradictory to ask the people on stage to put on an enjoyable performance when they’re experiencing neither fun nor enjoyment.

That reminds me of the music video for “Daechwita” somehow. You appear onscreen as both a rebel character and a king, looking as different as your situation when you first debuted with BTS and your situation now. SUGA: There was a lot I wanted to do in “Daechwita,” not just musically but also visually, and a lot of ideas came to me as I came to reflect on who I am as a person while working on the music video. It naturally occurred to me to separate SUGA, by SUGA and Agust D. The character I played in that video who wasn’t the king was a stranger. It takes place during the Joseon era, but then there’s cars and guns, which of course don’t belong in that era. I think we’ve been living our lives that way. Right from our debut, a portion of the hip hop lovers criticized us by saying, They’re idols. But at the same time, we heard things like, They’re not idols. I didn’t know which drumbeat to march to, so I think that’s why each of our albums took a different direction than people were expecting. But I don’t think I can call myself a stranger in this situation anymore. So these days my main goal is to keep going with BTS for a long time. Having a huge audience show up at our concerts is nice, but I think the goal for all of us is to make sure the group can keep making music even as we get older. I think right now we’re thinking a lot about how we can have fun and be happy on stage.

What do you mean when you say fun and happy music? SUGA: I think people are happier the busier I am, so lately I’ve been thinking that I need to focus a little more. I figure we should do as much as we can for ARMY since they feel happy watching us. We’ll continue to try our best, so I hope they believe in BTS and keep their eyes on us.

So that’s why you do music. SUGA: This is the only thing I know how to really do. Other than music and BTS, there’s nothing special about me when I look at this 28-year-old Min Yoongi. That’s why I want to keep doing this.

#yoongi #suga #bangtan #bts #210730 #interview

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toru-oikawas-milkbread · 3 years ago

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10 Character Special: Tōru Oikawa | What Their Love is Like

Notes: If you want to see the rest of my 10 character special, you can follow {this link} to my masterlist page for it 💕

For the final 10 character special post, I have Oikawa 😫 I hope that you’ve enjoyed reading this little series, and I’ll be back with more mini series’ soon!

<>~<>~<>

- Whenever he gets bored, you’re always the first person he goes to. He’ll text you if he’s technically supposed to be working or he’s shopping for either clothes or groceries, but he will also call you if he was in his room and he was lonely

- Oikawa likes to listen to the piano, but he can also play the piano. He’s really good even if he doesn’t play all that often. He would teach you if you wanted, but he also loves when he’s playing and you sit beside him and rest your head on his shoulder. He likes to play one of your favorite songs (that he learned just for you) just to make you smile when you’re beside him

- This man is so soft for you. His camera roll is filled with the two of you and just you alone. Sometimes when you’re napping on the sofa and you look too cute, he’ll snap a photo. If you’re looking out the window while you drink some coffee or tea, he’ll snap a photo. When you’re smiling and laughing with either him, a friend or an animal, he’ll snap a photo. He treasures you and it really shows. If you wanted something and he says no, really all you have to do is give him a sort of sad look and he caves so fast

- Slow dancing in the kitchen in the middle of the night when one of you (usually you) gets up and the other (usually him) comes to see what the other is doing. Even though there’s no music playing, he would pull you into a sleepy hug and softly sway you in his arms

- Love notes shared between the two of you. He sends you long letters listing just about every single thing that he loves about you, though every time the letters come things change; he wrote you 100 things that he loves about you about a year after the two of you got together and it’s still in your bedside table drawer for you to look at whenever you miss him

- He can sing so well, but he usually only does it beneath his breath unless the two of you were jamming out and singing along to music in the car. However, this means that he would sing a little song to you when he was swaying you in his arms during those late nights slow dances in the kitchen, and he might even ask that you sing along with him sometimes. He would also sing you to sleep if you were tired but needed that extra push. His voice is honestly amazing and he sings the sweetest love songs to you. When he’s quiet, his pitch is nice and soothing. When he’s loud, his voice is still very smooth

- He’d be the kind of person who would love to have a wall of photos of the two of you. Whether they’re in frames or they’re simply the photos ordered and printed, he would love to see that whenever he came home or walked into your shared room. Especially if it was something you did on your own, because in such a case his heart would absolutely melt

- Taking a million and one selfies and keeping all of them because he loves how cute you are

- He’s an absolute cuddle bug. He could stay in bed all day long and cuddle up with you without a struggle. He loves lazy days around the house as much as he enjoys going out and doing stuff. He likes to wrap his arms around you while you’re making a snack and bury his nose into your shoulder; he loves spooning, and if you make him the little spoon his entire heart would melt. He loves to be held by you just as much as he loves holding you

- Multi-talented bitch, say what. He is extremely artistic, but sometimes when the art he does doesn’t come out the way that he wanted it to, he can either be hard on himself or he can get discouraged and not want to try again for a few days. However, he is really good at sketching and would draw you and even teach you some things if you wanted to learn, but if you were also artistic he would love for you to draw him

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x female reader #haikyuu x reader fluff #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu toru oikawa #toru oikawa #toru oikawa x reader #toru oikawa x female reader #toru oikawa x reader fluff #toru oikawa headcanons #toru oikawa imagines

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elizabeethan · 3 years ago

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Weather the Storm

An Overboard Addition

For @the-darkdragonfly because it’s her birthday!!!!!!!

What started as a fluffy little addition to Overboard, one of my more popular fics that Kay loves, became something… angsty as heck. But not to worry, there’s more where this came from.

There are brief mentions of miscarriage in this piece. Please take care of yourself and remember you’re always welcome to message me with questions.

Thank you endlessly to @donteattheappleshook for beta-ing this

Rated E

~8600 words

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Stuff

~~~~

Emma pulls the cable knit sweater over her head and smoothes it over her hips, noting the way it falls perfectly just above her ass in her tight jeans and smirking at her reflection in the mirror. Killian loves when she wears his clothes, and she can’t wait to drive him mad in front of his crew for the entire day.

“ Bloody hell ,” he breathes as he walks into their bedroom, stopping short with his hand on the door handle. She smirks again, turning to face him with a smile.

“Like my outfit?”

“You stole my sweater,” he accuses, although she can see the way the corner of his lips tick up with a small smile he tries to fight off.

“The cream color matches so well with these black jeans. Don’t you think?”

Stepping towards her, he shakes his head as he eyes her up and down. “I must say, I agree.”

“Hmm,” she hums with false pensivity, pouting her lip. “You don’t look very happy.”

Wrapping his hands over her waist, he pulls her close to himself until his hips press against hers and she can feel that he is, in fact, quite happy. “Perhaps that’s because my beautiful wife is trying to make me late for work.”

She giggles as their lips collide, his hands sliding up the back of her sweater so that she can feel the cold metal of his new wedding band chilling her skin. Her giggling subsides when his tongue slides against her, the sweet, bitter taste of his morning coffee waking her senses and making her fingers tighten around the hair at the nape of his neck.

She grinds her hips against his hardening length, causing him to groan as his grip on her tightens, bringing her even closer to him and making her want to shed the cozy sweater she borrowed and toss him onto the bed they share. “Killian,” she breathes into his mouth desperately, scratching her fingers down into the black and silver hair on his chest.

He bites on her bottom lip before pulling away, effectively making her head spin at the loss of contact between them. “You can’t trick me again, temptress. It’s time to leave.”

“ Trick you?! When have I ever tricked you?”

Pointing a finger at her, he eyes her down suspiciously and says, “A lady as tantalizing and mysterious as you must certainly be some manner of siren, or vixen, or--”

She cuts him off with a kiss, pulling at the collar of his sweater with her greedy fingers. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not a bloody mermaid. I love you. ”

She feels him sigh, his breath washing over her face in a soothing warmth, and he nods. “Aye. I suppose I sometimes just can’t wrap my head around how lucky I am to be married to the most beautiful woman in the world.”

With another hum, she closes her eyes and presses a final, soft kiss to his lips. “Well, get used to it, buddy. You’re never getting rid of me.”

“Good.”

“Now, hurry up. You’ve made us late.”

~~~~

“Good morning, wife,” Will greets cheerfully, dropping a chaste kiss to Emma’s cheek and shooting Killian a smirk and waggling brows. “I sure am excited to have you on board with us.”

“Me too,” Emma smiles. “I think I’ll be your good luck charm. How many are we catching?”

“If we don’t catch three, you may not be invited back,” Robin jokes.

With a scoff and a roll to her eyes, she says, “Please. As if you have any say. My husband can’t say no to me.”

“Can’t blame him,” Will agrees.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Killian mumbles as he drops the bag they brought into his quarters. “There’d better be bait on this deck.”

“Aye, Captain. Caught it meself this morning while you and the wife were--“

Killian laughs when he realizes what’s happened; when he sees the small heron flopping across the deck upon Emma throwing it at Will, successfully shutting him up.

The sun shines brightly against her skin, causing her cheeks to pink as she lounges on the bow, giving him a distracting view as he tries to navigate through the sea of weekend fishermen to his favorite secluded spot. Sure, she’s still fully dressed, but something about seeing her in his sweater makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his jeans feel tight.

“No funny business while we’re on board, aye Captain?”

Killian grumbles inaudibly in Will’s direction, rolling his eyes, and demands, “All the lines had best be out, Scarlet.”

“Aye, all but the ones on the bow. Don’t want to disturb the beauty.”

“Stop looking at my bloody wife,” he grumbles, earning a smirk from his deckhand.

He meets her later, when Will and Robin have completed their tasks and find themselves lounging on the deck waiting for a bite. His heart flutters when he watches her turn towards him, a beaming smile decorating her face and the color of her eyes catching the sun. He smiles back, crawling across the small, slightly slippery expanse of the deck. “You look nice and warm.”

“You look nice.”

He chuckles softly at her blatant flirting as he moves to lie beside her on the deck. “May I join you?”

“Please do.”

She’s quick to move beside him, the towel she brought to lounge on scrunching between them as she curls up to his side. She smells of sea and sunscreen and something that’s so painfully her that his arms move involuntarily to wrap around her, his lips pressing a firm and longing kiss to her temple. “I’m glad you came,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible to even himself over the sound of the crashing waves.

“Me too,” she agrees. “It’s nice. Your job doesn’t seem too hard.”

“Oh, aye?” he laughs, rolling her so that she’s on her back beneath him, cognizant not to throw them overboard. He knows she’s joking; she knows how difficult and dangerous his work can be. But her playfulness is impossible to ignore. “About as easy as being the Sheriff, I’m sure.”

She giggles under the weight of him, her grin beaming in the sun until he consumes it with his own lips. He slides his tongue along her bottom lip, suddenly taken by the comfort that being with her brings him. The gentle touch of her wandering hands sliding up his back, pushing his sweater away, sends a shiver down his spine. The cold weight of the white gold rings on her finger reminds him of how far they’ve come. She’s his wife .

