#wade x amber | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sceletaflores · 4 months ago

Text

HEAVY METAL LOVER!

pair: logan howlett x bartender!reader wc: 4.2k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, drinking, swearing, motorcycle rides, p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering (fem!receiving), creampie, wolverine's hairy tits, the claws show up ofc, porn with plot, no use of y/n. author’s note: watched deadpool & wolverine twice in theaters, started rewatching the x-men movies, pondered many different thoughts, sat down and wrote this. i need him to breed me. title from lady gaga's 'heavy metal lover' cause it's literally his song.

the wolverine is a regular at your bar…

You're shining glasses behind the bar when you hear it, the gruff sound of Logan’s voice turning away yet another girl that worked up the courage to come up to him. It’s his third rejection of the night, not that you were counting.

You were, you always do. You pay more attention to that side of the bar than you normally would when he’s here, which is nearly everyday for the past three weeks. He's not like any of your other regulars. He's almost always alone, and he never talks to you except when he calls for another drink.

The only reason you even know his real name at all is because Wade told you one of the nights he tagged along, leaning his elbows on the bar to whisper over the sugared rim of his "Piña Colada. Extra creamy please, you know how I like it..." like he was telling you a secret.

"Don't let him hurt your feels honey bunch. That's just classic Logan for you, a man of few words. Huge case of blue balls by the way."

You remember the way he let the obvious innuendo hang in the air, the knowing look he gave you as he spun the little paper umbrella floating in his drink. You didn’t think you were being that obvious, that someone as socially inept as Wade was able to pick up on the way your eyes would linger a little too long on the broad width of Logan’s shoulders, on the way his arms would strain against the fabric of his flannels.

You’d seen him on the news, thick corded muscles all wrapped in blue and yellow leather. It haunted you for days, playing in your mind on a constant loop of sweaty biceps until you finally gave in and pulled out your favorite vibrator.

Even with that, there’s just something about the jeans and flannels he wears outside of the suit that make you want to jump over the bar and drop down to your knees right in front of him. Your mouth open wide and waiting.

The dull ‘thunk’ of Logan placing his empty glass on the bartop grabs your attention, two quick raps of his knuckles against the wood ripping you from your thoughts. “Another,” he says briskly, not looking away from the peeling backsplash on the wall behind you.

You usually snapped at men who’d bark orders at you, but The Wolverine isn’t just any man. He's certainly the only man you'd ever take orders from willingly, happily.

You grin, tossing your towel over your shoulder as you grab the whiskey bottle off the shelf and slide over to him, tipping the amber colored bottle over to start refilling his glass. “That’s the third one tonight,” you say casually, casting your eyes over his shoulder to the girl from before retreating back to her friends. “I take it you don’t come here looking for company?”

Logan’s eyes flick to yours, it’s the first time he’s looked at you all night. You look back, lips pulled into a small smile as more whiskey than you’d usually pour splashes against the sides of his glass. The music playing from the speakers fades into a dull hum around you.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, a flash of something you can't quite read passing through his eyes before he’s looking away again. “Not the kind you’re thinking of,” he replies, his voice a low rumble that has something warm zinging up your spine.

You set the bottle down next to him, brow piqued in curiosity. “And what kind is that?”

He doesn't respond right away, just raises the now full glass to his lips to take a slow sip. You almost think he’s going to ignore you again, but then he speaks, “You ask everyone that comes in here personal questions, bub?”

There’s the barest hint of amusement lacing his words that has you biting your bottom lip to try and contain the absolute giddiness blooming in your chest. It’s not much, but it’s more than he’s ever given you before. Encouraged, you step in a little closer, hoping to draw him out further.

“Only the ones with their asses practically fused to my stools,” you shrug, a playful glint sparkling in your eyes. “So what is it, you got some poor wife you leave at home every time you come here? Because the ‘tall, dark, and kind of morally ambiguous’ thing is obviously working for you.”

Logan turns his eyes to you again, his brow raised in amusement. You’re close enough that you can see the way his lips turn up at the corners. He seems to consider your question, gaze slowly trailing along your face before flicking back to your eyes. "No wife," he replies, the words slow and deliberate. "No home to leave her at either.”

His response hangs in the air between you, heavier than you anticipated. You let out a soft breath, lips parting ever so slightly. You can practically feel the weight of his gaze settling over you, leaving your whole body warm and tingly. The heat swirling deep in your gut slipping down to pool wet and sticky in your panties. Logan’s eyes blink shut for just a second, the bridge of his nose twitching lightly.

You almost can’t believe this is really happening, that the angry guy at the end of your bar you’ve seen turn away pretty girl after pretty girl is flirting with you. It makes you feel dizzy with power, like you could do anything, but it’s also one of the most intimidating things you’ve ever experienced. You didn’t realize what it meant to be the center of Logan’s attention until now, but you refuse to back down.

He gives an inch, so you take a mile.

Your grin widens as you lean your elbows on the bar, resting your chin on the heels of your hands. Logan doesn’t react to you invading his space, just keeps his eyes on you with a passive look on his face, but you don’t miss the way his gaze darts down to the low cut of your top.

“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into a softer more intimate tone, “that means you’re free later tonight?” You tilt your head to the side coyly, allowing your hair to cascade over your shoulder, the movement drawing his gaze.

Logan’s eyes widen the tiniest bit, a surprised huff leaving his lips. He raises his glass, taking another long drink. Your eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw to where his adam’s apple bobs enticingly as he swallows. Your lips tingle with the need to mark up the tan column of his throat, to sink your teeth in the skin there, to taste.

The neckline of his undershirt dips low enough that you can see the dark hair scattered across his chest, dog tags dangling from a chain around his neck to sit in the center.

You drag your eyes back up to his face, flushing when you see that he's already looking at you over the rim of his drink. He sets his half drained glass down, a skeptical look on his face. “How old are you, kid?”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, dropping your palms to lay flat on the bartop. If that makes your top dip a little lower to flash more of your cleavage in Logan’s eyeline, then that’s just a bonus. “Old enough to be here,” you reply after a short pause, gazing up at him from under your lashes, “Old enough to know what I want.”

Logan’s eyes darken, the warm brown of them seeming deeper and even more intense than before. The dim overhead lights cast shadows across his rugged features, highlighting the scruff on his jaw. You can’t help but imagine the rough scratch of it brushing up against your inner thighs.

Logan pushes his glass away, leaning in with a soft grunt, his eyes drop to your lips. You suck in a shocked breath, your whole body lighting up at being so close to him. Your heart is racing in your chest, a quick ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum that echoes in your ears.

His lips turn up in a sly grin, the sharp canines of his teeth on display. “Is that so?” He asks, voice going all husky like gravel and honey. He meets your eyes and you swear you can see the sparks going off in the air between you, everything else in the bar completely fizzling out as his breath mingles with yours. “Careful what you wish for,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak. “You might just get it.”

Your lips curve into a mischievous smile, the heat between you palpable. “I’m counting on it,” you reply, your voice dripping with promise. It takes everything in you to straighten up and pull away from Logan, stepping back with the forgotten bottle in your hand. “My shift ends at eleven,” you say with a small shrug, jerking your head to a door across the room, “staff leaves through the alley door.”

It’s a clear invitation, one that Logan easily picks up on. His hungry gaze follows every move you make as you shelf the whiskey.

Before he can say anything, someone calls you from across the bar, shaking their empty glass impatiently. You throw him one last smile over your shoulder, mouthing ‘eleven‘ again with a quick nod of your head. You aren’t sure if it’s supposed to reassure you or him.

Logan smirks nonetheless, standing from the bar before draining the rest of his drink and throwing a few bills down. The air crackles as you watch him make his way towards the exit, eyes lingering on the way his jeans hug the thick muscles of his legs before someone is snapping their fingers at you to serve them.

The rest of your shift drags by, but the excitement and hope swirling in your stomach doesn’t fade. You’re practically thrumming with excitement by the time eleven rolls around, anticipation coursing through your veins as you clock out and grab your bag from your locker.

You pull the door to the alley open, the heavy metal creaking with the swing. The gravel crunches under your shoes as you step outside, eyes eagerly searching the space in search of Logan. The light mounted above the door shines around you, but you don’t see him anywhere.

Just as disappointment starts to settle in your chest, you hear a loud rumble coming from the down the street. A bright light shines across the road as it gets closer and closer until there’s a motorcycle pulled up against the alley’s opening.

Logan kicks the bike’s stand down, leaning over to hold out a helmet in offering. “You coming or not?” he calls out, voice deep and teasing, “I’m not known for my patience.”

You can’t help but laugh, a mix of exhilaration and nervousness bubbling up inside you. With a confident stride, you walk toward him, the loud growl of the bike reverberates through your body like thunder with every step. “You’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?”

You take the helmet from his hand, but he doesn't let go right away, making your fingers brush against his in a way that sends a shiver up your arm. You meet his gaze, the smirk on his lips matching the dangerous glint in his eyes.

He drops his hand down to the bike’s handle, jerking his head back to the empty space behind him. “Hop on.”

You straddle the bike, the leather seat warm from the rumbling engine beneath you. You give Logan your address as you slip the helmet on. His body is warm and solid against your front, you can’t help but press a little closer, your hands falling to rest on his waist. The leather of his jacket is smooth under your fingertips.

Logan turns his head to the side, the street lights shine along the side of his face in a warm yellow glow. “Hang on,” he says, voice barely audible over the roar of the bike’s engine starting up.

The sudden rush of wind as he pulls off paired with the thrillingly intense vibration of the engine revving under you is exhilarating. You wrap your arms tight around his waist, fingers digging in slightly as you lean into the curve of his body.

The city blurs into a whirlwind of colorful lights as Logan navigates the streets with a confident ease. The cool night air whips past you, every turn and acceleration pumping more adrenaline through your veins. You cling to Logan’s waist like it’s a lifeline– there’s a sense of freedom and excitement that comes with being on the bike, but you think the real thrill is being pressed against him like this, feeling the power of his strength under you.

The ride seems like it takes both hours and seconds all at once when Logan pulls up to your house's gate. He kills the engine, the sudden silence a stark contrast from the roaring bike. Your heart pounds in your chest, pulse thumping as you slide the helmet off.

Logan takes it from your hands, eyes scanning over your house. “Nice place,” he comments casually, swinging his leg over the bike to stand next to you.

"Thanks," you say, your voice a tad breathless. You can’t help but feel a little self-conscious as you dig for your keys in your bag, nerves finally starting to set in. The air is cold against your flushed skin, and you’re hyper aware of Logan’s presence behind you as you unlock the gate and push it open.

He doesn’t touch you as the two of you walk up the steps to your house, infuriatingly keeping his distance with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.

Your legs shake with every step, you can’t tell if it’s left over adrenaline from the ride or the building anticipation for the ride you know is waiting for you beyond your front door. Your hands tremble as you fumble with the lock, opening the door and stepping into the darkness of your living room.

You’re barely a foot inside before a pair of strong hands pull you backwards, getting whirled around by your waist until your back hits your closed front door mute thud. You don’t have any time to react before Logan’s crowding up against you, his body a solid wall of muscle pressing you hard against the door. His lips crash into yours in a hungry kiss, you can taste the whiskey from earlier sharp and smoky on his tongue.

You respond eagerly, leaning up to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down even closer. Logan’s hands roam over your body rough and possessive, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck while the other grips your waist, pulling you even closer. His hands leave a trail of fire in their wake, your skin tingling with every brush of his fingers. You can feel the raw power in his touch, a barely there restrained strength that has your heart racing even faster.

“I could fucking smell you,” he growls agasint your neck, digging his sharp teeth into your collarbone meanly. You can't help but let out a soft moan, your head falling back against the door to give him better access. The rough stubble on his jaw scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Could smell how goddamn wet you got, back at the bar.”

His hand slips under the waistband of your jeans, sliding down the front of your panties to brush against your clit. Your mouth drops open with a soft moan, your slick lips still tingling. “Do you have any fuckin’ idea how hard it was not to bend you over, to not rip these things off and fuck you over the bar?” he asks roughly, lips brushing against your skin with every word. “Wanted to take you right, make everyone watch while I made you scream.”

Your breath hitches at his words, a wave of pleasure crashing through you. The rough skin of his fingertips press more firmly against your clit, drawing a broken moan from your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily against his hand.Your hands claw at his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as you try to ground yourself.

His lips capture yours again in a bruising kiss, sliding two thick fingers into you with a rough thrust. “Atta girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, dragging his tongue across your bottom slip. “That’s it, say my name,” he growls, swallowing your moans as his fingers pump into you with an unrelenting pace. Your walls clench around him, a needy whine escaping your throat as he begins to fuck his fingers in and out of your wet cunt.

The coil of pleasure deep in your stomach tightens with every thrust of his fingers, your body trembling with the intensity of it all. You can feel the pressure start to build, like a dam threatening to burst, but this isn’t how you want to come. You break the kiss, a thin thread of saliva connecting your lips before it thins and breaks. “Wait,” you say breathlessly, hand slipping down to grip his forearm tightly, “I want to come with you inside me.”

Logan growls, a deep, primal sound that you can feel rumble deep in his chest where it’s pressed against yours. “Bedroom,” he demands, hands dropping to the back of your thighs and lifting.

You wrap your legs around his waist with a quiet squeal, attacking the skin of his neck with your teeth as he walks the two of you down the dark hallway. “First door on the right,” you whisper, dragging your tongue along the column of his throat. You can feel the thick length of his cock straining against his jeans press into your hip. He sucks in a sharp breath as you roll your hips down, sliding the damp fabric of your clothed cunt over him.

Logan kicks the door open with a force that has it slamming against the wall, the sound barely registering in your lust-addled brain. Logan dumps you on the bed, the force of it bouncing you on the mattress. He rips his white undershirt over his head and drops to his knees in front of you, big hands coming up to grip the waistband of your jeans.

The muscles in his arms don’t even flex as he rips your shorts down the middle, denim and along with lace panties tearing like tissue paper in his hands and falling to the floor in tattered pieces. You gasp at the cold air hitting your hot, aching cunt.

Logan’s hands run up and down the bare skin of your calves, eyes glued to the soaked skin of your inner thighs. Your thighs start to tremble under his gaze, your patience starting to wear thin. Logan drags his eyes back to you, taking in the pleading look on your face. He smirks, wordlessly rising to his feet to pop open the button of his jeans.

You watch with bated breath as he unzips his fly, eyes glued to the way he starts to push them down his legs just enough that they fall to pool around his ankles. Your mouth drops open, eyes going wide at the sight of him.

He’s so big, so thick and heavy that his cock hangs hard between his hairy thighs instead of slapping up against his stomach. There’s a thick drop of pre-cum leaking from the tip, dripping down a thick vein running along the side.

Your mouth waters with want, the want to bury your nose in the dark thatch of hair surrounding the base, the want to have him fuck your throat raw and red. You can almost feel the ache in your jaw.

As much as you want to get him in your mouth, you want him inside you even more.

“Get your ass over here,” you demand breathlessly, tearing your shirt off your head in one swift motion. Logan smirks, stepping out of his jeans and making his way across the room. His dog tags jingle with every step, your cunt clenches weakly.

He stalks up the mattress like a predator, eyes ablaze as a cocky smirk plays on his lips. Your legs fall open unconsciously, thighs spreading wide to make enough room for his hips to slot against yours.

You gasp at the thick head of his cock sliding through your wet folds, your body arching off the bed. The sensation is electric, shooting through you like a live wire. "Logan," you breathe, your voice barely more than a whimper. "Please..."

"Please what?" he asks, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin. "You gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart."

Your cheeks flush hot, but the need burning inside you is stronger than any embarrassment. "I want you," you admit, your voice trembling with desire. "I want you to fuck me, Logan."

His growl is low and feral, his fingers teasing you relentlessly as he presses his forehead to yours. "That's a good girl," he rumbles, his breath hot against your lips as he sinks into the tight heat of your cunt in a single thrust.

The pace he sets is unrelenting, one hand braced on the pillow next to your head while the other grips your bed’s frame for better leverage to fuck down into you. The sting of his cock splitting your cunt open has your nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. His dog tags hang from his neck, swinging like a pendulum as he starts to thrust.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grates out, brows furrowed in pleasure. His hips speed up, barely pulling out halfway before he plunges back into you. The bed squeaks under you, slamming up against the wall as Logan fucks you.

It’s like Logan surrounds every inch of you, strong arms caged around your head while his body covers yours, metal bonded bones pressing you down into the mattress so there’s nothing you can do but take it. You know that he’s ruined every other man in the world for you as the heavy snap of his hips pounds against the skin of your ass hard enough to bruise. The thick muscles of chest bounces as he moves, the coarse hair scraping against your sensitive nipples.

The head of his cock pounds the soft spot inside of you that has your eyes fluttering closed, mind going hazy as heat starts to pool at the base of your spine.

“Don’t fucking stop,” you beg brokenly, tears sting the corners of your eyes. “God! I’m gonna come, you’re gonna make me come–”

“Come on baby,” Logan goads, dropping down to his fore arm so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck, “Give it to me, come on this cock, show me how much you fucking love it,”

The stinging bite of his sharp canines scraping the fluttering pulse of your neck makes you wail, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave long red welts that heal as you go. Your cunt clenches around the pulsing length of his cock, greedily milking him as you come in a rush of wetness around his cock.

“Fuck,” Logan grits out, his hips faltering. It’s not by much, but just enough for you to notice. The rhythmic smack smack smack of skin stuttering as his breath comes out in fast pants against the sweaty skin of your neck. His cock jerks inside you fiercely, his heavy balls tightening as he gets closer to the edge. You can hear the metal frame of your bed creaking warningly under his grip.

“Come in me,” you beg breathlessly, tightening your ankles around his waist. “Please, Logan I need it–”

Logan lets out a feral growl as his hand drops from your headboard, the sharp metallic sound of his claws unsheathing rings out above you before he slams his fist into the mattress next to your head. He floods your insides, pumping you full of his come as he grunts like a beast on top of you. He gives a few more weak thrusts of his hips, letting the two of you ride out your highs before he finally stills.

You hear the quiet snikt of his claws retracting from your mattress and back into between his knuckles before Logan collapses on top of you, arms braced on either side of your head to take most of his weight. His breath puffs raggedly over the skin of your shoulder, his spent cock still snug in your sore cunt.

“You owe me a new mattress,” you say breathlessly, digging the heels of your feet into his lower back sharply.

Logan chuckles into your neck, tipping his head up to look at you with dark eyes. His lips curl into a smirk as he rolls his hips, his still hard cock dragging along the sensitive walls of your cunt makes you gasp. “Yeah?” he asks, low and velvety. His eyes flick to the three holes punched through your sheets.

“You can add it to my tab,” he says with another stronger roll of his hips, “We’re not done here.”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

a/n! the actual biggest shout out to @ebodebo for beta reading and listening to my non-stop rambling and horny thoughts about this man. she's a true solider because i have been so annoying about this. mwah mwah mwah.

3K notes · View notes

guilty-ff · 4 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.1

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Wade Wilson, still haunted by the loss of his fiancée Vanessa, finds himself in a new relationship with Y/n, a bright and caring presence in his life. As the weight of his past threatens to pull him under, tensions rise, and buried emotions come to the surface.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 2499

The night had started out like any other, with the hum of the city outside Y/n’s apartment filling the quiet spaces between her thoughts. She glanced around the room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light on the scene she had carefully prepared.

Balloons and streamers, a playful nod to Wade’s twisted sense of humor, hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in the draft coming through the open window. She would laid out his favorite snacks- Chimichangas and an assortment of junk food that would make any expert on diet faint- and the TV was ready to blast his favorite old-school movies.

It had been a year since Wade had stumbled into her life, a broken man who had just lost the love of his life, Vanessa. But even in his grief, his pain, there had been something that drew her to him. His wit, his relentless, dark humor, and the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide behind that mask.

Over time, what started as a tentative friendship had blossomed into something more- a relationship that was complicated, messy, and sometimes painful, but it was real.

Y/n had always tried to be there for him, understanding that Vanessa’s memory still lingered in every corner of his mind. But tonight, she wanted to remind him of how much he meant to her, how much she loved him. She could not erase his past, but she wanted to be a part of his future.

She grabbed her jacket and hurried out of the apartment, excitement bubbling in her chest as she made her way to Sister Margaret’s, the dingy bar where Wade spent most of his nights.

The cold night air nipped at her skin, but it did not dampen her spirits. She could already imagine the look on his face when she brought him back to the apartment, the smile that would light up his eyes, even if just for a moment.

As she approached the bar, the familiar neon sign buzzing overhead, she slowed her pace, hoping to catch Wade off guard. But as she drew closer, she noticed something that made her pause.

The air was thick with the lingering scent of spilled alcohol, sweat, and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke, remnants of a night that had long since died out.

Wade sat hunched over the bar, his mask discarded to the side. His scarred face was partially emphasised by the dim, yellow light above the counter, the harsh reality of his appearance laid bare in the quiet gloom.

He was nursing a glass of whiskey, but the drink had gone untouched for the last hour, its amber liquid barely rippling as he sat there, lost in thought.

They were seated at their usual spot at the bar, but the atmosphere between them was anything but casual.

Weasel leaned against the counter opposite Wade, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. They had been sitting in silence for what felt like an eternity, the heavy atmosphere weighing down on them both.

“We need to talk, Wade,” Weasel finally broke the silence, his voice low but firm. “And I’m not letting you dodge this one.”

Wade did not respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the untouched whiskey in front of him. He let out a slow, tired sigh, running a hand over his face, feeling the rough texture of his scars under his fingertips. He knew where this was going, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

“Do you genuinely love Y/n?” Weasel asked, his tone more direct now. “Or are you still hung up on Vanessa?”

The question hung in the air like a noose, tightening around Wade’s throat. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up, couldn’t bring himself to face Weasel’s probing gaze.

“Come on, man,” Weasel pushed, his frustration seeping through. “You’ve been with Y/n for a year now. She’s been there for you through all your shit, but you’re still acting like you’re half in, half out. What’s going on in that fucked-up avocado head of yours?”.

Wade exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the glass. He knew Weasel was right. Y/n had been his rock, his light in the darkness. But Vanessa…her memory clung to him like a second skin, a constant reminder of what he had lost and what he could not let go.

“Why do you have to dig so fucking deep, Weasel?” Wade muttered, finally lifting his gaze to meet Weasel’s. His voice was rough, laced with a bitterness that he could not quite hide.

“Because someone has to, Wade,” he shot back, his patience wearing thin. “Y/n deserves better than this. She deserves to know if you’re actually in this with her, or if you’re just using her to fill the void Vanessa left behind.”

Wade flinched at the harsh truth in Weasel’s words. He did not want to admit it, but a part of him knew that Y/n was getting the short end of the stick. She was kind, funny, and more understanding than anyone had any right to be. But he could not shake the feeling that he was just going through the motions, too scared to fully let go of Vanessa, even after all this time.

“What would you do if Vanessa walked through that door right now?” Weasel pressed, the question like a dagger twisting in Wade’s chest. “Would you drop everything and go back to her? Would you throw Y/n aside like she was nothing?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Wade opened his mouth to respond, but the words would not come. He did not know what he would do, and that uncertainty was tearing him apart.

His hands shook slightly as he finally took a sip of the whiskey, the burn of the alcohol doing nothing to numb the ache inside him.

“Fuck, Wade,” Weasel’s voice was laced with exasperation. “Why are you still hung up on Vanessa? She’s gone, man. Y/n is here, now. But if you can’t let go of the past, you need to let Y/n go. She deserves someone who’s all in, not someone who’s stuck living in the fucking shadows.”

