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steviewashere · 7 months ago

Note

#50 just make it hurt/comfort and really angsty and sad (I’m clearly in a sad mood asking this rn 😅)

First of all, I hope you're doing better! And hopefully this suffices the ask. I got a lil' crazy with it, wrote way more than a drabble (again), but who cares?

50: Writer's preference, I chose prompts 33: "Please don't do this." and 12: "I think we need to talk."

Tags: Post Canon, Post Season 4, Established Relationship, Steve Harrington has Nightmares, Steve Harrington has PTSD, Steve Harrington is a Mess, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, (And Gets One!), Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Arguments, Making Up, Mild Vomiting (Like One and Done), Miscommunication

————— Eddie notices a lot about Steve. Which makes sense, they’re dating, that’s supposed to make sense. But sometimes he wishes that he didn’t have to notice. That he didn’t have to hide his glances because he could spot Steve’s heavy eye bags, or the way his shoulders have been slumping, or how high strung and tight and angry he’s becoming.

The first time he sees a change in Steve’s demeanor, they’re hanging out with all their other survived friends. In his backyard. By the pool. Except, that’s not quite right. Everybody except Steve and Nancy are hanging out at the pool. They’re on opposite sides of the yard, surveying, keeping close eyes on everyone as they move and speak and laugh. At some point, though, Nancy decides she’s had enough waiting. She leaves her post, hesitantly sits next to Robin on the edge of Steve’s pool, and lets her feet soak in the water. Her smile comes easy and her eyes grow soft, and that’s when Eddie knows she’ll be okay. But he keeps his eyes on Steve.

Sure, he should be enjoying himself. Which he is, slightly. Standing in the shallow end, leaned up against the pool wall, just letting the water kiss his scarred skin. He’s sipping on a chilled beer. Talking languidly with Dustin and Lucas and Jonathan about music and games and hobbies. Then, Dustin leaves him. Leaves the water. Strides over to Steve, face set with determination, and a pep in his step. Eddie goes quiet in the conversation, looking over his shoulder instead to where Steve is tucked near his back door. Where he’s not drinking his beer, still sealed and dripping condensation onto Steve’s bare thigh.

Dustin asks him something. Steve shakes his head. He tries offering something else, gesturing loosely with his hand at the pool and the small group that he just came from, but Steve is adamant on his decision. But of course, Dustin never takes no as an answer. He pushes. Which leads to Steve roaring: “Dustin, fuck off!”

Everybody falls silent at that. Eyes on him. Steve bristles, chucks his closed beer to the wooden porch, and disappears into his house with a slam of the door. The beer is fizzing, exploded. And then Dustin starts crying.

That’s the first time Eddie notices a change.

The next time, it’s somewhat subtle. Steve spacey at work, quiet as he shelves tapes, not even talking with Robin. He tries speaking with Steve, but only gets some non-committal grunts instead.

His last straw is an argument they’re having. Currently.

Steve’s tired, bitchier than usual, tense in his shoulders and wild-eyed. Eddie tries to stay soft, give himself a chance to remain calm and keep in mind that Steve’s going through something. But that doesn’t even begin to deter the argument.

“Listen, I think it would be good for…us—“ You, Eddie doesn’t say. “—if you let me help you out,” he’s trying to persuade. He’s standing in Steve’s kitchen. Gesturing at the pile of dishes in the sink and on the counter. Pointing out how the garbage has overflowed. And how he knows laundry hasn’t been done lately. He’s trying to be polite about it. “It’ll be like when I first got out of the hospital, okay? You just rest up and I clean up a little bit, make you something that you want to eat, and we can cuddle and watch a movie.”

However, he knows he’s hitting a brick wall over and over. None of his words are making their way through. The softness is leaking from his throat, drying him out, making him want to puke. Steve huffs through his nose. Face red, eyebrows furrowed so hard that his eyes are nearly closed with it, nose flared, and mouth downturned so extreme he nearly looks like Beaker from The Muppets. “I don’t want your help, Eddie!” Steve shouts from his spot at the dining table. He wouldn’t let Eddie come any closer. “I’m not some child, you know that?! I’m fine, I can do this on my own, and I certainly don’t need somebody like you telling me what needs to happen!”

All at once, the gentle care nukes in Eddie’s chest. Replaced instead by a hazardous anger, red hot and corroding. “What do you mean by that?” He asks bitterly. Voice flat, devoid. “Thought we were over biases, Steve,” he spits.

Steve blubbers like an out of water goldfish. “I—That—You know what I mean, Eddie. Not like—It’s just—“ he flounders. His eyes trail down towards the watch on his wrist. They grow wet, but not the tears that come from sadness. These are tears of agitation. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says wetly; the first thing that fell from his mouth when Eddie began to bring everything up. “Everything’s perfectly fine. Just got behind in house chores, which is whatever, you know? Like—“ He chuckles darkly, a self-deprecating thing, something painfully normal. “—Who the fuck actually cares about how messy everything is, right? Just leave it alone. Let’s…Let’s go cuddle,” Steve says hastily. He clambers up and out of his seat, around the table, and into the kitchen. Wrapping himself tightly around Eddie, cheek pressed to his chest, trying to pull them into the living room.

But Eddie doesn’t wrap back. He steps away. Putting distance between them. “I don’t want to do that with you right now, Steve,” he mutters. “That fucking hurt. What you said. I don’t really feel comfortable being here right now. Forget that I brought this up, okay?” He steps around Steve, who stands stunned and heartbroken in his own kitchen. Eddie’s in the doorway before Steve has the chance to reach out and touch him again. “I—I think we need to talk. But I can’t do it right now. I can’t…Why would you say that? Jesus, Steve.” And yeah, he had different intentions when coming over here. Wanted to soothe whatever was going on. Figure out how he could help. If he could help. In fact, he would’ve been fine with Steve pushing him off again, insisting on a topic change. He would’ve let it happen. But not now.

He makes sure the hurt is shown on his face before he leaves. Before he has a chance to rub his eyes and sniffle. And ignores how Steve calls out to him. He needs to calm down before he says something he might regret, something that would hurt worse than what Steve said to him.

They don’t cross paths often after that. Sometimes Eddie sees him at Family Video, but not for very long. In just to rent a tape and get out, hurt simmering unrestful in his ribcage. He can spot Steve out of the corner of his eye, reaching out, stepping in place, mouth opening and closing. But he ignores what he has to say.

Sees Steve when he drops off people for Dungeons & Dragons nights at the Wheeler’s house. But he scurries off before anything can happen. Other people start to take notice and Eddie has to shoot a warning glance with a gritted, “It’s private. I don’t want to tell you.”

Today, though, he notices Steve dropping something off at Max’s. She takes the offered thing from his grip, shuts the door softly at his back, and then Eddie finds Steve’s eyes. Hard not to notice him when he lives only a short distance away from Max’s place, but what greets him makes his stomach knot. Steve is unwell. Pale and jumpy, eyes bloodshot, his eye bags heavy and dark circles so purple—he almost looks bruised. His hands are shaking, clothes are rumpled, and his hair is…greasy, flat, knotted. Eddie puts out the cigarette he’d been smoking and walks calmly and quietly down his steps. Crossing to Steve’s bumper.

“Hey, baby,” he greets softly.

Steve startles anyway. Turning with his hand gripping tight to his door handle. Tugging on it, though it must be locked. His eyes are wide and devastating. Wet, exhausted, puffy and swollen. They’re red raw. Like he’s been crying. And rubbing at them, too. At a closer look, Steve’s cheeks are blank of any color at all, slightly gaunt. His lips are chewed to all hell. And his facial hair is wiry, outgrown. Unkempt.

“Baby,” Eddie murmurs, stepping closer. He places a firm hand to Steve’s left bicep, squeezing ever so gently. Runs his thumb over the taut muscle. “Can we talk inside? Let me make you a cup of tea and get you something to eat?”

He doesn’t say anything, but does release his hold on the car handle. Follows slowly to the door, but doesn’t come close to the couch where Eddie gestures to.

“You can sit on the—“

“Please don’t do this,” Steve sobs.

Immediately, Eddie comes closer into his space. Hands splayed in front of him, ready to reach out and touch and hold, but isn’t sure if that’s allowed. “What? What shouldn’t I do, Steve?” He questions. His voice quivers with concern.

“Don’t leave me, Eds,” Steve cries, rattling and shaking with it. His chest stutters. Hiccups in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry—I’m so—I didn’t mean it, I was just upset and I know that’s not okay, but I—“ Steve gags harshly, doubling over with it. Eddie rushes behind him, grabs for the waste bin, and sets it out in front of him. “—I was being an asshole and I’m sorry and I’m sorry that I hurt you and that you thought I thought bad about you, but I didn’t, I didn’t, I don’t, Eds—“ Eddie can’t even understand the rest of what he’s babbling, it’s incoherent, strung tight with snot and saliva and tears, but it renders too much. Steve finally reaches out for the trash can, hurls harshly, and drops to his knees with his grip still on the can’s lip.

Eddie crouches beside him. Hand on his back, on his forehead. Holding to him firmly, ignoring how sweaty and cold he is at once. A part of him withers at how he made things worse. It wasn’t his intention, to make Steve worry this bad, but he definitely instilled that fear. And now he needs to just glue back together what he cracked.

When Steve is able to calm down, collapsing heavily against Eddie, does he speak softly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I guess we both used our words wrong. I’m just so worried about you, I swear. This isn’t—I would never lead you on about a break up. And that’s not what this conversation is, I promise, Stevie.”

Steve sniffles noisily. He koalas himself around Eddie, burrowing his face into Eddie’s chest. He’s still shivering, sweaty, and weak. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“I forgive you, Steve.” He holds to Steve tightly. Crushing him in closer, not caring how it makes his back ache or his knees scuff the floor. Doesn’t care about how Steve’s tears soak through his shirt or the sure mess of snot left behind. He squeezes Steve’s back and states softly, “I’m just so upset that you think you have to be fine. That you can’t ask for help. That you have to deal with everything on your own.”

“I—“

“Please just talk to me, Steve. What’s going on? I just don’t understand where you’ve gone, you know? You’re so tired and angry and tense all the time. You don’t want to talk to anybody. You keep pushing us away, closing yourself off. But then you don’t take care of yourself,” Eddie rambles, his voice growing weak and choked. “I’m sorry that I—I don’t know how to talk about this without sounding like an asshole. I’m just worried. Worried that…That something’s terribly wrong.”

The implication of Vecna is not lost between them, if the way Steve tenses says anything.

Carefully, Steve pulls himself away. Staring wide and timid at Eddie. Before he breaks with another cry of, “Everybody keeps dying, Eds. The nightmares. They keep—I can’t sleep. I see it everywhere.”

“What do you see?” Eddie asks, voice shaking. Please don’t say that clock. Please don’t say the clock, Steve. Please, he internally pleads.

“Death,” Steve whispers. “Everywhere. In everybody. I see…Nancy drowning and Robin beaten and Max broken. I see you covered in blood with chunks of you missing and you don’t look at me, you just look over my shoulder and you’re gone by the time I find you. I just see it. I can’t—I can’t stop seeing it, Eddie.” He curls his hands tight into Eddie’s shirt, nearly ripping it off of his back. “And I’m always alone,” he hiccups. “Alone when I wake up. And so I leave, I drive around, I wait to see if anything bad happens. But I can’t sleep.”

Eddie brings a hand and swipes back at Steve’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead. He leans in and leaves a gentle, sticky kiss to the skin. Pulling back, he offers, “When you’re ready for bed, you find me. Call me so that I can come over. Or tell me to come get you.” He cups Steve’s face, holding him between his hands. His cheeks that are splotchy red, tacky with tears. Eyes hazel and shiny and slightly defeated, yet hopeful. Eddie tickles his thumb over the bridge of Steve’s nose, his cupid’s bow, between his eyebrows. “Stevie, baby, I never want you to think you’re alone again. Ever. Seeing you so distraught all the time was killing me, but I’m here to help. You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders.”

“But…I’m supposed to be able to take care of myself, Eds,” Steve argues quietly.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Eddie states. “You’re not supposed to be alone, not all the time. And if laying with you until you fall asleep safely, or showing you how fine everybody is, making you a sandwich or doing the dishes—Whatever, whatever helps you out, I’m willing.” He presses another soft kiss to Steve’s lips, the tip of his nose, on his forehead. Murmuring, “You helped me. It’s my turn, don’t you think? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Steve shrugs. “Am I supposed to just sit around?”

“You don’t have to, but you could relax. Watch a movie or do something that’s not exhausting,” Eddie explains. “Being independent, you know, doesn’t mean exerting yourself at every possible moment. Or ignoring things that bother you. Or hiding your hurt. It means seeking help, even if you do it on your own. It means sticking up for yourself, even if what’s hurting you is you.”

Against Eddie’s palms, Steve sighs through his nose. “Okay,” he mutters. “Can…Can we take a nap? I’m really tired,” Steve tentatively asks.

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll find my soft pajamas for you, too.” He stands, offering out his hands for Steve. Tugs him up. And when they’re at eye level, “Steve?” Eyes on him, zeroed in and focused. “I want you to bother me. Be a nuisance. Take up space.”

“Are you sure?” Steve murmurs. “I can be a lot.”

“Loving you means loving all of you, sweetheart. Even the excess parts. Which, by the way, aren’t excess. Because I love taking care of you, despite what your brain is surely telling you,” Eddie says. “Come on, I’ll take care of that can while you lay down.”

He’s glad he noticed. But he’s happier at the sound of Steve’s soft snores, puffed over his bare neck, and the drool that will surely dry on his collarbone.

——— Drabble Prompts Ask Game

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #my asks

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wooataes · 1 year ago

Text

Real Eyes, Fake Lies (Part Four)

Pairing: soulmate!Lee Jihoon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Warnings: Angst, Hanahaki!AU, swearing, self doubt, tears, sweet older brother vibes Jeonghan, (yes that is a warning), Mingyu being a brat (yes that also is a warning)

Summary: What do you do when you find out the one person that was created by the universe to be yours doesn’t want you back?

A/N: I’m back with another update! This took me 3 hours in one sitting while I sit here and wait for the Ima-Even If the World Ends Tomorrow MV to come out! Let me know what you think! 🫶🏼🩷🌸

- Tae 🥰🩷✨

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It takes another hour or so for the rest of the guests to arrive, in which the entire time you’ve spent locked away in your bedroom. You’re devastated. You’re the only one down there besides Junhui and Chan who is single. Unlike them, though, you have found your soulmate. You know who he is. He just doesn’t want you back. In short, it fucking sucks. You know you’ll get over it eventually, but for this little moment in time, you want to grieve the life you won’t get. The soft smiles and longing gazes, the spontaneous dates and the sleepless nights wrapped in each other's arms. You hate that you built up such a perfect little fantasy in your head; you hate that years of preparation came crumbling down in one fifteen second interaction. You’re beginning to hate soulmates and love, and everything that comes with it as you blink away more tears that are brimming behind your eyelids.

Of course, Jihoon can feel what is happening. His Poker Face is good, none of the boys downstairs think anything is amiss as he lets himself listen to the conversation of the others, a somewhat content smile on his face. To Jihoon, it feels like he’s constantly grimacing, but no one else seems to notice or if they do, don’t care. He watches as Seungcheol and Seokmin place 5 boxes of pizza on the little coffee table near the slumber party set up alongside some homemade dishes, only for Soonyoung to excitedly grab one whole pizza box for himself, solely for the fact that ‘the birthday boy gets everything he wants on his birthday!’ The TV has been set up with a Marvel film that the birthday boy has chosen himself, smiling happily as everyone settles in with their paper plates and drinks, letting the all too familiar red logo fill the TV screen.

If he’s honest, he can’t focus on the movie. All he could think about was the look of hurt on your face and the betrayal that you felt. He knew he had no right to feel worried or concerned for you, he knows that. He was the main cause of your pain, after all. But Jihoon isn’t a monster. He has some form of compassion and sympathy within him, if he feels your sadness and pain 24/7, of course he’s going to worry about you. It’s only natural. (Or it’s the invisible soulmate bond that is forming between you both. Jihoon refuses to believe that.)

He can hear hushed voices coming from your brother and his soulmate in the dining area as the film plays in the background, and Jihoon can’t help but glance over to hear the tail end of the conversation.

“Trust me,” Jeonghan is smiling reassuringly at your brother, kissing his cheek. Jihoon blushes. No matter how many times he sees it, PDA is a bit daunting for him. “I’ll get her down here.”

“How are you so sure?” Seungcheol frowns, hand on his hip.

“I have my ways.” Jeonghan gleams, pushing him towards an empty spot on the couch. “Just go and relax, darling. I will be back with my little Lady Bug in tow.” Seungcheol concedes with a grumble and a pout before his soulmate gives him one final peck on the lips before making his way up the stairs.

Jihoon’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the nickname. Isn’t it Love Bug?

You’re startled by the sound of Jeonghan opening your bedroom door and strolling inside, giving you a smile.

“Please, do come in.” You mumble dryly, leaning back against your bed frame and staring blankly back up at the ceiling.

“Lady Bug..” the unwelcome guest sighs, sitting down at the foot of your bed. “You can’t hide up here forever. It’s Hoshingie’s birthday, he wants to spend his day with the people he loves.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t want to have someone who dampens the whole party down there.” Your lip quivers before you press the heels of your hands into your eyes to stop the tears from coming.

“I love you, Bug, but frankly I think you’re wrong.” Jeonghan’s hand rests on your shin, but you don’t look at him. You know if you take one look at the worried man, you’d fall apart again. “It doesn’t matter what mood you’re in, little one, all that matters is that you, someone Soonyoung loves with his whole heart, is there to celebrate with him.”

You hiccup, and Jeonghan sighs. He scoops you up and pulls you into his lap, letting his hands comb through your hair. You let your head rest against his shoulder, but keep your hands close to your chest as you sniffle.

“Why don’t they want me, Hannie?” You whimper, and Jeonghan’s heart breaks, only pulling you closer. “What’s wrong with me? What did I do wrong?”

“Sweetie, you didn’t do anything wrong.” He reassures you.

“Clearly I did, or else h-he wouldn’t have flat out rejected me.”

He. Your soulmate is a boy. Jeonghan pauses only for a moment before resuming his comfort.

“It is not your fault that you got rejected, Bug.” Jeonghan’s voice is firm. “If your soulmate can’t see you for the amazing, beautiful girl you are, then he is an idiot and it’s his loss.” He rests his cheek on top of your head delicately as you frown.

“I’m not either of those things.”

“EXCUSE ME?!” The volume of his voice startles you, and you pull back quickly. “No, Choi Y/N. Don’t you ever amount your worth to how someone else perceives you. Have I taught you nothing, silly Bug?” He pulls you up to your feet. “I thought I raised you with your brother to be confident with who you are, and not to let someone else define you. Because at the end of the day, only you can define who you are. Do you understand me, young Lady Bug?”

Your eyes are wide, the last few tears escaping your eyes as he reaches out and cups your cheeks, wiping them away.

“Sorry, Hannie…” You whisper, lowering your head as Jeonghan sighs and pulls you into his arms once again.

“You can make it up to me by coming with me. I have wanted to do something with you ever since I met you all those years ago,” you laugh to yourself - it really wasn’t that long ago. “I promised myself I would do this as soon as you could see colours, and I’m going to do it.”

“Right now?” You frown, and Jeonghan nods his head quickly.

“Yes. What do I have to do to get you out of here and downstairs?” He asks in an exasperated tone. After a brief pause and smirk from you, he balks. “Oh no.”

“Yah! Is everything okay up there?!” Seungcheol yells out at the sound of a shout from Jeonghan, looking over the back of the couch to try and peer up the staircase.

“You won’t see them from there, hyung.” Seokmin doesn’t even glance in his direction, eyes focused on the TV as he speaks.

“Oh yeah, and how would you know?” He sasses back, eyebrow raised.

“The amount of things Minnie and I have done down here without being noticed while you and Hannie-hyung have been upstairs is unspeakable.” Soonyoung smirks.

Jihoon’s eyes widen at his best friend’s revelation, a laugh escaping his body as he watches his friend’s reactions.

“BABE!” Seokmin squeals, ears turning bright red as he sinks under the blanket.

“YAH!!! TOO MUCH INFORMATION!” Mingyu squeals, throwing a pillow at a now laughing Soonyoung as Wonwoo laughs loudly with him.

“My virgin ears!” Chan howls, falling dramatically against Junhui, whose mouth is hanging open in shock.

“I promise you, Sollie, they’re not always like this.” Seungkwan is whispering loudly to the newest edition of the group, who just gives an amused grin in response.

“… I don’t even want to know.” Seungcheol mutters dryly after a long bout of silence, eyes still on the staircase.

“Staring won’t make them come down any faster, you know, Hyung.” Chan speaks up again.

“I still feel bad.” Seungkwan sighs, leaning his head on Hansol’s shoulder. “If it wasn’t for me, she would have been down here having fun with the rest of us.”

“Don’t feel bad, Kwan-ah.” Soonyoung smiles, patting his shoulder. “To be honest, I think she’d be more hurt if you didn’t tell her. Trust me.”

Seungkwan is about to respond when the soft click of your bedroom door can be heard. Jihoon, along with the others, glance toward the staircase as you make your way down. You have an amused smirk on your face, and Jihoon feels uneasy. What is that look for?

His questions are soon answered when a giggle erupts from Mingyu. Jeonghan trails downstairs behind you with a grouchy look on his face, his long dark hair now pulled back into two pretty braids tied with pink elastics. Jihoon covers his mouth to hide a laugh, watching you proudly gesture towards Jeonghan.

“Wow, babe,” Seungcheol grins. “You look so pretty!”

“Shut up, you.” Jeonghan huffs, glaring at all the people who laughed. “It was the only way she would come down, so you’re welcome.” When you’re not looking, Jihoon notices Jeonghan looking at the amused look on your face, letting the playful glare fade into a fond smile, winking at Seungcheol, mouthing. “I told you I could get her down.”

“You did this all for my birthday?!” Soonyoung, always the drama queen, grins excitedly. “Oh, Y/N, you shouldn’t have!” He giggles loudly, jumping up and before you can react, he scoops you up and spins you around, making you scream.

“Yah! Put me down, you heathen!” You swat at his arms.

“NEVER!” He bellows, starting to move towards the couches before Jeonghan grabs a hold of your arm, effectively stealing you from Soonyoung’s gasp.

“Nuh-uh! She promised me she would do this with me first.” He places you at the dining table, pulling out a small box from underneath the table. “Once she’s finished here, she can join you for the movie night.”

“I’m sorry, who’s birthday is it again?” Soonyoung huffs, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his arms.

“I’ll be there soon, Soonie. Promise.” You call out. Soonyoung seems pleased by your response as he settles back in again, cuddling up to his soulmate’s side. Jihoon can see it in his best friend’s face, he’s just happy you’re down here at all.

He glances over to your brother, who instead of watching the movie, is watching his soulmate take out nail polishes and taking one of your hands. He has a fond smile on his face, watching the confused look on your face as you stare at Jeonghan.

“My nails? Why would you want to do my nails?” You ask quietly, and Jihoon can’t help but think you look cute as you tilt your head.

“I’ve always dreamed about doing this.” Jeonghan explains, starting to coat your thumb nail with a light red. “Teaching you all about colours and making it fun like this.” You watch with wide eyes as he begins to paint each nail a different colour delicately and with precision.

“But.. why me?” You frown, and Jihoon frowns with you. Did he really hurt you so far to think you didn’t deserve something as small as this?

“I taught my little sister Soobin about colours when she found her soulmate the same way. I don’t see her much now, since she moved to Jeju with him. When I found Cheol and met you, I knew that as soon as I saw you, you were meant to be my second little sister. My little Lady Bug.” You’re blinking away tears now, biting down on your lip. “Do you know why I call you Lady Bug?”

“No..” you mumble, eyes staying on the way Jeonghan paints your nails.

“You’ve always been called Love Bug. Everyone around us calls you that, right?” You nod quietly. “I couldn’t use the same nickname as everyone else. I needed it to be unique. Something that symbolizes us. My little young lady. My little Lady Bug.” He beams proudly. “Only I can call you that. I need you just as much as I need Cheol. You know that, right?” He asks softly, smiling gently as you weakly nod your head. “Promise?”

“Yeah.” You use your wrist to wipe at the fresh tear that slipped down your cheek, and Jeonghan grins at you.

“We have a little bond that no one can take from us. Sure, your brother is my soulmate, but you’re my bonus sister. I think that’s just as special.”

He starts on the second coat over your nails as you just stare at him in wonder, a small sparkle of hope running through your veins. At least someone loves and cares for you on this stupid planet.

Jihoon spots Seungcheol reach up and wipe a quick tear away from his eye, staring at the scene unfolding in front of him. Both your and Jeonghan’s soulmates are the only ones not watching the film in front of them. Instead, they’re watching you both together, too enamored to look away.

“There. What do you think?” Jeonghan smiles at you as you look at your hands. Your nails have been painted to make a pretty pastel rainbow on your fingers, and your cheeks start to lift as you, for most likely the first time since you met your soulmate, smile a genuine smile.

“Look.” Seokmin whispers to Soonyoung as everyone glances at you, smiling and staring at your hands. Soonyoung gasping softly as he looks excitedly at Seokmin.