“You know,” she growls against his mouth, “The waves will probably have a very interesting effect when we do it later.”

He bites down on her bottom lip, just a bit harder than he means to and drawing from her a whine and giggle all at once. “And what have you done to deserve that?”

“I’m your good luck charm,” she says confidently against the shell of his ear, one hand sliding from his rear to the front of his trousers and squeezing until he breathlessly ruts against her palm. He’s always awestruck by her, but the way she can make him behave like this despite knowing that his mates are just on the other deck makes him feel like a teenager again. “You’re gonna catch big today, baby. I can feel it.”

“Aye, you’ll feel it alright.”

Her laughter rings through his ears again, but the blissful sound is interrupted by the raucous shouts of his mates announcing the small blips on their radar. They’re marking fish, several tuna swimming beneath his boat, and it kills him to pull away from her in favor of checking the bait and praying for a hookup.

“We’re on!” Will screams excitedly, and he can hear the scream of the reel being pulled out by a sea monster.

Emma scurries from beneath him, hastily hurrying towards the starboard side so that she can head back towards the deck. She’s always excited to see him work, to see what goes into his livelihood, and she’s made him promise to let her reel at least once.

Will jumps on the reel while Robin pulls in the others, careful not to allow the lines to tangle, and Emma stands beside the wheel while Killian steers. He needs to stay on top of the fish so that they don’t run out of line, he explains, and she watches his careful and diligent movements, his sweater dampened by the ocean spray and clinging to the muscles in his shoulders. She can’t help but bite her lip.

He asks her to take the wheel and she’s nervous, worried that her screwup could mean their loss. But he directs her perfectly, telling her when to put the boat into neutral and when to reverse, where to steer and when. Eventually, Robin shouts that he can see the fish, and her eyes bug out of her head at the sheer size of it. She’s seen plenty of tuna at the docks, many of them several feet longer than she is tall, but to see one in the water is stunning.

Killian takes the harpoon in his grip, lining it up and setting his jaw tightly in concentration. His brows draw close together, his empty arm lifting in front of him so that he can visualize the course to his target, and in a move that’s almost too quick to comprehend, he draws his chest and shoulder back and launches the harpoon into the water, grunting deeply as he strikes.

Her cheeks go red.

Her husband is so damn hot.

They work together to hoist the beast onto the deck, it’s sheer size and weight overpowering and breathtaking. They measure its length, and Robin calls out that the fish is 112 inches, a record for the Jolly Roger .

“You are lucky,” Killian laughs, pointing at her playfully as he stands. He bounds towards her, scooping her up and spinning her carefully as Will and Robin groan quietly. She giggles as he kisses her everywhere, his lips landing on her cheeks, her nose, her lips… she can’t get enough of the love he has for her.

They catch one more fish while she’s sunbathing, their joyous, celebratory shouting music to her ears as she listens to the sounds of her husband’s success. Neither of them have very conventional jobs, but she couldn’t be prouder of him, of them , for making a life together that they can both take pride in.

He worried when she took the job as sheriff, the last one being killed in the line of duty not settling his nerves one bit. It was the fuel for one of their first fights as a couple, a few months before their intimate beach wedding. And although the argument was difficult, she never once doubted that they would work through it.

They’ve worked through plenty of things, hardly any of them actual disagreements. The one thing she worried may have caused turmoil between them turned out to be nothing at all. Her shy confession that she’s never desired to have children was met with unconditional understanding and kindness, his words nearly drawing tears to her eyes each time she thinks back on them.

“ I planned on spending the remainder of my life alone. I never really had an opinion either way. I’ll be the happiest man alive if I just get to spend the rest of my days with you.”

They married mere months later, her parents and brother on her side and his mates on his. She would’ve been happy enough to have it just be them and them alone, but he reminded her of what being there would mean for her family. Calling them that still sits strangely with her to this day, but ever since she and her father opened up to one another, her relationship with her parents has been much improved.

All she ever wanted was love and understanding. She has that, and so much more, with her husband, and there’s really nothing more she could ask for.

~~~~

The sun’s nearly set by the time they make it to the docks, Emma’s father waiting for them and giving a friendly wave when he sees them approaching. Her arms slink around his middle while he steers them towards the dock, head resting on the sore space between his shoulder blades. She pushes a firm kiss there, then another, her fingers clinging to his sweater as he shuts off the engine.

He lets out a soft, gentle chuckle when she kisses his neck just below his ear, knowing she must be on her toes and just barely able to reach. She isn’t especially short, not much shorter than he is, but the way he can envelope her in his arms sends happy warmth through his veins. She kisses the space between his shoulder blades and scratches against his stomach as he navigates next to the dock and waits for Will to tie them off.

“Got two big ones for ya, Dave!” Will shouts when they arrive, and Emma kisses his back once more before pulling away to greet her father. Standing at the wheel, they aren't in David’s direct line of sight, and for that, Killian’s grateful. He can’t ever get enough of his wife’s touch, but he also doesn’t love the idea of her father watching them. “112 incher! Gotta be a thousand pounder!”

“Let’s see,” he returns as Emma steps onto the dock, taking her father’s hand for support.

“Hey,” she says as she leans in for a hug. It’s taken her a while, but she’s known her parents for over a year now, and she’s finally starting to become more comfortable with them. It was difficult at first, knowing that she was given up and replaced by her younger brother a few years later. But she and her parents have had a series of eye-opening conversations, and she’s found herself more and more willing to accept the love that they want to give her with each passing day.

She’s grown increasingly closer to her father over the last few months, finding that his unconditional acceptance of her warms her heart in ways that she never expected. Truthfully, despite being raised by a mother who loved her endlessly, having her father in her life changed everything. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Good day?” he asks when he releases her.

“Very good. I’m good luck.”

“Of course you are,” he chuckles, turning on the crane so that they can lift the massive fish out of the boat. Once it’s dressed, it weighs in at just over 800 pounds, Will and Robin shouting and high fiving each other and Killian gently resting his chin on her shoulder from behind to press a kiss to her cheek in quiet celebration. She doesn’t miss his grin, the one that carves deep lines into his cheeks and the sides of his eyes, and all she wants to do is turn around and hold him tight, never content to let him go.

They’re offered a hefty price tag for their catch, the smaller of the two weighing almost 500 pounds, and each of them celebrate with more high fives and hugs. Once the boat is cleaned, Killian sends Robin and Will home early for their hard work. She finds her place behind him again as he drives the boat through the harbor, navigating expertly through other boats and docks until he finds his place at the dock just outside of the home they share.

“We have to go to dinner tonight,” she remarks when the engine stops and a calm silence settles over them both. “My mom is cooking.”

“Aye, love,” he agrees softly, turning to face her and placing both hands on her hips. She lets her fingers trail along his jaw, combing gently through the hair spread across his face that’s getting too long to be considered stubble.

“I like this,” she whispers.

“You don’t think it makes me look like an old man? I haven't shaved in days.”

With a coy smile, she says, “I didn't say it doesn't make you look like an old man, I just happen to like my silver fox of a husband.”

He hums doubtfully, rolling his eyes and giving her a shy smirk that makes it impossible for her to stop herself from pressing onto her toes and kissing him. His beard scratches against her chin when they deepen it simultaneously, the burn delicious and enough for her to crave his mouth everywhere , but they don’t have time. He has to finish putting the boat away and she has to head to her parent’s house to help with dinner. The knowledge that the honeymoon is truly over sets in, and she pouts when they break apart.

“I love you,” he whispers, his forehead pressed to hers and his breath washing over tingling lips.

He can never fail to make her heart race in her chest, beating so forcefully against her ribs that she’s relying on the strength of his arms to hold her up. “I love you, too,” she whispers back, letting her eyes flutter shut against the wind whipping against their hair and in response to the sudden and palpable tension between them. It’s begging to be broken, each of them craving the touch of the other, needing to express their love for each other however they can, but there’s no time. “How long will it take you to clean up here?”

“No more than an hour.”

“We don’t have to stay at my parents’ long,” she murmurs, her lips nearly touching his with each word. All she wants is to be with him. It isn’t just a sexaul desire that she has for him; she needs to be with him. She needs to be touching him. She can’t stand to be apart from him, or to sit in a room with him and not be touching him.

“It’s alright, my love,” he whispers. “Being with your family is important. Despite how desperately I crave you, I'm willing to wait.”

“You might be, but I'm certainly not.”

He laughs loudly, the sound of his glee cutting through the noisy waves and making her heart soar and her grin grow painfully. “I’ll meet you there. I won’t be long; I promise to make quick work of the old girl.”

She nods, kissing him chastely despite her desires and humming in agreement. “As long as you promise not to make quick work of your decidedly much younger girl.”

“You make me sound like a predator,” he laughs.

“No, I told you: you’re my sexy silver fox husband and I'm your young, gorgeous trophy wife.”

“Of course, my love. Whatever you say.”

She lets out a giggle, a sound that would have been so unlike her a year ago, kisses him once more, and regretfully pulls away from him. “I love you,” she says again. “I’ll see you in an hour. I’ll be the one looking devastatingly beautiful.”

“As usual.”

~~~~

“Your dad called,” Mary Margaret announced once they had gotten settled, each of them standing side by side preparing dinner. Emma has been put on chopping duty, and she’s decidedly avoiding the onions. “He said Killian made out very well today. That’s great.”

“Yeah, they did really well. Two fish were over a thousand pounds.”

“Wow,” she smiles, stirring the pasta after pouring it into the boiling water. “That’s impressive. You guys will have a nice nest egg soon enough.”

Emma purses her lips as she finishes chopping a carrot, nodding slowly and unsurely. “I guess. I mean, we both have savings.”

“Oh, I know,” her mother says, taking the chopped carrot and tossing it into a skillet as Emma starts working on the cursed onion. “I meant more for… extra expenses,” she clarifies unhelpfully, giving Emma a presumptuous smile.

She stays quiet for a few moments, trying to consider her mother’s words but letting confusion take over as she tosses the onion into the skillet and Mary Margaret adds olive oil. Moving to the sink to wash her hands, she says, “I mean, we’re happy at the cottage. Maybe Killian would want a new boat soon.”

With a soft giggle as she tosses the vegetables together, Marg Margaret adds a can of tomatoes, causing a raucous sizzle. “Honey, I was referring to… I mean… maybe a baby is in our future? I can’t wait to be a grandma!”

Emma chokes on her own breath, reaching for her glass of wine and taking a generous swig. “Well, grandma, we’ll have to ask Leo to hurry up.”

“Leo,” she laughs, shaking her head. “He’s too young. You, on the other hand, are happily married and at prime child bearing age.”

“Mom…” Emma starts, laughing awkwardly. “I’m not having kids.”

The horror with which she drops her spatula into the skillet, as if what Emma just said is the most unbelievable piece of information she’s ever heard, sends a wave of anger through her veins. The complete shock in her mother’s face at her desire not to bring a child into this world makes Emma’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

Mary Margaret had a baby and gave her away. How could she expect her daughter, the very one who was left abandoned for years, to have a child herself?