Wade felt like he was suffocating, the walls of the bar closing in on him as Weasel’s words echoed in his mind. He knew Weasel was right. He knew he was being unfair to Y/n. But knowing it didn’t make it any easier to untangle the mess of feelings he had inside him.

In her panic, Y/n stumbled forward, her foot catching the edge of a loose floorboard. The creak was loud, too loud, and before she could stop herself, her presence was revealed. Wade and Weasel turned their heads towards the sound, their conversation abruptly cut off.

Y/n froze, her wide eyes meeting Wade’s for a split second before the crushing weight of realization hit her. The pain in her chest flared up, sharp and unyielding, as the reality of what she’d overheard began to settle in.

She had heard everything.

Wade’s heart dropped to the floor, the reality of the situation crashing down on him like a big wave. He had not wanted her to hear that. He had not wanted her to know just how conflicted he was, how much of a fucking mess he really was.

“Shit…” he breathed, the word barely audible as panic began to claw at the edges of his mind. His hands shook, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he watched Y/n’s expression crumble.

For a moment, everything seemed to stand still. The air was thick with unspoken words, the tension between them almost unbearable. Wade wanted to say something, to reach out and pull her back, to explain, to apologize- but he was frozen, unable to move, unable to find the right words.

Before either of them could move, before Wade could say anything, the sound of footsteps broke the tension. Dopinder appeared at the doorway, his usual cheerful smile plastered on his face as he walked in.

“Weasel, I’m done cleaning the toilets. You won't believe me that I haven’t puked-” Dopinder announced proudly, clearly pleased with himself, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence.

Weasel’s eyes went wide with panic as he snapped his head towards Dopinder, mouthing frantically, “Shut the fuck up, don't you dare!”

He gestured sharply, his wide eyes practically bulging out of his head as he tried to silently communicate the gravity of the situation.

Dopinder’s smile faltered as he caught on, his gaze shifting from Weasel to Wade, then to Y/n, who was already backing away, her face twisted in pain.

“Uh… I’ll, uh… be going now…” Dopinder stammered awkwardly, his previous cheer vanishing as he quickly turned on his heel and disappeared back to the bathroom stalls.

The room fell back into a heavy silence, the weight of what had just happened crashing down on Wade as he turned his attention back to Y/n, who was already starting to retreat, her steps shaky and unsteady.

“Y/n, wait!” Wade’s voice cracked as he stumbled to his feet, knocking over the barstool in his haste. The sudden movement made his vision blur, his head spinning as the panic attack tightened its grip on him.

The world around her blurred as she shoved open the bar’s back door, the night air hitting her like a wall. She kept running, her legs carrying her further away from the bar, from Wade, from everything she thought she knew.

He pushed through the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest, the walls closing in on him with every step. His breath came in short, hectic bursts, his lungs struggling to keep up as he tried to catch up to her. The cold night air hit him like a slap to the face as he burst out of the bar and onto the empty street.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Wade cursed under his breath, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint as he spotted Y/n running down the street. His legs felt like they were made of lead, each step a monumental effort as he tried to push through the haze of panic that was clouding his mind.

Y/n was running blindly, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps as she fought to keep the rising panic at bay. The cold air stung her lungs, but she didn’t care. She just needed to get away, to escape the crushing weight of what she’d heard, of the pain that was suffocating her.

Her mind was spinning, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to burst. Every breath was a struggle, the air thick and heavy as she tried to hold back the tears that blurred her vision. She could not breathe, could not think- the world was closing in on her, the shadows pressing down until she felt like she was drowning.

Wade was still chasing after her, his own panic attack crashing over him like a fucking freight train. His chest felt like it was being crushed, the air refusing to stay in his lungs as his vision darkened at the edges, the world spinning out of control.

The cool night air did nothing to ease the fire raging in her chest. Her vision blurry, dark spots dancing at the edges as her breathing became more erratic. The street was mostly empty, the distant sounds of the city muted against the blood rushing in her ears.

Y/n stumbled to a stop, her hands clutching at her chest as she gasped for air, her vision narrowing to a pinpoint of light surrounded by suffocating darkness. Panic had gripped her entirely now, her mind racing with the realization that she would never truly had Wade’s heart.

He was still lost in his past, in his memories of Vanessa. And where did that leave her? Nowhere, just a placeholder, a stand-in for a love that was never hers to begin with.

Her legs buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold, hard pavement, her body trembling as she tried to suck in air, but it felt like her lungs were being crushed under an unbearable weight. Tears spilled down her cheeks, her sobs echoing through the empty street, each one more desperate than the last.

“Y/n!” he shouted, his voice barely more than a rasp, swallowed by the night as he pushed himself harder, his heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to break free.

But it was too late.

As Y/n tries to stand up and moving back, her foot caught on the uneven pavement, sending her stumbling into the street. The blinding headlights of an oncoming truck cut through the darkness, the screech of tires filling the air as the driver slammed on the brakes-

But it was too late.

The world seemed to slow down, everything happening in agonizing detail as Y/n’s body crumpled beneath the impact. The sound of the collision echoed through the empty street, a sickening thud that made Wade’s heart stop in his chest.

“NO!” Wade’s scream was raw, filled with a pain that tore through him like a blade. He felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside as he watched the woman he loved be ripped away from him by death yet again.

He collapsed to his knees beside her lifeless body, his hands trembling violently as he reached out, his fingers brushing against her skin, still warm but rapidly cooling. Blood pooled around her, seeping into the cracks of the pavement, the red stark against the cold, unyielding concrete.

Wade’s vision blurred, his chest heaving with ragged breaths that did nothing to ease the crushing weight on his chest. The panic attack had him in its grip, squeezing tighter and tighter until he thought his heart was going to fucking explode.

“Fuck…no, no, no, no…” Wade choked out, his voice breaking as he cradled Y/n’s body, rocking back and forth as the reality of what had just happened crashed over him.

He could not breathe, could not think- the world was spinning out of control, the edges of his vision going dark as he was consumed by the panic, the grief, the overwhelming sense of loss that was suffocating him.

And as the night stretched on, the silence was broken only by Wade’s broken sobs, echoing through the empty street as he held Y/n close, the weight of everything he’d lost crashing down on him, leaving him utterly, devastatingly alone.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears, drowning out the background noise. She felt her throat tighten as she strained to hear Wade’s response, the heavy words sinking deep into her chest. But there was nothing-just a deep, unsettling quiet.

#Spotify #deadpool #deadpool 3 #deadpool 2 #fanfic #story #wade wilson #marvel #angst #marvel angst #y/n #deadpool x reader #wade wilson x reader #marvel fanfiction

260 notes · View notes

fluentmoviequoter · 6 months ago

Text

Truth Serum

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: While searching for an abducted child, you and Tim are abducted and injected with truth serum.

Warnings: fluff, angst, child abduction, drugging, Tim and reader make out while working

Word Count: 2.6k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Bradford,” Wade calls over the radio. “We got an anonymous tip about the AMBER alert. The caller said a car matching the alert description was parked outside the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena.”

“We’re responding,” Tim replies. “Why the arena?” he asks you.

“It wouldn’t be very busy this time of day. Stay low there until there’s a crowd tonight and disappear with them,” you hypothesize. “Or something happened, and they had to stop.”

Tim nods as he turns on the shop’s lights. He doesn’t want to alert the abductor that the police are coming, but he needs to get there fast. Once you find the car, you’re a step closer to recovering the kidnapped child. The AMBER alert is several hours old, and the longer it takes, the more your chances of finding the child healthy and alive diminish.

“Take the next left,” you tell Tim. “If we can get in the back way, they shouldn’t see us coming.”

Tim takes your advice without argument, which surprises you. Calls with kids are some of the hardest, but when you know one’s in danger, everything changes. Part of what makes Tim such a good cop is his ability to separate his emotions, but the moment you got the AMBER alert notification, he tightened his grip on the wheel and told dispatch to let you and him patrol for the car.

“There it is,” Tim murmurs as he stops behind a partial wall in the parking lot.

The silver sedan you’ve spent the morning hunting for waits in a parking spot as if it’s just a normal day. You can’t see signs of anyone in the car, and Tim opens his door quietly and steps out. As you open your door, you notice something under the sedan less than 100 yards from you.

“Tim, it’s a trap,” you say quickly.

He turns toward you and gestures for you to get back in the car, but the car explodes, and you’re slung back against the shop before you take another step. You reach toward Tim where he lays behind you, but a booted foot kicks your hand away.

“Time to serve and protect,” the man standing above you says.

He drops a wet rag on your face, and you lose consciousness before you realize it’s not water.

“Hey, c’mon,” Tim whispers.

He jostles your wrist with his fingertips as he demands you talk to him. When you realize that he’s asking for a response, you squeeze your eyes closed and grunt. Tim takes it as enough of a sign that you’re still alive and stops talking.

“Where are we?” you ask, blinking slowly. “Are you tied up?”

“Welcome back,” Tim murmurs grumpily. “You don’t handle chloroform very well.”

“My bad,” you reply sarcastically. “Have they been back?”

“No.”

“How mad are you?”

Tim makes a sound that you take as a sign to stop talking. For someone so eager to hear your voice a moment ago, your questions changed his mind quickly. Behind you, metal scrapes as a door opens. You hear heavy footsteps and assume that it’s the man who knocked you out.

“Glad to see you’re both feeling better. Need those minds as sharp and clear as we can get them,” he says. “I’m George.”

“And I’m the man in yellow,” you reply under your breath.

“Cute,” George murmurs. “You’re just here to help. If you found the car, you know about the kid.”

“The kid you abducted?” Tim asks.

“Details, details… Either you start telling me what you know, or I beat it out of your friend here.”

Tim’s fingers press against your wrist as he flexes beneath his restraints. George laughs, and you turn your neck painfully in an attempt to see him.

“You’ll get a turn,” George promises when he notices your movement. “If neither of you is feeling talkative, perhaps you need some courage.”

George walks around Tim, and you track him as he stops before you. He’s larger than he seemed in the parking lot. As he smiles down at you, you relax. If he thinks you’re intimidated, he has you where he wants you.

“Do you want to tell me anything?” George asks.

“Your right boot is scuffed,” you answer. “Little saddle soap would buff it right out.”

George clenches his jaw as he reaches into his pocket. He withdraws a syringe, and your eyes widen as you push back against the chair you’re tied to. His smile grows as he reaches for your forearm.

“Don’t,” you demand. “Don’t touch me.”

Tim moves behind you, but there’s nothing he can do to help.

“Don’t worry, Officer Bradford,” George calls. “You’ll get a turn too.”

George slides the needle under your skin and looks directly into your eyes as he depresses the syringe. He pulls the used needle out and tosses it into the corner of the room. After he pats your arm, he returns to Tim’s side.

“What was that? What is it?” you demand, pulling against your restraints.

A bead of blood appears on the surface of the skin. Tim is likely being injected too, but you need to know what George is pumping into you.

“Back up,” Tim growls from behind you.

“Gladly,” George answers. “To answer your question, sodium thiopental. Enjoy the next few minutes of control.”

As the door slams behind George, you exclaim, “Truth serum?”

“It doesn’t work,” Tim says.

“Yeah,” you agree. “But this idiot doesn’t know that.”

“And you want to pretend it does?” Tim questions. “For what?”

“He gets fed up and tells us what he knows… I hope.”

Tim hums and his fingers press against your skin. “Let’s try it.”

“Hello again,” George says as he returns.

“Hi,” you blurt out.

“So glad to hear some excitement. We’ll start easy. Why are you here?”

“Because we’re cops and someone said the AMBER alert car was here,” Tim answers.

“Oh, so grumpy does speak,” George muses happily. “In that case...”

George grabs the side of your chair and spins it quickly. You’re beside Tim now; his arm is pressed to yours and you can look at him without straining. The plan is working already.

“Glad you’re okay,” Tim tells you.

“Not the truth we’re looking for,” George interrupts. “Tell me, what do the police think?”

“Lots of things,” you answer. “You-“ you interrupt yourself off with a giggle – “you have to be more specific.”

“Where do they think the kid is?” George clarifies.

“With the bad guy,” Tim says. “The guy who drives the silver sedan… Did you steal it?”

“Do they have a name, a face? Who is the suspect?” George is getting agitated, exactly as you hoped.

“A face...” you repeat. You look toward Tim and say, “You… you have the prettiest face ever. I want to marry you.”

Tim takes the confession in stride, likely assuming that you’re still playing I’m high on sodium thiopental.

“You’re the best partner I’ve ever had,” Tim replies, leaning toward you.

“Listen!” George demands. He places his hand over your jaw to direct your face toward his. “Where is the kid?”

“The kid?” you ask, your voice distorted by his grip on your face.

“Mmhmm. Where did they take him?”

George releases your face, and you stretch your jaw out as you turn toward Tim.

“Kids… Tim, I want to have your babies. You’d have pretty babies. And smart babies.”

Tim nods along, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes that you don’t recognize. He’s either playing up the truth serum bit, or something else is happening. George slaps the side of your face before he storms out of the room. You smile at Tim, despite the deepening hand print covering your jaw.

“Pretty and smart babies?” Tim asks.

“You weren’t giving me anything to work with,” you point out with a shrug.

“I like listening.”

“Well, it is truth serum,” you murmur.

When George returns, he shoves a picture in your face.

“My son, where did they take him?” he demands.

“Son?” you and Tim ask together.

“Oh!” you exclaim when you see the picture. “George, listen, we can help. But you have to let us go.”

“Why would I do that? You people are the reason he’s gone!”

“George,” you repeat softly. “We know that the man who reported his abduction is really his stepfather, and half of the LAPD is looking for your son, but we don’t know where he is yet.”

“He never would’ve disappeared if you hadn’t taken him away from me!”

“Then let me help,” you implore.

George stares at you for a few seconds before he nods. He cuts your restraints and steps back as you stand. You pull Tim’s handcuffs from his belt as you move, just in case.

“Let’s go,” he commands.

You shake your head and point to Tim. “Both of us.”

“No,” George answers. “Help me and I’ll let you come back to get him later. We’re going.”

George grabs your arm and shoves you harshly toward the door. You could fight back, but without Tim to back you up, it would go poorly fast.

“Tim, I’ll be back,” you promise.

“Be careful,” he mouths silently.

You nod and hold his eyes until the door closes. As you follow George through the underground tunnel, you watch him closely.

“Dad!” someone yells deeper in the tunnel.

“George,” you say lowly. “What did you do?”

“He’s my son!” George bellows.

He turns toward you with your gun aimed at your chest. You raise your hands and maintain eye contact with him.

“This doesn’t end well for you,” you tell him. “What was the goal?”

“His stepdad is looking for him,” George explains. “I can’t lose my son again.”

“So… what?”

“You would bring him here, lure that monster here, and I would save my son!”

“George, it doesn’t work like that. You kill his stepdad, you injure me or my partner, and you go to prison. So that little boy in there still loses you. You’re stuck, George.”

“No!” he yells. “No, I have the gun and my son.”

“And when you have to run? You drag him with you?”

“I- we-“

“You didn’t think that far?” you guess. “You don’t get out of this, George. Not like this.”

“Dad!” his son yells again.

“He needs you right now. If you let me go, surrender, and return that little boy to his mother-“

“The court takes him again.”

“But you still get to see him. What’s better, George? Taking him from everything he loves or seeing him when it’s good for him?”

The gun falters in George’s hand, and when he begins to lower it, you surge forward. As your shoulder collides with his chest, you pull your gun from his grip. It fires into the tunnel as you wrestle George to the ground. The moment you push him to the concrete and secure your cuffs on him, George begins crying.

“Save the tears for your court date,” you respond. “Where’s my radio? My phone?”

George shakes his head, and you sigh in exasperation. You pull his shoulders to help him into a seated position against the concrete wall.

“Stay here,” you demand. George nods vehemently, and you ask, “Where’s your son?”

“Third door on the left,” he answers through sniffles.

You walk to the third door and open it carefully. The little boy runs to you and hugs your legs as he rambles about how his father took him from his mom’s house and won’t tell him anything.

“It’s okay, buddy,” you assure him. “Here, can you hold my handcuffs? I need someone to keep them ready until I come back.”

He nods and accepts the handcuffs. As he sits on the thin mattress behind him and toys with the mechanical lock, you return to the main tunnel. George doesn’t speak as you pass him, nor when you take the knife from his side.

You open the door to the room where Tim is waiting and step inside. He looks up quickly and blows out a large breath. His jaw tightens quickly, and you notice blood running down his left hand.

“George is in cuffs outside,” you say. You squat before Tim and begin cutting his restraints. “And his son is fine. Babysitting your cuffs at the moment.”

You set the knife aside and focus on gently freeing Tim's bloodied wrist, oblivious to how he watches you. His skin has been scraped raw from tugging against the rope to get out and get to you. He heard the gunshot and assumed the worst, then you came in like nothing happened.

The moment Tim is free, you stand and offer a hand to him. Tim knocks your hand out of the way as he stands. You begin to ask him if he’s okay, but his hands rise to your shoulders, his thumbs against the pillar of your neck. Before you finish the question, Tim presses himself closer to you and kisses you. You blink in surprise but melt into his affection quickly. As you slide your arms over his shoulder and move with Tim, you wonder how much of his action is adrenaline and if there’s anything in this that he means.

“Officer?” George’s son calls down the tunnel.

You step back and Tim drops his hands to your waist.

“That was…” you begin.

“Truth serum,” Tim finishes. “Let’s go.”

He brushes past you, trailing his right hand over your waist. Outside, he leads George out as you carry his son back into the sunlight. The young boy clings to you, and you comfort him as Tim uses the radio in the shop to alert dispatch and request backup.

“Where’s our stuff?” Tim asks George as he shoves him against the dented back door.

“Threw it in here,” George mumbles against the glass.

“He may be a kidnapper, but he’s no thief,” you murmur.

“You see those dents?” Tim asks lowly, so George’s son doesn’t hear. “Those were made when you tried to kill two cops. All of this for a little boy you’re never going to see again.”

George begins crying again, and Tim rolls his eyes as he looks away. Tim may be good at hiding his emotions on the job, but you know better than anyone that he still feels them and feels them deeply.

The first of many patrol cars pulls into the parking lot, and you nod at Tim before you’re pulled away in the hectic moments that follow your heroic recovery.

You knock on the door once, then pull your hands behind your back. Part of you expects that the door will remain closed, but Kojo barks as Tim opens the door.

“Hi,” you greet, rocking back on your heels. “I- uh- I just wanted to thank you for everything today.”

“Come in,” Tim invites.

You walk past him, remembering what it felt like to have his hands on you and his lips against yours. As you turn back to Tim, he steps into your space.

“Was any of it true?” he asks.

“It’s called truth serum for a reason,” you whisper.

Tim fails to hide his smile as he says, “Then you think I have a pretty face?”

“The prettiest ever,” you agree.

“And you want to have my babies.”

“I’m pretty sure I said I wanted to get married first,” you point out happily.

Tim’s hands raise toward your face, but he stops when he sees the bruise along your jaw. You catch his left arm and kiss his bandage, the injury underneath caused by concern for you.

“I was going to say I love you,” you murmur. “But I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

“It’s truth serum. I wanted to believe it all,” Tim answers.

“Then kiss me again,” you request softly.

Tim does exactly as you ask, takes your face gently between his hands, and kisses you. It’s just as shocking and enlivening as the first time, and you smile against his lips because it was true. It was all true.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford fic #tim bradford x you #the rookie #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #hanna writes✯

382 notes · View notes

silkscream · 5 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 12: LOOKING FOR THE NEW WORLD

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

He was like a child despite being a man, one much bigger and stronger than you. Infinitely powerful, yet he could reduce himself into a creature of need so intensely that he’s convinced you that your touch is the only remedy.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: explicit content (18+ mdni) , unprotected sex, dubcon, oral sex, mentions of depression, angst, character death

ੈ✩ wc: 5k

ੈ✩ a/n: who else is sick of these two. i sure am

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

January, 2011

There’s a black cat that likes to hang out around your apartment. It’s small, a bit on the thinner side, with striking amber eyes. It reminds you of someone.

It nuzzles against your legs now as you sit on the stoop, nursing your third cigarette of the night. Tobacco for dinner and some leftover hot and sour soup from the last time Shoko forced you to get takeout with her.

“You gotta stop with those,” she had muttered when you had finished eating, excusing yourself for a cigarette despite the snow. “You’re gonna fuck up your lungs at this rate.”

“How extremely hypocritical of you.”

“The nicotine makes you more anxious than before,” she laughed. “And I want you alive in this lifetime.”

You’d smiled weakly in response. Allowed yourself one cigarette before bed and another that was shared with her before she left for Tokyo again.

Your stomach rumbles again at the thought of real dinner. The cat sniffing you meows.

“You’re hungry, too, huh?”

As if it understands you, it mewls.

You ash your cigarette and scoop it up in your arms as you walk to the konbini for cat food and multiple cups of ramen. Despite the odd looks you get around the store, no one bothers you or reprimands you for having a little fur ball attached to your shoulder.

The cat takes a liking to your apartment, immediately splaying itself on your carpet. You’d have to vacuum later if you were going to house it. Get a litter box, too. It was probably all against your lease, but it had been a long time since you had taken care of anyone other than yourself, and you were still lacking in that department ever since the previous autumn.

“Sorry about this,” you mutter as you pick up the cat, lifting it to the light. “Ah. A boy.”

The cat meows, as if agreeing. You decide to call him Jiji after the black cat in Kiki’s Delivery Service. A fitting resemblance. There’s an annoying, familiar voice in your head that tells you it’s a bit cliche.

The poor thing walks with a limp you don’t remember him having. There’s a deep cut on one of his back legs, probably left over from a stray dog that bit too hard. The flesh heals quickly with the slight of your hand.

He treats the place like a personal jungle, which is saying something considering how bare it is. You make yourself some subpar ramen, attempting to turn it into stir-fry with the puny vegetables in your fridge. It was something warm, at least. It goes nicely with the Asahi you bought. You’re allowing yourself maybe half of the six-pack tonight. Any more and you’d be inviting yourself to wade in a pool of pity.

You stare at the mini calendar on your fridge. The third of February is circled, taunting you. It wasn’t like you’d ever forget, but you marked it anyway as if to punish yourself.

You jump when the doorbell rings. It can’t be Shoko. She’d left for Tokyo days before, and there was no reason for her to be back so soon. Utahime wasn’t the type to show up unannounced.

For fuck’s sake, it couldn’t be.

You didn’t even tell him where your new place was. The knocks on the door turn to a rhythmic pounding you recognize immediately and it makes you want to start digging your own hole. Begrudgingly, you open the door.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters, the curl of a lip hinting at a teasing smile. There’s barely enough time for you to process a response back because of how quickly he walks in.

“How did you know where I lived?”

Satoru grins, teeth and all. Annoyingly bright and shark-spiked, hair covered in light snow.

“I have my ways, baby.”

“You need to leave.”

Jiji cowers curiously by the foot of the couch, blinking at the new stranger. Satoru looks at you quizzically.

“Replaced me already?”

“Yes.”

He ignores you and plops down the paper bags he was carrying on the kitchen counter, like he’s done it a million times before. A bottle of rose, packaged daifuku. A carton of strawberries. For some reason, nearly everything in the grocery bag is pink.

“Got you your favorites.”

“Satoru, these are your favorites.”

“Ours, then,” he huffs childishly, pouting. “I was in town for a mission. Thought you would want to, uh, do something for his birthday.”

His last sentence is rushed like it’s an afterthought, but it’s the most damning one. You can’t help the rage in your veins when he says it. As if Suguru is dead or missing instead of flourishing on his own path. Rot turned to bloom.

While you glare at him, his expression is neutral, bordering on sheepish.

