#to not only reach out but hold on as long as possible... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starryeyed-apple · 1 day ago

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wonderstruck

summary: To take the throne, you must also take a husband. When you meet the knight to have your hand, he is faceless, nameless. He hardly ever speaks, and never removes his armor. Every attempt to get to know him is to no avail. Frustration continues to take hold of you at your marriage to this stranger, until the tension reaches a breaking point on your wedding night.

★pairing: knight!xavier x queen!reader ★wc: 9.5k ★content: arranged marriage au. knight in armor xavier who doesn't take his helmet off. tension that comes with marrying a stranger. fluff & mild angst. smut, faceless sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, piv, loss of virginity. he guides you through it and frequently checks in. brief misunderstanding that's quickly cleared up. talk of marital duties and if you want an heir. slow romance. xavier has scars. ★a/n: I disappeared for a bit because writing this consumed me. also shoutout to @asiatic-apple for encouraging me to do this idea hehe ty ivy!! ★masterlist

You were barely past twenty two summers when your elder sister died, thus declaring you the next queen of your kingdom.

As the only other descendant of your family line, you had been prepared for the possibility of taking the throne since childhood. But while other prospective heirs across kingdoms longed for the day their own flesh and blood may meet an early end, you mourned for the loss of your kin.

Though you were not left to mourn for long. You wore the colors of it, but soon enough you were rushed through preemptive royal proceedings, readying you for a future that you had never quite believed could truly be yours.

Now that you were to be queen, there were things you must have. An overhaul of your entire wardrobe, for one. Gowns, jewels and perfumes must be custom tailored for your image alone, befitting your grace and power, and all the hope you embodied for a kingdom.

You must have ladies in court to accompany you and offer counsel, carefully interviewed and hand-selected to support you. You must have protection at all times, ready to die for you at any given moment.

And a queen must have a spouse, a stalwart partner to support her and all her decisions in a long, blessed life.

You had expected a prince, beloved by his people and low enough in the inheritance line of his own kingdom to allow him to wed you. Or perhaps a duke, well-liked with his handsome features and intellect. You would've even taken a general, an irreplaceable asset in talks of strategy.

What you had never anticipated was for your intended spouse to be a silent knight.

"He is to be my husband? Truly?" you ask your lead lady-in-waiting as she assists you in undressing your extravagant engagement gown. "Him?"

"The court has deemed him as such," Tara says as the velvety fabric the color of rich wine pools at your feet, moving to unlace the ties of your corset at your back. "Why? Is he truly so terrible?"

"I would not know," you say, laughing humorlessly as you think back to how still and stoic he had been. "He spoke naught for the entire engagement talks. He hardly moved, nor did he even remove his helmet."

Tara's fingers pause. "Truly? Even in the presence of his queen?"

"Not a soul made a comment on it," you huff, taking in a lungful of air when relief rushes into the release of your bosom from the corset's restraints. "And I am not queen until the ceremony which makes me his."

"It will make him yours, milady," Tara corrects gently, removing the undergarments from your weary form. "You will rule this kingdom. He is just a formality."

"He's a suit of armor," you scoff, irritation blooming into anger as you lower yourself into the steaming bath basin brought in after the long day. "I could not pick him out from any of the ones that line our halls."

"Then he is a decoration," Tara corrects as she rests her head on her elbows on the edge of the basin. "Hopefully a pretty one!"

She knows how you prefer to bathe yourself, and stays for conversation, even as you scrub at your own skin in jerky, annoyed movements.

"Only the gods know," you mutter, head tilting back as you sink further into the heated water. Your brows furrow as you stare up at the ceiling, tracing the intricate, swirling patterns there with your gaze. "Is he to always keep the armor on? Am I to marry him like that? What of our wedding night?!"

Tara coughs, cheeks an adorable pink at your blunt words, and you stifle an affectionate snort.

"Maybe he will draw the curtains?" she suggests, giggling at the thought, and you can't hold in your own laughter now at the ridiculous mental image. "And tell you not to look?"

You groan, holding your breath as you submerge yourself in the bath in favor of facing your daunting future of being married to a man hidden away from you in metal.

There is a very brief engagement period, more for show than anything else.

You suspect it also gives ample time for the court as they rush through preparations for the wedding itself. They were eager to put you on the throne as soon as possible, unwilling to leave the kingdom wanting of a ruler for much longer.

And being courted by your chosen fiancé is…well.

Courting is hardly a suitable term.

Sitting across from each other as you sipped at your tea, and he refused to lift his visor to partake in his own? Making idle comments on the weather, the color of your wedding dress, what flowers were being arranged, only to be met with stone cold silence from your husband to be?

Lovely.

You are all too well aware of the attention of your court chaperones in the parlor with you. As you are also aware of any tantrum you may want to throw not being tolerated.

You were no longer just a princess to be spoiled and entertained. You were to be queen, and to be married to a taciturn knight, who seemed to hold no possible interest or regard for you.

At one point, you swear you hear snoring coming from inside that helmet, but then his head is lifting the next.

"Am I to at least have your name?" you finally ask at one point, unable to keep all the bite out of your tone when you do.

There is an echoing hum of disapproval behind you, and your eyes slide away from the silvery helmet, gazing at the wavyleaf sea lavender dancing in the breeze through the window.

"It has been decided that it would not be for the best," one of your advisors says from behind you, and you lift your fingers to your lips, hardly muffling the bitter laugh that slips through.

"It has been decided," you repeat slowly, balling the fabric of your gown in your lap, frustration hidden underneath the tablecloth, "that it would not be best for me to know my own husband's name?"

Silence.

"That…is correct, Your Highness."

You turn your sharp gaze onto your fiancé, a smirk tilting up behind your hand when you hear the creak of his armor when he straightens a fraction under your attention.

"And does he agree to such conditions in our marriage?"

"He does," your advisor replies.

"So he will never speak?" you intone the statement, exasperated beyond measure.

"Ah…that is up to him, Your Highness," they say, and you glance off to the side again.

"And his face?"

"Again, it is not in your best interest—"

"Then I have heard enough."

You rise from your chair, delicately smoothing out the wrinkles you'd caused in your dress.

With tight-lipped smile, you nod towards the future companion of your life as he sits motionless, faceless, nameless. A complete stranger for all your days.

To hell with no tantrums. The least you could do before bearing the weight of the crown was show a little bit of how furious you were.

"Well then," you say, grinning with thinly contained malice. "I look forward to our matrimony and life together. I am sure we will be so very happy."

You ignore the sharp cries of your advisors behind you when you leave, and force yourself to keep going even when you hear the armor creak again, the chair pushed back.

You keep walking, and refuse to take any visitors for the rest of the day.

You have not looked back towards your ever present, stoic statue for your walk through the gardens.

You do not remember at what point he had slipped in behind you. It had been a lovely day, the scent of the lavender on the breeze calming enough to lure you out of your royal chambers. And with the wedding day fast approaching, you'd take any moment of solitude you could get.

It may have not even come to your attention that he had joined you if it wasn't for that telltale creak in the armor on your third bout around the garden.

You paused, and so did he.

For a long moment, you stood there, your dress the color of a slow approaching dawn fluttering in the floral breeze. The rose and lilac shades of the skirt tighten in your grip.

"Were you sent to follow me?" you ask finally.

Another moment passes, steeped in silence.

You sigh, ready to march back within the castle walls, desperate for as much time away from him as you could manage before you were bound to him forever.

Then, you hear a gentle voice carried to you on the wind.

"No, Your Highness," the knight says, and you freeze. "I was not."

His voice is…oh.

It is much softer than you had imagined. It carries with it a calm that almost washes over you, if you weren't so irritated by his existence in the first place.

You wait for him to say something, anything else.

He doesn't.

Slowly, you begin to walk through the gardens again.

You are acutely aware of his presence now as he follows behind you.

"May I have your name?" you ask finally, unable to curb the curiosity, the uncertainty of the unknown that gnaws at your insides when it comes to him.

"You may not."

You school your expression, head held high as ever, well-practiced at hiding your frustration when you truly wanted to.

You just liked to make it be known when you could afford it.

"Will you answer any of the questions I ask?"

He does not reply.

"Why do you hide your face?"

He is quiet. When you glance back, the knight is gazing off to the side.

You're certain he will not answer you now either, and you begin to move away.

"I was instructed not to offend Your Highness."

Your brow twitches, attention snapping back to him. "Offend me?"

He nods, finally turning back to you. The helmet still renders him unreadable as he states plainly, "I am well aware of the customs of court. Typically, a member of it with a face such as mine would quickly be expelled and hidden from your sight."

"I—"

You gulped, your anger at the situation ebbing in favor of a strange sensation by the tone he uses to speak. His voice is ever soft, nonconfrontational despite what he claims, and it gives you pause in confusion.

His face?

You glance over his armor, noting he did not don a ceremonial set that day. This one did not appear ostentatious, but practical, well-crafted for durability and protection. It appeared as if it had seen battle, bearing the dents and scratches that showed of a life paved with violence, steeped in blood and victory.

It greatly contrasted the gentle way in which he spoke, and the grace with which he carried himself, even as he was six feet in armor.

Your head tilts, wondering what battle-hardened visage may be hidden underneath that helmet.

"You are scarred, then," you say aloud with the realization.

He merely nods again.

You frown.

"So I am never to see you, my intended husband, due to scars."

"It was believed the best course of action would be to hide my face from you," the knight informs calmly, not showing a hint of discomfort or annoyance in his tone as you peer so closely at him. "So as not to offend your sensibilities."

You almost laugh, the bitter sound sticking in your throat.

"Ah, yes. My delicate sensibilities."

As if you were not the one would ensure the well being of an entire kingdom, overseeing all the good and ugly it had to offer.

"And when the queen orders you to show your face?" you counter, arching an eyebrow in challenge.

"You are not yet queen," he replies bluntly, his voice still soft, ever calm as he meets your challenge readily.

You laugh, loud and sharp, sending the birds nesting in a nearby tree fluttering away.

"What a unified front we will be, my beloved," you hiss through gritted teeth before marching past him.

He catches your wrist.

You whirl around, eyes blazing at the action.

"You dare to—"

But he's letting go in an instant, and you look to your hand that he had grabbed in confusion.

In your fingers is a single, small bunch of blue-petaled flowers.

"I am aware this is not your choice," the knight says softly, and the breeze picks up, brushing between you with the gentle scent of lavender once more. "And I am sorry. If I could…"

He trails off, and after a moment of holding your breath, he bows to you.

"Your Highness," he murmurs, and you watch as he departs, disappearing back within the castle walls.

If he could what? you think all day and into the night.

You wonder it in the days to come before the ceremony, gazing at the forget-me-nots you had pressed into a favorite book of poetry.

If he could not wed me? If he could show his face? Tell me his name?

Time before the crown would be yours passes by with your unanswered questions. The nights are restless, any moment alone spent pacing.

And each morning, you wake to a small, freshly picked bouquet of baby blue flowers sitting outside your doors.

The night before your wedding, it feels hard to breathe.

You toss and turn in your bed, sleep eluding you. The knowledge of sharing it at this same time tomorrow leaves you restless, and you sit up with a sharp groan, kicking the thick blankets off.

"I just need some air," you whisper to no one, pulling your dressing gown over your shoulders and tying it tight.

You evade the guards stationed through the corridors with practiced ease, feeling a familiar rush to when you would sneak through the halls as a child with your sister, out way past your bedtimes.

The thought of her makes your chest ache, like a corset pulled impossibly tight, cutting off your ability to breathe.

Your bare feet pad across the cold floors and into the grass when you exit the castle into the gardens. You suck in a lungful of the fresh night air, breathing out a sigh of relief when the scent of lavender surrounds you.

Pacing through the flowers, you let your fingers dance along the petals, reciting the names of each species and color in your mind to calm your nerves. Your heart begins to calm in its relentless pacing.

And then pain surges through your foot.

"Argh!" you yelp, hopping back on one foot as a dull thud rings in the air from whatever you had ran into.

"Mm?"

You jump, covering your mouth to smother a surprised screech at the unexpected, distinctly human sound.

Staring down at what your poor toes had collided with, you witness the sabatons of a polished set of armor shifting.

You follow the leg into the shrubbery, pulling aside leaves and baby blue flowers to see a familiar helmet facing up towards you.

"Oh," your fiancé's soft voice emits from inside of it, and you nearly throw your hands up into the air in exasperation. "It's you."

"What are you doing?" you hiss.

You glance around you, suddenly paranoid that you would be found with him like this, just one night before when you were actually supposed to be alone.

He's quiet, and you stare down at his large frame while he awkwardly perches himself up onto his elbows in the flowers.

"Napping."

You stare at him.

And stare.

"Do you not have a bed for that?" you whisper scream.

Gods, you were going to lose your mind married to this man.

"The lavender smells nice," he replies in the most tranquil, sleepy voice you have ever heard from a man of his size and caliber, helmet turning to gaze around at the gardens. "And the sky is clear."

Your mouth opens and closes, searching desperately for a witty, scathing response.

But they all fail you when he turns back to you and asks calmly, bluntly, "Are you eloping?"

You scoff. "With who?"

His pauldrons lift and drop, metal creaking in the silliest looking shrug you have ever seen.

"A lover."

You shake your head, turning away when you mutter, "Lucky for you, I have none."

The silence that falls between you feels like an ocean separating you from one another. Once again, you are reminded that you are no better than strangers, and tomorrow…

"There is nowhere I could run," you murmur, clutching across your chest to hold your shoulders, bracing against the night's cool breeze. "I wouldn't even know where to start." You laugh humorlessly. "As if they wouldn't find me within hours anyway."

"There's a nice seaside town at the northern edge of the kingdom," he says quietly, almost sounding wistful, and you turn back to him. His armor gleams in the moonlight, his helmet tilted up towards the stars. "The people are kind, and welcoming to strangers. I think it would take them about a week to find you there."

You blink, at a loss for words once again. It's a talent that your strange fiancé seemed to have just for you, on the rare occasions he did speak.

"I can lend you my horse," he keeps speaking, the tranquility in his soft tone slowly relaxing the tension in your shoulders. "She is a kind beast. It will give you a head start."

"Do you wish to be rid of me that much?" you whisper, choosing to believe anything other than the cruel hope that you may actually have a choice for yourself.

He shakes his head, moonlight catching off the steel of his helmet.

"I made no such claims," he says, his voice steady, resolute.

This, you actually do dare to believe, and to your own bewilderment, it softens you.

"Sit with me?" your future husband asks, offering an armored hand up to you. "The stars are beautiful tonight."

You hesitate, then slip your hand into the leather. His glove beneath the gauntlet is warm with his body heat, and he helps you sit, looking away for your decency as you adjust your dressing gown to cover yourself completely before lying back.

You hate to admit it, but the strange, stoic knight is right. There is hardly a cloud in the sky, and you can see the constellations clearly, shining brightly for you in this quiet, stolen moment.

When he says nothing for a while, you assume he has fallen asleep again.

"Why do you leave me flowers?" you whisper the question that has haunted you, relying on the certainty of him not hearing.

He shifts beside you, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

"Do I need a reason?" he asks, clear and awake.

"Well—" Words fail you, and you find yourself hating that he can manage to rob you of your gift of talk and charm, the one thing you had always relied on in your life of court politics. "I suppose not."

"Do you not like them?"

You turn your face away so he cannot see how he's flustering you.

"I made no such claims," you mutter his own words from earlier.

"So you do like them."

"Be silent," you snap, more bashful than as seriously annoyed as you have been, restlessly pulling your dressing gown tighter around yourself.

Your ears perk up when you hear the most quiet, melodic giggle.

Head snapping around, you stare at the knight, who quickly shuts his mouth.

"I said silence!" you repeat.

"My apologies, Your Highness," he replies smoothly, distinctly not following your order, and you swear you hear a smile in his voice.

You huff, throwing your head back into the flowers.

"You look ridiculous," you mutter, shifting restlessly, "by the way. Wearing your armor, lying in the garden. Napping."

"Thank you," he says serenely.

You snort, a genuine sound of amusement that slips past your lips, and you cover them with surprise.

His armor creaks when he turns to look at you.

You turn back, staring wide-eyed into the reflection of yourself in his shining helmet.

And for just a moment, you think you see a glimpse of wide eyes staring back through the visor.

You think they might look just like the starry sky above you.

Then he shifts again, and the image is gone.

You both lay your heads back once more. The atmosphere of the moment shifts, a tension different from the one haunting you for weeks making your heart flutter, your stomach lighter.

"Were you truly asleep just now?" you mumble, adjusting your dressing gown as a breeze slips past, the aroma of lavender washing over you and your faceless fiancé as you lay together in the bed of flowers.

"Mhm."

"And were you asleep when we had tea?"

"…Yes," he answers quietly, and you bite your lip to stifle a laugh at how bashful he sounds. "Just for a bit. I am sorry, truly."

A giggle escapes you, and you cover your mouth with both your hands. Still, it doesn't hide the way that you fall into a fit of laughter, all the nerves from the weeks of stress leading up to the wedding lifting from your muscles.

There's a soft, nervous chuckle echoing from inside the helmet beside you, and you turn back to your fiancé.

Who would become your husband come tomorrow.

You suck in an unsteady breath, pressing a hand to your face to hide it from him.

"Are you alright?" he whispers, shifting beside you, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze upon you even with his face completely hidden. "Are you feeling sick?"

"I am fine," you say quickly, smoothing out your dressing gown again. "Just…nervous."

Your voice gets quieter when you admit it, and you keep your face turned away. You couldn't help but feel helplessly vulnerable around him, when he could see you, and you could never read his face, could hardly ever hear emotion in his voice when he rarely spoke.

"I am too."

The whispered confession makes your heart clench, and you turn back to him.

"Truly?"

He nods, and you feel the anxiety in your chest ease, just a fraction.

"I am sorry that it's me," he murmurs, and it makes your eyes sting, something aching deep within you at how honestly apologetic he sounded.

This wasn't as fair to him as it was to you, you realize with sudden clarity. You are both the same.

You sniff, wiping at your burning eyes, and find yourself shaking your head.

"Well, you are better than some spoiled prince," you say in a choked voice, and he huffs a laughs under his breath. "I may not see your face, or even know your name, but…you have been kind to me tonight."

The warm leather of his gloves grazes across your fingers in the grass, and you hold your breath when his own fingers gently intertwine with yours.

"I only ever want to be kind to you," he whispers to you, sounding so brutally honest, the waver of his gentle words as vulnerable as you feel, and it nearly pulls a sob from your throat.

"Well," you sniff, years of training to gain control of your emotions triggering in a split second to suppress them. "If I never see you, I can pretend you look as handsome as I please."

He laughs, a gentle chuckle that has warmth rolling through your chest, and you smile.

"You should return to your rooms," he says kindly, and you see his shining armor in a new light when you let him help you sit back up, and then stand. "It will be a long day tomorrow, you need rest."

"Yes, of course," you mumble, brushing grass and stray flower petals off your dressing gown.

You gaze back up at the visor in his helmet, at the darkness within, wondering what color eyes were peering back at you.

