#The whole point of him starting out in a little suit is to give off that sort of 'Oh I'm that big intimidating guy who nearly destroyed-
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Me when Bill has to spend a dozen or so chapters in a dumb little suit and he can't start experimenting with Lost and Found outfits until later
#Hayley Writes Triangulum#The whole point of him starting out in a little suit is to give off that sort of 'Oh I'm that big intimidating guy who nearly destroyed-#-the entire universe' feeling you'd usually get from other human versions of him#Even if he's stuck as a teenager; imagine Bipper 2.0 getting plopped on your front lawn and the first thing he does when he wakes up-#-is start cackling maniacally#And you knew EXACTLY who he was as a result#Even if he's a kid; that's still intimidating#...Until you clunk him over the head with a bat and knock him out (thank you Wendy)#But STILL!!#The suit is SYMBOLIC to a degree; in that Bill is still trying to be that intimidating figure#Also he needs it for an exhibit he's going to be a part of#It also acts as a double-edged sword; it's just another way he's trapped in a situation#But it's not until later when he can start experimenting with his own style and wear other clothes#And feel a bit more free as he also starts rediscovering himself#(And also being less of a dick hopefully)
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cw: 18+, missionary, choso helps you while you cum. oh, size kink implied.
an: these cramps are making me feral for my big boys. and im finna post some fluff so no worries.
“p-papa cant take it!” you cry, head digging into the pillow and you tap at his hips, but your hand gets shooed away. he doesn’t respond, biting his lip as he try to conceal his moans.
he digs his knees into the mattress, grounding himself to get deeper inside you. he snaps his hips forward, eliciting a moan from you as you whine a bit. this was too much for your poor brain, nonetheless your body. you try to push yourself upward, hoping that you could get a chance–
“stop runnin’, mama..” he says hushed, following you in suite. god fucking-
“kami, baby!” you drag out the ‘y’. your close to coming undone, but hes been pent up.
choso wasnt much of a growler, surprisingly. but when he was needy.. thats a different story. the actual need to fuck you was there. yeah, hes growling by now. he’s trying his best to hold out, to make you remember each and every vein of his cock inside of your walls. he slams a hand onto the headboard, giving your legs availability to wrap around his waist.
“fuuck!” you cry, hands pushing at his chest. “baby im sorry!” you moan out, hoping hed let you cum earlier.
“why are you sorry, mama?” he questions, looking deep into your eyes as he slowly rolls his hips in and out of your sloppy cunt. he hears the slick of your cunt and his cock alone, and the heavy breathing of you both.
“catchin’ an attitude..” you whine out, trying to roll your hips up into him. he presses down on your hip, stopping you. “baby please..”
“and what else.” he asks, well, wasnt really a question.
“callin’ you a bitch..” you sigh out, sounding defeated. you give him your pleading eyes, hoping he’d let it slide and he doesnt have to neglect your orgasm. “promise itll never happen again, i swear!”
“nah, im a bitch right?” he mocks, dumping his cock into your cervix again. you jolt in pleasure, then he snaps his hips to get your attention. “am i? considering the fact that mines is begging for this dick?” he says, harsh but soft.
“n-no! fuck, baby, no!” you say, trying to press into him. again, what were you thinking? “please choso, i wont ever do it again!” you plead, and he seems satisfied.
“yeah? you wont?” he mocks again, thrusting harder into your gummy spot that had you seeing stars. he looks down to see your pussy, and rubs your clit. “shits’ so fuckin’ creamy, mama.. you finna cum, ain’t you?” he asks, watching your face contort into many different faces.
“mhm!” you nod, back arching off the bed as soon as he started rubbing your puffy, aroused clit.
“yeah, mama? cum for me.” he says, rubbing your clit faster in circles and hes digging his cock into your womb at this very point. “you wanna be my good girl again?” he asks.
you nod, frantically.
he nods back at you, “so cum for me.. be my good little girl again.” he says, getting close to your ear as he fucks you almost from your side, while rubbing small circles on your clit. “do it ‘fer me, cmon.. look so fucking good. tell me when you’re gunna cum, okay?”
you nod, feeling your tummy tighten and you reach your hand out to tap three times. your “im gonna cum” taps were always in threes, and he took the cake with figuring that. he suckles on the skin of your shoulder, body becoming too sensitive.
you let out a cry, feeling the coil in your stomach snap and you squeal, “there you goo..” choso says through your squeals, “thats it.. oh im so proud of your, baby. my big girl.” he praises, wrapping his hands on your thighs and panting.
the thing with choso, he was always a pleasure dom. so once youre cumming, hes only a heartbeat away from you.
“jesus—shit!” he growls out through his tight teeth, spilling his own load inside you. “fuck—take my fucking cum!” he thrusts on each word, finally exhaling. he lays on top of you, practically covering your whole body.
“my precious girl.” he whispers in your ear, kissing your cheek. “was i too hard on you?” he asks, eyes looking down at you.
“nuh uh.. you were just fine.” you reassure, causing him to smile.
“good. maybe next time i should go harder.” he suggests, wrapping his arms around you as he lays next to you. “dont go nowhere, just lay here with me.”
no objections to that, love.
#choso x black!reader#choso x you#choso fluff#choso smut#kamo choso#jujutsu kaisen choso#choso kamo#choso x reader#jjk choso#jujustsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu sorcerer#jjk fanfic#jjk spoilers#jjk x you#jjk x reader#jjk fluff#jjk smut#jjk#jujutsu kaisen
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Lemon.
Word count: 13k+
You decide that you don’t quite like Balls (get your head out of the gutter).
Music: odd. Yes, it’s a fancy mansion—5 floors, the works… But you don’t know how to feel about the sole pianist in the centre of the foyer, the one that’s playing some classical piece that has the people around you murmuring about his technique and sound (whatever the hell either of those meant).
People: you don’t know a good half of them. Scratch that—it’s a sea of strangers
Drinks: strong, way too fucking strong for your liking. The drinks are free of charge, and the bartender clearly didn’t shake this Pina Colada well, but you have to drink it if you want to even try and get into the mood of the party. Around you, men in posh suits and women in flamboyant dresses skirt each other, talk to each other with placid smiles—hoodwinking each other with their highfalutin laughs and smiles to establish connections that probably won’t matter in a couple of days. The only person you’ve talked to tonight is the bartender, and that was just to order your drink.
This whole place stinks of capitalism, and you feel out of place in your cheaper suit and dress shoes. On your right, some guy is talking about how bitcoin and blockchain will make a grand return, some lady is gossiping about the latest Gucci handbag on your left. In front of you, a man and a woman are clearly flirting with each other, bashful grins on their faces as they hold their fancy drinks in their hands and talk about god knows what. You’re wondering if you should ask for a straw from the bartender just to dip your toes in social interaction.
Wonder why Cinderella was so hot on attending a Ball, thing seems pretty bland to me, you’re thinking, watching the tip of the ice that was shaped like an iceberg melt away and sink beneath the surface of your margarita. Some guy in a tux comes by, orders two glasses of Prosecco—one for him, one for the woman next to him. He’s talking loudly, disrupting your peace and quiet. Your solution: move seats.
From a distance—two chairs away from your original seat—you watch as he takes the two glasses from the hands of the bartender, hands one to the woman, then clinks his glass with hers. He’s preternaturally genteel, and you’d know because you recognised him as the guy that got slapped at the start of this whole thing because he grabbed the ass of someone’s wife. Impropriety, but it’s the behaviour of the newfangled rich.
Now he’s bragging about his car. Nissan GTR fitted with this engine, this ventilation, blah, blah… Whatever it is he’s saying, the woman’s having none of it. You’re no psychologist, but you can tell that she wants to get out of a conversation; her smile is awfully sweet, but you can see that she’s silently importuring him to shut his trap—her eyes give it all away. You pity her, silently sending her your best wishes as the man grabs her by the arm and leads her back into the sea of people. Personally, you’d be screaming if you were in her shoes.
(Off to your left, just at the edge of your vision, you see your boss talking to a woman. She’s getting touchy, really touchy and really flirty; her hand’s on his thigh, fuck me eyes out to play and on full display—A trite tactic used by these types of women to get lucky with a rich man at these type of events. Luckily for her, your boss is quick to bite on to such bait. God bless them both.)