“What’s happened..?” Hansol asks quietly at your closest friends all tearing up at one silly little smile.

“It’s just,” Seungkwan smiles softly. “This is the first time she has smiled since everything happened.”

Jihoon watches you, and it almost seems like the room started to glow brighter as your smile filled the room. His cheeks flush pink before he quickly turns his head back to the TV.

No, Jihoon. You need to be better. Ji-ah is your girlfriend, not Y/N. Get it together.

“I love them. Thank you, Hannie-Oppa.” You smile, giving him a quick hug.

“I’ve missed that smile.” Seungcheol grins after you, reaching down and ruffling your hair.

“Yah, leave me alone.” You huff, smacking his arm as you’re all but dragged by Soonyoung to the mattress on the floor, directly at the feet of Seokmin, and Jihoon who is seated beside him. You share the mattress with Chan and Junhui, all the others having made camp on the couches above you.

“Finally!” Soonyoung grins, leaning down and planting an annoyingly loud kiss on your cheek, laughing at how you shove him off. “Now we can start the movie night properly!”

“Thank you, babe.” Seungcheol smiles as Jeonghan settles beside him, leaning his head against his chest.

“Anything for you and my Lady Bug.” Jeonghan simply replies, a content smile on his face as he watches you pull the blanket up over your body.

Jihoon does his best to keep his eyes off you, but finds himself absentmindedly glancing at you on occasion. Each time, you’re staring at your freshly painted rainbow nails, a soft content smile on your lips. He smiles softly to himself in unison, before letting his focus go back to the movie.

As the film starts reaching its climax, Wonwoo finds himself chuckling at how invested his soulmate is in the plot, an amused smirk tracing his lips.

“You enjoying the movie, baby?” He chuckles as Mingyu nods excitedly.

“Mhm!” He chirps happily, snuggled up against his side.

“But you’ve seen it like 3 times already.”

Mingyu gasps, stopping and turning to Wonwoo. “And I’m not allowed to still love it?!”

“Well you can, but you already know what’s going to-”

“How dare you?!” He wails, pushing him playfully. “Are you… making fun of me, hyung?!” He pouts as Wonwoo only grins with amusement at his soulmate’s outburst. “You ARE!” He points his finger at him.

“Aww, baby…” Wonwoo pouts playfully, a teasing glint in his eye.

“AIGOO!” He whines. “Y/N! My soulmate is being… MEAN TO ME!” He howls and fake sobs, crawling onto the mattress, pushing his overgrown body into your lap.

Jihoon feels your heart begin to race, your body locking up as Mingyu makes himself comfortable in your lap, crying loudly and dramatically as he hugs you tight.

“Oh, Gyu,” You play along, gingerly reaching up and patting his hair almost robotically. “There, there.”

Your soulmate eyes you from the couch, observing as you look worriedly at Wonwoo, who simply gives you a wink, giving you permission. He knows you’re not going to try and take his soulmate away. He’s known you for years, and quite frankly, you’re not the type of person who would do that. Instead Wonwoo simply nods his head at you. “Give the baby his bottle.”

“A BABY?!” He cries out again, making a giggle come out of you as you relax a tiny bit, patting at Mingyu’s hair.

“You are a Baby.” You laugh as he starts grumbling, staying curled up in your lap, Jihoon feeling you crumble bit by bit as you comfort the overgrown puppy in your arms.

Jihoon keeps his eye on Mingyu unconsciously, his glare evident as he intensely watches and keeps his emotions intact to try and get a reading of what you’re feeling.

As the movie wraps up 20 minutes later, a huffy Mingyu, at your insistence, begrudgingly climbs out of your arms back to his soulmate, pout on display as Jihoon feels a little relief run through him.

“I’m sorry for being a brat.” Mingyu flutters his eyes at Wonwoo, who just grins and opens his arms for him.

“I was just teasing.” He chuckles as Mingyu settles into his arms once more with a kiss on his forehead. Wonwoo glances at you, giving you a little smile of appreciation, in which you nod in response.

“Okay, next movie!” Soonyoung cheers as he queues the next film to begin, a smirk on his face as your eyes light up.

“Howl’s!” You squeal happily as the familiar anime - Howl’s Moving Castle - begins.

“In TECHNICOLOUR!” Seokmin booms dramatically as you laugh loudly, the sound pleasing to Jihoon’s ears. You settle in comfortably, leaning back against the bottom of the couch. Your excitement stirs in Jihoon, and he finds himself thinking he could get used to that feeling. He lets a little smile form on his face as the film plays.

“Howl is beautiful, don’t get me wrong,” you yawn, rubbing at your eyes. “But Turnip Head is just a perfect character.”

The movie had been playing for about 40 minutes now, the party growing a bit quieter as tiredness settles in on every one.

“Oh yeah, well why doesn’t Sophie pick him at the end then?” Junhui questions you. “She is his true love, she broke the spell! Why didn’t she get with him?”

Jihoon tenses at this question. He finds the character Turnip Head to be all too familiar; the way he constantly goes out of his way to follow Sophie to keep her safe, all for it to amount to nothing at the end; her choosing Howl over him. He eyes you worriedly, waiting with bated breath for your answer.

“Well it’s not Sophie’s fault, nor is it Turnip Head’s.” You hum. “I suppose, the heart wants what it wants. You can’t change that.” You’re a bit quieter now, curling up and hugging your knees to your chest. “I mean.. Calcifer did let Sophie into Howl’s heart. Figuratively and literally.”

Your words start drowning out in Jihoon’s ears as his mind begins to consume him once again. Goddamn it, you’re too good and too likable. How the fuck can you be so understanding and so… so good? You should loathe him, be kicking and screaming at him and turning the whole world against him for what he did to you. Instead you sit there, you let him walk all over you and apologize when he has to even interact with you. Jihoon feels like shit, for treating you like shit. You’re one of the most forgiving and understanding people ever, and he doesn’t know how to take it.

He doesn’t know how long he has been sitting still on the couch stewing in his thoughts before he feels something soft against his knee, snapping him back to reality. He blinks before his cheeks flush a deep pink as he realizes what has happened. You, despite trying your hardest to stay awake, unwillingly let sleep take over you, your head drooping and landing softly on Jihoon’s knee.

“Sorry, Jihoon-ah.” Seungcheol whispers to your soulmate. “I’ll move her-”

“No, hyung.” Jihoon replies quickly. “U-uh.. it’s okay, really. She must’ve been exhausted from today. It’s no harm.”

“Are you sure?” He asks again, and he nods quickly.

“Positive.”

Seungcheol nods and settles back down against Jeonghan, who eyes Jihoon silently from beside his soulmate, eyes narrowed slightly as he watches him glance down at you once more, peacefully asleep against his leg with a small, and what Jihoon thinks is unseen, smile on his face.

Real Eyes, Fake Lies Taglist

@enhacolor @jojowantstocry @changbinisms @scarlet789 @i-dont-give-a-fok @im-gemmy @shookyungsoo@friendlywraith @kawennote09 @coupddeongie @sunooschubbycheeks @zgzgzh @mar-627 @side-angel @kuleo26 @deltamoon666 @snowgirlfallen @lixiel0ver @phenomenalgirl9 @weebotakuboy @vixensss @seokmatchu

Couldn’t tag: @etaerealboy @sumzysworld @ametheyistheart @cinnamoroxie @mikachu-chu

#seventeen angst #seventeen woozi #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #woozi #woozi x reader #Lee Jihoon x reader #woozi fluff #woozi Angst #Woozi au #Lee Jihoon #woozi x you

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rubyvhs · 2 months ago

Text

the walls we built — samdean

summary: when cass breaks down sam’s walls, sam doesn’t pass out, he losses his sanity —tags: no wincest, ptsd, sad dean & sam.

masterlist

When the walls come down there’s no screaming, Sam doesn’t jump off the nearest bridge or kill Castiel, or even really do anything. It’s quiet. Too quiet. And that’s how Dean knows something is wrong.

Leviathans are trying to take over the world and he couldn’t find time to care less, Dean is thisclose to ending it because Sam hasn’t spoken in three days. Three days without his brother's voice is worse than the year he spent with Lisa because at least then he knew Sam’s picture couldn’t talk back, now it scares him.

But he’s going to keep being next to Sam, he’s going to stay until Sam talks and until he can make up words again. He will— he’s his brother, if he can’t do that, who will?

So he takes the bowl of chili that Bobby made up to their room. He doesn’t want Sam to be alone too long so unless they’re sleeping, he tries to be in the same room at all times.

“Sammy?” He knocks on the door twice before entering, shutting it behind him. It’s a new habit he’s forced himself to develop. The first time he came into the room without knocking first Sam fell off his chair with wide eyes.

Sam only looks at him, no wide eyes, no kicked puppy look, just— wounded. Sam’s wounded and (though Dean won’t say it) he’s afraid it’s beyond repair. Then, a miracle, Sam opens his mouth. To whisper gibberish. Dean sits next to Sam on the bed, offering the bowl. He’s near tears just hearing his brother's voice— his real brother, for the first time in 15 months. “Sammy?”

It’s futile, Sam only looks up at him to say… something. Whatever it is, it’s not English, and Dean doesn’t care to find out, he just wants to hug his brother, no matter how quiet his words are. He wants to hug him so bad and reassure in his ear that everything will be okay, that they’ll figure it out. But the last time Dean tried, Sam knocked him out.

“You gotta eat, Sam.” It’s one of his staples these past three days. Telling Sam he has to eat seems to be the one thing he can do without it blowing up in his face, and it surprises him every time he actually listens. He takes the bowl from the tray, picks up the spoon, then looks up to ask Dean something, he can tell it’s a question, but it’s gibberish.

The first time Sam is speaking to him in three days and he can’t even understand him. God, this is— it’s so—

“Can you tell me what that means, buddy?” Sam furrows his eyebrows then decides it’s not worth his time as he looks down at the bowl of chili to wolf it down. It’s enough for Dean that Sam looked up at him. It’ll work itself out. That’s what he always says and it always works. It’ll work itself out.

+++

It will work itself out, Dean repeats again as he knocks on Sam’s door two days later. It’s past ten and he’s sure he’s asleep but he hears some knocking and rustling from his room so decides to come make sure everything is fine.

“Sammy?” He says, his voice low and thick with sleep. He was just about to pass out. When he gets no reply he opens the door and invites himself in, sees Sam having a panic attack, and runs over to him. “Sammy? Hey, man, come back to me! Sam!”

He’s never sobered up like this.

Sam’s eyes slam open so fast it gives Dean whiplash and he bunches Sam’s shirt in one of his hands, the other on his neck, over his hair. Sam’s mumbling, more words that Dean can’t tell apart, and then it’s arguing, he shouting, he’s screaming. He’s speaking. His voice. It would fill Dean's heart up if he wasn’t so petrified.

“Sammy, it’s just me, no one else is here!” That grabs his attention and he whips his head to Dean’s direction, their faces only inches apart as his breathing becomes even heavier, eyes more wide, mouth drier. He shakes his head like seeing Dean is making it worse. And it takes everything in Dean not to slam his head against the wall. “I’m right here, no one else, just us,” he coos, hoping, praying, that that’s the right thing to say. It is.

Sam’s breaths are less shallow, his eyes just a little more focused on Dean. Thank God. And then— then the unthinkable happens. Dean’s a strong man, he knows he is, raised to be nothing but. Seeing Sammy throw himself into his arms? He couldn’t get any frickin’ weaker. He melts into it, pulling him closer, tightening his grip. He thinks that that’s that, Sam will fall asleep in his arms, just like when they were kids. Instead he leans into his ear, says something through gritted teeth and pulls away.

Dean may not have understood the exact words, but he can recognize a threat when he hears one.

+++

“I’m losing my damn mind, Cass.” He’s not even being dramatic. He can’t think clearly anymore, forgets whether he ate breakfast or not, where his glasses are. It’s getting pathetic. “And he won’t talk to me— just mumbles things…”

“What things?” He asks thoughtfully, and it helps calm Dean down to know he’s not the only one seriously thinking about this. Obviously, Bobby cares, he’s been reading books on damaged souls the second Castiel gave Sam his memories back (something Dean obviously hasn’t forgiven but desperate times) yet it isn’t enough.

“I don’t know. It’s not English.”

“Enochian?” Oh. Oh, God, Dean is so damn stupid. Of course it’s freakin’ enochian! You’re stuck with an archangel for years and they don’t speak their mother tongue? No way.

“Probably, maybe.”

“Can you repeat any of it?”

“Repeat— no, of course not, it’s freakin’ gibberish man, freakin’, I don’t know ‘tibibp’ or some crap.”

“Tibibp?” He says it like he’s considering it carefully, Dean makes a noise in affirmation. “It’s a letter of disagreement. ‘Can not’ or ‘do not’, depends.”

“Well that’s all I got.”

“Doesn’t really help any. I can come and talk to him, see if I can understand what he’s trying to tell you.” It has crossed Dean’s mind plenty. Calling Cass to come over, praying, he’s almost done it a handful of times. But his pride, ego, maybe just his feelings, won’t let him. Cass is the damn reason this wall went down, why would he give him a chance to redeem himself?

Because he’s his best friend. Because he messed up and that’s okay, they all mess up.

Because no one in the world matters more than Sammy and if he can’t find a way to help him he’s not going to stay on this earth for long. “Yeah. Okay, drop by as soon as you can.”

His ego will have to recover later because Cass drops by too soon. As in right this second, phone still to his ear, as Dean jumps due to the flutter of his wings. “Is now a good time?” Castiel’s tone is monotone and it takes Dean a second to remember that the angel is, in fact, not being sarcastic, just asking a genuine question.

“Fine.” He throws the phone onto the couch and leads Cass to Sam’s room upstairs, passing by Bobby in his own room having a nap. The man deserves it with all the damn research he’s been doing lately. When they’re at Sam’s door, Dean hesitates, taking a breath before warning Cass, “don’t upset him, okay?”

That seems trivial. Cass nods anyway and they knock twice before entering. The room hasn’t changed and neither has Sam’s position, still has his back flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as if it’ll have any answers. As if it’s any more important that Dean is. And it fills him with a kind of envy he didn’t know he could have against inanimate objects that steal Sam’s attention.

“Sammy? Hey, buddy, Cass wanted to check in on you.” Dean’s careful to soften his voice, as much as he could, anyways, and approach slowly. It’s kind of like speaking to an injured deer. ”Sam?” He says again but gets no reply.

He looks over at Cass, his eyes desperate and pleading. The angel walks to Sam’s bed and starts… speaking the same damn gibberish Sam’s been speaking all day. It’s not the exact same, considering Dean’s only heard two of those words in Sam’s sentences, but it’s just as infuriating.

He waits to comment on it. At least until Sam responds. Sam replies to Cass like he just insulted him, and it’s making Dean go crazy. He can only handle so many wrecks from Cass. “What the hell is he saying?”

Cass furrows his eyebrows before turning to Dean, “It’s… old. Ancient Enochian even I don’t speak, no one but archangels would understand— though I did get some things. He’s cursing me, he’s angry. Sam thinks we are torturing him.”

“Torture? Why would we be torturing him, does he still think he’s in The Cage?”

“Sam does not… there is no Cage. In his mind he has essentially forgotten Earth.”

Dean doesn’t understand. Forgot Earth? He’s been on it for twenty eight years, kinda hard to forget something like that. And sure, Dean gets it. He went to hell at twenty four for forty years, so double his time on earth, but it didn’t make him forget it. In fact, it was all he thought about down there.

But Sam… forgot. Does that mean he forgot Dean? His brother? The only damn person that matter in the world. No, no way. It can’t be like that. “Cass, tell— ask him if he remembers me.” If he thought he was pathetic before, this takes the cake. Beggars can’t be choosers, and he’s not in the mood to care. Cass looks over at Sam, speaks slowly like he’s thinking of each syllable. Sam tilts his head in confusion, looks up at Dean and nods. “Good, you remember me, Sammy?”

He nods again and Dean walks over to the bed with a half-smile on his lips. He’s getting somewhere. “What about English, buddy? You r’member that?”

Sam nods again. Dean has to sit down to collect himself. “What! Then why haven’t you been talkin’ to me?” He doesn’t respond, looks back up at Cass and shrugs. His back is laid against the headboard and his eyes glacé around the entire room before they fall on Dean. For some reason, Dean understands what he wants. Food. It’s been one of the only reasons Dean has sat on his bed, offering him something to eat, so he probably expected it.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll let you talk to Cass and I’ll order… I don’t know, soup or something.” Sam doesn’t acknowledge him, playing with his fingers on his lap just above the bed. It’s been his safe space for the past week, why would now be any different?

He orders the food as quickly as possible, for all four of them, and runs upstairs. He’s prepared for the worst. Sam and Cass not getting anywhere, Sam forgetting him but only remembering him by name. He has so many questions, so little answers.

Cass is speaking to Sam, or trying to. He’s struggling to sound out the words, talking slowly. Sam looks… broken. Skeptic, maybe, like he can understand what’s happening. Dean understands, Sam thinks he’s still in The Cage. But for him The Cage is not something that happened for a while, it’s his whole life, it’s all he knows. It doesn’t break dean’s heart, it freakin’ claws it out. Eighteen years he’s spent looking after his little brother, raising him, trying to make the world a better place for him and he can’t remember any of it?

What was any of it for if Dean wouldn’t end up protecting Sammy.

+++

“He’s getting better.” Cass says casually, as if they’re talking about the weather. “At English. He spoke yesterday.”

It’s been a week. Dean doesn’t go into Sam’s room while Cass is with him, mostly because Sam stares at him like he’s expecting food and Dean’s scared that while they’re teaching Sam to come back to Earth, he’ll forget Dean’s his brother, not the chef.

“Good.” He still hasn’t talked to Sam. In English or otherwise. He’s been looking up Enochian, trying to understand some phrases at least. The important things to snap Sam out of a panic attack or ‘I’m your brother’.

It hasn’t gotten any easier trying to learn an ancient language no one speaks without having Sam by his side. But Sam’s gotten more comfortable, not around him or Cass, just in the comfort of his own room, he seems to speak to no one in particular. Sometimes it’s loud, angry yelling, other times he’s just casually catching up with a friend. Who knows anymore?

“Can I— should I talk to him?” He’s been using Cass as his compass the entire time, he’s not sure what to do otherwise. Everyone is getting tired and leviathans are still out there. They’ve heard so many terrifying stories this past week that it almost made Dean want to up and leave, get the hell out and fight like he always does.

But like he told Sam six years ago, right on his damn college campus, he doesn’t want to.

“You could if you want, although I am not sure how much help it would be.” Cass’s tone is… careful, like he’s walking on eggshells around Dean.

Dean stands up abruptly, knocking the couch back a step to grab whatever food Bobby made. Grilled cheese, two sandwiches and he walks to Sam’s room cautiously. His mind is spinning, every step he takes closer, he hears Sam’s voice more clearly, he’s arguing with someone. But it’s a normal disagreement, no shouting.

When he knocks, he half expects Sam to draw a gun on him. He’s not sure where he would possibly get one, but it crosses his mind that Sam’s not too far off from a stranger that he’d do it. Instead, Sam looks away from whoever he’s speaking to and pans to Dean.

“Dean, again!” He exasperates, throwing his hand in the air. He’s standing, not in bed for the first time since the veil came down and he’s speaking freakin’ English. Sammy is back. Sammy is back. Sammy is back.

Sammy is upset that Dean came into the room? “Sam, you okay?”

“This isn’t going to work!” More English. His accent is surprisingly good for someone who you’d think is learning the language from scratch but Dean remembers Cass explaining to him that Sam isn’t like a foreigner learning English for the first time, he just needs a refresher since he hasn’t used much of it.

“What isn’t going to work?” He asks, approaching slowly.

“This! Lucifer—” Aaand, we’re back to gibberish. Enochian. What the hell ever. “It won’t work.”

“Sammy, you’re out of The Cage, you’ve gotta know that, man!” He’s shaking, beyond it, the plate is somewhere on the nightstand and he’s not sure when he put it there. “It’s me, Dean, Lucifer isn’t here!”

Sam’s not the same. He isn’t. He may never be.

More Enochian, more insults, “I swear, Lucifer—”

“I’m Dean.” So many people have joked about them acting like a married couple but this feels too close to it. Way too close. And not even in a funny way. “Sammy, please. Remember— God, Poughkeepsie! Poughkeepsie.”

Sam doesn’t look impressed, crosses his arms, “you’ve been in my head, I’m not stupid. You are. You can keep doing this forever but when Dean—the real Dean— gets me out of here you’ll be the one all alone, not me.”

“Come on, Sam, please, I’m begging you, it’s me. It’s Dean. You gotta listen, okay? Ask me anything, anything you don’t know.”

“How would I know it’s right?”

“Man, I don’t know!” He sighs, frustrated, angry, depressed, “I’m not even speaking Enochian, haven’t you… haven’t you noticed that?”

He might as well have hit Sam with a ton of bricks because his eyes widen, and he falls back onto the floor. It’s loud and harsh, makes Dean wince as his six foot something brother toppled over like it’s nothing, like it’s everything.

“I— I don’t understand half the crap you’re sayin’, Sammy. And Cass, he’s been tryin’ to get you to speak to us, do you— are you seeing it? Are you seeing us now? Not in the cage, baby, you’re not in the cage.” The old nickname spills out like it’s nothing as he leans down into the floor, his hand cradling his brother's cheek. Sam doesn’t pull away from him and it gives Dean such a sense of relief, he could hug him. But he’s not sure if Sam would like that.

“I— you— but,” he’s stuttering and frowning and his voice is so contrastingly thick to the kicked puppy Dean sees in front of him, “but I didn’t get out. You’re—” More frickin Enochian. That damn language barrier that Dean thought they got over, that he might genuinely kill someone over.

“You did. You got out, remember? Remember we were together, before the walls came down me and you hunted together and we stopped Cass. Remember that? Stopped him from using the leviathans.”

Sam nods. He nods. Dean’s about to throw a parade. “You remember?”

“Yes— Lucifer cox remder veline—”

“No, no, Sammy, English, back to English, baby. Lucifer’s not here do you— do you see him anywhere?” His voice is shaking, much like he was earlier, but he doesn’t stop looking Sam in the eyes, he needs Sam to focus. Focus on Dean. Just Dean. Always Dean.

He looks over Dean’s shoulder, just a glance, subtle and unsure enough that it breaks Dean’s heart. Lucifer is here? In the room with them? His hallucination, anyway. Not that it makes it any better, any version of Lucifer shouldn’t be near any version of Sammy.

He pulls his gaze back to his brother, shaking his head. He’s downplaying the torture in his mind. He did it when they were seven and he’ll do it till they’re sixty and balding (well, maybe only one of them will be balding).

“What is he saying? You know he’s not real, right?”

“He— I know he’s not real.” That’s a relief, “he’s a part of me.”

That sounds… bad? Self-torturous? Wrong? Who knows, maybe Sam doesn’t mean it that way, but Dean still isn’t gonna hear it. “Lucifer has nothing to do with you. Nothing. You’re not the freakin’ Anti-Christ, Sam. You stopped him, you stopped the damn apocalypse.”

“Yeah, he’s a part of me. ‘Cause it…”

Great, now he’s talking in half sentences. “Lucifer is dead! He’s gone, you trapped him and whatever you’re seeing? You need to snap out of it, man, please. We can’t have you like this, I need my brother back.”

Sam’s silent. Sam leans his head on the wall behind him in defeat, while Dean is truly feeling it.

+++

“You didn’t—” He says something, starts with a ‘v’, maybe, but cuts himself off. Dean’s thankful he can tell the difference between English and Enochian now. It’s only been two weeks. “Knock.” He’s still spelling lots of uncommonly used words out, like he's teaching himself the language, “on my door.”

“I do. I knock everytime.” Logically, he knows Sam isn’t accusing him of anything, but still. He’s got to argue on principle.

“At fir—tes—first.” He says that one impossibly unrushed.

“Right. Sorry,” it’s beyond genuine, “I didn’t know you’d want me to knock now.”

Sam shakes his head swiftly, “no no, don’t. Don’t. Please, Dean, don’t.”

“What?” He regards Sam’s pout gently, rubbing a hand on his cheek. It’s been the only type of touch he allows knowing Sam won’t freak out on him. Or shut him out.

“You got me out. I’m out of… Lucifer. He’s not here anymore.” He keeps changing the subject, running around something, in between it, dodging it— Dean can barely keep up. He doesn’t think Sam can keep up either. He’s living in a million different worlds and each one is more different than Dean can imagine.

“Yeah, Sammy, you are. You said you don’t want me to knock. Why?”

“‘Cause he does. Always, always knocks. He— mocking me.” If dean’s heart was whole before, it sure as crap isn’t now. He should’ve seen it coming, should’ve known Sam would tell him about what Lucifer did to him sooner or later, he just doesn’t know if he can take it when his brother is this way— this scary way.

“I won’t knock anymore. ‘Wasn’t mockin’ you either, you know that, right?” Sam nods, putting down his chili bowl (again for the third time this week), and leaning closer to Dean. He… Sam leans his head on Dean’s shoulder and it knocks the breath from his lungs. He isn’t just trying to get comfortable around Dean after not having for so long, he’s seeking comfort from him.

From him? The same Dean he didn’t believe was there in the first place?