Emma’s never wanted kids. She’s always felt this way, like if she had a baby and something happened to her, they would grow up exactly like she did. How could she bring a baby into the world and risk putting them through what she went through?

How could her own mother not understand that?

“You’re not?”

“No,” she answers definitively, the set of her jaw almost painful.

“Oh,” she says with a soft nod. She adds beef to her bolognese in silence, a thick tension settling in the room.

The quiet is awkward, and the longer it lasts, the angrier Emma feels. It’s because she knows what Mary Margaret is thinking. She knows that she’s hurt by Emma’s announcement that she doesn’t plan on having children with her husband. She’s having trouble believing it; she’s struggling to see why Emma wouldn’t want to experience the joys of motherhood.

It’s annoying, and it’s making Emma angry, but nothing compares to the rage that waves through her when Mary Margaret speaks again.

“Does Killian know?”

Her eyes bug out of her head, the glass she was holding dropping onto the countertop too loudly. “ What?”

“I just… I wondered if he agreed…”

“We’re married, ” she answers immediately. Her voice is low, almost a growl in her throat as she tries to stay calm.

“I know, I just…”

“You just thought that maybe I tricked him into marrying me? Maybe I didn’t tell him my foolish idea to stay childless until after we’d tied the knot? You thought that my desire to spend the rest of my life with my husband and with the freedom of not having kids comes second to a man wanting an heir?”

“ Emma, I never--”

“You didn��t have to! You didn’t have to say a thing. Did you really think we wouldn’t discuss something like this before we even got engaged?”

With a sigh, she says, “Sweetheart, of course. I misspoke. I’m sorry. I was just surprised.”

“Surprised?” she asks, trying to calm her voice.

“I mean… I just figured you two would want that. It seems like a natural next step.” Emma’s quiet for a moment, making herself even out her breath and preparing to respond calmly before her mother speaks again. “And I’ve seen how happy Killian seems to be around little Alexandra.”

She feels her heart rate picking up again, and she forces herself to take a moment, having a sip of wine before responding. “So, you’re saying he couldn’t possibly be happy unless I pop out a few kids?”

“Oh, honey… that’s not--”

Her answer is too slow. She can’t defend herself immediately or easily, and that’s all Emma needed to know.

“Okay, I get it,” she says quietly just as David opens the door followed closely by Leo.

“Everything okay?” her father asks

“Great,” she grumbles sarcastically. “Enjoy dinner.”

“Emma!”