For the record: you’ve never really enjoyed Balls or anything of the ilk, because quite frankly speaking, you’d much rather burrow up in your bed at home and binge Kimini ni Todoke till you were giggling and squealing like a little schoolgirl. Maybe I’m still young, I’ll learn to like these types of events later on, you tell yourself, I’ll need connections at some point, maybe I should start—
A sickly sweet fragrance crawls up your nostrils, truncating all thought. Perfume, you’re quick to identify, and then you’re aware of the presence of someone on your right. Your grip on your glass grows tighter in the slightest; you’re praying—Please just be ordering a drink, please be ordering a drink.
Frankly, you don’t know why you’d ever think anyone would talk to you, an unimportant cog that just tagged along with his boss because he had nothing better to do. Irrational fears are really a funny thing.
Sharp, clear, resonant—three words that came to mind when you heard the voice of the person next to you, the voice that delivered the simplest of orders: Yamazaki. I want it neat.
Your first thought is, Damn… Neat Whisky? Someone’s having a horrible night, as you turn your face away from her (if you couldn’t see her, she wouldn’t be able to see you, right?). And just as you’re wondering if she’s gonna take her drink and leave, your question is answered by the soft creak and even softer rustle of shifting fabric from your right. You bristle.
The glass makes a sound against the wood as it’s gently placed down on the table.
(Now would be an excellent time for a subtitle to come in, one that states in square brackets: Awkward silence.)
You can hear her swirling the liquid around in her glass. Fuck, now this is awkward… You’re thinking, and then you’re wondering if you should just get up and leave, absquatulate, skedaddle—any word that can convey the act of disappearing in an instant—right out of there. But as you start to slide your butt off the chair, that voice rings out once more.
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
She doesn’t know how her simple sentence has caged you in the most challenging position (to you at least). Now you’re sliding your ass back into the bar stool and you turn and face her—
(Now that you’re looking at her, your second thought about her comes in: God, she’s beautiful. Dark brown hair that falls just past her shoulders like velvet curtains, soft yet somehow piercing eyes, a smile that makes you feel fuzzy all over—probably one of the most attractive women you’ll ever meet. She’s the woman from earlier, the woman that you saw smiling and nodding placidly to that guy who got her the Prosecco. She must’ve found a way to slip away, and she has your full respect for that.)
—and you find that you’re drumming your nails against the base of your glass.
“Shy, huh?” she’s throwing out a guess, watching as the Whisky in her glass slowly swirls to a stop inside the chilled glass. “It’s been a while since I met a shy man. You’re a breath of fresh air.”
You shift in the stool, and your first instinct is to ask her if you two had met before. It’s only after that last syllable leaves your mouth that you realise how stupid of a question it is. You don’t know her, and judging by the fact that she hasn’t called you by your name: she doesn’t know you either. You let her decide whether to oust you as a fool as she scans you up and down.
(Update on your boss and that woman: She’s kissing him now, full on making out. It’s an unsettling sight to behold, and you attribute your queasiness to the fact that they’ve somehow found they’re way behind the woman you're talking to. Your boss doesn't see you; you choose not to see him. God bless them both.)
“Well… Considering that you don’t look the least bit familiar,” she sets the glass down, “and that you haven’t been introduced to me like some product by a crusty, old man… I think it’s safe to say that we’re.”
Now her eyes are on your drink. What are you drinking this fine night? She’s asking, using her chin to gesture towards your Pina Colada. You tell her exactly what it is, and she cringes slightly. They say Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, I say it doesn’t belong fucking anywhere. Oust it as a fruit! she’s telling you, making sure to add a little more emphasis on the word “oust” as she couches her firm belief, something you find rather hilarious considering that it’s your first meeting with her. She sips the Whisky, grimaces a bit, then sets the glass back down to say, we skipped past a lot of formalities, didn’t we?
And here comes the part of talking to strangers that you’re the most comfortable with—Introductions. You think that it is safe to assume that just about anyone would find saying hello and telling someone your occupation much easier than holding up a conversation, what more with a beautiful woman like her. You give her your name, tell her what you do for a living, the usual stuff. She listens, the gleam in her eyes that comes when you’re done talking ever so enigmatic and cryptic.
“Lawyer huh?” She’s playing with her glass again, “considering were we are right now, I really shouldn’t be this surprised… Yet I am. Little shy for a guy dealing clients on the daily, no?”
Somehow, by the grace of some supernatural force (you call it alcohol), you crack your first joke of the night—I know. The most I ever talked is in court—and you’re relieved that she’s kind enough to humour you (or maybe she really does find it funny. You’ll never know), and gives you an elegant chortle, one that makes your hair stand at their ends as your third thought about her goes through your mind: even her laugh is attractive. Is there anything wrong with this woman?
And when she tells you her name, you realise why she seems to be exuding this inexplicable aura; Minatozaki Sana, pleasure to meet you, she introduces herself with a generous amount of pizzaz. You’re scanning her up and down at this point, and only now do you take in the expensive dress that dons her slender frame, the same dress that’s accompanied by a glimmering necklace and earrings, 3 rings on her middle, index and ring finger respectively.
“You’re…” you begin.
“The host’s daughter? Yes.”
Now you’re at a loss for words. Well uh… It’s an honour to meet you, is what you plan on saying, but it comes out as a simple, more blunt manner: Oh damn. Sana’s giggling to herself, swirling her Whisky as she watches you struggle to find things to say to her.
“I take it that you don’t come around here often?” she asks. When you raise an eyebrow, she explains how her father hosts a Ball like this every other month to try and find her a “suitor”. Apparently, 27 years old is “too old” to still be single, so my Dad just gets a bunch of men together and parades me around, she’s carping. The glimmering chandeliers, the array of drinks and food, the vanity of all these people; the dazzling marble floor, the glass sculptures, the embroidered tablecloths; this event, in all its glory and prestige, is all about her.
Christ, you’re thinking to yourself, money really gets you to places, huh?
Now she’s explaining how some of the people here are frequent visitors. Mothers and their sons, fathers and their sons, young business men, old business men, middle aged businessman; whoever can afford to come to this lavish Ball—all of them frequent this mansion like moths to a flame, all looking for a chance to ingratiate with the Minatozakis so that maybe, just maybe, they get a chance to get Sana’s hand in marriage. It’s a glorified yet obsolete form of Tinder really.
(Your boss is nowhere in sight now, and you’re pretty sure that the two of them have gone off somewhere to get it on. Maybe this event isn’t just about Sana, it’s about finding a rich person that can spoil you for the rest of your life too. God bless everyone here.)
“So what brings a man like yourself here this fine night?” She seems oddly interested in you (and also very hot on using this fine night as well apparently). You give her the truth that carries your watered down emotions in your tone—My boss asked me to tag along. Apparently all attendees were to bring a male plus one.
Sana chuckles, but it’s one of bitterness.
“So Dad’s reverted to these tactics huh?” you hear her whisper before taking an alarming large gulp of Whisky. She swallows, then sighs, “wonder what he’ll do next… Maybe an arranged marriage?”
Past the frustration and utter disappointment, there’s amusement in her voice. It tells you: if I could, I’d kill my Dad. It’s more of an inference from your end than a message that you’re sure that she’s trying to imply. You always had a bad habit of reading between the lines—probably picked it up from your job.
Sana downs the rest of the Whisky in a flash, wincing as the alcohol burns her throat. She scratches her nose, then turns to you and asks, “say, you don’t look like you want to be here, and neither do I.”
Behind you, you can hear the voice of a man approaching. He’s talking to someone—my daughter should like you very much, you seem like a man that suits her taste—and Sana bristles. Her father, you deduce, noting the way that the woman before you is searching around for an exit. Then you blink, and in that split second, she grabs your hand.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Just like that, you’re running through a crowd of people, spewing a million-and-one apologies as you jostle your way through the crowd, in tow behind a woman you've known for a grand total of 5 minutes.
A very unlikely start to a romance really.