The knight takes your hand in his once more, and you watch as he lifts it to his helmet, resting the back of it against the cool steel, where his lips would be beneath.

Your heart skips a beat, and you hold your hand close to your chest when he gently relinquishes it.

"Good night," he bids you, and you drop into a curtsy by habit.

"Good night," you whisper, "my knight."

Your wedding feels a solemn affair.

And, yes. Your groom dons armor for the event.

It is a ceremonial set, unmarred by battle. Unlike the one in the garden, when you had felt for the first time there was a human inside the armor.

His wedding armor is decorative, floral and star motifs engraved in the shining silver. There is a lovingly crafted depiction of the moon and its phases across the cuirass, and the helmet has golden wings coming out from the sides.

You must admit that it is beautiful, shimmering in the light of the chandeliers above you.

Even with the understanding you had felt the night before, you still would have preferred seeing the face of the man you were about to be bound to for the rest of your life and rule over your kingdom.

You commit to your vows, as he does his. To be wife and husband, queen and prince consort, until one of you may meet the end of your days.

The celebrations that follow are stifling. There is no parading through the streets, no addressing the masses just yet. Though the weight of the crown is now on your head, there will come another official ceremony for the people to witness. Tonight is purely for the union of the queen and her new beloved.

There are guests from other kingdoms as you wine and dine, though your husband eats nothing. He is still silent, and now present, unwavering from your side through the evening and into the night.

You only part when darkness falls, your ladies-in-waiting ushering you to your bedchambers to ready you for your wedding night. They bustle around you, speaking in hushed, excited tones, and only Tara runs over things with you directly.

"I know, my dear," you sigh, smiling at her as she tells you again where it goes, how it feels, how it may pinch or hurt but to not be afraid, it would be over quick. "I'll be fine."

You're undressed and freshened up in the tittering of excitement. The only request you dare to make is for your lavender bath oil, which you take time to rub into your skin as it thrums with a tingling, heated energy.

"I will be here first thing in the morning," Tara says as she hugs you tight, taking one last moment to fix the white lace of your delicate shift. "And remember, the candles—"

"Must be blown out, yes, I know."

You sit on the edge of your bed in the silence that follows, the first time you've caught your breath since the night before.

You think of the knight, how the glove of his hand had been warm in yours. How sweet he had sounded when he admitted to being nervous too.

Gazing at the last candlestick alight next to your bed, you lean forward to blow it out before you lose all your confidence.

Time seems to stretch on endlessly before you hear the tentative knock on your doors.

"Is it my husband?" you call out, willing your voice not to shake as much as your hands trembled where they gripped your blankets.

There is silence for a beat.

"It is," his soft voice replies, and you grip the sheets tighter.

"You may enter."

When he does, it is with no clanking of metal, no armor. Only the whispers of fabric and soft footsteps, and your heart races in your chest. You force yourself not to look towards where you feel him lingering at the door once he closes it.

It's not like it would matter. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, as you and Tara had once joked about.

Nothing seemed funny now, with the nerves nearly eating you alive.

"We don't have to do this," he whispers, and you shiver from hearing his voice so clearly without the helmet, in the intimate silence of your private rooms this late at night, knowing what was to come. "If you do not want to."

"It is my marital duty, as it is yours."

"But if you do not desire—"

"Do you not desire it?" you counter, finally pushing yourself up to sit.

The question left unspoken hangs in the still, tense air between you.

Do you not desire me?

He was kind the night before, but had always been detached before. Even if he was polite, it did not mean that he wanted this. That he wanted you.

Why do you so badly wish for his desire?

You gaze aimlessly towards your doors, where the shadow of him hovers on the precipice of confirming the last step of your marital bond, and you swear you can feel him hesitate.

"I do not want you to be uncomfortable."

"Then do not make me uncomfortable," you reply easily.

Tara's advice echoes through your mind, and you shift forward onto your hands and knees, emboldened as you crawl to the end of your large, plush bed.

"Men are supposed to enjoy it," you murmur, gripping onto one of the posts at the corner of your bed. "I see no reason why a woman cannot as well."

The knight lets out a heavy breath.

"A woman can enjoy it," he assures you, his gentle voice suddenly low. "A gentleman will ensure his wife enjoys it."

Something burns inside you with the sound of his voice, ringing so clear in the privacy of night, so dark with intent. The tension that has lingered between you goes to your head, and turns into a heat simmering low in your stomach, your thighs squeezing together.

You know now why you crave his desire.

"Then show me," you whisper.

You desire him.

And he finally moves with the sound of that desire in your voice when you call for him.

Your knightly husband approaches the bed slowly.

"Lay back," he commands you, gentle but firm, and you should be irritated by it. You were to be ruler, not him.

But something in the way this gentle knight waits patiently at the edge of your bed, stripped of the armor that protects him, has you heated with anticipation, shifting slowly to lay yourself out for him.

"You know what happens?" he breathes the question out, still hovering on the edge of something more. "In the marital act?"

"Yes."

One of your hands fists into the sheets by your head, the other in the soft fabric of your wedding shift.

"Do you know you should be readied first?" he breathes, the bed finally dipping beneath his weight.

You find it hard to breathe when you feel him climbing up the bed towards you. Your husband, faceless and nameless but yours, and gods that shouldn't excite you so much. But it has your core throbbing, thighs clenching together in search of some relief.

"Answer me, Your Majesty," he murmurs your new title, low voice dripping with sinful promise, and you jump with a gasp when his fingers graze lightly along your knee.

"No," you rush out, shaking your head even if he cannot see it in the darkness of the room. "I was not aware of that."

His hand curls around your knee, lifting your leg up slowly, easing your thighs open until they fall apart.

"Before I give you my cock," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inner part of your knee, and you whimper quietly at the filthy words. "I use my fingers."

The knight brushes his lips a bit higher, then stops.

"Do you permit this, my queen?"

You blink rapidly, surprise melting way to a warm feeling of awe that he's asking for permission, and how he uses your title with reverence. It gives you a moment to think as he waits patiently for your honest answer, and the tension through your muscles begins to ease.

"Yes," you admit in a hushed whisper, the truth a breath from your lips. Then you confirm, louder, "Yes, I do. I…want it."

His hand is bare on you, large and warm, and you feel the slick on your thighs when you rub them together subconsciously.

You suck in a breath, and correct yourself quieter, a confession, "I want you."

He lets out a shaky exhale, grip tightening on you. Your knight nods against your thigh, and slowly kisses up it.

"Have you done any of this before, my queen?"

"No," you breathe out, gripping your shift for purchase when he slips the fabric up over your stomach so you are bare to him. "I—well, I have touched myself, out of curiosity."

Your voice trails off with the admission, and you cover your face with your arm.

"Have you felt a climax?" he asks, unashamed.

You bite your lip, flustered. "Once or twice, yes," you whisper, and he hums in approval against your inner thigh.

He kisses it softly, rubbing circles into your other thigh with his fingertips. You can feel the callouses on each one, and you wonder how he looks when he wields a sword.

Does he fight with a shield, or in a dueling stance? A longsword or a greatsword? Is he graceful and elegant, or aggressive and relentless?

When he kisses your skin again, he whispers against it, "Would you give me the honor of touching you now?"

You nod, then remember he can't see you either, and say, "Yes." In a quieter voice, you add in a whimper, "Please."

Seconds pass while you hold your breath, watching for his touch where you need it most.

Then, your breath escapes you in a long whine when his rough fingertips barely graze against your slit.

"Oh!" you gasp in surprise at the sensitivity from him touching you intimately in the darkness, even if just barely.

Your hips twitch and jerk up, and his palm finds your thigh, pressing it down by instinct.

The way he wields control is graceful, heady and addicting to be under, and you decide his fighting style must be elegant. Precise, measured.

Is he just an esteemed knight, or a general? Or perhaps of royal blood, a bastard of some far kingdom thrown into military service? How long has he trained? Where has he lived? Who has he fought?

"Do you want me to keep going, Your Majesty?"

Your lashes flutter, and you nod rapidly. "Yes, please."

His fingers press against you again, confident and gentle. They trace along your slit again, collecting your slick, all the way up to where you have found you are most sensitive.

"You are already wet," the knight murmurs, sounding surprised and…pleased?

It makes your sex clench, and you whine, wiggling your hips impatiently.

He presses down on your thigh more firmly, keeping you parted for him to collect more of the slick dripping from your entrance.

Then his touch trails up, pressing firm, slow, tight circles into that bundle of nerves and oh.

"There you are," he whispers, pressing kisses into your inner thigh as you moan quietly, hips rolling up into his touch. "How does it feel?"

"It feels like—" you break off with a choked gasp when his thumb flicks across it, then rubs it faster, making your mind go blank for a moment. "Hot. Tight. Good. Like pleasure."

He kisses your thigh again, and you swear you feel his lips tilting up against your skin.

Is he…smiling?

"I can use my mouth as well," he informs you, his voice calm, almost innocent, and your eyes widen at the thought. "Would you like me to try?"

You bite your lip as you try and imagine what he would look like with his face pressed to your sex, if only you could see it. What colors eyes would be peering up at you as he tasted you?

But somehow, the thought of him still being invisible to you as he kisses the most intimate part of you has excitement coursing through your veins.

"Do it," you murmur, the nature to command coming as easily to you as it does to him.

He needs no further instruction.

His hot tongue licks a long, flat stripe up your core, and you gasp, hips bucking up.

"Oh gods—"

His lips close around where his fingers were just driving you mad, and he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth, tongue circling it as he plays you like a beloved instrument, like he was a talented musician as well as a soldier.

It has you whining, thighs closing around his head as the pleasure grows hotter, sharper. It builds up quickly in the pit of your stomach, and you try and get impossibly closer.

When he pulls back, you whine in disappointment, and his answering chuckle has you trembling.

"I need to prepare you," he whispers, the tips of his fingers prodding at your entrance, and you stiffen by reflex. His other hand strokes gently at your thigh, easing your legs back open. "Relax for me. I want you to feel that climax you've felt before. Do you want that too?"

You suck in a deep breath.

"Yes, I do."

The knight slowly dips the tip of one of his fingers inside you, and you bite your lip.

But he pulls back out, testing just his fingertip a few times, before sinking it in further.

You hiss in a breath at the unfamiliar sensation, and he pauses.

"Do you not like it?"

"It's—" you steady your breath, adjusting to the feeling of his thick finger a few inches deep in you. "It's different."

"Do you want me to continue?"

You roll your hips in a test, and you both gasp when your cunt sucks him in further, clenching around him by reflex.

The knight groans quietly into your thigh, and you answer, "Yes. Keep going."

He carefully thrusts his finger in until he's completely inside you and, gods, it's long. The calloused tip strokes at your tight walls, and you moan, parting your legs further for him.

"You're so warm," he breathes against your skin, brushing his lips down to your sex again to attach them back to that pleasure spot.

It has you gasping, thrashing gently when he circles his tongue around it, his finger slowly pumping into you.

"Oh gods that—"

He hums against your core, and your lips fall open in a soundless cry from the added pleasure of the vibration of his soft voice there.

"Pleasurable?"

"Very," you moan, bucking your hips into his face when he slowly prods another finger into your tight hole.

The longer he thrusts his fingers into you, the less tense you feel. Your body relaxes, accepting him, sucking him back in whenever he began to draw back for another thrust of his fingers.

And when he begins to curl them, and brushes those calluses against somewhere that makes pleasure spark hot down your spine, you cry out softly.

"There," he mumbles to himself, and strokes that spot again.

"Y-you—"

Words escape you for the first time in your life, and you reach down by reflex, your restless fingers tangling into his hair.

You gasp softly at the same time he moans, his fingers thrusting into you with fervor. Your eyes roll back as you stroke our own fingers through his hair, impossibly soft, longer than you had imagined.

Was it brown? Blond? Perhaps a more fantastical color that hid under his helmet?

The wet sounds of his hand smacking against your skin with each thrust of his fingers into your soaked cunt is obscene, and has your toes curling, grabbing onto his hair tighter. Hot pleasure keeps growing in your gut until you feel yourself about to burst with it.

He moans again when you subconsciously yank at his hair. He's still stroking that spot each time you suck him back in, his tongue rubbing against you, and you climax against your knight's face with a nameless moan for him.

It's a high pitched cry, loud, restless, and mellows out with quieter groans as he works you gently through each wave of pleasure.

His soft kiss against your overstimulated nerves makes you twitch, and he smiles against your stomach.

"You should be ready now," he murmurs, and your mind spins at the thought of more. "If you still…?"

"I still want to," you confirm breathlessly, tugging at his hair, and the answering grunt is delicious, sparking more desire in your soaked cunt, a longing to be filled by him completely.

He pulls himself up over you, and you hear the rustle of fabric, then him grunting quietly, wet slaps echoing, before you feel it.

You jump as the head of him slips through your slick. It's curved, bigger than his fingers, and you clench in anticipation of taking it all.

It catches on your entrance, and you whimper when he begins to slip in.

"Tell me if it's too much," he whispers, his voice suddenly shaky as he lowers himself onto his arms over you. "My queen?"

"Yes," you breathe, trembling as he begins to sink into you.

He does it in short thrusts, rolling his hips to almost slip out of you before slowly easing himself back in, giving you time to adjust.

And gods, he is big. Impossibly long and thick, throbbing deliciously as your body welcomes him in.

A part of you can't help but be glad that you can't see it, knowing you'd be overwhelmed by both seeing the size of him, and being under his sharp gaze as you squirm beneath him.

When he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, you both sigh in unison.

Your knight gives you another moment to adjust. His hand finds your thigh, stroking gentle circles into it with his thumb, and you wonder if he even realizes he's doing it.

Then he thrusts into you once, filling you completely, and your eyes flutter shut.

When he does it again, a whimper escapes from your throat, and he promptly stops.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, hushed in the darkness.

You fingers flex and clench into the sheets above your head multiple times, trying to find the words he'd stolen from you along with the breath from your lungs.

"…No," you answer honestly after a tense moment. Even if you cannot see his eyes in the night, you still find yourself gazing off towards the side in shyness. "It…feels good."

Your knight—no, your husband—pauses above you.

Then, ever so slowly, he rolls his hips, grinding his pelvis into that spot above your folds that makes your toes curl.

"And this?" he whispers, dark and intense, and you bite your lip.

"G-good," you stutter out, breath hitching loudly when he bucks into you once with an obscene sucking sound, and then does it again.

"This?"

"Good," you gasp, grabbing at your pillows, head thrashing to the side when he keeps bucking into you.

Your skin slaps together with each deep thrust, loud and wet, the sound filling up your large chambers along with the scent of sweat and musk. He's impossibly deep, picking up speed, making it hard to think clearly.

"Very good," you breathe, voice shaky with mounting pleasure.

"Truly?" he breathes right next to your ear, his lips grazing it.

You whine loudly, your hand flying up to try and find purchase on his back.

But his skin is bare, no hinges of metal to hang onto. It's soft, smooth, only for your fingers to run across the occasional raised skin across his shoulders, down the span of his broad back.

Scars, you think, and wonder what each one looks like as you blindly trace them.

Your mind spins with the knowledge of him, this strong and silent man, being exposed to you at last, only for you not to see one bit of him.

But he's all around you, deep inside of you, utterly consuming you with every thrust and grind of his hips against yours. Your fingers curl against his back a few times, desperate to ground yourself.

When your nails scrape against him, and he lets out a quiet grunt, your scattered thoughts fizzle out.

Do it again, is all you can think when your mind comes back to you, even as you can't find the words to tell him. Make that sound again.

You eagerly dig your nails into his back, and he spasms above you, pulling out almost entirely only to thrust back into sopping cunt, bottoming out and bucking up into you rapidly.

"O-oh," you moan breathlessly, both hands coming up to grab at him.

You dig your grip into him at every spot you grab, leaving marks you'd never see. Your back arches off the bed each time he grunts and moans quietly into your ear from the sensation.

He feels good, you think distantly, more drunk off the knowledge than the finest of wines you'd consumed on your wedding night. All the opulence and celebration pales in comparison to this moment, when you and your husband were one—faceless and nameless as he is, he is yours. You're making him feel good.

His chest presses to yours as he leans his weight into you, his arms wrapping around your torso to hold you tight to him. He breathes against your ear, quick and shallow, as he makes soft, broken sounds.

Too distracted by the deep grind of his hips into yours, stimulating you right where you need it, you don't realize for a few moments that the broken sounds he makes are the syllables of your name.

You come apart for him with a sharp cry that breaks halfway, mouth open in soundless pleasure while your cunt spasms around his cock, drenching him in your sweet release.

"You—" he gasps, dull nails digging into your hips as they lazily thrust up to meet his own, riding out the waves of your climax. "Did you—"

He breaks off with a strangled moan, and gives a few last, deep thrusts before he's suddenly gone.

You whine at the loss of him when he slips out and away so easily. Your eyelashes flutter as you force your eyes open, transfixed by the dark shape of him over you as his hips jerk, hand moving quickly while grunting quietly, and your thighs are coated in something warm and wet.

"What…?" you breathe, your mind slowly playing catch-up, blinking rapidly. "Why did you…?"

Your thighs twitch when he runs his fingers across them, collecting his release with yours, and smearing them onto the sheets below you.

"Your maids will deliver it to your court advisors in the morning." How he still manages to sound so calm while catching his breath, you have no idea, and it makes something dark and ugly twist where pleasure just bloomed in your gut. "For proof of the marital duty being fulfilled."

"But you didn't—" you breathe heavily, pushing yourself up onto your arms as he shifts off the bed. "You were supposed to finish inside of me. There is no fulfillment unless you do so."

"It is close enough. They cannot tell the difference."

You watch his shadowy figure move, hearing the rustle of fabric.

"And now you are leaving?" you snap. "Just like that?"

"Not yet," he answers, his hushed, unbothered tone only infuriating you further.

He moves through the dark, towards the direction of your vanity, and you turn to stare at the wall. Anger stews in you, your body tense despite the lingering pleasure, knuckles tight in the sheets as you hear the pitcher of water being poured.

You don't want to look towards him.

You don't.

But you give into that inexplicable temptation anyway, that curiosity that lingers for any impossible glimpse of him, only for your breath to catch in your throat.

While you had been expecting the same tall figure drenched in shadows, you were graced with a sliver of moonlight peeking through your curtains to fall across his back, still turned to you.

His skin is pale and smooth, with a dusting of a pink flush across his broad shoulders. There is a long, faded scar across the back of the right one, nearly covered up by the hair that falls past them. The soft strands appear white, perhaps silver. Or maybe it's just the pale moonlight that makes it appear so.

When your husband begins to turn back towards you, you quickly look away, eyes readjusting to the darkness once more while he approaches.

I should have kept looking, you think when you feel the edge of the bed dip under his weight. What color are his eyes, I wonder? How sharp or soft is his brow? Are his lips full? Thin? Is his nose—

You jump at the cool cloth that presses between your thighs, a sharp hiss escaping through your teeth.

"Sorry," he whispers as he gently wipes away the evidence of your coupling from your sensitive flesh. "I tried to warm it between my hands."