She doesn’t turn back, grabbing her wallet and moving past her brother without so much as a word, ignoring her mother’s pleas for her to stay with them. With her family. She can’t.

~~~~

It had only been forty minutes by the time he finished, proud of himself for making such quick work of cleaning his vessel. The image of his stunning wife sitting across from him at the dinner table, surrounded by the family she never thought she’d have, was enough motivation for him to hurry up and meet her.

At least, he thought that was his plan, until he hears angry footsteps stalking against his dock and he knows there’s no other person they can belong to other than his fiery wife. She has a penchant for heated anger, and the sounds she’s making are unmistakable. He only pities whomever put her in such a state, and prays that it wasn’t him.

She reaches the edge of the dock, hands in fists on her hips and jaw set tensely as she stares down at him. “What’s wrong, my love?” he asks, hearing her barely-audible growl in response.

She stalks onto the boat, jumping the few feet onto the deck, and approaches him quickly. Before he knows what hits him, her lips are on his, tackling him against the wheel of the boat and making him thankful that the engine is off.

Her fingers find the hem of his sweater, easily tugging it over his head and exposing his bare arms to the chilly harbor air. He lets out a surprised grunt when her hands land on his stomach under his shirt, scratching through the smattering of hair lower and lower until she grasps his belt and pulls his hips against hers. “Love,” he grumbles against her mouth, and as he opens his lips to speak, her tongue finds his.

She deftly undoes his buckle, humming into his mouth and pushing him until his back is against the exterior wall of the cabin, her hands moving from his belt up to his chest beneath his shirt. A groan escapes her throat through their tangled lips as she lets her palms explore, moving from his chest around to his back and sliding down until she can tug his shirt off, too. He shivers, partially against the cold but mostly in response to her.

“Emma,” he tries again as she drops lower, her tongue swirling against his nipple as her fingers undo the button and zipper of his jeans. “Baby--”

She bites him, making him hiss and surely leaving a mark. “I need you,” she says once she’s looking up at him, her eyes dark and desperate. “Now.”

“Bloody hell,” he breathes as she drops to her knees, lifting her own shirt off and exposing her hardened nipples to the bite of the evening air. She pulls his jeans down effortlessly, his cock springing to attention responsively despite her surprise attack, and he feels his pulse quickening as she bites her lip at the sight of him.

“Fuck,” she says before licking a long strip up to the tip, sucking it into the heat of her mouth. He shudders, his hands finding her hair and tangling into it, trying hard not to take control. She whimpers when he hits the back of her throat, her eyes meeting his in the dim moonlight.

His head falls back against the window when he sees her stirring on her knees, tucking a hand into her leggings and swirling it over her clit. He’s suddenly consumed with a need for her, a need to taste her, to hear her sing for him. He pulls on her hair and she moans around him, making him pant and tug once more before she releases him with a smirk on her swollen lips. “What is it?” she asks, her voice rough in her throat.

Breathless, he shakes his head minutely, intent to find out what’s gotten into her eventually, but also just as intent to be the thing that’s gotten into her and suddenly not feeling very patient about it. He releases his grip on her hair and moves his palms to her cheeks, brushing them with his thumbs before encouraging her to stand again. “Off with these,” he insists in a growl, pulling on the elastic waistband of her leggings as she stands and letting it snap against the small of her back. She yelps playfully, finally smiling and letting out the soft giggle that he always craves, pushing her obvious anger to the side for a moment.

“Aye aye, Captain,” she murmurs, catching his lips with hers again and swirling her tongue against his just as she had done against the tip of his cock. It makes a shiver run up his spine.

He hums, the sound rumbling through his chest, and says, “Ah, so it’s the Captain you want?” as his fingers find her sopping core.

“I need you,” she returns desperately. Her nails dig into the skin of his shoulders as he spins her, pushing her back against the wall he was leaning on and dropping quickly to his knees before her. He couldn’t even begin to consider not giving in to her. He needs her more than he needs to breathe, ready to drop anything at a moment's notice to pleasure her if only to be rewarded with the sinful, intoxicating sound of her moaning his name.

Her fingers cling to his hair, her hips bucking forward towards him as soon as his mouth latches onto her swollen clit, and he says exactly what he knows will make her squirm. Pushing her hips back, he chastises, “Behave, love.”

He’s met with a breathless, desperate whimper, Emma dropping her head back against the window behind her as he swirls his tongue over her. Her hips continue to dance over his mouth as if it’s impossible for her to remain still, and she pulls his hair particularly hard when he hums against her sensitive flesh. “Don’t stop,” she begs, one hand in his hair and the other bracing herself against the wheel tower. When he curls a finger into her, dragging it out against her tight walls and then thrusting back in, she lets out a shout and bucks her hips again.

He bites the flesh of her inner thigh as punishment and moves his mouth back to her core before mumbling, “Be good for me, that’s it,” and earning another moan and shudder. He feels her tightening around his finger and takes it as a cue to add another, making her cry out his name.

With a few more thrusts and strokes of his tongue, he feels her tense, her legs quivering under her own weight as she lets out a high pitched, nearly silent scream, her brows woven tightly together and her jaw dropped. She’s so stunning like this, his wife, and he has to slow his ministrations over her clit so that he can get a good look at her falling apart above him.

There’s nowhere he’d rather be.

“There’s a good girl,” he says into her sensitive flesh, earning a full-body shiver and another soft, needy hum. “Alright?”

Her chest is heaving, her breasts glowing in the moonlight under a sheen of sweat, and she shakes her head. “I need you,” she says again, dragging him up to her and falling back against the wall when he stands against her. His lips find hers easily when she drags him to her, and she hums against his mouth as her tongue explores against his.

“You’re very needy,” he agrees into her mouth, earning a nod. “And I perish the thought of not delivering.”

“Good,” she mumbles. The gasp that escapes her lips when he picks her up doesn’t stop her from locking her ankles around his hips. She groans when he slides into her, and it feels like coming home. They fit so flawlessly together, he can’t help but to groan as well and drop his head to the window she’s pressed against, his lips pressing to the top of her shoulder. “ Fuck. Don’t stop.”

This is never an easy position to be in, especially with his age and with the waves of the harbor making him unsteady on his feet. Needing to support the weight of the both of them is difficult, but the way she clenched around him makes it infinitely worth it. He’s still rather fit for his age, exercising daily through his job, and he’s always glad for it when he can elicit these sounds from his wife.

She claws at his back desperately, begging to get closer to him despite it being impossible. With each thrust, she bites onto his shoulder or sucks on the lobe of his ear or kisses his neck, a moan that must be too loud meeting each drive of his hips. He pivots his hips just slightly so that he’s certain he’s supporting her weight, then moves one hand from the back of her thigh and presses his fingers to where he knows she needs him. The action earns another clench of her muscles and a cry of pleasure, his name ringing in his ear as she calls for him and tells him she’s close.

“Harder,” she begs, and it’s a clear indication that something’s happened to upset her. She doesn’t want it like this unless she’s bothered by something. Unless she’s hurt by something. He obliges, content to let her use him for the comfort that she needs as he drives into her harder, making the boat rock and creak against the dock. He’s only glad that it’s his own private property, lest the whole town hear them.

“Killian, I’m--” her words catch in her throat as the circles he draws quicken.

“Come on, angel, come for me. I want to feel you come on my cock,” he says into her ear, knowing that his words and the whispering breath on her skin will bring her to the edge.

She bites his shoulder, most definitely leaving a mark but successfully stifling her cry as she shudders around him. He feels her muscles tensing with her orgasm and he continues his ministrations on her clit for as long as he can, reveling in the jerking movements that her release is eliciting before he can’t hold on any longer. He spills into her, cursing as he does, at the feeling of her taking everything he has to offer and clinging to him as if seeking more.

They stay still for a while, longer than he can keep track of, until his legs begin to shake under the weight of the both of them and he has to release her thigh from his grip. She drops down to the deck but doesn’t let him go, continuing to hug him close to her and nestling her head into the crook of his neck. He lifts his hand to cradle her gently against him.

“I love you,” he reminds her pointlessly. She already knows.

She hums, nodding against his neck and pressing a soft kiss there, one that drastically contrasted the way she was touching him moments ago. “Sorry for jumping you. I love you, too.”

“Aye,” he laughs, scratching his fingers over her scalp in the way he knows she loves. He feels her shudder against him, either because of the sensation or because of the evening breeze blowing over her bare skin. “Is that something you’re ready to talk about?”

He feels her shaking her head immediately, before he even finishes his question, and he fights off the urge to sigh, choosing instead to hold her closer to himself and press a kiss to the top of her head. He knows if he waits long enough, she’ll sigh and give in, but at this second, she isn’t ready to talk. He’ll wait for her.

After a few moments of calming silence, the only sound between them the gentle waves lapping against the boat and the wind swirling around them, she lets out a frustrated groan and lifts her head. She stares into his eyes, the emerald jewels difficult to read. “You’re too emotionally mature for me,” she finally says as she walks into the cabin in search of a tissue.

He laughs lightly, following her closely, and responds, “You know the deal, my love. You’re only allowed to fuck me through your feelings if we talk about them afterwards.”

Rolling her eyes, she turns towards him, shamelessly exposing her nude form to him and making him wonder how it’s even possible for a man his age to shorten his refractory time. “ Way too mature.”

“Come,” he requests, holding out his hand to her once they’re cleaned up.

“I just did, thank you very much,” she responds with a smirk, one that tells him that she’s fighting tooth and nail against any conversation remotely related to her feelings.

“Twice, if I recall.” He grabs a knit blanket from the small tattered couch in the cabin and takes her hand, guiding her outside and towards the starboard side of the boat. He climbs up and onto the bow, Emma following him closely until they’re lounging in each other’s arms and he’s able to wrap the thick blanket over them. He loves her confidence, her complete comfort with herself evidenced by her silent refusal to get dressed despite them being out in the open, and he’s happy to stay naked with her if only to feel her soft skin against his.

“I love you,” she finally whispers into the quiet settled between them. “A lot.”

He pulls her impossibly closer, every part of him touching every part of her, and responds, “I know you do, darling. I’ve never doubted that.”

“I just--” she sighs, dropping her head dramatically against his chest. The moonlight shines against her hair, making it appear even more platinum than usual. “I love you. I love our life together.”

“Angel,” he breathes, “I wouldn’t trade our life together for anything, you know that.”

“I need to tell you something,” she whispers against his skin. “Something about my past… when I was young.”

“You know you can tell me anything, Emma. I’ll never judge you, especially not for something that happened when you were young.”

She stays quiet for a moment longer, her fingers gently tracing patterns over his chest and through the black and silver hair peppering over his skin. She’s always had a fascination with his chest hair, never able to keep herself from touching it when it’s exposed to her. Aside from the comfort it brings her to comb through the soft, thick hair with her fingertips, it also serves as an effective distraction against her nausea at the thought of opening up to him.

It’s ridiculous, really. He’s her husband, for goodness sake. She’s never felt this comfortable around anyone in her entire life; not her parents, not the woman who raised her. He’s successfully broken down nearly every wall she put up, and she feels the guilt settling deep in her gut as she considers breaking down this one and letting him see her whole truth.

“Killian,” she whispers against the gentle sea breeze. “I’m… I’ve never wanted kids.”

She feels him breathe out softly and nod, and she wonders what he’s thinking. Is it relief? Is it regret?

“I know, my love,” he comforts. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know, I just… I never told you…”

“Emma, your reasonings are entirely understandable. I respect the decision you’ve made, and, as I've told you, I’m perfectly content to live out the rest of my days with you as my wife, with or without a child.”

“But would you be happier if we did have one?” she asks, suddenly needing to look him in the eyes as she presses up onto her elbows and stares. The moon glistens off of his deep irises, the darkness making them appear as though they’re the color of the ocean tonight. The way they shimmer makes her fall in love with him even more.

“What is this about?” he asks, his hand lifting to cradle her cheek, and she leans against his palm and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. His answer isn’t an answer, not really, and it serves only to drag out her feelings of guilt and insecurity.

She sighs and closes her eyes, entirely unable to look at him when she finally admits the truth. “When I was 16, I had a boyfriend. He was a real piece of work… I think it was part of my teenage rebellion phase.” He laughs softly, brushing his thumb over her cheek and letting her continue without interruption. “He and I… I mean… he was my first. It sucked, every time, but… I got pregnant.”

She bites her lip and opens her eyes, and she’s met with unconditional understanding.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, easily able to read the emotion she feels as she opens up to him.

“I didn’t want it; I’ve never wanted kids. And when I got pregnant at sixteen by someone who was no good for me-- not to mention too old for me at the time-- I knew that I really didn’t want kids. And I planned on giving it up for adoption because I knew I couldn’t handle raising it.” She bites her lip again, sighing and lying back down onto his chest. “I never told anyone. I thought, maybe I could hide it,” she laughs. “I never told Ingrid or Neal. I just found out and waited a few weeks and hid how shitty I felt. I just kept hoping that it wasn’t happening to me; that it was a dream and I’d wake up soon. And then…”

She gulps, tugging on the blanket so that it’s tucked under her chin, needing to be covered and held together. He reads her again and pulls her closer to him, squeezing his arms around her back and providing her with comforting pressure. “It’s alright, my love,” he repeats in a whisper.

She doesn't even realize that the tears have started to fall until she feels a warm wetness on her cheek against his chest. With a sudden sniffle, one that catches her off guard, she says, “And then one day I woke up and… it was gone. It was like I wished it away and it worked. I don’t even know how far along I was because I never went to the doctor, but it was… It was gone.”

He sighs again, his hands running up and down along her spine to gently soothe her as she breaks, crying into his chest and whimpering at the loss of something she didn’t even want in the first place. “I wanted it gone and it… I did that. It’s my fault.”

She never wanted to have children. That fact hasn’t changed. But when she found herself pregnant and wished that she wasn’t, her wish came true. And she’s never stopped regretting it.

“Emma,” he whispers, “I'm so sorry.”

“I didn’t want it,” she says again. “I wanted it to go away and then…”

“That doesn’t make your loss any less painful, love. Even though you weren’t ready to have a child, you still suffered a loss. That was still something terribly difficult that you had to go through alone.”

She nods, because he’s right. It was impossible, and she’ll never forget the feelings of guilt and regret and complete failure. With another sniffle, she says, “and today my mom asked when we’re having kids, like it's something we should be doing, and I just…”

“It made you angry. And hurt? Misunderstood, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she breathes in relief. He’s always understood her, unlike anyone she’s ever known. “And she talked about how happy Alexandra makes you and it was like she thinks I'm hurting you by not wanting kids.”

“You’re not, Emma. I promise you, you can never hurt me.”

They’re quiet for another few moments, and she lets his gentle breathing and his soothing strokes up her back and the soft waves beneath them lull her into a sense of calm. Being with him never fails to bring her back down to earth, guiding her from her fear and anger and pain and into a place of love and consolation. She can weather any storm if he’s with her.

“I never… I never want to feel like that again. I always knew that I didn’t want children, but that experience really… I mean, it really solidified that for me.”

“I know what you mean, darling. I never had a specific desire to have children myself. I would have, if you’d wanted to, but it’s never been something that I’ve found myself needing.”

She nods and wipes a rogue tear away. “I sure am lucky,” she remarks, caught in a sense of disbelief at the fact that she gets to call herself his.

“Aye, about as lucky as I am.”

“I just can’t,” she whispers after a moment. “I never wanted to, and now I just… I can’t do it.”

“I know, angel. And you never have to feel that way again, I promise.”

“I can’t,” she repeats pleadingly, her arms tightening around his middle and her nose pushing impossibly further into his neck. She’s desperate to turn it off, the anguish that tortures her too great, and he’s desperate to help her. But there’s nothing he can do but hold her and let her cry in his arms until she’s spent, powerless to stop her pain. It kills him.

He whispers that he loves her into her hair, letting anger consume him for a moment as he considers her words and the fact that her terrible, too-old-for-her boyfriend did this to her. He wants to find the man and make him pay for the sobs wracking his wife. For taking advantage of her when she was just a child and making scars that still seem fresh a decade later. It’s unfair, and he feels his anger through the tips of his fingers as he tries to console her with gentle touches and soft words, unsure of what else he could possibly do.

He’s angry with her mother, too, for the things she said. The words that reopened an old wound when it could’ve stayed closed off in the deep pits of her mind. But he knows that the only way for her to heal is to feel, despite how difficult it clearly is for her.

It’s an experience that has haunted her for years, something she won’t easily move past and may never fully get over. He understands that, can empathize with her torment and guilt over her loss, and he only hopes that being here for her is enough.

When she calms, her breathing steady again and the tears no longer dampening his skin, he feels her let out a heaving sigh and press a kiss to his chest. “I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice croaking after her sobs.

“Please never apologize,” he begs. All he wants is for her to be open with him, something he’s requested countless times. Now she has, and he can never express to her what it means that she trusts him. “Thank you for telling me.”

She nods into his chest and hugs him close to her. “Thanks for letting me blubber,” she answers sarcastically.

“Emma,” he starts. “You know you can blubber to me about anything.”

It earns him a soft giggle, the sound ricocheting off the water and the smooth surface of the boat and landing in the cockles of his heart, warming him from the inside out.

“I know. It’s just that… Well, I know this is nothing like your brother…”

“Don’t say that,” he pleads. “We can’t compare our losses or the pain they bring us. This was painful for you. You’re allowed to feel that no matter what anyone around you has gone through.”

She nods with a dejected sigh, obviously letting exhaustion overtake her after the long day that they’ve had. Between leaving before dawn, spending the day wrestling sea monsters, and the emotional and physical activity in which they’ve just partaken, he doesn’t blame her. He feels it too, although she would point out that she’s much younger and more energetic than he is.

“You missed dinner, my love,” he points out. “Why don’t we order in? Head home and have a shower?”

“A bath,” she says softly. It’s a brilliant idea; being on the water is certainly settling a chill in their bones.

“A bath, then,” he agrees.

She remains still for a minute more before shuffling over him, lifting onto her elbows and showing him her face. She looks stunning, blackened tear tracks and swollen eyes and all. He gives her a smile, one that’s genuine and reserved only for her, and cups her cheek with his palm. She leans into it immediately and kisses the inside of his wrist again, making his heart skip a beat.

“I love you,” she whispers. “More than anything or anyone. You’re perfect.”

“If you feel that way about me, then you better not argue when I tell you I feel exactly the same about you.”

She smiles, finally, and nods into his palm. “Okay,” she concedes softly. “Can we get onion rings?”

“Naturally,” he agrees.

When they get home, he tucks her into the couch under a warm blanket, endlessly dedicated to her comfort. He presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for just a moment before a knock on the door interrupts them and draws him away. He answers, Ruby delivering their dinner and smirking knowingly at his disheveled sweater. They’d dressed quickly after he’d placed the order, needing to hurry home with the knowledge of how quickly Granny works.

He places the bags on the coffee table before her, removing two grilled cheeses and a large order of onion rings and giving her a smile as he returns to the kitchen to fetch some drinks. She can’t imagine their life not being like this. She can’t even begin to picture a scenario that would make her happier than this. It’s taken her plenty of time to come to terms with her feelings, the realization that not every woman needs to crave raising a child of her own. She’s realized that it doesn’t make her broken, thinking like this. It doesn’t make her a bad woman, or a bad wife.

“There we are,” he says gently when he sits beside her, leaning toward her and pressing a long kiss to her temple. “My beautiful wife and my onion rings. What could be better?” he asks sarcastically, making her chuckle and snuggle into his side.

“Nothing, I hope,” she murmurs insecurely.

“Absolutely nothing.”

Eventually, she’ll go back to her parent’s house and apologize for her rude exit. She’ll apologize to her mother for her sudden and unexplained outburst. Maybe she’ll even explain her reasoning, although she doesn’t really feel that she should need to.

But for now, she’s perfectly content to sit here on the couch with her husband, enjoying their takeout and trash TV if only because it means that they get to spend this time with one another. That’s the only thing that matters to her.