*
Now the gears in your head are whirring, your stomach’s churning—there’s no other way to describe how you feel when Sana’s looking at you like that from across the table: small smile, a slight gleam behind those eyes, hand under her chin and fingers tapping against her cheek… She’s got you in perdition just with a look. You’re a guy of relatively taciturn nature, and the last time you went on a date was in university. That date went horribly, and now you’re wondering if this one was gonna go up in flames as well. Your brain urges you to say something to her, but your mouth seems to be sewn shut.
On the other hand, Sana’s poised as ever. “What’s wrong?” she’s cocking her head and pouting slightly, “nervous?”
You're not ashamed to admit that you indeed are, and that you’ve never really gone out on dates in a long time. Sana seems tickled by this—It’s been a while since I’ve seen a shy man. I like it, she tells you—and assures you that she won’t bite. In fact, she’s glad that you’re quiet and not rambling off about some business venture. She tells you, I don’t recall the last time I’ve been with a guy like you, though I’d appreciate it if you assist me in starting some conversation, and you’re slightly ashamed of your reticence.
There’s a gleam in her eyes when you start asking her some questions on her personal life, and she finds it congenial to gesticulate in a moderate manner as she answers your questions. Her outgoing nature leaves you flummoxed, and there’s barely enough space in your brain to remember everything she tells you about herself. Born in Osaka, likes yoghurt smoothies, likes to take walks in the park, likes this, likes that… You vaguely remember her telling you this on the night that the two of you escaped that event.
(To jog your own memory: She took you to the garden, where the two of you spent the rest of the night strolling amongst shrubs and other greenery that thrived in Spring. The Pina Colada in your system allowed you to hold a conversation, one that lasted long enough for her to take a liking to you. At the end of it all, she gets your number, you get her’s, and a date’s been settled in some french restaurant she patronises.)
“Now, I don’t expect you to remember all of this,” she’s watching the wine leave streaks against the glass, “but if you do, I believe you're entitled to some extra points.”
“Points?” you’re keen on inquiring, “we’re keeping a scoreboard?”
Sana simply smiles. For asking that question, minus 2 from you, is her answer—not a very good one if you were to be blunt. You can’t suppress a chuckle as you take a sip from your own wine.
Unwittingly, Sana has eased you into her presence. It suddenly feels like you’ve known her forever (if forever meant 2 weeks that is).
A smooth start to a relationship if you do say so yourself.
*
“Sana, there’s people out there.”
“I know.”
“They might hear us.”
“I know.”
“We could get caught.”
“We won’t.”
It’s the confidence in her voice that irks you really. The lack of hesitance combined with the sheer lack of shame towards the fact that anyone outside the changing room in this damn Prada store could easily raise a phone over the door and start recording. It’s not that she’s not cognizant of this, but more of the fact that she doesn’t give two shits if someone captures a video of her blowing you in this dressing room. Shameless, aplomb, obstinate, are the three words that come to mind when dealing with Sana at the given moment, but there’s no energy in you to convey this to her, not when she wraps her lips around your cock. The outfits that she chose remain untouched behind her, fabrics still in light while the person that chose them remains active on her knees.
(Almost a year. Almost a year the two of you have been dating. You thought you’d learned all there is to know about her, yet she’s hitting you with new facts and surprises every day, left, right, and centre. There are probably many more things that you have yet to figure out, but they’ll all come to light in due time.)
Really, it’s on you for not exercising due diligence upon entering the store; you should’ve known better from the moment you saw that look in her eyes while she was looking at a dress. But there’s nothing you can do about it now, not when she’s already enraptured you with that damn gaze—the one that exudes want and lust, the one that’s the leaven to your morality in her eyes. She knows that she’s got you wrapped around her finger when your hand rests itself atop of her head as she slowly bobs her head over your crotch. She’s taking her time despite the situation that she’s placed the both of you in.
“This has always been on my bucket list,” she’s letting her hand run along your shaft, spreading her saliva with each stroke of her palm. Her nails, freshly done just over 2 hours ago, glisten under the light—partially because of her spit and partly because of the gloss. “Everything about this is just so… Eroctic, isn’t it?”
Christ, she’s really into this thrill-seeking thing, you note as you choke out a reply: Not particularly, but whatever floats your boat Sana (obviously, it doesn’t come out as smooth as it should. No one would be able to get out a full sentence with phonics properly strung together if they too were getting blown in a changing room). She’s got a glint in her eye, but it’s covered by your shaft as she slides her tongue down your cock, nose brushing against the base of your cock, just behind her tongue. She knows what she’s doing, she’s given you head before; she’s building up the suspense and waiting for you to beg for more. You really don’t want to indulge her, you really don’t, but there’s not much you can do when she starts placing kisses on your shaft—base to tip in a fervently slow fashion. How far is she gonna go with this, you can’t help but wonder, but you quickly have your question answered in the next second or so.
“Unenthusiastic?” she quips, “minus four”.
She wraps her lips around you and pushes her head forward, and you almost let the people in the store know that something’s going down in here.
You figure that the feeling of her lips wrapped around your shaft will never get old, not when it sends electricity up your spine and makes your hand ball into a fist in her hair. Her eyes seem to glint as you let out a sharp gasp. Yes, you could be caught by an employee at any second. Yes, you could very well be caught on camera by a customer at any second. There were a lot of things to consider when assessing the dangers of the circumstances that Sana has put the both of you in. Yet, none of them take anything away from the pleasure she’s bringing you, not as she starts to bob her head in beat to the metronome in her head. There’s no point in trying to figure out her pace.
“Jesus… Fuck… Sana I…” Your voice is—somehow—hushed as you struggle to convey how weak she’s making you, but it’s not like you need to anyway—she knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s loving every second of the havoc she’s wreacking upon your senses. The slight tug in the corner of her lips is the suggestion of a smirk, and the muffled noise that rises from her throat is the implication of a giggle.
There's a knock on the door and you bristle; Sana slows down, but she doesn’t stop. Past the door, the voice of the staff that led you to this very room asks if everything is alright in there, and you’re praying that her eyes aren’t set on the floor. Sana locks eyes with you, then darts her eyes to the door to tell you—Answer it goddamnit. Of course, she doesn’t make it easy for you as you open your mouth, applying light suction to your tip as you find the strength to say: Yep, just give us a few more minutes please, making you choke on that last word and sending alarms blaring in your head. Thankfully, the store assistant is kind enough to leave you with a take your time sir, and the shadow of her feet disappear from the gap beneath the door. It’s then that Sana pops your glistening cock out of her mouth.
“A few more minutes, huh?” She’s got drool on the corner of her lips as she rises to her feet. “Better make this quick then. You gotta keep your word as a lawyer, don’t you?”
Her wit is certainly better than most of your colleagues.
(There are customers outside now, you can hear them talking to the store assistant. They sound vaguely familiar… Maybe you heard them at the restaurant? Or maybe they’re colleagues… No, that can’t be it, at least you hope so).
Now for the record: you’ve seen Sana naked on multiple occasions, be it voluntarily or not. The shower, the bedroom, even a public shower at the pool… You could name a lot more places where she’d shamelessly flaunted her nude body before you off the top of your head. “A body to die for” is a fitting expression for Sana; you’ve always wondered if you’d find her on the top of the Google image search if you were to look up “dream bodies”, and you figure that you can probably get her there if you could somehow take pictures with your eyes as she undresses before you. She’s more methodical than anything, straying away from her usual teasing nature for the sake of being quick (that’s what you infer from her behaviour, but really, she could just be extremely horny and desperate. There’s never a solid answer to Sana’s behaviour). Mini skirt, then top, then bra; she’s going through the motions that she’d usually drag out just to get a reaction out of you preternaturally quickly.
Why is she getting naked in a changing room? You have no clue. Your best guess: she’s doing it for the thrill of it. The thought of getting caught completely nude with her boyfriend speared inside of her must be sending lethal doses of adrenaline through her veins. A pretty solid guess if you do say so yourself. No time for anymore guesses anyway—she’s already brought your hand up to her right breast, and she’s closing her eyes to enjoy the feel of your fingers closing around the semi-firm flesh. Her top lip’s furling behind her front teeth, she’s letting her other hand rest on your arm. She’s telling you where she wants it—did you cum in my ass yesterday? Or was it the day before? Ah, whatever… Give me a fucking creampie—in this soft, low voice that sends a velvet chill down your spine. Then she's kissing you softly, sweetly, nibbling on your top lip as usual, all while pushing you to the corner of the room where your feet aren't visible to those outside, flushing your back against the wall. It’s an uncomfortable fit, but that quickly changes when she grips the middle of your shaft and lines you tip up with her slit. The hand on her tit is guided to that slim waist, your other hand quickly finding its place on that symmetrical, slim figure.