You soften slowly, the tension held tightly throughout your body melting away as he cares for you. The act has something warm curling up inside your chest, your eyes suddenly hot and heavy.

"Why didn't you do it?" you whisper, still gazing off to the side, even when you feel his gaze upon you in the dark. "Why did you not fill me?"

His hand slows in wiping down your thigh. Instead, his thumb swipes across it, and you shiver at the light, calloused touch.

"Do you want children?"

"I am expected to have an heir," you answer quickly, automatically, the duty of it instilled in you.

"But do you want one?" he presses. His insistence is gentle, yet unwavering. "And do you want it now? Right as you have become queen of a kingdom that needs your guidance?"

You turn fully onto your back, gazing at where he hides from you in the shadows.

But even though his face is unknown, his name still a mystery, his voice is a comfort. It is a warm balm to your soul, when you didn't even know it was aching under the pressure of your new position.

"I was never given the choice," you whisper, unsure.

"I am giving you the choice now," he answers, strong and gentle at once.

You swallow thickly, allowing yourself the precious moment he had given to you. A wedding gift greater than any other, to be able to think and dream only for yourself.

"Not yet," you admit, quiet and intimate, for his ears alone.

"Then I will not fill you," he confirms, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles into the sore muscles of your thigh, and your eyes flutter shut with a sigh. "Not yet. Not until you ask me for it, if you ever do."

You push yourself up onto your arms.

"Then you will do what I ask of you?" you breathe, a hope inside of you suddenly blooming.

"You are my queen." It is a repetition of his oath, only for you to hear now. His soft voice is a caress to your senses, as much as his hands that find your waist, stroking lightly up your sides.

It's quieter still, intimate with devotion you hadn't dreamed of receiving from him when he adds, "And you are my wife. I will do as you command me."

You shake your head.

"What I ask of you," you insist in correction, feeling the need to give to him what he had given to you. The same grace, equal footing to stand on. "As your wife, I merely ask it of you."

He moves closer, leaning over you, the bed dipping further under your combined weight when you lay back again.

"Then what do you ask of me?" he whispers, blindly feeling for your hand in the sheets.

When he brings it to his mouth, he presses a lingering kiss to the heel of your palm, and your heart skips a beat.

His voice is unbelievably tender, the moment reminiscent of a stolen secret, just like the night before, when he adds softly, "My wife?"

You let out a shuddering breath, reaching for him. Your hands palm up his chest and down his stomach, feeling it's soft but toned, the muscles jumping under your touch.

"Let me see you?"

You feel him stiffen above you at your hushed request, and you reach blindly for his face.

"Please?" you ask, your fingers meeting his skin, gingerly tracing a few inches of his jaw before you pull them back.

You lose your breath when he catches your hand in his.

Slowly, he brings it back up to his face. His long fingers direct your palm open, and you let him guide it to his cheek. A soft, keening noise leaves your throat when you feel him sink into your touch.

"Do you truly wish to see me?" he asks, breathless and unsure. "You may not be pleased."

"Yes," you answer instantly. Swallowing thickly, you add, "I wish to see my husband on my wedding night."

He drops your hand, and you almost feel disappointment before he's leaning over and past you.

Then, a moment and a match flaring to life later, your room is suddenly awash in the warm, gentle glow of candlelight.

You blink rapidly, gazing across his chest once your vision adjusts.

Scars litter across otherwise unblemished skin, and your fingertips dance across each one, down to the soft roundness of his stomach that was hidden underneath that heavy armor.

Your heart is lodged somewhere in your throat when he slowly leans back, letting you see all of him.

And, gods above, he is beautiful.

You suck in an unsteady breath, glancing over his face. You're overwhelmed by all of him all at once, more so than when he had been inside of you in the dark, in awe of how ethereal he was in the lone flickering candlelight.

Your husband's eyes are blue, bright like a spring's sky, calm as the surface of a lazily running river. His brow is both soft and sharp, his nose handsome. His cheeks are soft and flushed when his gaze shies way from your scrutiny, and his lips so full, so pink.

And his hair was long, a color of which you'd never seen the likes of before. You had thought it was white, perhaps silver-toned in the moonlight, until the candlelight cast it golden, creating a glowing halo effect around his head.

"I know," he murmurs, and you blink out of your daze. "The scars are unsightly. I am sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No," you say quickly, cupping his face eagerly, and his eyes widen, shooting back towards your own.

Glancing over them now, you can't imagine why anybody would call his scars such. The faded red of the raised skin did nothing to eradicate the ethereal beauty of his face. To keep such a handsome, angelic visage hidden away forever seemed more than a shame, it felt like a crime.

You trace the pattern of the first scar, how it splits into two through his eye. First, you graze your touch up into his light brow, where the light hair won't grow back from the healed skin. Then you follow the line down across his elegant cheekbone, to the edge of his jaw.

Moving gently, your thumb brushes up along the raised edge of the next scar jutting from his bottom lip, and you feel his breath stutter on a shaky exhale right against your skin.

"You are beautiful," you whisper, breathless with honesty, caressing the corner of his lips with your thumb.

You watch with held breath when you graze it along his bottom lip, dizzy with how he willingly parts it for you.

Your hands come up to cup his face, and you peer up into his eyes.

The blue is impossible to see now, swallowed up by his dilated pupils. Even so, there is an emotion that wavers in them, in how his eyes flicker across your face, the thinnest shred of restraint held in the tension of his arms resting on the bed around you.

"And you are my husband," you breathe against his lips.

You recognize the emotion when he looks down at your own lips, his calloused thumb brushing up under your chin, grazing along your jaw.

Longing.

"Will you give me your name?" you breathe, fingers trailing down his nose, tracing the shape of his lips, addicted to mapping out the sight of him, in case you never got the chance again. "My husband?"

He exhales, the sound shaky as you feel the warmth of it against your fingers. His eyes are so deep and blue just in the candlelight, and you find you cannot wait to see them in the light of day.

"Xavier," your knight without his armor whispers, and you feel warm with an indescribable hope when he leans in. "My name is Xavier."

taglist: comment here if you want to be added! blank blogs will be blocked ⭐️ Xavier fics: @santaluna @itsmysmut @onigiriinthecorner @inzayneforaj @biblioth-que @needvbunni @whimsicalcup @otome-house @wonys-won 💖all fics: @frostbitten-cherry @/asiatic-apple @heartyluv @floatinginaer @sweetcalebb @princessofenkanomiya @lazygelpen @deepspacebunnieblue @cherryartchaos @kireeen @stargirlygirl @draftbeerbibi @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t @slovesyouuu @ineffabl-y @grlyeetswrld @toelady @asiaticapple @aenishas @sylusgworl @lamogliedizayne @plasticcardholder @colonelkaboom @plzdonutpercieveme @syncaleb @dailydoseofanimeawesome

#xavier x reader #xavier x mc #xavier x you #xavier smut #lads xavier #xavier x reader smut #lads xavier smut #xavier lads #lads xavier x you #lads xavier x reader #lads x reader #lads fanfic #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace xavier #lnds xavier x reader #lnds xavier #lnds x reader #lnds x you

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spookyji · 2 days ago

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idk if you take requests, but i can't stop thinking ab dom!soobin or meandom!gyu eating reader out past the point of overstimulation. having dom!soob, knitted eyebrows, knuckle deep in you, "you're gonna give me one more. just like that" in that deep voice, not taking no for an answer. meandom!gyu on the other hand "aw, is my baby crying?" whilst not letting up at all. SHSJDHSJS

danger. c.sb and c.bg

nsfw, too much oral (f receiving)

you’re gonna give me one more, just like that, soobin murmurs, his hot breath fanning over your aching folds, the thought of another one, it’s impossible, soobin’s pretty heart shaped lips glistening with your cum, fingers drenched with your juices, beomgyu’s stiff cock rutting into your ass and lower back, agonizing with the taunting sensation, wanting to be stuffed full so bad with all of him, but not ‘til they’re done with playing with your overdriven senses, blown out pupils and a glossy line of spit from the corner of your lip to your chin, tear trails streaked down your cheeks and eyes wet with fresh tears, fingers pleadingly clenched in soobin’s soft hair as his fingers curl at your sweet spot for just a moment as a sigh of pleasure slips through his lips, so obsessed with how your pussy sucks in his fingers so eagerly, wet and slicked with arousal.

your poor, cute cunt just so overstimulated, whimpers bubbling up to your lips as you feel his finger inside, stroking your sensitive walls, ‘binnie… ‘s all you can manage, barely able to shake your head no— you can’t possibly, ‘s too much, isn’t it? the sight of soobin buried between your thighs, beomgyu’s hands holding your legs with such ease, no matter if you try to close them a little, the wet, slick sounds and the sensation of his tongue slurping up your release, sucking on your clit in a haze of pleasure. mm, taste so good, baby, soobin murmurs, a hint of a moan in his voice, sounding so lewd.

s-soobin, you mumble, your voice breathless, tell me, pretty girl, soobin hums,, and you beomgyu’s breathing against your ear, a subtle intake of breath and the hands on your thighs gripping a little harder, a little impatient. please, you manage to get out, so dizzy with pleasure, so spoiled, aren’t you, with the way soobin could spend hours eating you out,, already giving you orgasms you can’t count with only his fingers and mouth.

soobin’s soft gaze so sweet when his eyes meet yours, you want to cum..? go ahead, sweetheart, fingers curling at your sweet spot as your whimpers spill freely from your lips, beomgyu’s grip loosening as your cheek presses against his chest, eyes squeezed shut as your thighs clench around soobin’s head as your climax hits, sticky cum dripping out around his fingers, lewd squelch almost unbearably shameful to hear as his fingers move inside of you, gently but pleasurably drawing out your release as you squirm against beomgyu, whines and whimpers of soobin’s name slipping from your lips freely.

such a mess now, as soobin’s fingers pull out, licking them clean. my turn, hyung, beomgyu’s voice laced with impatience as he lets go, letting you fall into the pillows. i know, soobin sighs, longing in his words as he moves to take beomgyu’s spot. did so good for me, angel, be good for beomgyu, too, he murmurs, fingers stroking through your hair as h leans down for a little kiss, tongue pushing the last bits of your cum into your slightly parted lips before pulling away, his hands wiping away your tears a little before reaching down, caressing and massaging your aching thighs. sweet nothings whispered in your ear, slowly rutting his heavy cock against the soft flesh of your ass, taking your attention away as his hands slide under your legs, gently pulling them up to your chest, raw, dripping pussy left exposed as beomgyu moves.

warm spit falling on your folds, your sore, aching legs pushed up to your chest as beomgyu’s tongue slides over your cunt, licking up a long stripe of wet warm saliva. he left you so dirty, beomgyu scoffs. your legs pushed up to your chest, barely held up from falling limp by soobin’s arms, pretty tears glistening in your eyes as he devours you up like a starved man, your hiccups and cries? oh, you want mercy, but a slut like you doesn’t deserve it yet. pussy raw, wet spot on the sheets of spit and your release, hot, open mouthed kisses placed on your swollen folds, soobin’s fingers holding your chin down, eyes on him, sweetheart. through blurry reared eyes, it feels so good it hurts, heated pleasure pulsing through your overstimulated senses as beomgyu’s tongue leaves wet saliva smeared over your aching folds, swallowing the remnants of cum and release, sticky warm and sweet, sucking on your little bud of a clit as you squirm in soobin’s arms.

and just as you’re on the verge of sweet, needed release, beomgyu pulls away, a cocky grin on the corner of his lips. no, no–! you mumble, hips unintentionally bucking up, chasing the last desperate touch to finish, your aching, raw pussy so embarrassingly on full display as soobin coos, ask him nicely, baby girl, his voice low against your ear, his hands caressing your spread thighs, teasing touches that can’t quell the need that aches in your core. p-please– you shake your head, barely able to see beomgyu’s pretty face through the haze of tears, your quiet little pleads, it’s cute, isn’t it? like a slut begging,, so greedy after you’ve had both of their attention lavished all over and it’s not enough. aw, is my baby crying? beomgyu smirks, the way his ego is stroked by your tear streaked face more than obvious. beomgyu, soobin warns, but his dripping cock twitches against your lower back says otherwise.. he wants to see you ruined, too. beg me more, beomgyu laughs, before leaning up, his chocolate brown eyes gazing into yours, a hint of mocking in them, his hand wrapping around his stiff, leaking cock, and i’ll let you cum on something better than my tongue.

was kinda tempted to make this a 3 way choi fic but eh

#this was almost too much oral for me to write lol #txt smut #soobin smut #beomgyu smut #mille.inbox #mille.anon

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sapphoagapova · 3 days ago

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sweats… skips shadley …. Lip n tongue piercinfs…. Reader faceriding hhim n when he gets the memo that reader’s afraid of putting their full weight on him he just . Yanks them down with or without warning . This is further into their relationship cuz i js know his ass gets bold when hes comfortable . Many other things in my head but this is the one that comes outta those thoughts. One of which being just simply domming him when ur fresh into the relation of the ship and playing into those sweet suppressed kinks that he’s hiding cuz hes shy and probably still nervous . SHAKES im normal

Hhhhiiii i saw ur post from one hour ago ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ — leopard anon (perchance) 🐾⚡️

#CONTAINS: Face-sitting, blowjobs, multiple orgasms, possibly OOC, first time writing smut, so it could potentially be bad!! #SYNOPSIS: You and Skips lounge on the porch, the smoke curling lazily between your lips as the night wraps around you both. You’ve been together for a while now, and with every flirtatious glance and lingering touch, the thought of finally taking him to bed grows harder to ignore. #AUTHORSNOTE: This is my first time writing smut, so this could be bad, and it isn't exactly what Anon wanted, but! Hey! More Skips Shadley content! Word count: 6k words.

The porch was worn but warm, still holding the heat of the day in its wood like a secret it hadn’t decided to let go of. The faded boards creaked gently beneath shifting weight, soft as an old sigh. Cracks in the paint curled like brittle paper left too long in the sun, the remnants of once-bold colour now ghosted over by time. Somewhere in the yard, wind stirred the tall grass just enough to remind you the world was still moving—that beyond this quiet frame, time hadn’t stopped. A lone cicada buzzed and fell silent again. The trees swayed lazily, casting shadows that reached but never quite touched the porch. But up here, in this in-between space of light and hush, everything felt paused—like the breath before a question, the stillness before someone speaks, the moment that asks you to stay just a little longer.

A flame bloomed in Skips’ cupped hands, briefly lighting up the shadows clinging to his face. The joint caught with a low, satisfying sizzle, the sound barely rising above the hum of the night. He took a slow, measured hit—eyes half-lidded, mouth barely parting as the smoke filled his lungs—and held it there for a beat before exhaling in a soft stream that curled into the air like fog. Without a word, he passed it to you, fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. The ember glowed faintly in the dark, a small orange pulse between two fingertips, casting flickering light on chipped nail polish and the silver ring he always wore. Crickets chirped lazily in the background, and the scent of weed and woodsmoke mixed in the thick summer air.

You were curled up with Skips in a blanket pile, sunk into the worn wooden stairs of the porch like the two of you had always belonged there. The world was quiet in that fuzzy, slowed-down way it gets when the high hits just right. The joint sat snug between your lips as you took a deep breath, the ember glowing brighter for a moment before you let the smoke roll out, slow and sweet. It drifted into the warm night air, catching the porch light like fog in a dream. You let your head fall gently onto Skips’ shoulder, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his hoodie, worn soft from too many washes.

"You know, I'm fucking glad someone in this house smokes—it's been real lonely since Sam moved to another state," you mumbled, your voice heavy and honest, your words stretching out like syrup. "And I'm real glad the 420 wasn't bullshit." You waved the joint for emphasis, the ember leaving a lazy streak of light in the dark. Skips didn’t say anything at first—he didn’t know who Sam was, only that you talked about them a lot, someone from 'thiscord,' some far-off corner of your phone—but he understood the tone, the soft ache behind it.

He leaned into your head, his own weight warm and grounding against yours. “I mean,” he murmured, “I did put that on my handle to look cool before actually smoking weed.”

That made you huff a laugh, short and real, and the smoke slipped out with it. The porch creaked beneath you both like it was laughing too. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed, headlights casting brief shadows across the yard before disappearing. Time felt far away. All that mattered was the warm spot your bodies made on the porch, the joint flickering like a tiny star between you, and the shared quiet that said more than either of you needed to.

"So, you manifested it?" you grinned, the corner of your mouth tugging up as you raised a teasing brow, the joint lazily held between your fingers like a wand mid-spell. The smoke drifted past your face, catching in your lashes, softening everything.

Skips shrugged, trying to look casual, but the porch light betrayed him. A faint yellow blush bloomed across his cheeks, warm against the usual stillness of his face. He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flicking away just for a second. “Probably,” he muttered, lips tugging into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. “I got curious.”

“Well, it does bring the satisfaction,” you murmured, tapping ash from the joint with a practiced flick before taking another hit. The smoke curled around your words, lazy and warm. You sat up, peeling yourself away from Skips’ shoulder—much to his quiet disappointment. The place where your head had rested felt oddly empty now, like the heat had been sucked out of it.

You leaned back on your hands, spine arched, chin tilted toward the stars. The porch light threw a faint glow over your features, but your eyes were far away—glassy with more than just the high. There was a story flickering there, pulling you somewhere else entirely.

“Sam and I used to smoke like this all the time,” you said, your voice softer now, but with that hazy fondness only old friendships carry. You passed the joint back to Skips. “Back in our college apartment, we’d roll up, blast some weird SoundCloud artist no one had ever heard of, and just… lose hours. Talked mad shit. Laughed until we cried.”

Skips blinked slowly, the image already forming in his mind. You always painted things in colours that stuck.

“And we had this really stupid tradition—whenever we hooked up with someone and never talked to them again, we’d steal their belts.”

Skips turned to you, brows slightly raised. “You stole them?”

You grinned, impish and unapologetic. “We called it the ‘Belt Wall.’ Had like ten at one point. All different styles. It was like a shrine to bad decisions.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… honestly kind of impressive.”

“What can I say? I’m quite good in bed,” you bragged, a sly grin curling at your lips. You didn’t look at him when you said it, but you could feel his attention shift.

Skips raised a brow, head tilted slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeated, dragging out the word with playful confidence. “I got into all sorts of kinks.”

He hummed, a low, amused sound in his throat. Not disbelief, not judgement—just curiosity tucked inside something unreadable. It made your stomach tighten, just a little.

Admittedly—well, not admittedly, since you hadn’t said it out loud—you’d been eyeing him for a while now. Not just in passing glances or harmless daydreams, but in that slow-burning, aching kind of way. The kind where his hoodie smelt too good, his voice stuck to your skin, and every accidental touch sparked something dangerous and warm. The kind where you wondered, quietly, desperately, what it would be like to finally take him to bed.

Sure, you were dating. The label was there. You kissed, you cuddled, you shared joints and stupid inside jokes and blanket piles on creaking porches—but you hadn’t done it yet. Not that you were rushing, but the question hovered. Lingered. Grew louder in moments like this.