~~~~

Tagging:

@courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay @xsajx @itsfridaysomewhere @alexa-fangirl-forever @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @qualitycoffeethings @rapunzelsghosts @spaceconveyor @badcats-andmice @batana54 @sailtoafarawayland @deckerstarblanche @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx

#Captain swan fanfic #Overboard ff #Weather the Storm #cs ff #captain swan fluff #captain swan smut #captain swan angst #tw miscarriage

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babbushka · 4 years ago

Text

A December To Remember

Lawyer!Kylo Ren x Reader

4.1k, cw: Possessive behavior; name-calling; unwanted advances from another man; NSFW (Rivals/rival relationship/enemy lovers, PIV, fingering, semi-public sex/office sex)

Available on AO3

------------------------

When the elevator doors open, Kylo has to physically brace himself. He had heard the music blasting from seven floors away, his discomfort only growing bigger and bigger as the elevator ticked up up up to Gwen’s lobby. His hands clench into fists in his leather gloves, refusing to take them off.

He wasn’t going to be here long, he promises himself as a conga line of santa hats nearly steps on his Allen-Edmonds; he just needed to show his face, have a drink, and get out. The office is all geared up for Christmas, Kylo walks through the winter wonderland of flocked trees decorated in white and gold, garland wrapped around support poles, big faux presents arranged nicely. There’s a live band and although they played well, the music is a bit much, as are the people singing along. Kylo tunes it out to the best of his ability, on a mission, a hunt.

One thing he can at least appreciate, was that this was a cocktail party, which meant everyone was dressed up nicely. Kylo loves an excuse to bring out his expensive suits, Burberry sitting nicely on his broad shoulders. No one could say he didn’t try to be festive – he had put on a black tuxedo made of soft mohair wool, that happened to have a saucy lapel of black satin for some holiday flair.

As he walks through the crowds of attorneys who Kylo has never seen laugh and smile so much in his career, someone hands him a peppermintini. It’s not long before he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he nearly spills the cocktail by whirling around, thinking that at last, he’s found you.

He has half a mind to smile, but whatever he had thought of saying goes out the window when he sees it is not you, but rather it’s his friend Gwen. She’s gorgeous in a silver slinky number that dips down her muscled back very low, and Kylo leans in to press his cheek against hers in greeting.

“Well well well, look who actually decided to show up.” Gwen nearly has to shout to be heard over the volume of the party.

He rolls his eyes at her teasing, takes a sip of the offending holiday cocktail – where the fuck could a guy get some whiskey around here?

“I was invited, wasn’t I?” Kylo replies, even though he’s not really looking at her. Gwen is probably the only person he knows who is as tall as him, and tonight she’s wearing heels which make her actually a few inches taller.

“Yes, but I’ve seen the stack of unopened invitations sitting on your desk.” She snaps her fingers in front of his face, drawing his attention back to her for the time being as she raises a platinum blonde brow, “Let’s not you and I pretend that you’re here because you want to enjoy the cheer of the holiday.”

The both of them exchange a little huff of laughter, because really she was right. Kylo is here because he had heard through the grapevine that you had RSVP’d, and there was nothing that could have prevented Kylo coming to see you if that were true.

“I’ve been informed that it is appropriate to make appearances now and again, even brief ones.” He sighs into his drink, nose crinkling at the sheer minty-ness of it.

“You can’t leave you just got here!” Gwen groans, “Stay for a little while, there’s some people who want to talk to you.”

“Whether or not I stay is contingent to one thing.” He shakes his head with a grimace, and at this Gwen’s sharp eyes sparkle with the light of knowing his secret.

“I last saw her over by the buffet.” Gwen sips her own cocktail, speaking lowly enough so that only he can hear, not like anyone is listening.

“I don’t know who you mean.” Kylo’s palms immediately begin to sweat inside his gloves, and he fixes the wall a hard stare to avoid that knowing look in her eye.

“Between you and me, I’m surprised she showed up just as much as I am that you did.” Gwen scoffs, and that at the very least was something Kylo understood.

As difficult as it was trying to pin Kylo down for something as unsavory as a Christmas party, you were notoriously hard to convince to come to anything for the holidays if you didn’t feel like it. It was one of the things that Kylo appreciated about you – not that Kylo liked you, or anything.

He shakes the thought away from his head.

“But you’re sure she’s here?” Kylo asks, an intensity to his question that has Gwen laughing.

“Yes – and do try not to make a scene.” She pats him on the back, before sauntering away to go entertain.

“What’s a Christmas party without a little scandal?” Kylo mutters to himself, trying to figure out which way the food was.

He recognizes people from six or seven different law firms as he tries to cut his way through the party. Gwen hadn’t been joking, about a dozen men in suits shake his hand and introduce themselves, congratulating him on winning his most recent case. Interns have stars in their eyes when he passes, and Kylo tries his best not to be such a grinch to their faces.

At this rate, he’s starting to get frustrated and irritated, he still hasn’t found you. The peppermintini was long finished, and he didn’t ask for a refill when he passed the bar. The entire outing was shaping up to be a waste, and Kylo is about ready to give up when he finally catches a whiff of your perfume.

“…That’s nice.” He hears your disinterested voice pipe up from a spot on the other end of the lobby where he has wandered, and Kylo lets himself be led to you, using his height to search for you in the jovial crowd.

Some schmuck is trying to herd you in the direction of where a big sprig of mistletoe has been tied under a doorframe, and the minute Kylo sees it happening, jealousy and rage simmer up straight up his spine.

“Isn’t it? I got the sonofabitch off a ten-year sentence. He was absolutely guilty but, that’s not my problem anymore.” A handsome pretty boy with perfectly straight teeth that are practically fluorescent from how white they are tries dazzling you.

“Uh huh.” You sound like you could not care less, and that for some reason only makes Kylo angrier – couldn’t this boy see that you weren’t interested?

Kylo tries to say his excuse me and his pardon mes, as he winds through the lobby on his mission to you. It’s difficult, because you won’t stay still for fucks sake, so every time Kylo thinks he’s just about gotten to you, you take a sharp turn to try and lose the boy’s unwanted attention.

“So anyway I was thinking to celebrate, maybe you can come back to mine after this shindig gets wrapped up.” He says, slipping an arm around your waist.

Kylo’s blood boils.

“Excuse me?” Your tone shifts dramatically, from uninterested to offended at his presumptions. Your body stiffens up at once, and that arm drops from your waist like he’s been electrocuted.

“I brought my own car and everything, we don’t even have to take the subway.” The boy tries to impress you, but you’re having none of it.

“I don’t think so, I have no intentions on going anywhere with you.” You shut his advances down, “Tonight, or any night.”

This angers the boy, which in turn makes Kylo see red, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s literally shoving himself in between happy couples and groups of cheerful friends to close that last bit of distance between you and him.

“Well then what the hell have you been doing this entire time, leading me on like this?” The boy reaches out to grasp harshly around your wrist when you try and make your leave, “Hey – !”

“She said no.” Kylo’s voice is dark and dangerous as he appears behind the boy, who drops your wrist at once.

“Kylo?” The sound of his name on your lips is enough to keep him from killing this boy in a blind rage, and his eyes flick to you in a very curt greeting.

“Listen to me -- and listen to me carefully.” Kylo looms over this lesser attorney, casting a shadow over the boy’s face from the sheer breadth of him, “I am going to close my eyes and count to three. If you are still here bothering this woman when I open them again, I will reach down your throat and rip your lungs out through your mouth and I will make it look like an accident. Understand?”

“Y-yes.” The boy stammers out, nearly chokes.

“Yes what?” Kylo sneers, jaw clenched.

“Yes sir!” He squeaks in terror -- Kylo doesn’t even have to close his eyes before the boy is scrambling away, and everyone around you is snickering at how he’s gone bright red in the face as he leaves the party entirely.

Now that that was taken care of, Kylo holds a hand out for you, which you take automatically. He would never admit to it, but the feeling of your palm against his has him calm almost at once.

“You have to stop doing that, you know.” You say, as Kylo leads you away from the crowded party of the lobby, and out towards the big balcony.

It’s cold outside, the past few days bringing a light dusting of snow, but you don’t seem to mind. You’ve got a fur stole wrapped around your shoulders to keep you warm. Even out here has been decorated to match the Christmas spirit, with twinkling lights covering every available surface.

“Oh but it’s so fun to watch them squirm.” He smiles, pulling you close to him as the two of you rest against the railing.

“No, not that,” You shake your head, “I mean rescuing me. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can, but again, where would be the fun in that?” Kylo only winks, and you lightly smack his arm.

You’re about to say something, when you notice that dangling above both of your heads is a bit of mistletoe, tied together with a red velvet ribbon. It spins ever so gently in the slight breeze from being so high up, and you nudge Kylo’s hand on the railing with your own.

“Look.” You whisper, and Kylo looks up too.

“Now who put that there…?” He grins smooth as ever, as he ducks his head down and kisses you.

Kissing you was rapidly becoming one of Kylo’s favorite pastimes. It was too bad you were such a fucking pain in his side most of the time, if you weren’t so stubborn and difficult, he’s sure you’d spend a lot more time kissing each other.

But then again, you are stubborn and difficult, and you have no intention of stopping. Kylo hates that about you, hates how upset it makes him. No one gets under his skin the way you do, and so he pays you back by giving you the best kiss of your life – that’ll show you.

Your mouth parts for his, eyes closed. Your breaths come out in little sighs, and Kylo feels his body reacting to it. He hasn’t been able to get a good look at you all evening, but when he does, he loves what he sees. You’re wearing a dress in a color that perfectly compliments your skin, in a shape that fits your body exactly how you like it to.

His hands grasp at your hips a little too tightly, making you nip at his lower lip with a teasing smirk.

Christmas has never been something Kylo cared remotely about, but he’s big enough to admit that the lights really do wonders for making you look like a goddamned movie star. You both pull away enough just in case someone were to look out the window or come onto the balcony and see – neither of you could really have that, it was bad enough that there were bets about you through the different firms, the last thing you needed was to let any one side win.