“Thank you, De,” That nickname. That frickin nickname that Sam’s only ever said before he turned twelve and he hasn’t heard it since.

“You’re welcome, buddy.” He wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him a little closer, but it’s subtle enough to not surprise Sammy.

And okay, so this isn’t ideal, it’s freakin’ terrifying having a Sam that doesn’t speak except half-English, but it’s a Sam that wants Dean and that’s all Dean cares about.

#supernatural #sam winchester #dean winchester #samdean #deansam #dean x sam #sam x dean #gencest #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #supernatural angst #laila writes!!

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piastrinorris · 2 years ago

Text

Firsts

Pairing: Tom Grant x f!Reader

Genre: fluff, angst, smut

Tags: Make Up (film), 18+ (minors DNI), slow burn, underage alcohol content, virgin! tom and virgin!reader, protected sex (if tom can wrap it, so can you), just the fluffiest smut i've ever written tbh, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v,

Summary: A boy you met in the playground has a far greater effect on your life than you could have imagined.

Word count: 12k

A/N: Ugh, hopefully this signifies the end of my writer's block. Thanks for hanging in there, gang! Enjoy my first Tom fic <3

Age 4

You sit on the roundabout cross-legged, indignantly pressing your hands into your cheeks. You look over at some of the other kids, playing with their friends. You wish you could have friends here too. Even though your parents took you here on holiday, and there’s loads of stuff at the holiday park specifically catered to kids your age, the most they’ll do is bring you to the park for half an hour or so before dragging you along to all the stupid, boring things that they want to do.

A boy with curly hair that sticks out in all directions and brown eyes that glisten when the midday sun hits them saunters up to you. “Hiya. Are you waiting for anyone else?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “No, it’s fine. You and your friends can have it.”

“Oh, I’m here by meself, too! Well not by meself, me mam’s here too, but I thought we could take it in turns!” He outstretches his hand, “I’m Thomas!”

You snort out a laugh. “Like the tank engine?”

“Shut up,” he frowns, making you giggle again.

“My dad’s friend’s name is Freder-eder-ded- Fredrid- Frederick, but we just call him Fred ’cause it’s easier. Maybe I can call you… Tom.”

His eyes light up. He has the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen. “I’d like that. Tom. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Your voice is weird,” you point out.

“Shut up!” he repeats. “Yours is the weird one.”

"Well, I've never heard one like yours before so that makes it weird. Now c’mon, you can spin me first,” you tell him, and with that, he wraps his hands around the metal pole of the roundabout and runs as fast as his tiny legs will take him.

Age 13

Another year, another caravan holiday. The older you get, the less tolerance you have for your parents’ boring excursions. But you absolutely love the downtime in between where you’re just at the caravan park. Because it means you get to hang out with your best friend.

As sad as you are to see your tradition go, of the pair of you picking out postcards for each other to spend all your holiday pocket money on to send to each other throughout the year, you are very excited to show him your birthday present since the last time you saw him.

“Hiya,” comes a familiar call from behind you as you sit at the roundabout that you first met Tom on. You run to him, with his arms outstretched wide, flinging your own around him as soon as you can reach him. His face buries into your cheek as you hug each other, his laughter filling your ears. “Got summat to show ya,” he says as you’re still embraced before pulling away.

“Oh, I have something to show you, too!” you grin, both of you fumbling through your pockets before you both brandish your mobile phones to each other.

With excited gasps, you recite your own numbers that you've memorised to each other, and immediately text each other, despite being feet away. You read your messages on each others’ screens as though it’s the most amazing thing you’ve ever come across.

The two of you walk down to the beach together, babbling on about school life and home life and everything in between life. You notice that Tom goes quiet after a little while, which isn’t like him. You sit down on a log you’d both claimed a few years ago, and Tom picks up a branch from the ground near it and starts drawing absent-mindedly in the sand. You ask with a frown, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah!” he lies, but you glare at him.

“Liar,” you shove him, and he laughs softly. “You think I can’t tell by now? What’s really wrong?”

He sighs, “Well… You know my best mate, Jake?” You nod. “Well, he got a - got a girlfriend last year.”

“You make that sound like that’s the worst thing in the world,” you laugh.

“Obviously it’s not,” he pulls a face at you. “But, like… I’m gonna have to… Kiss a girl at some point soon, aren’t I? It’s all Jake asks of me these days.”

You giggle, “What, is someone still afraid of getting girl germs?”

“No!” Tom elbows you in the side. “I’m...Worried I’ll be shit at it.”

You roll your eyes, “Nobody expects you to be good at it right off the bat!” Tom keeps looking at you sadly and you sigh. “What, you want to practise or something?”

Tom's eyes widen, then he nods slowly. “If that’s okay with you...”

You shrug, “I haven’t had any experience either, so...” you trail off. "I'll probably be shit, too."

“R-right, w-well,” Tom stammers, “I think I- I come over like this, a-and...” he leans towards you, resting a hand on your hip. He leans in close to you, tilting his head both ways. You try and match his movements, but at the last minute his nose crashes into yours and you both laugh nervously.

You try to play it cool, try to breathe deeply in case he can hear your heart thumping too. You’re so close to him right now you can see the little dip left by the dimple that forms when he smiles. The specks in his eyes that glow in the sun. Tom has been the love of your life - but you can’t say that, you’re only 13, you’ve barely lived.

You hold his jaw in place and move to him. His lips are smooth, warm, full, simply invigorating. He doesn’t respond at first, and you feel like kissing just his top lip probably isn't right, but after a few pecks from you he starts to kiss back. Feeling him push out to you makes you crave even more. He carries on with even more fervour until he suddenly stops, pulling back and whipping his hand back into his lap. He mumbles a “thanks” and goes back to poking the sand with his stick.

Your chest feels as though it’s made of lead. You excuse yourself and run all the way back to your caravan, heading straight to your bed and sobbing into your pillow. Of course he hated kissing you.

You do everything you can to avoid Tom for a while. You immerse yourself in everything your family wants to do, constantly asking what they’ve got planned to go out and do, emphasis on the go out bit. You switch your phone off so as not to be distracted by his texts. You rarely leave the caravan.

It’s only on the second-to-last day that your parents basically kick you out of the caravan for the day. Despite them giving you plenty of money to play in the arcade with, you find yourself sitting on one of the swings in the playpark, rocking yourself back and forth absentmindedly.

You don’t notice Tom approaching you, you’re too immersed in trying to think of anything else but him. He clears his throat to get your attention. You notice he’s breathless and red in the face, like he’s been sprinting. With a heavy heart, you nod at him in acknowledgement. “Hiya,” he starts softly.

“Hey.” you reply bluntly. You don’t mean to be so cold to him, you don’t want to be - but you have to be.

“You’ve been mad distant lately, are you all right?” Tom asks, his eyebrows furrowing together.

“Nope, I’m half left, see,” you wave your left hand in the air half-heartedly and Tom chuckles.

“That’s not what I meant, idiot.” He chews on his lip before continuing, “Is it because of how I kissed?” You think about whether or not to answer honestly when he continues sadly, “Was I really that bad at it?”

You sigh and shake your head. “No, you were fine. I...I’ve been busy with holiday stuff! Parents, you know how it is.” You're lying through your teeth, but what did you expect? For Tom to also fall for you as soon as your lips connected? Of course not.

“Right,” Tom breathes out a sigh of relief before continuing, “but you normally don’t go along with that, if you can help it… Does that mean you don’t want to hang out with me any more?” His voice falters back to sadness.

“Well, no,” you blurt out before you can think of something else. Damn. You didn’t want to outright say no because you can’t keep making yourself feel like this. But you look at his smile, at the dimples that you could place on him from memory, at his eyes lit up like a Christmas display, at how his freckles dance up his cheeks, and all of that flies out the window.

“Good! Because - Well, it’s a bit stupid, I know, but they’re doing a thing in the entertainment hall tonight, since it’s most kids’ last day here before school starts, a-and I...I was wondering if...” he starts wringing his hands together.

“You’re worried you’ll look like Billy No-Mates if you turn up without a date and you don’t know any other girls here well enough,” you state simply.

“There’s… More to it than that,” Tom scrunches his face up.

Of course, what you’re unaware of is that Tom is terrified he’s lost you for good. That him being so nervous about being too eager to kiss you that he had to stop himself has been too obvious and ruined your first kiss and that he’s lost the girl he loves. But he won’t admit that. He’ll let you believe whatever you want as long as he gets to spend time with you again. As long as he gets to watch the sparkle in your eyes dance when you laugh, and the little twitch of the nose you do right before you start to think deeply about something, that’s all he wants back.

You, blissfully unaware of this, shrug in defeat, “Sure. It’ll be nice to catch up over the last few days, I guess.”

Tom grins, “Alright, sound! I mean, I doubt we’ll really be able to catch up at the dance, but...We could always grab dinner together at the restaurant bit beforehand, just me an’ you?”

“Sounds good,” you press your lips together and nod. Tom grins and waves goodbye as he leaves the park, leaving you to curse yourself. You’re just letting him walk all over you - to you, Tom is now your first friend, first kiss, first dinner date, first dance date; you feel like to Tom you’re just a test dummy.

Age 16

You knew he had a girlfriend, now. He’d phoned you about Ruth in the early days of knowing her, and despite everything, you’d talked him into asking her out. He deserves that happiness, even if he can't get it with you.

She had seemed really interested in getting to know you, too, at first. Tom was always telling you that she’d been asking questions constantly about you, and that he couldn’t wait for the two of you to meet. “My girls,” he’d always say. Your heart would soar 50 feet into the air just to plummet a hundred at those words.

Phone calls became less frequent as months went on. After you’d sent over your Christmas card and present to him, as per your tradition, you only got back a card that had your name written at the top, and “- Tom” at the bottom. Not the “Love,” that would always come before it. Not the little kiss he’d always put underneath his name. That really stung.

What was once a constant stream of texts from wishing each other good morning to goodnight every day for the last 3 years becomes occasional, which becomes non-existent. He doesn’t even text you on your birthday.

You beg and you plead with your parents to not go on the annual Cornwall holiday. Anywhere but. You’re 16 now, that’s plenty old enough to stay at home on your own. You’d be more than happy to have a neighbour check in on you regularly and spontaneously. Or a family member. Even your worst enemy, just - not there. Not facing him. And besides, you’re almost certain he won’t be alone with his parents this year.

And you’re right. She’s hanging off of his arm all the while the other regular teens crowd around them. They’re all just as much your friends as they are his. But this year you don’t feel welcome around them.

And it’s not just jealousy on your part. You’d even tried to be friendly. You’d practically skipped up to the both of them on your first day, after a lot of mental preparation, to a judgemental stare from Ruth that started from the moment she laid eyes on you, to the moment you left her field of vision. It burned especially strongly when Tom hugged you in greeting, even if you could have gotten a more meaningful exchange with a Lego figurine, with a just as emotionless, "Hiya."

It hurts when you end up seeing Ruth and Tom together and she’s the one who notices and suddenly drapes herself over him. It hurts more when it’s him that sees you first and he takes her by the hand and simply runs off with her.

It hurts the most when you catch them kissing on your log. Once again, 3 years later, you’re running from that beach to your caravan and you’re curling up in your bed crying your eyes out. Except, this year’s trip won’t end in a dinner where he feeds you his chips just because you didn’t ask for any with your meal and he wants to make sure you don’t nick all of his. It won’t end with a DJ asking everyone - and he means everyone - to make their way to the only slow-dance of the night, and Tom goofily dancing in ultra slow motion as he eventually encourages you to do the same. It’ll end in him doing that with her, while you sit and eat whatever your parents can make out of whatever’s left in the fridge and fight back the tears you haven’t yet cried while in the privacy of your own room.

It makes sense, after all. Tom being your first love, he was always destined to be your first heartbreak, too.

Age 17

You hear a moan fall into your mouth, you feel a hand grip on your arm. Another rests on your thigh. Your hand moves up to his hair, burying deep into his soft, brown curls. Except it doesn’t. It barely scrapes through the cropped, straight hair of your boyfriend.

You’d so loved that the guy on the other side of the classroom in your college class had noticed you, had asked you out. Your parents love him, your friends back home love him. And, as it had turned out, he’d even been holidaying at the same caravan park you always do. It’s just that while your family normally goes at the end of the summer break, his goes at the start. Your family let you go with his this year instead, which you’re thrilled about. Hopefully you can create memories with your boyfriend in Cornwall with absolutely no trace of Tom, who’s surely only going to be there in the last week, like always.

You don’t believe it when you see him and her in the distance, outside the window. You think you must be making it up. There’s no way. It’s only fleeting, so you shake it off and try to focus on being in the moment with your boyfriend. He takes you by the hand, leads you to your bedroom for the next week, sits you both on the bed and starts kissing you intensely. That’s when you start imagining him as Tom, again. This is exactly the opposite of what you wanted to happen.

Later on, when you’re on your way to the arcade, you spot an old friend from past trips. She excitedly greets you, states her surprise over seeing you so early in the summer, and tells you that she works here now. She tells you of a staff party that’s happening in one of the luxury chalets. It’s apparently a tradition, first weekend of every summer holiday period, the staff club together and buy it out for a weekend. She invites you both along, and you gleefully accept.

You speculate all week about what your first house party is going to be like. What being drunk for the first time is going to be like. Your boyfriend laughs at you every time. "You're hilarious. I can't wait to see how sloppy you get."

That makes you nervous. How much alcohol does it take to get you wasted? You were hoping to make sure you stayed of enough sound mind to remember it all. Would you really inevitably get "sloppy" and embarrass yourself?

When the party's finally in full swing, you're insistent on sticking to cans of soda. Your boyfriend frowns at you, demands to know why you're suddenly so shy over drinking after it being all you could talk about. You tell him you just need to build up to it, that it's a first time which makes it a big deal. He rolls his eyes and mutters something about first times and walks away.

You frown at that. There's only two main things about you and firsts. The fact that you and Tom may never share any more, which you've never discussed with your boyfriend; and that the first time the two of you had tried going beyond kissing, he'd called you…

No, you're not thinking about that. He said he's sure it's something you'll get over, and once you are, he'll be ready for you. You just need to try and rein it in for yourself. Did he resent you because you hadn't managed to keep it under control yet?

Your brain is swimming when you hear the one voice you'd simultaneously been waiting for and dreading. "Hiya!"

Taking a deep breath in and putting on a brave face, you feign surprise. “Oh my god, Tom! Hi! What are you doing here?!”

“Well, Ruth had made friends with one of the girls that works here, Jade, and she invited us - well, Ruth, but, y’know, we’re sort of a package deal,” he laughs awkwardly. “Um, so, what are you doing here?”

“Hayley works here now, an’ all! Remember her?”

Tom laughs under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t surprise me in the slightest. ’Member how she was always the first to volunteer to get on stage?” You both laugh loudly before faltering into a weird silence. “So, found your tipple of choice, yet?” he asks, gesturing to the plastic cup in your hand.

“Oh!” You shake your head. “Not yet. I wouldn’t even know which one to start with. I’ve, uh, I’ve never really drank before.”

Tom chuckles, “Hey, me neither! Was gonna play it safe and go for a beer. Fancy indulging in my first one with me?”

“We’ve shared enough by now, haven’t we?” you ask with a small smile.

“So,” he starts as you both head into the kitchen. “You never really explained why you’re here this early.”

“Didn’t I? I’m here with my boyfriend and his family,” you explain.

Tom’s face falls, though you’re too busy navigating your way past everyone at the party to notice. “O-oh… Boyfriend? Is he… Y’know, good to you, an’ that?” He asks, his energy suddenly depleted.

“Yeah! Yeah, he’s great. Dunno where he is at the moment, but I’ll have to introduce you both while we’re here,” you nod.

“Definitely! I’ll let Ruth know you’re here, she can say hi to you an’ all.” Tom thankfully doesn’t notice your eyes rolling as he studies the drinks now in front of you both. Tom looks over his shoulder at you and jerks his head at the kitchen counter. “Pick our poison, then.”

You shrug, “I dunno, you said beer? Let’s go with that.”

Tom nods, grabbing a couple of bottles and an opener, clicking the lids off and handing one to you. “To us, eh? Finally growing up.”

WIth a defeated smile, you clink your bottle against his and you both take your first sips. Tom immediately pulls a face of disgust, which then turns to intrigue. He looks over at you and laughs as you stand there, looking as though you’ve squeezed an entire lemon out onto your tongue. “Maybe we’ll get you something sweeter. ’Ere, how about one of these flavoured vodkas? Stick some of that in with your Coke.”

You and Tom stay and chat for the best part of an hour, catching up on everything. It’s the happiest you’ve felt in a long while. Certainly this whole week. But then he talks about finding Ruth and for the first time all night, you think about where your boyfriend could be.

You take a lap of the cabin. And another. And another. Each time more and more anxious. Calling his name out is getting you nowhere.

And then you see a flash of him getting pulled into another room. You don’t see the other person. Their arm is especially slender, their painted nails gripping his shirt as he grins down at them. You stare at the door as it closes, in pure shock and horror.

Your ears ring until you eventually hear a faint, but familiar, “Hiya, what’s going on with you? You’ve been up and down like a bleedin’ yoyo!” Tom notices your lack of response and frowns. “What?” As you still don’t answer, he follows your line of vision and points, “In that door?” Your lip quivers and his face steels. “Right.”

The next few seconds happen in slow motion and high speed all at once. Tom swinging the door open. His, “You better not be who I fucking think you are, mate.” Him getting pinned against the wall by your (as of right now) ex. Tom spitting in his eye to get dropped. Your boyfri- ex-boyfriend’s, “Is she as fucking disgusting with you as she is with me?” as Tom tries to walk away. Tom’s face absolutely seething as he turns back around, strides up to your ex and punches him square in the face.

Finally, you find it in you to scream at Tom to stop, and then turn to your ex. “The actual fuck is wrong with you?! Acting a victim just because I was catching up with a friend while you were chatting girls up in the same fucking house?!”

“You know what? Fuck this. Make your own way home. Bitch,” your ex snarls as he pushes past you to the front door as he storms out of it.

You hear a, “What the fuck happened to you?!” and see Ruth approach with her new friend, a girl with just-above-shoulder-length hair. Ruth’s looking at Tom’s red knuckles in horror.

“I’m fine, babe, honest. It were just… That dickhead was feeling up some other bird while…” He gestures weakly at you.

Ruth presses her lips together and nods, “Right. So you’ll punch a guy for her, yeah?”

He groans, lolling his head back. “C’mon, Ruth, don’t be like that now, please. You know I’d do the same if it were you. Or even Jake, or any one of my friends, alright? Don’t mean nothin’.”

“Yeah, well. Think I’m gonna sleep over at Jade’s tonight, anyway. Wanna see how the staff live,” she explains, gesturing to her friend.

Tom looks a little dejected, but he shrugs it off. “Alright, it’s your holiday, too. Have fun. I’ll text you in the morning, yeah?” She nods, and he goes up to kiss her. You look away, wincing. She scowls at you as she walks past you to leave.

Someone else in the crowd snorts, “Don’t you think that’s a bit fucking dodgy?”

“What is?” Tom asks, turning to face them.

“Accusing you of cheating on her with a ‘friend’ and then conveniently sleeping over with a friend of her own?” They fold their arms to raise their eyebrows in suspicion at Tom.

He merely shrugs, carefree. “Exactly. It’s perfectly normal to just have friends, alright?” He sounds a little exasperated at that, holding his hands up. “It’d only be dodge if I were also up to no good. But I’m not, because I know that it’s okay to just hang out with a friend every now an’ then.” He looks at you and shrugs. “Listen, don’t worry about tonight. Mum and Dad had us in a twin room, anyway, I can pull the beds back apart again if you need a place to sleep. Till then, we can stay here, long as you like. Alright?”

You nod gratefully, pushing out a whispered, “Thank you.”

You hug him tightly and he gives you just as much back, rocking you gently from side to side before rubbing up and down your back and offering, “So, how’s about we go back and demolish all the vodka and coke in that kitchen, yeah?”

You awaken in a single bed, next to another single bed that has a stirring Tom in it. He looks over at you, rubbing his eyes awake, “Hiya.”

You groan, “Of all the first encounters we’ve had, I’m begging you to have looked into how to deal with our first hangovers.”

He snorts with laughter. “‘’Fraid not. Looks like we’re suffering together.”

“Fantastic,” you whine as you throw yourself to lay on your other side.

Age 18

Even now that you’re legally an adult, that caravan park in Cornwall never evades you. You’d wanted to go on one of those big pre-university holidays to Spain or Greece like most 18 year olds do, but too many plans kept falling through and things kept going wrong and so, in order to catch some kind of break, you end up giving into your friend Hayley’s offer to stay with her for the holiday period. The friend that works there.

The staff living quarters are identical to the rest of the caravan park, with the exception of a common area with a bonfire. As you’re carrying your suitcase past it, you spot her. Again. Of course. You await the disgusted glare she’s about to give you, but she doesn’t seem to acknowledge your existence in the slightest. Hayley catches up with you, notices, and nudges you, “You know, she’s actually a lot more chilled out now that she’s with Jade instead.”

You double-take so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. “She’s wi- You mean, with?” Your friend nods. “Aww. Well, good for her, I guess.”

Once you’re in the caravan, you take out your phone and tap through to yours and Tom’s text history. You read back the last text you’d had from him, almost a year ago:

Hiya. Hope you’re alright, and you got on the train okay. Listen, I know I said all that guff about us just being friends, and I know that’s what both of us have always been, but Ruth’s proper upset about it. It was really good to see you again, but I don’t think we should talk while this is still fresh. Safe travels.

You wonder why he never thought to text you even after they’d broken up. Did he even want to hear from you again? You bite the bullet and text anyway:

Hey, stranger! Heard about you and Ruth. Sorry to hear it. Hope you’re doing well.

Hiya, yourself! Yeah, thanks, I’m holding up. Better for us all, really. How’d you hear, if you don’t mind me asking? x

Saw her at the caravan site and she didn’t give me evils, lol.

YOU’RE HERE?! :D x

Yeah!

Wait, when you say *here*...

What caravan are you staying in? x

One of the staff ones, 159. Why?

He doesn’t text back as quickly after that, so you instead start fixing up some lunch for you and your friend. She goes down to the shop to pick up something for the two of you to drink, and while you have the caravan to yourself, there’s a hurried knocking at the door. You assume Hayley told her bosses that she’s got someone living with her over the summer - she does have one of the ‘luxury’ two-bed caravans, after all - so there should be no problem with you answering it.

You don’t even get a good look at who it is before you’re being swept up in their arms and backed into the caravan, but you recognise that scent, that grip, that swooping feeling in your stomach. That laughter in your ear, followed by the greatest word in the English language, “Hiya.”

“Oh my god! What are the chances that you - oh my god!” You yell excitedly as you see him in his uniform. He twirls himself from side to side with a proud smile to show it off. “You got a job here, too?!”

He grins, “Yeah!” but it falters. “’Course, it would’ve helped if I’d’ve known my ex was dumping me for someone else who works here before I accepted but,” he shrugs, “swings and roundabouts. Speaking of! They’ve got rid of our park.”

You gasp sorrowfully. “What? No!”

“I know! They’re redoing the whole thing,” he pouts.

“I mean, to be fair, it was getting close to becoming an actual death trap,” you point out. “Last year, I don’t think the roundabout even actually spun anymore!” You both laugh as Hayley returns.

“Oh! Alright, Tom! See you’ve found my fugitive for the next six weeks.”

“Sure have! Can I nick her for a bit, though? Got some catching up to do,�� he looks at her hopefully, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

She looks between the two of you before grinning, “Yeah, why not? I can make my own lunch, away with you both!”

“Have you not had lunch yet, then?” Tom frowns as you both walk down the steps of the caravan.

“Mate, I literally just got here,” you gesture to your car as Tom falls into a pile of giggles.

“Alright, mate,” he nudges you with his elbow as he mocks you. “How’s about we take full advantage of my new staff discount,” he waggles an ID card between his fingers, “and go get you your own chips for once?”

“You remembered!” You cackle. “And they’re way tastier when they’re not mine.”

All through your meal, as you catch up, there's a very large elephant in the room that Tom isn't addressing. After a post-lunch walk ends up taking you to your log, the bittersweet punch that hits your chest finally has you speak up as Tom sits on the log, sprawling his legs out in front of him: "Why didn't you ever text?" Tom presses his lips together as he takes a deep breath in and out. "I know… I know you said that Ruth didn't like you talking to me, and while that was shit, I kinda get it. But… Why didn't you…?"

"Reach out after we broke up?" Tom asks, bending his knees to rest his elbows on as he rubs his face with his palms. "I don't fucking know, is my honest answer. I thought about it, if that helps. Probably fucking doesn't," he mutters. "I just… Assumed you'd hate me for letting a girl come between us."

"Well… A little," you admit, finally sitting down next to him. "Hate you more for assuming I'd hate you, though." Tom shoves your shoulder as he laughs softly, and you chuckle quietly, too.

"Let me make it up to you?" he asks. "Dinner at my caravan later?"

You groan, "Please tell me you've learned to do more than put tinned spaghetti on a slice of uncooked bread."

"As long as you eat it like a sandwich, ain't nothing wrong with it," he beams. "But, just for you, I'll make it proper special, yeah?"

"Ooh, like a date? Do I have to dress up?" You tease, and he laughs loudly.