You wondered what he liked. What made his breath hitch. What made him shy. What he’d let you do if you asked nicely—or not-so-nicely. You wondered what he wouldn’t like. If he’d trust you enough to say so. If he’d blush when you leaned close and whispered things only meant for dim rooms and locked doors.

Your gaze slid to him, sharp but playful. “What about you?” you asked, voice a little softer, a little slower. “You into anything?”

Skips choked a little on his own breath—subtle, but enough that you noticed. He cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck, and then finally glanced at you with a lopsided smile that was all nerves and not enough confidence to cover them up.

“I mean… maybe,” he mumbled, not quite meeting your gaze. “Kinda depends who’s asking.”

You smiled wide, shameless. “Someone who’s been hoping you’d end up in their bed.”

That definitely made him blush. He looked down at his lap, a low laugh escaping him, flustered and warm. “You can’t just say shit like that while I’m high,” he muttered.

But he didn’t say no. And that flicker in his eyes? That wasn’t hesitation—it was permission.

You licked your lips slowly, deliberately, eyes lingering on his mouth—the way it twisted nervously, how he chewed at the inside of his cheek like he didn’t know what to do with your attention. The way his gaze flicked anywhere but yours only made you want him more. There was something about the way he got shy that stirred something deep in your chest. You wanted to pull every sound out of him, every hidden thought, every quiet little please.

“Come on,” you said, tilting your head, your voice dipping low and velvety as you leaned in just a little. “What are you into?”

He shifted beside you, pulling the blanket a little higher like it would shield him. “Why’re you asking like that?” he muttered, clearly flustered, eyes still not on you.

You just smiled, slow and indulgent. “I’ll go first, if it helps.” He didn’t respond, but you caught the way his shoulder tensed slightly, like he was bracing for something.

You let the words slip out, soft and intimate. “I really like body worship,” you said, watching him closely. “Giving, receiving. Slow, drawn out. Making someone feel like they’re sacred.”

That earned a reaction—barely a flicker in his expression, but it was there. His jaw shifted. His hands twitched. You could practically feel him trying not to react.

He cleared his throat, mumbling, “That’s pretty vanilla.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Mm. I can be kinkier.” You shrugged like it was no big deal, but your eyes stayed locked on him, steady and inviting. “Come on. What’s yours?”

He hesitated, a long pause stretching out between you like something fragile and waiting. Then, finally, his voice came out—barely above a whisper.

“I think I like… being told what to do,” he said, not meeting your eyes, cheeks already flushed. “Not like, super hardcore stuff. Just… being guided. Pushed around a little.”

That made your breath hitch, just slightly. It was subtle, but it rippled through your chest like a shiver, sparked by the quiet confession he'd barely managed to get out. He hadn’t even looked at you when he said it—had barely whispered it like the words themselves were fragile—but they hit you like a brick.

You leaned in, slow and deliberate, your voice low enough that only he could hear, like you were handing him a secret in the dark. “You like being taken care of,” you murmured, letting the words linger in the space between you. Your smile deepened, soft and dangerous all at once. “And maybe… a little controlled?”

Skips made a sound—barely a groan, more like a breath catching on the edge of embarrassment—and dropped his face into his hands. His ears were burning red now, and his shoulders curled up like he could hide inside the blanket between you. “Why are you saying it like that—”

“Because you’re cute when you’re squirming,” you teased, nudging his knee with yours, tone playful but with just enough gravity to make your meaning clear. You didn’t need to push harder than that—he was already unraveling, just from this.

He didn’t answer immediately, just let out a breathy laugh into his hands, muffled and helpless. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t shift back. If anything, his body leaned a little closer to yours, like he didn’t want to admit how much the tension was affecting him—but couldn’t help but give in to it anyway.

You watched him for a second, just breathing him in—the nervous fidgeting, the flushed skin, the way his knee brushed yours and didn’t move. He was trying so hard to hold on to his composure, and he was failing in the prettiest way.

You reached up, slowly, gently curling your fingers around his wrists—his skin warm under your touch, pulse fluttering beneath your thumb. He froze for a moment but didn’t resist, letting you guide his hands away from his face like you were peeling back the last layer of hesitation between you. And there he was. His cheeks were flushed—soft, warm, unmistakably golden under the porch light, like the glow had settled into his skin. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and uncertain, but so full of something you’d both been pretending not to notice for weeks now. Maybe longer. You stared at him for a beat, mouth parting, breath catching at the sight of him—so shy, so exposed, and still not pulling away.

“…You’re really pretty,” you whispered. It slipped out like breath, like instinct, like the truth had been on your tongue for too long and finally decided to fall out on its own.

His eyes widened just slightly, like the words stunned him. Like they struck some small, hidden place inside him that didn’t know how to handle softness. His lips parted in surprise, and he opened his mouth to say something—but nothing came out. He looked at you like you’d cracked something open in him. Like no one had said it quite like that before. Or maybe no one had said it and meant it. The air around you was thick now, tense but tender, full of things that didn’t need to be said. You could hear both of your breathing. You could feel the way your knees touched, the way the heat between you had slowly gone from playful to something that throbbed at the base of your spine.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. Because Skips did.

He leaned in—tentative at first, still testing the gravity between you, still not totally convinced this was real. His hand found your thigh, warm and trembling just slightly, grounding himself. His other hand hovered by your cheek, fingers twitching with hesitation before brushing against your jaw with the gentlest touch, like you might vanish if he grabbed too tightly. Then he kissed you. Soft. Sweet. Careful, like a question asked in the dark. Like a secret shared between two people who’d been tiptoeing toward each other for far too long.

You didn’t hesitate. You kissed him back with everything you’d been holding back—slow, full, sure. His lips were warm and plush, a little unsure, but they moved with yours like he’d thought about this before. Dreamed about it. Maybe even replayed it in his head late at night, just like you had.

His hand tightened slightly on your thigh, and you shifted closer, your hand sliding up his arm to rest against his chest. You could feel his heart beating fast, matching your own, both of you caught in something that wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything you hadn’t said finally collapsing into touch. Your fingers moved without thought, instinct taking over as your hand slid up the side of his neck and into his hair—dark, soft, slightly messy from the way he kept nervously running his hands through it all night. You buried your fingers there, gently at first, but then you gripped tighter, tugging just enough to test him.

That was when he groaned—quiet, caught off guard, and pressed right against your mouth. The sound vibrated into you like a shiver, low and breathy, full of surprise and need. It wasn’t loud, but it was honest. His lips faltered against yours for a heartbeat, like the sensation short-circuited something in him, and then he kissed you harder, leaning into your body, like he wanted to melt into your skin. You swallowed the noise he made, greedy for more.

The kiss deepened—slow, but messier now, less careful. He was still shy, still flushed, but your touch seemed to pull something out of him. Something he didn’t know how to name. Like your fingers in his hair unlocked a door he hadn’t meant to open just yet. You tugged again, just slightly, watching how his breath hitched, how his hands tightened on your thighs as though to anchor himself.

And god, that sound.

He eased you back with a gentle press, and the moment your body gave way, darkness swept over you like a velvet tide. You barely registered the shift—only the plush give of something soft cradling your spine. Still, you hadn’t let go of him. Not yet. It felt too good, too overwhelming, like a fever you didn’t want to break.

You whimpered when he pulled away from your mouth, but he didn’t go far—only dipped lower, lips grazing your neck with heat and hunger. The sound you made was involuntary, a breathy moan that escaped before you could stop it. Still, the pause gave your eyes a moment to wander, adjusting to the dim glow bleeding through strands of shadow.

You recognized it now—this realm, this oddly intimate bubble of space. The same pocket dimension where you first crossed paths with him under the alias xxxshadowlord420xxx. Only now, the void had been furnished with personality: band posters clung to the dark walls like relics from a forgotten era—emo names only the most online would remember. A dented CD rack leaned drunkenly in the corner, stuffed to the brim. An old computer hummed in the corner, its desktop a cluttered mosaic of downloads and chaotic nostalgia. The place reeked of teenage angst and digital sanctuary. An emo bedroom, unmistakably his.

And yet, even with your back against what might’ve been a mattress and your gaze trailing across the cluttered shrine of who he was, your hands remained hooked around him, refusing to let go.

“Fuck…” you breathed, the word slipping out in a shaken whisper as his teeth sank into your skin. A sharp sting bloomed beneath the surface, and your fingers instinctively tangled in his shadowy hair. Sensing your jolt, he eased the pressure, his lips softening as he pressed a gentle kiss to the same spot, a quiet apology written in heat and tenderness. The contrast—the bite and then the balm—made your pulse thrum in your throat, your body caught somewhere between ache and surrender.

Your fingers trailed languidly through the silken strands of his raven locks, each tooth releasing from the tender flesh of his scalp as your hand began its retreat. The air felt cool and foreign against your dampened fingertips as they descended, a whisper of sensation lingering in their wake. Gently, almost reverently, your palm cupped the growing heat of his arousal, the hard length of him twitching against your touch like a brand of living steel. His breath, once ragged and desperate, began to slow and steady as he buried his face into the crook of your shoulder, the warmth of your skin and the scent of your essence seeming to soothe the ragged edges of his hunger. The room fell silent save for the soft, shuddering inhales and exhales that ghosted over your collarbone, a haunting melody of sated desire and lingering need.

In a flurry of eager hands and rustling fabric, you and Skips worked to divest him of his shirt, the garment falling away to reveal his toned, gray-skinned torso. Your eyes widened slightly as they fell upon the glint of metal adorning his nipples - a pair of intricate, circular barbells that caught the dim light, their surface a darker shade of gray than his natural skin tone. A smirk played at the corners of your mouth, a teasing glint sparkling in your eyes as you took in the sight of the piercings.

"Spicy…" You murmured, your voice laced with playful mischief. A pretty blush crept across Skips' cheeks, the rare display of color on his pallid skin only serving to make him look more alluring. He ducked his head, trying to hide the way his ears burned, but you could see the pleased smile tugging at his lips beneath his unkempt hair. It seemed your approval meant more to him than he let on, his body language betraying a hint of the vulnerability hidden beneath his usual aloof exterior.

You leaned back against the headboard, taking a moment to fully appreciate Skips' newly exposed form. Your gaze drifted over the tantalizing sight of his nipple piercings, the glint of metal a delicious contrast to his smooth, gray skin. You followed the line of his happy trail, the narrow path of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers, drawing your eye downwards. Your breath caught slightly as your attention was caught by the growing bulge at his crotch, his arousal evident and impressive even through the fabric.

As you drank in every detail of Skips' appearance, you saw his expression shift, a becoming blush staining his fair skin. He ducked his head shyly, trying to hide the way his ears burned beneath the tousled fall of his hair. "Please, don't look at me like that..." Skips murmured, his usual bravado deserting him in the face of your blatant admiration. There was a rare vulnerability in his eyes as he peeked up at you from beneath sooty lashes, a hint of the man beneath the "cool" facade. It was clear your gaze affected him deeply, igniting a warmth within him that had little to do with lust.

"I can't help it, you're breathtaking," you murmured, your voice low and heavy with admiration. As if drawn by an invisible force, your hand began to explore the expanse of Skips' chest, your fingers trailing up to gently pinch and roll his pierced nipple between them. The action elicited a sharp gasp from Skips, his breath escaping him in a shuddering pant as your lips began their own sensual journey across his skin.

You peppered his neck with tender kisses, your mouth mapping the column of his throat with a reverence that made Skips' pulse jump beneath your lips. You traced the line of his collarbone with the tip of your tongue before dipping lower, your kisses trailing downwards until you reached his other nipple. Skips arched into your touch with a low, drawn-out moan, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. His skin was hot and smooth beneath your mouth, the metal of his piercing cool in contrast. You lingered there for a moment, laving the sensitive bud with attention until Skips was writhing on top of you, his body thrumming with pleasure and need.

As your teasing touches and tender kisses inflamed Skips' desire, you felt him begin to move against you with increasing urgency. He ground his hips into your thigh, the rough denim of his jeans creating a delicious friction that made him gasp and shudder. His movements grew more insistent, almost desperate, as he rutted against you like a dog in heat. The evidence of his arousal was unmistakable, the hard, thick line of his cock straining against the confines of his trousers as he sought more of that maddening pressure.

At the same time, Skips' fingers tightened in your hair, gripping the strands with a fervor that bordered on pain. He used the grip to pull you closer, to crush your lips more firmly against his chest, demanding more of your touch. His breath came in hot, ragged pants, the sound of his increasingly labored breathing filling your ears as he lost himself in the haze of sensation.

As your lips and fingers retreated from Skips' now-tender nipples, a sound of protest escaped him - a needy whine that caught in his throat, his body arching upwards as if to chase your touch. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, his skin prickling with goosebumps and his muscles coiled tight with tension. But there was no time to linger on his discomfort, not when the evidence of his arousal was so prominent, so urgently demanding attention.

With a shared look of playful conspirator, you and Skips set to work divesting him of the last of his clothing. Your deft fingers made quick work of his belt, the leather strap slipping free of its loops with a soft clink. At the same time, Skips' own hands fumbled with his zipper, the metal teeth parting ways with a hiss as he wrenched the denim open. Together, you both tugged and wriggled, Skips lifting his hips to aid in the process as he shimmied out of the constrictive jeans. The tight fabric resisted for a moment before giving way, the dark denim sliding down his legs to pool around his ankles. Soft giggles escaped your lips at the slightly comedic moment.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against the damp fabric of Skips' boxers, feeling the intense heat radiating from his straining erection. "Penumbra..." he gasped, his voice thick with need as you lavished his most sensitive area with gentle kisses. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and he found himself drowning in the depths of your gaze - a swirling mix of love and lust that made his heart clench and his cock throb with anticipation.

Unable to resist any longer, you peeled his boxers down, freeing his impressive length from its cotton prison. It sprang up, slapping against his stomach, the thick shaft flushed a deep, angry red and leaking with desire. Before Skips could even process the sudden exposure, you had already wrapped your lips around his cock, your mouth engulfing his aching flesh in a warm, slick embrace.

A guttural moan tore from Skips' throat, his head leaning back as his hips jerked upwards, driving himself deeper into your mouth. His fingers tightened in your hair, gripping the strands with a desperate intensity as he fought the urge to thrust, to fuck your face with wild abandon.

Heeding Skips' desperate plea, you took him a few tantalizing inches deeper, your lips stretching to accommodate his generous girth. You could feel the thick, pulsing heat of him throbbing against your tongue as you began to bob your head, taking him in and then pulling back, setting a steady rhythm. The musky, slightly bitter taste of his arousal flooded your senses, a heady elixir that made your head swim and your core clench with desire.

Your fingers gripped the base of his shaft, pumping in time with the movement of your mouth, stroking the velvety skin that was so hard and yet so sensitive. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the unique map of his desire etched into the hot flesh beneath your fingertips. Skips' breath grew harsher, his chest rising and falling more rapidly as you worked him with lips and tongue and hand, stoking the flames of his lust ever higher.

"oooooh, fuck! Penumbra!" he let out a needy groan. "I'm—I'm about to erupt—!"

Skips' hips began to move with increasing urgency, no longer able to hold back as he fucked into the warm, welcoming haven of your mouth. His grip on your hair turned almost punishing as he set a relentless pace, his cock driving in and out, in and out, the thick length plunging past your lips and hitting the back of your throat with each powerful thrust. You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his body, his muscles drawn taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

With a roar that was equal parts pleasure and agony, Skips slammed his hips forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt in the clutch of your throat. At the same moment, his cock jerked and pulsed, the thick shaft throbbing as it unleashed a torrent of hot, bitter seed directly down your gullet. You had only a split second to prepare before the first spurt of his release flooded your mouth, the sheer volume of it catching you off guard.

You tried your best to swallow it down, to gulp and swallow and breathe through your nose as Skips emptied himself into you, his cum shooting out in seemingly endless ropes of thick, viscous fluid. But it was too much, too fast, and you found coughing out his essences, pulling back.

"Oh—Oh, my god—I am so sorry—" He gently held your shoulders as you continued to cough out, "Are you okay?"

“No—” you choked on your own breath, coughing once before forcing a laugh. “—It’s fine! Never been better.” Your voice wavered just enough to betray you, even as that lovesick grin stretched across your face. It looked dreamy—almost dazed—like someone high on affection and denial all at once.

“God, you look insane.” He laughed, breathless and amused. You laughed too, cheeks warm as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trying to compose yourself.

“Uhm…” You glanced away for a moment, your eyes flickering toward the floor before returning to him. “Wanna keep going?”

“Re—Really?” His eyes widened slightly, lips parted in quiet surprise. “A—Are you sure?”

“Yeah…” you murmured, fingertips drifting gently across his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the thrum of his heartbeat beneath it. “I still have some stamina…”

His hand found yours, holding it in place for a second longer. “Well… I do wanna make you feel good this time…”

You smiled softly. “Yeah?”

He nodded, voice low. “Yeah…”

“Uhm… so what do you wanna do to me?” you asked, shifting where you sat, trying to sound casual despite the heat creeping up your neck.

“Oh! Uhm…” He fumbled for words, eyes darting away before returning to you with hesitant boldness. “I was hoping you’d…”

You leaned in slightly, your voice low and teasing. “I’d…?”

His breath hitched. “Sit on my face.”

The moment hung suspended—his face blooming a bright, embarrassed yellow, like someone caught in a dream he didn’t expect to say out loud. His ears twitched. Yours probably burned.

You looked him up and down, biting your lip as if already tasting the thought. A soft giggle escaped you before your hands slid to his shoulders, pulling him down onto the mattress with ease. The room shifted with your movements, and in seconds, you were on top—straddling him, your thighs framing his hips, confidence glinting in your eyes like a dare.

You leaned down and crashed your mouth against his, lips dragging with a greedy, open-mouthed hunger. Your tongue lapped at his, not so much a kiss as a claim—fast, wet, and messy. His breath hitched sharply beneath you as your teeth scraped his bottom lip, and you swallowed the sound he made. Hands gripped, clutched, pulled—neither of you caring about finesse, just the heat, the urgency, the ache of wanting more.

You quickly slipped your shorts down your legs, kicking them off to the side. You were left in nothing but your damp panties, the flimsy fabric clinging to your aching sex, a testament to your own arousal. His hands were already reaching for you, his fingers slipping beneath the elastic of your panties with a sense of urgency. "Eager…" You teased yet obeyed his desire.

you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your drenched panties and shimmied out of them, the flimsy fabric sliding down your legs to pool on the bed beside you. Baring yourself fully to Skips' heated gaze, you swung your leg over to straddle his face, your dripping sex now hovering mere inches above his lips.

Skips' eyes darkened with lust as he took in the glorious sight of your naked, glistening folds, the heady aroma of your arousal filling his nostrils. His hands gripped your thighs, long fingers splaying over the smooth skin as he held you steady, positioning you exactly where he wanted you.

You bit your lip, a thrill of anticipation and a flicker of nervousness dancing in your eyes as you gazed down at Skips' dark, intense gaze. "Ready?" you whispered, your voice breathy and laden with desire.