“It’s criminal, how good you look.” Kylo tugs on the fabric of your neckline, “Someone ought to do something about it.”

“Hmm, like what?” You play along, your hand reaching down down down and grasping a hold of Kylo’s cock, ever so briefly, giving in a squeeze.

“Bend you over and fuck you hard, just the way you deserve.” He presses his mouth against your ear, he can practically hear your heartbeat picking up.

“Too bad you scared off poor Mike,” You say with a tsk of your tongue against the roof of your mouth, “I bet he would’ve loved to do the honors.”

Mike, that was the schmucks name? Kylo had almost forgotten entirely about him, about the way he had put his hands on you without your permission. He would make a couple calls, get the kid fired.

Or demoted, at the very least.

He wasn’t sure yet.

“You want to get me mad, is that it? And here we were having such a nice time.” Kylo looks around again, makes sure no one is seeing anything that’s happening out there on the balcony as he snakes a hand up up up your thigh.

“Maybe I like it when you’re mad, maybe I know you’re going to show me a real good time.” You smirk, and Kylo is reminded why he hates you so much, you’re so spoiled, getting whatever you want whenever you want it.

“Such a fucking brat.” He snaps, hand reaching for your and tugging you back through the doors with a, “Come with me.”

Kylo is faced with the party once again and is trying to find the best way to get the fuck out of there, when you pull him in a different direction.

“No – I know a spot, this way.” You bite back a pleased grin, and Kylo has to roll his eyes, letting you lead the way.

Deep deep deep in the bowels of the office, far away from the lobby and all the festivities, the music sounds a million miles away. You’ve tugged Kylo into a conference room with big glass walls and a glass door, like a little zoo enclosure. It’s nearly pitch black, none of the lights are turned on. The only illumination is from the city outside, the ambient glow of New York beginning their celebration of Christmas. The Rockefeller tree shines brightly a few blocks down the road, a perfect view from this conference room.

Fleetingly, Kylo has half a mind to ask you to go ice skating, but then you’re hopping up on the table and spreading your legs, the skirt of your dress hiked up around your hips. You’re not wearing any panties, a pair of thigh garters holding up your stockings – and Kylo’s mind goes blank.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asks, immediately pushing you farther up the table, wanting a better view of your pussy as your thighs rub together from being so exposed.

“Yes,” You admit licking your lips, “But you’ll warm me up, won’t you?”

Kylo groans, bites off his gloves with his teeth, wastes no time in trailing his fingertips through your folds. You squirm at the touch, wanting to be filled by him, any way you could get it. He dips them deeper between your legs, nothing but the sound of your breathing filling the quiet of the room.

“Slut, god what a fucking slut you are – look at you, pussy already wet for me.” Kylo grits out between his teeth, his cock filling out in his expensive trousers, straining against his briefs.

His fingers seek the wet heat of your cunt, and he pumps them in and out slowly while he tries undoing the buckle of his belt. Your hands help him, your legs falling open farther as his fingers bury themselves in your pussy. The stretch is beautiful, and you moan, leaning back until you’re resting on the table fully.

“Are you going to talk? Or are you going to fuck me?” You challenge from your spot on the table, your hands rubbing up and down your stomach, hips lifting so he can finger you a little faster.

“Both, I can do both, fuck you’re sexy.” He huffs, unbuttons his suit jacket, shucks down his trousers and briefs enough to pull his cock out and give it a good few strokes with the hand that’s not thrusting in and out of your cunt, blunt nails dragging against your walls.

“I know.” You’re full of yourself – full of Kylo – and you moan from the thought, “Hurry up, someone could catch us.”

“No they can’t, I locked the door. It’s just you and me sweetheart – thaaaat’s it.” Kylo replaces his fingers with his cock, your folds swallowing him down, oozing and dripping slick all over your thighs.

He shoves in roughly once he’s got the head in, pushes into you in one fluid motion that has your back arching. Kylo grabs at your legs, is careful of your heels as he pins your ankles together and tucks them against his shoulder, your body pressed together as he begins to thrust in earnest.

“Yes! Fucking finally,” Your palms smear sweat on the polished wood of the conference table, and before he knows it, you’re pulling one hand up to lightly smack at his arm. “You know I’ve been waiting here for you for two fucking hours, you asshole.”

Only you could give him such an icy glare while also pushing your tits up for him to play with. Kylo reaches out to pinch hard at one of your nipples, and you whine, your thighs trembling just a little from being held up like this.

Kylo’s big fat cock stuffs you full, your pussy even tighter from having your legs pressed together like this. Normally he likes to look down and watch his dick disappear into you, but he can barely see your face as it is in the dark of the room, so he doesn’t mind. Besides, he can feel you – can feel the way you throb and pulse around him, how you flutter and clench, and it’s enough.

“If I had known – damn you’re tight – you’d be here – fuck (Y/N) – I would’ve come earlier.” Kylo latches himself to your neck, bending you nearly in half as his hips speed up, his balls smacking against your ass as he pushes you up up up the table.

“I – ah Kylo be careful,” You warn him when one of your shoes falls right off your foot and lands on the wood with a thud. He rips the other one off and throws it to the floor, leaving your legs in nothing but the stockings and garters. Your hand tangles in his hair as you press him back down to your throat, where he sucks and bites at your skin. “I don’t know why you couldn’t just fucking call me back. We – oh yes, yes harder come on – we could’ve avoided all this bullshit.”

“You’re the one who hung up on me last time!” Kylo pulls himself more upright, scowling down at you as he grabs your face, gives your jaw a little shake.

“Oh!!” Your body tenses up unexpectedly, his cock accidentally slipping out and pushing back in wrong.

Kylo fumbles just a little bit in the dark, lets your legs fall as he tries to fix the angle, tries to get himself back inside your pussy as quickly as he can. It just feels wrong to not fuck you, it feels wrong to not be joined with you as completely as possible. Even when you’re scowling at him and he’s glowering right back at you – maybe especially then.

“Relax for me?” Kylo strokes your hip with his thumb, and your body gives way for him once again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pushes back in and continues fucking you exactly like you like it, “There we go, anyway you wouldn’t have answered me.”

“Could’ve – faster Kylo, you could’ve left a voicemail.” You hiccup, and he hates that you’re right.

He hates it as your body opens up for him, takes him, takes the fucking. You’re such a fucking princess you make him do all the work with a big smug grin on your face before he shifts his hips just right in a way that’s got your eyes rolled back into your head, mouth dropped open. He grabs your jaw again and makes out with you, wants his tongue on yours, wants your teeth scraping against his.

“Sure – fuck you, ugh fuck, I’m – ” Kylo can barely get the words out, kissing you and fucking you in the dark and quiet like this, while everyone enjoys the party just beyond the locked door of the open floor plan of cubicles.

“Me too,” You nod, desperate for him, wanting to come so badly that you twine your fingers into his hair and tug sharply, voice breathy and high and panting as you demand, “Kylo more – !”

He gives it to you, plows his cock into you so hard that he pushes the table askew, makes the chairs on their rolling wheels move all over the place from the effort of it. He bites down hard onto your neck and rubs your clit, rolls it between his fingers while his cock forces itself as deep as it can go, shallow thrusts to fill you up all the way, pushing right up against your cervix, making you yelp out your orgasm.

Feeling your cunt throb and gush for him, Kylo comes soon after, pumping himself in and out mindlessly, the both of you reveling in your pleasure. With a weak shaking hand, you tug down the sleeves of the bodice of your dress, let it fall away from your breasts. Like a moth to flame, Kylo is drawn to your cleavage, and he wastes no time pulling one of your tits out of the pretty lacy bra you’ve got on.

He sucks and kisses at your flesh as his cock pulses and spills more come into you, the both of you trying to catch your breath. He spares a glance up to you, pleased to see you’re fucked out nicely, eyes closed, lips parted and drooling just a little onto your cheek as you’ve got your face turned to one side. Kylo lets his eyes close too, mouths at your nipple until he’s sure he’s emptied himself inside of your wanting cunt.

Then, when he pulls you to sit upright on the table, instead of helping you with your clothes or even cleaning up the mess between your thighs, he stays buried inside of you and fishes his phone out from the inside of his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” You ask with a nosy frown, trying to lean around his big hand and see what he’s pulling up on his phone.

Kylo just kisses you quiet, dials the phone and puts it up to his ear while it rings.

“Calling the car to come pick us up and take us back to my place,” He murmurs against the corner of your mouth, before cracking the joints in his neck and grumbling, “Unless you’d rather mingle with a hundred boring nobodies like Mike instead.”

You just scrub a hand down your face with a smile, try to start fixing your hair back to something less mussed.

“I’m starving, can we pick up takeout on the way?” You stretch, wincing when Kylo finally does pull out of you, the feeling of being empty making you grimace just a bit.

He chuckles and kisses you again, lets your arms slip around his neck without any protest.

“Whatever you want.” Kylo kisses your cheek, diverting his attention to the phone call once his driver picks up.

Though the holidays had you at one another’s throats like rabid vicious dogs most days, Kylo wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Because for all the bitching and bickering, there were moments like these. Moments in the dark where you both let yourselves have what it was that you wanted.

And who knew, maybe the new year would bring about a whole new set of opportunities and possibilities, you’d just have to wait and see. One thing was for sure though, Kylo thinks as he helps you off the table and you both search for some tissues or something to wipe up the mess you’ve made, it certainly was a December to remember.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren/you #kylo ren smut #kylo ren fanfiction #adam driver fanfic #adcu #my writing #modern kylo ren #lawyer au #lawyer!kylo ren

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peaceoutofthepieces · 4 years ago

Text

Tracing Time

Saturday, 08:10

Song: Her - Five Minutes

The sun comes out.

It had risen hours ago with Sander, but also like him had then tucked itself away, making its ascent behind a flurry of dense clouds. Now Sander watches as the last wisps slither aside and reveal the full circle.

It hasn’t been up quite long enough to warm the concrete roof Sander sits on. He’d thought, rightly, to grab his jacket before slipping out around an hour prior, and he’s grateful for the tough leather now. He hadn’t bothered bringing his camera, so his hands are also safely tucked into his pockets. He doesn’t need any more photographs of this view than he already has.

He likes it fine like this. To just sit and see. He doesn’t need to capture it. To have it exist in this moment is enough.

Being so high up likely doesn’t help with the chill, but this is one of Sander’s favourite spots. He’d been pleased, the day one of his professors took their class to one of the older buildings in the academy and climbed the back stairs right to the top. They’d had to capture this scene that day. The sun glinting amidst the clouds, the clouds obscuring the tops of some of the area’s highest buildings, and all the life going on down below. Even now there are a few students milling around there, heading to their studios early or meeting fellow classmates, and interspersed is the honk of morning traffic, the hustle and bustle of a world just beginning to wake.

Sander is apart from all of it. The sun is slanting a ray solely for him; the beings below are tiny specks of colour splashed amidst the gray; the level of the world he’s entered is quiet, aside from the music lilting lightly in his ears.