“You didn’t answer any of my calls or texts, so.”

“Because I didn’t want to talk to you,” you say bluntly.

He sighs. “You can’t ignore me, forever, y’know.”

Something bitter crawls up the cavern of your chest at the same time something heats up. It wasn’t fair, the way he looked at you all pouty. It made you feel like you did when you were merely the maid’s daughter, wanting to appease him in any way you could. You feel slightly nauseous despite your stomach feeling terribly empty.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Have you talked to him?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs.

The two of you stare at each other in silence for a bit before you clear your throat.

“Thanks for the groceries, but you can take them back to your hotel or whatever. You can’t stay here.”

“I’m not trying to crash at your apartment, anyway.”

“Then what are you trying to do, Satoru?”

“Seduce you, I suppose,” he mutters. “I’m sure the hotel mattress I have would be better for your back. You can—”

“No.”

“Fine. Have dessert with me. A glass of wine. I just want to be with you.”

You curse yourself. Satoru is always tempting just by being himself, but you did really like the brand of wine he brought. Right now, you need a drink more than anything else.

Watching reality TV with Satoru is not how you expect to spend your night. The silence is uncomfortable, nearly suffocating. It’s not difficult to notice how much he wants to touch you, his fingers twitching on the fabric of your couch.

“Where’d this fucker come from?” He nods his head towards Jiji, who has jumped onto your left shoulder. You can sense jealousy in his tone, funnily enough.

“Don’t call him that,” you scold, rolling your eyes. “He was a stray. Got bitten by something so I healed him up.”

“How lucky.”

“Uh huh.”

Satoru clears his throat and thumbs around the rim of his wine glass. Fidgety. He leans closer to you, petting Jiji as an excuse.

“How’s the… independent study? Or whatever.”

“It’s good. I work at the greenhouse every other day.”

He nods slowly and pours you both another glass. It doesn’t take long for you both to finish the bottle. His cheeks are as pink as the daifuku, half-eaten and abandoned on a plate in front of him. You’ve graduated to playful quips despite your mostly guarded demeanor, feet hoisted on his lap as he rubs them absentmindedly.

“You should probably get back to your hotel.”

“Huh?”

You look at him. Satoru’s gaze flickers in between mischief and reverence. He’s also clearly not paying attention to what you’re saying considering his eyes are fixed on your bare shoulder.

“It’s late,” you sigh.

“Not that late,” he scoffs. “S’not even ten.”

“I have a lab early tomorrow,” you lie.

“...Alright. Wanna finish this for me, then?” He holds out the last half of the mochi and feeds it to you. He blushes slightly. You still open your mouth for him without having him to ask.

“It’s good.”

He nods. Leans over to wipe a bit of red bean paste off the corner of your mouth with his thumb. His eyes lower onto your lips as he sighs, right before he kisses you.

You let him.

He feels the same as he always does. It’s been almost two months since you’d touched him — the last time being inside a karaoke bar bathroom an hour after Shoko had convinced you to come out for Satoru’s birthday.

You had done so, unwillingingly, still not over the wound of being left and still angry with Satoru. Even so, it was still easy for him to make your knees weak, leading you into a random stall in the men’s bathroom while Shoko and Utahime forced Nanami to sing an 80s ballad.

It was your first time properly spending time with the underclassman, so it embarrassed you immensely to walk out with your lipstick smudged. You remember overhearing Nanami ask Utahime about you and Satoru, to which she simply laughed in pity.

They’re on and off?

Divorced right now, Shoko had quipped.

Gojo was married to her?!

Fuck no. He wishes.

“Sato—” you mumble into his mouth.

He shuts you up with his tongue against yours, his hand cupping your chin. You knew he would get you a little tipsy and probably make a move, and you knew full well that you would let him. He chased you easily even when he could have anyone he wanted.

His movements are sloppy and languid. Drunk, perhaps — he was a lightweight through and through. He groans lightly at the taste of you, how sweet you are like always. His other hand moves to your nape, clutching the back of your head to rest on the couch cushion with him hovering over you. Already, he was slotting his knee in between your legs.

Satoru could already feel his insides stir at the thought of being inside you again. It had been too fucking long. He was sure that his dick would probably melt once you let him in.

When you feel his hand underneath your sweater, you break the kiss. He sees it as an interruption rather than an end as he chases you, face leaning in again. He was pretty when he was drunk on you, eyes half-lidded like that. It was infuriating.

It takes you a slight push and a turning of the head for him to realize that you don’t want him.

“Why are you—”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I– I don’t want to.”

His face falls. You can’t stand it, how he looks like a kicked puppy. You refuse to fall for it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come back with me?” he tries. “To the hotel?”

You’d slap him if you could. Your hands don’t move an inch. They only tremble.

“I said no. I’m sorry—” Why are you apologizing? “I have to get to bed.”

He blinks at you, dejected. For once, he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t give you a smartass reply. He stands and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Okay,” he sighs. He wants to reach out and touch you, but he doesn’t. “Sweet dreams, Twigs.”

June, 2010

There’s a funeral before you leave for Kyoto. It’s the first time you deal with the corpse of a classmate.

You’d watched Shoko work in the morgue meticulously, wrapping the body in plastic. You knew she was probably used to the smell of death by now. At that moment, you were both numb to it.

“You don’t have to stay here, Nanami-kun,” you told your junior softly. He’d been sitting next to you in a plastic folding chair with a warm towel over his eyes for nearly half an hour, saying nothing.

“It’s fine. Not like they’d dare to assign me another mission right away.”

You glance at Nanami now, dressed in all black, and his face looks even more tired than it was under the morgue fluorescents. Sallow and pale, his complexion matching Suguru’s.

You were all much too young to go to so many funerals.

The smell of death still lingers at the ceremony, too. It must be psychosomatic, the way the suffocating temple air makes your gut twist into itself. Yu Haibara’s smiling portrait stares back at you.

You’d never experienced anything like this before. You knew the cost of being a jujutsu sorcerer, the horror of nearly losing Satoru the subject of your nightmares. It was different for it to be real, to pick up the bones of a boy whose light shone so brightly with chopsticks.

Suguru looks older than he is. You noticed lately that the circles under his eyes have gotten worse, sometimes like a bruised purple in the shadows of his room. He didn’t leave it often, never opened his blinds despite it being summer. Morose as he is, he still looks beautiful.

You sit in between him and Satoru during the service. You shed no tears. No one does—the grief is all-consuming, wrangling everyone by the throat. You’re sure your fellow classmates are feeling numbness more than anything.

You crawl into Suguru’s bed that night. He almost doesn’t acknowledge you, save for the movement of his arm over your middle when you nestle into his chest. His hair is still slightly damp from the shower he took. He hadn’t bothered to put his clothes back on.

“You okay?” you whisper. “We missed you at dinner.”

“Migraines,” he mumbles. He’s been getting a lot of them lately. That or nausea. Another thing that was psychosomatic—Suguru could barely eat lately because of the nausea. Even when he eats enough, it’s there, as if the curses he swallows are making a cesspool of his gut.

He blames it all on heat fatigue, but you know better. Even with his model-like cheekbones, his face is starting to look a little thinner.

“Did you take anything for it?”

“Yeah,” he lies. He might’ve taken some gas station gummy just so he could pass out and maybe not wake up for twelve hours before you came in.

You hum softly, threading your fingers through his damp hair. It’s too wet for him to be resting on his pillow. You want to comb it for him, dry him with the towel like a beloved pet. He breathes shallowly as he revels in the feeling of your fingers across his scalp.

“Have you been drinking enough water?”

“Christ. Yes.”

Suguru immediately regrets his sharp tone the minute he sees your eyes flicker with meekness. He sighs, cradling you closer.

“Sorry. I’m just… fucking tired.”

“Yeah, me too.” There’s an awkward silence.

“God,” you mumble, almost to yourself. “What happened was horrible.”

“Ha. That’s reality. Could be any of us tomorrow, or the next day.”

It’s an awful thing to say, but you know he’s right. He doesn’t say it to be spiteful or insensitive, but his words sting nonetheless. It’s the air of bitterness you can sense from the lilt of his tongue. You know it isn’t directed at you, but it still feels uncomfortable when you’re trying to be affectionate with him.

He looks at the sadness in your eyes and makes an attempt to change the subject. “Do you wanna… watch a movie or something?”

“I should probably go to bed soon. I have an early mission tomorrow.”

“Seriously? After what just happened?”

“I don’t really have a say in what gets assigned to me,” you say sheepishly.

“We all keep throwing ourselves back into work. The very work that gets our friends killed,” Suguru scoffs. “And for what? For a bunch of weaklings? Fuck.”

You pinch your brows together. “Suguru–”

“They’re the ones making the curses, anyway,” he mutters. “It’s fucking ironic that we have to protect the weak but we’re the ones who are never protected. Always martyred, instead.”

“The weak?”

“Non-sorcerers. Us sorcerers exist to protect the weak—it’s bullshit, sometimes.”

“You sound like Satoru.”

He lets out a bitter laugh at that. “So I’ve really gone off the deep end, huh?”

“No,” you sigh, caressing his jaw. “We’re all just grieving. I’ve been feeling a little crazy, too.”

He looks at you earnestly, licks his lips. “Kyoto will be nice.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I suppose it will be nice.”

“Don’t you get sick of it all?”

“Of being a sorcerer?”

Everything, he wants to scream.

“I don’t know. It’s the first thing I’ve done for myself. I mean, for others, too—that’s the whole thing—but it means more. Like I’m… worth something.”

“You’re worth a lot more than that. You always have been.”

There’s a hint of desperation in his voice, as if he’s also telling himself the same thing. You’re not exactly sure what he means. You like being useful, you’ve learned to like having to perfect your technique. You know you will never be as strong as Satoru or Suguru. You don’t know that Suguru is metamorphosing into something beyond his control, ever since he saw a bullet go through a girl’s skull.

His words stick with you as you fall asleep in his bed.

You’re worth more.

September, 2010

You feel like you’re about to vomit. Blood trickles down Satoru’s palm, the sharp pin of the button in his hand still in his unfurling fist.

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Yaga-Sensei grimaces. “Suguru fled after killing everyone in the village.”

You can’t look anyone in the eye. You only stare at the blood on Satoru’s palm, thinking of his hands, of Suguru’s. Hands that were soft around your neck, rough on your waist and down the planes of your thighs. Hands that killed 112 people in a small village.

When you couldn’t call him, you took the bullet train to Tokyo immediately. You thought he’d gone missing, ran away, anything but the reality of the situation. Suguru could be sharp-tongued, had rigid edges, but he was always kind. He believed in fairness above all—it was what you admired most about him. Even when he could be cruel, he could be kind.

You didn’t think he could be cruel enough to commit a mass murder in cold blood. You feel the hallway spinning, nausea crawling up your sternum and up to your head. Suguru had killed a village, and he’s left you and Satoru, and he didn’t even say goodbye.

You really need to lay down before you throw up.

Yaga cancels your missions, so you have nothing to distract you. Nothing to do with your hands except curl your fingers around the cool bed sheet beneath you. For the next day, you stay like this — twisted inside yourself, knees tucked to your chest. Satoru is there, too, and for the first time in his life, he has nothing to say. This is a kind of grief that neither of you knows how to deal with.

“Satoru,” you whisper. “We should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You said you haven’t eaten since this morning,” you frown.

He shrugs. He was fine with laying in bed with you, suspended in the thick tension of unspoken words. Satoru was often explosive when he was angry, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything about Suguru’s betrayal. Not unless he could find him on his own, but at this rate, Suguru could be out of the city already.

He’s slightly watery-eyed. Something is dormant inside of him and you’re waiting for it to snap, show its teeth. You are ready to be the thing in between his canines.

He takes you eventually. Wakes you in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, prompted by nightmares of fire and bloodshed and Suguru’s glare. Satoru claws at you in his sleep until you’re holding his face and shaking him, telling him to breathe slowly.

His breathing only gets faster. The hole that Suguru leaves inside of him needs to be filled.

And then, your hair is in between his fists, your flesh in between his teeth. He has to take you apart so you’re like him, but you know that you had fallen apart the moment Suguru’s phone number failed when you tried to call him.

“Satoru,” you whine. “Slow down.”

“Can’t,” he mutters, his voice rough as he gropes you in the dark. “Fuck, sorry. Need you. Missed you.”

With the way he manhandles you, you might think he’s sleepwalking. His eyes are wide open, midnight blue in the darkness. He whines when you turn away from him.

“Please,” he chokes out. “Need it.”

You’d seen him like this before. Desperate, begging, frantic—usually because he was upset or angry. He would never tell you the details of what was in his head, only that he absolutely needed you, needed your body to satiate him. Your body was a temple for him to confess and repent in, yet it hollowed you out as if you were the one sinning.

“Shhh,” you coo, nervous. “It’s alright.”

You wrap your arms around him and he intertwines your legs together. You can feel his cock against your stomach. His face is buried in your neck, teeth nipping your collarbone. You always let him take all of you when he’s like this, never minding the feeling of being stretched thin, a taut sinew inside a predator’s mouth. You would be the balm to his chaos, always.

He lets out a heavy breath when he moves your panties to the side and his tip catches on your entrance. It’s a sound of relief, of quenched thirst. You gasp when he fits himself all the way inside you. Your body feels like a geyser ready to erupt.

He’s done this before after nightmares, after tough missions. Sometimes you would be asleep —you told him you didn’t care, and usually, you don’t. To be wanted by Satoru felt like a blessing even when it hurt like a curse.

You were sick on each other.

His movements are hurried, kissing your neck sloppily as he ruts against you. He pushes inside and begins with quick thrusts. A full nest inside of you, your walls melting. He squeezes you tightly, his arms almost painfully clutching your waist as if he needed you tethered to him, skin sticking to skin.

You aren’t wet enough for you to cum just yet. It was aching in you a little bit, the deepness of his cock inside you.

“S-Satoru,” you whine. “Hurts.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up — fuck — make it up to you.”

He pulls out of you and throws you against the bed, holding your legs down and parted for his mouth. He eats you like a meal, his mouth sucking on your clit brutally enough for you to become overwhelmed. He sighs as he feels you gush around his fingers.

“Close,” you gasp. “Fuck me.”

He turns you over and humps in between your legs, slipping in and holding you down. His weight on you is almost comforting. Your head feels like it’s underwater.

“You can take it,” he hums. He kisses your nape, bites at your shoulder. If he wasn’t so delirious about it, needing you as much as he does, he would take his time. Write his name into your skin with love bruises.

His cock had to be stirring your insides together, your cunt like whipped butter. He groans when you clench around him. He knows how close you are, despite being half-asleep, half-feral. He’s had you memorized.

It was too hot for him to be on you like this, his body too heavy. You come at the same time, both of your voices blending together into a choked whimper. Your hair sticks to your neck with sweat.

“Y’feel so good,” Satoru mutters. “All the time.”

He gets up to piss eventually, otherwise he probably would’ve fallen asleep inside you. You hadn’t noticed the small tears at the corner of your eyes. You come back to yourself, feeling a flurry of emotions come out of your pores—sweat and tears, Satoru’s warmth spilling out of you like dripping candle wax.

He holds you again and strokes your hair in silent apology. You fall asleep. You don’t dream.

He’d fucked you into the next afternoon, apparently, because you don’t wake up until 1 pm. The sheets are warm with his presence, but there isn’t a warm body next to you.

When he comes back, his eyes are bloodshot.

“Satoru?”

“He… he left,” he says.

“What do you mean he left?”

“Shoko found him and called me. He thinks he can create a world without non-sorcerers, he’s fucking—“

“Satoru!” you snap.

He shuts up, looks at you with big eyes, wet and dark.

“You— you saw him?”

“Yeah, just now—”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you demand.

He blinks at you, at a loss for words. He was half-asleep when Shoko called, scrambled to put on pants before he basically warped to the middle of Shinjuku. Seeing Suguru again was whiplash.

“I didn’t want to—you look so peaceful when you’re sleeping, y’know,” he stammers, running a hand through his haphazard white locks. Lingering bedhead. “And I didn’t want Suguru to think we were, you know, ganging up on him—”

“I wouldn’t care about being woken up if I got to see him!” you scoff.

“You’re upset.”

“Of course I’m upset he’s my… he’s my friend, too!”

I loved him, too.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”

You must be red in the face. Your face stings with a wash of irritation, your nose twitching as if you’re about to cry.

“What did you say to him?”

“He’s turned his back on Jujutsu society. That’s all there is to it. He thinks it’s justice.”

“You didn’t try to stop him? You just let him go?”

“I couldn’t kill him. You know that,” he says, his expression hard.

Your throat catches on a lump, a ball of malignant rage threatening to choke you. The red string that connects you and Suguru has frayed limp. Between you and Satoru, it only tightens around your neck.

“I could’ve talked to him,” you start babbling. “I could’ve–”

“Don’t be stupid. You know how stubborn he is. You really think that you would’ve made a difference?”

You narrow your eyes, wiping them before tears start to fall. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I just… I just know him–”

“And I don’t?” you snap.

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s what you’re implying.”

Satoru scoffs. “You don’t get it. He’s set on this idea of his. You wouldn’t have changed his mind, I promise you.”

You shut your eyes, feeling the dagger of his gaze twist itself into your chest. There was that feeling again—knowing that you would never be like either Satoru or Suguru. You knew that perhaps Satoru would have more power over him, and despite that, he still left.

You weren’t there for the past two months, didn’t see the dead look in his eyes. You would never understand him. You think that maybe no one would. You hate how desperately you wanted to know him, how intensely you would claw your way for love in a way that mattered. Years of being with Satoru proved that—you still felt beneath him. Beneath both of them.

“Hey. Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t shut down. You always do that when you get upset,” Satoru grimaces.

You chew on the skin under your lip nervously. Your hands shake. You hate that Suguru has probably only shown a certain percentage of himself to you. There was no room for you to be entitled to the intricacies of his brain.

The space between you and Satoru is a chasm. You don’t know what to do with your frustration. The only options in your head right now are to take it out on him or let it fester within yourself until you explode. Neither will do much in terms of closure.

Satoru stares at you with jealousy stirring underneath his skin. It’s the earnestness in your hurt expression. It’s making the guilt inside him multiply like a virus.

“Are you in love with him?” Satoru asks, his voice hoarse.

You blink at him. “I don’t know,” you whisper.

“Do you love him more than you love me?”

“What? What does that have to do with–”

“Just answer.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you mutter.

Satoru winces, your words a sharp sting to his face. He hadn’t preferred either of you over the other, but he was protective of you in a way that he didn’t feel for Suguru. It ran deep enough to make him crazy—Suguru knew that. For some reason, it wasn’t anything that Satoru could admit out loud.

He sighs heavily. “I love both of you. You know that.”

“Why are you asking this, Satoru?”

“Because… fuck. Because it doesn’t matter how much you and I loved him! It doesn’t fucking matter. He’s gone, okay?”

He’s too consumed with the thought of you beside him on that sidewalk, surrounded by a crowd. Tunnel vision set on a beautiful boy with sharp eyes, casually ready to leave the both of you in the dust. Part of him hates how much you love Suguru, how much Suguru seemed to love you back. He hates how much you’re fussing over his best friend when all he’s ever done since he met you was fuss over you.

He hates how much he loves Suguru. So much so that out of his own selfishness, he wanted to face him alone when Shoko called. He didn’t want you beside him when he confronted Suguru, didn’t want to see the inevitable tears on your face once Suguru walked away.

Satoru is convinced that you were made from him, and if he’s lost one soulmate, he refuses to lose another.

And yet, you look at him coldly, like you’re going to leave, and his heart jumps out of his chest.

#gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #geto suguru x you #geto x you

153 notes · View notes

zaldritzosrose · 3 days ago

Text

Insatiable (Armand x Fem Vamp!Reader)

Summary: Escape. That's what he craved. Somewhere away from everything. Instinct had brought him to the club, not his usual scene. But it was you that kept him there. You were the escape he needed. Feeding desires he didn't know he had. And satisfying cravings he didn't know needed satiating.

This was originally meant to come under @lady-phasma's Fangtober Celebration but I got a little sidetracked (using the prompts exhibitionism, overstimulation (sort of) and blood).

CW: MINORS DNI, she/her pronouns, afab reader, mentions of vampiric feeding, mentions of blood, mutual feeding, mentions of clubbing, (slight) mentions of sex work, exhibitionism, little bit of overstimulation, oral (fem receiving), dry humping, blood play, p in v sex, (slight) rough sex, public sex.

Words: 4260

Please enjoy my dive into a new fandom!

The music thudded low through the club as Armand entered. It wasn’t his usual choice of evening activity, but something drew him in. His feet took him out of the apartment and into the city.

He’d wandered aimlessly to begin with. Simply wanting to be away. But before he knew it, he was at the doorway, illuminated by the sign above.

And then he was walking in. Armand barely noticed the stamp to his hand, marking his patronage. He barely noticed the bodies he had to wade through to make it anywhere close to the main floor.

He was almost working automatically. Mind completely detached from his body.

If he’d been paying more attention, he’d have noticed the decided lack of mortal pulses.

But you saw him.

You were on stage, black lace forming perfectly to the swells and dips of your body. The music almost ran through your veins, your body moving of its own accord.

Your mind was entirely focused on him.

Ink black curls, blending into the all-black outfit he wore. There was just something about him that you couldn’t take your eyes away from.

And then he looked at you. He was at the bar now, drink in hand.

Even in the low light, the amber shade of his eyes was clear. As you imagined the preternatural shade of your own eyes was clear too. The customers in front of you faded to nothing.

All you saw was him.

And all he did was stare.

Armand could feel the other vampires, though their existence wasn’t his main priority. Nor was the coppery scent of blood coming from behind the bar. He wasn’t surprised such a place existed, some of his kin were far more frivolous with hiding what they were than he was.

Including you, it seemed.

The men in front of you were without a doubt human. He could hear the blood rushing through their veins, all with the same destination at the mere sight of you. Armand wasn’t faring much better, though he hid it well.

Watching your body sway to the music, he allowed his gaze to wander shamelessly over you.

And then he noticed, your eyes never left him. No matter what you did, you looked right back at him.

The song ended and he followed your retreating form. Disappearing seamlessly into the crowd before he knew it.

But Armand could feel you, the siren call of your mind.

“Come find me…”

He knew it wasn’t necessarily the right choice. He was only out tonight because he was upset, angry…any and all words that could describe his state of mind. None of them good.

But you were somehow cutting through it all. Taking the threads of his thoughts and tugging at them until he could only focus on you. And just like his walk here, his feet worked on their own accord, following the call of your mind.

You had disappeared into another room, similar to the last but with fewer seats around the podium. There were a few patrons within, and Armand didn’t hesitate in taking the free seat in a secluded corner of the room.

He could hear you, the faint thrum of your thoughts becoming more familiar by the second.

And then he saw you again. The black lace switched out for a deep red dress, far too similar to blood to be accidental. The silk skimming your thighs, barely covering the shape of your body.

There was something different about this room. The sound of the main club could be heard just through the arched door, muffled by the heavy red drapes. But the energy was different. It was clear the other patrons were not human now, no rapid pulses to be heard anymore.

Was this a room purely for his kind? Or was it nothing more than coincidence?

The darkened glass that had appeared before him answered his question. There was no doubt that it was not wine inside. Armand swilled the liquid in the glass, head tilted like a sommelier inspecting a vintage.

The music spilled through the speakers slowly, and again you moved fluidly to the sound as though you were one with the music.

“Is it to your liking?”

Armand’s lips twitched at the corners at the sound of your voice, slipping into his mind so easily. Part of him wondered if it sounded just as sultry when you spoke aloud.

“I think you know the answer to that. Do you choose all your patrons’ beverages?”