"I distinctly remember you wearing jeans on our first date, so you've set the bar pretty low there."

You look at him in mock offence, "Excuse you! Those were my smart jeans that had the sequin dolphins on them! I felt like a little celebrity in those," you reminisce.

"You can wear what you like, just… Maybe no bedazzled fish this time, eh?" He glances over at you side-eyeing him and interrupts you before you can start correcting him, "I know, I know, dolphins are mammals, actually." He collapses into a fit of giggles, losing the accent he's using to mock yours as he squawks at you trying to push him off the log entirely.

"Can't believe you remember that, and all," you smile fondly.

"Of course. Still got that toy one I bough-" Tom interrupts himself, but you silently encourage him. "I, uh, we had a school trip to the aquarium. An' they had a - a little gift shop there, they had these toy dolphins. I bought one to give you years ago, but I just… Never got round to it."

“Ruth stopped you?” you guess, and he pulls a face in response. You copy him, “You’ll just have to give it to me when you come visit me in Nottingham, won’t you?”

He sits bolt upright. “You what?!”

You giggle, “I got into Nottingham. For uni, I mean.”

“Shit, that’s huge! Grats!” he pins your arms to your side in a quick squeeze. "An' there's a bus that goes straight there from Derby, so there'll be no escaping me!"

Your eyebrows knit together, "You not staying here year-round?"

He shakes his head. "I was gonna, when I first applied for it, but then… Well, things have changed now, in't they?"

You giggle, "I'll finally get to see your house for real!"

Tom gasps excitedly, "Shit, yeah, and Mum'll be dead happy to see you again!" He slaps his knees and stands up, "Right, well. This ain't getting me back to work, is it? Gotta make sure I clock off nice an’ early." He offers his hand out to you. "Wanna get up too, or are you staying here?"

You take his hand and let him pull you up to standing. "Nah, I better get back to Hayley at some point. Text me whenever you want me ’round, yeah?" You ask, trying not to grin stupidly at the fact Tom doesn't let go of your hand right away.

"Will do. In a bit, yeah?" he asks with a smile, holding your hand out to him for just long enough for you to speculate whether he was about to kiss it before letting it go, instead.

As you head straight back up the path next to the log, he goes across the beach for a minute, making his way to the other side of the park where he needs to be instead. You return to caravan 159 to see Hayley sprawled across the sofa, watching the tiny TV. She jumps up excitedly when she sees you. “So, how’d it go?” You explain that you have dinner planned with him tonight, but that you’re not certain what level of date to consider it. Hayley helps you go through the clothes you’d packed, but they were all either too casual or too going-out-y, outfits you’d planned for nights out at bars and nightclubs. Not exactly dinner-with-an-old-friend attire.

Hayley takes you by the hand to her room, where she starts pulling out dresses and holding them against you. You laugh, “Hayles! These are your show outfits, I can’t wear them!”

“Why not?” she frowns. “We’re the same size, I still get to choose which ones I wear every night so I’ll have plenty of options. And Tom and that never come and watch, so he’ll be none the wiser.” She waggles her eyebrows, wiggling the dress in her hands from side to side. “Come on,” she drawls the last word, stretching it out. “You know you want to.”

You snatch it from her and scoff, “If I take this, will you stop?”

She grins wickedly. “Not until you’ve shown me what undies you’re gonna wear, too!”

You feel your face grow warmer as you shake your head, “And what does that have to do with the price of fish?!”

She cackles, “You know.”

“I know nothing, remember? I’m still yet to… Y’know,” you falter. Hayley doesn’t quite know the full extent of yours and Tom’s friendship, only knowing that you’ve both been coming to this park as long as she has. She doesn’t know that there’s ample ammo for her to tease you about tonight, and you put all your energy into calculating everything you’re about to say to make sure you don’t slip up. That’s the last thing you need.

“Is that why you’ve got these?” she asks with a giggle, already back in your bedroom and scooping up a pair of lace panties with her finger from the packing cube you’d assigned for underwear.

Your face now a furnace, you chase after her with a, “Shut it!” as you snatch them away. “They’re for if we ever go… Y’know, out anywhere. Sometimes it just gives you a little boost to wear a cute matching set, know what I mean?”

She grins, “I know, I’m just yanking your chain. Wear what you want, as long as you look good doing it.” Her voice gets quieter as she heads back into the main room of the caravan, until she calls out loudly, “So, where is he taking you, do you know?”

“He says he’s going to cook for me,” you state as you press Hayley’s dress to your front and look in the mirror. “Yeah, said he’ll text me when it’s ready.”

Hayley suddenly reappears back in your doorway looking fearful. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah! Why shouldn’t I be?” you ask with a frown.

“You ever seen Tom’s cooking?”

You shake your head. “Not since we were about 14? And all he could do was heat up tinned spaghetti and dump it onto bread he didn’t even think to toast. But he said he’d do better, and that was four years a-” Your face falls at her expression.

“Babe. He was literally eating that for dinner yesterday when we called for him to come sit round the fire,” she tells you with raised eyebrows.

“So… I should… Just go there as soon as I’m ready?” You ask, nodding slowly, and Hayley mirrors you. She shows you from the window which trailer is Tom’s, and lets you finish getting yourself ready.

After showering, getting dressed - including the set of underwear that Hayley teased you about, even though you definitely don’t plan on having anyone else see it, it’s definitely just to give you the little boost of confidence you need - and applying as much make-up as you feel comfortable putting on for tonight - you give Hayley a quick hug, though she has you pose for some photos first to “commemorate” how good you look in her dress. She’s quick to usher you out of the door afterwards, though, telling you where she’ll bury her spare key so you can get back in (“If you get back in tonight,” she adds with an exaggerated wink as you roll your eyes at her and walk out) and pointing out one more time where Tom lives.

You knock on the door tentatively, but the muffled country music you can hear from the other side tells you that Tom probably can’t hear you. You try the door and it opens easily, allowing you to see Tom dancing around the tiny expanse of his kitchen, singing under his breath as he takes a handful of spaghetti out from its packet and throws it into a pot of boiling water as though it were a part of the way he’s dancing.

Your phone still clutched in your hand, you go to position it in a way to start recording him, but he catches you. Instead of looking surprised, he simply beckons you over with one finger. Walking across to him, as he’s still singing and swaying, he holds his hand out, to which you give him yours and he twirls you around. “You look amazing,” he smiles at you breathlessly.

Trying not to get too flustered, you quickly reply, “You scrub up alright, yourself!” You gesture to him, looking down at his dress shirt and - “Oh, so when I wear jeans to have dinner with you, I get ridiculed, but -”

“Shhh-sh-sh-sh,” Tom shushes you with a smile, pressing his finger against your lips, which you laugh against. “How come you’re early then, eager beaver? Didn’t even need to tell you where I live.”

“Hayley told me. Warned me to come over and make sure I don’t get food poisoning or something,” you giggle, and Tom gasps, holding a hand to his chest.

“That cheeky cow!” He jokes before draping his arm over your shoulders and aiming you towards the stove. “Well, I’ll have you know, I’ve been cooking not just one, but two options. See, I couldn’t remember if you ate meat or not, so I’ve got some… Broccoli spaghetti dish on the go on this side, and then there’s sausage and rice in this big pot here,” he points out.

“At least none of it came out of a tin, good boy,” you smirk as you take a spoon from the utensil rack on his counter and start stirring the spaghetti around to make sure it all starts cooking. You continue stirring the different pots, asking Tom if there’s anything more to be done, but he simply carries on singing along to what you recognise playing now as Take Me Home, Country Roads, taking another utensil off the rack from where he stands behind you to sing dramatically into the handle as he side-steps back and forth around you. “Can’t believe you actually listen to this stuff,” you muse, shaking your head softly.

“What’d you mean?! It’s decent,” Tom pouts.

“Tom, my granddad listens to Jim Reeves,” you point out.

“Then your granddad’s got excellent taste, don’t he,” Tom grins before putting his hands on your hips. Your heart skips several beats as he gently pushes you out of the way. “C’mon, now, let me dish up. You go sit at the table, yeah?”

Your heart soars again when you see there’s already knives and forks laid out, as well as a candle off to the side. Tom soon follows, holding both plates out to offer to you. You pick the one you prefer and set it down in front of you. Tom puts his down on the other side of the table, fishing a lighter out from his back pocket to light the candle between you. “Shit, I forgot to pour the - d’you like wine? If not, I’ve got some Coke I can put in a wine glass to look dead fancy,” he calls from the kitchen area, where his head is buried in a cupboard.

“You’ve got wine glasses?!” You ask incredulously, leaning around to look at him. “I don’t even know you anymore!”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, throwing you a sarcastic smile before holding up the wine bottle. You signal your response and he fills up both glasses accordingly. “Bought ’em to impress a girl, dunno if it was worth it yet, though.” Everything inside you feels like lead again. Of course this wasn’t anything more than platonic. As he hands you the glass, he waggles his eyebrows, “Well? Was it?”

Relieved that you had nothing to worry about after all, you grin, “Am I supposed to be the girl you’re trying to impress? Even though I’ve watched you eat worms?”

He rolls his eyes as he takes his seat again. “It was one worm and it was because shitty Damien dared me, alright?” He defends with a smile, and you laugh. “And besides, I was six! You were no saint back then either, how many times did I eat figurative shit because a certain someone kept tying my shoelaces together?!”

“I can’t believe you never even realised when I was doing it, too,” you clutch your stomach as you sigh, coming down from the raucous laughter his memory had caused you. You offer your glass out to him, “Here, to old times, eh?”

“And new,” he smiles softly, clinking his glass against yours.

Conversation never runs dry between the two of you as you finally catch up properly over everything in the past three years. You laugh, you tease, you reminisce fondly. After dinner and a store-bought dessert that Tom still puts effort into looking fancy, the two of you retire to his sofa to watch whatever’s on TV.

You deliberately sit so that there’s a little distance between you, not wanting to be presumptuous, and so when you try to sit comfortably, tucking your feet begins you, your rest your head on the back of the seat, ending up with your head just shy of brushing against Tom’s arm. You can sense him looking at you in your peripheral, and look over at him in question. When you make eye contact, he flashes his eyes at you and jerks his head to the side, silently offering you to shuffle up next to him. You do so, moving until your head ends up resting on his shoulder. He drapes his arm around you, holding onto your arm and squeezing it gently.

After a few minutes, you tilt your head up to look at him again. The faintest hint of stubble peeks through his skin, illuminated by a movie you’ve seen so often you could recite it, but it makes Tom laugh nonetheless. Eventually, he’s the one that catches you staring, and you can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

You push yourself up on the couch a little to get a better look at his face. His gaze never leaves you, but he’s looking a little lower than your eyes. As he looks up at your eyes again, he licks his lips. “Tell me now,” he starts quietly. “Tell me to stop, an’ I will.”

You softly shake your head. “Why would I do that?”

Grinning with a sigh of relief, he reaches up to hold the back of your neck and pulls you in for a kiss. It’s a long one, starting out soft but pressing harder as it carries on. You sit up on your knees to angle yourself better, holding his face in your hands so as not to break the contact with him as your lingering pecks continue, but he quickly - considering it was blindly - taps one of your legs to insinuate that he wants hold of it. You shuffle around until he can grab your ankle to pull it until you’re straddling him.

Your arms rest on his shoulders as you keep kissing him. God, you never want to stop kissing him. The hand not still holding your head snakes between you to rub at your jaw, gently massaging it open to slip his tongue between your lips. You let out a whine involuntarily and curse yourself - your ex hated noises like that - but Tom only pushes you closer to him, humming into the kiss.

Finally, the two of you break away from each other, gasping heavily for air. You catch each other's gaze and share the same ear-to-ear smile. His pupils are blown out and his already plump lips look bigger and redder than ever. You have the urge to take the lower one between your teeth, despite not knowing if he’s into that.

Before you can do anything, he’s pulling you close again, though not to kiss your lips. Holding the back of your neck deliberately, he guides you down to start kissing just below your ear. The sensation you feel from it is like no other, and you find yourself whining and whimpering even more. The sounds only encourage Tom as he finds a sweet soft spot at the side of your neck and sucks on it especially hard. You didn’t expect the low moan to roll out of your mouth, nor did you expect that to cause Tom’s hips to buck up against you.

He stops suddenly, his head whipping back to look up at you. His pupils are blown to almost the size of his irises. “I, um… I’ve never… Sorry, I… Fuck, I dunno how to say this without sounding weird…”

You smile softly at him, playing with the curls behind his ears. “It’s okay. I haven’t, either.”

His face softens. “Then everything’s as it should be, right?” He smiles up at you, his hands moving to hold your hips. Something about his touch coupled with where you are makes you want to grind against him, and so you do, holding the back of his head to pull him close enough to rest his forehead against yours. His mouth suddenly dry, he swallows again. “We should probably move this to the bed… Right? More room an’ that.”

You climb off his lap and hold out your hand. He stands and takes it, leading you to the door between you and his bed. He wrenches the door open, then pulls your arm with enough force to send you crashing against him, chest to chest, before his hands find your jaw again to bring it up to resume kissing you. You giggle against his lips, “What happened to the bed?”

Tom presses another peck onto you. “Missed kissing you already,” he grins back against yours. Neither of your hands stop moving around, exploring each others’ bodies, until you can’t bear not feeling his skin against yours a moment longer.

Moving to run your finger along his buttons, you look at him expectantly. “Can y-… Do you want…”

With his trademark smile, Tom’s gaze never leaves yours as he undoes a few buttons before grabbing the back of his collar and throwing his shirt off completely. Entranced, you stroke all over his torso before tracing invisible lines between each of his freckles. Kissing every part of you that he can reach, he eventually pipes up, “Sort of feeling underdressed here.”

You look up to grin at him, “Actually, I think you’re wearing too much.”

“Yeah, course you would,” he smirks as his hands slide up your back to the fastening of your dress. He flashes his eyes at you, a silent request, and you nod. He slowly pulls down the zip until the dress, which you were able to just slide over your head anyway, falls off of your body and pools at your ankles. Tom leans back, looking you up and down as he takes you all in. You’d feel very exposed, were it not for the look in his eye. “Fuck me,” he exclaims under his breath. “You are fucking phenomenal.”

Smiling bashfully, you pull him back towards you by the belt loops of his jeans. “Now who’s overdressed, eh?” You ask as you press yet another kiss to his lips.

“Right,” he grins mischievously, pushing you back so that you fall onto his bed, “you get down there.” Giggling, you shuffle back towards his pillows, lay back to rest on your elbows and watch him unbuckle his belt. He notices and starts humming an unintelligible song that he goofily gyrates to, pulling his belt out and waving it around. You roll around laughing as he continues putting on the most Tom-like striptease for you. Once he’s kicked his jeans off, he clambers onto the bed, crawling up until he’s hovering over you, his face not even an inch from yours. He tilts his chin up until the tip of his nose bumps past yours and trails up your bridge, before bringing it back down and rubbing it against the tip of yours again, side to side. “Never thought this day would come,” Tom admits softly.

“Me neither,” you reply back in the same tone. “Never been more glad to be wrong.”

Letting a laugh slip between his lips, Tom nods, “Me, too.” He kisses your nose before looking down your body, letting his fingertips brush against the cup of your bra. Your breath hitches at his proximity, and he looks back at you to grin, “You sure you didn’t think this was happening?”

You pout, “It’s just nice to know that I look sexy, that’s all!”

“Fuck, yes, you do,” he growls as he leans back down to kiss you, his hand gripping your covered breast. You push yourself up and he pulls back, eyebrows knitted, as you reach back awkwardly to try and unfasten your bra. With another smile, Tom reaches over and takes over, fumbling a few times before eventually getting there. Impatiently, you move your arms to throw your bra aside, not caring where it lands, and Tom’s immediately transfixed on your naked chest.

You reach up to place a finger beneath his jaw, pushing it back up closed, and giggle as soon as you move it back and his jaw drops yet again. He reaches down to grab both of them, one in each hand, and a gentle rush of euphoria sweeps through you. He kisses you again, timing the press of his lips with the squeeze of his hands.

One hand moves from massaging your breast to slowly slide down your torso. This is it, where everything comes to an end. You await with bated breath, hoping he'll just rest his hand on your tummy while he kisses you, or something. But his hands dip lower, and just as you feel him lifting the elastic of your underwear, your hand flies to his wrist, gripping tightly. He stops kissing to look you in the eye, confused concern on his face. "Y'alright? Wanna stop?"

You swallow hard and shake your head. "It's… It's okay, you don't have to - I can- want to take care of you."

The concern in his expression grows. "This is a two-way street, love. If you don't want it, I'm not having it, either."

You pout, "No! It's not that I don't want it! I- I do, so bad, I just…" You sigh. "So, the reason I've never gotten anywhere yet in this… Department, is because I… I tend to… Produce… A lot. And I get that that's, y'know, gross, so… You don't have t-”

Tom interrupts you by taking your face in his hands and kissing you sweetly. “You.” He says before kissing you again. “Are far from that.” Another kiss, and then his brow furrows. “You mean to tell me that dickhead -?” His eyebrows then raise in realisation. “When he asked if you were… ‘Disgusting’ with me, last year…” You nod slowly, and Tom turns his nose up. “Fucking wanker. Thank fuck you’re mine now, eh?” For years, you’d been used to your heart soaring just for it to drop. You feel that sensation reverse, the heavy weight of your ex’s insults flying off of you at Tom’s words, smiling back at him as his adoring eyes look down at you, his thumbs caressing your cheeks.

You slide your hands onto his shoulders with an, “Always was, really."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, taking one of your hands into both of his, holding the palm out to kiss it.

You bite your lip into a smile. "I, uh… Whenever me and my ex did used to… Try, the only thing that could get me going was…" You falter, looking up at him as he keeps kissing down your arm.

"Was what, angel? Didn't catch that last bit," he grins against your skin.

You giggle, "It was you, okay? Prick."

Tom buries his face in your neck, his mouth working the tender skin just below the mark he’d already left until you let out another moan, to which his hips roll down to grind against yours. With just two thin layers between you, you feel his thick member spread your lower lips beneath the lace of your underwear, and you instinctively rub yourself up and down his length, your legs wrapping around him. “Here, guess what,” he mutters into your ear.

“What?”

“I could only ever get off thinking of you, an’ all.” You feel his teeth against the shell of your ear as you can hear the grin in his voice. “So, does that mean…” He snakes a hand back to the elastic of your panties, working his fingertips beneath them, “That all this is for m- ohhh, fuuuuck,” he moans breathily as his fingers slide down into your wetness. “You get this turned on, just by me?” He asks, and you nod quietly, still not sure how to respond. He looks at you adoringly. “I must be pretty fucking fit, then, mustn’t I?” he asks, another, more arrogant, smile just pulling at the corners of his lips, and you laugh.

“You’re such a dickhead,” you scold, but honestly, it’s a massive comfort to you knowing that even in this most tender of moments, the dynamic of you and Tom isn’t lost. This feels good, natural, right. No need to fear anything. No need to worry. It’s just you and him. Like Tom said, as it should be.

“Oh, I am?” he asks teasingly, his expression growing more mischievous. “Even when I’m doing this?” He runs his middle finger down between your folds until it slides easily inside of you, guided by your wetness. You drop your head back into his pillows, moaning louder than ever and bucking your hips against his finger. “Fuuuck,” Tom groans, “you feel so fucking good.”

“Not too wet?” you ask quietly, and he pulls his finger back, sucks it clean while looking you dead in the eye, and then makes quick work of pulling your underwear off of you.

Sinking down to lay between your legs, he sighs dreamily. “Absolutely not.” He laps all around at the mess you’ve already made noisily, cleaning you up before tracing his tongue carefully along your slit. Just as it brushes over your clit, your breath hitches and the whine underneath it lingers. Tom looks up at you, his big brown eyes warm and safe watching your reaction as he first sucks on the sensitive area, and then laps the tip of his tongue back and forth against it. Your hand flies into his hair as you moan and you feel his lips turn up against you.

Tom blindly finds your free hand to reach up and connect his fingers with yours, a tender bond as his other hand spreads you apart. Angling his head slightly, you watch his tongue fly quickly against you, his own moans echoing yours as you push his face against you, desperately craving more, you don’t quite know in what sense, you just want pleasure, you just want him. You feel yourself gushing around him and you start to feel a little tense. Feeling the change in you, the hand holding yours squeezes, a reassurance.

He once again happily cleans up after you, muttering unintelligible sweet nothings inside of you as he does. You lock eyes with him again as he resumes sucking on your clit, moving to slide two fingers inside of you. While you certainly feel more full, it doesn’t hurt as much as you were warned it would, thanks to your… Overproduction. Instead, you feel a sensation you’ve never felt before. Stronger than you’ve ever even felt whenever you’ve pleasured yourself. You keen against his fingers, moaning and whining as he gently encourages you, “Fuck, yes, angel, that’s it… Oh, fuck, you’re squeezing around my fingers… Gonna cum all over my fingers, yeah? Do it, baby, cum for me.”

As though working on his actual command, you feel a rush through every nerve in your body, one that pushes its way from your core, spreading along your spine until it arches, across your arms until you’re grabbing the sheets, through your legs until they bend in the air above you. Not wanting to be loud enough to be heard throughout the whole park, you bite through your lip as you let out a long, high-pitched moan throughout your release.

Tom doesn’t surface for some time as he drinks you in, finally re-emerging with shining lips and wild eyes. Wiping the excess of you off with the back of his hand, he crawls back up your body to kiss you, practically pushing your entire self into the mattress. “God, you are fucking incredible,” he grins against your skin as he moves to kiss your neck, this time just under your other ear.

“I can’t even pretend the same’s not true of you, a certain something’s betrayed me, there,” you joke, and he chuckles under his breath, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Be honest with me, though. It wasn’t… Too much, was it?”

“Not in the slightest, babe,” he whispers into your ear as he presses gentle pecks along your jaw and to your lips. “I’d happily stay down there and eat you out all night long, but…” He pushes himself up to kneeling, palming himself through his boxers as he looks at you hungrily. “I am fucking aching to be inside of you,” he admits. You go to reach out as well, but he bats you away with a soft smirk, “I’m already certain I’m not gonna last long at all, sweets, give me some credit.”

“I don’t care how long you last,” you smile wistfully, watching him climb off you and slide his boxers off, hypnotised by the way his cock springs out as the elastic waistband drags past it.

He glances over as he takes a condom out of his drawer and smirks, “Take a photo, won’t ya, it’ll last longer.” You’d react, but you’re still enamoured watching him roll it down his length.

He gets back onto the bed, lining himself up at you with a look in his eye like he can’t believe it’s finally happening. You feel his tip pressing into you and gasp, your lips forming a near-perfect O before spreading out into a smile. Tom mirrors you as his hands find yours, holding them both just either side of you as he pushes in. You certainly feel the pressure of him sliding in, but it’s far from painful. His eyes study your expression with concern, obviously anticipating you to be in pain as well, but you give him a reassuring smile and a nod as he starts pulling out and pushing himself back inside of you again.

His fingers and his tongue were enough to drive you wild earlier, but nothing on this earth has ever made you feel as good as him thrusting into you. He starts off slow and gentle, but your body yearns for more. As you start to buck your hips up against him, he once again rubs the tip of his nose against yours, stroking his thumbs along the sides of your hands as he shushes you. “Patience, sweets,” he soothes. “We’ve got all summer to fuck like rabbits… But tonight, I just wanna make love to you.”

Too euphoric to filter anything you say now, you breathe out an, “I do.” Tom looks at you, his expression a mixture of deliberation and elation. You beam widely, “You may be a dickhead, but I fucking love you.”

His smile practically touches his ears as he cradles your face with an, “I love you, an’ all, you big twat,” before leaning down to kiss you passionately, moaning against your lips with every thrust. As you lose yourself in the embrace, you feel Tom slip out from you. Again, you start to worry yourself, but Tom’s assuring stroke against your cheek as he simply guides himself back in and returns to kissing you with just as much fervour puts those fears at ease.

You feel the crescendo of another orgasm looming just as Tom’s expression starts to change, as well. Wanting nothing more than to climax alongside him, you try and hurry yourself along a little by rubbing your clit in circles. His pace slows as he watches you, entranced, though your body craves him more than ever. “Fuck, please, Tom, don’t stop,” you whine, and he groans as he resumes rocking his hips into you again.

“God, you’re so fucking hot, you know that?” He asks you breathlessly. “Keep going, baby, keep showing me how you touch yourself, fuck, that’s it.”

“’M gett- fuck, I’m already close again, Tom,” you moan, and his motions lose any sense of rhythm, just trying desperately to release.

“Me too, sweets, I’m - fuck, I love you,” he groans as he snaps his hips harshly into you. That final press hits just the right spot inside of you and you feel yourself come apart for him yet again, squeezing around him as you ride your second wave of the night.

As you both come down, he presses soft kisses all over your face, down your neck, as far down your chest as he can reach while staying inside you until he finally pulls out. “I’d help you out again, but, uh, I think you’re probably a bit sensitive down there by now,” he grins, leaning up to kiss your forehead. “Let me go get rid of this thing and get you a towel, alright?” Unable to move, talk, or even really think, you simply nod at him, which earns you another breathy chuckle and another peck to the top of your head as he walks off.