Skips eagerly nodded, his eyes blazing with a feral hunger that made your pulse jump. He didn't wait for you to lower yourself to him, but instead, he surprised you with a sudden, forceful tug on your thighs. Skips demonstrated an astonishing strength as he easily pulled you down, your dripping sex slamming against his waiting mouth with a lewd, obscene sound. His lips parted instantly, his tongue delving between your folds to lap at your dripping essence with a desperate, almost starving fervor.

"Oh!" you gasped, your back arching as a jolt of pleasure shot through you. Skips' tongue was relentless, stroking and delving, teasing your sensitive flesh with a skill that left you breathless. He seemed determined to taste every drop of your arousal, to drink his fill of your nectar until he was sated. Your hesitation melted away as he feasted on your sex, his mouth and tongue and lips working in tandem to stoke the flames of your desire ever higher. The sensation of his mouth on your aching, needy body was almost too much to bear, the intensity of it stealing your breath and making your head spin.

Your fingers tangled almost desperately in Skips' long, silky hair, gripping the dark strands as if your life depended on it. Broken gasps and wanton moans spilled from your lips, interspersed with breathless pleas and curses. "Fuck, Skips..." you panted, your voice ragged and raw with desire. "Fuck, yes, just like that..."

Skips needed no further encouragement. He doubled his efforts, plunging his tongue deep into your dripping channel with a newfound fervor. He fucked your cunt with a wild abandon, his tongue pumping in and out, stroking your most sensitive spots with a skill that left you seeing stars. The obscene sound of his mouth working over your sex filled the room, punctuated by your increasingly high-pitched cries of ecstasy.

At the same time, Skips' hands roamed your body, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, kneading and squeezing, urging you to grind yourself against his face. His thumbs brushed over your clit, circling and teasing the swollen nub, sending jolts of electricity zinging up your spine.

You ground your dripping sex against Skips' face with wild abandon, your hips undulating in a primal dance as old as time itself. Your chest heaved with each ragged, desperate breath, the rise and fall of your breasts matching the relentless rhythm of Skips' tongue plunging into your aching core. You bit your lip hard enough to leave a mark, your teeth sinking into the tender flesh as you struggled to muffle the wanton moans and cries that threatened to spill from your throat.

Your fingers tightened their grip on Skips' hair, fisting the silky strands as you held his face flush against your dripping folds. You could feel the scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs, the slight abrasion a delicious contrast to the slick slide of his tongue as it fucked your cunt with a wild, almost punishing fervor. Your body moved of its own accord, grinding and rolling, chasing the pleasure that only Skips could give you.

You could feel your thighs beginning to tremble and quake beneath Skips' skilled ministrations, the muscles fluttering and tensing as your climax approached. Skips, ever attuned to your body's every reaction, could sense your impending release long before you had to utter a word. His obsidian eyes flicked up to meet yours, blazing with a dark, triumphant intensity as he redoubled his efforts, spurred on by the knowledge that he had brought you to the brink of ecstasy.

With a low, approving growl that vibrated through you, Skips plunged his tongue even deeper into your dripping cunt. He fucked your channel with a wild, almost feral intensity, his tongue pumping in and out, stroking your most sensitive spots with a breathtaking skill that left you seeing stars. At the same time, his lips sealed around your clit, suckling the swollen nub with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He teased the underside with the tip of his tongue, flicking and circling, before closing his lips and suckling harder, determined to drink down every last drop of your release.

"Fuck! Skiiippsss!" You cried out, your voice dissolving into a drawn-out, keening wail as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your body convulsed, back arching sharply as pleasure exploded through every nerve ending, setting your skin ablaze and your heart pounding. Skips' fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, holding you in place as he relentlessly worked you through your climax, his tongue never pausing in its relentless assault on your spasming sex.

Warm, molten heat flooded your core as your walls clenched and fluttered around Skips' plundering muscle, gripping it like a velvet vise. Your thighs trembled violently, quaking and jerking as you rode out the intense waves of your release. Broken sobs and gasps tumbled from your lips, punctuated by the shameless grinding of your hips, your body instinctively seeking to prolong the mind-blowing ecstasy that Skips had unleashed within you.

Skips drank down your essence greedily, his lips and tongue and chin slick with your dripping arousal. He seemed determined to taste every last drop, to swallow down your pleasure until he was drunk on it, addicted to the flavor of your desire.

With your legs still trembling from the aftershocks of your intense climax, you forced yourself to unstraddle Skips' face. You collapsed onto the bed beside him, your chest heaving as you fought to catch your breath, your skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration. You turned your head to the side, your eyes widening as you took in the debauched sight of Skips' face—his chin and lips slick with your dripping arousal, his obsidian eyes glazed and unfocused from the thorough tongue-lashing he had just given you.

"Holy fuck..." you breathed, your voice ragged and raw from your cries of ecstasy. Skips' chest rose and fell rapidly beside you, his own breathing labored from the exertion of his enthusiastic ministrations. A few stray strands of his long, dark hair clung to his face, plastered there by the slick evidence of your shared passion. The sight of him, the raw, primal intensity etched into every line and curve of his cum-drunk features, sent a fresh shiver of desire rippling through your sated body. You knew you should say something more, something profound or poetic, but all you could manage was a breathless, awestruck… "Hi…"

Skips let out a low, boyish giggle, his voice still thick with leftover heat. “Hey…”

You turned your head slightly toward him. “That was…” you exhaled, your lips curving into a hazy smile, “really nice. Amazing, even… You were really good.” Your voice came out soft, awestruck, like you were still floating somewhere between reality and whatever place he had just taken you to.

Skips leaned in and kissed you, and instantly, you tasted yourself on his lips—a lingering reminder of everything that had just happened. But this time, it wasn’t rushed or frantic. It wasn’t driven by need. How could it be, when you’d already had him, already reached that high together. No—this kiss was different. It was slow, tender. His lips moved against yours like he was savoring you now, not devouring. It was soft. Loving. Like he was kissing you not just because he could—but because he wanted to stay in this moment just a little longer.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he murmured, voice low and still a little breathless. He sat up from the bed, muscles shifting under his skin as he reached over to a nearby drawer. He pulled out a towel, but before handing it to you, he brought one corner to his mouth, wiping the slick from his lips—your slick—from earlier. The motion was unhurried, almost casual, but something about it felt intimate… Reverent. Like he wasn’t trying to erase what happened, just tidy the edges of something already perfect.

He walked over to you, the towel still warm in his hands, and knelt between your legs with a gentleness that contrasted the intensity from before. Carefully, he wiped the glistening mess from your thighs—your release still slick against your skin. His touch was tender, almost reverent, as if he didn’t want to make you flinch or break the moment’s quiet. Once he was done, he leaned in, giving you a soft, lingering peck on the lips—not rushed, not demanding, just a quiet kiss that said everything without needing a single word.

"I think I love you."

I hope you enjoy!! I literally forgot about his tongue-piercing and I cried when I found out.

#xxxshadowlord420xxx #skips shadley #date everything skips #skips date everything #date everything #skips shadley x reader

108 notes · View notes

seitmai · 16 hours ago

Text

Many thoughts

“Even better. You’re makin’ me hard before duty, thinkin’ about you, Mama.” “Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” you smirked, hearing his answering moan. “Oh fuck.” It was your turn to chuckle. “Like that, Lieutenant Commander Seresin?” “Playin’ dirty, Mrs. Seresin.” You inhaled sharply as you circled your clit. “Fuck I miss you. Not just fucking you. Miss holding you. Kissing you.” Not feeling particularly turned on, you moved your hand, bracing yourself on the sink.

Someone has a rank kink 🤭

“God. Damn,” Ash grinned, and you felt your face flush as she snapped more pictures. “I’m gonna just move these a little -” you felt her reach between your breasts to rearrange Jake’s dog tags, the metal cool on your skin “- and pull this back a bit.” She shifted the collar of his blue jacket to just cover your nipple before fiddling with it to make the ribbon bar lie flat. Keeping your eyes closed, you took a deep breath and twirled your engagement ring around your fingers. Sloane squirmed, and it took all your willpower not to move your hand from where Ash had posed it over your head, resting on the arm of the chaise lounge. A small smile tugged at your lips when you pictured Jake’s hands on your stomach, recalling how he would chase the smallest twitch your daughter made. His chuckle, warm in your ear, when he felt her foot thump against his palm. His cheek against your skin as he talked to her while you ran your fingers through his hair.

Jake is gonna eat these pictures up!! Her in his uniform and pregnant with his child, its like all he loves in one picture

“Yeah. You look comfortable and sexy. It won’t take too long.” Reluctantly, you let her lead you back to the set and helped you get comfortable against the bed headboard. She took photos of you playing with your hair, cradling your stomach, and resting a coffee cup on your belly, which made you grin while remembering Jake’s ban on anything but water in bed. But her favorite was when she had you sit on the edge, legs outstretched with the sweater tucked under your breasts, leggings rolled down under your belly, with NAVY prominent across your chest. “Jake’s gonna love that one,” you smirked when she showed it to you.

He won't know what to do with himself when he sees these pictures

For the first time in ages, you somewhat felt like yourself. You’d gotten your hair cut and scheduled a wax for the photoshoot. The feeling of clean sheets on your bare legs after visiting the esthetician had been glorious, although the bikini wax had been more painful than you remembered. Ash’s partner had done your hair and makeup for the day before leaving, allowing you privacy in the studio. Feeling slightly emboldened, you snapped a selfie of yourself and sent it to Jake.

Ahh so happy that she did that for herself 🥰

"Ten-day window approved - there’s a possibility I’ll be home before Valentine’s Day.” Three weeks. Before your due date. “WHAT?!” you shrieked. Jake’s laugh was warm, and you waddled quickly up the beach toward your car to try to hear better. The sand made you feel slightly off balance, but you hurried and hoped you wouldn’t fall. “It’s just a possibility, but there’s a chance I’ll make it home in time to take you to the hospital and meet our little girl.” You burst into tears and clapped a hand to your mouth. “Hey - hey, darlin’, it’s alright. This is a good thing.” “I’m j-just s-so relieved,” you sobbed. As you neared the parking lot, you tugged the car keys from your pocket and unlocked the car, collapsing into the driver’s seat.

I really hope this works out in their favor 🤞🏻

“M-me too. O-only because I love you.” “Yeah? Only because you love me?” he teased. “Yup,” you laughed. “I’m over being pregnant.”

Fair 😅

“Yeah - Javy’s already mapped out the fastest routes from the house to the hospital. Our friends are talking about rotating someone sleeping at the house in case I go into labor overnight, but I told them it wasn’t necessary.”

Understandable, you just want some peace and quiet in your own home, especially pregnant I assume

Grimacing, you asked the question Jake had requested. “Do you think I need someone to stay with me?” “Medically speaking, you and this little girl are both in good shape. And unless something drastically changes in the next few days, I don’t think you’ll be in active labor anytime soon. It wouldn’t surprise me if you start having some contractions, but that’s normal. So if you have a plan, a back-up plan, your bag is ready to come to the hospital, and you agree to call if anything comes up that you’re unsure about… Moms stay home by themselves all the time.” “Thank god,” you groaned. “I love our friends, but I don’t want people in my house all the time.” Dr. Shearer laughed.

Haha now that she has the backup of Dr. Shearer there is no chance for Jake getting them to come and sleep over against her will 😅

Now, knowing that Sloane and Jake would arrive soon, you needed to scrub the house from top to bottom. Between birthing classes and work, you knew that housework had fallen to the wayside. Jake wouldn’t blame you for not thoroughly cleaning the house, you told yourself when sitting on the couch after work, but your father-in-law's words had woken you in the middle of the night and refused to stop echoing in your head.

Jake 100% wouldn't but isn't this also like a nesting thing and therefore normal🤔

So between work, not sleeping, and cleaning, you were exhausted. But not to the point of just sitting around the house. You still loved walking the flight line and feeling Sloane wiggle her approval when the jets flew. If the Daggers set eyes on you at work - and they usually did, swinging by to have lunch or chat - you could usually have a night at the house alone. Which was perfect, because as soon as you got home, your clothes came off. Everything felt uncomfortable, and your feet hurt, so walking around the house in your underwear was a daily experience.

It's all about balance, being dressed and with friends at the flight line and as little as possible cloths and peace at home 😌

The homecoming date had been set for two days after Valentine’s Day. The news had been hard, and you knew your husband hated delivering it after getting your hopes up. Once you’d hung up the phone, you sat in the living room and stroked your stomach. “Sloane, I know your daddy asked you to stay in there, and I’m gonna ask you to do the same. I know we’re both uncomfortable, but we can hang on for a little longer, alright?”

She probably is a daddy's girl so that might help 🤞🏻

Good for her👏🏻

Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. Only a few more days until I’m home, and hopefully not much longer until our daughter arrives. Meeting you on the flight line was the best thing that ever happened to me. Your man in a bag, conflict of interest, and loving husband - Jake

🥰🥰🥰

“You and me both, Mrs. Seresin. Are you sure you want to meet me on the flight line? I can have Javy drive me home.” “Not happening. I want to see you as soon as you land. Besides, your daughter loves the flight line, and I’m sure she’ll be moving up a - ” Your breath caught as a cramp hit hard. Your free hand shot to your stomach, feeling the tightness under your skin.

Oh oh Sloane is a little to excited just talking about yhe flight line and her dad 🫣

Jake’s brows furrowed, and he tilted his head. “A cramp or a contraction?” “A cramp,” you said quickly. “I’m not having contractions.”

I really hope for all involved its just a cramp

“Can you please go get check out? I’m pretty sure you’ve had three contractions while we’ve been talkin’ these last 30 minutes.” “I’m not having contractions, Jacob,” you snapped. “First babies are always late. Dr. Shearer told me it would be a while and we’d talk induction at our next appointment.” He sighed your name, and you shook your head. “No. It’s not happening. We’re two days away from you getting home. I’m not in labor. I’m just uncomfortable.” “I swear to god, darlin’, if you have our daughter in the bathtub, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

Fun fact: a few months ago my cousins wife too had light contractions in the bathtub and then everything happens so fast that their baby was born in the entry way of their home, ambulance too late 🤭 so let's not hope that is the case here 😅

“I think someone’s in the house,” you said through gritted teeth. As you watched, he blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Good. Don’t be mad.” Sitting up, you felt water slosh over your belly and scowled when you recognized someone calling your name. “You didn’t.” “I love you.”

Oh he sure did

Knocking sounded on the bathroom door, and you groaned. “I’m gonna give you two minutes to get your ass out here before you, me, and Hangman will just have to deal with the fact that I’ll see you naked, because my goddaughter is not being born in the goddamn tub. You hear me? Don’t think I’m playin’,” Javy warned.

Honestly that's fair 😅

D-Day by TrickPhotography | Chapter 22

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x female!reader

Word count: 5.2k

Synopsis: After finding out his girlfriend is pregnant, Jake is ready to move in and get married. The last thing he expected was to be hit with a six-month deployment at sea and missing the birth of his first child.

18+, minors DNI

Chapter 21 | Series Master List | Ao3

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Chapter 22

“Point those toes!” Ash reminded. You did as she said and heard the click of a shutter. “Alright, for the next one, I’m gonna have you bring your left hand up so your fingers are lightly on your collarbone like this - perfect.” She moved closer, rearranging the hair on your face and smiling. “And arch your back for me a little bit more, but only if it’s comfortable.”

Your lower back twinged, but you followed the instructions and were rewarded with multiple clicks of the shutter. “Gorgeous. Just a few more, and then we’ll move to the bed.”

“Okay,” you said, having learned not to nod after she had to readjust your position the first few times.

“Now I’m gonna have you trail your fingers down and rest them on your bump. Just like that!” Her enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself relaxing slightly.

The boudoir photoshoot was a last-minute decision. At the beach, you’d seen a studio advertising maternity pictures, and it had stuck in your mind as you walked along the shore. With the waves crashing over your feet, you’d looked at the list of negative thoughts about yourself that Helen had you write down and fixated on one: Jake isn’t going to find me attractive. As much as your husband assured you that he thought you were sexy, it was hard to feel that way when your body didn’t feel like your own anymore.

So, only half-heartedly, you’d contacted Ash to see if she had any openings. As fate would have it, one of her clients had gone into labor early, opening up a spot on her books that you took before thinking too hard about it. At 37 weeks pregnant, you didn’t think the pictures would turn out well, but if nothing else, they could serve as a Valentine’s Day gift for your husband.

You stewed over your decision the entire way back to Lemoore, debating calling and canceling the appointment. Or asking to do a normal maternity one, where you could hide behind a flowy dress and put the attention on Sloane. Once home, you unpacked your weekend bag and stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time. Your eyes traveled over your hair, longer than you usually kept it, but going to the salon seemed like a hassle. The dark circles weren’t as prominent under your eyes, but you still looked tired. Stripping off your shirt and bra, you traced the stretchmarks marring your skin and the blue veins on your chest, weighed your heavier breasts, and studied your darker nipples. Forcing yourself not to fixate on your stomach, you tugged off your leggings and panties. Your legs and ankles were swollen from sitting so long, and you’d long stopped shaving when it became difficult to bend.

Jake isn’t going to find me attractive.

The longer you studied your appearance, the more the thought echoed in your head. When it got too loud, you reached for your phone and quickly typed a message.

Can you talk?

The message was quickly marked read, and the phone vibrated in your hand. “Everything okay?” You could hear the tension in Jake’s voice and felt a momentary wave of frustration with yourself for doing that to him. It was almost time for him to go on shift, and you were -

“Yeah,” you forced yourself to say, covering your eyes. “Just… I’m in my head about something.” During your fight the night before, you’d promised to call him if it happened.

“Hang on - gimme a second.” The call sounded muffled momentarily, and you heard him talking to someone before he was back. “I’ve just got a few minutes before I need to get to the bay. What’s on your mind, Mama?”

“It’s stupid.” You could feel his disappointment through the open line.

“Whatever it is, it’s not. Talk to me.”

“I haven’t shaved or waxed my legs in weeks. Or, you know, done any upkeep.” Jake let out a confused huff.

“Alright?”

“And my hair - on my head - is so freaking long. I hate it. It’s so heavy and annoying.”

“Okay.”

“I’m mad at myself for not taking care of my appearance, even though I know it shouldn’t matter. And I know… I know you’re gonna say that you love me and you think I’m sexy no matter what, but we haven’t seen each other for months, and I want to look good for you when you come home, and I just know that’s not gonna happen and - ”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he interrupted your rambling. “Darlin’ - you know how I feel about how you look.”

“I know. Logic brain knows that, but emotion brain just doesn’t understand it,” you whined.

“What’d Helen say to do?”

“Challenge the thought with evidence, and replace it with a realistic alternative.” Your tone sounded petulant to your own ears, and you heard Jake chuckle.

“Alright, so what’s goin’ through your head right now?”

“How much I hate this.” When he grunted, you sighed. “You’re gonna be grossed out by me when you come home. I always imagined your homecoming from our first big deployment differently. Sexy lingerie, maybe a trip out of town… different. And you’re gonna be disappointed because it’s not gonna be like when you got home from Vegas or San Diego.” You could only describe the sound he let out as a growl.

“Evidence?” he managed to grind out between his teeth.