He sipped the blood with a satisfied sigh. He wasn’t in dire need of feeding, per se, but he’d never pass on it when offered.

The song changed to a faster beat, and you danced seamlessly.

“Only for those I find interesting.”

Interesting? You found him interesting. It wasn’t a word many threw in his direction. But it brought a surprising warmth to his chest.

His eyes finally turned back to you, following the undulations of your body to the music.

“Interesting? What about me is interesting?”

Armand could see you smile, eyes meeting his for just a moment.

“Now that would be telling.”

His glass soon emptied, and the waiter quickly refilled it.

What kind of club was this? And how had he never known of its existence before now?

“I can tell you’re curious. About me. About the club. About where the blood in that glass comes from.”

Your voice was both a mixture of seduction and boredom. Drawing him in whilst showing your disinterest in such boring questions.

Armand raised a brow.

“I am curious about many things, but those are certainly at the forefront.”

He could hear your soft giggle as the music changed, volume dipping for just a moment. Two more dancers joined the stage, allowing you to move closer to where Armand sat. For the first time, you were quite thankful for the circular shape of the stage.

There was still a little distance between you, but you hadn’t expected what a marvel it would be to see him up close. The light hitting his eyes and making them almost glow. The permanent smirk that only widened as you crouched down before him.

“Are you curious still?”

Armand had been right. Your voice was just as tantalizing aloud, cutting through the music just for him. Your finger circled the rim of his glass, picking up the small drops of blood that had been left behind and bringing them to your lips.

It was like everything you did was designed to entice and torture in equal measure. Armand could hardly imagine how humans fared against you.

“Hmm, there is that saying. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.”

You smiled, dropping to your knees now as the music changed. The song had switched back to a slower tempo and Armand couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from how your body moved. Almost like water, a snake even.

It was almost hypnotising.

His head moved every time you turned. Your sole focus was now on him. This wasn’t a strip club, you danced only because you enjoyed it. But something about Armand had you wanting to pay special attention to him.

“And how can I…satisfy you?”

The waiter continued to fill his glass. Between you and the deep red liquid, Armand had no intention of moving from his seat any time soon.

You rolled to your back, arching with your head draped back over the edge of the stage. Looking directly at Armand, body continuing to move to the music.

Armand smiled, bringing the glass to his lips and watching your eyes follow it. With little thought, he brought the glass to hover over your face. Instinctively, you opened your mouth, tongue rolling out.

With precise movements, Armand let the glass tilt. Droplets of blood hitting your tongue before he tilted the glass back.

“Your company is satisfying enough,” he purred, draining the glass of the remaining blood.

Your smile was genuine, making the corners of your eyes crinkle just a little. You took a quick glance around the room, the other patrons were occupied, and you had quite a lot of freedom as a dancer to start and end your performances as you pleased.

The song ended and you saw the flash of surprise in Armand’s eyes when you hopped off the stage.

“Then let me continue to satisfy you…” you ended the sentence as though it were a question and Armand realised what you wanted.

His name.

“Armand. You may call me Armand.”

You answered with your own name and Armand half expected you to join him at his table. But you smiled, disappearing quickly behind another curtain and returning only moments later. He could see the red lace of your dress still, peeking out from the burgundy leather skirt you had slipped over the top.

He chuckled to himself. Your outfit was no less revealing now than it was before, but it was almost like you were leaving the dancer behind and simply being you. As though the performer on stage was no more than a character.

Armand could feel you behind him, the scent of your perfume almost sickeningly sweet in his nostrils. Your nose brushing barely against the shell of his ear.

“I am all yours now, Armand.”

His name had never sounded sweeter, your words dripping into his ear like honey. The implication of what you said had his mind whirring. His foot pushed the seat out beside him, silently offering it to you.

As you sat, the same waiter as before set another sanguine glass in front of you. But your focus remained on Armand.

Your hand moved almost inches from where his rested on the table, watching him the entire time to gauge his reaction. And when he didn’t move, you continued. Perfectly manicured nails ghosting over the skin of the back of his hand.

“Now you can sate your curiosity, uninterrupted.”

Armand watched your finger trace his hand, mapping out every dip and ridge under his skin. If you had taken a peek, you would have seen the questions racing through his mind, unsure which to ask first. But when his gaze met yours, you knew he’d chosen.

“I want to know you. You offer me your company, but you don’t know me.”

You clicked your tongue a little at his answer but smiled anyway.

“Do we need to know each other?”

Everything about you was a mystery, every answer you gave only offered Armand more questions. You truly were fascinating. A puzzle he was determined to solve.

But you could see it was a genuine concern. Well, maybe concern was not the right word, but it clearly put him on edge.

You were taking away his control, something you had noticed he held tight to from the moment he’d entered the club. He was calculated in everything he did, and you were an obstacle he simply couldn’t manoeuvre.

Your finger trailed down to his wrist, gently flipping it over and circling his vein.

“But if you truly wish to know me, ask me something.”

The tension between you was palpable, almost buzzing in the air. Both of you torn between delving into the other’s psyche and tearing each other’s clothes off.

Armand thought for only a moment. You had a point, he didn’t need to know you. He didn’t need to know the inner workings of who you were, he didn’t need to know your past. His true curiosity lay with your interest in him.

“Do you offer all your patrons company?”

The question could be answered in so many ways, but there was an insecurity in how he spoke. Like he needed to know.

“I don’t. I pay attention to them when I dance, but nothing like I have for you.”

You could almost see him relax. It was like there were two masks he wore, the calm, calculated man and the fragile, desperate boy.

What you saw now, was somewhere between. The real Armand, you guessed.

“Then why me?”

His own hand now wrapped around your wrist, pulling you and the chair closer. Not an inch between the two seats anymore. Your hand was brought to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss before trailing down to your wrist.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you heard him inhale.

“Like I said, you’re interesting. And nothing like my usual admirers.”

Armand wasn’t the first customer to stare so intently, but he was the first to have caught your attention back. He was handsome, there was no doubt about it. But there was a pull, deep down, a primal urge to get closer.

You could barely hold back your sigh when his teeth nipped at the skin of your arm, not sinking in but the feeling sent a surge of heat down your spine.

“Interesting. Shall I show you how interesting I can be?”

Flashes of his thoughts entered your mind, teases of all the things he wanted to do to you.

Your teeth nibbled at your lip at the promise.

You stood fluidly, lacing your fingers together and tugging him away.

“How can I say no to that?”

Armand followed without question. You were intriguing, a welcome distraction from the maelstrom of emotion that was his life. Back through the crowd and into some more secluded corners, shielded from prying eyes with more heavy drapes.

The sofas inside were of the same deep red fabric as everything else in the club. And Armand didn’t resist when you urged him towards one of those couches, leaning himself back with his arms spread against the backrest.

You turned to close the drapes entirely, when Armand stopped you.

“Leave them, if you want,” he said softly, gesturing towards the drapes.

Your back remained turned as your teeth tugged at your lip, a smirk pulling at the corners of your mouth.

“An exhibitionist then?”

You glanced around before leaving a gap in the velvet, just enough that if anyone paid attention, they’d be able to see right in.

You heard Armand chuckle, giving you all the answer you needed.

Your walk was slow, purposeful, as you returned to him. Standing between his spread legs with your head tilted. You watched as his eyes trailed from your feet all the way up, though he stopped at your throat. Lingering perfectly over where your pulse would be.

With a smirk, you knelt down in front of him, watching as his breath just a little as your hand rested on his thigh, squeezing just a little.

“Want a taste?”

Your free hand raised in front of his hand, holding out the same wrist he had held at the table. Armand huffed out, reaching out and bringing your wrist back to his lips.

This time, though, he sunk his teeth right in. He wasn’t gentle, but you didn’t mind. And the rush through your veins had you clenching your thighs together. A soft moan slipping from your lips as he only pulled you closer.

You barely noticed that Armand was offering you his own arm, until his fingers tapped at your chin.

“Share and share alike…”

Armand’s voice slithered into your mind, making you sigh even deeper in pleasure.

There was no hesitation, leaning down and sinking your own fangs into his honeyed skin. Your moan of satisfaction vibrating through his body and you were sure you felt Armand growl against your own wrist.

Armand was the first to let go, the remains of your blood on his chin but he made no move to clean himself. His tongue laved over your wrist as he finished, drinking down anything that continued to spill.

You were so focused on the sweet taste of him on your tongue, that you barely noticed Armand lifting you into his lap. So smooth, his wrist remained latched between your teeth.

The new position gave him freedom to grind against you. One arm around your waist as he slowly rolled his hips. The tension, the teasing, the feeling of your teeth in his wrist all combined to make him almost dizzy with pleasure.

You were just as messy when you pulled away. His blood dripping down your chin and onto your chest. There was no hesitation as your lips crashed together.

Sense had been overtaken by lust.

Your own hips began to roll down against his. Skirt pushed higher over your thighs with every movement you made. Armand’s free hand moved up the expanse of one and round to the flesh of your backside, urging you to move faster and faster.

Neither of you held back the sounds that slipped past your lips. Most sounds swallowed as your lips came together in a clash of tongues and teeth. The mixed flavours of your combined blood only adding more to the haze of desire.

You could hear people passing the room, but neither of you cared. It certainly wasn’t the most depraved thing to have ever happened within these walls.

Armand’s lips moved down your jaw and to your neck, leaving bloodied kisses in his wake before sinking into the juncture with a groan.

Your hand tangled into his hair, holding him tight to your body as you felt your release crash over you, chanting his name as you continued to roll less rhythmically against him. You could feel his length twitching beneath you, the hand on your rear squeezing and pulling you down harder against him.

You had barely come down from your high when you were on your back. Skirt tugged down your body, legs spreading instinctively as Armand pressed kisses to your thighs.

“I wonder if you taste as good down here…”

The shredding of lace was a welcome sound, you could easily replace it. Armand’s hands gripped your thighs tight, teeth nipping your skin only to soothe every bite with a kiss.

Your hand tangled into his hair, urging him to where you wanted him the most, despite the way your core still pulsed from your last release.

Not trusting your voice, your words slipped into his mind.

“How will you know how I taste…if you don’t hurry up?”

His tongue was slow, teasing, at first. Swiping up and down until you pulled harder on his curls. You could feel his smirk against your skin, but he didn’t take the warning. Slender fingers parted your folds, tongue now circling your bud purposefully slow.

Armand’s nails dug into your skin, partly teasing and partly a warning. But it only spurred you on. Your own nails digging deeper into his curls, scraping against his scalp.

Two could play at that game.

With a swift movement, Armand had your legs slung over his shoulders. Nails gripping the flesh to hold you tight against his face. The curve of his nose rubbing perfectly against your pearl, but you bit down hard on your lip to hold back a moan. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction that quickly.

His tongue delved back in quickly, switching completely and devouring everything you had to offer. Eyes locked on yours, waiting for you to break.

But you were a stubborn creature, it seemed.

Armand was relentless. A mix of tongue, teeth and lips, and before long two fingers joined them.

“Come on…I can feel you quivering already…” he murmured, swirling his tongue over your bud as his fingers began to piston in and out of you.

One orgasm quickly became two. And you were bordering on the third almost immediately. Vampire or no, pleasure was pleasure. And it seemed Armand was intent on tearing you apart, delicious piece by delicious piece.

But you still weren’t going to let him break you that easily.

A firmer hand pushed him back, the same hand now holding him down on his back. You could see just a little flicker behind his eyes, a glimmer of submission.

You crawled up his body, letting Armand feel every little movement. Pressing kisses over each bit of skin you began to reveal as he helped you remove his shirt.

Your cunt pulsed at you settled over his stomach, thankful the velvet couches were just a little bit wider than average. Purposeful, of course.

Armand was quick to bring your lips to his, sitting up to throw his shirt out of the way. The torn lace bodysuit was the next to follow, joining the haphazard pile of clothes on the floor. Bare chests now pressed together as a battle for dominance was fought in the kisses.

You could feel Armand shifting to remove his trousers. Your hips lifting as he shimmied them down his legs. Not a single article of clothing lay between you now.

Armand groaned at the feel your bare core against his length, hips rutting instinctively. But you had a little plan for revenge…

You pushed him back down, turning in his lap until your back faced him. And you could barely stifle your shiver as his nails trailed a line down your spine. Head falling back as he continued to trace patterns on your skin. For just a moment, you could pretend you hadn’t been strangers up until only a couple of hours ago.

But desire still coursed through both of your veins.

Your body tilted forward, hands running down the length of his thighs as you felt the muscles of his stomach tighten in anticipation.

And the gasp as your mouth wrapped around his cock was all the satisfaction you needed.

You got your revenge with your own slow pace. Swallowing him down and retreating. Again, and again until his nails began to dig into your back. Moving down to the flesh your backside and squeezing. The groan that left your lips vibrating through his length.

“Payback, hmm?” Armand chuckled, words falling to his own moan as his tip hit the back of your throat.

His hands gripped your hips, tugging you up to hover over his face as he began to lap at your cunt.

It was like a competition, racing to bring the other to completion first. Moans, grunts and growls reverberating throughout the room combined with the wet sounds of lips and tongues.

Your two orgasms became three, nails scratching at his thighs as you spilled over his tongue. But Armand didn’t stop and neither did you. There was much to be said for the use of vampiric stamina, and this was certainly an exciting use for it.

It wasn’t long before Armand pulsed on your tongue, salty precum a welcome appetiser for what soon followed. Spurt after spurt filling your mouth as you swallowed everything you could with moans of satisfaction. He slipped from your lips, your forehead resting against his thigh.

But when he dared to try and pull a fourth orgasm from you, your teeth sunk into the meat of his leg, not to feed. Simply as a warning.

You could see the passing shapes of other patrons beyond the curtains, some even peeking in. And you knew Armand could see it too. The prospect of an audience giving you both a bite of confidence.

Your tongue lapped at the blood that trickled from his thigh before Armand’s hand found your back, making patterns again as your hand palmed over his already semi-hardened cock. You sat back up, hand continuing to move.

“Do you need more, hmm? Or have I satisfied your curiosity?” you teased, Armand’s hand reaching up to toy with your hair.

Your head dropped back, letting him tangle hard into your locks.

“I fear I may never be satisfied, but we can continue to try?”

You had awoken something in Armand, his free hand urging you to turn and settle over his cock.

“Then we will try, and try…”

The hand wrapped in your hair kept you still as he sunk you down onto his cock. A hand on your thigh as you began to slide your soaked walls over his length.

The pace was slower now. Savouring the feel of him sunk deep inside you. Armand’s hand moving from your hair to your breast. Kneading the soft flesh in his hand in time with your hips.

“For someone so sinful, you feel heavenly.” Armand groaned, hips rising to meet yours.

The combined sounds of pleasure echoed in the room, no one outside could doubt what was happening. Armand’s eyes flitted over to the drapes, telekinetically moving the curtain just a little wider.

You were a show worthy of an audience. And he was more than prepared to make it a show worth watching.

Your hips moved faster as pleasure began to overtake you, hands planted on his chest as he took control of the pace. Slamming his hips up into yours until you were chanting his name.

“So beautiful…”

Armand’s words fell to growls as he thrust up a few more times until he painted your walls with his spend. Hands holding your hips tight and holding you down on his cock until he was fully spent.

The exertion overtook you both, Armand more than happy to let you plant your body weight atop him as you relaxed.

His hands ran up and down your back, your lips pressing lazy kisses to his throat and jaw.

No words needed to be exchanged anymore. Not aloud anyway.

“Still curious?” you asked, even your mind’s voice sounded tired.

“I will always be curious about you.” He replied, holding you tighter to his chest.

You really had woken something in him. An escape. A sense of both control and submission.

Freedom.

Armand Taglist:

@lady-phasma @sylasthegrim @anjelicawrites

(If anyone wishes to be added, please let me know!)

#the vampire armand #armand x reader #interview with the vampire #amc interview with the vampire #armand iwtv #armand the vampire #amc iwtv #armand smut

78 notes · View notes

iluvsumbucky · 2 years ago

Text

This was fantastic & I loved it!!! It made me smile & laugh which I really needed today. The rest of my comments are under the break so I don't spoil anything.

I'm snickering at some of the things Deadpool says to her. Wade would call their babies, little Pools & Spidy boy calling him Mr. Pool would have him fangirling. 'The Wham it out' comment & the nit about her wearing the unicorn horn while dancing on a stripper pole has me smiling. I have no doubt that he saw it in a dream & I'd be willing to bet that the unicorn became one of his favorite & most valuable possessions. I can understand why he would want it to be put in Wade's Ho Ho Ho Santa's Got A New Bag Box & I'm torn about whether I want to know what else might be in that box. I can see Wade wearing his “Kiss the Chef” apron & nothing else & looking cute in it while baking her muffins & toaster strudel at 2 in the morning. I'm giggling at how he gets pizza & I know that he enjoys stealing those pizzas from the unsuspecting delivery men on his moped, yelling, “Toodle Loo Mother Fuckers!” & honking. I'm not surprised when he gets emotional over the crocs she buys for him & that the unicorn pretty pair becomes his favorites.

Of course, Wade was able to smuggle in Charles' wheelchair & headgear & is anyone shocked that he used it to chase her around & claim he was using mind control on her, that he compelled her to crawl in his lap & give him a handjob, I'm not. Or that he was always horny after a mission & would slam open the door & demand that she get the strap-on out. I can't help giggling that he yells out something like, “Oh here comes the Chimichangas!” when he cums, but did anyone really expect anything else. And the way he is afterward, how gentle & caring he is, that he kisses her all over & massages her & tells her how much he loves her, doesn't surprise me. I mean, we all know that Wade is a big softly. I loved this! You definitely nailed him! This was just what I needed today!

Deadpools Quirks

Summary- Request with number 17- “I might have seen this very moment in a wet dream once.” with Deadpool

A/N- Sooooo this is something Im unfamiliar with but figured I would give it a shot. Both the style and the character. God its a hot mess, but I will take credit for it. Good Luck.

Keep reading

#deadpool #wade wilson #reader #deadpool x reader #wade wilson x reader #amber writes #fic rec #Nicole's fic rec

32 notes · View notes

lolahauri · 10 months ago

Text

✎ Introduction ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Requests are always open, and you can send as many as you want, as detailed as you want! I just get to them whenever i can/feel like it.

Anon's: 🌹-🕯️-🍁-❤️-🎴-

Other Accounts: @lolas-favfics @lolamultifandom @lolahaurisfw @chowderpop @lolaloa777

AO3: Here

BlueSky: Here

Get To Know Me: Here

Boundaries: Flirting, nicknames, tmi, spam are all okay.😛Just don't copy or repost my stuff. Translations or taking inspo is fine w cred. <3

-> MASTERLIST <- -> EVENT MASTERLIST <-

DNI: MAP, ZOO, Pro-Para, Pro-Ana, TERF, Zionist, Bigots, Minors!!!, Discourse Blogs. ❤️🖤🤍💚

Things I Won't Write: ❌

Sex Crimes of Any Kind, Super Violent/Xtreme Kinks, Inflation, Feederism, Abuse, Puke, Shit, DDLG, Age Play, Raceplay, Wound Fucking, Gore, Vore, Misgendering/Detrans, CBT, Sounding, Fisting, Gunplay, Drugging, Stepcest etc...

Things I Will Write: ✔️

Genderbent Characters, Mild Yandere, Daddy/Mommy Kink, Cheating, Mild BDSM, CNC, Dubcon, Monsters, Hybrids, Sex Pollen, Legal Age Gap, Power Imbalance (Prof/Student, Boss/Employee), Feet, Armpits, Piss, Breeding, Mild Blood/Knifeplay, Cock Warming, Dry Humping, Voyeur, Public Sex, Orgy, 3somes, Sex Toys, Overstim, Edging, etc... etc... :P

Trans Reader, Tall/Short Reader, Chubby/Curvy/Fat/Buff Reader, Other Specific Characteristics. ✔️

Ch x Ch / Ch x Reader / Ch x OC / OC x Reader / Poly Ships of any kind.

F/F, M/M, F/M, GN/F, GN/M, Poly Ships of any kind.

Now that that's out of the way, here's the list of fandoms and characters i'm familiar with and will happily take requests on! (you can request other characters from these fandoms, but it might take me longer!)

Adventure Time/Fiona & Cake: PB, Marceline, Marshall Lee, Winter King, Candy Queen, Simon, Ice King, Fiona.

Attack On Titan: Armin, Eren, Mikasa, Sasha, Levi, Hanji, Annie, Historia, Reiner, Erwin, Ymir.

Avatar: Jake, Neytiri.

Batman Begins Triology: Batman, Catwoman, Bane, Joker, Scarecrow.

Bee & Puppycat: Bee, Deckard, Cass, Toast.

BigBang Theory: Raj, Leonard, Penny, Amy.

Black Dynamite: Honeybee, Black Dynamite.

BNA: Michiru, Shirou.

Bob’s Burgers: Bob, Linda.

Breaking Bad: Jesse, Skylar.

Call of Duty: Konig, Ghost, Mace, Keegan, Krueger, Valeria, Farah.

Creepypasta: Jeff, Jane, Ben, Toby, EJ, LJ, Slenderman, Splendorman, Clockwork, Kate, Masky, Hoodie,

Desperate Housewives: Bree, Gabi, Edie, Lynette, Carlos, John.

Dirty Dancing: Johnny, Baby.

Earth Girls Are Easy: Mac, Zeebo, Wiploc, Valerie.

Elemental: Wade, Ember.

Encanto: Isabela, Bruno, Dolores, Julieta.

FNAF Movie: Vanessa, Mike, William/Steve.

Frozen: Elsa, Anna, Kristoff.

Futurama: Leela, Fry, Amy, Bender.

Gravity Falls: Ford, Stan, Soos, Melody, Giffany, Bill.

Jane The Virgin: Jane, Michael, Petra, Luisa, Rose, Rogelio, Xiomara.

Jurassic Park (1993): Ian Malcolm, Ellie Sattler.

Jujutsu Kaisen: Gojo, Choso, Nanami, Sukuna.

King of the Hill: Hank, Peggy, Luane, Nancy, Dale, Khan, Min, John Redcorn.

Lisa Frankenstein: Lisa, Creature, Taffy.

Little Mermaid (2022): Ariel, Eric.

MHA: Dabi, Hawks, Aizawa.

Moon Knight: Moon System, Layla, Khonshu.

Mulan: Mulan, Li Shang.

National Treasure: Benjamin, Riley.

Nintendo: Link, Zelda, Peach, Daisy, Rosalina, Luigi, Bowser, Waluigi.

Norbit: Rasputia, Norbit.

Princess & The Frog: Tiana, Lottie, Naveen, Shadow Man.

Ratatouille: Colette, Linguini.

Regular Show: Mordecai, Margret, Eileen, CJ, Benson.

Resident Evil: Karl Heisenberg, Carlos Oiliveria, Lady Dimitrescu.

Rick and Morty: Rick, Jerry, Beth, Doofus Rick.

Riverdale: FP Jones, Hiram.

Scott Pilgrim vs. The World: Kim, Ramona, Gideon, Wallace.

Scream 5: Amber, Tara, Sam.

Serial Mom: Chip, Beverly.

Silverado: Slick, Rae, Mal, Paden.

Shallow Hal: Rosemary, Hal.

Shameless: Lip, Fiona, Kev, V.

SheRa (2018): All Adults.

Sherlock (2010): Sherlock, John Watson.

Slashers & DBD: Brahms, Ghostface, Michael Myers, Jason Vorhees, Pyramid Head, The Spirit, Huntress, Trapper, Wraith, Trickster, Pearl, Jennifer Check, Stu Matcher, Billy Loomis, Tiffany Valentine, Patrick Bateman, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Eric Draven, The Artist, Amanda Young.