He had been even more pleased that day to notice none of his fellow classmates had paid much attention to the roof itself, but simply focused on the task at hand. He had wondered how such a perfect place of solace wasn’t already constantly occupied, especially when it could be so easily accessed by a whole school of art students. He hadn’t thought he would be able to make it his own.

But sitting on the lip of the building, legs hung over the edge and arms resting on one of the lower bars stopping him from falling to his death, it does feel like the rooftop belongs to him and him alone. The thought is enough to bring a smile to his face.

He’s the only one seeing this right now, the only one capable of capturing this exact image at this exact time. It doesn’t—like many things do—make him feel as isolated or small as he expects. It reminds him that he has his own vision and his own mind and his own existence, and this must mean he is meant for something. This eagle-eye perspective of this universe in this exact moment is made just for him.

His smile widens as he ponders on how Robbe-like that thought is.

It’s this thought that eventually draws him away. He slides his legs back onto solid concrete and hauls himself to his feet, wincing at the twinge in his ass and brushing stone crumbs off the back of his jeans. Then he slips back through the doorway and down the stairs and begins the trek back to his number-one solace.

His feet cry out in relief as he quietly lets himself into the house and pulls off his Docs. They aren’t the best walking shoes. His feet feel achy and sweaty and he curls and rolls his toes on the wooden floor as he hangs his jacket back on his usual hook. Then he climbs another set of stairs.

He’s relieved to find Robbe exactly how he left him, only now lit in a more golden glow. The boy is curled on his side, facing the doorway Sander has just crept through, curls splayed on the pillow and mouth slightly agape. Fast asleep. Beautiful.

Sander tugs off his jumper and steps out of his jeans, then rounds the bed and crawls back in next to his boyfriend.

The sheets have chilled since he vacated them, unhelpful against his already-cold skin. He shifts towards the middle of the mattress and already feels warmer. The heat emanating from Robbe beckons him closer, and he doesn’t fight it, slipping right into the dip behind Robbe and sliding an arm over his waist, pulling the boy back against his chest. Robbe moves easily, snuggling back into Sander with a sigh, and Sander’s whole body blooms with heat.

As much as he likes his rooftop, there’s no doubt that this is his favourite place to be. ‘This’ being anywhere within Robbe’s orbit.

He doesn’t quite drift off again, but his body goes pleasantly lax and his mind quiets. The longer he listens to Robbe’s soft breaths the more his own heart eases.

Then Robbe starts to shift, and Sander worries he’s woken him. He wriggles in Sander’s arms and Sander loosens his grip, but Robbe simply rolls over in his embrace, turning to face him and immediately curling towards his chest. Sander’s lips turn up in a smile as he draws him in, pressing his nose to Robbe’s soft curls and inhaling slowly. Robbe’s arm curls over his waist, tucking around his back and denting his skin.

He traces patterns over Robbe’s bare shoulder in the few minutes it takes for Robbe to stir again. His grip tightens on Sander for a second as his eyes scrunch, refusing to succumb to the sunlight as he presses closer to Sander’s chest.

Sander presses a kiss to the top of his head as he lets out a tiny, whiny hum, still half-asleep as he stretches his toes against Sander’s ankles and blinks.

Robbe’s doe eyes, even while squinty and crusted with sleep, are the most mesmerizing things he’s ever seen. The corners of them crinkle as Robbe leans back far enough to smile up at him before burying his face back in the crook of Sander’s neck. “Morning,” he mumbles. Then he kisses the closest patch of Sander’s skin.

Sander hugs him tight and returns, “Morning. Sleep well?”

Robbe hums again. “Wha’ time is it?”

“I don’t know. Still before nine, I think.”

“Okay,” Robbe sighs, giving him a squeeze. “We still have some time then.” After a pause, he pulls away from Sander again and looks up at him curiously. “Did you go out? You’re cold.”

This last bit comes out as a whine, and Sander huffs. “Yeah. Just for a walk.”

Robbe hums, smiling as he snuggles back into him again, pushing Sander onto his back so he can sprawl out over his chest and lock their arms together. “Taking photos?”

“No. Didn’t take my camera or anything.”

“But you took your phone, right?”

“Of course, I needed music.”

Robbe huffs, but accepts this response without further questions, leaving a smiling kiss on Sander’s chest. He repeats the motion, then starts up a lazy trail, mapping his way across Sander’s collarbone until Sander tugs his hair. Robbe tilts his head up and lets Sander connect their lips, shifting up on the bed and pressing a hand to Sander’s cheek. Sander’s hand moves to cup the back of Robbe’s head, fingers tangling in his curls and drawing him closer. Robbe’s hand moves up his chest to settle in the crook of his neck and he feels suddenly warm.

He skims a hand down Robbe’s back, tracing the divots and dents of his spine, breathing slow under Robbe’s lazy kisses. He palms at Robbe’s hip, and Robbe quickly takes the hint, lifting his leg over Sander’s and settling atop him before letting out a happy hum.

“Good morning,” he says, amused and cheeky, and Sander bites his lip in retaliation.

Robbe giggles and Sander swallows the sound down, tucks it away in the lower part of his chest to be dug up later. He has made up a whole portfolio of these precious sounds, along with a plethora of the most stunning images and a sad imitation of Robbe’s touch. It’s hard to beat the real thing.

Sander soaks up as much of it as he can now and still begs for more, splaying one hand over shoulder-blades and letting the other slide down, curling over the curve of Robbe’s bottom, drawing him down while tilting his own hips up. Now Robbe’s hum is lower, coming from a more guttural place as he bears down on his own, only requiring that initial permission.

He breaks away to gaze down at Sander, tracing light fingertips over his face as he breathes heavily. Sander smooths his hand back up the line of Robbe’s back to tangle both in his hair. This time he makes his way along Robbe’s cheek, feathering kisses against the stubbly skin until he can brush his lips against the shell of Robbe’s ear and nip at the lobe, free of his earring for the moment. Robbe makes a small, mewling noise and tightens his grip on Sander’s shoulders.

“What time are you leaving?” Sander asks, keeping his voice at a murmur so as not to spoil the mood entirely.

“Jens is meeting me here around ten.”

Sander groans. “You can’t make that ten-thirty?”

Robbe huffs gently. He places his hands on Sander’s chest and pushes himself up to sitting, still astride Sander’s hips. Sander would be more upset with the new lack of contact if it didn’t give him such a nice view; Robbe is all clean-cut lines and lean muscle, with skin glowy and soft under Sander’s fingers. “Jens wanted to be gone yesterday,” Robbe reminds him, not unkindly.

“Why didn’t he just go with Lucas, then?”

“Because he agreed to wait around so I could spend the night with you.” Robbe raises his brows. At Sander’s permanent pout, he huffs again, shaking his head. “You can still come with, you know. We’re going to get a break before the end of school. Couldn’t you do with a break, too?”

Sander groans again and pulls Robbe’s pillow over his face. “I can’t,” he moans. “This project is due on Monday. Unless I stayed up all night tomorrow, I wouldn’t have time to finish it.”

Robbe hums. “You’re usually the one begging me to keep you up all night.”

Sander gives him a sour look, even as his stomach flutters.

“I’m sorry,” Robbe laughs. “I really am. But you know Lucas never asks for anything.”

“And you want to go.”

Robbe hesitates, but he never lies to Sander. He gives a tiny nod and an apologetic smile. “I do. And Jens really needs it.”

Sander considers him for a moment, the lovely curve of his lips and the gentle doe-eyes, and blows out a sigh. “You deserve it,” he says softly. He gives Robbe’s ear a tug and allows himself to smile. “And I suppose I’ll survive.”

It only takes Robbe’s grin to prove he’s done the right thing. Robbe leans down to leave him a kiss, light but lingering, and then turns it into a dozen different pecks instead. “You better. Thank you.”

Sander can only lie there and accept the onslaught of affection, laughing as he settles his hands on Robbe’s thighs and squeezes. He meant what he said—Robbe does deserve it. They hadn’t managed to get away over the break as initially planned, so when Lucas invited them back to Utrecht this weekend they had jumped on the offer. Sander had shared the excitement initially, but then had quickly been reminded of his reality, in which he had stupidly chosen to leave things to the last minute.

“I feel more sorry for you, anyway,” Sander mumbles, emitting a low whistle. “I’ll be alone, but at least I’ll have a quiet night.”

Robbe immediately pushes himself up again, wide-eyed. “No. We’re staying at Lucas’s house, with his mom. Surely they won’t…”

Sander snorts, waving at the space around them and raising a brow. “Where are we right now, Robbe?” At Robbe’s blush, he purses his lips together, making his own eyes big in suggestion. “It is a stress-relief getaway.”

Robbe buries his face in his hands and groans. He rolls off of Sander even as the elder protests, peeking through his hands to stare up at the ceiling. “I’m going to come home traumatised. It’ll be worse than the time I walked in on him and Jana.”

“Not if you don’t walk in on them,” Sander laughs. Seconds later, a pillow smacks him in the face. He makes a muffled protest as he’s attacked again, grabbing at the soft material and wrestling it out of Robbe’s grip to whack him back, hearing Robbe make an ‘oof’ sound before breaking out into giggles.

Eventually, Sander tosses the pillow aside and wrestles Robbe instead, getting him flat on his back and moving over him. He slots a leg between Robbe’s and presses their tangled hands down either side of Robbe’s head, and Robbe’s eyelids droop. Then his fingers flex around Sander’s as his lips part. His neck strains as his head tilts up. Sander ducks down, but forgoes Robbe’s lips to lick a stripe up his neck.

“Sander,” Robbe whines, squirming underneath him in protest even as he lets out a breathy laugh.

“What?”

“We haven’t got long.”

Sander hums, pulling the patch of skin he’d been kissing between his teeth to hear Robbe gasp. “We’d have longer if you were going to stay.”

“Sander,” Robbe repeats, this time in sullen protest.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sander soothes. “We still have enough time though, don’t we?”

“Did you hear my mom when you got back?”

“Nope. I assume she’s still sound asleep.”

Robbe smiles at that, pleased, and Sander finally grants him a kiss, slow and sensual until Robbe makes a needy little sound and squeezes his hands. Sander releases his hands and Robbe immediately tangles them in his hair, tugging at the strands.

“How many minutes do we have to make up for?” Sander asks him.

“Too many to waste time calculating now. We just have enough time to make sure you don’t forget me while I’m gone.” Robbe winks at him, and Sander huffs and goes in for another kiss, but Robbe is already moving. Sander half expects to be rolled over again, but instead Robbe just shimmies down, licking and biting his own way along Sander’s neck before heading lower.

Sander’s arms tremble with the effort of keeping himself up when Robbe’s lips close around his nipple. He draws his pillow over to bury his face in it as Robbe works a mark into his chest, rolling the opposite nipple under his thumb. Once he’s pleased with his work and Sander’s mumbling his name, he makes his way further south.