He returns within a minute, and insists on gently patting you dry, the tenderness in his eyes matching his touch. You eventually muster enough energy to reach over to him and card your fingers through his curls. He leans into your touch, smiling over at you as you mutter, “I love you, too.”

“D’you know, I’ve never been happier to hear anything else.”

Once you’re all cleaned up, he lays next to you, and you lift yourself up to let his arm rest beneath your head. Curling up against his chest, you let him envelope you, enjoying the comfortable silence until he pipes up, “That was fucking amazing. Like, I knew it’d be good, but… You hear all these things about your first time. And I was always scared with Ruth that I’d mess up somehow, or I’d kill the mood, you know how daft I am. But it was all just… Part of it, weren’t it?”

You press your head into the crook of his shoulder. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I was always scared of the same, and then, well…” You gesture down between your legs.

“’Ey,” Tom scolds, reaching down to grab your wrist. “No more of that. It’s just the way your body works, yeah? And your body is fucking perfect. I’ll never stop proving that to you.”

And he really doesn’t. When you had first disclosed to Hayley that you were a virgin, the previous year when you’d come with your ex, she’d told you, “Sex is like Pringles; once you pop, you just can’t stop. At least, I think that’s the Pringles thing.” You’d always laughed that off, but now that it’s happened to you, it really is true. You wake up to it, you’re at it as soon as he’s finished his shift, just before you go to sleep. And then there’s the rest. Passing him while he’s working to sneakily grab, pinch or slap his ass cheek as you walk past, only for him to get his own back by “innocently cuddling” you from behind while also pressing himself against your own ass just once before placing a single kiss to your neck and running off. Your personal favourite is knowing all you have to do is send him a racy photo of you proving that you’re wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, and knowing that if you look out of the window you’ll see him running across the caravan park at top speed, leaping over any obstacle to then practically fly into his caravan and tackle you onto his bed.

You still try and maintain staying with Hayley for as long as possible, but with her being the evening entertainment, and her telling you that she was banning “all hanky-panky” at her place, that didn’t leave you with much else to do to spend your evenings than to hang out in Tom’s caravan with him, anyway. Not that she minded. Even when she would insist on a you-and-her day, it would mostly be to gossip about Tom, anyway.

There’s a few days when you start to wonder if perhaps Tom only wants you around for sex and nothing else. That all gets easily explained away when eventually Mother Nature clocks in for her monthly shift. You warn Tom that nothing can happen for the next week, and that you’ll probably just stay at Hayley’s again to avoid any stained sheets or exposure to sanitary products, but Tom remains as joined to your hip as ever. He buys heating pads, pain relief, snacks and drinks, extra products, anything you may need, happily letting you curl up in his lap in an attempt to soothe the cramps. A few days in, you even open up to him that you’d had doubts that he was only interested in getting into your pants, which results in many days’ worth of constant reassurance whenever you’re with him and texts of affirmations when you’re not. He certainly doesn’t turn down the gratuitous blowjob you give him as a result of being so patient on a night you know Hayley’s working especially late, though.

The last weekend of the last week of you being in Cornwall hits you like a brick wall. You’re constantly getting emotional, which only spikes every time you so much as look at Hayley or Tom. Tom reminds you that you’ll only see him in a couple of weeks anyway, once you move up north to university. And Hayley makes you both promise you’ll come back to Cornwall at every chance you can.

Tom meets you and your family in the car park of your uni halls, already waiting to help you move in. Both of your families have dinner together while yours are still in town, and as they part, they joke that the next time they’ll see each other is at your wedding. With your ex, even trying to plan to go to the same university together seemed daunting and unnatural. But you laugh along with Tom, safe in the knowledge that your collective parents’ joke is 100% truthful.

Age 19

After a year of university, you decide to move out of your dorm and into a place with Tom. Your first housemate, you love to remind him, though that spikes up a slightly more awkward conversation while cuddled up on the sofa. “So, we were first for a lot of things.”

“Well, yeah, that’s kind of our thing,” Tom teases.

“Piss off,” you scoff, elbowing him in the side as he laughs. “I mean, we were for pretty much everything, but not where it counts. You weren’t my first boyfriend, and I wasn’t your first, either. So, like, in terms of the way our relationship goes on through the years… I dunno, just sucks a bit that that’s like one of the only things we don’t have now.”

Tom deliberates for a second. “The way I like to see it,” he starts. “I consider you my first for a lot of sort of extraneous things, little things that add up to make us, us. But in terms of our relationship, it’s easy enough to explain.” You look over at him in confusion, and he takes the opportunity to take your chin between his finger and thumb to grin at you, pulling you close to mutter three words to you before pressing a long and sweet kiss to your lips: “You’re my only.”

#tom grant #tom grant x reader #tom grant x you #tom grant imagine #tom grant fanfiction #tom grant fanfic #tom grant fic #tom make up #tom make up x reader #tom make up x you #tom make up imagine #tom make up fanfiction #tom make up fanfic #tom make up fic #*myfics #fic: tom g

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blackberrysummerblog · 9 months ago

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So many more than six sentences and not quite Sunday

On the heels of my sad!post, here’s something hopefully more fun: a bit from my never-ending WIP, the married-bythe-crucible au I’ve had in drafts for over a year. This snippet isn’t newly written and I’m crossing my fingers that I haven’t posted it before. I’m actually just going to post a huge fat chunk so there will probably be at least something new. Aaaand if I’ve posted the whole snippet before, no I didn’t 😢 It’s under a cut for mild spice. Thanks for the Wednesday tags @youarenevertooold @aristocratic-otter @confused-bi-queer @artsyunderstudy and @valeffelees!

Snow runs into the bedroom ahead of me, turning at the last moment to hurl himself onto his back on the bed. He’s cackling wildly. “Their faces!” he wheezes, clutching his stomach and kicking his heels on the duvet. His wings stretch up and out, then curl in and fold themselves neatly.

I lock the door and cast a silencing spell around the room.

“Oh Merlin.” He pushes up on his elbows to look at me, his eyes shining with mirth. “When you came out with, “the pitter patter of little claws on the Italian marble’...” He drops back onto the bed and gasps for breath.

Smirking, I approach slowly, acutely aware that neither of us is wearing any more than short swim trunks and t-shirts, and the paltry quantity of fabric is suddenly seeming far less than adequate to keep us out of mischief. “It’s not that they believed any of it,” I tell him, reaching out to place a hand on his bare foot. He’s still cooler than usual, from the pool. I love him singularly.

Snow must have closed his eyes for a moment, because when he lifts his head again to regard me, he’s squinting at me with just one eye. “It’s that you sided with me. To make a joke at their expense. They’re gobsmacked.”

Crowley. Simon Snow is completely thick, but now this. He’s understood exactly. “It’s unforgivable,” I murmur, but I’m smiling, partly because he’s laughing again and it’s contagious, and partly because I’m stroking the top of his foot with my thumb, and it’s skin touch close Simon love and unbearable more ache die. I’m falling into myself while being inescapably yanked toward him, as surely as a Crucible joining.

I climb up onto the bed and Simon's feet slide apart readily, making room for me to crawl between his legs. I do, putting a hand on one bent knee while pressing a kiss to a mole on the other. Snow’s eyes are closed but he smiles in a way that almost seems smug; he wriggles back and forth for a moment as though preening under my attention. “You like that?” I murmur, deliberately keeping my eyes above the drawstring of his (my) exceedingly small swimming trunks. He whines when I push his shirt up as far as it will go and begin my ascent, one mole at a time: one on his hip, two like small round twins just beside his navel, and on and on. He hitches at each touch of my lips, but otherwise remains silent until I reach the one right at the edge of his left nipple.

“Baz,” he whines, reaching for me. And Crowley, I’m weak, because I lower myself onto his chest and nuzzle into his neck, kissing and mouthing at any available space I find. He’s everything. I can’t believe that this is a thing people feel, this all-consuming need for another person, and that he’s letting me be this near to him. One of my hands cups the back of his head while the other grips his waist, kneading him as he squirms beneath me. “Baz,” he says again.

I push myself up, hating myself for the wreck I must look. “What, Snow?”

His cheeks redden, and of course that only makes me want him more. Everything he does makes me want him more. “I just like saying your name,” he stammers, eyes shifting away from my face. “It makes me feel...closer to you.”

“Oh.” I hear the softening in my own voice.

“Baz?”

“Yes?”

“I like you a lot.” It’s a small statement, murmured quietly, yet it feels momentous. “Really, really a lot.” Simon reaches up, taking my face between his hands. They’re warm now, I notice dimly. “No one’s ever treated me the way you do. Like I’m...valuable. I know that sounds stupid,” he adds defensively, his fingers tensing along my cheekbones as he juts his chin up at me.

Valuable. Treasured. Cherished. Beloved. All true, and all so difficult to surmount the sincerity of; it may well kill me. But I lower my face to kiss the side of his eye; as it flutters closed I feel his lashes against my cheek. “You are valuable, Simon,” I choke out, despising every word and the vulnerability the confession inflicts upon me. “You’re the most precious thing I’ve ever known.”

His smile feels legendary, the way it lights me up from the inside. I’m so hopelessly, hopelessly lost. And then his legs wrap around the back of my knees, followed by his tail, pressing our hips close together. Oh.

Have a great week everyone! No pressure tagging: @rimeswithpurple @papierhaikuphoto @nightimedreamersworld @aristocratic-otter @valeffelees @c0nsumemy5oul @alexalexinii @prettygoododds @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @nausikaaa @thewholelemon @supercutedinosaurs @youarenevertooold @cows4247 @larkral @confused-bi-queer @asocialpessimist @aceumbrellaheroes @cutestkilla @hushed-chorus @stitchy-queerista @ic3-que3n @raenestee @bookish-bogwitch @forabeatofadrum @ivelovedhimthroughworse @orange-peony @thehoneyedhufflepuff @bazzybelle @theotherhufflepuff @iamamythologicalcreature @ionlydrinkhotwater @fatalfangirl @facewithoutheart @palimpsessed @letraspal @stardustasincocaine @whogaveyoupermission @onepintobean @wellbelesbian @j-nipper-95 @ileadacharmedlife @imagineacoolusername @sailorblossoms

#six sentence sunday #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #carry on #simon snow series #married by the crucible #crucible au #au #wip

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pastel-paramour · 2 years ago

Text

Beast in the Moonlight

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.6k

Tags/Content Warnings: Atsushi x F!Reader, Were-Tiger!Atsushi, BLOOD, EXTENSIVE INJURY, Biting, Scratching, Inhuman Genitalia (Atsushi), Rut (and by extension, implied breeding, though not specifically mentioned), Dubious Consent (if you squint), Fangs, Claws, Pinning, Oral (Fem!Receiving), Unprotected Sex (no pregnancy), but also fluff!

Seriously guys, he is a were-tiger, doing tiger things with tiger parts. Read at your own discretion. Just know that they love each other very much, and everyone makes it to the end!

Dried blood stuck in the crevices in your skin.

Has anyone seen Atsushi?

Deep red and purple bruises mottled your shoulders, chest and collar bones.

No, I haven’t seen him for about a week? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him or his lady…

Shining spit slicked off sharp fangs in time with ragged panting above you.

Dazai, go out and find him, he’ll need to be here for this.

Your back bowed away from the floor, mouth agape in a silent wail as another, agonizing orgasm ripped through you.

Do I have to?..

You’d lost count of the days and nights. Atsushi’s punishing thrusts into you now the only thing keeping time.

You vouched for him, he’s your responsibility to manage.

Fine…

Someone had to come looking for you soon…

***

Sunlight came streaming in through your shop windows, blanketing it in glittering gold. You straightened up the blooms in a crystal vase to put into the refrigerator at the front of the shop when you heard the bell on the door ding.

“Oh sorry!” You said, “We’re not quite open yet!” you flicked your sleeve off your wrist and checked the time. It was five minutes past 8. “Well nevermind!” You chuckled, a light, rosy blush dusting your cheeks, “I guess we are!”

You finally turned to look at the guests who’d entered your little shop, and found Dazai, tall and lean, the morning light casting a glow behind him.

“My darling belladonna!” He cheered, sweeping up your hand into a chaste kiss. Your face flushed again. You knew this man was bad news romantically, but he did always know how to make you feel special, “How are you this morning?”

“Oh, I’m-” you trailed off when you noticed that Dazai wasn’t alone. Next to him was a young man you’d never met before, not older than 20, if even that. His clothes were a bit of a patchwork version of a working uniform, and his belt was much, much too long. His hair was a peculiar shade of gray, almost white, and his eyes… Where Dazai was rimmed in the yellow light of the morning, this one’s eyes held it captive.

“W-who’s your friend, ‘Samu?”

Dazai briefly looked perplexed, like he’d forgotten anyone was with him at all until he looked over; “Oh!” He clapped as he righted himself, “How rude of me! This fine young man is the newest member to join the ADA. Say hello, Atsushi!” Dazai clapped him rather harshly on the back, to which he seemed to startle and bend sharply at the waist.

“Good morning, ma’am! My name is Atsushi Nakijima! It’s nice to meet you!”

You were briefly stunned, then your hand flew to your mouth as you tried to contain a giggle. “It’s nice to meet you, Atsushi..” You said before giving your name in turn.

It had been a while since you had a visit from the ADA. Normally it was Naomi and the other girls that stopped by, picking up fresh blooms for the office, very occasionally Kunikida would make a visit personally, picking up a polite arrangement, probably as an apology gift on Dazai’s behalf. Dazai rarely used to stop in until he met you, then it seemed like he went out of his way to visit once or twice when time allowed, always flirting and chatting you up. You didn’t mind. He was always pleasant, if a little forward, but his demeanor always seemed to have a bit of a sad cast, like paper curling at the edges, or a petal just on the right side of wilting.

Atsushi had a similar sad look, only, instead of a flower nearing the end of its life, he was more like a sprout that hadn’t had enough water or sunshine, bowing under its own weight, but given the proper attention…

You misplaced your hand reaching for something across the counter and managed to tip over another vase, spilling water and flowers everywhere. You cringed, curling into yourself, waiting for the crash, but when you un-scrunched your eyes you saw Atsushi knelt on the floor, the distinctly unbroken curves of the vase in his hands, and petals clinging to the silver strands of his hair.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry!” You clambored to the floor to start picking up the scattered stems when Atsushi held one out to you, a long stem tipped with the playful pink ruffles of a carnation, all his nervous energy dissipated holding that flower out to you, washed away by the rising sun. You completely missed the small smirk curling the edges of Dazai’s lips, as well as the chime of the bell as he slipped out of your store.

***

You went out with Atsushi several times since that day, to markets and coffee shops, your sundresses fluttering in the breeze, wrapping around your legs or lifting in just such a way that Atsushi tried very politely not to notice. You’d hold hands all the way back to his office, even being invited in to say hello to the other members of the ADA before excusing yourself back to your store.

The first time you made love to Atsushi, it was in your apartment. There was no glistering golden light like that first day, but the more characteristic gray skies of Yokohama weren’t quite so oppressive that day. The room was cast in the bluish hues of early morning, and you sat on the floor by your window, sipping your coffee and watching the city wake up.

Atsushi crawled across the floor, between your legs, his eyes still that same shade of molten honey as he leaned in and kissed you. This kiss wasn’t like the sweet pecks he’d leave on your lips at the end of a date, there was something lingering, searching in it, in the way his tongue dipped out to trace the pout of your bottom lip, the indulgent sound of your lips parting and your mingling breath.

Then he did it again, and again, and longer this time as he wound his hand around your waist to pull you close to him. You nimbly untucked his buttons from their buttonholes before skating your nails down his bare chest until you met the waistband of his pants and undid his fly the same way. You slipped your thumbs through his belt loops, pushing him back until he sat against the floor and you tugged the bottoms down.

You traced the outline of his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers, heart leaping into a gallop at the way his breath hitched in his throat, syrupy need dripping into the well between your thighs. You crawled over his body until you were straddled over his hips. He let his own hands wander up your oversized sweatshirt, tucking it up over your breasts so he could palm them, flicking his thumbs over the furled peaks of your nipples, his lip tucked between his teeth as you mewled into his touch.

You reached behind you, untucked him from his boxers, and easily sank yourself down onto his lap with a gasp. One hand flew to your hip with a groan, his legs already shaking with effort to restrain himself. You leaned forward, pushed your chest against him.

“It’s okay, Atsushi…” You whispered against his parted lips before you kissed him again, wanton and needy while you ground your hips down on him. You broke your kiss with a gasp when he started to rock into you, filling and hitting all the best parts of you. You threw your head back, relishing in the feeling of him. His arms wound their way around your waist again, pulling you closer, closer to him so he could breathe in the scent of your skin, taste the salt on it as he licked a stripe up the valley of your cleavage. Your nails raked through his hair, seeking their tangled purchase as you rode him, the cant of his hips rubbing taut circles over your clit.

Your name tumbled from his lips, “I’m gonna-”

“I know…” You breathed, “It’s okay, baby, I’m safe, we’re safe.”

With that, you felt him twitch inside you as he shot thick and hot inside you. The sensation of him fucking you through his release made you wind tighter around him, until the chord in you snapped, and you came down shuddering on his cock until you were both holding each other, still panting with him softening inside you.

***

The seasons came and went, and the gray sleet of the winter was slowly threatening to melt into spring. Your busy season kind of snuck up on you with all the time you were spending with Atsushi, although you noticed he hadn’t quite been himself as of late. When you had finally wrapped up your Valentine’s day in the shop, you untucked a hidden bouquet of your best and brightest blooms and made the short walk down to the ADA offices.

When you walked through the door, however, everyone seemed surprised to see you there.

“Where’s Atsushi?” you asked.

“He isn’t in today, we honestly thought he’d have plans with you?” Tanazaki said.

“I thought we did…” You looked down at the flowers in your arms and chewed the inside of your cheek, the first ache of tears already stinging your eyes, “Well, thanks anyway…” You turned and hurried back out the door, despite several of the detectives rising from their seats after you.

Night had fallen by the time you reached the dorms, stepping over the lazily rippling puddles reflecting the yellow glow of the street lamps.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The door snicked open, though only part way. Even so, Atsushi couldn’t hide those liquid gold eyes from you.

“Hey you…” You greeted sadly.

“Hey…” Atsushi replied, still holding the door barely open.

“I got you something…” You held the bouquet in view of the door, trying to hide your dismay that the flowers were already starting to droop; “Can I… come in?”

Atsushi chewed his lip, torn between his own politeness and… something else. Ultimately, as it normally did, the former won out, and the door creaked open the rest of the way. You stepped in, halting just inside the door and shuffling awkwardly.

“Thank you.” Atsushi murmured, taking the flowers you brought to the kitchen and placing them into a jar of water. The flickering fluorescent somehow made the rest of the apartment seem darker, save for the light of the full moon filtering through the window. You stepped out of your shoes with an outstretched hand,

“Atsushi, are you-”

Your words died in your mouth when he flinched away from you.

“Did- did I do something wrong?” “No, it’s just… Now’s not a good time.”

Something sharp gnawed at the inside of your chest. Not a good time? You’d had these plans for weeks.

“Atsushi, can you please just tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, okay?” He snapped. If you looked closely, you could see the light sheen of sweat across his forehead.

“Are you sick? If that’s it, you can tell me!” You reached out a hand again to feel his forehead, only for him to grab your wrist.

“Yes. That’s it. If that is it, will you leave?”

“If that’s it then I want to take care of you! Why’re you being this way?”

“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need you to get out of here!” Atsushi yanked your arm, his grip tightening painfully around your wrist.

“Atsushi!” You ground out, “You’re hurting me!”

In an instant, faster than you could think, your hand snapped out and a sharp smack rang through the darkness.

You could hear a feather fall in the silence that stretched out between you two, your thudding heartbeat the only thing sounding in your ears. You weren’t sure how long the moment was before you spoke,

“Atsushi, I- I’m so sor-“ you yelped when Atsushi crowded you against the counter, face hidden in your neck and his hand smoothing softly over your wrist.

“M’sorry… M’sorry…” he murmured against your neck, setting aloft little flutters in your belly.

“Atsushi..” you breathed, “you’re not the one who-“

Your sentence again died on your lips when his clasped over the curve where your neck met your shoulder. He was so close. So close. So close you could feel him, hard and rutting against your thigh. Confused as you were, the feeling of him wanting, needing you so badly sent a shiver of warmth to the pit of your belly and between your legs. You tangled your hands through silver strands while he sucked on your neck.

“F-fuck… you smell so good…”

Your eyes flicked open at that particularly odd statement, you opened your mouth to say something, but a pained yelp crowded out the words as Atsushi sank his teeth into you. Sharp teeth, followed immediately by a harsh, bristled tongue lapping at the warm blood that had begun to ooze from the bite.

“A-Atsushi?” You stammered. He raised his face to meet yours, and where there were once sweet, sad, golden eyes, there was now the harsh and calculating stare of a predator. His pupils narrowed to little more than slits, and his breath went ragged.

“I’m sorry…” he huffed, before he reached up between you, gripped the fabric of your shirt in his fists and rent it apart like he was tearing tissue paper.

“Atsushi!” You scolded. He was long gone, though, lost in dressing your neck and chest with rough, wet kisses. Goosebumps pricked your flesh the further down your belly he went, and you flushed when he tucked his head under your skirt. He came face to face with your clothed pussy, pressed his face to the quickly moistening fabric and breathed in deeply, exhaling in something between a moan and a growl that had your blush deepening dramatically.

As quickly as he’d done your shirt, he tucked his hands under your skirt, and again the popping sound of seams tearing filled the night air. What followed was nearly enough to make your knees buckle.

A broad, coarse tongue lapped a stripe over your cunt, finishing with a flick over your clit. Your head rolled back;

“Oh fuck, Atsushi!” You found your fingers again twisted in his hair, tighter now than you’d ever dared before, pulling him closer to you. Embarrassing as it was, you couldn’t stop your hips from bucking against and riding his tongue.

“Fuck, don’t stop. Don’t you dare fucking stop…” you panted, unsure if he even heard you, if you even cared. His arms snaked up around your thighs, his fingers pressed dimples into the pliant flesh of your ass. Just as you were about to crest the edge, long crescent claws snicked into your flesh, and Atsushi used his fortified grip on you to pull you along his tongue, back and forth, rubbing a rough circuit over your clit. The rush of pain, of Atsushi’s tongue against your cunt, of your orgasm crashing over you had your muscles seizing until you shook with a whine, “Fuck~”

Atsushi gripped your hips as your knees buckled underneath you, rising to meet your lips. His cock was rigid in his pants, and hot against your thigh as he rubbed himself against you in earnest, no doubt trying to relieve the ache while he kissed you.

“Fuck.. Fuck I’m so sorry…” He huffed against your mouth between sloppy kisses, “I can’t… I can’t…” He couldn’t seem to get the words out, instead hauling you up by your ass onto the counter, following shortly after, caging you in onto your back with trembling arms. He yanked roughly at his belt and fly until the offending articles were shifted down over his hips.

The first thing you felt was warmth, and your head fell back against the counter, eyes closed. Though your eyebrows knit together when he slid against your slick slit, and where you expected smooth skin, maybe engorged veins, instead you felt ridges, dimples and spines. Your eyes flew open, suddenly aware of just how tight your skin felt, how warm the room was, how close Atsushi was as he bowed his head, panting in the crook of your neck, his fangs grazing the tender bite from before. You shivered as something wet trickled across your neck.

You carded your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, twisting and untwisting them.

“Go ahead, baby…” you breathed, but Atsushi shook his head and said nothing, only continued threading his cock through your pussy. Your body surged, your fingers knotted harshly in his hair, “Fuck me, Atsushi.”

What fell from your lips next was something between a choked moan and a scream as he bit down on the flesh of your shoulder again, drawing fresh blood and another rush of endorphins to flood your brain while he shoved himself inside your drooling cunt. You felt every inch of texture as he fucked into you with absolute reckless abandon, every ridge and crevice and spine rubbing up against your velvety walls. The hooked end of his cock seated itself deep inside you, so deep you felt the muscles in the deepest parts of your belly cramp in protest.

Your hands fell weakly from his hair, his own quick to press your wrists into the counter while he fucked you, your pussy still wet from your previous release, and another almost embarrassingly close.

Why? Why were you reacting this way? Shouldn’t you be frightened? Running for your life?

Your mind sloshed through these questions, swiftly melting between the pain and pleasure of Atsushi’s claiming bite and his massive, inhuman cock slamming into you. When you felt his claws bite into your skin again, your cunt snapped shut around him and gushed around his cock. At your suddenly tightening pussy, he released your shoulder to heave ragged breaths against your abused skin. You felt his hips stutter, and his cock swell as he came. He came and came and came until you felt it spill out around him spattering your thighs and dribbling down the crack of your ass as he fucked it all into you.

He stilled above you, breathing still heavy and saying nothing. At length, he pushed himself off of you. The ache started to settle into your shoulder, so you rolled your head weakly to the side to look at him. His eyes were closed, probably exhausted by the way he still seemed to be catching his breath. He gripped the collar of his shirt and yanked it over his head, the sheen of sweat of catching the moonlight, highlighting the toned planes of his chest and abs, shadowing at his hip bones with his pants still slung low over them, granting a full view of his slowly softening cock. He didn’t even bother to slip out of his pants, or even acknowledge you at all before he collapsed onto his couch, unconscious.