Spiderverse: Miguel, Jessica Drew.

Spongebob: Dennis, Man Ray.

Squid Games: Gi-Hun, Sae-Byeok, Ali, Sang Woo.

Steven Universe: Garnet, Amethyst, Peridot, Lapis, Jasper, Blue Diamond, Rose, Greg.

Stardew Valley: All Adult Humans (Except George & Evelyn)

Stranger Things: Robin, Billy Eddie, Chrissy, Hopper.

Supernatural: Sam, Dean, Castiel.

Super Store: Amy, Jonah, Dina, Garrett, Cheyenne.

Tangled: Flynn, Rapunzel, Mother Gothell.

The Batman (2022): Batman, Riddler.

The Breakfast Club: John Bender, Allison Reynolds.

The Nanny: C.C, Fran, Maxwell.

Total Drama Island: S1 Contestants, Chris, Chef, Blainley.

Triple Frontier: Frankie, Santiago.

Turning Red: Ming Lee, Jin Lee.

Twilight: Edward, Carlisle, Alice, Charlie.

YOU: Beck, Joe, Peach, Love.

Young Sheldon: Mary, Connie.

Abel Morales (A Most Violent Year)

Astarion (Baulder’s Gate 3)

Babbo Natale (Violent Night)

Barbie (Barbie 2023)

Basil Stitt (Lightning Face)

Beverly Goldberg (The Goldbergs)

Bruce (Beyond Therapy)

Charles Ingalls (Little House on the Praire)

Charlie Dompler (Smiling Friends)

Chel (Road to El Dorado)

Dale Kobble (Longlegs)

Dan Conner (Rosanne)

David Levinson (Independence Day)

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

Doug Remer (Baseketball)

Duke Leto Atreides (Dune)

Fezzik (Princess Bride)

Francine (American Dad)

Fujimoto (Ponyo)

Georgia Miller (Ginny & Georgia)

Jack Harrison (Translyvania 6-5000)

Jackson Rippner (Red Eye)

Jon Arbuckle (Garfield 2024)

John Doe (John Doe Game)

Jonathan Levy (Scenes from a Marriage)

John Wick (John Wick 4)

King Baldwin (Kingdom of Heaven)

Kitten (Breakfast on Pluto)

Laurent LeClaire (In Secret)

Linda Gunderson (Rio)

Llewyn Davis (Inside Lleywn Davis)

Master Chief (Halo)

Mike (5lbs of Pressure)

Moe Doodle (Doodle Bops)

Nani Palekai (Lilo & Stitch)

Nathan Bateman (Ex Machina)

Outcome-3 (The Bourne Legacy)

Orestes (Agora)

Paul Blart (Paul Blart: Mall Cop)

Paul Cable (Last Stand at Saber River)

Peggy Bundy (Married With Children)

Peter Mitchell (3 Men & A Baby)

Poe Dameron (Star Wars)

Prince John (Robin Hood 2010)

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd (Top Gun: Maverick)

Rose Tyler (Doctor Who)

Shiv (Pu-239)

Stanley Ipkiss (The Mask)

Star-Lord (Gaurdians of the Galaxy)

Tate Langdon (AHS: Murder House)

The Janitor (Willy’s Wonderland)

Thomas Magnum (Magnum, P.I 1980)

William Tell (The Card Counter)

#x reader #self ship #shipping #ao3 writer #fandom #minors dni #intro post #pinned post

124 notes · View notes

sevinsav · 3 months ago

Text

「 . ݁ ✦ WHEN IT RAINS ✦ . ݁ 」

ᝰ.✮ PAIRING ✮ NEYTIRI x BLK!FEM!HUMAN!READER!

ᝰ.✮ PROMPT ✮ YOU AND NEYTIRI SHARE A COMMON INTEREST!

ᝰ.✮ BACKGROUND ✮ BDSM, SOFT DOM ‘TIRI, ORAL, LOW | MILD BREATH PLAY!

ᝰ.✮ INDEX ✮ MAWEY┆BE CALM, OEYÄ TSTEW ‘EVE ┆ MY BRAVE GIRL ┆ KALIN ‘EVE, SWEET GIRL, SÌLTSAN ‘EVE┆GOOD GIRL!

ᝰ.✮ SIGN OFF FROM SAV ✮ LIKES, COMMENTS, AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED 🫶🏽🪐🔮

Neytiri shares your smile as her amber eyes clouded with lust, coursing her hands throughout your ample figure.

You watch her aptly, closing your eyes as you have way to the sensation of her soft supple lips gently pressing against each part of your body with a practiced precision.

She reached down to kiss your lips, your trachea, your chest, your womb, and rests her lips against your core. Your mouth parts to moan, toss, and turn with each kiss she gave you as the two of you settle into a rhythm only the two of you know.

She placed her hands on your thighs, parting your legs as she nudged your mound her nose until she pressed her lips to you and laid claim towards the part she craved the most; . . .

You moan out her name, reaching out to place your hands on each side of her head. Wavy, dark hair pinned behind her as it cascaded down to her waist.

You noticed a few loose strands cresting her forehead, framing her face and softening her features and enchanting you in the process.

Her ears flicker as she responds to you with a low hum as her tongue swipes back and forth against your clit as you throw your head back with a moan.

The skies thundered, but the sound of them are drowned out by your moans as Neytiri delves deeper into you as she kisses your other set of lips just as soft and just as sweet as she had earlier. Her tail wades calmly behind her as she pulled back to sit on her knees.

Lightning strikes and sears into the skies in a burst of light as you to jolt in fear while Neytiri flattened her ears at the sound.

The hiss on her lips dies when she felt you shivering in her arms in preparation of another strike, causing her gaze to soften as she leans to kiss you.

“Mawey,” she whispers.

You begin to settle until another flash of lightning streaks across the skies, causing you to shudder.

Neytiri scrunches her nose at the slight interruption, pulling you closer as she inserts another digit as a distraction from another strike.

It works to your benefit and hers as you lift your hips toward her with a desperation only she was able to elicit from you in moments like these.

Neytiri crooks another digit deeper into your core as her smile sharpens with each moan you let out, “You are eager tonight, ma tawtute.”

Your head lolls against the woven mat, knowing she was right.

You were eager tonight, not just because of the pleasure your mate gave you but because you hadn’t seen Neytiri since she returned from her hunt. “Can’t help it,” You exhaled, “Missed you . . . ”

She pauses her ministrations as her ears twitch in surprise as she broke out into a smile and pressed her lips to yours, “The feeling is mutual, ma kalin ‘eve . . . ”

You smiled softly against her lips and kiss her sweetly, slowly reaching your arms forward to wrap them around her shoulders.

Her lips were soft and plush, still wet from the rain and now wet from you.

You could taste the droplets of dribbling across her lips along with the fruit she ate earlier, transferring from her tongue on to yours.

In and out, you breathed until her scent coveted yours as a sign of her possession over you and what was demanded of you the second she lays eyes on you.

In and out, you exhaled into her mouth as she accepts your life force with every kiss you shared growing more fleeting than the last.

In a matter of seconds, she became the air you breathed as well as the essence you taste.

But your passionate exchange was interrupted but Neytiri was swift as ever.

She replaces her lips with the breathing apparatus you showed her how to operate the first night you spent together.

Her bright amber widened as a flash of fear flickers across them as her massive hand firmly clasps the mask over the lower half of your face.

Her other arm scoops you from the ground and into her arm, cradling your body against hers.

A relieved smile appears on her lips when she feels her hand wrap around her wrist, “Oeyä tstew ‘eve, ma oeyä kalin ‘eve.”

Your expression mirrors hers as you released a breathless chuckle, “Only for you.”

Neytiri widens her smile and preens at the compliment as her possessive nature rose to the surface.

Her hands trailed your nude form as her mind ran wild with ways to bring to your knees.

She knows that you could only withstand an hour of the air she and her people breathe due to the experiment you were conducting.

From what you told her, you studied one of the plants native to her world and found a way to covert the mist that it creates into the air you and your kind were able to breathe.

But, the effects were only temporary.

She remembered how ecstatic you were and how gracious you were for her patience as you allowed yourself to be bent to her will on the ground of a clearing close to the lab.

Now, your roles were reversed.

She feels your hand reach for her face which causes her eyes to meet yours.

Worried but wistful all the same.

You open to your mouth to go tell her, “We can keep going, Tiri.” You said feebly, hoping it was enough to reassure her.

She visibly softens at the sound of your voice as a gentle smile forms against her lips, “If you are sure . . . ”

Her long nimble digits slowly remove the mask from your face to bring you in to kiss you as her lips lowered from your lips to your breasts, ribs, navel, and rested on top of your core.

Your legs parted with an ease only the two of you were accustomed to, “ . . . Ma Tiri . . . ”

Her tongue dips along your folds and flattens against your clit while she courses her hands over behind your thighs.

Neytiri rests your legs on to her shoulder blades as her braids drape themselves against your inner thighs, allowing you to gather her hair in your hands.

She smiles against your flesh before suctioning her mouth on to your mound as her tongue latches on to your clit.

“Tiri . . . ”

You cried out her name as your hips lifted to meet her mouth.

She hums, knowing that you were restless tonight due to how long she had been gone.

Your jaw shudders from the practiced precision with which Neytiri eats you with.

Her eyes never leave yours, allowing you to stare at her through the valley between your breasts.

Warm amber orbs stare into your soul suddenly reminding you of the apex predators that once roamed your world.

Not to mention how your lover resembled them.

With her intense gaze and sharp instincts, she ravages despite how much your head tosses and turns.

Her grip on your hips tightens as her nails formed crescent moons into your skin.

A silent warning for you to behave.

She had been pleasant and gave you some grace knowing how she had left you longer than expected but she also wanted you to know that she was in charge.

#avatar #james cameron avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neytiri #neytiri x y/n #neytiri x you #neytiri x reader #neytiri x fem!reader #neytiri x human reader #neytiri x blk!fem!human!reader

29 notes · View notes

mlm-writer · 3 months ago

Text

Dirty Sex (Wade Wilson x The Dirtman)

Pairing: Wade Wilson aka Deadpool x The Dirtman Rating: Explicit Words: 1137 POV: Third Summary: Wade 'forgot' to put a little dirt under his pillow for the Dirtman, so he is taken down to the Dirtman's lair deep under the mountains, where the Dirtman keeps his dirt. Note: We're just guys... You may wonder what I snorted to write this and the answer is... dirt? Anyway shout out to my friend for helping me with this fic (they did a soil science course and I have convinced them to use their knowledge for evil). Tags: the dirtman by carter vail, anal, ass eating, dirt eating?, identifying soil, puns and soil science references, 4th wall breaking ofc, rock hard dick, blowjob, cum(?) shower and uhhh consensual monsterfucking / cryptidfucking

All guys do it. Keep a little dirt under their pillow for the Dirtman, in case he comes to town. Wade knows about the Dirtman. Wade wants to go to town with the Dirtman.

He was awaiting him, on his bed, lying on his side, one leg stretched out and the other propped up. One arm supported his grinning head. The door creaked open and there he stood in all his dirty glory. “Oh hello, dirtman,” Wade cooed at the brown silhouette made of dirt. Yellow eyes glowed at the top of the soil cryptid. Wade lifted his pillow up, revealing nothing. “Uh oh, I seem to have forgotten something.” He lifted his free hand, seductively biting on his index finger.

“Oh that’s all right. I will see you next season,” the Dirtman replied in his gravelly voice. The creature turned around and seemed to be ready to leave. Wade watched him take one step outside of his bedroom and shot up from where he lied.

“Hey hey! Ho there you sexy pile of rocks and sand! Aren’t you supposed to take me down to your lair? Where you keep your dirt?” The Dirtman didn’t stop his trek to the window Wade had left open. The mutant rushed around the cryptid to block the way, standing his ground in front of the Dirtman. “Excuse me, the readers came for some absolute crack-dosed filthy, nasty and, dare I say, dirty fucking. So where do you think you’re going without me?”

The Dirtman stared at him for a moment. “I am not mad that you forgot your dirt. My sister doesn’t get mad when children throw away their teeth either. So why should I?”

“Are you telling me your sister is the tooth fairy?”

“Yes.”

“Where does she keep all those teeth?”

“She eats them like popcorn when we watch a movie.”

“Huh.”

Wade and the Dirtman stared at one another. One wondering when they were going to absolutely go to town on each other. The other wondering who the parents are of the Dirtman and his sister the tooth fairy. “You should know,” the Dirtman eventually said, “my dick is made of rock. It won’t be comfortable.” Wade gave a thumbs up. “Good, then I would like to cordially invite you to my lair.”

Wade jumped into the Dirtman’s arms. “I accept! Let’s go! Time skip so we can get to the dirty stuff.”

——————————————————

Deep under the mountains, torches illuminated the deep cavern, where Wade was kneeling on a huge pile of dirt. The soil came in all colours and textures, but Wade could not care less for the brown, red and beige rainbow flag under him. He had much more interesting things to focus on, such as the rock hard schlong of the Dirtman. The phallic rock revealed itself from under the mud that shaped the Dirtman. Wade dusted the soil-lid dick off with his hands. “My safeword is edaphology, which is the study of how soils interact with living things.” He wiggled his eyebrows as he looked right into those amber orbs. Literal orbs. Not 2013 Harry Styles’ green orbs. These eyes looked like two perfectly round pieces of crystal, polished to perfection.

“Isn’t that a bit too long?” For a creature without a face, he seemed rather concerned.

“Isn’t that my line,” Wade grinned as he kissed the tip of the slate cock. “But fine, let’s go one syllable less. Pedology, which is the study of formation, chemistry, morphology, and classification of soil. Now are you gonna let me rip my oesophagus sucking your cock or does the author need to start reading past the second paragraph of the soil science Wikipedia page for a safeword? He already lazily copied the explanation of the last one. At some point there will be copyright issues. He could’ve at least changed the order of the words like you do when you’re in hi–”

The Dirtman had enough of Wade’s rambling. He pushed the merc’s mouth down on his length. The saliva mixed with the silt, creating a dirty brown slobber all over the tip of the Dirtman’s dick. Wade could actually determine what types of soil the Dirtman was made of, but since he cannot speak with his mouth full of stone-dick, he cannot tell you. Too bad. Bet you are wondering huh?

Well, Wade was not getting much in actually. The rigidity was unforgiving on his throat and the Dirtman seemed to notice. Those muddy arms took a hold of Wade’s scarred body and flipped him like he was turning over soil for deep ploughing. Wade was face first into the pile now, his mouth filling with the grinding and yet slippery soil. It was loamy clay.

The Dirtman’s mouth opened wide for the first time and latched onto Wade’s cavernous hole. Wade could feel the seep lube up his silty walls, irrigating his ass for the Dirtman’s soil auger. He moaned, identifying more soil with each mouthful of dirt. His tongue felt like sandpaper by the time he felt the Dirtman’s sceptre quartz poke at his puffy asshole. “Hell yeah, drill me with that stalagmite, dirt daddy.”

His dirty words were reprimanded with a hard slap on his dunes. Wade turned his head until just his cheek rested on the sand. To his disappointment, the Dirtman was awfully gentle with him, his huge slate rod carefully stretching out Wade’s insides. The slow drag was very unsexy, but felt so good. “You’re so warm inside. You must be quite fertile,” the Dirtman whispered into Wade’s ear.

The human whimpered, when his monstrous lover bottomed out. Wade needed to take a deep breath, before he could talk again. “You know that line only makes sense if you know that wildfires leave extremely fertile soil, right? And it doesn’t make sense for me to know so much about soil science, but it is really the only way the author can ensure that the readers realise how awful this fic is. Do the readers even appreciate all the references?”

That was apparently the Dirtman’s cue that Wade could handle more. He went to town on Wade’s tunnel, rabidly fucking into the merc’s soft human body with his monstrous cryptid cock. Finally, not a word left Wade, only a string of moans, whines and whimpers. The large figure didn’t stop until Wade soiled the land with his seed. He pulled out and rolled Wade onto his back. With a few more strokes, buckets of sludge unloaded from his big peat, giving the human a mud bath that would do wonders for his skin if it weren’t for those mutations.

And that’s the story of the Dirtman who came into town and onto Wade Wilson aka Deadpool. I am experiencing psychic damage. This is worse than the Shrek x Deadpool fic.

—————

REBLOG TO SUPPORT YOUR FANFIC WRITERS

Likes do not help exposure!A comment in tags or replies can sustain a writer for months!

#deadpool #wade wilson #marvel #dirtman #dirt man #carter vail #viral #crack fic #mlm #monsterfucking #monsterfucker #cryptid #cryptid fucking #monsterlover #deadpool & wolverine #deadpool 3 #mcu #gay

31 notes · View notes

kaydens-agere · 3 months ago

Text

Characters I Headcanon as Age Regressors!

This is a forever ongoing list! It will change depending on the franchises and fandoms I interact with and my opinions on certain characters :)

Keep in mind I haven't interacted with some of these characters/franchises in a while so I can't come up with exact headcanons for some of them, the ones that are underlined have links to their headcanons/moodboards and the emojis next to them are oneshots/drabbles I've done for them ^^ Also if you'd like to request please check my fandom list, thank you!!

Characters are below the cut!!

Lab Rats Chase Davenport -🧪- Marcus Davenport

Mighty Med Oliver Horace Diaz

Henry Danger Henry Hart/Kid Danger Ray Manchester/Captain Man

Spider-Man Peter Parker/Spider-Man -🕷️- Miles Morales/Spider-Man Gwen Stacy/Spider-Woman Pavitr Prabhakar/Spider-Man Hobie Brown/Spider-Man

Marvel Wade Wilson/Deadpool Logan Howlett/Wolverine Charles Xavier/Professor X Erik Lehnsherr/Magneto Jean Grey/The Dark Phoenix James "Bucky" Barnes/The Winter Soldier Steve Rogers/Captain America

The Outsiders Ponyboy Curtis Sodapop Curtis Darrell "Darry" Curtis Johnny Cade Dallas "Dally" Winston Keith "Two-Bit" Matthews Steve Randle (yeah basically all the gang leave me alone </3)

Detroit: Become Human/Evolution/Reawakening Connor/RK800 Nines/RK900

Life Is Strange Chloe Price Rachel Amber

Random one of characters Truman Burbank (The Truman Show) Leon Kennedy (Resident Evil) Mike Schmidt (Five Nights At Freddy's) Rusty-James (RumbleFish) Simon (Dinner In America)

21 notes · View notes

lolahaurisfw · 7 months ago

Text

✎ Introduction ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Here i'll only be taking requests for fluff, platonic, and angst! Reqs are always open like usual too, and you can request as much as you want and as detailed as you want! i just get to things when i can/want to.

Anon's: None Yet

Other Accounts: @lolas-favfics @lolamultifandom @lolahauri @chowderpop

AO3: Here

BlueSky: Here

-> MASTERLIST <-

DNI: Map, Zoo, Pro-Para, Pro-Ana, TERF, Zionist, Bigots, Discourse Blogs. Block me if you don't agree. ❤️🖤🤍💚

What I Won't Write:

Smut. (Go to my other blog)

What I'm Willing To Write:

Reader Who Is: Tall, Short, Fat, Chubby, Curvy, Buff. Trans/NB.

Reader Who Has: Depression, Anxiety, DPDR, ADD.

Fluff, angst, platonic, hurt/comfort.

HC's, one shots, short multi-chapter fics, imagines/drabbles.

Canon-friendly, AU's, Canon Divergence, Out of Character.

Ch x Ch / Ch x Reader / Ch x OC / Poly Ships of any kind.

F/F, M/M, F/M, GN/F, GN/M, Poly Ships of any kind.

Fictional Other (F/O) Imagines: +18, no names, they/them only.

Now that that's out of the way, here's the list of fandoms and characters i'm familiar with and will happily take requests on! (you can request others from these fandoms, but it will prob take me longer)

Adventure Time/Fiona & Cake: PB, Marceline, Marshall Lee, Winter King, Candy Queen, Simon, Ice King, Fiona.

Attack On Titan: Armin, Eren, Mikasa, Sasha, Levi, Hanji, Annie, Historia, Reiner, Erwin, Ymir.

Avatar: Jake, Neytiri.

Batman Begins Triology: Batman, Catwoman, Bane, Joker, Scarecrow.

Bee & Puppycat: Bee, Deckard, Cass, Toast.

BigBang Theory: Raj, Leonard, Penny, Amy.

Bistro Huddy: All Staff Members.

Black Dynamite: Honeybee, Black Dynamite.

BNA: Michiru, Shirou.

Bob’s Burgers: Bob, Linda.

Breaking Bad: Jesse, Skylar.

Call of Duty: Konig, Ghost, Mace, Keegan, Krueger, Valeria, Farah.

Creepypasta: Jeff, Jane, Ben, Toby, EJ, LJ, Slenderman, Splendorman, Clockwork, Kate, Masky, Hoodie,

Desperate Housewives: Bree, Gabi, Edie, Lynette, Carlos, John.

Dirty Dancing: Johnny, Baby.

Earth Girls Are Easy: Mac, Zeebo, Wiploc, Valerie.

Elemental: Wade, Ember.

Encanto: Isabela, Bruno, Dolores, Julieta.

FNAF Movie: Vanessa, Mike, William/Steve.

Frozen: Elsa, Anna, Kristoff.

Futurama: Leela, Fry, Amy, Bender.

Gravity Falls: Ford, Stan, Soos, Melody, Giffany, Bill.

Jane The Virgin: Jane, Michael, Petra, Luisa, Rose, Rogelio, Xiomara.

Jurassic Park (1993): Ian Malcolm, Ellie Sattler.

Jujutsu Kaisen: Gojo, Choso, Nanami, Sukuna.

King of the Hill: Hank, Peggy, Luane, Nancy, Dale, Khan, Min, John Redcorn.

Life Is Strange (2015): Maxine, Chloe.

Lisa Frankenstein: Lisa, Creature, Taffy.

Little Mermaid (2022): Ariel, Eric.

MHA: Dabi, Hawks, Aizawa.

Moon Knight: Moon System, Layla, Khonshu.

Mulan: Mulan, Li Shang.

National Treasure: Benjamin, Riley.

Nintendo: Link, Zelda, Peach, Daisy, Rosalina, Luigi, Bowser, Waluigi.

Norbit: Rasputia, Norbit.

Princess & The Frog: Tiana, Lottie, Naveen, Shadow Man.

Ratatouille: Colette, Linguini.

Regular Show: Mordecai, Margret, Eileen, CJ, Benson.

Resident Evil: Karl Heisenberg, Carlos Oiliveria, Lady Dimitrescu.

Rick and Morty: Rick, Jerry, Beth, Doofus Rick.

Riverdale: FP Jones, Hiram.

Scott Pilgrim vs. The World: Kim, Ramona, Gideon, Wallace.

Scream 5: Amber, Tara, Sam.

Serial Mom: Chip, Beverly.

Silverado: Slick, Rae, Mal, Paden.

Shallow Hal: Rosemary, Hal.

Shameless: Lip, Fiona, Kev, V.

SheRa (2018): All Adults.

Sherlock (2010): Sherlock, John Watson.

Slashers & DBD: Brahms, Ghostface, Michael Myers, Jason Vorhees, Pyramid Head, The Spirit, Huntress, Trapper, Wraith, Trickster, Pearl, Jennifer Check, Stu Matcher, Billy Loomis, Tiffany Valentine, Patrick Batmeman, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Eric Draven, The Artist, Amanda Young.

Spiderverse: Miguel, Jessica Drew.

Spongebob: Dennis, Man Ray.

Squid Games: Gi-Hun, Sae-Byeok, Ali, Sang Woo.