“I don’t care if I cum or not,” she drawls, trailing a finger down your chest, “I just want your load inside me, right here, right now. Just focus on that, nothing else.”
(Half request, half demand—give her an award for being so damn ambiguous. Subtitles that could translate what she truly means would be really, really handy right now. Alas, such a system doesn’t exist.)
Describing how Sana’s pussy felt would be doing her injustice. The feeling was ineffable. From entering her to hilting yourself inside of her, there was never a second of that process where you had an easy time breathing or thinking. You’ve never been so reliant on your senses to keep you grounded in reality, nor have you ever been so glad that Sana’s nails are digging into your shoulder. This position—facing each other, standing and fucking against the wall of (all places) a changing room—is a stranger to the both of you, but the sheer tightness of her cunt working hand in hand with the intimacy of it all has you welcoming it with open arms.
Your hips are moving on their own, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you start thrusting into Sana. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into Sana in a mindless, slow fashion, relishing the feel of her skin in your palms, the look on her face, the soft moans that are slowly slipping from her ever so slightly opened lips. Then your ability to think slowly returns, and you’re thinking like a damn neanderthal—tight, wet, hot, so fucking good—as your grip on her waist tightens. Your shaft glistens in the light of the changing room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her slick, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weak. Sana cups your cheek, lifts your head, and it’s now that you see how her eyes have been completely glazed over with lust and want. Her face, her figure down to the sounds she’s making; everything about her, about this, is the phantasmagoria of a wet dream.
If you were being completely true to yourself right now: You couldn’t care less if you got caught.
And as if on cue, the voices approach as soon as you finish that train of thought.
“Do you provide altercation services?” It’s the voice of a man, closely followed by that of the store assistant: Of course sir. After you try on the suit, you can note how you’d like it to be altered to your liking.
A shadow of feet appears at the base of the door. Sana cups a hand over her mouth as the door rattles—the customer trying to open it. You stop your movements, breath caught in your throat as the store assistant tells him to use the other fitting room. Sana’s breath is loud in your ears as a second set of footsteps approach, followed by a female voice that asks, “Is my husband in there?”
Yes ma’am, is the assistant’s reply. Of course, this is hardly the end of it.
Now, as the woman engages the store assistant in conversation right outside your door, Sana lets the hand on her mouth drop. She flushes herself against you as the store assistant answers, and she whispers, “Keep going”.
Endlessly seeking thrill. Classic Sana.
The logical part of you warns you against doing as she says. Sadly, there’s not much room for logic in your head in the given circumstances, not when your balls-deep inside your girlfriend in a changing room. There’s barely enough room for dilemma to occur; Sana’s the sole occupant of your mind, rent-free, free-hold, and really: she’s the only thing that matters right now.
She almost, just almost, lets out a cry when you spear yourself back inside her. You didn't expect to start so soon, and neither did she. However, catching her by surprise is a novelty to you, and you relish in that brief rush of smugness before you restart your movements. Her mouth is frozen in a silent scream, but her eyes say all that she wants to: smug asshole, I’ll kill you later. You reply by letting your index and forefinger slip into her still-open mouth.
“Personally, I enjoy the Italian selection more…” The store assistant’s voice is barely audible to you over Sana’s small, muffled moans that manage to skirt your fingers and Sana’s closed lips, and as the lady starts talking about trench coats, Sana coats your fingers with a fresh layer of saliva, turning your fingers slick and slimy with her tongue as she looks you dead in the eye, as if challenging you: Is this the best you can do? Is this the riskiest you can be?
Every question from her deserves an answer, and your’s is to remove your saliva-slicked fingers out of her mouth, draw a circle with her spit just above her collarbone, then whisper right into her ear: I’m gonna mark you right there. The involuntary gasp that she lets out tugs the corner of your lips up into a perverse smile. Slowly your lips drift down to the glistening spot, and you wait just a moment to build up that sweet-sweet suspense. It’s a split second, but it’s a second too much for her to bear—the way her body tenses when you finally make contact is the clearest indication you will ever receive. And when you start sucking, God does she almost drive you over the edge: she tightens, she gasps, she starts twitching; she loves it, every second your lips stay locked around that sweet spot of skin is bliss to her.
You can hear the door to the other fitting room unlock, and you hear the man’s heavy footsteps as he walks out, no doubt in that suit he had earlier. The compulsory question comes: how do I look?
There’s a brief moment of silence, and you’re almost fearful of the fact that maybe, just maybe, their ears are picking up on the ragged breathing and slightly audible squelching coming from the other fitting room. All consternation dissipates when the woman starts to comment on how she looks, but Sana seems to have an answer to his question as well: So good. So fucking good. Harder, let me feel all of you, fuck me harder. Oh fuck, you’re so fucking deep.
You look dashing honey. The pitch of the woman’s reply harmonises with Sana’s soft whine as your lips leave her skin, the same patch where you’ve left your purple artwork on. I think we can afford to alter the pants—
Sana crushes your lips against hers, hot breath filling your mouth as you feel her lift her leg. You hold the back of her knee (like the gentleman you are), bring it to your side, hold it there. She bites your lower lip, hard enough for her to pull and tug it as you start losing yourself in her: her scent, her breath, her skin—all of it’s so deliciously addicting. You can’t get enough.
Then she’s going straight to moaning into your mouth, letting those muffled cries permeate in the small space and hopefully not outside the fitting room. She’s wet, she’s tight, she’s everything you need right now. You want, so badly, to pull her apart, ruin her till you can’t put her back together, get her begging at the top of her lungs for you to fuck her harder and harder.
And you’re almost on the verge of calling her a slut. There’s no need for that though, she knows what she’s made of herself.
—so that they’re a little shorter. I think we could also try—
Sana’s figured out the best way to moan: straight into your ear. She’s not letting up with them, and she’s giving you one hell of an array of sounds. There’s the common ah, the not so common, oh, and the very common shit, fuck, fuck me and so good. Her phonics are so loosely strung together that they’re just a jumbled mess, and you're perfectly ensconced with that; you love hearing those lazy, sloppy cries, and they only seem even more melodic at this volume, at this moment. Fuck, record them and play them as white noise as you sleep.
—changing the colours of the buttons? Ooh! Maybe we could even change the stitching around—
She tilts her head back, and you’re peppering her neck with kisses. She loves it, you know she loves it; all this attention, all this adrenaline, all this carnality she’s invoking—all of it for her. Each time you grunt, she knows that she’s the damn reason for it. Every time your fingers dig into her thigh a little more, she knows it’s because of her. Every kiss on her neck, every inch of her pussy you fill with your rock-hard meat, all of it’s for her. She isn’t vain, nor is she a pick me girl, but she sure as hell knows how to make you treat her like she’s the only girl in the fucking world, and you’re more than happy to give her what she wants.
Because it’s always like this with Sana: if she wants it badly enough, she’ll formulate a stratagem to get it, nip her cravings in the bud before they turn into desires that she can’t control. Mind you, she’s not dissolute; she’s just “riding the highs of life” as she calls it. Pretty bullshit and circumlocutory, but you always let her off the hook.
—the pocket area? That’s my two cents. What do you think darling?
Another moment of silence follows, and Sana seizes the opportunity to nibble on your earlobe. Her leg’s sweaty, slowly slipping from your grasp and trembling from the pleasure that’s giving her voice this lilt when she says: Carry me. Fuck me. Cum in me. Please. Pleasure, coursing through your veins, makes you comply in an almost servile manner. It’s precipitous, even fatuous to pull such a stunt in a fitting room of all places, but when your hands are supporting her by her ass and her legs lock around your waist, there’s no turning back.