Your own chest heaved as you turned your head toward the ceiling again. You brought shaking fingers to your neck and winced, pulling away to reveal bright red blood that dripped down your palm.

You had to take care of this. Now.

You pushed yourself up, your muscles trembled in protest, but you got yourself off the counter, the fresh blood smearing with you, dark in the blue light of the moon. Though you had to catch yourself on the edge with your good arm, you were able to limp around to the bathroom. You flinched at the light when you flicked it on, but once your vision adjusted, you surveyed the damage.

Deep purple, almost black bruises spread from your neck to your collarbone, blooming like grisly petals around the bloody red pistil across your shoulder, dripping down your chest. You swallowed though your mouth felt like it was full of cotton, and brought still trembling hands up to the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. You rifled around, cursed when several bottles and containers clattered into the sink, but eventually you were able to produce some disinfectant, cotton balls, even a gauze pad, though it would be too small to cover the full extent of the damage.

Where the fuck was Dazai when you needed him?

You hissed at the burn of the disinfectant spreading through the wounds, but the blood wiped away from your chest, what had dripped down your legs you decided to leave alone, applying small plasters over each cut, gnarled and angry from being used as a handhold for you. When you were done and satisfied, you leaned against the counter and gave your reflection a weary glare. A wave of exhaustion swept through you, fair enough you supposed, and you were sure Atsushi would have a (doubtlessly tearful) explanation for you in the morning.

That’d have to be enough. You left the bathroom, not even bothering to turn off the light, and shuffled back to the living room until you found the first soft surface you could, and collapsed face down into a somehow overstuffed and deflated beanbag, slamming almost immediately into a deep sleep.

When you awoke, the moon was still high in the sky, a long way from morning. You’d moved little from where you’d fallen asleep, only your hips were hiked up, skirt falling over your back and Atsushi behind you, gripping the plush cheeks of your ass, spreading and squeezing them.

“Atsushi?” You groaned. You tried to turn over, only to be reprimanded by your aching shoulder. Then you stilled at the feeling of Atsushi’s thumb circling your clit. You moaned into the touch, pushed back against it until the now familiar warmth of his dick pressed against your ass.

“So ready for me… Just for me…” he murmured, not to you, more like at you, in your direction as he thumbed idly up and down your pussy, still dripping with his cum and your new wave of arousal.

He sucked in a sharp breath as his hand flew to your hips again, shifting the tip of his cock to slot at your entrance. He didn’t sheath his claws, just used them again to pierce your skin with new holes, pulling you onto his dick with a guttural grunt as he punched the air from your lungs. You couldn’t push yourself onto your elbows, so you rocked back on your knees to meet him as best you could, but ultimately gave up and let him fuck himself into your pussy, slamming against your g spot, and rubbing every spot in every right way.

You let your face fall into the cushion, reveling in the way he filled you. It made you feel dirty, being fucked like that, but something about it set your blood on fire. You gasped at the feel of his arm around your waist, pulling you up against his chest while he continued to rut into you, his nose nuzzled against your neck, breathing in the salty scent of your skin. He pulled away suddenly, almost like he was offended at what he found there. He removed one hand from your hip and reached for your shoulder, snatching away the bandage you’d applied there and earning a yelp from you.

His grip was iron around your waist, his free hand coming to rest on your chest. He licked a long stripe up the column of your neck, still unmarked on that side, until he kissed the crook of that shoulder, only to immediately follow with his teeth again.

You were dizzy with the feeling, a strangled gasp all that you could force out as he fucked you harder with his teeth in you.You traitorous cunt clenched, and Atsushi growled around your flesh, his claws sinking into your chest, raking long, oozing stripes down your front. You cried out, eyes burning with tears as they ran down your cheeks. But God it was so good…

Syrupy sobs bubbled from your lips, rippling into the night until they were cut off by Atsuhi’s fingers flying to your mouth. You choked on them briefly until your tongue idled over his knuckles, the coppery taste of your blood painting your tongue as you avoided cutting yourself further on his claws, their cruel points pressed threateningly into the tender flesh lying just underneath your tongue, making saliva pool at the root of your tongue until you had to flex it, push the spit out the sides of your mouth so you didn’t choke, until it dripped down your chin and across the welling blood on your chest, tracking it down your body like grisly watercolor.

Atsushi’s hips snapped into you in that same way you knew he did when he was about to cum. Even if he didn’t say anything, even if he left all this evidence of such violence on your body, you knew it was still Atsushi. Your breath came in time with his thrusts, and you could barely find the words, especially around his fingers,

“C-cum… Please…”

You weren’t sure at this point if you were pleading for you or for him, but one arm gripped your waist, the other falling across your chest as he held you to him and came inside you again, surprisingly just as much as last time. Only now, he didn’t stop, he didn’t pull out. He held you there, and slowly pumped into you, fucking you through your orgasm. Even when he let you go and you fell forward onto the beanbag chair, sweating and panting. His hand trailed up your back, between your shoulder blades to the back of your neck, pushing down the whole way until you were pressed into a pretty, perfect arch for him to trace all the way back down, leaving raised pink welts across your back where his fingers had been.

He adjusted himself, supporting his weight on the middle of your back, pressing down on your ribs as he continued to buck into you. The position made you ache, like you couldn’t get enough air, and those damned claws hooked into you at such a harsh angle, all you could do was cry pitiful tears while he huffed over you,

“One more… Please just one fucking more…”

***

Dazai hopped up the stairs two at a time, the blue-grey light of the coming dawn betraying that it was, unfortunately, a workday. Another that it seemed clear that Atsushi was planning on missing. Dazai was all for playing hooky, but this was drastically cutting into his schedule, between slacking off and dicking around, he just didn’t have time for this.

He rounded the corner and stopped at Atsushi’s door, giving the door the old rat-a-tat-tat,

“Oh Atsushi~” He singsonged, “Wakey-wakey eggs and bakey…” But no one came. His face fell, that needle in his mind dropping right back into the executive groove.

Trap. Kidnapped. Ransom. Murdered.

No. There’s no blood, or sign of struggle. No traces of explosives or poison, unfortunately…

Dazai listened carefully through the door. He didn’t hear voices, or the telltale sounds of suited men turning the place over. Instead he heard the rhythmic waves of heavy breaths, followed by a loud growl like cracking thunder.

Fucking shit…

He slammed his shoulder through the door, the doorjamb splintering and flying into the entryway. And the sight he was met with was truly something to behold.

First of all, you were naked, something Dazai had previously only dreamed of; your eyes half closed, tracking shadows over your tear-streaked cheeks. Not an inch of skin unmarred from your neck to your breasts as they rebounded with each punishing thrust. He couldn’t even say that the amount of blood seeping into your skin hadn’t entered those late night fantasies.

And then there was Atsushi… one hand around your neck, cruel talons piercing the skin and drawing new rivulets of blood to run down your collarbone; his other arm about your waist, holding you up since you couldn’t seem to do so under your own power, and rutting into you like some kind of fuck doll. Your eyes rolled over to him, hazy and struggling to focus as your mouth hung slack in a silent moan.

“Jesus!” Dazai started, bounding across the room, arm outstretched. Atsushi choked as Dazai’s palm met his throat, toppling him to the ground as you fell to the floor with a thud. His eyes were wild, then distant, until finally they closed, his claws and teeth retracting to their normal state. “Yeah, whatever that was, why don’t you sleep it off, buddy…”

“Don’t…” Dazai heard you whisper hoarsely behind him, “Don’t hurt’im…”

He turned on his heel to address the next priority. He flipped you over onto your back, and as he inspected the damage, his lips pressed into a hard line and he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. Your skin was perforated with what could have been mistaken for small knicks if not for the thick tracks of dried blood trailing from them. Still, they were nothing compared to the deep gouges criss-crossing your chest and back, some of them scabbed but most of them either made or reopened recently enough to still be oozing blood. Some of them looked like they’d been at least somewhat treated, but eventually you must have given up trying.

Christ, you weren’t just fucked. You were fucking mauled…

At length, Dazai huffed a chuckle through his nose, a smirk curling his lips as he said, “You little freak… Had I known you had it in you, I’d have made you mine a long time ago…” He swept a curl away from your face, and tucked it behind your ear. You responded with your own dazed laugh before your face went ashen, and your head rolled limply to the side.

“Fucking shit.” Dazai cursed before he strode to the bathroom. Open packages of gauze and plasters littered the counter and the floor, disinfectant containers practically turned inside out in the sink, bright red streaks standing stark against the white counter and walls. He returned with a swiftness, his heart breaking into a steady trot as he knelt next to you.

“Alright pretty girl, you can’t die on me yet.” He muttered, shrugging out of his coat and untucking his shirt to reveal a wide expanse of bandages zigzagged over his torso. He untucked one end and started unwinding his body.

“Damn it Odasaku… Could have had her bleeding and broken on my dick, but ohhh nooo, ‘that’s what evil people do’...” He grumbled to himself before taking the bandage between his teeth and tearing it. He untucked his phone, and with a few swipes he cradled it against his shoulder as he applied the gauzy strip to the worst of your wounds, the clean white darkening uselessly. The phone only droned half a ring before the line clicked open.

“Yosano…” Dazai greeted cheerfully, “How do you feel about making a house call…”

***

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, nearly drowning out the late morning sunlight slanting through the windows. The tap tap tap of Yosano’s toe keeping time to the thudding of Atsushi’s heart. She was the one to break the silence first.

“Fascinating.”

Atsushi’s face crinkled in confusion, “W-what?”

“Just, I’ve never seen anything like it. Like, sure, you’re a were-tiger, but I never thought an ability would have this much of an affect on your physiology.”

“Um… thank you?”

She leaned forward suddenly, nearly toppling Atsushi out of his seat.

“Let me study you!”

“What?! No!”

“Oh come on…” Yosano whined.

Before Atsushi could reiterate his absolute refusal,

“I hate to interrupt…” Dazai droned, leaning against the door frame, “I just thought you’d like to know that she’s awake.”

Atsushi leapt up from his stool so fast, it was still spinning as he raced down the hallway. He almost skidded right past your room until he saw you, sitting up, gazing out the window. Despite the bandages wrapping you up from your neck and disappearing beneath your gown, you were still so pretty. Where the light in Yosano’s office was sterile, artificial, the sun gleaming into your room seemed to curl around you.

Even though Atsushi tried to tip toe into the room, you knew he was there, and turned to him with a wan smile plastered helplessly on your lips.

“Hey you…”

“Hey…”

Atsushi was curled into himself, looking far too much like Dazai’s withering petal, and not nearly close enough to the flourishing sprout you had seen him become. He was well and truly eaten up by what had happened, just like you knew he’d be.

You reached out and patted the empty space at the edge of your bed, a seat which he took, however hesitantly. A long silence stretched between you, until you both opened your mouths to speak only to devolve into embarrassed chuckles,

“You first…” You nodded for him to go ahead.

He chewed his words, no doubt a storm of guilt whirling and thrashing inside him.

“I… don’t even know how to tell you how sorry I am. It feels so stupid even saying it out loud, I-”

“Nothing to apologize for.” You cut in.

For the first time since he sat down, he looked at you, eyes wide and searching.

“You could have died.”

“But I didn’t.” You said, “And you could die any day, being a part of the ADA. I mean, have you seen Yokohama?”

You chuckled, but trailed off when you were the only one laughing. You placed a hand on his knee and said,

“Listen… It’s something that’s never happened before. Now we know and we can be better prepared for next time.”

“Next time?” Atsushi looked up at you gain, and was equal amounts horrified and intrigued by the mischievous glint in your eye.

“When do you think we can do that again?..”

#bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #atsushi x you #atsushi x y/n #atsushi x reader #bsd smut #you're a were-tiger #grow some were-balls #paramour writes

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vodika-vibes · 11 months ago

Note

How’s about some Waxer with “Finger tracing their bottom lip, eyes never leaving their parted lips, before meeting them in the middle again, because one time isn’t enough”? Please and thank you~~ 😊

Once Isn't Enough

Summary: You have a date with Waxer

Pairing: Clone Trooper Waxer x Reader

Word Count: 1010

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: Sorry that this took so long! I hope you like it~

You’re nervous.

But only a little. You’ve never been on a blind date before, but your friend swears, up and down, that you’ll like the man she’s setting you up with.

You’re a little doubtful, she doesn’t exactly have a good track record with this kind of stuff, but you’re giving her the benefit of the doubt. With the knowledge that if this date goes wrong, you’ll never have to see him again.

You nervously twist this way and that, checking your outfit for anything that might make it look bad, and once you’re sure that your outfit is as perfect as you could possibly make it, you slide your shoes on and head out the door.

You agreed to meet your date near the fountain at a park nearby, and, well, you’re going to be early, but that’s okay.

It’s about fifteen minutes later when someone approaches you. He calls your name, and you look up at him curiously. He’s taller than you, with a shaved head and a goatee. “I’m Waxer.” He says as he holds his hand out for you to shake.

You greet him with a warm smile as you take his hand, “It’s very nice to meet you,”

“Likewise,” Waxer says cheerfully, “Honestly, I wasn’t sure you actually existed.”

You shoot him a puzzled look, “Well, it’s not exactly normal for someone to approach me and as if I would be willing to go on a blind date with her best friend.” Waxer clarifies.

And you laugh, “Yes, she’s like that. She’s been trying to set me up on dates for months now.”

“Yeah? You have another date after this one?”

You shake your head, “No. Actually this is the first time I’ve taken her up on her offer of a date.” Your smile becomes slightly shy, “I had a good feeling about this one.”

Waxer looks surprised for a moment, and then a delighted smile crosses his face. He sketches a bow, “Well then, I shall aspire to not disappoint you.”

“I’m quite sure that you won’t.” You step closer to him, “So, where are we headed?”

“Ah, well…” He pulls a pair of tickets out of his pocket, “Your friend mentioned that you’re a botanist, so I bought us tickets for the botanical gardens.”

Your face brightens, “Oh! I love the gardens. And everything will be blooming at this time of year. Have you ever been?”

“Ah, no. This would be my first visit.” He slides the tickets back into his pocket, and you hook your arm with his, hesitant at first and then a little more confident when he doesn’t pull away.

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m something of an expert.”

“Well, aren’t I a lucky man?” He murmurs with a small smile, “I’m sure you won’t lead me astray.”

Several hours later, you’re already planning a second date with Waxer. He’s been a perfect gentleman, and he actively listens to you when you talk, asking questions and making comments about whatever you’re talking about.

You can honestly say that you’ve never been on a better date. Which is kind of sad, if you think about it too much.

He doesn’t talk much about his job, which is fair, though he did mention that he was part of the 212. Mostly, though, Waxer spent his time talking about himself and his brothers, and about weird situations that he’s been in while deployed that have nothing to do with the war itself.

And in turn, you talk about yourself and your friends, as well as your hobbies and your career. He seemed really interested in your family, when you mentioned them, and his sheepish admittance that he doesn’t know what a proper family is like, has you planning on introducing him to your parents sooner rather than later.

And before you know it the majority of the day has gone by, and you’re…not ready for the date to end yet.

“I’ll, uh…walk you home, if you like?” Waxer offers as he smooths his hand over his head, and then rubs the back of his neck.

“I’d like that.” You reply with an easy smile, as you fall into step next to him. It takes almost all of your courage to take his hand and thread your fingers with his, but you manage it. And you’re rewarded with a gentle smile, and a squeeze of your fingers.

And you’re halfway home, when you come to a decision.

Slowly you stop, and Waxer stops a little ahead of you, the puzzled look turning into concern, “Is something wrong?”

You rapidly shake your head, a small, nervous smile on your lips. “No. Nothing.”

“Then why did you stop?”

You take a step towards him, raise up onto your toes, and press your lips against his. You bring your free hand up to rest gently on his cheek, and his hand presses against your cheek as well.

And then you pull away. Your face is burning with embarrassment, and there’s an apology on your lips, but you stop before you can apologize.

One of Waxer’s fingers lightly traces over your lips, and his gaze is locked on your parted lips. And then he leans back in, and you meet him halfway, because you know that just one kiss won’t be enough.

In fact, you’re pretty sure that ten kisses won’t be enough.

This time, when you separate from him, he presses his forehead against yours. His dark gaze is locked with yours, and there's a smile on his lips, “What did I do to deserve that?” He asks, his voice slightly breathless, “Because I want to make sure I do it again.”

You laugh, just as breathlessly, “I just wanted to kiss you, that’s all.”

Waxer tilts his head so that his lips are hovering just over yours, “What a coincidence. I want that too.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You ask, softly.

“Yes.” And then his lips are on yours again, as if he couldn’t help himself. And, really, the feeling is entirely mutual.

#star wars #tcw #clone trooper waxer x reader #waxer x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #answered asks

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roadkillxd · 2 years ago

Note

Hi! I really love your writing and i have this idea stuck in my head for so long i just had to request it from you.

Angst about anyone from Cod characters you write with male reader.

They just returned from a mission or just had a hard week and are really overworked. They get mad about something small that the reader does and scream at him for it. The reader gets really sad and when they realize what they did they apologize to him. Maybe some soft smut at the end or whatever you want. I leave it to you.

I hope this is okay with you and thank you infront <3

It's suggestive at the end but nothing explicit! It's in the content tags but just want to mention outright that Soap and reader's relationship could be seen as a little unhealthy/abusive because of what happens, and I want to enforce there's never an excuse to hit your partner (unless it's a sexy consensual thing).

Soap x M!Reader ↪ 1575 words — ANGST.

Content tags — unhealthy relationship, arguments, borderline physical abuse, apologies, Soap's in a bad headspace.

Soap’s near blinding optimism often meant people neglected to realize just when he crossed the line into frustration, and sometimes rage. Rookies learned quickly that messing around with their sergeant was usually okay, but there was a certain point he would snap and have their asses handed to them. There were boundaries.

The 141 knew that nothing frustrated Soap more than red tape—the footering around by the brass that meant sitting and waiting when a potential target could be going into hiding, or worse, continuing to hurt people. It was times like those when the squad knew to leave him be and let him run or punch it out in the gym.

Except, you were new enough to the team to not have seen that side of Soap just yet. Sure, a bit of scolding to the privates a few times, but not that festering rage that stemmed from Soap feeling useless.

So you had no frame of reference—not to mention, things had been going really smoothly with the most recent target. Smooth enough where you and Gaz got to sit out the last mission.

You weren’t yet informed of how it went, Price having delayed debriefing since they’d gotten back so late, urging the boys to rest up and be back in his office in the morning.

And so you had no way of knowing that the whole thing had gone ass up—that they caught the guy but not before the intel they needed to actually pin him was wiped, so they had to let him go. Soap looked tired in Price’s office, brows a bit furrowed and eyes hard, but nothing to hint the magnitude of the storm in his head and chest.

It was late when you entered the kitchen, the overhead LEDs dimmed down and buzzing softly in the cool night air. Soap was hunched over at the metal table, a rocks glass brimming with amber liquid next to him as he slowly scrolled through something on his tablet.

“Hi, Johnny,” you said softly, not wanting to startle him out of his focus. He didn’t even flinch, glancing up to you with a half-glare before returning to the screen. You frowned.

“Are you okay?”

“Solid,” he responded stiffly, still not bothering to look at you, “get what you need and get out. I’m busy.”

You raised a brow at him. You wanted to argue that this was a common room—that if he was doing important work and wanted to be left alone then he should be in his room or one of the offices, not the fuckin’ kitchen. But he was using what you’d come to refer to as his sergeant voice. It meant there was no room there to even argue in the first place. The bastard was pulling rank on you.

You set your mouth into a straight line, puffing a sigh through your nose that Soap would usually ignore as an exhale of breath, though this time his head snapped up at you.

“Watch it,” he said lowly, and you barely managed to suppress the frightful shiver that tried to run down your spine.

“Sorry, sir,” you replied, monotone, body stiffening into loose attention. He eyed you for a long second, seemingly looking for something in your face you’re not sure he found as he returned to whatever was so important on his tablet.

You let your muscles relax as his gaze left you, rounding the table to dig through the refrigerator, looking for a midnight snack. You heard Soap huff behind you at your rummaging, and your jaw tightened. What was his problem? Why was he treating you like this? Price and Ghost hadn’t seemed off when they’d come back—the mission couldn’t have been that bad, right?

You’d decided on a small bag of baby carrots. They were Price’s, and he’d be annoyed you’d taken them, but you knew it’d be fine if you just buy him a new bag next time you’re at the store. It’s not like he really ate them all that often anyway—as healthy as the man was, especially for his age, he was never really a raw vegetables kind of guy and at this point probably just bought them to feel like he was doing something for himself.

It’s just your fuckin’ luck as you close the fridge door and go to take a step back that your foot catches on absolutely nothing but the floor, and you topple back into the side of the table, trying to twist to brace yourself and only managing to smash the side of your head off the edge.

Soap launches up, knocking the chair back onto the floor with the force of his movement. The bottle of whiskey he’d had (for some god damn reason) near the edge of the table plummets to the ground, shattering barely a foot from your face and splattering liquor everywhere.

“Are you out of yer fuckin’ mind!?” Soap shouts, accent thick, a laugh ripping through his words—not one of humor, but one that makes you wince and want to hide away. It’s dry and scary and far too loud.

You scramble onto all fours, little shards of glass sticking into your palms, about to stand when Soap grabs you by the collar of your shirt and yanks you up, spinning you and slamming you back against the counter, the hard marble digging into the base of your spine, knocking the wind out of you.

“What’s your damage!?” You growl, heaving, shoving hard at his chest and wincing as the glass shards dig a little deeper. He doesn’t budge, shaking you a little.

“You’re out of line!”

“You’re being a dickhead!”

You manage to catch his wrist before he even realizes he was about to hit you, his eyes wide as you glare down at him seconds before bashing your head against his, making him shout and stumble back, catching himself on the crooked table.

He holds his forehead with one hand, groaning before looking up. You look furious, a line of blood dripping down your face where your head crashed together. Of course he’s not bleeding—literal hard-headed bastard. Dropped on his head as a kid too much, maybe.

You’re glaring, panting, and his eyes soften ever so slightly, regret and guilt rising in his throat like bile.

“Fuck, Y/N—” he croaks out, reaching out for your arm. You shove him back again, pushing past him.

“Keep the hell away from me, Johnny.”

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, having spent the last hour picking out the glass shards with tweezers, now wrapping your hands with bandages when you hear a tentative knock on your door.

You don’t respond, but the door opens anyway. You already know who it is without looking up. The door closes behind him and you hear the click of the lock. Your shoulders tense. You keep your arms rested on your spread legs, head down as the soft foot falls approach you. You can see his boots come into view, and a gun calloused hand rests on your shoulder, gently pushing you to sit up straight so he can fit himself between your thighs.

You glare up at him and he frowns. He looks sad. Regretful. Deep down you know he didn’t mean any of it—you know better than anyone that sometime in this profession you just snap. But it doesn’t make you any less angry, or at least any relevant amount less.

You could handle being yelled out, fuck—even berated. When you fucked up that was part of the job. But you weren’t working, you thought you were with Soap, Johnny, not fucking Sergeant MacTavish. And yet the way he acted felt personal—that’s what broke you. That’s what made you fester with anger. You never thought he would raise a hand to you.

He does it again, now, raising his hand up. You flinch as he cups your cheek and it makes his heartbreak.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he says quietly, voice thick with emotion, “I… I was in a bad headspace.”

“Yeah,” you say flatly, looking from those shining blue eyes to the window, the full moon shining brightly through the glass.

“I don’t want you to forgive me,” he swipes a thumb over your cheek, and his movements get your attention again as he slowly lowers to his knees, his big palms spreading out over your thighs, “take it out on me.”

“Johnny—”

“I-I need you to—” he cuts himself off, looking up at you eyes wide. He looks terrified. His hands squeeze your thighs hard and you place your own hands over them, “this is for you, but—if that’s, fuck, if that’s too much then I’m being selfish too. I need you to take me out o’ my head for a bit. So I stop feeling like… this.”

He gestures loosely between the two of you, but somehow you still understand. He needs to stop feeling like MacTavish. He needs something to force him out of that violent headspace—whatever happened on that mission trapped him in there, your Johnny only seeping through the cracks just enough to beg.

You run a gentle hand through his mohawk, waiting for his eyes to flutter shut before your grip tightens, tugging the strands hard. His eyes shoot open and he moans, pupils already beginning to blow out.

“Okay, Johnny,” you murmur, pulling him toward your crotch, “make it up to me.”

#modern warfare #soap x reader #modern warefare 2 #john soap mactavish #soap x male reader #mine #angst

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the-obnoxious-sibling · 9 months ago

Text

in which late night sad topics are broached, buggy comes to his senses (???), and we do need to get out of bed at some point, shanks. there are things happening outside your personal drama, you know.

part seven of the post-marineford portion of the near miss fics! (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) if you have no idea what i’m talking about but would like to read a shanks/buggy story about kissing in disguise and then having to deal with the emotional fallout of doing that, click on this link, that’s the tag for the whole thing in chronological order. (plus a fair bit of complaining about writing, one inspirational improvised musical number, and a snippet of shanks pov) if you do know what i’m talking about: i am afraid this fic is turning into a test case for zeno’s dichotomy paradox, where the closer i get to the end the farther away it becomes. >>; i honestly cannot see how it would take me more than 5k to wrap things up, but i said that last time, and the time before that, so… see you in part eight! eta: i almost forgot!! if a moment early on sounds familiar, you may have already seen the huyandere art that inspired it. either way please enjoy the silliness.