“I look different than before you left. I put in a lot of work before I came out to see you, and I haven’t felt up to doing it this time. I’m gonna be post-partum when you get home, and I’ll probably look even more run down than I do now.”

“What about against?”

“You…” The evidence against the thought was more challenging to articulate. “I don’t know.”

“You sure as hell do, darlin’.” Jake’s tone left no room for disagreement. “You at home, darlin’?” When you hummed a yes, he cleared his throat. “I want you to go to our bathroom and look at yourself.”

“Already doing that,” you sighed, a weary smile tugging at your lips. “Hence the thoughts.”

“Good. Now prove to me you’ve been listening when I talk to you.” When you hesitated, he hissed your name.

“You think I’m beautiful.” The words tasted wrong on your tongue.

“So fuckin’ beautiful.”

“And sexy.”

“Damn straight.”

“You weren’t turned off by how I looked when we saw each other a few months ago.” He grunted. “And you seemed to like the pictures I sent you last night.”

“Fuckin’ love ‘em,” he corrected before clearing his throat. “You remember what I told you when I bent you over the sink?”

Stepping closer to the vanity, you ran your fingers over the spot, thighs clenching at the memory of his hand between your shoulders and that cowboy hat on his head. “That you wanted to keep me in bed, moaning your name.” But it was his moan that echoed over the line.

“Pretty sure I said somethin’ about my pretty little wife havin’ my baby bein’ the sexiest woman ever.”

“I’m definitely not little anymore,” you sighed, rubbing a hand over your stomach.

“Even better. You’re makin’ me hard before duty, thinkin’ about you, Mama.”

“Better or worse that I’m naked right now?”

“Fuck,” he hissed, and you heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper. “Don’t have a lotta time, but goddamn - talk to me.”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Bout ‘ta fuck my fist with your voice in my ears,” Jake replied. “Wish it was you.”

“My hand? Or something else?”

“Anything. Hand, mouth, pussy, tits - just wanna touch you.” Your cheeks flushed at his groan, and you cupped your breast, thumbing your nipple. An image of you on your knees, Jake thrusting between your breasts, flashed in your mind. It wasn’t something you’d done before, and the thought made your breath hitch. “Gonna touch yourself with me, darlin’?”

“Wanna see you.”

“Don’t have time,” Jake grunted. “What‘re you doin’? Talk to me.”

“Touching my breasts,” you breathed. “They’re starting to get sore again. And they feel like they’re getting even bigger.”

Jake breathed your name. “Gonna walk around the house topless again? Not there to kiss ‘em better this time.”

Chuckling, you pinched your nipple, inhaling sharply and imagining it was his teeth. “Soon.”

“Not soon enough. You still in the bathroom?” When you hummed an affirmative, he sighed. “Look at yourself, darlin’. So fuckin’ sexy. Wanna bend you over the sink again and fuck you until you understand how goddamn much I love how you look. But you know what I’d do first?”

“What?”

“Get on my knees, put your leg over my shoulder, and fuck you with my tongue.” You blew out a shaky breath, recalling the feel of your fingers in his hair as he devoured you. “You touchin’ my pussy yet, darlin’?”

“No.” His chuckle was low and dangerous.

“Put me on speaker and set the phone on the sink.” Wordlessly, you did as he said, then cleared your throat. “Done?” When you made a noise, he chuckled again. “Good girl. Now, get your fingers nice and wet for me.” Looking away from your reflection, you sucked on your fingers. “Want you to pinch your nipples while touching your clit. Understood?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” you smirked, hearing his answering moan.

“Oh fuck.” It was your turn to chuckle.

“Like that, Lieutenant Commander Seresin?”

“Playin’ dirty, Mrs. Seresin.” You inhaled sharply as you circled your clit. “Fuck I miss you. Not just fucking you. Miss holding you. Kissing you.” Not feeling particularly turned on, you moved your hand, bracing yourself on the sink.

“I miss you, too,” you said. “Miss your voice first thing in the morning when you’re not quite awake. Cuddling on the couch. And when you wake me up, asking if you can play.” Jake moaned, and you cupped your aching breasts. “Your fingers always feel so much better than mine when you touch me.”

“Love when you ride my hand. An’ my face.”

That made you chuckle, and you tapped your phone to navigate to a picture of him you’d taken at your old apartment. He’d sprawled on your couch, arms outstretched toward you with an exaggerated pout on his lips. If you tried hard enough, you could almost imagine the heat of him as he held you. The scratch of his stubble on your forehead as he kissed you there. You could practically feel his skin under your fingertips as you dragged them from his shoulder down his arm, drawing nonsensical shapes. “I miss touching you,” you sighed.

“Fuck, baby,” Jake panted. “I can’t wait.” Straightening, you plucked the nearly empty bottle of his cologne from the sink and retreated to the bed. Spritzing it onto his pillow, you set the phone on it and inhaled deeply.

“I love you, husband.”

Jake groaned a familiar groan, and you smiled while closing your eyes, picturing him spilling over his hand. “Love you, darlin’.”

Only a few more weeks until he would be home.

Until you would meet your daughter.

After guiding you through another series of poses, including another outfit change that consisted of panties and gauzy material that Ash draped around you as you held it against your breasts, you were done. Still feeling a bit foolish, you dressed in your leggings and Jake’s overstretched Naval Academy sweatshirt. Ash was uploading the pictures to her computer when you came out of the dressing room. Her eyes drifted over you for a moment before she grinned. “As soon as these finish uploading, I want to get a couple of you in that.”

“This?” you frowned.

“Jake’s gonna love that one,” you smirked when she showed it to you.

“I hope so! I’ll get these edited and over to you in the next three weeks.” After thanking her, you left the shop and headed to the beach for a quick walk along the water.

Twenty minutes later, the phone vibrated and Jake’s face flashed on the screen. “Hey!” you grinned while answering, the wind whipping across the microphone and muffling your words.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said. You pressed a hand to your ear and held the phone tightly. “You still at the beach?”

“Yeah, about to go get lunch, then head home.”

“Well, get something good to celebrate.”

“Why’s that?” you asked.

“Ten-day window approved - there’s a possibility I’ll be home before Valentine’s Day.”

Three weeks.

Before your due date.

“WHAT?!” you shrieked. Jake’s laugh was warm, and you waddled quickly up the beach toward your car to try to hear better. The sand made you feel slightly off balance, but you hurried and hoped you wouldn’t fall.

“It’s just a possibility, but there’s a chance I’ll make it home in time to take you to the hospital and meet our little girl.” You burst into tears and clapped a hand to your mouth. “Hey - hey, darlin’, it’s alright. This is a good thing.”

“I’m j-just s-so relieved,” you sobbed. As you neared the parking lot, you tugged the car keys from your pocket and unlocked the car, collapsing into the driver’s seat.

“Me too, Mama, me too. D’ya…” Jake paused to clear his throat. “I, uh, heard that first babies usually come late. Do you think Sloane will? Maybe give me some extra time to make sure I’m there?”

Your daughter’s foot was in your ribs, making it somewhat hard to breathe, so you forced yourself to take a few deep breaths before responding. “I-I have an appointment with Dr. Shearer in a few days, and she said she’d check if I’m dilated at that point.”

“Keeping my fingers crossed that you aren’t.”

“M-me too. O-only because I love you.”

“Yeah? Only because you love me?” he teased.

“Yup,” you laughed. “I’m over being pregnant.”

He sighed, and your fingers itched to touch him. “I know, darlin’. Just hold on a little bit longer for me.”

“I don’t think that little girl is coming anytime soon,” Dr. Shearer said, pushing away from the exam table and removing her gloves. “You’re not dilated, only 10% effaced, and still carrying high.”

“Thank god,” you breathed, resting a hand on your belly. The doctor laughed, typing something on her laptop.

“Most moms at this stage can’t wait for it to be over.”

“I am so ready to be done,” you said, a hint of a whine sneaking into your tone, “but the longer she waits, the happier Jake will be. He asked her to stay put as long as possible before he left, and when I went out to visit. And…” The part of you that grew up with OPSEC - operations security - and the reminders that went out anytime a ship was deployed, warred with the need to tell your doctor. If the homecoming date leaked, the Navy would change it to ensure everyone was safe, usually pushing it out further. You’d joined the Family Readiness Group social media page for the Carl Vinson to keep tabs on the carrier’s updates, and the page was filled with OPSEC reminders.

“And?”

Closing your eyes, you blew out a breath, reasoning that you weren’t giving an exact date. The memory of your husband’s voice, the hope and love and anxiety, made tears leak from the corner of your eyes. “And there’s a chance Jake will make it home.”

“What? That’s amazing!”

“We don’t have an exact date,” you said, trying to push down the wave of hope you refused to let drag you under. With your luck, their homecoming would be at the end of the 10-day window. Getting your hopes up felt dangerous, like tempting fate to prove you wrong. “But there’s a chance.”

Dr. Shearer chuckled, turning to face her computer again. “Well, baby Seresin is a safe size to stay in there for a bit longer.”

“I’m not sure how much bigger she can get and still have space.” You felt Sloane nudge your hand, as though knowing you were talking about her. You’d been feeling strange tension at the top of your stomach and around your belly button for days, and shooting pain down your legs as your ligaments loosened further.

“Space is getting a bit tight, but she’s still got room to grow and move.” Dr. Shearer moved to your side and helped you sit up. “How’ve things been at home?”

“Good. I feel like the meds are working, and I’ve been meeting with Helen once a week.”

“That’s good! And do you have your plan for when this one decides to come?”

“Sounds like you’ve got a supportive group of friends.” As much as you appreciated the offer, it was overwhelming. It had also caused a big argument, with Jake siding with everyone else until you put your foot down. Having someone stay with you felt like being under observation. Just because you were a couple weeks from having the baby didn’t mean you needed to be under constant supervision, and your friends didn’t have to uproot their lives.

Grimacing, you asked the question Jake had requested. “Do you think I need someone to stay with me?”

“Medically speaking, you and this little girl are both in good shape. And unless something drastically changes in the next few days, I don’t think you’ll be in active labor anytime soon. It wouldn’t surprise me if you start having some contractions, but that’s normal. So if you have a plan, a back-up plan, your bag is ready to come to the hospital, and you agree to call if anything comes up that you’re unsure about… Moms stay home by themselves all the time.”

“Thank god,” you groaned. “I love our friends, but I don’t want people in my house all the time.” Dr. Shearer laughed.

“Understandable. Have you given any thought to when you’re going to start your maternity leave?”

“I want to wait. I still have things to wrap up and… I can’t sit at home alone, just waiting.”

The doctor gave you a knowing look. “I’m sure you’re tired. Are you sure you don’t want to spend these last few weeks relaxing?” Of course, she was right. It was almost impossible to get a full night’s sleep with how difficult it was to breathe, and something always woke you. Getting back to sleep was an exercise in futility, so you cleaned the house at all hours of the night.

A man should be able to leave on deployment and know that his woman’s takin’ care of his home.

Jake prided himself on keeping his home clean. While you’d successfully broken him of hospital corners when making the bed, he made sure the house was picked up every night and spent a few hours on the weekend cleaning. With him gone, you’d defaulted back to your natural state of cleaning on the weekend and letting chores pile up during the week. The idea of him coming home to realize you hadn’t deep-cleaned the bathroom or dusted the blinds in a few months made you flush with embarrassment. So you’d made a list of things to do and slowly chipped away at them in the midnight hours. And, as much as you despised cleaning the baseboards, not only for the task but the difficulty of getting up from the floor, it was satisfying to see the house return to normal.

“I’m fine,” you assured Dr. Shearer. “I’m taking it easy. Besides, Jake’ll have 12 weeks of paternity leave, too, and we want to spend as much of it together as possible.”

“Just make sure you don’t push yourself too hard. And I’m keeping all my fingers crossed that he’ll be here when the time comes.”

The next few weeks passed in a haze, punctuated by anxious visits with the doctor. Jake called daily, and you felt a thrill every time the time difference decreased - he was getting closer to home.

The saving grace was that your appointments with Dr. Shearer continued to go well. You had a minor panic attack when she told you that you were 2 centimeters dilated, but she quickly talked you down and reminded you that it didn’t mean that you would be delivering anytime soon. That you’d only progressed an additional centimeter at the next appointment helped.

With Jake’s prodding, you officially started maternity leave the week of your due date. As much as you wanted to save the time to spend with Sloane once she arrived, it was getting harder for you to get to work. “I’ll be home in a few days,” he promised. “Once I’ve done my inprocessing, we’ll have the time together before our little girl gets here.”

That was what got you through the week. Sleeping in on that first day was glorious, but you woke up with a backache and ended up lying on the couch with your pregnancy pillow because your pelvis hurt so much. Between naps and trash television, you cleaned the house and ran errands. While shopping at the Commissary, you had to pause in the aisle and grip the cart handle when a cramp hit you. Thankfully, it didn’t last long and didn’t happen again until you were sitting in Jake’s truck as you ran it through the car wash.

When Ash sent you the boudoir pictures, you stared at them in shock. That couldn’t be you. The woman in the photographs was gorgeous, a teasing smile curving her lips. Ash had to have put a lot of work into editing them. The longer you flipped through the proofs, the more you felt like crying. Finally, you put the laptop away rather than send in your selection for her to print. If you let Jake see them, he would pick which ones he wanted.

On Valentine’s Day, Jake surprised you with flowers. The red and white roses sat on the kitchen counter, and you ran your fingers over the petals throughout the day while rereading the card.

You took the card with you into the bathroom as you sank into the tub, hoping the lukewarm water would help with the pain you felt in your groin and back. When Jake video called, the tub had already cooled and been refilled a few times. “Hey, darlin’,” he grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nope,” you sighed, shifting to try and get comfortable. “Just relaxing in the tub. Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy. I love my flowers.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mama. I couldn’t find any blue ones from our wedding, so I thought roses would do.”

“You thought right - they’re gorgeous. Only thing better would have been you dropping them off instead of the delivery guy.”

“I know. I’ll be home soon.”

“I’m counting the hours, Lieutenant.”

“You and me both, Mrs. Seresin. Are you sure you want to meet me on the flight line? I can have Javy drive me home.”

“Not happening. I want to see you as soon as you land. Besides, your daughter loves the flight line, and I’m sure she’ll be moving up a - ” Your breath caught as a cramp hit hard. Your free hand shot to your stomach, feeling the tightness under your skin.

“Darlin’?” Worry flashed across Jake’s face, and you dangled the phone over the side of the tub, unable to keep the grimace of pain from your expression. He called your name, and you forced yourself to breathe through it before raising the phone back up.

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t - are you alright? What was that?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Just a cramp. I’ve been having them off and on for the last few days.”

Jake’s brows furrowed, and he tilted his head. “A cramp or a contraction?”

“A cramp,” you said quickly. “I’m not having contractions.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” His face said he didn’t believe you, so you changed the subject. “Are you all packed?”

“Yup. Ready to toss everything in my travel pod and get the hell off the carrier.” At his prodding, he shared what he could of his day and how he was wrapping up everything for the deployment. When another cramp hit, you tried to hide the pain but noticed him glancing at his watch. “Darlin’...” he said gently.

“It’s nothing, Jake. Did you want to do anything right away when you get home? I picked up stuff from the store, but we can go somewhere.”

“No, I wanna go right home,” he said.

“Good. Me too.” While you updated him on how you were passing your days, another cramp hit.

“Darlin’, can you do me a favor?” he asked once you breathed through the pain.

“What?” you asked, pulling the drain plug with your toes in preparation for refilling the tub with warm water.

“Can you please go get check out? I’m pretty sure you’ve had three contractions while we’ve been talkin’ these last 30 minutes.”

“I’m not having contractions, Jacob,” you snapped. “First babies are always late. Dr. Shearer told me it would be a while and we’d talk induction at our next appointment.” He sighed your name, and you shook your head. “No. It’s not happening. We’re two days away from you getting home. I’m not in labor. I’m just uncomfortable.”

“I swear to god, darlin’, if you have our daughter in the bathtub, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“It’s a good thing that’s not gonna happen.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shook his head.

“Please, darlin’. For me?”

“Hypothetically, even if I were in labor, the contractions aren’t close enough for me to go to the hospital. Dr. Shearer said not to worry until they’re consistent and a few minutes apart.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have someone check.”

The call continued that way for the next twenty minutes, Jake trying to cajole you into going to the hospital while you adamantly refused. His expression tightened when you held your breath as another cramp hit, not even trying to hide that he was timing it with his watch.

You were so focused on trying to breathe through the pain that it took you a moment to realize that there was noise in the bedroom. “Jake?”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“I think someone’s in the house,” you said through gritted teeth. As you watched, he blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Good. Don’t be mad.” Sitting up, you felt water slosh over your belly and scowled when you recognized someone calling your name.

“You didn’t.”

“I love you.”

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

Author's Note: A major kudos and thank you to @bartonsparrow25 for the boudoir shoot suggestion! That was a fun inclusion.

Major apologies for the time between updates. Life has been life-ing and I'm prepping to take my licensing boards in the next few weeks. But hopefully this chapter makes up for it! We're so close to the finish line!

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wynnevee · 10 hours ago

Text

baby on board

bob floyd x reader

synopsis: just when you were about to announce your unplanned pregnancy, your boyfriend gets called away on a dangerous mission—and although he comes back safe, things still don’t unfold as planned

warnings: pregnancy, a little crying, mentions of death, fear, unedited lol are we surprised?, mentions of sex and bob’s dick, mentions of parental abandonment, mentions of plan b, mentions of divorce

notes: i changed the plot for this like three times but i finally like it enough to post!! enjoy :)

stupid fucking bob floyd and his stupid dick.

and stupid you for not being able to keep your hands off of him.

you’d just moved in together, and in your defense, he just looked so good in that tight white shirt, arm and back muscles flexing as he hauled your boxes into his apartment.

when he dropped the last box, you pounced on him immediately, and in your haste and horniness, you may have forgone a condom.

you were planning on getting a pill the next morning but… you may have been distracted once again… and again… and then one more time before bed that night.

but all those times, he’d worn a condom!

so before long, your unprotected sexcapade was lost in your memory. well, it was until you missed your period a few weeks later. it was until those two little pink lines appeared on the test.

your first thought, of course, was to think of every way this could possibly turn out (or more precisely, go horribly wrong).

1. bob is happy, you keep the baby and the three of you live happily ever after.

2. bob is not happy, he leaves, but you keep the baby and live happily ever after.

3. bob is not happy but pretends and so you have the baby and live in a strained relationship bound to end in a divorce 10 years down the road

and the most recent and terrifying one:

4. bob dies on this mission without ever knowing he was about to become a father.

shortly after bob had called with the news of the high risk, short notice, and just all around terrifying mission, you decided #4 was just not an option, and so you started planning.

first, you wrapped all three tests in a cute little pink bow, which took about twenty minutes with your shaking hands. then, you scoured the internet for the perfect little onesie, paying a ridiculous fee for overnight shipping. and then, finally, you hid the evidence.

you cleared your browser history, hid the tests in your underwear drawer, and waited patiently for bob to come home. he left for the mission the day after tomorrow, meaning that in just about 24 hours, his world would flip sideways.

well, that was the plan, at least. but when your bobby came home, hands shaking and cheeks pink from stress sweat, your heart sank.