And as the man starts going off on his own preferences, Sana’s wrapping her arms around your neck, letting you get a look at those bouncing breasts as you reach new depths inside of those slick, warm walls. If she could cry out, she would, but those damn customers outside are placing her in a box here, and it’s clearly frustrating her. If you were at your place, her hands gripping your sheets and her juices messing up your quilt, she could moan, mewl, cry and cuss however loud she wanted. In a way, it was funny to watch her hold back, but at the same time: you so badly want to make her scream, undo her right here and now and make her a mess in your arms, but you’ll settle for what you have right now. What the two of you have created is controlled chaos, and should it be released past that damn changing room door, God knows what will happen.
Now it’s the store assistant’s turn to speak, and she’s giving them a rundown of the pricings. Outside, they’re talking about the possibility of a discount; inside, Sana’s talking about how deep you feel inside of. Outside, the man’s trying to guilt-trip the store assistant by saying how exorbitant the price is; inside, Sana’s exclaiming and pleading in a hushed voice—Own me. For the love of God, fucking o-own me!—as each thrust you make into her pussy sends her further and further down this rabbit hole of pleasure. It takes guts to fuck in a fitting room, but it takes the guts of Minatozaki Sana to be this needy while fucking in a fitting room. The risks of being caught are high, the risk of being heard even higher, but neither of those affect her ardour. At a controlled volume, she’s pleading for you to fuck her harder, faster, unravel every single bit of her being while she tries to keep herself together. It’s one hell of a show, and it’s one hell of an experience too.
(The sight of her perfect body flushed against yours as she’s fucked in the air, the smell of her sickly sweet perfume, the feeling of that divinely tight pussy wrapped snugly around your shaft like a damned glove, the way those sonorously soft moans filter into your ears. Add these together with the fact that the people outside could hear you at any second, and you’ve got one hell of a recipe for a voyeurist’s wet dream. You’re no voyeurist, but everything about this moment is making you feel like one.
Right now, this is everything to Sana. Having you this close to her, feeling that cool Prada air conditioning against her bare body, listening to you grunt and sigh as you piston yourself in and out of that slick, wet slit… All her needs are being fulfilled, all of her senses heightened and primed, aware of every movement you make inside of her pussy. Sometimes, you feel so good and oh fuck, or maybe even oh god isn’t enough to convey how she feels, so she just opts to let out this strained, strangled gasps that tells you everything you need to know—a maelstrom of emotions and expressions compressed and compacted into one simple “hngh” is enough for you to know that you’re doing something right.)
“You like this Sana?” you find yourself whispering. “You like being fucked like a damn slut with people just outside, don’t you? You like everything about this, don’t you?”
Right now, she doesn’t have that capacity to reply. Of course, you know this, which makes you feel all the more smug as you watch, watching as she slips into a state of complete, utter bliss: her mouth hangs open, her eyes are unfocused, she’s barely holding on to you. The purple mark that your lips have left on her neck sears itself into your sight, and it’s joined by the breathtaking view of her breasts loosely bouncing each time you drive yourself into her. Loose strands of hair are flying, neither of you have any hands free to fix them. Her legs are quaking around your waist, neither of you want to stop just so that she can be back down on the floor. Her eyes are closing, you can feel her heartbeat in her pussy, she’s begging, pleading, fucking imploring you to keep going.
Christ. You want her to moan as loud as she can for you.
It’s hard not to get turned on by the sight of it, and it’s even harder to keep yourself controlled under the rapidly tightening grip of her cunt. Her breaths are shallow, her head is almost completely limp. She may not seem to be aware of it, but you sure as hell are more than cognizant of the fact that the both of you are about to hit that peak that you’ve been chasing for the past God-knows-how-many minutes.
“Sana.” Uttering her name is all that’s needed to bring her back to the real world. When you have her attention, you give her the sentence that she’s been waiting to hear for so damn long: I’m gonna fucking fill you, and It’s like the air gets heavier when she softly whispers, pleads for you to fulfill her new desire; cum with me. I need it so bad.
Controlled orgasm would take strength to pull off, and you silently pray that you have that strength as you send one final thrust between her shaking legs. Your cock twitches, spasms and the first rope of your warm seed that’s sent into her waiting walls is enough to send her over the edge. She bites down on your shoulder, quick enough to muffle the cry that escapes her throat. The tightening of her walls seem to coordinate with each spasm of your cock, and they sync up, working together to get every last drop of cum out of you and into her. She lets a soft moan escape her lips with each spurt, as though welcoming it, as though each one were something she long wanted and needed. You let out a single, soft grunt, as though thanking her, as though every twitch of her walls that sends a shock down your cock is a treasure to be relished.
So the scarf that she brought in to try is no longer just an ornament like the rest of the outfits. Even after adjusting her outfit, the fabric still can't seem to cover that hickey you left on her collarbone. The simple solution: Sana waits there, you buy the scarf, hand it to her, she puts it on and the both of you walk out of the store like nothing happened, like the both of you really were in there to try on some clothes, then leave.
It’s unsuspecting, it’s smooth. The store assistant wishes you a good day, and Sana smiles and waves to her, looking exactly like she did when she entered, plus a scarf. The only difference in Sana’s entrance and exit from the Prada store is the load between her legs.
But that’s a secret for the two of you.
*
“Hey. Could I talk to you about something?”
In your two years of dating Sana, never have you heard her this nervous in your life. The fact that your client isn’t responding to you a day before his trial plagues you no more, and your laptop is shut before she can close the door.
Your posture—arms crossed atop the desk and back straight—is all she needs. The message is implicit: I’m here, all ears, and she smiles softly as she walks over to the bed. The frame creaks a little as she settles down.
“My uh… My Dad is organising another one of those damned Balls again.” The way she intonates her words tells you that the Ball is the least of her concerns at the moment. “It’s gonna be at the usual time.. Usual place… Not like we can move it anyway.”
You offer her a chuckle to assuage her, diffuse the tension a little. She manages a half-forced giggle at her own joke. Is this a transitional opening? Or is this legitimately the subject of her conversation? you’re thinking, and as you sip from your cup, that subtle shift in her posture is shifting the atmosphere of the room.
She’s scared, but of what?
“I was wondering,” she drums her nails against her knees, “could I… Introduce you to him tomorrow? M-My Dad I mean.”
And now you suddenly understand why she’s on edge. She’s not scared for herself; she’s scared for you. The head of the Minatozaki clan, Sana’s father—you heard much about him, partly because of the stories that Sana tells you and partly from the things you heard through the grapevine at work. In your firm, there’s a whole box dedicated to storing suits that have been opened by him on the intern’s table (it’s a hilariously off-putting thing to say out loud), and from what you’ve heard: there’s another two in the storage room. Personally, you’ve assisted a colleague in one of his lawsuits, and the emails you billed weren’t pretty. You’d be throwing out a fib if you ever couched that you never once thought: It’s a pretty bad first impression of the man, could he maybe… You know… Stop suing people? Please? but you’re not going to let a mere few boxes and one night of reading through emails determine your perception of Sana’s father.
And hopefully, he won’t judge a book by its cover too.
“I have a trial tomorrow Sha,” you remind her, but it’s not like you actually expected her to remember this; you whispered it to her while cuddling on the couch a solid week ago. “I don’t know when I’ll end. It might be a little tight for me.”
It's undeniable that she sighs in relief. The blush that follows the breath is a clear indication. She’s glad, too glad. You can't help but ask: What’s up? Think I’ll flub everything when I meet him?
Sana does that thing where she wants to answer, but doesn’t know how to: her mouth opens, closes, opens again—longer this time, then closes again. It isn’t an easy thing to talk about; what your father will think of your partner is never not a touchy matter. All touchy matters should be discussed in comfort (Sana knows that you strongly believe in this, that’s why she’s situated herself on the bed), and you join her on the mattress.
“WIll he feel that I’m not enough for you?” You’re prodding, all while you gently reach for her hand and grasp it in your own. It’s cold, really cold. You’ll warm it up with your palms, keep them there while she replies, “it’s not that… I know that you’re more than enough for me, that’s what matters to him… At least I think so.”
She’s staring down at her hand, the one that’s slowly heating up via the warmth of your hand. Then what’s making you so worried? you’re asking. She folds her bottom in, past her front teeth. You rub her knuckle with your thumb.