The following minutes are quite memorable indeed.

~^~

#wtfock #sobbe #rosander #robbe x sander #sander season #tracing time #there is already ✨foreshadowing✨ here #but I’ll be very surprised if anyone figures out what it is hahaha

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fyeah-bangtan7 · 3 years ago

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SUGA: “This is the only thing I know how to really do”

#bangtan #suga #m:weverse magazine #210731

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kiapet2 · 4 years ago

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The Heaviness We’ve Known

Patton had a lot of ideas for what he might do for his weekend by himself, but having his ex-husband’s son show up on his doorstep sure wasn’t one of them.

Pairings: Parental Moxiety, Divorced Moceit, Parental Anxceit

Word Count: 2016

Warnings: None

Crossposting this to Tumblr since there seems to be a good Sanders Sides fanfic community here.

AO3 Link

Patton had a lot of ideas for what he might do for his weekend by himself, but having his ex-husband’s son show up on his doorstep sure wasn’t one of them.

It was supposed to be a quiet night, just Patton and his empty house. It’s the twins’ week with Janus, which wouldn’t be so bad except that Logan is off at another one of his conferences. Patton knows they’re a great opportunity and all- especially considering the university usually pays for them- but do there really need to be so many?

But Patton should support his little brother’s career, so he told Logan it was fine, he’d just watch rom-coms and catch up on sleep. He’s settled in to do just that when he is interrupted by the hammering at his door.

“Hey,” Virgil says when the door opens, giving a lopsided smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can I come in?”

Patton blinks. “Oh, um, of course,” he says, and Virgil barely waits for the response before he’s stalking past Patton and into the house.

It seems like every time Patton sees Virgil the boy has shot up another few inches. His hair, purple this time, is half-hidden under a hoodie pulled up against the spring night’s chill, and as Patton watches he heaves a bulging backpack off one shoulder and onto the foyer floor.

“Virgil,” Patton says, “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing here? Janus never told me he was going to-”

“He didn’t bring me,” Virgil snaps, kicking his shoes off with more force than seems necessary. His socks are mismatched, as if put on in a hurry. “I came here myself.”

“You walked all the way here?” Patton says. “Virgil, that’s not safe.”

“I took a bus.” Virgil flops down onto the stairs. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m fine.”

Patton opens his mouth to argue, but a closer look at Virgil makes him hesitate. The boy is slumped against the wall, his hand rubbing up and down his arm as if trying to soothe himself. Virgil isn’t one to risk something like this for no reason- whatever happened, it must have seriously freaked him out.

Patton sinks down to the stairs next to him.

“Talk to me,” he says softly.

Virgil turns his face to the wall. “I just- I can’t stay there anymore, alright? I can’t. ”

“At home?”

Virgil nods.

Patton shifts so he’s kneeling in front of Virgil and places a hand on his knee.

“Virgil, could you look at me for a moment?”

Virgil nervously turns to face him, and Patton meets his eyes.

“I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me, alright?”

Virgil nods again, his eyes widening.

“Did your dad hurt you in any way?”

Virgil reels back in shock. “What? No!”

Patton feels his shoulders sag in relief, and he sits heavily back down on the stairs.

“Okay. That’s- that’s good.”

Virgil runs a hand through his hair.

“Look, it wasn’t anything like that. I just... we were arguing again and I couldn’t stand it anymore so I just packed up my things and- and left. And I’m not going back. I want to stay with you.”

His voice cracks at the last part, and for a moment Patton has a flash of the Virgil he first met all those years ago- a timid, gap-toothed little thing who had glared at Patton fiercely from behind his father’s leg. It had taken all of two seconds for the kiddo to lodge himself securely into Patton’s heart; the whole step-dad thing hadn’t seemed to matter, back then.

Then his marriage fell apart, and suddenly it mattered a whole heck of a lot.

“Kiddo...” Patton says, pained.

Virgil jumps to his feet. “Look, I won’t be, like, obnoxious or anything, all I really do is listen to music in my room anyways, and I know taking care of a kid is fu- is freaking expensive but I can get a job and I babysit the little terrors all the time so I can do that here and-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Patton says, knees creaking as he also stands, “None of that. I’d love to have you live here. But I’m not sure Janus would approve.”

Virgil scowls. “He can go choke for all I care. I’ll never know what the hell someone like you saw in that bastard. ” He spits the last word out, eyes flashing.

“Now kiddo,” Patton admonishes, “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but there’s no need to use that kind of language. He is still your father.”

Patton knows it’s the wrong thing to say when Virgil’s face shutters closed, shoulders hunching as he draws back into his hoodie.

“Whatever Dad, if I wanted a lecture I would’ve stayed home.”

Patton holds back a flinch at the mocking title. Virgil doesn’t mean it, he reminds himself. The kiddo’s just having a hard time right now, and Patton’s the nearest target.

He forces a smile onto his face. “Well, this is a cookie situation if ever I saw one. Gimme a sec.”

Patton goes into the kitchen and grabs his cookie tin, the one Virgil used to teasingly call his “old person box”. He brings the tin into the living room along with a jug of milk and some glasses, laying everything out on the coffee table.

A slight smile pulls at the corner of Virgil’s mouth as he runs a hand over the tin. “I didn’t know you still had this”.

“Of course!” Patton says seriously. “Cookies are a vital part of any household.”

He nudges the tin closer to Virgil, giving him a wink. “Go ahead, take as many as you want. I won’t tell on you.”

Patton keeps up a steady stream of idle chatter as he and Virgil drink milk and eat more cookies than is probably healthy. Finally Virgil lays the cookie he’s nibbling down and glares at it like it’s the source of all his problems.

“You’re going to tell my dad, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question.

Patton sighs. “I’ve got to, kiddo.”

He holds up a hand to forestall Virgil’s protest. “I know you’re not on good terms with him right now, but he’s still your legal guardian. Keeping you here without his okay is kidnapping, and I’d rather not lose our visits.”

Patton can see Virgil’s shoulders rising nearly to his ears, the boy retreating into himself despite all of Patton’s efforts to draw him out.

Patton smiles again in what he hopes is a comforting expression.

“I’ll just call and talk to him, alright? We’ll try to work something out.” And maybe Janus will be able to tell him what the heck is actually going on.

He reaches forward to pat Virgil’s shoulder, freezing and withdrawing when Virgil pulls away from the touch.

“Why don’t you finish your milk and cookies, alright? I’ll be quick.”

Patton carries his own glass back into the kitchen and then reluctantly pulls out his cell phone. The number isn’t in his contacts, but he still knows it by heart.

“Hello?” a familiar voice says after the first ring.

“I have something of yours,” Patton says.

Janus hums, nonchalant. “I take it Virgil arrived safely then?”

It’s been a while, but Patton still recognizes Janus emotionally deflecting when he hears it. He puts on his Dad Voice, perfected over years of dealing with the twins.

“What’s going on here, Janus?”

A sigh. “There’s been a... slight disagreement.”

Patton runs a hand down his face. “I take it he ran away? I can take him back, but first let me-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Janus says flatly.

“Please tell me you didn’t throw him out.”

“Of course not!” Janus hisses. “You of all people should know I would never.”

“Of course I do,” Patton says, “But what am I supposed to think here, Jan? Nothing about this situation looks good.”

Janus sighs again, heavier this time. “I’m aware.”

Patton waits as the line goes silent, Janus clearly thinking over his next words. Finally he says, smooth and matter-of-fact,

“Virgil has made it quite clear that I am a terrible excuse for a parent and living with you would be preferable to our current arrangement in every way.”

His voice takes on a bitter edge. “It must be comfortingly easy to idolize someone when you only see them at their best.”

Patton’s stomach drops. “Janus, I’m so sorry, I never meant to-”

“Oh, do be quiet.” Patton can almost hear Janus’ dismissive hand wave. “It’s hardly your fault he’s behaving like a naïve child.”

Patton winces at that.

“Nevertheless, while I absolutely adore Virgil’s current actions, he’s old enough to make the choice of guardians for himself. Of course, if you are unable or unwilling to provide for him I will pick him up immediately, but-”

A note of vulnerability creeps into his voice. “I think this might be what he needs, right now.”

Patton’s heart clenches.

“Of course,” he says softly. “He can stay as long as he wants.”

Janus lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

“Janus,” Patton says hesitantly, “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, and I know it’s not really my place, but, if you need someone to talk to...”

“That won’t be necessary,” Janus says, and it’s the sound of a wall slamming back into place. “Virgil should have an overnight bag with a change of clothes and his anxiety medication. I’ll bring over the rest of his things tomorrow.”

Patton closes his eyes against a familiar pain. “Alright. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“I guess you will.”

The silence stretches between them, raw and gaping.

Then, so quiet Patton almost thinks he imagined it: “Take care of him?”

Patton smiles sadly. “With everything I have.”

“Thank you, Patton.”

The line goes dead.

Patton leans his head against the wall for a moment and lets himself breathe. He turns when he hears Virgil’s footsteps, hastily scrubbing at his eyes and putting on a bright smile.

“Looks like you’ll be living here for a bit, kiddo! You can stay in Logan’s room for now.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy about that,” Virgil quips, smiling slightly as he tries and fails to feign cool nonchalance. He looks so much like his father that Patton nearly bursts into tears again.

He winks instead. “That’s what he gets for going off sailing!”

Virgil raises one eyebrow. “Sailing?”

Patton grins. “You know, since he has that scholar-ship!”

Virgil’s smile comes out completely and he quickly covers it with one hand, only managing to make himself look more adorable in the process.

“Guess I’ll move my stuff up, then,” he says, grabbing his bag and dashing up the stairs.

“Don’t touch the chemistry sets!” Patton calls after him.

This could be good for both of them, Patton thinks, smiling as he hears Virgil rummaging above. The house has seemed so much emptier since his baby brother went and grew up on him- not that Logan hasn’t always acted like someone ten years Patton’s senior, he thinks fondly. And of course, any time he gets to spend with Virgil is a blessing.

Virgil’s footsteps are slower coming down the stairs, and they come to a halt as he reaches the bottom and nervously meets Patton’s gaze.

“So... what happens now?”

“What happens now is that I’m ordering pizza and then we’re watching a movie,” Patton says, holding up his phone. “What toppings do you want?”

Virgil’s nervous expression resolves into a smirk. “Hawaiian.”

“Heresy, from my own stepson!” Patton gasps, letting a hand fly to his breast.

Virgil snickers, and this time he doesn’t pull away when Patton closes the distance between them and draws him into a hug. He’s so much taller than Patton remembers, but despite everything he's still Patton’s little boy.

“It’s gonna be alright, kiddo,” Patton whispers. “I’m here for you.”

Virgil’s arms tighten around him.

“I know, Dad. I know.”

#sanders sides #patton sanders #ts patton #virgil sanders #ts virgil #janus sanders #ts janus #parental moxiety #moceit #parental anxceit #sanders sides fic #fanfiction #my writing

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