Buggy woke with a start, and didn’t know where he was. The bed was too soft, the person at his back was too warm. And too close, Galdino had so far always curled up facing the far side of the bed, what was he—Buggy blinked blearily at the faint outline of a sake flask on the nightstand. Oh, right. This was Shanks’ room.

The windows above the bed let in a fair amount of moonlight, but the moon was waxing crescent tonight so Buggy couldn’t see much of anything. He hadn’t thought about it when he decided to stay the night, but he didn’t sleep well in new places. Stupid to think that just because there was a familiar person that the unfamiliar place wouldn’t still disturb his sleep.

Ah, well.

Buggy moved slowly, not wanting to wake Shanks if he could help it. It should be possible, they weren’t wrapped up in each other or anything stupid like that… though if Buggy had been asked, he would have imagined Shanks was as clingy asleep as awake. But no, Shanks was close enough that his body heat had soaked into Buggy’s back, but they weren’t touching.

Buggy stretched a little, yawned a little, and rolled over. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to see what a fully grown Shanks looked like asleep. The possibilities were too tempting… what if he had stupidly messy hair, or drool dried on his face, or a big snot bubble on one nostril?

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get to find out, because it turned out that Shanks was awake. He was lying on his side, in fact, staring at Buggy. Biting back a yelp of alarm, Buggy swatted him on the arm.

“What the hell!” he hissed.

“What?”

“Why are you watching me sleep? That’s so weird!”

“Is it?”

“Very!”

Shanks smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I just couldn’t sleep, I guess, so I was lying here, thinking…” Buggy open his mouth and Shanks immediately put his hand over it. “I know I set you up for it, but please, no jokes about how hard that must be for me or whatever.”

Buggy made a muffled grumbling sound and shoved Shanks’ hand away. “Thinking about what, then?”

Shanks glanced away for a moment and sighed. “Well, I guess it is after midnight.”

What did that have to do with anything? And then Buggy remembered: his moratorium on sad topics had been for one day only. With a huff, Buggy turned away from Shanks. He didn’t want to see Shanks’ face while he asked his question.

“Buggy. Buggy, look at me? Please?” Shanks’ hand tugged at Buggy’s shoulder, a silent echo of his request.

Silently groaning—he used to say no to Shanks all the time, when had he lost the knack for it?!—Buggy rolled over and said, “Fine. But I get my sad question first!”

Shanks considered him. He nodded. “That’s fair.”

Great! If only he’d had one prepared. Buggy’s thoughts went every which way—what did he want to know, what intel could he get out of Shanks?—before latching onto something totally useless, but also deeply important. “Did you know?” Realizing this was stupidly vague, he added, “About the kid?”

Shanks’ brow furrowed. “‘The kid?’”

“Ace.”

“Ah.”

“Did you know he was Roger’s?”

Shanks sighed and laid down. Staring at the ceiling, he said, “I… had my suspicions. When I met him, a couple years back, he told me a lot about himself. His dreams… where he was born… it was suggestive. And then there was his name.”

Buggy groaned. “Who names a kid after their sword?!”

Shanks chuckled. “Roger.”

Buggy sighed. “Roger.” He propped himself up on an elbow to look down at Shanks. “So he didn’t—no one told you?” Told you and not me?

Shanks shook his head. “Who would have? Who could have?”

Buggy shrugged. “I don’t know, doesn’t that haki stuff sometimes let you talk in each other’s heads or something?”

Shanks laughed. “No! It doesn’t work like that! How many times—”

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t know how it works, I don’t care how it works! I just—” Wanted to know if I’d been overlooked again. “—wanted to know if you knew.”

“No.” Shanks eyes softened, as if he’d heard Buggy’s real reason. He reached up to curl the end of Buggy’s ponytail around a finger and tug Buggy closer. “No, I think the only person Roger told was Garp.”

Buggy made a disgusted noise, which was not at all strangled by his reaction to Shanks’ hand in his hair. (Nope! That wasn’t provoking any kind of feeling in Buggy at all!) “Garp,” he muttered darkly. “What the hell was Roger thinking?!”

“Probably that Garp could keep his son safe.” In the dim light, Shanks’ eyes were hooded, unreadable.

“Oh yeah, he kept him real safe,” Buggy said dryly.

“As a kid, I mean.”

“What’s that matter? However safe his childhood was, he’s dead now,” Buggy snapped. “Our childhood was about as far from safe as possible, but at least we’re alive! At least we were cared for! That kid… the way he thought of himself…” Buggy buried his face in Shanks’ chest and sighed deeply. “It wasn’t right. One of us should’ve had him.”

Shanks’ hand came to rest on the back of Buggy’s neck. “Being a dad at sixteen would’ve been hard.”

“I guess,” Buggy grumbled. “But we would have managed.”

Shanks’ hand went stiff and still, fingers digging into Buggy’s neck a little. Buggy realized what he’d said and started to sweat. He’d been hoping to distract Shanks from his question, not bring them back around to that topic himself.

“Buggy. Please look at me.”

Buggy craned his neck back to look Shanks in the eye, resting the point of his chin on his chest in a pointed, hopefully painful move.

Shanks grimaced. “I’m sorry, Buggy, but I have to know. When did you ever want to be my first mate?” How did I miss that, his eyes seemed to ask.

It was about as hard to look at as Buggy had expected. He averted his eyes. “That last year with Roger? Maybe earlier, I don’t know.” Shanks started stroking his thumb across the spot where Buggy’s neck met his hairline. With that bit of contact soothing him, he managed to get the truth out. “I thought it was the only way I’d get to the last island.”

“…you wanted to go there together? That long ago?”

Buggy grimaced. That awed tone of voice told him Shanks had gotten the wrong idea. “More like I didn't think I could get there alone.”

“Oh.” After a moment’s pause, Shanks went back to stroking Buggy’s hair. Buggy relaxed, cheek sinking into Shanks’ chest. His heartbeat thudded away by Buggy’s ear in a slow, steady comfort. I’m here, I’m alive, I’m here… “Then I’m glad.”

“Hm?”

“I’m glad we didn’t stay together back then,” Shanks said, sounding almost surprised by his words. Buggy stared blankly into space. Was he hearing Shanks right? Shanks nodded, surer, and said, “Yeah, never thought I’d say that, but… I want you to believe in yourself more than I want you to be with me, Buggy.”

Buggy blinked a few times, fighting off a sharp stinging in his eyes.

Shanks tensed underneath him. “Buggy?”

Buggy shook his head, lifted himself up the barest amount, and pressed their lips together. Shanks made a soft, protesting noise, but Buggy would not be moved. He wouldn’t express these feelings in words, it couldn’t be done. This was the best he could do.

With a resigned little sigh, Shanks sank back into the bed, fingers threaded into Buggy’s hair, and let Buggy kiss him. Their faces came together and drifted apart so slowly, so many times, that Buggy would be hard-pressed to pinpoint the moment when they finally stopped, but stop they did, as sleep claimed them again.

When Buggy woke for the second time, early morning sunlight gleamed through the windows over Shanks’ bed. He was warm and well-rested, sated in almost every meaning of the word, and had no interest in getting up. And who could blame him? Shanks, still asleep, was lying on his back facing Buggy, his hand loosely curled around the back of Buggy’s neck, unconsciously keeping him close. Not that Buggy had made any effort to get away in his sleep; his head was on Shanks’ shoulder, his hand resting lightly against Shanks’ carotid, where he must have kept track of that pulse all night. I'm here, I'm alive, I'm here… Shanks’ face was so close that Buggy could see every small hair of the dark red mustache that had grown back in overnight, could feel the air flutter against his cheek every time he breathed. Which—well, the sour, alcoholic morning breath didn’t exactly fit the morning’s atmosphere, but Buggy had smelled worse.

Buggy drifted a little, enjoying the gentle rocking of a boat at sea, the human contact with someone who cared for him, eyes shuttered against the sun’s attempt to wake him fully. He didn’t want to get up until he had to. That motion of the boat meant they’d already left port. It wouldn’t be long before they met up with Buggy’s ship and crew, before this time together came to an end. Buggy intended to enjoy it while it lasted. Maybe if he laid here long enough, concentrating on his warm satisfaction, he’d be able to preserve it in his memory.

Outside, something fell to the deck with a loud crunch of wood on wood, the moment was ruined, and Buggy came to his senses.

He grimaced. What was he thinking? Preserving the memory of this sweet, soft morning? Ugh. Buggy rolled away from Shanks, his sappy thoughts snapping him to true wakefulness. What was he, some dockside lover pining away for a pirate he only saw once a decade? As if! If anyone was leaving someone behind here, it was Buggy! And he wasn’t gonna be some sappy excuse for a pirate either, staring wistfully at the horizon, thinking of someone he couldn’t be with—no way! Best to start as he meant to go on: by reminding himself of all the reasons he’d left in the first place, reasons why he would not miss Shanks at all.

He got up, not bothering to wake Shanks but not going quietly about his business either. His clothes were scattered all over the room—which was, he noticed with a touch of amusement and (ugh) affection, a lot less messy than it had been when he stopped by yesterday morning—and they’d gotten all mixed in with Shanks’ clothes, too. After a few false starts (they’d been right, Buggy could not fit in Shanks’ pants these days), Buggy made himself sartorially presentable. One last check in the mirror hanging next to Shanks’ closet, and—what the fuck.

Buggy gaped. He looked like something out of a horror story. His chin was streaked with red, his cheeks a ghastly pale gray where the powder hadn’t rubbed away entirely, just the faintest hint of the original crossbones showing through.

Good god, this makeup wasn’t just cheap, it was really cheaply made. The kind of stuff that would barely last an hour on an expressive face, let alone a day. Buggy put a finger to his cheekbone and watched with dismay as powder came off in a little cloud of dust. Not even his good setting spray would save this stuff. And the way the lip had smeared was—

A thought occurred to Buggy, and he spun around to stare at Shanks in horror. Marks that he hadn’t noticed last night were in the light of day very obvious lip prints in a deep red tint. On his neck, his chest, all the way down his chest in a very telling progression… oh no. No, no, no. This could not be borne.

Buggy dug around in his pockets and pulled out the makeup removing stick he’d gotten from Galdino. He’d thought he might need to touch up the makeup a bit in the morning, but not this much. Glancing between Shanks, the little wax stick, and his own increasingly panicked expression in the mirror, Buggy came up with a plan.

He finished making himself presentable— cleaning up the edges of his lip and removing almost all of the powder from his face, save the slashes of blue meant to draw attention to his eyes—and leapt onto the bed, jolting Shanks into consciousness.

“Shanks!” he hissed.

“Mm?”

“Shanks!” he hissed again. Shanks didn’t stir. “I’ll hit you,” he warned, and Shanks groaned piteously, hungover.

“Not into that so much,” he mumbled, “but if you insist…”

Buggy flushed, shoved that reaction down deep, and said, “Would you wake up already?! I have to go, and you need to promise not to leave your rooms until I’m back.”

“Hm, ’s that so?” Shanks cracked open one eye, finally, and frowned a little at the sight of Buggy, fully dressed. “Now who’s the one in a rush?”

“Didn’t I just say I’ll be back?” Buggy chided. He flicked a finger against Shanks’ chest. “You need makeup remover, and I assume you don’t keep any in here.”

“No.” Shanks blinked. He looked down at himself. “Why would I—oh.” He looked under the blanket. “Oh, wow.”

“You see the problem,” Buggy said dryly.

“I sure do,” Shanks said, voice wavering with disbelief and laughter. “I mean, wow, Buggy.”

“Shut up! It’s not my fault—those guys went and bought me new makeup yesterday!”

“That was sweet of them.”

“Yeah, that and three hundred berries will get you a cup of coffee. Stupid me, I assumed a couple dozen guys doing a day’s work could afford something a little better than this.” Buggy waggled the wax stick around; powder rained off it onto the bed. “This stick’s run its course, so I’m off to beg another one…” Buggy gave Shanks’ lipstick-marked chest a considering look. “Maybe two… off Galdino.”

“Bring him tea,” Shanks suggested. “Roux says he’s more agreeable after a cup of Earl Grey.” At Buggy’s look of surprise, Shanks smirked. “That guy’s not the only one keeping tabs on people around here, you know.”

Huh. Well, Buggy would have to rethink every conversation he’d had with or in the presence of Lucky Roux. Later. For now, a bribe of tea sounded like a better plan than the one he’d had (shouting until he got what he wanted). He headed for the door, but was stymied by a hand tangling in his sash. He glared over his shoulder at Shanks.

“What now?”

Shanks—Buggy blinked, not believing what he was seeing—pouted. “Can’t I get a kiss goodbye?”

Buggy blinked twice, not believing what he was hearing. “You must be joking.”

“You aren’t gonna kiss me again after you get this lipstick off me, not when that would undo all your hard work,” Shanks said, sounding very reasonable for a man with his bottom lip stuck out so far. “But I need a kiss. Just one more, please?”

If someone had told him even yesterday that Shanks would become such a baby the second he was shown the smallest bit of affection… “You know what? Fine.” A delighted expression bloomed on Shanks’ face as Buggy walked back to his side. Buggy smiled, laid a loud, wet kiss dead-center on his forehead, and pulled back to watch his face crumple.

The pouting was, if possible, worse this time. “Buggy, come on.” Shanks tugged at his sash again.

“I don’t know who told you this behavior was attractive, but they did you a real disservice,” Buggy said, splitting at the waist when it became clear Shanks would rather pull the sash loose than let go. “I’m going. I—” Actually, if he was flying anyway… “—do your windows open?”

Shanks dropped the pouty look—ugh, Buggy knew he’d been faking, what an ass—and glanced up. “Yeah, there’s a hinge somewhere…”

Buggy flew up and found a simple latch that let the windows swing out. Not great for hiding that the windows were open, but sensible for evacuation purposes. He flicked the latch and carefully swung open one window. Just big enough for him to get out, excellent.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Shanks gave him a fond smile. “As you wish.”

Giving Shanks a wary look—he really couldn’t tell how many of these strange comments were jokes anymore—Buggy floated out the window and off toward the mess. Roux happily put together a mug of tea for Galdino when asked. He also pulled out a cup of drinking chocolate for Buggy, unprompted.

Now that Buggy knew to look for it, it was a little uncanny how well Roux had him figured out after all of two days’ acquaintance.

Well, however well Roux knew Buggy, Buggy didn’t know him at all; he couldn’t tell if the grin on Roux’s face was a smug, knowing one, or if that was just how he smiled. As Roux was adding the finishing touches to the tea—apparently Galdino liked it with lavender syrup and steamed milk, which was about as fancy as Buggy might have expected—Buggy thought, what the hell, the first mate already knows, and asked for something to eat, chef’s choice, and a bowl of that tomato-egg stuff Shanks liked, both to be picked up when Buggy was done bothering Galdino.

Roux’s grin didn’t change when he agreed, which answered that question.

When Galdino didn’t answer the door, Buggy went ahead and broke in. (Though was it really breaking in when it was supposed to be your room too?) He was dead to the world, those wax plugs in his ears again. Buggy started rapping his knuckles against the headboard, knowing the vibrations would get through even if normal sounds wouldn’t. After a minute, Galdino groaned, rolled over, and wrapped himself in a cocoon of wax.

Buggy paused. That was different.

“Did you get drunk last night or something?” he asked, speaking loudly to be heard through the cocoon. He couldn’t think of another reason Galdino would be this resistant to getting up.

The wax melted away to reveal a miserable, red-eyed man huddled in a ball on the bed. “Or something,” he agreed. Spotting the tea in Buggy’s hands, Galdino made a pathetic little sound and reached for it weakly, fingers stretching out but his arms not actually moving. “Those Red-Haired Pirates do not mess around when it comes to drinking games.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Buggy said, passing the tea along to Galdino, who drank slowly and gratefully. “Shanks could polish off a bottle of wine in an afternoon with no problem by the time we were thirteen, it’s only natural he’d find a crew with similar tolerances.”

Galdino groaned. “Yes, well, that would have been helpful information to have yesterday.” Draining the mug, he said, “What did you want, then?”

“Hey, not every interaction has to be transactional, you kn—” Buggy started to say. Galdino gave him a narrow-eyed look, and he gave up mid-word. “More of the makeup removing sticks, please. The shit those guys got me was cheap as hell, it got everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Galdino’s eyebrow shot up. “Like… everywhere everywhere?”

“…and how’s that any of your business?” Buggy asked flatly, glaring daggers at him.

“You can’t blame a man for being curious,” Galdino said with an unrepentant little smirk.

“The hell I can’t, you flashy, nosy know-it-all!” Buggy grabbed the closest weapon—a pillow—and tried to smother Galdino with it. Galdino shrieked, shielding himself from the onslaught with wax armor. After a brief battle of wills, Buggy stopped trying to kill Galdino, and Galdino made him a full dozen makeup removing wax sticks, at which point Buggy attempted to smother him again, and half the sticks melted and bound Buggy’s hands up, and—anyway. Buggy got out of there eventually, with a reasonable number of wax sticks hidden away on his person.

As he left that room there was a tugging at his waist that had Buggy looking back, remembering too late that his waist wasn’t here, and grumbling to himself. Oh, was he taking too long for the poor Emperor of the Sea? Tough luck. If someone wanted to see Shanks that badly, they deserved to see him as he was, all lipstick-stained and sex-haired. So long as Buggy wasn’t in the room when it happened, it wouldn’t embarrass him. (Probably.)

The tugging continued, and Buggy rolled his eyes and let it happen, even when it changed from a tugging to a gentle pressure, what felt like Shanks’ whole hand pressed against his waist. What was Shanks thinking, touching Buggy like this? Was he just lying in bed, staring at Buggy’s disembodied legs? What a weirdo. Buggy smiled—then, remembering himself, frowned. What a creep.

At least the mess was empty. Buggy hadn’t checked a clock, but he suspected the night shift and first shift men had already come through, and those without an early schedule had yet to get up. It was super convenient, actually: no one but Roux would see him doing something sort of thoughtful for Shanks. Not that he deserved it, the way he was acting right now, making Buggy start to sweat with the effort of not reacting to the hand on his waist, the thumb rubbing little circles into his skin.

Roux had, somehow, just finished preparing the food, though Buggy had taken twice as long as he’d meant to with Galdino. He had everything packed up in little boxes, tied together with butcher’s twine, a paper cup that reeked of grassy green tea sitting on top of the stack.

“Let me know what you think of what I made for you today,” Roux said with a grin as Buggy went to leave. “I got a little experimental.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Buggy said with a grin. “I almost think you could get me to eat tomatoes and like it.”

Roux laughed. “I still haven’t managed to get Shanks to eat blueberries, but I guess anything’s possible!”

That had Buggy laughing to himself the rest of the way back to Shanks’ rooms. He’d forgotten Shanks’ thing about blueberries! As a child, Buggy had accused Shanks of copying him, pretending to hate a blue food in revenge for Buggy legitimately hating a red one, but the truth was he’d always been a little squeamish about their yellow-green insides. Hadn’t liked the look of them, or so he’d said.

Oh, the pranks Buggy had pulled! Hiding a single overripe blueberry in all kinds of terrible places: the bottom of a bowl of porridge, on the seat of a chair, gently placed between the pages of a novel Shanks had bought at the last port town… man, he’d been such a menace as a kid. But Shanks had given as good as he got, so it never felt unfair to mess with him. As they’d gotten older, though, he’d stopped reacting. Either stopped getting mad, or stopped showing he was mad, Buggy had never been quite sure which. God, it had pissed him off. Shanks was only five months older than Buggy, where did he get off suddenly being so grown-up?

And now Shanks was more easygoing than ever! Buggy didn’t trust it; no one was that unruffled by him, especially not when he was being obnoxious on purpose. Even now that he’d seen some of what Shanks had been hiding, Buggy knew there was more to it. Behind those fond smiles and carefree laughter, there was a part of Shanks he didn’t trust Buggy with.

Which was fine! It was the most sensible thing he’d ever seen Shanks do, honestly—Buggy was a no-good, thieving, backstabbing pirate, he shouldn’t be trusted—but that he wouldn’t admit to it pissed Buggy off. To others, sure, let Shanks play the fool, whatever, but to Buggy? The least Shanks could do was be honest about lying to him.

As he was approaching the open window to Shanks’ room, a sudden jolt of sensation nearly made him yelp. Shanks had shifted his hand lower in a caress that sent a shiver up Buggy’s spine, and now he was rubbing his thumb across Buggy’s hipbone, just like yesterday in the park, which was… Buggy shivered again. Not something to be thinking about in public, damn him! He flew in the window, scowling, dropped the food on Shanks’ nightstand, scowling, and floated back up to shut the window with a scowl on his face.

“Buggy, hey!” Shanks was sitting on the edge of his bed. He’d found pants at some point, but not bothered with a shirt. He grinned. “You got us breakfast?”

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Buggy said, turning that scowl on him.

“Hm?” Shanks said, an innocent look on his face. He was still stroking Buggy’s hip, like that four-inch curve of flesh and bone was the most fascinating thing he’d ever felt.

“I refuse to give you your stupid goodbye kiss, so you decide to rile me up while I can’t do anything to stop you, so when I get back I’ll be unable to help myself, huh? Is that it?”

Shanks blinked. He looked from Buggy’s lower half, standing between his legs, to Buggy’s upper half, floating above him. “Couldn’t you have just… stepped back, or kicked me, if you didn’t like it?”

Buggy opened his mouth to respond and found he didn’t have one. He could have done that. He just… hadn’t wanted to.

Shanks began to smile. “‘Unable to help yourself,’ you said?”

Buggy scowled. “Oh, you’re lucky you’re hot.” He shoved Shanks back and climbed on top of him, ignoring the laughter that burst out of Shanks as his head hit the mattress.

Later, very relaxed and searching for reasons to stay mad at Shanks, he was annoyed to learn that the boxes Roux had packed everything in were special heat-retaining boxes that could stay warm for upwards of half a day if left alone. He couldn’t even revenge himself on Shanks with a cold breakfast! He tried to eat resentfully, but the food was just too good to manage it: thin cuts of yesterday’s fancy ham, fried with syrup to a salty-sweet crisp and layered with fried eggs, cheese, and a sour spicy sauce on a hot dog bun. Roux really was some kind of miracle-worker; the bun wasn’t even soggy.

At least with a hand-held breakfast he could scrub aggressively at lipstick stains with his free hand while he ate. Shanks had to hunch over his nightstand to eat his breakfast (the tomato-egg stuff Buggy had requested, served over fried rice with what looked like spicy pickled cabbage and the fancy ham mixed in), and obviously he had no hand free to pitch in. He was happy to criticize Buggy’s technique, though, saying, “Won’t pressing hard enough to bruise defeat the purpose of cleaning me up?” as he leaned into the scrubbing motion.

This was, unfortunately, a reasonable point.

Muttering, “Well excuse me, I didn’t realize you bruised so easily,” under his breath, Buggy switched his focus to less easily bruised parts of Shanks. Just as he was getting started, there was a knock at Shanks’ door. The two of them shared a look—Buggy recently reclothed and fed, Shanks sitting there half-naked with his half-full bowl of food—and Buggy sighed. He split himself a couple ways, leaving one arm behind to scrub at the lipstick on Shanks‘ chest, floating his head and the rest of his torso to the other room.

“What?” he barked out, sounding so annoyed at being interrupted that (hopefully) no one would question why Buggy was in Shanks’ rooms at this hour.

“Oh, good,” said Benn Beckman. He walked in, terrifying Buggy, who’d been fairly certain that door was locked. “I didn’t have any idea where to check if you weren’t here,” he admitted, glancing past Buggy and making a face at the glimpse he caught of Shanks. “Boss, I think you’re gonna need to just give in and bathe to get all of that off,” he said, before returning his attentions to Buggy.

But Buggy was too distracted by this piece of information to let Beckman get back to his point. “There are bathing facilities on this ship?” he said, horrified. I could have gotten actually clean? Jabbing a thumb at Shanks, he said, “And he still looks like an unwashed rat half the time?!”

“Hey!” Shanks said, affronted.

Beckman coughed, poorly hiding a surprised laugh. “Well, I can’t speak to my captain’s personal hygiene decisions, but yes, we do have showers, and yes, we deliberately hid them from you.” Buggy gaped, aghast. “Our potable water reserves and salinity filters are decent, but we just don’t have the capacity to let hundreds of people use them over such a short span of time,” Beckman admitted. “It would have caused interpersonal conflict none of us wanted to deal with to only give some people access to the showers, especially if there appeared to be any signs of favoritism.” He gave Shanks a sideways look. “And there would have been.” Shanks shrugged affably, not denying it.

Buggy scowled, but nodded. This was a fair point. He'd been avoiding thinking about similar issues that would be sure to come up when he attempted to squeeze all of the Impel Down prisoners onto the Big Top. The space, the supplies, the food… he needed to find a proper home base, an island no one cared about in Paradise, where he could leave most of these guys while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with a crew that had more than quadrupled in size overnight. Multiple ships? (How?) A bigger ship? (How?) A permanent land-based population? (Who? Where?)