“Yea I… I don’t know what’s making me so worried either,” she finally muses. “Guess I’m just… New to this practice. Never had to do it before...”
Because all the men that have tried to win you over have never lasted for more than a week, you complete in your head, smiling as she lays her other hand over yours. It’s cold too—that won’t do.
And as you set another hand atop hers, she’s asking you for a kiss. Luckily for her, obliging her wants is your specialty, and your lips are quickly travelling that small gap between the two of you. Connection is made, and you physically feel her relax. You know. You know that she belides a truth that she’s not ready to divulge. It’s in her kiss, it’s in her hands, and that’s fine with you. You can infer that it’s not something that’s going to be detrimental to your relationship, and whenever she’s ready to speak about it, you’ll always be available.
Now the kiss is done, she’s asking for fried chicken. You counter-ask if the kiss was to soften you up so that she could ask for her Famichiki. Of course, you get a classic Sana reply: a “maybe”, followed by that mischievous grin. You rise from the bed to grab your coat.
You're glad that the Konbini is just next to your apartment. Sana’s glad that she gets to be close to you as you walk through the snowy street.
“You know,” she’s whispering, “I really won’t mind if you propose to me one of these days.”
You laugh it off, kiss her on her forehead.
In your head: you note to start looking for a nice ring.
*
Money can get you to places, but it can also get you a private soundproof karaoke room in a club. Three and a half years of dating—that’s all you need to know: you can bet your left kidney that Sana is taking full advantage of that room.
The bottle of Whisky that she opened to get the room is hardly the main event; Sana, slowly slipping out of that tight black dress she’s wearing, foreground to the default music that’s on the TV, has your unwavering attention. The smile on her face could've been mistaken for a sweet one if it weren’t for the fact that she’s getting naked, and the lack of a bra really doesn’t help with her case either.
“There isn’t a time limit to the use of this room, right?” You know the answer to that is no, the lady at the counter told you so. The question is more of a gauge, an instrument that’s helping you assess her plans for the night.
“If you’re trying to know how long we’ll be here for,” she slings her dress onto the couch next to you, and in her stockings and panties, saunters over with a sultry sway in her hips, “my answer is a secret.”
“I have work tomorrow, Sana.”
“Too bad. Call in sick.”
She picks up the glass of Whisky, raises it to her lips. When she drinks, she lets some of that amber liquid trickle out past her lips, down past her chin and onto her tits. In the light, her wet skin glistens and shimmers, and you once again find yourself in absolute awe with the woman before you. And as she straddles you, glass in hand, the way she uses her fingers to tilt your face up to the light tells you that she’s in control. She takes a sip of the amber liquid, swallows it, then brings it to your lips.
“Be a good boy,” she’s tipping the glass as she speaks, a strong way to convey that there’s no room for disobedience, “say ‘ahh’ for me baby.”
The glass is cold against your lips, the liquor even colder on your tongue as it flows into your mouth at a manageable rate. When she stops pouring, you take the cue, and you swallow all of it in one gulp. The burn in your throat is oddly rewarding, probably because Sana’s smiling down at you, stroking your hair and telling you how obedient you are as you swallow. Then she makes you open your mouth again, pours another portion down the hatch.
How does it taste, she’s asking, cupping your right cheek as she swirls the glass. You give her a short honest review of it: It’s good. The answer pleases her, and she sets down the glass in her hand to pick up the bottle from the table next to you.
“Yamazaki, 12 year old single Malt.” She’s letting you see the bottle under the light, though you have to admit that her tits right next to the bottle are a horrible distraction. “My personal favourite.”
She unscrews the cap and takes a swig straight from the bottle, swallows it without even flinching. She’s always been able to hold her alcohol well, and you know for a fact that she can probably outdrink 5 of your colleagues and maybe, just maybe, your boss too. But you’ll never have a fair gauge on how well she can drink in comparison to your peers; she only drinks around you.
Your face is back in her hand, and she’s got some more things to say—Drink it neat, on the rocks, add it to another drink, it tastes great no matter what—as she starts to lightly grind herself over your throbbing shaft in your pants. But you know what the best way to drink it is, she asks you. She’s not looking for an answer from you, just finding a way to transition from the Whisky to whatever it is she has in mind—you can tell because she leans down to capture lips right after she throws out the inquiry, kissing you deeply, her tongue playing aggressively on your lips before searching your mouth for its counterpart. The smell of Whisky is so damn strong on her breath, and the only thing hotter than the burning sensation in your throat is the fact that she’s using one hand to play with herself, the bottle of Whisky in the other. You can hear it slosh next to your ear as she raises it.
And as she breaks the kiss, the thin strand of saliva connecting the two of you doesn’t stop her from providing the answer to her question—it tastes the best when you drink it right off my body—as she straightens herself. The next second, still playing with herself, she’s bringing the bottle to her lips, tipping it just before it touches those red-tinted lips to let the golden liquid flow down her chest and breasts. There's no time to admire; you reach out and catch the rapidly falling liquid, your tongue pressed tightly to her skin to lap up as much of the bitter liquor as you could. Her skin glistens with the Whisky on it. It looks like gold in the snow. She smells like lavender and lust.
Your tongue, saturated with Whisky, finds and captures her left nipple. You close your lips around it, suckling deeply from her chest, enjoying the taste of her body and the liquor that made it spicy and bitter. Sana gasps and moans as you have your way with her chest, fondling her small mounds, suckling both of her taut nipples—roughly, hungrily. You could say that she’s wasted some perfectly good Whisky, but you say that she’s added complex flavours to an already exquisite meal. The blend of alcohol and Sana’s skin is not something you never knew you needed, but now you do. The novelty of it, the sheer lust she’s emanating, all of it makes her tits taste better than ever, and you find yourself leaving marks on her cleavage, the right side of her left breast, the left side of her right breast; every centimetre of skin that can be reached is marked and tasted—your attempt at dipping your toes in a little control in this karaoke room that is Sana’s domain.
Maybe you’re a little over-indulgent in her, maybe you’re just unaware, but you certainly can’t feel her slipping your tie off your neck. By the time you’re aware of the sudden feeling of freedom at your throat, she’s already wrapping your wrists, securing them together with an intricate knot. You know damn well that even the boy scouts couldn’t untie this one, even if they sent their best member. The theory is only enforced when Sana asks you to try pulling your wrists apart, and it feels like they’ve been superglued together. Satisfied, she feeds you some more Whisky off her body, then it’s time for her fun.
Palm flat against your chest, eyes flaring, wicked smile; Sana pushed you back against the couch with graceful authority—something that only she is capable of. Then it’s onto your shirt, and he’s unbuttoning it with practised dexterity: unfastening, pulling—motions so fast that she has your reverence for mastering the art. She takes a moment, parts the fabric covering your chest and runs a fingernail down the centre of your torso. The nail—painted black with little Sakura flowers adorning it—stops at your belt. It isn’t hesitance that keeps her finger there; it’s the innate cheekiness that makes her linger there a little longer, that makes her smile softly as the other hand joins in and starts undoing the clasp of your belt. Not a word is uttered as she pulls apart your belt, then goes straight for the buckle of your belt.
Then it’s back to kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing as she runs her fingers through your hair. The Whisky on both of your breaths mingle. Admittedly, you’re feeling a little floaty, engendering a pleasant tingle on your skin as she starts placing kisses on your cheek, then on your jaw. Next thing you know, she’s sucking hard at the nape of your neck, marking you with those lovely lips, as if she’s placing a wax seal on you, declaring: you are mine and mine alone. And when she successfully sears the shape of her lips onto your skin, she traces the slick outline with a finger, whispers softly, You have no idea how much I want to own you right now.
The excitement is palpable, the tension even more so. She’s whispering all sorts of things to you—most of them entailing what she’s about to do with your cock—all while she starts to slip your briefs off of your legs. Your cock springs out of your pants, slaps against her ass and twitches on the rotund flesh. The smile grows wider, devilish dimples appear. And for the record: no, she’s not gonna blow you. She’s gonna make herself cum before anything else happens, and she’s going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before.
She slides off you, gets back up on her feet. With her back turned to you, she bends forward at the waist, shaking her ass while she uses her thumbs to hook onto the waistband of her panties. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. Her pussy glistens in the light, flushed pink and folds tantalising as ever puffy and swollen with excitement.