Stardew Valley: All Adult Humans (Except George & Evelyn)

Steven Universe: Garnet, Amethyst, Peridot, Lapis, Jasper, Blue Diamond, Rose, Greg.

Stranger Things: Robin, Billy Eddie, Chrissy, Hopper.

Supernatural: Sam, Dean, Castiel.

Super Store: Amy, Jonah, Dina, Garrett, Cheyenne.

Tangled: Flynn, Rapunzel, Mother Gothell.

The Batman (2022): Batman, Riddler.

The Breakfast Club: John Bender, Allison Reynolds.

The Nanny: C.C, Fran, Maxwell.

Total Drama Island: S1 Contestants, Chris, Chef, Blainley.

Triple Frontier: Frankie, Santiago.

Turning Red: Ming Lee, Jin Lee.

Twilight: Edward, Carlisle, Alice, Charlie.

YOU: Beck, Joe, Peach, Love.

Young Sheldon: Mary, Connie.

Abel Morales (A Most Violent Year)

Astarion (Baulder’s Gate 3)

Babbo Natale (Violent Night)

Barbie (Barbie 2023)

Basil Stitt (Lightning Face)

Beverly Goldberg (The Goldbergs)

Bruce (Beyond Therapy)

Charles Ingalls (Little House on the Praire)

Charlie Dompler (Smiling Friends)

Chel (Road to El Dorado)

Dale Kobble (Longlegs)

Dan Conner (Rosanne)

David Levinson (Independence Day)

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

Doug Remer (Baseketball)

Duke Leto Atreides (Dune)

Fezzik (Princess Bride)

Francine (American Dad)

Fujimoto (Ponyo)

Georgia Miller (Ginny & Georgia)

Jack Harrison (Translyvania 6-5000)

Jackson Rippner (Red Eye)

Jon Arbuckle (Garfield 2024)

John Doe (John Doe Game)

Jonathan Levy (Scenes from a Marriage)

John Wick (John Wick 4)

King Baldwin (Kingdom of Heaven)

Kitten (Breakfast on Pluto)

Laurent LeClaire (In Secret)

Linda Gunderson (Rio)

Llewyn Davis (Inside Lleywn Davis)

Master Chief (Halo)

Mike (5lbs of Pressure)

Moe Doodle (Doodle Bops)

Nani Palekai (Lilo & Stitch)

Nathan Bateman (Ex Machina)

Outcome-3 (The Bourne Legacy)

Orestes (Agora)

Paul Blart (Paul Blart: Mall Cop)

Paul Cable (Last Stand at Saber River)

Peggy Bundy (Married With Children)

Peter Mitchell (3 Men & A Baby)

Poe Dameron (Star Wars)

Prince John (Robin Hood 2010)

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd (Top Gun: Maverick)

Rose Tyler (Doctor Who)

Shiv (Pu-239)

Stanley Ipkiss (The Mask)

Star-Lord (Gaurdians of the Galaxy)

Tate Langdon (AHS: Murder House)

The Janitor (Willy’s Wonderland)

Thomas Magnum (Magnum, P.I 1980)

William Tell (The Card Counter)

#intro post #pinned post #fic writing #fluff #angst #x reader

35 notes · View notes

writingonleaves · 11 months ago

Text

bundles of flowers (we'll wade through the hours of cold) - brock boeser

pairing: brock boeser x original female character

warnings: literally nothing, lots of fluff, flower research i did two years ago, not proofread

title: “promise" by ben howard

word count: 2.7k

author’s note: dug up a creative writing piece i wrote two years ago for a class and tweaked it a bit to create this. happy holidays to all. hope you all enjoy <3

*****

It’s a routine.

When Amber Chen was a young girl, she spent most days after school at Petals Lab & Design, zooming through the front door into her father’s waiting arms, chattering about the meal she had whipped up in the play kitchen at Kindergarten that day. Customers would fawn at her pigtails as she hid shyly behind her father or skipped behind the counter and hoisted herself up on a stool, munching on apple slices her mother had cut.

During her high school days, she would be sure to lock her car twice, twirling her keys around her pointer finger as she walked in. She’d drop her backpack, placing her iced green tea in the center of the counter. If the shop was filled with customers, she’d go into the back room and check the whiteboard filled with her father’s scrawl. If the shop was empty, she’d lean her head on her chin while listening as her parents rattled on about shipments or what was going to for dinner that night. On Mondays and Fridays, it was just her and Xavier or Willow in the shop. On those afternoons, she blasted the music a little louder, swayed her hips a little bolder and dragged whichever poor soul was working that day into a dramatic dance that always left both of them laughing.

Once Amber went to college, she still found herself coming in every other Sunday to help out, with a sample of whatever baked good she had made that week, an iced green tea, a hot black coffee and a cappuccino. Her mother would always roll her eyes, before reaching for a cookie or cupcake or brownie, chewing it thoughtfully for a couple of seconds and scrunching up her nose.

“This is too sweet,” she’d say, or, “Too much chocolate.”

Her father would then wander out, taking a small sip of his coffee first before placing a gentle kiss in her hair.

“Missed you. How are classes?” Before she could answer, he would always get distracted by something else, whether it be a customer, a phone call or the sudden epiphany of remembering something he had to do hours ago.

Amber knows that a bouquet of lilies was always acceptable for a funeral or that corsages cost $30 on average, and that yes, they can find a flower color to match the dress. She could rattle off cost estimation for bouquets by the time she was 13. She even finds herself from time to time sitting across from couples at a table tucked in the back corner of their shop, pulling out wrinkled papers to consult them about the floral arrangements for their wedding.

One hot morning in July, she’s left completely alone to open the shop. Her parents are helping with preparations at a large wedding. She had decided to play one of her favorite playlists over the speakers, soft guitar plucking and the honey-like voice of John Mayer accompanying the routine of putting out the flowers that had arrived that morning. The music’s louder than usual, as people usually flock in about an hour after opening.

But this time, the bell rings after two songs, and she looks up to see a guy around her age, gray hoodie over his blonde hair, black vans covering his feet. The neutral color scheme of his outfit heavily contrasts the bright colors of the flowers around him. He has a calm aura about him, hunched shoulders as if he’s trying to make himself smaller to fit into the shop. She shoots him a tired smile before going back to stocking the bouquets of roses. She waits until the end of the song to speak up, finding him glancing at the orchids.

“Anything I can help you with today?”

He looks up, “Uh, not at the moment.” His hand reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “My mom’s birthday is today, and I’m a jackass who is getting her something right before she wakes up.”

“Well, orchids are always a solid choice.” Amber backs away with a small nod. “Let me know if you need anything.” He hums in thanks, and she walks back to the register.

She pulls out her laptop and looks over the materials her eventual boss sent her to read before her first day of work in a month, singing along to “Daughters” under her breath, ears alert for the tinkling of the bell at the front door.

She looks up to see the guy shuffling to the counter, and closes her laptop. He clears his throat, eyes bright and smile contagious. “Do you happen to do custom bouquets?”

“We do.” Amber walks from behind the counter and leads him to their lab, eyes going to the multitudes of flowers and brain already spinning with ideas. “Tell me about your mom. What’s your relationship with her like?”

He blinks. “Good. She’s literally always smiling. Has never yelled at me once. She’s the strongest woman I know.” He trails off as she gathers a couple of various stems. “That all you need?”

“Well, let’s see.” She points at each flower as she describes them. “Gerbera Daisies represent happiness, pink carnations represent gratitude and peonies represent prosperity and good health. Pair all that with some baby’s breath and you got a beautiful bouquet right there.” She raises an eyebrow. “Ultimately though, it’s your gift. I can do whatever you’d like.”

“No,” he shakes his head with a nervous chuckle. “It’s perfect. Go ahead.”

She flashes him a grin before methodically cutting the stems of the flowers, arranging them into a lively arrangement of colors and wrapping it all together with tissue paper and a ribbon to match.

He pays for the bouquet at the register, and when she comes around the counter to hand it to him, he thanks her before ducking his head down and walking back out into the muggy Saturday morning air. She blinks as she watches him get into his car, but shakes her head to herself as the phone starts ringing.

A few weeks later, Amber finds herself waking up to a frantic call from her mother, asking if she can meet up at Camrose Hill for a wedding. Her father has to deal with a shipping miscommunication back at the store, and she needs one more helping hand. When Amber arrives, she steps out, travel mug filled with tea in her right hand and her left hand smoothing down her red floral dress. After asking around, she finds her mother next to carts filled with roses in various colors. With a quick hug, Amber gets to work on building the arch, the light breeze making her regret not putting her hair up.

“Funny seeing you here.”

She looks up and blinks twice, standing up from her crouched position.

“Good morning.” She eyes him up and down, admiring his white button up and black dress pants.

“You here for the wedding?”

“I’m the Best Man, actually.” He chuckles, shoving his hand in his pockets. “My best friend’s getting married.”

“Congratulations,” she says softly, climbing onto a nearby chair to reach the top of the arch. “Beautiful place to do it too.”

He nods, eyebrows furrowing as she stumbles slightly in her heeled sandals. “Do you need help?”

“Absolutely not. You’re a guest. You shouldn’t even be out here right now.” He eyes her warily when she attempts to reach down to grab some roses off the cart, hands automatically going up as she almost falls over. She sighs, “Fine. Grab me five ivory ones and three pink ones, please. And the scissors.”

“So, what do they mean?”

“Hm?”

“The roses. What do they mean?”

She glances at him as she intertwines the stems together, wiggling her fingers at him for more flowers. “They’re roses. Roses are pretty typical for a wedding, generally symbolizing love. I’m sure you know that.”

“How about the colors?”

“Your friend’s soon to be wife chose ivory instead of white, and ivory usually means gracefulness. Peach roses are usually given as a thank you gift, so gratitude and sincerity is tied to that one. I’ll admit that green roses are more rarer in weddings, but it means growth, so perhaps the start of growing together as a married couple?” She shrugs. “Or maybe she just likes the color combination.”

“Knowing Stacy? It was probably very methodical.”

Amber laughs airily, before sticking her hand out. “Help me down? I need to move the chair to the other side.”

Before he can respond, someone from inside the tent calls his name. He helps her down quickly, before running his hand through his hair.

She hums. Brock. It fits. “So that’s your name.”

“Can I get yours?” He asks hopefully.

His name is called again and Amber shrugs with a sly grin. “Another time. Think you’re needed, Best Man.”

With a slight huff, he backs away with a wave. Her attention goes back to her fingers as she threads the flowers into the white arch, listening to the chatter of the other employees preparing. She’s out of the venue before the guests have even started arriving.

The summer always brings in tourists from all over, many itching to take a peek at a shop that has a rainbow of flowers outside of its doors. Balancing her new job at a PR firm, she pops in to help her parents, fingers slowly getting scars and cheekbones beginning to hurt daily.

On a day where the sun is shining bright and the shop is in a lull during lunch hour, Brock walks in. His smile is wide as he makes small talk with her mother across the shop. Amber freezes when she sees both sets of eyes on her, and swallows her tea as he walks over.

“Hi again.”

“I came in yesterday looking for you,” he said. “Your parents told me to come back today.”

“Looking for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Did they tell you my name?”

“Amber.” Fuck, her name rolls off his tongue so sweetly.

“That’s what they call me.”

“Beautiful name for a stunning girl.”

She snorts, “What can I do for you?”

He grins slightly at her professional tone. “My mom was complaining about how her place isn’t homey enough, so I figured I’d come to my favorite flower shop and talk to the experts about how to fix that.”

“My parents could’ve helped you with that.”

“I know, but I wanted your opinion.”

She moves from behind the counter, lips lifting into a smile as he immediately follows her. “If you want just a bouquet, you can never go wrong with sunflowers. And judging from your sporadically timed visits, you’re probably not around town much, so it wouldn’t be wise to get a plant that you would actually have to take care of. Unless that’s what your mother wants.”

“How do you-”

She stops in front of the sunflowers, ignoring his question. “We got a fresh delivery this morning. If you don’t like these, there are plenty of orchids I’d suggest as well.”

“I’ll take the sunflowers. What’s the special meaning of these?”

“Exactly what they look like. They bring happiness into people’s day.”

“That they do.” She feels her cheeks flush from his stare.

She quickly rings him up and bids him farewell as he walks out the door, smiling to her parents along the way. They both turn their heads to look at her as soon as the door shuts, and she rolls her eyes before venturing into the back room, ignoring the shout of questions and comments.

Winter rolls around quickly. Every time someone has purchased sunflowers these past couple of months, she can’t help but think of Brock; the last image of him imprinted in her brain was him walking out the door with sunflowers in his hand. That was four months ago.

Since then, Amber’s figured out who he is. Brock Boeser. Vancouver Canucks. Minnesota’s very own. She’s spent many nights with a few glasses of wine deep thinking too much about it.

She’s outside the shop one day after a long day of work, on top of a ladder, gloved fingers fumbling around with the string of lights. Her cheeks are rosy, snowflakes are sticking to her hair and she’s been yawning every five minutes for the last hour, but she’s determined to get these lights up before she locks up in 15 minutes. The poinsettias, mistletoe and holly are scheduled to arrive the next morning.

“Are you guys still open?”

She straightens up at the familiar voice and tightens the gray scarf around her neck. “Yep. I’ll be down in a minute.” She hangs the last of the lights and plugs them in. Wiping her eyes with the heels of her palms, she stores the ladder away and walks in.

“Brock. Hey. What can I help you with today?” She asks, ducking into the back room to hang up her coat. The shop is quiet, crooning notes of Spotify’s “Christmas Coffeehouse” playing in the background. The dark blue button up peeking out of his black winter coat makes her smile. It’s the most color she has ever seen on him.

“Can you help me with a bouquet?”

“Of course.” She observes the half-empty buckets. “What things do you want to symbolize this time?”

“I actually know what I want.”

“Oh yeah? Great. What would you like?”

“Purple lilacs, irises, pink roses and baby’s breath, please.”

“Just give me a second. The roses are in the back.” She begins arranging the flowers and looks up as she’s grabbing the wrapping paper, noticing his confused stare. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, you just, didn’t tell me what they mean. Like, the flowers.”

Amber chuckles. “You’ve obviously done your research. You still want me to?” Brock nods. “Okay, purple lilacs symbolize first love, irises symbolize wisdom and eloquence. Roses are romantic, but pink ones specifically? That symbolizes admiration. So I would guess you’re giving this to someone you like, maybe a romantic partner? Someone you haven’t been with for long?”

He whistles, “Damn. You’re good.”

Her heart sinks the slightest bit as she shrugs, before a particular set of flower stems caught her eye. “I know it’s your bouquet, but how would you feel about adding daffodils? It would add a beautiful contrast to all the purple you have in here. I won’t even charge you for it.”

“Add them in, and charge me for it too.” She plucks the daffodils out of the bin, separating them throughout the bouquet. “What do those mean?” Brock asks.

“The daffodils?”

“Yeah.”

She clears her throat. “New beginnings.”

After adding the finishing touch of a purple ribbon, she punches the sale in the register and walks from behind the counter to hand the bouquet to him.

Brock shakes his head. “Nope.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “Sorry?”

“They’re for you, actually.” She raises an eyebrow, and he continues, flexing his fingers continuously. “It’s my stupid way of asking if you would like to go on a date with me.”

She looks down at the bouquet and back up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Right now?”

“If you’re free. Or in a couple weeks. I, uh, I don’t work around here, unfortunately. So I won’t be back in Minnesota until about a month or two.”

“I know who you are, Brock Boeser.” She hands the flowers to him again. “Hold these while I close up?”

“Is that a yes?”

Amber grins, scanning the shop. “Yeah. It’s not stupid, by the way.” She shuts off the lights, grabs her coat and locks the front door, her date for the night following her obediently. “It’s actually really sweet.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.” She tentatively reaches for his fingers with her other hand as she admires the bouquet. “Do you wanna know something?”

“Anything,” He says, leaning down so he can hear her better.

“Daffodils are actually my favorite flower.”

“Like, ever? Out of all flowers?”

“Out of all flowers.”

He leads her to Osteria La Buca with a wink that has her stomach flipping. “What a coincidence.”

She looks down at the bouquet with a smile.

#k writes #in case anyone needs a break from holiday chaos #hockey fanfic #hockey fanfiction #hockey writing #nhl #nhl blurb #nhl writing #hockey rpf #nhl rpf #brock boeser #brock boeser writing #brock boeser fic #vancouver canucks #brock boeser x oc

49 notes · View notes

suguwu · 1 year ago

Text

lover be good to me: part four

You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.

But it’s your wedding day.

masterlist

minors and ageless blogs do not interact

pairings: kita shinsuke x f!reader, oc x f!reader

notes: we are finally at the end. thank you so much for coming along on this ride with me. this fic truly is dear to me and i can't believe it's finally done.

as always, massive thanks to my beta for both the edits and the endless support throughout the process, especially when i thought writing this fic would never end.

title and part title are from hozier’s “be”

tags for this part (contains spoilers for fic): soulmate au (first words), this is a very reader-centric story, slow burn, pining, hurt/comfort, reader and kita are implied to be around their 30s, food consumption, non-graphic partner death (not kita), grief/mourning, healing, love as a choice.

wc: 12k

You settle into the farmhouse.

It’s easier than you thought. Maybe it’s the way Yoshida is brusque but kind; she’s not careful with you. It’s a refreshing change of pace.

You find yourself at her side most nights, chopping vegetables or marinating tofu as she tells you about growing up in the country. She spins stories like thread, weaving them together like the expert seamstress she is. Her son joins in some nights too.

You still get lost sometimes, though.

The early mornings are the worst.

The birds sing you to wakefulness, their song high and trilling, and you press your face into the pillow with a groan. “Loud. Shut the window, Aoshi,” you mumble, shoving out at him. Your hand hits empty space and your brow scrunches. You push to your elbows and find a room that’s not your own, though you blearily recognize the suitcase tucked into the closet.

You shift on the bed and realize it’s too small. A twin.

It all comes pouring back in.

“Fuck,” you say, low and quiet. The tears pool in your eyes, burning hot, and you try to blink them back to no avail. You curl in on yourself like a fiddlehead as you lie back down.

You do not move for a very long time.

The world has gone blue when there’s a knock on your door, twilight settling in like the ocean tide, easing its way across the sky. You don’t answer. Another knock comes and then there’s Kita’s voice murmuring your name.

You almost ignore him. But there’s something in his voice you can’t resist, a melancholy thread woven in through the syllables of your name. You get to your feet and open the door.

Kita studies you for a moment. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You blink. “Go where?”

“My place. I’m cookin’.”

“Shinsuke—”

“I know.”

You bite at your lower lip. Kita meets your gaze steadily, his amber eyes darkened to a deep, sweet brown by the dim lighting. There’s a promise in them too.

“Okay,” you say at last. “Let me get dressed.”

He waits downstairs as you throw on some clothes. You can hear him talking quietly to Yoshida. He gives you a little smile when you join him at the genkan.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

It’s true autumn now and the slight chill in the air proves it. The rice stalks are spun gold, swaying in the wind as the truck trundles down the road to Kita’s farm. You watch a stork wade carefully through the fields. It dips down with its long, elegant neck and disappears from sight.

The radio is playing quietly. Kita hums along with it sometimes, mostly at the old, crooning ballads. You watch the countryside roll by, the farmhouses little ships in the night, their lit windows a beacon as dusk falls.

He bundles you into the farmhouse when you arrive, handing you a pair of house slippers that have little radishes on them. You can’t help your smile.

You follow him into the living room and settle at the kotatsu when he points you there. It’s close enough that you can see into the kitchen through the open archway; he rolls up his sleeves and starts gathering ingredients from the fridge and the pantry.

“Can I help?” you ask after a few minutes, getting to your feet and joining him.

“Sure,” he says, handing you a freshly-washed daikon. “Slice that real thin, please.”

You make a cut. “This thin enough?”

He peers over. “A little thinner,” he says. “Can I?”

You nod and he takes your hands briefly, guiding them to the thinness he wants and pressing down. His hands are warm, his fingers and palm rough with calluses that catch lightly against your skin. He curls his fingers around yours, his tendons going taut, and pushes down. The knife slides through the daikon and stops against the cutting board.

“There,” he says. “Like that.”

“Okay.”

He nods and heads back to his cutting board which is laden down with a bright medley of varying vegetables. “What’re you doin’ tomorrow?'' he asks.

“Nothing,” you say. “Why?”

You sound more defensive than you mean to. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a sharp flicker of amber, but says nothing.

“Was thinking you could come out to the fields with me.”

“I don’t know,” you say.

“It’d be good for you to get outside,” he says mildly. “Rather than being up in yer room all day.”

Your knife thunks against the cutting board. Kita is unperturbed, only glancing your way briefly to make sure you’re not injured. He goes back to peeling carrots, his lean, strong hands moving quickly and with steady confidence.

You study him for a moment, taking in the set of his lips and the soft furrow of his brow. You sigh.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll come.”

He flashes you a tiny quirk of his lips, a smile that’s as fleeting as a summer storm and just as warm.

“Good.”

He keeps cooking as he talks, pulling you from your thoughts when you get lost in them, when the fog starts to roll back in like a marine layer. It’s uncanny, how well he can tell when you’ve been set adrift. He’s a mooring you didn’t know you needed.

Kita hums his thanks as you give him the daikon. He slips them into a pickling mix before handing you a cucumber.

“Peel and cut thin?” you ask.

“Yup.”

As you peel, you can’t help but watch as he moves about the kitchen. He moves as efficiently as ever, no wasted movement, but there’s something soft to it too. You can’t quite pin it down.

“Yer staring.”

“Am I?”

“You know you are.”

You shrug, starting to cut up the cucumber. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important,” you say, waving him off. “Tell me how Aran is doing, he and I haven’t talked for a while.”

The rest of the cooking goes by quickly as you talk and soon you’re both settled at the kotatsu. It’s radiating warmth. You snuggle deeper into it; with the sun fully set, it’s grown even more chilly outside despite the heat of the day. Winter is still a ways off, but you can feel the first touch of it hidden in the autumn breeze that leaks in through the window Kita had left cracked to keep the kitchen from overheating.

You glance over the food. Kita’s kept it simple but hearty. There’s steam curling through the air in little smoky wisps. You watch as it dissipates and then take the plate that Kita hands you with a small thank you.

It’s a good meal. The two of you talk through it with ease, never missing a beat and rarely with an awkward pause. When you lapse into silence, it’s comfortable.

“I should go,” you say eventually, glancing at the clock. “I don’t want to wake Yoshida when I come in.”

“Alright.”

He drives you home, the headlights of his truck cutting through the night. The moon is out now; it bathes the fields with light until they practically shimmer. The crickets are calling, their song audible even over the low purr of the truck’s engine.

When you pull up to Yoshida’s, there’s a light still on at the engawa, a soft glow to lead you home. It warms something in you.

Kita walks you to the door.

“How early do I have to get up tomorrow?” you ask. “Do I even want to know?”

He laughs quietly. “Ya don’t need to keep my schedule,” he says. “I’ll come get you after lunch.”

“Okay.”

He looks at you. His usual stoicness has faded into something warm and open; you take a deep breath. You bid him a quiet goodnight that he returns just as quietly, his amber eyes knowing.

You go to sleep with your hand wrapped around your wedding rings.

***

“Sunscreen,” Kita says, holding out the tube to you.

“I know, I know,” you grouse, taking it from him. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“You forgot last time.”

“Point taken.”

You apply the sunscreen as he gathers what he needs. He’s still rustling around when you finish. You turn your face up to the sun, letting the rays brush over your skin like a lover, a sweet kiss of heat.

When you open your eyes again, Kita is watching you with a tiny smile, a crescent moon of a thing. Something in you pangs.