“i’m so scared,” he’d whispered, hugging you tightly. “this is the most dangerous mission phoenix and i have ever flown and i have barely 48 hours to prepare.”

you tightened your arms around his neck, elaborate plans going out the window. that night, all he wanted was to hold you, watch silly movies, and fall into a slightly-less restless sleep.

but long after bob’s breathing had evened out, you laid awake; #4 was back on the list.

the next night was similar, only worse, considering you and your hormones had had all day to worry about it.

you made a nice dinner—nothing too nice, though, because that felt like a goodbye—and turned in early for extra rest. however, any peace of mind was still out of reach for you.

bob would leave at 5:00 AM the next morning and if all went well, he should waltz back in at 5:00 PM and you would tell him that you were having a baby. #4 would just have to crawl back into the dark crevice of your brain it was born in.

in the morning, you woke up, giving bob a hug and a kiss goodbye, tuning out the screaming of the pregnancy tests and onesie in your underwear drawer. he was way too nervous, you just couldn’t tell him now.

“good luck,” you whisper instead. “i love you.”

you don’t even bother trying to fall back asleep.

you keep your phone on, the ringer at the highest possible tone, and you don’t set it down for a second. you try to distract yourself with cleaning and setting up the surprise, but it only takes a few hours and the clock won’t tick any faster. eventually, you knew you had to get out, less you develop zoochosis from pacing in your confinements for one more second.

you decide to take a nice walk around the forest preserve, one you and bob had been to a million times before. it was a beautiful day and the sun shown down on the path you walked, and finally, you had a moment to breathe. you still felt the weight of your phone in your pocket, waiting for a call from maverick telling you that your worst nightmares had come true. and you did get a call from maverick—only of a very different nature.

“it was a close call, but the mission went well, they even came back early,” he’d said, and you could hear the relief in the way he breathed. “bob’s phone overheated in the locker though and won’t turn on, so he asked me to call and tell you he’s on his way home.”

your relief turned to panic once more.

home. he was on his way home, where a onesie reading “daddy’s co-pilot” and three positive pregnancy tests were laying on your dresser, without you there to explain it all. luckily, you weren’t too far from the car when maverick called, so you rushed back and probably broke a few traffic laws on your way to the house.

but when you pulled into the driveway, you saw you were still too late. bob’s truck was sitting in your driveway.

you slowed your walk into the house now, creeping inside and up the stairs, into the bedroom—and there he was.

bob sat at the foot of the bed, onesie in one hand and tests in the other. he didn’t notice you at first, so you had the chance to watch his expression: shock, with tears dripping down rosy cheeks.

“you’re home,” you finally manage to spit out.

he looks up, eyes softening at the sight of you. “how long have you known?”

he doesn’t sound hurt, which is good, just… absolutely dumbstruck. you sat down next to him.

“the day you found out about the mission. i was gonna tell you the next day, had this whole thing planned for after work, but… you were just so nervous, bobby, and i didn’t want to scare you even more with this huge thing, and i didn’t even know if you’d want it—”

“want it?” he interrupts, voice rising not in anger, but in incredulousness. “want it? baby, this is all i’ve ever wanted.”

you looked down, suddenly very interested in playing with the frayed ends of your (his) hoodie strings. “i didn’t know if you’d want it with me.”

he goes silent and you immediately expect the worst, that pit in your stomach returning. but in just a few seconds, you find yourself gathered in his arms and tucked against his chest.

“of course i want it with you,” he whispers. “i want everything with you. i especially want a little version of you waddling around our house.”

“a little version of me?” you laugh, voice watery. “you’re already guessing it’s a girl?”

he shrugs. “we’ll have a girl eventually.”

you almost sob, the relief overwhelming. suddenly, the twisting in your gut was replaced with an unfamiliar but welcomed warmth. in just nine months, there’d be a full formed baby snuggled in there, just waiting to come out. honestly, it made your skin crawl a little at first, but the thought was growing on you.

“you think i could hide you from jake until you give birth?” bob asks abruptly.

you look up, the confusion cutting through your emotional brain fog. “what?”

“the ‘baby on board’ jokes are just gonna get so much worse.”

#bob floyd x reader #bob floyd angst #bob floyd x y/n #bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd #top gun maverick #bob floyd requests #bob floyd imagines

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spenceragnewfics · 3 days ago

Note

Spencer x chubby reader maybe? About him helping them feel comfortable about their body

I love this one so much!!!

EXACTLY AS YOU ARE | Spencer Agnew x Plus Size F!Reader

Summary: You’re used to loving the little things about yourself, but some nights, the insecurities get loud. When an old sweatshirt doesn’t fit the way it used to, Spencer reminds you that you’re not too much, not a placeholder, and never anything less than exactly what he wants.

Word Count: 933

There are things you love about yourself.

Your laugh. Your sense of humor. The way you can turn any awkward silence into a joke. But your body? That’s always been harder.

Even in your relationship with Spencer—kind, thoughtful, endlessly loving Spencer—there are moments when the insecurities creep in. Quietly. Ruthlessly.

Like tonight.

You’re getting ready for bed, ready to relax after a long day of editing social media posts for your job at a local non-profit. The organization has a big event coming up, and so you’ve been spending more hours in the office and at home making sure all the materials are as perfect as possible.

As you exit the warm shower, you dry your hair and grab one of Spencer’s sweatshirts. It’s one for the gaming channel that you like to wear to sleep because of its smell. As you slide on the sweatshirt, you look in the mirror. You are only wearing your underwear and Spencer’s sweatshirt, but your imagination of looking like a girl in a movie where the sweatshirt swallows her is killed by reality. His sweatshirt seems to have gotten tighter on you.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, blinking back the burn in your eyes, frustrated that this is what’s getting to you after a long, exhausting day.

Spencer walks in a few minutes later, freshly showered, hair damp and curling at the ends. He stops mid-step when he sees you hunched over, shoulders drawn in like you’re trying to shrink. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just walks over, kneels in front of you, and gently takes your hands in his. “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?” he asks softly, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles.

You let out a breathy laugh, one of those I-know-I’m-being-ridiculous-but-I-can’t-help-it laughs. “I was just thinking… that this sweatshirt used to fit looser.”

He tilts his head, not in pity, but in full attention. “And that makes you feel…?”

You look down. “Gross. Bigger than before. Like I’m trying to be one of those girls in movies who wears her boyfriend’s hoodie and looks tiny and cute, and instead I just feel… like I’ve outgrown everything.”

Spencer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to fix it right away.

Instead, he reaches up and gently rests his palms on your hips, grounding you. “You didn’t outgrow it. You just grew. There’s a difference.”

You scoff. “Not a good one.”

He looks up at you, eyes full of something so fierce it startles you. “It is. Because now, I get to see you in my hoodie and see you. Your curves. Your body. My girl.” He kisses your thigh, then leans his head against it. “You think I ever cared how tight or loose it fit? I care that you’re in it. It smells like us. That it’s wrapped around the person I love.”

You blink fast. His words settle in deeper than you expect. “All this does is make me feel like I’m holding you back. I see the looks we get on the street, people wondering how the hell or why the hell we’re together,” you say, looking down as the memories come back, some as recent as today.

Spencer doesn’t rush in with a “don’t be silly.” He doesn’t brush it away like it’s irrational. He takes a breath, deep and steady, and shifts closer.

“Those people don’t know me,” he says firmly. “And they sure as hell don’t know you.”

You look down, fiddling with the edge of the sweatshirt. “Sometimes I just think… if I looked different—if I was different—then maybe we’d make more sense to the world.”

Spencer cups your face, tilting it gently so you’re forced to meet his eyes. “Who gives a fuck about what makes sense to the world? We make sense to each other, and I love being with you and how you make me feel. I love being able to talk to everyone about my amazing girlfriend, who has the biggest heart in the world. Those people aren’t in this relationship; it’s just us.”

The words echo in your chest like a heartbeat. You blink hard, trying to keep it together, but your voice wavers anyway. “It’s hard to shut them out sometimes.”

“I know,” he says, brushing his thumbs under your eyes as if he can wipe away the doubt just by touching you. “But if I have to remind you every day, I will. You are not too much. You are not a placeholder until I figure something else out. You are it for me.”

A tear slips down your cheek. He kisses it away without hesitation. “I’m proud to be with you,” he continues, his voice lower now. “Not just in secret, not just when no one’s looking. I want to show up with you. Laugh with you. Love you out loud.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He smiles, leaning his forehead against yours. “That’s fine. I’ve got tissues and really strong boyfriend arms.”

You giggle through your tears, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him closer. He holds you like he’s anchoring you to something solid, like you’re the most important thing he’s ever been allowed to keep.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his chest.

Spencer presses a kiss to your hair. “Always.”

And somehow, even in a body the world keeps telling you to question, you feel things you haven’t in a while, safe, wanted, and loved.

Exactly as you are.

#spencer agnew #smosh #smosh games #smosh cast #smosh mouth #spencer agnew x reader #fanfiction #spencer agnew fluff #spencer agnew imagine #spencer agnew fanfiction

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 20 hours ago

Text

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 19

Source for pic

Imperfect 19

Word Count: 6376

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: Struggled like hell to get this chapter out. Feeling that asshole imposter syndrome like a bitch these last few days *sigh*. Anyway, you voted for me to add the 'filler scenes', so, ta-da! The last 1300 words would not be here otherwise, but now we have a fun (or not!) scene. Thank you, everyone, for all your support!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

You haven’t been on the road for too long, but wherever Kid’s taking you, he’s in no particular rush. Instead of owning the road like the maniac he is, he’s keeping speed well below the limit, taking the curves slowly and languidly.

You can almost bet he’s enjoying the ride as much as you are.

However badly he hurt you, you can’t help the warmth in your chest from spreading, and even if neither the speed nor the curves are enough to make you lose your balance, you’re clinging to Kid’s waist as if the bike is about to take flight, like riding is just an excuse to hold him close to you.

After a while, when the briny air fills your nostrils, overpowering Kid’s dizzying scent, you know where he’s taking you: the beach.

A warm smile curves your lips, and you hold him even tighter, memories of the past and happy times flooding your tired brain. For a moment, you feel his hand touch yours, but it’s so fleeting you have no idea if you imagined it or not.

Soon enough, Kid’s parking the Harley near the railing and the boardwalk that leads to the beach. You take an extra minute before climbing out, relishing the feel of him, and he doesn’t complain. Then, while he’s hanging the helmets on the handlebars, you lean on the railing and stare at the ocean in front of you.

Gentle waves lap against the sand, visible only by the pale light of the almost-full moon above your heads. The water is dark but somehow soothing. It’s almost three A.M. There’s not a soul wandering the beach, though it doesn’t feel like the solitude is suffocating. Instead, it feels like a blessing.

You don’t even notice Kid lean next to you or know how long he’s been there, but there are deep marks at the corners of his lips. It’s like the weight he lifted the other night, speaking about his crew, is back on his shoulders.

With a tiny, sheepish grin, you remove your shoes and set them near the bike, heading for the boardwalk and glancing over your shoulder in a silent invitation.

Last time you were here, Kid didn’t even remove his boots before heading towards the sand, so it comes as a huge surprise when you see him carelessly kicking them off. He uses the toe of one boot to push down the heel of the other, sending it flying somewhere near the bike, where it lands with a low thud. The other one follows, and he doesn’t even bother checking where they landed. He just breathes deeply, rolls his shoulders, and joins you on the boardwalk.

He stands behind you a few feet, close but not crowding, and you advance on the path. When your bare foot sinks into the damp sand, you gasp softly, wiggling your toes as the cold seeps through the soles of your feet.

The moment Kid steps into the sand beside you, he lets out a loud curse, and you muffle a snort. Then you start walking, first on the wide expanse of sand, and then courageously venturing towards the water. Surprisingly, it feels warmer than the sand, so you continue walking along the shore, occasionally avoiding a bigger wave with a little sprint.

Kid remains silent, but he’s watching you like a hawk, and with the intensity of someone who’s yearning for something more. The only soundtrack to the night is the waves hitting the shore, the soft crunching of the sand beneath your feet, and the occasional night animal.

When you reach the nature-made rock jetty, you spot a nice, flat stone near it, facing the ocean, and sit down, pulling your knees against your chest and hugging them. Kid joins you, once again giving you a bit of space, but not so much that you can’t feel his presence looming beside you.

For a few moments, you both just listen to your surroundings. The waves and the night sounds, the silence, and all the unspoken things between you. You think that maybe tonight he just wanted to spend time together instead of talking. And that’s actually fine, it’s a comfortable silence.

But then, without any sort of warning, Kid starts to speak. He sounds hoarse, his voice much too loud for the quietness of the night, but he eases into it. And you listen.

“I don’t remember much about my early childhood. Ain’t even remember my parents’ faces. Was pushed around foster homes my whole fuckin’ life. Some were okay, most were shit, and somehow the shitty ones were the ones I stayed in longer.”

He’s not looking at you while he’s speaking. He’s just staring straight ahead. Eyes open but not really here.

“Most wouldn’t put up with my shit. I was angry, loud, broke stuff, and lashed out. When it got too much, and it always did, they either booted me to ‘nother home or beat the shit out of me, tryin’ to fix whatever the fuck was wrong.” He grins. “Guess it didn’t work very well.”

Your heart twists in your chest as you absorb every word. You know Kid doesn’t want you to pity him, maybe that’s even one of the reasons why he doesn’t share his story with anyone. But you can’t help wanting to go back in time and hug that little misunderstood child who probably just needed someone to show him love.

“Met Killer in one of those homes. Older than me, meaner, too. We butted heads for a long time before we learned to get along. He was the first person to care. After that, there was no way we would let anyone separate us.”

Your heart constricts again. They’ve been together for so long, looking after each other. No wonder they call themselves brothers, you thought it was an army thing, but it’s so much deeper than that.

“One day, we had enough. Ran away in the middle of the night when we were teens, not knowing where the fuck we were goin’, not even givin’ a shit about it. Just wanted to get the fuck out. Away from everything. Us against the fuckin’ world.”

Kid’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile. Instead, he flexes his fist and continues.

“Growin’ up on the streets wasn’t easy, but we managed. Then when we joined the army, everythin’ fuckin’ clicked. Like that’s where we belonged.”

His voice grows quieter now, and he stares at the sand, eyes darkened by shadows of his past. He doesn’t add anything else, and the lump in your throat gets bigger. You don’t want to disrupt this peaceful silence, this unspoken truce where he, once again, bared his soul to you, sharing secrets that feel sacred. But you know you’ll regret it if you don’t say anything.

Except he speaks again.

“After the army… fuck.” He scoffs. “I was in a dark fuckin’ place when we got home. For the longest time.” Kid runs one hand over his face like that can take away what happened in the past. “I was so fucked up, so focused on my own misery that I didn’t even see Killer was broken too. He just—”

Kid grunts, clenching his fists before relaxing them again and taking a deep breath.

“He was strong for both of us. He kept me up, he kept me goin’. When all I wanted was to stare at the end of a fuckin’ bottle or—worse… he was there. Always! I owe him every fuckin’ thing in my miserable life and I ain’t even got the guts to—”

Kid’s voice breaks and he grits his teeth, punching the space on the rock between both of you with his flesh hand. He heaves in a ragged breath as you place your hand over his, your warmth seeping over his cold skin.

“I can’t even tell him how fuckin’ sorry I am. And thank him for bein’ there my whole life. The fuck that makes me? Beside a fuckin’ ungrateful asshole?”

You open your mouth to answer, to reassure him that it’s all right, that the fact that he realizes he should apologize is already halfway there, but he doesn't let you speak. He shakes his head and continues with his life story, like his questions were rhetorical and he’s not conflicted about it.

“Eventually, we ended up in this town. Seemed like a quiet enough place. Nice people, no one pried too much. We set up shop. Every fuckin’ day was the same. Nothin’ made me want to get out of bed. Everythin’ made me angry, everythin’ reminded me of them.”

He unclenches his fist, but you don’t remove your hand; you still hold it, and his eyes drift to it, like only now he’s noticed that you were holding him.

“Only pain helped. And booze. Kept ‘em at bay.” He sighs deeply, closing his eyes and lifting his face towards the dark sky. How can someone hold so much pain inside and still be a functional human? How did he make it day by day, bearing it all without getting help?

Pain… booze… he numbed all his feelings, pushing them down like he pushed out everyone that got too close to him. If he didn’t have to look at how he was feeling, he didn’t really need to feel.

“Then ye showed up…” Kid’s throat works up and down, and you squeeze his hand unintentionally. “Ye were all light, all laughter and… ye had so much fuckin’ life in ye. Ye were blindin’ me in my darkness…”

You bite your lower lip to stop it from trembling as you listen to every word coming out of Kid’s mouth.

“For a moment… for a moment I imagined life with ye. Maybe I could be carefree if ye were by my side, happy, feel like myself again. But then… I couldn’t taint ye. I couldn’t hurt ye and drag ye down with me! Ye were the first good thing to happen to me in a very long time.”

As if to match his mood, the wind picks up, swirling around you both, making you grateful for wearing Kid’s jacket, or you’d be freezing by now.

“Every chance I got to push ye away, I took it. But then I couldn’t keep away from ye, no matter how fuckin’ hard I tried.” He looks at you now, for the first time since you both sat down. Again, you realize that some shadows that were haunting him seem to have receded because he bared himself to you.

“Ye gave me everythin’ I wanted: happiness, joy, light… ye cared for me, I could see it in yer eyes. I didn’t even know what to fuckin’ do with all of that.” He scoffs, eyes flickering down before resting back on your face. “Still don’t…”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, like he has something else to say. Then he sighs and looks back down at your entwined hands. No more words come out of his mouth, like he has reached the limit of how much of himself he can carve open in one night.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You feel drained. Your chest hurts, and the knot in your throat is so large that it’s even hard to breathe. But you have to say something.

Listen to your heart.

“Kid…” His face snaps up, almost like he didn’t expect you to say anything at all. “I’m… oh, God, I’m so sorry about everything. I know pity is the last thing you want, but I need you to know that you’re not to blame for anything that happened to you. I am so sorry you had to go through all of that, but I’m even more sorry that you felt like you had to figure out your problems by yourself.”

He clenches his jaw tightly, his hand trembling with the process. You squeeze it, trying to be comforting.

“I see you trying, Kid. Every day.” Kid lifts his face to look at you again, his throat working out the knot in it. “You deserve happiness. You deserve to stop hurting and live a wonderful life. And it’s okay if you don’t have everything figured out yet. Life is messy, even without all the broken pieces. You can figure out things one at a time, and I—”

This time, you’re the one who looks down, deflecting the intensity of his gaze. “I’m here.” Your voice softens, almost a whisper. “I’ll always be here…”

Silence settles again between both of you, and even though you have more to say, you don’t want to disturb this soft peace. On another night, perhaps, you’ll let him know that you’re not all light. You’ve told him that before, but this time you’ll explain why. It’s only fair to let him inside, exactly like he’s doing with you.