She bends her knees, getting down on all fours.
She wiggles her ass at you, looking back at you over her shoulder.
“Bet you wished,” she gets on her back, spreads her legs to get the spotlight on her slit, “that you could absolutely own me like this right now, don’t you?”
She’s so cocksure. It’s driving you crazy. You swallow, your voice barely audible as you utter her name. She crawls to you, sits up, her face in front of yours, so close, so hot. Her hand touches the back of your head, her voice barely a whisper as she grips the base of your cock—but you can’t, and it’s so damn frustrating, isn’t it?—and rubs your tip between her dripping folds, lathering her juices all over your head and smiling all the way through.
And when you least expect it, she turns and sinks down on your cock.
You throw your head back, groan, the sound of her wetness as she takes your cock into her pussy loud and clear over the music. Your head falls forward again, watching her sink further and further, taking more and more of your cock inside her with every passing moment as she lets a long, drawn-out moan float through the air. When her crotch meets yours and you are fully embedded inside her, a soft, wordless cry of pleasure that leaves open lips. You meet it with a sigh of your own, somehow tearing open your own shut eyes to watch the expression on her beautiful face as you fill her.
Christ, fuck and god—just some of the words that you want to cry out as she starts to slowly grind herself against you. The ride she’s about to take is one that’s of perverse nature; it’s not going to be a slow, pleasant ride. Naturally, her habit of jumping straight into things leaves her unprepared for what she’s about to experience, so now she has to slowly slowly adjust to your size, like striking the flint over and over next to the fireplace as you hope to get a flame going. Usually, this would be a time where you’d caress that beautiful body, run your hands over that unblemished white skin and pepper kisses all over the places that she loves to be kissed. But she’s not in the mood for that, not when she has this room and you at her disposal.
Then the fire ignites, and it is merciless, a force of nature—untameable, unrelenting. In your bonds you are unable to resist. You never would’ve in the first place. She begins to move, her pussy tight and slick around your cock. She rides you like she was made to do this, like a pro. She rides you fiercely, roughly, taking you in and out of her tight wet heat, caring little for your comfort or much of anything aside from stuffing herself over and over with thick, hard meat. Throughout it all she is digging into your thigh, crying out like her life depends on it as she goes up, down, up, down—a lewd seat on a merry go round.
Yes, yes, yes—she throws her head back, auburn hair flying like streamers in the wind as she has her way with you—o-oh fuck I need this! I need this so fucking bad! The rhythmic, repetitive motion, her unbridled desire to be filled, it sends you reeling. The pressure on your leg is forgotten, the slight discomfort in your arms pushed out of the way. You can do nothing but watch her ride you. You can do nothing but marvel at how good you feel inside her, how the tightness of her pussy massages your shaft, how the way she takes you so completely into her folds, how you stretch her and make her quiver and quake.
A part of you wishes the mirror were visible from your current position, so that you could watch as Sana impales herself over and over on your cock. You want to watch the expression of pleasure wrangle her cute features, want to watch her full, round breasts bounce up and down, want to watch every muscle of her long, perfectly shaped legs work to throw her body again and again against your cock. But you’ll have to content yourself with the almost equally alluring view of her sweaty back (not that it was a particularly difficult position to enjoy. How could you call it “bad” with the view of her round, full ass as she slams it down against your crotch?). It’s not like you can change anything about this anyway. No—the only thing you can do is sit back, watch, and savour how her ass jiggles as it crashes against your crotch.
Oh fuck, oh yes! I’m so fucking full! I’m so stuffed with this cock!
You lose yourself to the sound of her voice, the feeling of her pussy as it swallows up your cock, the sight of her back arching and her hands shaking. As much as you try, you find yourself unable to move, as though your own pleasure has been drained out of your body, and you are just an observer. You watch as she pushes herself down further on your cock, impaling herself with every thrust of her hips, her voice growing louder and louder as she gets into that dangerous rhythm, the rhythm that makes you think she’s on Acid. Well-formed breasts bounce, you see them past her slender figure. Her shapely, luscious ass ripples. Long legs work overtime, cooperating with the stamina of the girl who is using them to drive herself over the edge like it’s her be-all and end-all. It’s exhilarating. It’s thrilling.
It’s so fucking hot.
Oh god. You’re stretching me out so good. This cock feels so damn good!
Two things are getting you at the moment: (1) The sweat glistening that’s building up on her back. (2) The fact that she’s pushing your thighs apart to get more of you inside her. The former sight is a breathtaking process really: beady moisture on that well built back, pooling at all the best places and making her skin glow as some of it slowly trickles down her spine. The latter’s no grain of sand either mind you, maybe even hotter than Sana’s sweaty back if you dare say. Freshly done nails sit just outside the insides of your thighs, the palms that they’re connected to pushing down against the flesh beneath them. They’re indenting the muscles of your thighs, it’s uncomfortable, but only for a second at a time.
I don’t wanna stop. I don’t wanna fucking stop!
In your restraints, your hands grasp at the flesh that’s so close yet so far, the skin that’s rippling and slapping against yours. Her ass taunts you, tempts you, teases you. It’s so frustrating yet so erotic; you aren’t sure if you should welcome this mix of emotions or reject it before it folds its wings and nestles itself in your chest. The mix of desire and vexation, exasperation and ecstasy—any two emotions that shouldn’t go together are mixing, blending, forming these bubbles in your chest that you can’t explain.
One woman; innumerable sensations.
You need more. More of everything. More of her.
You wish you could touch her.
You wish you could fuck her.
But all you can do is watch, watch as she starts going down harder, crying out even louder.
Her body, so flawlessly feminine, is in deadly motion, working you over from the inside like you’ve never experienced. The air is filled with the wet, lewd sounds of her pussy sucking you in your hips slapping against her ass, her moans and groans, her curses that seem to go on perennially, blending in perfectly with that shitty synth in the background.
And you’re just along for the ride.
You have no idea… How good this is.. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
And she wants you to see it, she wants you to watch her—it is exactly that kind of attention that she is basking in. So you watch. You watch her, the way she looks back at you, the way her eyes flare as she takes you in, the way her hands claw at your leg. The way she's moaning with that lilt back in her voice. Everything about this spectacle seems like it’s been scripted for some porno, and her body is certainly making you feel like you’re in one. The only grasp on reality that this situation offers is… Well, nothing. And it’s not that there really isn’t anything for you to root yourself in this real world, rather you’re choosing not to make that mental effort to do so; every little corner of your mind is being bled with whatever colour the image of Sana bouncing on your cock is. There’s no room for reality, and it's addicting, enthralling.
Fuck. You can't get enough of her, and you probably never will.
So deep! So fucking… Oh my god!
Your breath is ragged, and it takes every bit of control you have left in you to not cum right then and there. It takes every ounce of focus not to simply give in to her, not to simply melt into the couch, not to lose your mind to the sensation of her tight, wet slick as it swallows you in, pushes you out; fucking itself over and over and over again on your rock hard shaft. You don't know how much longer you can hold out for, and as if she can tell, Sana starts to move faster, her movements getting even more aggressive. The slaps of her ass against your crotch are louder now, and the wet smacking sound of her pussy's getting faster and faster. Her fingers are digging into your leg, her moans more frequent and more desperate. You can feel her tightening around you, the way her walls clamp down, the way her legs are trembling, the way her voice is going up in pitch.
(It’s the moments of privacy that really get her going; the moments where she can scream and cuss and moan like there’s no tomorrow are everything to her.
Yes, she likes fucking in public spaces for the thrill of it, but she likes it better when she can hold you freely as you fill her, not having to care for the fact that the way her body’s positioned engenders any discomfort or risk of being heard.
Yes, she likes it when there’s the chance that someone can walk in on the two of you, but the prospect of being able to own your cock, uninterrupted and unheard, thrills her like nothing else in the damn world.
Yes, she likes to see if she can hold in her cries while you’re rearranging her insides in a bathroom stall, but she prefers it much more when she can slam herself down on your cock—be loud and be proud of the fact that she loves every inch of meat that fills her till she can barely breathe.