You glance away from him and look to the rolling fields instead. In the bright sunlight, they’re Midas-touched, scorched gold with a hint of green at the bottom of each stem. It’s a sea of rice, rippling in the breeze like kelp caught in the ocean’s current, and it’s beautiful in a way that makes you feel small.

Kita comes up beside you and gazes at his farm.

“It’s pretty,” you tell him.

“It’s gotta get cut,” he says.

“I know.”

He glances at you. You blink as he reaches out and smudges his thumb against your cheek. It’s gentle, his touch careful despite the rough calluses on the pad of his thumb. “Ya missed some sunscreen,” he says, rubbing it in with a light sweep. He lingers for a moment before pulling away.

“Oh. Thanks,” you say, biting at your lower lip as he turns away.

“C’mon,” Kita says.

You follow him deep into the field, to a swath of already cleared land. The two of you settle at the edge of it. You watch as he lays out a woven bag with a label stamped on the front of it. He crouches down by the nearest stems of uncut rice and runs a hand over them, thumbing at the panicles with a deft movement.

You don’t think he knows he’s smiling.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask.

He glances back at you. “Can you lay out the bags? One at each pole should do.”

You nod and set to work. He starts cutting at the rice. He makes it look easy, slicing through the stems as if they’re butter. The rice stalks start to pile up beside him as you make your way down the field with the bags.

He’s made a significant dent by the time you’re back. He leans back on his heels as you approach again, wiping off his forehead with the back of his hand. His hair is clinging to him, dark with sweat, deepening the color to slate gray, like the winter sea. He smiles at you.

“Can I try again?”

He’d taught you how to cut last time after you asked, citing the fact that you’ve been coming to the field with him for almost two weeks without trying.

“Sure,” he says. He hands you a pair of gloves; you slip them on. “D’ya remember how to hold it?”

You kneel next to him, wrapping your fingers around a handful of stems. “Like this, yeah?”

“Thumb pointing up,” he says, reaching out and adjusting your grip. “And tighter.”

He tightens his grip around your hand to show you, his strong fingers flexing. You copy him and he lets go when he’s satisfied with your grip. He hands you the knife—curved with a wicked edge—and sits back on his heels again.

“15 centimeters, yeah?” you ask, setting the edge of the knife against the stalks there.

“That’ll work.”

You slice in a downward angle; the stalks part beneath the blade like silk. You hand off the rice to him to add to the pile. You keep working, feeling the sweat start to gather on your back, a few droplets rolling down before getting absorbed by your shirt.

“Good,” he says.

He lets you do a few more handfuls before he takes the knife back. You watch him work. He’s much quicker than you, moving with an easy grace.

“Why don’t ya head back to the truck,” he says, slicing through another handful of stalks. “I’m almost done.”

You listen to him, heading back to the truck and settling in the bed of it, swinging your feet off the edge. You lay back and turn your gaze up to the sky, watching as a flock of birds goes soaring past, their wings dark against the deep blue of the sky.

Kita joins you after a bit. You’ve been watching a hawk circle, riding the current high above you, and you don’t bother to sit up when you hear him approaching.

He climbs up into the truck bed. He settles next to you and then lays down beside you, staring up at the sky with you.

The two of you are quiet. You watch as the hawk wheels and wheels overhead before it dives down, dropping like a shooting star through the sky.

You turn towards him; he’s already looking at you. His amber eyes are soft and you suck in a breath, your stomach flipping.

“Shinsuke,” you say gently. “You know I can’t give you what you want, right?”

“I’m not askin’ you for anything,” he says, just as gently.

“I know. I just—I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, with Aoshi gone.”

He studies you for a moment. Then he smiles, warm and sweet and a little bit sad.

“It’s always what you’re willing to give,” he says. “Nothing more and nothing less. That’s the only idea I have.”

You suck in a breath, fidgeting with your sleeve.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

You both go quiet again.

Kita pushes up to his elbows; you peer up at him.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get going.”

“‘Kay.”

He hops down from the truck bed gracefully before holding out a hand to help you down. You hesitate. He waits patiently, looking up at you. You take his hand without a word, his calluses rough against your palm.

You’re both quiet on the drive back to Yoshida’s. You spend the time looking out the window, watching the fields roll by. There are other farmers still hard at work, their blades flashing in the last dregs of the sunlight, like a dance. It’s a sight you never tire of.

The sun has almost set by the time Kita drops you off. You toe off your shoes in the genkan and find Yoshida in the kitchen, scrubbing down the counter. There’s something savory in the air, rich and thick, and you spot a pot bubbling away on the stovetop, steam curling up from it like smoke.

She eyes you for a moment. You don’t know what she sees in your face, but she gestures you into a seat.

“The fields are doing ya some good,” she says, her eyes still on the soapy counter.

“Are they?”

She nods decisively. “Yer different. You’re coming back to the world.”

You bite at your lip, worrying the flesh between your teeth. It doesn’t feel like it to you; some days you think you’ll never be in step with the world again, destined to always be just a few paces behind.

“It’s hard to see it in yerself,” Yoshida says. “But it’s there.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

You can’t help the smile. A smile blooms on her lips too, small but sure.

“I need to weed tomorrow. Could use your help, unless Shin-chan is going to steal you away again.”

“I’ll help,” you say, ignoring the last bit.

She studies you with keen eyes, opening her mouth to say something, but the front door opens and her son calls out a greeting.

The rest of the night is quiet and morning comes before you know it.

You stare up at the ceiling as the sun rises, watery light leaking in through the sheer curtains. For a moment, you consider rolling over and going back to bed, but you can hear Yoshida shuffling around in her room. You resign yourself to getting up for the day.

A light breakfast later, you’re on your knees in the garden. The soil is still wet with morning dew and it sticks to your skin. The scent of wet loam rises around you, like the earth is welcoming you home. You let it fill your lungs.

The garden is a beautiful one, lush with autumn vegetables. You weed around the fat, sunshine yellow squashes, each one brighter than the last. The carrots are just peeking above the soil, little suns creeping up over the horizon. Their greens sway gently in the breeze.

You’ve forgone gardening gloves despite Yoshida’s offer. It feels good to sink your fingers into the dirt, to pinch the weeds’ roots and pull them up gently.

You’re still working when Kita’s truck trundles up the driveway. You sit back on your haunches and wipe the sweat from your brow as he gets out and comes your way.

“Hi,” he says with a little smile. “Hard at work, I see.”

“Gotta earn my keep,�� you say, earning a snort from Yoshida who is working just a garden bed over.

“You have time for a break?”

“Depends,” you say, glancing at the bag he’s carrying. “Are those snacks?”

“Yup.”

“Then I do,” you say, pushing to your feet. “Let me go wash my hands.”

You eat together on the engawa, gazing out into the farmland. The wind chimes rustle above you, clinking lightly, a crystalline symphony just for the two of you. You sit back on your hands as Kita unpacks what he’s brought.

It’s onigiri. They’re still warm, steam curling up from them when you break one open. A little bit of the filling spills out but you’re quick to catch it on your thumb, popping it into your mouth.

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a nudge with your elbow. “They’re good.”

“Yer welcome.”

“You take care of me so well,” you say with a little laugh.

“I try,” he says, utterly serious.

You flinch. It’s tiny, but from the way his gaze finds you, a firefly flicker, he notices. But he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to take another bite of his onigiri.

“Shin-chan,” Yoshida calls. “Come help an old woman with the watering.”

You glance up to see that she’s heaving a full bucket of water towards the garden. Kita pushes to his feet immediately, crossing to her in a few easy strides. He takes the bucket without even pausing, lifting it with a single hand.

“Granny,” he chides. “Ya could’ve gotten hurt.”

She shrugs. He follows her to the garden beds, glancing back to send you a little smile. You watch him as he carefully waters the garden under Yoshida’s rigid instructions. The sun catches in his hair, bronzes his tanned skin. That same smile he’d flashed you lives on his lips, a quiet contentment tucked up secret into the corner of his mouth.

Kita comes back to you when he’s finished watering, settling at your side on the engawa once more. He eats the rest of his onigiri quickly.

“I’ve gotta get back to the fields,” he tells you. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “Go do your job.”

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling with it.

He leaves soon after. You watch him go, until all you can see of his truck is the cloud of dust being kicked up behind it, until the horizon swallows him.

Yoshida stands next to you on the engawa, shading her eyes as she watches him go too.

“He’s a good man,” she says casually.

You glance at her.

“He is.”

“You could do much worse in a man.”

“It’s not like that.”

She raises a brow.

“It’s not. It’s just…complicated,” you say, winding your fingers through your necklace’s chain. Your rings clink against each other softly, the sound lost in the myriad of wind chimes surrounding you. For a moment you drift, tears pricking at your eyes before you blink them away.

“‘Course it is,” she says. “Most things are. But ah, pay no mind to an old lady. Let’s go harvest some of the squash.”

You spend the rest of the day in the garden, harvesting away. The first frost isn’t too far off and you need to make sure you don’t lose any of the vegetables to it. Yoshida tells you exactly what to pick and what to leave.

Night falls and you cook the first of the squash, painting it with a sweetened miso glaze that gleams stickily as you serve it. Yoshida makes a few side dishes too, putting them in pretty kobachi dishes. They’re delicate things, the soft silver of the moon, and you find yourself thinking of Kita.

You shake yourself free of the thought before it fully forms. Yoshida’s son pulls you into a conversation and you chatter the night away, until you’re yawning between sentences. You finally trudge up to your room.

The window lets in the faintest hint of gossamer moonlight. You gaze out into the night, into the endless countryside. You can just barely make out the next farmhouse, a lighthouse in the sea of darkness, its lights glittering on the very edge of the horizon.

It looks lonely. You think of Kita again, of the little island of his farmhouse, how it’s tucked between the paddies with no other home in sight. You think of him alone at the kotatsu, reading glasses perched on his nose, and feel something in your chest clench.

You pull the curtains shut and go to bed.

***

The rest of the week rolls by and so does the next. It grows colder each day, winter’s first kiss. The leaves are going orange, as if little fires are catching the edges. It sets the trees ablaze with color. You hop from leaf to leaf as you and Kita walk along the road, delighting in each little crunch.

“Having fun?” he calls out.

You turn around to face him, shading your eyes with one hand. His more sedate pace has left him lagging, but he’s quickly catching up now that you’ve stopped. “Can’t you tell?”

His breath mists in the air, a marine layer, and his lips quirk up into a little smile. “I can,” he says. “Just be careful, yeah? There’s still some frost lingering.”

You hum an acknowledgement and stomp on your next leaf. He chuckles quietly and you fall back to walk with him, shoving your hands into your pockets to ward off the cold.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You know my sabbatical is almost over, right?”

He nods. “I know.”

“I think I’m gonna go home midweek next week,” you say. “Just to give myself some time to settle before I have to go back to work.”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Let me know the details and I’ll get you to the station.”

The two of you keep walking, huddling into each other slightly when the wind picks up. Some of his hair wisps across your face, the touch like silk against your skin. You shiver with it and return your gaze to the countryside, to the rolling hills and the shorn paddies.

One or two of the trees are already fully bare; they reach towards the sky with long-fingered branches. There’s a murmur of swallows nestled in the nearest one, so numerous it’s as if the tree has leaves again. As you watch, they take to the skies, undulating through the soft gray-blue of it.

“I’ll miss it,” you say softly.

“Bein’ here?”

“Yeah.”

“Ya can come back anytime, y’know. There’s always a place for you.”

You glance at him. His stoic face has softened and you think of the thaw of a spring day. How the quiet warmth of it melts the chill away.

“Thanks, Shinsuke.”

“Mhm.”

The two of you walk together quietly before turning around to head back to Kita’s farm when the chilly breeze becomes a whistling wind. It whips through the fields to cut through your clothing and you press into Kita without thinking, seeking the warmth of his solid form. He unwinds his scarf and drapes it around your neck; you don’t bother to protest. He’s immovable about things like this. Instead, you burrow into the warmth of it.

You all but tumble into the genkan of the farmhouse. Kita follows you at a more sedate pace. You toe off your shoes and slip on your usual pair of house slippers. He does the same and you watch as he puts his shoes away carefully, arranging them perfectly within the cubby.

You both settle at the kotatsu, huddling under the thick down of the blanket. You trace a finger over one of the origami cranes patterned into it. They’re perfect, so different from the clumsy paper cranes you’d both made with some of the local children the other day.

Kita turns on the kotatsu. It starts to warm almost immediately and you sink into the heat of it with a quiet sigh.

“What’re you smiling about?” you ask him.

“You,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes. “Okay,” you say.

“D’ya want tea?”

“Sure.”

He slips out from under the kotatsu and heads into the kitchen. You turn enough that you can still see him; you like watching him make tea. He’s careful and respectful of the process from beginning to end, but you like how it loosens his shoulders, how he unfurls, a night-blooming flower.

He rejoins you at the kotatsu once the tea is made, handing you a steaming cup. The scent of it billows through the air. When you sip at the tea, it settles warm in your chest, pushing out the autumn chill.

“You’ll have to teach me how to make tea like this,” you tell Kita.

He smiles into his cup. “It’s not hard.”

“Says you.”

“Might not have time to teach you before you go,” he says with a frown. “The farm—”

“You can teach me when you visit.” You pause. “You will visit, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” you say, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You can teach me then.”

He agrees and the conversation flows until it’s late. You peer out into the darkness and see the moon—full-bellied with light—is beginning to set, sinking through the dark ocean of the sky like an anchor.

“Shit,” you say. “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“S’fine,” Kita says. “I don’t mind.”

“I know, I know. Ugh, I’m gonna wake up Yoshida when I get in.”

“You can stay, y’know.”

You glance at him. He meets your gaze steadily.

“I have a guest room,” he reminds you.

“Okay,” you say after a moment. “Okay.”

“You’ll have to get up early, though.”

“That’s fine.”

He smiles softly. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s finish cleaning up.”

You clean up the kotatsu quickly; despite the late hour, Kita still takes the time to wash the dishes. He washes them with careful concentration and something in your chest pangs.

“Go ahead to the guest room,” he says. “‘M almost done here. I’ll see if I can find you somethin’ to sleep in.”

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright.”

The guest room is homey, with a handmade quilt patterned with rice plants that almost look like they’re rippling in the wind. You trace a finger over one of them as you glance around the rest of the room, taking in the way the stark cleanliness is offset by the items scattered about: the fan patterned with cherry blossoms hanging on the wall; the plant at the window, lush despite the season; a paperweight on the desk, glass swirled through with blue and white, the ocean roiling within it. It’s not quite Kita, but you can sense him in it all the same.

Kita knocks on the door frame. You turn to look at him. “Here,” he says, holding out a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Thought you might need these.”

“Thanks,” you say, sending him a little smile. “Appreciate it.”

“‘Course.”

“Night, Shinsuke.”

“G’night,” he says. “I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“Sounds good.”

He disappears into his room.

You get ready for bed and slide under the covers. The quilt is heavy and warmth builds quickly under it, like a banked fire. You turn your face into the pillow to hide from the moonlight slanting in through the window. The pillowcase smells vaguely like Kita and the simple detergent he uses.

Sleep comes easily.

So easily that it feels like you’ve only been asleep for a second when Kita’s knocking on the guest room door to rouse you for the day. Blearily, you slip on your clothing before trudging into the kitchen.

Kita glances up as you enter. His hair is still damp from the shower; it glistens like the gray winter sea beneath a bleak sun.

“Mornin’,” he says.

“Hi,” you grumble.

He breathes out a quiet laugh. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

You drowse on the ride back to Yoshida’s, just aware enough to hear the quiet hum of the radio as it fills the truck’s cab. The sun is starting to rise, the first fingers of light painting the horizon orange, like embers just beginning to catch. You turn away from it, curling into yourself in the front seat.

The truck rumbling to a halt wakes you. You grouse and Kita laughs again. He doesn’t bother to dodge when you swat at him.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you say with a yawn, one hand on the car door’s handle, already looking forward to crawling back into bed.

“‘Course,” he says. “You always have a place with me.”

You pause.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.”

His eyes crinkle with his smile.

“Go to work,” you tell him.

“Yes ma’am.”

You hop out and head to the genkan. You hear the truck rumble to life behind you, the engine practically purring. By the time you make it to the genkan and look back, Kita is already down the road.

You watch until he’s gone from view.

***

This early, the train station is quiet.

The sun is still rising, casting pale golden rays across the parking lot. It haloes Kita in light as he pulls your suitcase from the truck bed, his muscles flexing with the movement. You take it from him and the two of you head towards the platform together.

“Travel safe, alright?” he says when you come to a halt just before the doors.

“Shinsuke,” you say, “thank you for everything.”

“Anytime.”

“You’ll visit?”

“I’ll visit,” he confirms. “You?”

“I’ll come back,” you say.

“Good.”

He smiles at you, a slow, sweet thing that makes you think of the sun’s rise. It’s steady and sure, unshakeable.

You throw your arms around him in a hug. He stumbles for a second, caught off guard, but he catches himself quickly and wraps his arms around you. He holds you tightly. You bury your face in his shoulder. He smells like plain soap, fresh and clean, with the faintest kiss of lemon, a touch of sour citronella that you know he uses for the fields.

When you pull away, the tips of his ears are pink.

“Bye, Shinsuke,” you say.

“Bye,” he says softly.

You head inside the station. When you glance back, you can just make out the silhouette of him, lean and strong. He must be able to see you, because he gives a little wave before he turns away.

The train is almost empty when you board it and you settle in a window seat. You close your eyes and turn your face towards the sun, the gentle rays just barely starting to warm as they brush against your skin.

You open your eyes when the train starts to move, peering out of the window as the countryside speeds by. The rice fields are shorn short now but the gold of them hasn’t faded. The remains of the stalks reach towards the great blue sky, two expanses meeting. Beyond the fields, even the hills are going golden, though they’re slower, with green patches scattered across them like lily pads in a pond.

You think you might be leaving a part of yourself in the expanse of the country. That the fields have swallowed up some part of you, like the earth swallows a seed. It makes something in you pang.

Soon enough, the countryside melts away into the suburbs. Then come the neon lights of the city, streaking by like fireflies, little blips of color that blink to life here and there.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed it.

The house is quiet when you step into the genkan; only the musical clink of your keys fills the space. The greeting is on the tip of your tongue, but you catch it behind your teeth and swallow it back down. You take in a deep breath and set your suitcase down before brushing by the photos in the entryway, most of them facedown.

It takes time to unpack. Most of your clothes are clean, but you run a load of laundry anyway, listening to the way the water swishes and spins, the low rumble of it filling the house. You text Kita to let him know you’ve arrived safely and then collapse onto your couch, staring up at the ceiling.

You don’t know how long you lie there before you hear the door to the house open. Muffled bickering floats to you from the genkan and you push yourself up just as Abe comes barreling around the corner.

She skids to a stop just before the couch and grins down at you.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” you reply. “Did you break in?”

“No,” Yoshikawa says, appearing from around the corner. She twirls something around her finger; it glints in the light. “Used the spare.”

“It’s funny,” you say. “I don’t remember inviting either of you over.”

She shrugs elegantly, her long hair swaying like kelp in a current. “Did you really think we were going to miss you coming home?”

“No,” you say with a little laugh. “I didn’t.”

“Good.”

You exchange hugs with both of them, holding them tightly and yelping when Abe spins you in a circle. Yoshikawa is more sedate but her hug is strong and warm. You blink away the tears before they can fall.

The three of you settle into the living room. You catch up with each other easily, swapping stories and laughing together, the sound billowing through the room to fill even the darkest corners with joy. Your heart aches as Abe throws back her head and laughs, her dark hair shimmering in the light, her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

“You’re too easily entertained,” Yoshikawa informs her, but there’s a smile playing at her lips too, downy-soft and deeply pleased.

“Shut up,” Abe says, still giggling.

For a moment, you just watch them, taking in their features, their smiles, the sound of them. You want to commit them to memory, parts of them that you’ve taken into yourself to treasure, to keep. Pieces never to be lost.

“Hey,” Yoshikawa says. “What’s wrong?”

You realize that your cheeks are hot and wet. You scrub a hand over your face as more tears fall.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just really missed you.”

She hums, but doesn’t push you on it, sending Abe a look when she opens her mouth. “We missed you too,” she says. “Do you want us to spend the night?”

“Yeah,” you say softly, thinking of how empty the house was before they filled it. “That would be great.”

“Okay.”

The conversation picks up again, only pausing when you order takeout as night falls. Though you’ve spoken consistently with them while you were in the country, there are still stories to tell. The three of you talk and talk, full of laughter and love, and it only feels a little bittersweet.

As the night deepens, Yoshikawa and Abe go to the genkan and grab the bags they’ve brought, much to your embarrassment. Abe pats you on the shoulder as you bury your face in your hands. Neither of them comment.

You tumble into bed with them in a mess of limbs. When the dust settles, you’re curled up on your side of the bed, almost pushed off the edge by Abe’s starfished limbs. You poke her in the stomach and she curls up with a groan. You reclaim the space quickly.

“Rude,” she tells you.

“You were taking up the whole bed!”

She grumbles but doesn’t bother to argue.

Quiet falls, only the gentle sound of breathing filling the room. You snuggle down into your comforter, pushing closer to Abe and relishing her warmth.

“I invited Shinsuke to visit,” you breathe.

Yoshikawa pushes up to her elbows behind Abe, peering down at you with her dark, knowing eyes.

“Here?” she asks.

You nod, the pillowcase crinkling against your cheek.

She hums, low and sweet, a honeyed thunder. “You’ll let him stay at the house?”

“I don’t know,” you say, thinking of Takao, the way he’d been flayed open when he asked you to not bring Kita to the house. “Aoshi—”

“Isn’t here,” Yoshikawa says gently. “You don’t have to hold on to that promise if you don’t want to.”

You blink against the tears as they swell up, beading on your eyelashes like little diamonds. Abe reaches out and cups your cheek.

“You’ll figure it out,” she says softly. “You don’t need to know now.”

You close your eyes, a few more tears trickling down. The pillowcase is damp beneath your cheek. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “You’re right.”

“I always am,” she says, and then yelps when Yoshikawa pinches her. “Ow, Yocchan!”

Yoshikawa ignores her, settling back down onto the bed with a yawn.

It’s contagious; you find yourself yawning as well and snuggle down deeper into the comforter once more. Abe shifts closer, seeking heat.

You fall asleep with her pressed tight against your side.

It feels like coming home.

***

Fall fades away.

The trees lose their leaves entirely, leaving branches that reach into the sky with scraggly fingers. Frost creeps over the windows in icy whorls, a cobweb of winter, fanning out in intricate patterns that melt when you breathe on them. The winter sun glows in the softened blue of the sky, only to be replaced with gray clouds.

The first snow is falling when you go to pick up Kita.

The flakes are fat and fluffy, perfectly crystalline. They flutter through the air like butterflies, spinning in great, lazy arcs as they drift to the ground. They melt as soon as they hit the pavement.

They catch in Kita’s hair as the two of you head into the house, little dew drops that make his gray hair shine. He’s cherry-cheeked with the cold, his face half-buried in his scarf. It’s cute. Something in you pangs when he sends you a little smile, only discernible by the way his eyes crinkle at the edges.

The two of you peel off your outer layers in the genkan. Kita puts his away carefully, at odds with your slightly haphazard method of kicking your boots away to find later.

“It’s future me’s problem,” you tell him and he just shakes his head, a small smile caught in the corner of his lips.

You show him to the guest room, freshly made up for his visit, and linger in the hallway as he stores his suitcase.

“Dinner?” you ask as he steps out into the hall again.

“That’d be great.”

“C’mon, I’ve got some things ready in the kitchen.”