Buggy shook his head. Stupid to borrow problems from the future when he had plenty on his plate in the present. “What did you want with me, then?”

Beckman tilted his head towards the door. “Captain Buggy, if you don’t mind?”

Oh. Using his title, and wanting to talk without Shanks overhearing? This was serious. Buggy dropped the wax stick—Beckman was right, a shower with lye soap would work just as well on makeup this cheap—and reconnected his body, following Beckman into the hall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “I’m listening.”

Beckman ran a hand across his face. In a ragged undertone, he said, “Our timeline is a lot tighter than we’re making it look. There’s a trade wind we need to catch tonight, and to do that we need you and yours off this ship within an hour of docking. And, well, you saw how slow-moving that bunch can be. Can you get those guys in some kind of order? God knows they aren’t going to listen to anyone but you.”

Buggy nearly laughed. Encouragement to boss around those guys some more? Was that all? With a grin, he gave Beckman a slap on the arm. “Tell you what,” he said, pushing Beckman back towards Shanks’ room, “you take care of your idiot in here, and I’ll take care of all of mine out there.”

Beckman sighed, relief making him look ten years younger. “Deal.”

(If a protesting sound came from within Shanks’ room, both of them chose to ignore it.)

#notfic #the near miss fics #one piece #shuggy #buggy #shanks #i gotta get these guys off the damn boat. /fatt reference #(but also literally. the fic can’t end until buggy leaves the boat. pls leave the boat buggy i’m begging you.#← says the person who keeps finding new reasons to keep him on the boat.)

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mortwig · 2 years ago

Text

Sparks Fly

Entry for the amazing’s @withahappyrefrain “Dicked Down December”. Written for the loveliest and kindest person ever born: @ouralcohol

18+ EXPLICIT [minors DNI] - Peter Parker fanfic

Words: 5,2k

Pairing: fem!reader* x Peter Parker (based on TASM!Peter but flexible)

Summary: Friends/Co-workers to Lovers, Christmas vibes

Tags: 18+ explicit, strangers to work besties to lovers, so much fluff, smut (only in the Epilogue though), nudity, vaginal sex, oral sex (both F receiving), all characters are 18+.

Song inspo: Sparks Fly by Taylor Swift

Moodboard: here

“I hadn’t realised we needed a new PE teacher?” you mentioned casually, while taking a bite of your sandwich. You and your work bestie, Kayla, were sitting under the shade of some trees, hiding from the hot late summer sun. Children were running around playing tag, sometimes even using you as cover.

Kayla looked up quickly, mild panic on her face. The principal was with a tall, dark-haired man, pointing to the different facilities from the other end of the playground. “Tan pronto?” she whispered under her breath.

You looked at her quizzingly. Kayla always wore her heart on her sleeve. She was never good at hiding emotions, and right now was no exception. She took a deep breath and, looking down at her shoes, said:

“I’ve been offered to be vice-principal in a different school… And I’ve said yes. I guess that guy must be my replacement.”

“Kayla, that is amazing! Enhorabuena!” You went to hug her, but she turned, tears welling up in her eyes.

“The job is in Florida.”

Your face dropped, and your arms did too, now hanging uselessly at your sides. The tears were also making an appearance on your face.

“I’m sorry.” She managed before the sobs overtook her.

You looked at her for a long moment before pulling her into a hug.

“I’m not. You’ve needed a change for a long time and this sounds like an amazing opportunity. I’m proud of you for taking this step. And I’ll be visiting. Often. You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

It turned out that Kayla’s replacement as a science teacher was a guy from New York called Peter Parker. Rumour had it he was running away from something, or someone, back home. But when you asked, he just gave a vague response about him “also needing a change”. You didn’t press any further. After all, we all have our demons.

He caught on pretty quickly to the bond you and Kayla had, and it was as though he could feel your pain. Every time you felt the sadness creeping in, he would pop by with a question about school protocols or class locations.

Some petty part of you wanted to dislike him. He would never replace Kayla. He was just some guy. And the truth was, he didn’t replace her. But instead, he filled a void you didn’t know you had. You and Kayla had bonded over good food, Top Gun, and fanfiction of some superhero or other. You’d cook and then be lazy together, laughing and fawning over hot fictional guys and celebrities. Peter was different, he was intent on learning Spanish and he convinced you to go on runs together so he could practice his pronunciation. After endless conversations about anything ranging from soccer to Taylor Swift lyrics, by Thanksgiving you were essentially inseparable.

“Listen up, team! This year, it’s the music department’s turn to organize the staff Christmas party.”

You saw at least four people near you stifle a disappointed groan. The music department was composed of three very extra teachers who were known for the most extravagant ideas and an obsession with glitter for some reason. You wondered if they’d magically found each other or if joining the group implied a transformation into whatever they had going on.

Diana, the oldest of the three, stepped up, hands clasped in an effort to hide her excitement.

“We have a very special evening prepared for all of you. Unfortunately, the PE department wasn’t okay with us using the gym because, I quote ‘it’s a bitch to clean up, and you’ll be too hangover to do it’. So we’ve had to move the location to the old Victorian house at the end of the road that turns out is owned by Michael’s great aunt and which has been recently renovated in an effort to rent it out to tourists next summer.”

Diana’s gossiping and oversharing was nothing new, and most of the staff were only half listening by this point.

“The theme is Christmas fairytale. You must adhere to the theme. If you do not, you will be banned from the bar area. You have been warned.”

“Oh my god.” You whispered. “They did it. They figured out how to get people to put in some effort. Threaten them with an alcohol-free Christmas party.”

Peter giggled under his breath next to you. It didn’t matter how many times you heard that stupid laugh of his, it still made your heart skip a beat. It was like hearing a song you loved as a child that you’d forgotten about. Like the gasp of excitement at the arrivals lounge of an airport on the 24th of December, when someone sees that person they’ve been missing for ages. Like the pop of a champagne cork celebrating a long-awaited pregnancy over Christmas dinner. Like the crinkle of wrapping paper around a perfectly chosen present. It was a simple sound, but it filled you with pure, soul-warming joy.

You didn’t dare look his way though, because he might notice a slight red tinge to your cheeks, a vague indication of a simmering feeling trying to find its way out of your chest, one way or another.

“Kayla, I don’t want to go…”

“You’ve said that seven times in the last hour. I’ve been counting.” Kayla had her phone up by her stove and was making something that, you assumed, smelled as delicious as it looked. Her hands were on her hips, in a proper scolding teacher pose.

“But it’s true…” You pouted, sitting back on the mattress. The numerous layers of fabric of the dress you were trying on covered most of the bed.

“What exactly is the problem? We’ve already decided that the dress is beautiful and on theme, you’ll get enough alcohol to endure Sarah’s incessant bickering, you can watch Jerry make a fool of himself on the dancefloor after four tequilas, and most importantly: you can collect intel on all the new flings that form under the glittery mistletoe that these guys have undoubtedly hung in every dark corner.”

“But it won’t be any fun without you…”

“You have a new friend now!”

“He’s no you.”

“No, he’s way hotter.” Kayla raised her eyebrows and smirked at you through the phone screen.

“Shut up.” you replied, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Why not though?”

“Because… I’m not looking for anything right now.”

“Come on… You’ve ‘not been looking for anything’ for years now. Isn’t it time to have some fun? Or at the very least, some drama to entertain your best friend?”

“You’re the worst. Peter and I are on track to become good friends. If I lose him over a silly infatuation, I’ll be even lonelier without either of you. Not worth it.”

“HA! I knew it! I knew you liked him.”

You instantly regretted your wording, but there was no time to discuss it further. The doorbell rang and with a quick “Gotta go, bye!” the call was over and you were clumsily slipping out of the dress.

“Coming!!” you shouted as you slipped on an oversized hoodie. Hopefully it was the delivery guy with that cute light-up Christmas jumper you’d ordered two weeks ago.

But when you opened the door, Peter was standing there, looking absolutely dashing. Because the truth was, what you told Kayla was a “silly infatuation” was in fact a full-on raging crush. And it had been going on for weeks now.

The way you thought about him switched in your brain right after Thanksgiving. You had a very bad brain day. You didn’t mean for things to escalate, and you certainly didn’t mean to cry in front of him, but all the emotions you had been bottling up exploded and all sorts of negative thoughts appeared all at once.

And he’d said nothing, because there was nothing to be said. You didn’t want to hear another “it’ll be okay” or another “it’ll pass”, and he didn’t say those words. Instead, he hugged you and held you for a minute, five, half an hour, forty-five minutes. While you just cried and cried and cried. And then when you stopped sobbing, he took your hand, took you to the nice bar down the road, bought you a smoothie and told you about the movies that he and his aunt May and uncle Ben used to watch every single Christmas.

Since then, every one of his smiles held a different meaning and every one of his light touches to your arm stung like an electrical discharge. And while you knew nothing could happen -should happen- between you, you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining a life with him, your mind racing with images of picket fences and golden retrievers and children running around the living room.

“Hello…” Peter was still standing in front of you, his eyes wide in both confusion and worry. How long had you been standing there, staring into the void, thinking about how in love you were?

“Peter!” You blurted out.

“That’s me…”

You continued to stare blankly at him, your brain refusing to cooperate as your heart raced at the sight of his unruly hair sticking out in twenty different directions.

“I’m not one to judge anyone’s fashion sense, but I have to say I’m surprised that you chose the mustard stain look to go to Taylor Swift karaoke.”

“Wasn’t that Thursday?”

“Darling, today’s Thursday…” If your brain was short-circuiting before, his use of the endearing term sent it into overdrive and you felt light-headed for a second. You recovered quickly though, you’d had enough breakdowns in front of him for what was left of the year.

“Fuck.”

Despite the facts finally falling into place in your brain, you still didn’t move. So, Peter gently placed his hands on your shoulders and moved you to the side, stepping into your hall.

“You go get changed, I’ll grab the tickets. Where can I find them?”

“Yes, right, sorry.” You shook your head, coming back to Earth. “I think they’re stuck to the fridge. Otherwise… Somewhere on the counter, I guess. I’m sure you’ll find them eventually.”

You ran upstairs to your bedroom, your ballgown still covering most of your floor space. You didn’t really have the time to curate an outfit so you took the most basic black dress and the first pair of nice shoes you could find. It hadn’t even been ten minutes and you were back by the front door, keys in hand, coat on.

“Okay, I’m ready. Sorry about that.”

“You have a very messy place.”

“Not usually, I don’t… It’s just been a messy few weeks.” Messy in your head, you meant. Because it had been a long time since your heart had been in such a fit of emotion that it neglected all responsibilities. Like the night before, when you’d ignored the pile of dirty dishes and instead opened a bottle of wine and wrote self-indulging friends-to-lovers fanfiction that was definitely not a vivid daydream of Peter and you.

“I like your wall art, by the way…” You felt him looking at you from the corner of his eye as you locked the door and headed towards your car. “Spiders, huh…?”

You chuckled. “Yeah, spiders…”

“What’s so funny about spiders?” Did he sound almost… offended?

“Nothing actually. I used to be very scared of them. I sometimes am, still. But that wall art is part of my journey of getting over my fears, and it’s also a reminder of what I’m capable of if I get my mind to it.”

You glanced his way. He looked equal parts confused and in awe.

“Sorry, that was way too deep.” You cleared your throat, suddenly a bit overwhelmed and ashamed of your oversharing. “What do you want to sing first? I say we start with a classic, something from Speak Now maybe?”

Peter was still just staring at you. He didn’t laugh though, he didn’t even look uncomfortable. He seemed just… curious. After what seemed like an eternity in your over-thinking brain, he finally spoke slowly:

“Perhaps ‘Sparks Fly’.” He didn’t take his eyes off your face, studying you, your reaction, the way your eyes widened ever so slightly before you could put on your best neutral expression.

“A bop. Sounds good.”

You tossed and turned in bed, running through the events of the evening in your mind. Aside from the rocky start, it had been generally uneventful. Or so you tried to tell yourself. Because really, was there much to pinpoint that would make it different from any other meet-up with friends? There had been his hand gently touching your waist on your way into the bar. How he twirled you on your way to get a drink because someone was singing Lover. How he’d made his way to the bartender and winked at you when he got your order right within the first guess. And a million other tiny things. But above all, more than every other little gesture of kindness and every other possible indication of flirting, there had been Sparks Fly. How he’d held your hands throughout the chorus, and how he’d stared deep into your eyes and ran your hands through your hair at the start of the bridge. You’d expected him to laugh it off, to say he was just joking. Anything, any indication that there was not something weird going on between you. But he hadn’t. And now you were left wondering if maybe it was reciprocal. If he also felt the butterflies, the tension, the tug at his heart to kiss you when he leaned in to help you open your front door that always gets a bit stuck in the evenings. He said nothing. You said nothing. And you supposed life went on, same same but different.

As usual, you’d miscalculated how much time you would need to get ready and you were running late. You still had to do hair and make-up and you were supposed to meet Peter in ten minutes. You sighed heavily as you sat down in front of your mirror, phone in hand.

> Running late

> I’ll meet you there

> You sure?

> I don’t mind waiting

> Yeah sure

> You’ll just stress me out

> I would never

You giggled at the glassy-eyed cat sticker on your screen.

You hated – hated – getting to events alone. It was so awkward. Even if you knew everyone there, and you got along well with most of them. That feeling of having to find a conversation to engage in, those first few minutes. They were awful.

The hall was empty when you arrived so you sneaked a selfie in the huge vintage mirror that decorated one of the walls. You sent it to Kayla. After all, the outfit had been chosen with her. You were wearing a huge puffy white and ice-blue dress that shimmered magically under the light. A delicate mistletoe wreath on your head and some angel wings completed the look. “A Christmas angel-fairy”, Kayla called it.

You followed the noise to what must have been the dining room, but which had been turned into a ballroom. You gasped at how magical it looked. The renovated ceiling had been decorated with thousands of tiny lights that gave the room a warm glow and made everything look ethereal. The heavy red velvet courtains were drawn, and two fireplaces were lit. Christmas trees stood in every corner, decorated with classic red ornaments and gold tinsel. A bar had been set up at the end of the room, by a band that was playing a cover of Ayo Technology. They had several big bowls full of smoking drinks, and a guy dressed as an elf was mixing drinks for a very happy-looking admin team.

You looked around for Peter, in hopes of going straight to talk to him instead of having to engage in small talk with colleagues you weren’t nearly drunk enough to deal with. It might have worked, had he not been standing at the opposite end of the room. He was wearing black suit and trousers, a flowery midnight blue vest and a beautiful matching cape that brushed the floor with his every move. And… was that an eye patch? What even was that costume?

It took you close to half an hour to make your way to him, which included, amongst others: four compliments on your dress, one joke about the mistletoe on your head by Olivia from admin, and several questions about how Kayla was doing in Florida.

“What is that supposed to be? Santa’s ocean affairs delegate, pirate Parker?”

Peter scoffed, and even before he turned, he already shot back:

“Excuse you, you uncultured ignorant. I’m uncle Drosselmeyer from the Nutcracker. And this cape took a week to make, so be nice.”

Your eyebrows shot up. He’d never mentioned an interest in ballet, let alone in sewing.

When he finally took a look at you, he let out a low whistle. “Damn, you look stunning.” He took your hand and twirled you slowly, admiring the outfit from all angles. “I didn’t know you vibed with long gowns and angelical accessories.” His cheeks were slightly redder than usual, and you couldn’t tell if he’d already had a couple of drinks or if he was somewhat flustered.

“It seems we still have a lot of things to learn about each other.” You muttered under your breath.

You really thought you’d said it quietly. The room was loud enough that you had to speak up to hear and be heard. Yet Peter leaned in closer, your cheeks almost touching, and whispered just loud enough that you almost weren’t sure if it had been your imagination:

“I can’t wait.”

You took a step back in surprise, but he’d already turned to one of the arts and crafts teachers to compliment her elaborate hairdo with little golden bells sticking out of it. People really went all out when alcohol was on the line. You were no exception. You headed right to the bar.

You danced, you talked, you drank, you laughed. You even cried once in the bathroom after you saw Kayla’s supportive messages in response to your picture from earlier.

It was almost midnight and you were positively drunk. The kind of happy drunk that gives you just a little too much confidence and a lot of courage. So when the band’s guitar player started playing the first few notes of Love Story, you ran to Peter so you could sing it together at the top of your lungs.

His eyepatch long gone and his hair messier than ever, you could tell he was also drunk. His casual touches were becoming more frequent. His eyes lingered in yours for longer. His smile was cheekier. His whispers more intimate. And, in your inebriation, you felt that spark between you stronger than ever. As if you could almost see it if you focused on the narrowing space between you.

It still came as a surprise when the band got to the outro and he put both his hands on your waist and pulled you close.

“Let’s go outside for a minute.”

He must have been exploring the house earlier because, instead of taking you out through the front door, he led you upstairs through the beautiful staircase in the hall, his hand firmly around yours. You looked around dreamily, your eyes hazy. Whatever the music department had done with the party, you had to give them that it truly felt like a Christmas fairytale. Through a few doors, you were out on a balcony, overlooking the backyard of the house which was also decorated and lit with a range of Christmas decorations.

You stood there, looking out at the beautiful scenery around you. For a minute, you forgot you were there with Peter, you were just drunk and happy and content.

But then Peter let go of your hand. And, as if he was the anchor keeping you from slipping out of your daydream, you looked back at him, concern drawn on your features. Your heart started beating, it felt loud enough that if Peter started talking, you weren’t sure you’d hear him.

“Y/N…”

He searched your face for something, but you were too scared to say anything.

“Listen, I’ll probably regret this when I wake up sober and hungover tomorrow morning…” His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat, maybe trying to gather enough courage to carry on. “I… I think I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes widened, your mouth agape in shock. You couldn’t form a single word, let alone a full sentence. Seeing how you had been left speechless, Peter continued, trying to fix whatever might have been broken with those few words.

“But I promise I won’t let it affect our friendship. I have a lot of fun with you, I don’t want to lose the best friend I’ve made in years.”

You continued to stare at him, your mind racing but your tongue tied. Ten seconds passed, twenty, maybe thirty, and you said nothing. It must have looked terrible from his perspective. But you couldn’t work out what to say, you were frozen in place.

“I’m so sorry.” He turned and walked back inside, while your hand covered your mouth and you tried to work out what to do. Would you risk the friendship you felt in your bones could be one of the most important ones in your life? Would you risk the awkwardness at work if it didn’t work out? Would you, for a relationship life you always claimed you didn’t want? You already knew what your heart would respond to all those questions: yes, yes, yes. You searched your reason, your cold, calculating brain, for a different answer. But again: yes, yes, yes. How could you not?

Your heels were comfortable but it was still a struggle to run with the voluminous dress.

“Peter wait!” You yelled when you got to the top of the staircase. He was almost downstairs, his cape flowing behind him with every step he took. “I’m sorry!”

He looked back, caution written all over his face.

“I’m sorry.” You repeated as you rushed down. “I don’t want to lose you either, but…” panic replaced every emotion that was rushing through your veins, as you felt one of the silky underlayers of the dress get caught under your toes. In slow motion, you realized Peter was too far down to catch you, but at least you wouldn’t take him down with you. Your wreath went flying off your head as you braced yourself for impact. But the crash against the cold steps never came, only two warm arms holding you firmly.

“But what?”

You looked around in shock, trying to work out how he’d made it up half the staircase in less than a second. “How…?”

“But what?” he insisted, interrupting you. You looked back at him.

“But I’ll risk it all.” You inhaled deeply. “Because I think I’m in love with you too.”

Peter’s relief was obvious, from the way his body relaxed noticeably, and from the smile he flashed at you. He helped you upright so you could gather yourself. You were checking the damage to your dress, partly hiding from the sudden elephant in the room, partly to make sure you wouldn’t make a fool of yourself again.

Once it was obvious you were stalling, Peter cleared his throat. When you looked up, he had an eyebrow raised, and gently nodded up. Hanging about a feet over your heads was your mistletoe wreath. It seemed to be floating mid air but upon closer inspection you realized it was dangling from what seemed to be a spider web.

“How…?” again, it was all you could think to say. But this time, Peter wasn’t so patient. He wrapped his arms around your waist, and pulled you in for a kiss.

EPILOGUE

There hadn’t been much time, Peter left to spend Christmas with his Aunt May in New York. You would also be visiting family.

As for New Year’s… Let’s just say things had worked out nicely and Peter was now running his hands through your hair and kissing your neck and up towards the back of your ear. And oh if he didn’t stop whispering sweet nothings against your skin, you were certain you would melt into goo and dissolve right there on the sofa.

“You are absolutely stunning.”

“Mmh…” You hadn’t been able to form a coherent sentence in the last ten minutes. You just hummed and whimpered while your body reacted to what you could have sworn was electricity passing to and from between the two of you.

Peter reached further down, caressing your back and waist tentatively. He was taking his sweet time and, as much as adored it, you felt a need building up in your core that needed to be met, and it needed to be met soon.

“Let’s move to the bed.” As much of a people pleaser as you usually were, the suggestion came out as a demand, firm and confident. In return, Peter didn’t hesitate, he simply looked into your eyes and picked you up bridal style.

You were impressed by how easily he carried you up the stairs, reminding you that you still hadn’t worked out how he’d managed the sprint up the stairs at the party. But that was a conversation for another moment because Peter was putting you down on the bed and seeking confirmation in your eye as his fingers trailed circles on your thighs. You nodded and he proceeded to run his hands up under your skirt, pulling down the hem of your tights. His hands ran back up your legs to pull your panties to the side. His fingers ran up and down the inside of your thighs as his lips met your clit, giving it a soft kiss before licking up and down and getting to work.

You lost track of time, and you were pretty sure you ascended to an alternate reality at some point, and were only brought back by the tightening coil in your abdomen. Peter switched perfectly between licking, sucking, kneading your thighs and humming against you in satisfaction. It was as if he could hear your heartbeat accelerate and relax with every wave of pleasure, giving him privileged information as to how to act at every precise moment.

But it was only after he put in his index finger inside you that you felt the orgasm incoming.

“Oh, fuck, Peter.”

You felt him smile cheekily against your clit, and you wanted to smack his head. You probably would have if he hadn’t been in charge of your pleasure at the time.

A second finger quickly followed, hitting your G spot at just the right time while your clit remained at his tongue’s mercy.

“Peter!” you whimpered, your right hand gripping his messy hair, while your left hand held onto the sheets for dear life. Your moans filled the room as you rode your high, his fingers maintaining a constant speed throughout your orgasm.

You were panting, still trying to catch your breath, as Peter undid his shirt buttons and helped you out of your dress.

“I cannot stress this enough; you are gorgeous.”

You peeked through your half-closed eyelids only to find him standing there, admiring your body.

“Beautiful enough to make love to?” Peter’s eyes went dark with desire at the question and you smirked at him.

The remaining clothes that still clung to your bodies were quickly removed and discarded. Peter kneeled between your legs, his hands combing his hair back. He was hard and leaking precum already. The awareness of him being this aroused just from making out with you and eating you out hit you like a train and you spread your legs wider for him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“So ready.” You winked at him and his cheeks turned just a tiny bit redder.

He didn’t rush it, he took his time, letting you adjust to his size. He only started pumping once you nodded at him. Slow, long strokes had you whimpering and squirming as you hid your head in the pillow, self-conscious of all the noises you were making.

“Hey, look at me. Those sounds you’re making are the hottest thing I’ve ever heard but I want to see you too.”

You were flustered, it was as if he could read your mind. But you made an effort and kept looking at him. And oh, was it worth it. He sped up his pace and lowered himself down to his elbows, close enough to kiss you and for you to grab his hair again. God, he had such amazing hair. He was panting, he seemed to be struggling.

“Tired, Parker?” You giggled in his ear.

“No, not at all. I’m just trying very hard not to cum because it would be embarrassing to last literally five minutes and also I want to make you cum at least once more.”

You were taken aback by this display of honesty. You had to admit you’d never been with any straight guy who felt so comfortable admitting stuff like that.

“I can help with that.”

You pushed him back a little, just enough that you could reach into your nightstand drawer and squirt some lube onto your hand.

Peter wasn’t moving, just looking at you in fascination. You reached between your bodies and circled your clit just like you did when you were alone. When your first moan hit his ears, Peter was brought back to Earth and he started pumping into you again. Tentatively at first, but deeper and faster as he gauged your positive reactions.

“I’m so close”, is what you said, but it took you so much effort to string the sentence together that when it came out, you were actually extremely close. So close that the next thrust from Peter’s hips sent you into orbit and you could do nothing but clench around him and hold his arms as if they were your anchors. You were just riding the last few waves of pleasure when you felt his consistent rhythm failing and his face contort. He soon crashed on top of you, both of you panting, completely blissed out.

A sound coming from the outside caught your attention before you could fully relax into each other. You frowned.

“Are those fireworks?” Peter asked. You turned towards your window and, sure enough, you could see colourful lights through the thin courtains.

“It looks like it.” You responded.

“I would have sworn it was 10 pm just ten minutes ago.” He sounded positively confused. You couldn’t help but laugh, one of those laughs that come from the belly, that makes you feel like a child again. And it must have been contagious because Peter started shaking on top of you, laughing quietly into the pillow next to you.

“Happy New Year, Peter.”

“Happy New Year, darling.”

Shout-out to @p3mybeloved for her cameo as Y/N’s best friend ❤️

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