But not tonight.

Kid squeezes your hand gently, setting his gaze back on the sea as the tide rises slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“I never meant to hurt ye like that,” he whispers. “I didn’t think about the consequences. I just wanted ye to be safe, away from me. Because I am—was…” he interrupts his speech with a deep exhale. “Angry. I felt like ye were unsafe by my side. Like I could hurt ye physically and wouldn’t realize it until it was too late.”

Yes, you knew that ultimately your safety was the reasoning behind the gesture that destroyed you. It doesn’t make it any less hurtful.

“I know I don’t deserve yer forgiveness, and I know I will never apologize enough for the crap I pulled. But… but I want ye to know that I regret it.”

You nod slowly, absorbing his confession for a few minutes before you speak.

“Maybe we both had to go through that in order to move forward. Otherwise, we would be walking around in circles, just hurting each other along the way and never fully healing.”

He looks back at you, eyes wide in realization, like what you said made a lot of sense. Then his face settles back into a look of acceptance, almost as if he’d understood that it’s okay to start forgiving himself for what he did.

“Aye. I guess yer right.”

You squeeze his hand back while your lips curve up gently. “I’m always right,” you tease, and he finally lets out a low chuckle before your gazes focus back on the growing tide.

You don’t know how long you stay there in silence, enjoying each other’s company. Long enough for your legs to become numb; long enough that you can taste the salt on your lips. Yet, neither of you moves or speaks for a while.

It’s only when the gentle waves start to lap at your feet that you get up, rotating your limbs softly. Kid follows suit and mimics your gesture as you start walking back.

It takes until you reach the bike to realize you’re still holding hands.

Your heart clenches in your chest, so tightly it nearly makes you dizzy. Once again, you’re in awe of how a few moments in silence and fleeting touches can be much more intimate than desperate kisses.

Neither of you says anything about how easily your hands fit together, or how perfect it feels to hold each other. You just break apart softly, fingers lingering gently before you let go.

After you’ve put on your shoes and you both climb on the bike, there’s no more hesitation before you wrap your arms around him. You’re both still walking on thin ice with each other, and there’s no telling if tomorrow will be another day of silence or sharing.

Yet, whatever tomorrow brings, it will be, as usual, one step at a time.

-*-

“So I got spooked at a traffic light this week. Dissociated for a little bit because my radio isn’t working, and the silence got too loud. Then the light turned green and I missed it. When the lady in the little red Micra behind me blared her horn, I jumped so high, I was glad for the seatbelt, or my head would’ve hit the ceiling.”

Dave, one of the veterans at the support group, garners a few laughs with his recent tale. He’s one of the few without any physical scarring to remind him of the bad days, but his head is done worse than the whole lot put together. Drowns in darkness more often than not, so he says.

The fluorescent lights above flicker, and the AC kicks in for another round of unsuccessfully trying to cool down the room. Kid squeezes the carton of his empty coffee cup and chews the inside of his cheek while Dave finishes his story.

He doesn’t listen to the rest, his mind is still on last night’s events and how it felt to unburden his guilt to you. How liberating it was, even though it hurt like a bitch to say the words.

And then he lingers on the way the blissful silence fell around you like a weighted blanket: soft and comforting. Your words… your hand… it was all he needed and didn’t even know how to ask for.

“Kid?” The facilitator calls his name, and he blinks a couple of times before he realizes it’s his turn. He opens his mouth, the all-too-familiar ‘pass’ a heavy weight upon his tongue.

But then something happens.

He takes a deep breath and fixes his eyes on the coffee cup. No one rushes him, no one calls him again. Every soul in this room knows how hard it is to revisit those days, so they don’t press.

And Kid speaks.

“I… I still see ‘em,” he starts, the cardboard rim of the paper cup already falling apart between his trembling fingers. “My squad. They all died and I… didn’t. They show up unexpectedly, mock me, taunt me… like ghosts.”

A few murmurs of encouragement echo around the circle. Killer places a warm hand on his shoulder, and Kid works out a knot that formed in his throat.

“Dunno if I’ll ever stop feelin’ guilty about their deaths, if it’ll ever stop fu—hurtin’.” He swallows down a few curses out of respect for the place he’s in. “Guess I’m just tryin’ to figure out how to… move on.”

He dips his chin once to signal he’s done. He can’t add another word. Not today.

“That’s all you can do, Kid. Just keep coming back. Thank you for sharing,” the facilitator says, and Kid nods again as the group thanks him for sharing, too. Killer squeezes his shoulder once before letting go of him, and Kid feels the sudden need to down a huge glass of whiskey, or a fucking beer.

He refills his coffee cup instead. He should be feeling amazing. He’s making progress. One fucking step at a time or whatever his life’s motto has become.

But he can’t help thinking that maybe one step at a time is too fucking slow. That you won’t wait that long for him to get his shit together. That some other undeserving asshole is going to see how great you are and shoot his shot.

And as selfish as it may be, he wants to be the undeserving asshole you end up with.

-*-

Over the next few days, your anxiety rises through the roof every time Kid shows up at the bar. But his behavior isn’t any different from before.

He arrives after dinner, around ten P.M., when the rowdier crowds gather, even though most days it’s just the safe, boring regulars. Then, he waits for you to close up and safely get to your car. The only interaction between you is when you hand him his soda, and he thanks you.

He hasn’t said a word about the beach or about anything else, at all. And every night, when you step outside at the end of your shift and look at him, your heart stutters when you don’t see an extra helmet in his hand.

You don’t want to admit to being upset about that fact, even though you are, and you have no idea why he hasn’t asked again. Could he be afraid you’ll reject his company this time? Or is he simply trying to offer you some space to process?

Even though the latter seems likelier, you can only guess at his intentions.

But then tonight happens.

And tonight, everything spectacularly goes to hell. You start the night by slicing your palm open on one broken glass- luckily, it’s not too deep, so you don’t need stitches. Hongo tells you to go home, and you tell him to piss off - just not in those exact words - and get right back to work after bandaging it.

Then the register decides to put on a hissy fit during the busiest rush, and you have to tally everything by using your brain and a shoddy calculator. As if that weren’t enough, the handle of the beer tap - your greatest nemesis - does a theatrical performance and, once again, causes beer to explode all over you.

This time, the beer bath completely drenches you. Hongo opens his mouth to tell you to go home again, but you shoot him the look you usually reserve for Shanks when he pisses you off, and the older man, wisely, finds something else to do across the bar and away from you.

By the time your shift finally ends, you have a bump on your head - from slipping on the beer and hitting the counter - to add to your bodily injuries, even though your pride is what’s bruised the worst.

Some days are just best spent in the comfort of your own bed, apparently.

You lock the back door and lean your forehead against it with a heavy sigh. Immediately, you wince from the bump and pull back, a nauseating waft of stale beer coming from your clothes, even though you managed to find a - sort of - clean shirt in the dubious pile of lost and found items and changed into it.

The last straw comes when you look at the bandage on your palm, and it’s bleeding again. With gritted teeth, you rip a piece of the oversized, ugly lost and found shirt and tie it around your hand to apply more pressure.

When you turn, Kid is looking at you with his arms crossed, a worry line dividing his eyes as he assesses your situation.

That’s when you don’t even think. Screw this night, screw your shitty luck, screw everything.

You stomp right to him, taking deep little breaths to steady yourself before you reach him. Then you extend your hand, palm up, waiting. He looks at it for a moment, then at your face, where he meets determination and anger.

The smallest grin curves his lips up as he finally reads your intentions. Then, without another word, he collects the extra helmet from beneath the seat, ignores your extended hand, and gently places it over your head, grumbling something under his breath when he notices the nasty bump.

As he finishes tightening the strap, his eyes lock onto yours, and that small grin grows a fraction wider. “Hop on, Sparkles,” he says softly. Familiarly.

When he snaps your visor, you grin too.

You don’t even tell him where to take you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less.

-*-

This time, Kid doesn’t go slow. He revs the engine before skidding the tires on the gravel, and you hug him tighter when a rush of adrenaline floods your system.

He eats up the curves like a maniac, crosses yellow lights in the nick of time, and speed limits have nothing on him.

It’s exactly what you need.

You let out a loud, unfiltered laugh that mingles easily with the roar of the bike, and Kid’s shoulders shake, as if he’s enjoying this as much as you.

It doesn’t take you long to realize he’s bringing you to the overlook, and when he parks his bike, you take a moment to settle your racing heart before you swing your leg and take off your helmet.

It’s been a while since you’ve come here, and the beauty of it still manages to amaze you.

The town is very quiet in the distance, with only the occasional car driving by, but the little dots of gold and white from the lights are what hold your attention. Kid gives you space as you start pacing, your eyes fixed below as you pace away the adrenaline and tension from your miserable shift. He sits on the bench closer to the edge and crosses his arms over his chest, one brow lifted as he closely watches you, maybe wondering if you’re about to scream, laugh, or cry. Or all of the above.

You do none.

After a while of pacing and clearing your head with a few grunts and gravel-kicking, you slump next to him, wincing as your palm stings when you touch the bench.

Kid grumbles something about your shitty job at dressing wounds and something about thanking the almighty you’re not a doctor, before he gets up and lifts the seat of his bike to take out a small first-aid kit and a water bottle.

With a kind of patience you’re unfamiliar with, he sits beside you and starts unwrapping your poor job at a makeshift dressing.

The same comfortable silence you experienced on the beach returns and stretches around you, only interspersed with Kid’s expletives as he washes your wound and bandages it properly.

“I’m not perfect,” you blurt out, completely out of the blue.

Kid stops his movements for a split second, surprised you talked at all, and then continues wrapping your hand, letting you speak.

You swallow hard and fix your eyes on his movements. “You say that you don’t deserve me because you’re broken and dark, and I’m shiny, good, or whatever…”

Your mouth is still open when he mumbles something you can’t understand.

“What?” you ask softly.

“Light,” he replies without catching your eye. “I say yer light. Not… shiny,” he grumbles like the term is something he would never say in a million years.

Your gaze softens. “Okay, light. I’m not light, Kid. Not all of me, at least. You keep repeating that as if I’m too perfect to touch, and I’m not, I’m really not.” You sigh in exasperation and wave at your forehead with your free hand. “Case in point: head bump, sliced palm, smelling like a back-alley! I’m far from perfect.”

He finishes securing the bandage but doesn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing softly over it, like something sacred.

“I’m dark too, you know?” Kid gazes up, nose scrunched like he doesn’t believe what you’re saying. “Ichiji, my ex, he’s a big, entitled, rich asshole and—” you let out a big sigh. “He always wanted me to be more than I was. More perfect, more polished, more well-behaved!” This time, you snarl, your hand twitching without you meaning to.

“I always felt like I was never enough. He made me feel like that. Like if I didn’t keep up with his standards, I was disposable, unloved. He controlled me and manipulated me with these notions because at one point, I actually thought he was the love of my life. And I didn’t know who I would be without him.”

Your breath catches, and you stare back at Kid. His eyes are blazing with fury, but to his credit, he lets you finish.

“I tried so hard, Kid. So hard to be his perfect little doll. And he would still belittle me into thinking I wasn’t what he deserved.” You swallow a knot in your throat, and Kid holds your hand tighter. “I’m not perfect. I’m not all light. I’m flawed, dark, and broken, too. I’ve asked you this once, don’t put me on a pedestal, Kid. It gets pretty fucking lonely up here, and I’m always struggling for balance,” you finish unburdening with a deep exhale.

Kid grits his teeth together so hard you almost hear it. You know he has thoughts about Ichiji, but he’s swallowing down the rage and impetuousness before he opens his mouth.

“I don’t think yer perfect,” he finally speaks. “That’s not what I meant. I ain’t even think ye’d be willin’ to give me the time of day if ye were perfect.”

He looks down at your joined hands, and his thumb keeps brushing over the bandage at the center of your palm. “I mean that yer all light because… fuck, because I can finally see when yer around. There’s somethin’ more than darkness around me, somethin’ too fuckin’ good.”

Your breath hitches as his words sink in. You can see how it still costs him a bit of himself every time he’s vulnerable, but he’s becoming a little bit more at ease with it.

“But yer right. I ain’t gonna build you up like that anymore.” Kid lets out a huff. “I don’t want ye up there anyway. I want ye by my side…” He looks at you again, and you meet his eyes, so full of emotion, so unlike the uncertain gaze he sometimes showered you with. “Ye ain’t perfect, but ye know damn well that neither am I. So… let’s just… be imperfect together.”

A small smile graces your lips as you chew on his words. “Maybe your darkness can swallow up mine, and my light can shine over both of us,” you whisper.

“Sounds like a plan.”

The silence stretches as the world stands still with no other sounds but the chirping of crickets and katydid calls. You’re sure Kid can feel the way your pulse skitters on the palm of your hand, and for a moment, you swear his gaze lands on your lips, but then he swallows and pulls back, letting go of you in the process and staring back at the amazing view as the world goes back to rotating on its axis.

Maybe it’s a good thing, though. It might be too soon to reconnect like that.

You settle down on the bench, mirroring Kid’s position as you follow the flight of a plane in the dark sky, its lights flickering, shining away in an otherwise black abyss.

Darkness and light. Coexisting.

As it should be.

-*-

Bored.

You’re so freaking bored.

It’s the middle of the week, and by now you’ve learned that, unless there’s some sort of sports game on, those are the slowest days at the bar. You’ve been clinically obsessing over a stain on a corner table, not letting your mind wander about what the stain could be, for over forty minutes, and getting nowhere.

In about an hour, the bar might pick up a little bit, as it usually does for those looking for a pint after dinner or just to pass the time, but for now, boredom is taking every little piece of your soul hostage.

Doesn’t matter that your brain keeps deflecting all your thoughts to Kid and to last night. About what you both shared and how intimate the moment felt. Nothing else happened when he dropped you back at the bar, but you feel so much closer to him.

You can’t stop wondering if you would’ve let him kiss you if he had tried instead of pulling away.

And you still have no answer to that.

You let out another sigh that comes from the depths of your soul, and Hongo chuckles beside you. “How about a game, darling? I can see you’re about to either drop dead of boredom or break that table with all the scrubbing.”

You turn to him as he hands you a cue and nods to the pool table. You groan. “I haven’t played in forever, I’m really rusty, you just want an easy win.”

“Dang, you guessed it. And I was about to wager a whole lot of money, too,” he says with a hand on his heart. You just stare at him with a blank gaze before you ultimately accept the cue and make your way to the table.

You chalk up the cue, and Hongo hovers over the jukebox, choosing a song before heading back to the table and racking the balls. ‘My Sharona’ starts to play in the background as you rotate your shoulders, which have gotten stiff from all the scrubbing.

Hongo lifts the triangle, setting it aside as he nods to you. “Ladies first.”

“How chivalrous. I’m betting you can finish this game without me pocketing a single ball,” you state matter-of-factly, rolling your eyes and lining up your shot.

It’s been forever since you played, and it’s like you don’t even remember how to hold the cue properly anymore. You shift hands, trying to gauge which feels more natural to you, even if it’s not your dominant hand, but it still feels wrong.

You let out a low curse and lean back to rotate your shoulders one more time.

“Aaaaany time now,” he taunts, and you snarl at him. Then you try a different approach, and he snorts. “You’re holding that cue like it’s a mop. And one you hate.”

“Are you serious right now?” you snap, and he laughs before he goes behind you. One big hand wraps around yours, holding the cue the right way, while the other lifts your elbow slightly and stays there.

“Relax your grip. You’re choking the cue like it’s its favorite kink. You want to be gentle with it,” he murmurs, and his breath fans hot against your ear.

A shallow breath leaves your lips as he leans further, his chest pressing against your back. “Like this,” he says patiently. “Now take the shot. Don’t bother aiming for now, just scatter the balls.”

His breath so close to your ear sends shivers down your spine, but even though it’s a tense moment, you don’t think he’s sexualizing it. He really means to help. Besides, he’s old enough to be your uncle. Not to mention he’s one of your dad’s best friends.

Still… he’s pressed so close he can probably hear your heart thumping.

You’re about to take the shot and get out of that awkward situation when the door opens with that familiar shift in the air.

Kid.

You lock eyes, and he stops dead at the doorway, his face scrunching up as he takes in your situation. When his fists clench by his sides, jaw ticking and throat working, you move, trying to do something to show him that he shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions.

But before you manage to wiggle your way out, Hongo’s hand moves away from yours, only to land on your face. His thumb and forefinger grip your chin as he holds your face towards him, tilting it up. Your eyes widen, and you swear you can hear Kid snarl behind you.

“Eyes on me, darling,” he says slowly and steadily.

Your breath hitches again, but you stay still, his command holding you in place, even if it’s more from sheer surprise than the will to obey.

“Shanks told me all about how Eustass Kid broke his little girl’s heart. Now, I’ve been letting him come here every night because you seem okay with it, and he hasn’t been causing trouble, but right now you’re flinching. Just say the word, and I’ll gladly kick him out.”

“W-what?” What’s he getting at? Does he think Kid is bothering you?

True, you haven’t really filled Shanks in about recent events. About how you and Kid have made real progress, about how he’s trying to get better, and is actually succeeding. So it’s possible he and Hongo talked about your situation. And you can bet your favorite horse Shanks didn’t paint Kid in a pretty light.

“Him,” Hongo says with a slight nod of his head. “I can kick him out if you want him out of your life.”

You force a knot down your throat. Hongo’s got the whole thing wrong, and behind you, you can almost feel Kid’s nervous energy building up.

“No… no, Hongo, it’s not like that at all.”

Hongo’s grip softens, and so do his eyes, though they remain locked on yours. Still too close. “You sure, darling?”

“Yes! I… we… we’re working things out, slowly. He’s a friend.” That term is too simple to explain what Kid is to you, but it will have to do. “There’s no need to kick him out.”

He finally releases your chin, giving you your space back as he moves away from you. “If you say so. But don’t forget you're family. Just say the word and I’ll keep you safe.”

“Thank you, I know,” you whisper, your head already turning towards the door so you can—

Empty.

Kid’s gone. He was just there, and now—

Your stomach churns as you whip your head left and right, looking for a telltale red head, but he’s nowhere.

Panic surges through your veins as you set the cue on the pool table with trembling hands. “I’ll be right back,” you say to Hongo and rush out, not even bothering to wait for his answer.

As soon as you step outside, your heart nearly stops in your chest. His bike isn’t in the usual spot. With heavy breaths, you look around the parking lot, but he’s nowhere.

You’re very aware of the situation you were in, and it really wasn’t what it looked like, but Kid didn’t stay long enough to give you time to explain.

And now it feels like the slow trust you’ve been building back up has been shattered.

Over nothing.

With shaky legs and trembling lips, you step back inside the bar, the pool game completely forgotten as you busy yourself behind the bar with something meaningless to pass the time and chase away shadows.

Hongo keeps his worried gaze on you until the time he leaves, and he asks if you’re okay more than a dozen times. No, you’re not okay at all.

But you’re still hoping against all hope this is a quick-fix situation instead of a full-scale disaster.

Yet Kid doesn’t come back at all for the rest of your shift.

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