“Sounds good.”

He follows you into the kitchen and insists on helping. You direct him to the plates as you check on what you’ve made. There’s colorful tsukemono, each pickled vegetable bright in its own way, stained to watercolors by the pickling liquid. The curry is thick and bubbling, with chunks of heavily marbled meat and vegetables coated in the sauce. The rice is steaming lightly and so are the nikuman, each bun pinched shut perfectly.

“Ya didn’t need to go to all this trouble,” Kita says, eyeing the food as he sets the table.

“Too late,” you say cheerfully. “Eat.”

He smiles softly, shaking his head, but sits down when you gesture. You join him and the two of you start to fill your plates.

You talk quietly as you eat, all easy chatter. Part of you can’t help but think of the beginning, when everything with him was stilted and careful. That’s changed through the years but it’s even easier now, the conversation flowing like a river, calm and unchanging.

When you’re done eating, Kita collects the plates and brings them to the sink. He rolls up his sleeves and turns the water on. You sigh but don’t bother to say anything. Instead, you settle in next to him with a dish towel in your hand.

He’s radiating a soft, gentle heat. It takes conscious effort to not lean into him.

He washes and you dry, falling into an effortless rhythm.

“Are you seeing Aran while you’re here?” you ask.

“He’s away trainin’,” Kita says, handing you another dish. “So’s Atsumu. I’ll see Osamu, but you know I’m here to see you, right?”

Your cheeks heat. “I know,” you say. “But two birds, one stone, y’know?”

He hums, rinsing off the final dish and drying his hands. He leaves his sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. For a moment, you watch the play of his muscles, the way they coil beneath his tanned skin as he picks up the dry dishes and brings them back to the cabinet. You look away when you realize what you’re doing.

You both go to bed early that night; Kita’s tired from his usual early wake-up and the travel. You try not to laugh as he bids you goodnight. It’s cute, the way he blinks sleepily, his amber eyes softened to a honeyed brown.

You can hear him as you get ready for bed, the quiet little noises of another person’s presence. It soothes something in you.

You glance at your wedding rings, ensconced in a little jewelry dish on your nightstand. They gleam in the light. You run your fingers over them, tracing the cool metal gently.

You put them away in a drawer before you go to sleep.

***

The snowstorm hits on the last day of Kita’s visit.

The wind whips between buildings, catching the snowflakes and tossing them about like ships on a stormy sea. The snow piles up into thick drifts, the silken white of it gone yellow beneath the glow of the street lights, like a melting pat of butter.

You and Kita watch the storm from where you’re tucked under the kotatsu. You’d pulled it out when you’d heard the forecast, the two of you working together to get it set up. It still works, luckily, and the two of you sit next to each other and bask in the soothing warmth.

The wind slows; you gaze at the snowflakes as they slow, drifting like dancers across the stage, each puffy flake a part of its own ballet. Everything has gone quiet, muffled at the edges. It’s like the world is waiting to take its next breath.

“What are you thinking?” Kita asks softly.

When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you.

“I don’t know,” you say, your voice just as soft as his. “All sorts of things.”

He hums quietly.

The wind picks up again; the windows rattle with it. You shiver, snuggling further under the kotatsu. Kita shifts. His leg presses against yours, a line of warmth even under the heat of the kotatsu.

You glance at him. He’s watching the storm. It reflects in his eyes, lightening them, taking them from amber to gold. You think of the rice fields at their peak, when they’re treasured gold, and can’t help the small smile that curls around your lips.

Perhaps he feels your gaze, because Kita turns to face you. In the low light, he’s softened at the edges, a watercolor being. His eyes are aglow, like sunlight pooling. He gives you a small smile.

“What is it?”

“I’m so lucky to have you,” you say quietly, the words pouring from you like a waterfall, something unstoppable.

He goes still for a breath, a statue of old. Then he softens again.

“You’ll always have me,” he says, and you used to hate how true it is. Now, though—now it feels different. Just a bit.

“Thank you, Shinsuke,” you say.

Something flickers over his face like heat lightning, too quick for you to comprehend. You think you might have disappointed him.

You turn your gaze away. It lands on a picture frame placed face-down. You suck in a deep breath. Before you can stop them, the tears are burning behind your eyes, starting to trickle down your cheeks. You scrub at them with one hand.

“Sorry,” you say to Kita.

“S’alright,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, even as another tear trickles down to pool salty on your tongue.

He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between the two of you. He waits.

You nod.

He cups your cheek and sweeps his thumb under your eye. His touch has the same aching tenderness of a fresh, swollen bruise. You lean into his palm, keeping your eyes on his, your cheeks hot as he smiles at you sadly.

He wipes away the tears before pulling back. You can see the gleam of them on his thumb.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Course.”

You scrub away the remains of the tears and then blow out a big breath. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

Kita studies you for a moment. You don’t know what he sees in your face, but he nods, giving you a soft smile. “Sure.”

“Great,” you say, pushing to your feet. “You choose.”

“If you want,” he says, standing as well and heading towards the living room. “No complaining, though.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll be there in a minute,” you call after him, leaning down to turn off the kotatsu. You tuck the comforter in, tidying it up lightly. You nod to yourself. When you turn around, you pause for a moment, your gaze settling on the face-down picture frame.

It’s a photo you know well, one of you and Takao on the beach, the ocean a vast expanse behind you, glittering with the searing blue of the tropics. You’re caught mid-laugh as Takao plants a kiss on your cheek. It’s always been a favorite.

Before you leave the room, you stand the picture frame back up.

***

You drop Kita off at the train station early the next day. You breathe him in as you hug him goodbye, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He tightens his grip around you with a little laugh.

“I’ll come to the farm in spring,” you tell him. “I promise.”

“Good.”

You wave goodbye as he enters the train station; he glances back right before he disappears through the doors. Something warm blooms in you. It settles in your stomach and flutters there.

When you’ve made it home, you pull out your phone. You settle onto the edge of the couch as it rings, your shoulders stiff.

It rings until the voicemail clicks on and Takao’s voice floods your ears. You close your eyes as his voicemail message plays, letting his voice wash over you like a summer storm, a warm, sweet rain. You listen to Takao talk, relearning the cadence of his voice, the way it rises and falls, the way his tongue curls around words. You hadn’t realized how much of it you’d forgotten.

“Hi,” you say when the tone beeps. “I miss you.”

You’re quiet for a moment; the line carries on, reflecting you breathing back to yourself.

“Shinsuke just left,” you say. “Aoshi—I think I like him. More than I ever thought I could. Is that alright?”

The line is silent.

“I didn’t mean to like him,” you say. “I really didn’t. But he’s good, Aoshi. He’s so good.”

You sniffle.

“I don’t know what to do,” you murmur. “I don’t know how to leave you behind. But I think—I think he’s okay with that. I just—it feels like giving in. Like our choice, the one we made over and over again, was for nothing.”

You take in a deep, steadying breath.

“I know that’s not true. I know that our choice was for everything. That it never really was a choice in the first place, not for me.”

“I just—I really think I like him, Aoshi. Is that alright? Please tell me it’s alright.”

The voicemail beeps; you’ve hit the end of the time you can record. You hang up and bury your face in your hands.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

You lay back on the couch, rubbing at your eyes with the heels of your hands. You curl in on yourself.

You grab your phone and dial again.

“Hi.”

“Natsumi.”

“Oh, shit, no nickname, that’s not a good sign.”

“I think I like Shinsuke.”

She pauses. “Is that a bad thing?” she asks gently.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“It just—”

“Feels like giving in?”

“...Yeah. Was this always going to happen?”

“Maybe,” she says. “But maybe not. You don’t have to be with him, you know. If you don’t want to, that is.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“I think you do,” she says gently.

“I don’t, Nat-chan.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me put it this way: is your only issue with Kita the fact that he’s your soulmate?”

“He’s not Aoshi.”

“No one is going to be Aoshi. You know that.”

“I do.”

“Liking Kita isn’t giving up on Aoshi. It’s not leaving him behind. It’s just moving forward. You’ll bring him with you no matter what, no matter how far forward you move,” she says, and you bite at your bottom lip until you can taste blood.

“I don’t want to be with my soulmate just because they’re my soulmate.”

“Do you really think you might like Kita just because he’s your soulmate?”

“...No.”

“It’s not bad to like him,” she says, not unkindly. “You’re not bad for liking him because of who he is.”

“I don’t even know if I really like him.”

“Sweetheart,” Abe says, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you didn’t.”

You go quiet. As her words settle in, you glance out the window. The snow on the ground is still pristine; it glimmers under the bleak winter sunlight. The neighborhood children are starting to stomp through it. They’re bundled up tight, practically waddling as they play. You take a deep breath.

“Maybe you’re right,” you say.

“I don’t know how many times I have to say that I always am before you believe me.”

“You’re wrong way too much for me to believe that.”

“Don’t be mean!”

You smile. “Thanks, Nat-chan,” you say softly.

“Any time,” she says. “You’ll figure it out.”

As you hang up, you know that you will.

***

Winter melts into spring.

The snow gives way to crocuses, which bloom like bruises, deep purple with stamen peeking shyly out of the center. The trees come to life, budding quickly, little specks of green dotted along the branches like stars.

And on the farm, there are ducklings, tiny and fluffy, their down pollen-yellow.

“Oh, Shin,” you say as he hands you one, dropping it carefully into your hands. It peeps its protest before snuggling up in your palm like a tiny sun. “I love them.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich. “I thought you might. Do you wanna name ‘em?”

“Really? You’ll let me?”

“Course.”

“I’ll have to think of good ones,” you say. “Can I have a few days?”

“Take as much time as you need,” he says. “They’re not going anywhere.”

You nuzzle up against the one in your hand; it peeps again, as if grumbling at you. When you glance at Kita, he has a fond smile playing on his lips.

He takes you around on some of his other chores. There are seedlings in the garden, tiny little things just barely poking out of the ground, a promise of green growth. You water them carefully, wary of their thin, delicate stems.

Finally, you find yourself back in Kita’s genkan. Your boots—a pair of his, really, laced tightly to keep them on—are muddy, so you stop just inside the door. You’re leaning down to untie the boots when Kita kneels before you.

“Shin…” you say and he glances back up at you with mischief in his smile. You decide it’s not worth it to try and stop him.

He makes quick work of the laces with his deft fingers. You watch his bent head quietly, taking in the thunderstorm gray of it, edged with blackened clouds. You catch yourself before you run your fingers through it.

“Up,” he says. You steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you step out of first boot; he wraps his hand around your wrist.

It’s not long before both boots are off. Before you can even start to move, Kita has your house slippers in hand. He takes your ankle in his big hand, waiting for you to lift your foot so he can slip on the first slipper.

You almost balk. But he looks up at you with his keen amber eyes and you can’t help yourself. You lift your foot and he slides the slipper into place. He does the same thing with the second slipper.

“Thanks,” you say, cheeks hot.

He nods. He pushes to his feet, a graceful ripple of motion, and tilts his head at you. “Lunch?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “That sounds good.”

You cook together with ease. You know his kitchen by heart now, able to pull pans from their place without looking, knowing which of his fresh herbs to clip without double-checking with him.

It makes something in you ache.

Kita returns to the fields after lunch. You choose to not go with him, deciding instead to curl up on the engawa with a book. You settle into place with your book on your lap and stare out into the countryside.

It’s just beginning to go green with the flooded paddies glinting in the sun, a false ocean. The water glimmers with movement as the breeze rolls over you. A stork prowls through the paddies, long and elegant, moving with slow precision. Its beak flashes as it darts down to snap up some little creature. It takes off after that, spreading its wings wide and soaring into the blue expanse of the sky. You watch until it’s no more than a dot in the vastness.

You curl up and start reading and don’t notice when evening starts to fall. That’s where Kita finds you when he comes home from the fields. You hadn’t even noticed his truck trundling up the driveway.

“Hi,” you say as he comes up on the engawa, marking your place and getting to your feet.

“Hi,” he replies. “Have you been here all afternoon?”

“How’d you know?”

“Just a guess.”

You eye him, trying to figure out what’s given you away. Kita stays stoic, as if carved from stone, and you huff.

You follow him inside, kicking off your outside shoes before he can even try to kneel, and hop up from the genkan. As usual he goes to shower, ready to rinse off the fields. You keep reading.

He comes padding back into the kitchen a while later with a towel wound around his neck. His hair is still damp and you can see a cowlick curling at the back of his head. His tan skin glistens.

“Dinner?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “What do you want to make?”

You discuss your options in front of the fridge, crowded in next to each other to see what he has. He’s still warm from the shower. You press closer to him and see him glance at you from the corner of his eye. He smiles, soft and sweet, and turns his attention back to the fridge.

Eventually, you finally decide. Kita hands you a handful of carrots and you start to julienne them thinly, your knife—perfectly sharp, the most well-maintained kitchen knife you’ve ever seen—flashing in the light.

He starts halving baby bok choy, little gems of green and white. The pan hisses when he drops them in, giving it a good toss before he moves on to his next task.

“Is it really okay for me to be here during such a busy season?” you ask.

He glances at you. “I wouldn’t invite ya if it wasn’t a good time.”

“True.”

“Besides, I told you there was always a place here for you, and I meant it.”

Your cheeks heat. “I know.”

“Good.”

Quiet falls, broken only by the sound of your knife against the board and the hiss of the pan as Kita stirs it again. It’s comfortable, though, and you feel no need to fill the air. The two of you cook away, moving around each other easily in his small kitchen, as if it’s a dance you’ve always known.

It’s comforting in a way you’d almost forgotten.

You take a deep breath, your stomach churning a bit, and Kita glances over at you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Just tired.”

He smiles softly. “If you wanna go to bed early, I don’t mind.”

“We’ll see,” you tell him. “Now finish up, I’m hungry.”

He laughs, but the two of you are done cooking not long after. You settle down to eat. You tell him some ideas you’ve had to name the ducks (“Duck is a perfectly good name, Shin!” “If ya say so.”) and he tells you about his day. It’s peaceful. Easy.

You’ve just finished eating when you reach out and cover Kita’s hand with your own. “Shin,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Fer what?”

You shrug, unable to put the jumble inside you into words.

He turns his hand over under yours and laces your fingers together. You don’t pull away.

“Yer always thankin’ me,” he says softly. “You don’t need to.”

“I do, though.”

“You don’t.”

You look at him. He meets your gaze easily, amber eyes gone whiskey-dark. He gives your hand a little squeeze.

“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” he says.

You squeeze back. “I will, though.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue.

For another moment, you both sit there, hands intertwined. You watch each other. You can feel the strength in his fingers and the hint of sweat on his palm. It’s warm and solid and real. Something in your chest stirs.

You’re the one that pulls back first, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Kita lets you go without a word.

The rest of dinner is quiet; you both go to your rooms early, influenced by Kita’s schedule. You murmur a soft goodnight in the hallway. You can still hear him when you’re in the guest room, listening to him rustling around before it all goes silent.

You gaze out the guest room window, taking in the rising moon. It’s waxing, almost full-bellied with light, pouring over the fields. It reflects off the water of the flooded paddies, a distorted mirror of itself. Under the moonlight, the fields go silvery, delicate and gossamer as they start to come to life. It’s beautiful in a foreign way.

You curl up on the bed with your book, texting Yoshikawa and Abe here and there as your phone lights up. When the moon is high in the sky, you finally get ready for bed.

You fall asleep thinking about the weight of Kita’s hand in your own.

***

Something shifts between you.

It’s slow like a dune in the wind, the sand taking on a new shape, but neither of you have mentioned it. Maybe you don’t need to. Maybe it’s all said in each fleeting glance, a language written in the amber of Kita’s gaze.

The days pass in a flicker of quiet moments. You spend a morning naming the ducklings, tucked in close to Kita’s side so he can see which one you’re pointing to. You repeat yourself as he takes them in, his brow furrowed as he notes the name for each nearly-identical duckling.

Some days you join him in the fields, kneeling down into the muck to sow a shoot into place. He guides you with careful hands, his warm fingers wrapped firmly around yours. You eat lunch in the bed of his truck, mud flaking off of your boots, and bask in the spring sun.

It’s easy. It’s terrifying.

You think of the taste of ozone, how it crackles on your tongue. The slow, sharp bite of it.

You know something will give. That the storm will break over you and change everything in its path.

You think you might finally be ready for it.

***

You come awake with a jolt.

The sheets stick to you, caught in the layer of sweat accumulating on you. You sit up and press a hand to your heart, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings.

Once you’ve regained your breath, you stumble over to the window and pull it open. The countryside breeze billows inside. It still carries the sharp bite of winter, but it’s mellowed under spring’s tender bloom. You close your eyes and let it flow over you.

The breeze cools you, your sweat going tacky before it dries down completely. The dream rolls over you again and you shudder.

You find yourself padding down the hallway without realizing it. You stop just in front of the door. You tug at your lower lip with your teeth before taking a deep breath.

You knock gently on the door and then open it.

“Shin?” you whisper.

The lump on the bed stirs. Kita pushes up onto his elbows. He’s bathed in moonlight, his hair haloed silver, the dark tips a moon’s eclipse. He’s bleary-eyed but he focuses on you instantly.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Bad dream.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate.

“That bad?”

You shake your head. “I just…can I lay with you for a bit? Is that okay?” you ask, heart in your throat. You need to know he’s still here. That he’s real.

His eyes widen before they go soft. He pulls back the covers and scoots over to give you more room. You’re across the room in an instant, slipping onto the futon. It’s still warm with his body heat and you shiver, goosebumps dancing across your skin.

You keep a small distance between you when you lay down, but you let your head turn towards him. He’s still up on one elbow, the muscles in his bicep bunched with it, and he’s studying you carefully.

He’s handsome, you realize, not for the first time. He’s sleep-rumpled, his hair messy and ruffled and his shirt wrinkled and bunched up just enough to show off a silver of his paler belly. The moonlight plays over him like a lover, lingering on the arch of his cheekbones and the dusting of freckles sprayed over his nose. His thick lashes flutter as he blinks, showcasing eyes gone golden, and you almost sigh.

He lies back down when you don’t move. The space between the two of you is small but it feels massive, a gulf between your two bodies, separating the shores of you.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You shake your head.

He reaches out and hesitates halfway, his big hand hovering in the air. In the moonlight, the constellation of his scars is more visible, little nicks and cuts that gleam bone-white in the light.

“Can I?” he asks.

Your nod is tiny; the sheets crinkle with it.

He cups your cheek. His palm is rough against your skin but he’s careful with it, touches you as if you’re made of glass. It’s almost reverent. He sweeps his thumb across the apple of your cheek.

“What did you dream of?” he breathes.

“You.”

“Me?”

“I couldn’t find you,” you murmur, leaning into his touch. “I looked and looked, but you weren’t there.”

“I’m here now.”

You hum.

“I’m here now,” he says again and it sounds like a promise.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “You are.”

You shift on the futon. The sheets smell of him, of the faintest hint of the salt of his skin and his soap, and you close your eyes to let it envelop you. You nestle down into the pillow with a little yawn.

“Go back to bed,” Kita murmurs, caressing your cheek with careful fingers. “You’ll be tired in the morning.”

You stir under his touch, opening one eye. He’s watching you, his amber eyes unbearably fond, and something in you pangs. You press closer to him; he radiates a gentle warmth and you relax into it.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask quietly. “Please?”

You pretend to not hear the way his breath catches.

“You sure?” he asks.

You press closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“Yes.”

“You’re gonna regret it when my alarm goes off at dawn,” Kita says, a smile written in his sleep-rough voice.

“I won’t,” you say. “Promise.”

He hums skeptically.

“Maybe you’ll regret it,” you whisper into the salt of his skin. “You might.”

He stills, and then he’s coaxing you up to look at him. His eyes gleam in the dim, a flash of amber, of the richness of the earth. He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours.

“No,” he says. “I could never regret you.”

He always hears what you can’t quite bring yourself to say.

“Never?”

He nudges his nose against yours.

“Never.”

His breath stirs against your lips, and you take it in, make it your own. You sway closer, undulating like kelp, half-dizzy with it, and then you sway closer still.

He waits for you.

(He always has.)

When you kiss him, it’s simple. It feels right.

Kita sighs into it, one big hand coming up to cup your face, his rough palm reverent against your skin. There’s no urgency to him; he’s honey-slow with it, melting into you under the cover of night.

You kiss him again, and again, like the tide against the shore, lapping at the edges of him until you’re etched into his skin. He meets you each time, sweet and steady.

You kiss him until he is all you know, and then you kiss him once more.

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until he sweeps his thumb over your cheekbone.

You part your lips, and he presses a little kiss against them before he pulls back. In the dim, his amber eyes have gone whiskey-dark, deep and heady.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

You press your face into the warm crook of his neck again. He smells of plain soap and a lingering hint of citronella from the fields, sweet and stinging. You breathe him in, let the scent of him settle into you, a part of him to carry always.

Kita curls a gentle arm around you.

“Go to sleep,” he breathes, and you pull back to look at him. He watches you, his vulpine eyes unbearably fond, and he smiles against your lips when you kiss him again.

He cups your cheek and pulls you into a deeper kiss before he backs away. He sweeps his lips against yours in a chaste peck and says again, “Go to sleep.”

“Fine,” you murmur. You curl up into him as his breath starts to even out. You listen to the tide of it, the ebb and flow, a balm against a bruise you’ll always have, and close your eyes knowing that he’s right there.

You wake to the quiet beep of his alarm clock. He rises from bed with quicksilver ease, the thick muscles of his back rippling under his sleep shirt. It’s barely dawn; wan light filters in through the curtains like an azure sea, outlining him faintly as he moves around the room. He looks like something out of a painting, sketched out in broad strokes of soft shadows.

He looks too good to be true.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs as you shift on the futon. His sheets are well-worn, the type of broken in that comes with years of use and careful care. “It’s early.”

Instead, you get up with him, slipping out from beneath the warmth of the comforter with a soft sigh. Kita gives you a little smile, a crescent moon tilt of his lips, and your cheeks heat. You glance away and hear him huff out a laugh.

He disappears into the bathroom, and you make up the futon, smoothing your hands over the wrinkles until they disappear.

By the time he pads into the kitchen, the old coffeemaker is hissing and gurgling, spitting out a steady drip of liquid. He brushes by you to get a mug, his hand warm on your lower back as he sidles past. The heat of him lingers.

The two of you eat breakfast in a comfortable silence. He slides his portion of your favorite onto your plate without a word; you push your share of pickled daikon into one of his small kobachi dishes. He says nothing,, but his lips quirk at the edges, the faintest hint of a sweet smile.

He gets up when you’re both finished, pushing to his feet in one fluid movement. His muscles coil with it, going taut beneath his tanned skin. It’s more distracting than you thought it would be.

You peer at him from the corner of your eyes as he starts to clear the table. He moves with careful intent, his big hands steady against the delicate porcelain.

You want to kiss him again.

Instead, you get to your feet and finish clearing the table, handing him dishes when he gestures for them. You wash the dishes together. Over the whisper of the running water, you talk about your upcoming day, trying to decide if you’ll be able to eat lunch together as well. You can’t quite keep the smile from your lips.

When the dishes are put away, you walk with him onto the engawa. He cups your cheek, sweeping his thumb over the arch of your cheekbone, and smiles.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

“I’ll be here,” you say, soft and full of promise, and his eyes crinkle with his smile.

You watch from the engawa as he disappears into the distance, into the paddies, swallowed up by the verdant world he’s created with his own hands. He glances back at you once, just before he disappears from sight.

You raise your face to the gentle warmth of the rising sun.

It’s a new day.

#kita x reader #kita shinsuke x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #bee writes hq!!#.lbgtm

145 notes · View notes