Bottom line: she likes chasing that thrill of being caught, but she loves those moments where she’s alone with you in private even more. Now is one of those times, and God… She’s barely herself anymore.
She is a storm of pure, unfiltered lust. And you must say: it’s fucking sublime.)
Then the game changing sentence comes from her, and it's beautiful.
"I'm fucking cumming!"
The words ring out, clear and loud. And she doesn't stop; she keeps riding you, taking you into her wet hole and milking your cock, using you to bring herself off. It's not until the final second that she slows down, her back arching as she lets out the most satisfying scream that you have ever heard in your entire life. It is all that you can do to watch as she slumps forward, breaths ragged and body twitching as you hold yourself back. It takes everything—every fibre, every cell and every last bit of will—to not cum in her right there and then. And when the final spasm has passed and the shuddering has subsided, when Sana has collapsed against you, your cock still buried inside her, she turns to you.
There are no words spoken, just a mutual understanding of what comes next. She slips off the couch, takes your slick shaft in her hands. A few pumps are delivered, and they’re considerate and slow; she’s good at building tension.
“You’ve already marked my tits. Might as well cum on them.” She’s still got some cheekiness left in her, and that smile is really doing everything for you.
“Fuck, Sana, I—”
“Do it. Paint me.”
You feel the semen gather in your balls before coursing up your shaft and erupting from its tip, landing in thick, wet, warm ropes upon Sana’s creamy skin. Your tip is directed between her cleavage, and the first spurt of cum shoots itself between those wonderful mounds. It’s quickly followed by a second rope, and the third lands on her upper chest. With grace, she manages to direct your spurting cock by the base so the fourth and fifth ropes cover the front of her tits, then the rest don’t matter anymore.
The last ropes of thick, warm semen land upon her face, staining her soft, blushing features with creamy white cum. Some of it lands on her cheeks, on her forehead and onto her open mouth and the thirsty tongue within it. When you finally open eyes you hadn’t known had closed, the picture of Minatozaki Sana, face and chest painted with your warm, thick cum, is one you never want to forget. And as she scoops up your seed with her fingers, she’s got a thing or two to say.
“Excellent load,” she whispers, watching as the cum slithers down her palm. “Plus two to you.”
Just two? Is your reply of false bewilderment. Sana chortles.
Maybe if you can give me a load up my ass, I’ll consider adding another three points.
*
Now the ring’s oddly heavy in your pocket.
Sana’s father seems more imposing than he should for a man his size, and looking at the Yamazaki bottle on the desk, you can tell that Sana gets her liking for Whisky from him.
“I’ve never met you in my life,” he begins, “and now you come here like a friend, asking for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”
Sana’s head is bowed. In the corner of the office she sits, hands clasped over one another as she listens in silently. No amount of trials or oral submissions could ever prepare you for this tension.
“Mr Minatozaki… I understand that all of this is sudden,” you begin, but you’re interrupted by a raised hand.
“You know boy… You sure do talk like you know everything about the situation.” His voice is nowhere near threatening as he speaks, and it’s absolutely terrifying. “For a lawyer, you sure do sound quite the fool. Guess I shouldn’t have been expecting much considering your background.”
And it’s that very statement that has you on tenterhooks. You’ve never met him, never even seen his face, yet he knows your occupation which you never even touched on, and from the sound of it, knows what went down in your family. Sana’s head snaps up, her eyes wide as she watches her father produce a file from under his desk.
“It’s not the suddenness,” the air quotations he uses hold more weight than they really should, “that doesn’t sit well with me dear boy. No, no… It’s more than that.”
The broad leather chair in his office grows constricting. As he rises from his seat, the foam that holds your butt up seems to depress. And as he begins—if you sauntered in here as just a lawyer, I would’ve let you take my daughter in a heartbeat!—his explanation of what’s grinding his gears, you start feeling uneasy. For context on the severity of this feeling: the last time you felt like this was when you first met his daughter.
But you’re not just a lawyer—he’s opening the file in his hands, flipping through its contents—you’re a disgrace to this very world. You shouldn’t even be in this damn house right now.
Into the file his hand reaches, and out from it: two mugshots. You bristle; Sana gasps (and it’s not that she didn’t know, rather because she was shocked that her father knew.)
So it’s the next sentence that seals your fate. Frankly, you kind of expected it, but it still doesn’t take away from the sheer bedlam that goes down in your head when Mr Minatozaki waves the mugshots of your parents before your face and shrieks at the top of his lungs.
This isn’t the way you pictured this going.
Honestly, you never pictured this happening at all.
“Do you seriously think for a second that I’d let the son of two druggies—two disgraceful, repugnant, filthy, druggies—marry my daughter?”
*
It’s hard to forget what she told you over the phone after your talk with her father (if you can even call it that): we’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out.
Money can get you a nice fancy Ball, some nice Whisky and a private Karaoke room. Naturally, it can grant you a means to keep the son of two convicted drug abusers that hung themselves in their cells away from your daughter.
So not even 12 hours after that fate-sealing conversation did you get a phone call from your boss. Next thing you know, you’re uprooted from your workplace in Osaka, transferred to the branch in Nagoya; Sana’s number mysteriously changes itself, none of your letters ever reach her.
It’s over the payphone, months after all of this, that Sana finally reaches you, and she’s ugly crying over the phone.
We can fix this, we’ll figure something out. We’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out.
In a way, she ended up being right.
And in your suit, you smile as you watch her walk down the aisle. She’s beautiful as ever, and you feel like that white veil over her face is doing her the biggest disservice ever. The little boy carrying the wedding rings seems a little confused, but it only adds to his adorable aura as he stumbles behind Sana. The flower petals are being scattered, the crowd’s on their feet. They’re clapping; you’re crying. Have you mentioned that she looks beautiful?
Oh? You have? Odd…
But just in case it slips your mind, you tell her how beautiful she is in your head, all while she walks right past you and continues to the stage. It feels like the ring boy’s acting stupid to taunt you for being the fool here.
In a way, she ended up being right. If “We” referred to Sana’s father and that man on the stage, “We” did indeed end up figuring things out. The invite broke you, and this wedding is breaking you even more. You know that this invite wasn’t sent by Sana—she isn’t cruel. This has the fingerprints of her father all over it: the seat close to the aisle, your wristband to authorise your access to the venue holding the same serial code as your father’s prisoner ID… All of it is him.
But there’s not much you can do about it is there? You chose to come, you chose this for yourself. There was the option to not come, to tear the invite up and go cry in your apartment in Nagoya, but you bought the Shinkansen ticket here, didn’t you? You walked through the doors of this damn place and took your seat, didn’t you?
And the Yamazaki doesn’t taste as good as it should, and the Spring air is sharper than it should be at the afterparty. They’re over there, congratulating the newly weds and wishing them all the best; you’re over here, sipping on your neat Whisky behind a bush as the music roars on.
It really shouldn’t be a question on how she finds you; she knows you too well to know where you’d go at a place like this. And in her wedding gown, she stands where she is, this look of a god-knows-what mix of emotions simmering on her face. You rub your nose with a thumb, sip on the bitter Whisky as your remedy. No words are spoken, not even a “hey” or “how have you been”—both of you know that there’s no use in starting a conversation here. It’ll go sob, fast, and this isn’t the place for it.
There will never be a place for it.
So why not substitute words with actions?
So in her bare feet, she hikes up her gown, runs over to you, lunges to close those years of separation between you two to hug you like she used to. The Whisky is knocked out of your hands; you’re knocked off your feet. And in the grass, she buries her head into your shoulder and weeps.
You always thought that only death would make you cry, but now as you hold her for what may very well be the last time, you realise: you're not as tough as you think.
Like a Lemon, the realisation that comes is bitter, and it has you bawling.
Cause maybe in a world that wasn’t so cruel, you could’ve been the one on that stage.
(Then the two of you could be in love, happier than ever.)
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All-American Girl - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader
summary: Bradley's every part the doting dad to your daughter Tatum, but after talking to some of the other wives on base in your mom's group, you're worried he may be hiding his true feelings about fatherhood.
A/N: not me procrastinating and adding to my country music series instead of literally anything else on my list. here's sickeningly sweet bradley as a girl dad fluff based off All-American Girl by Carrie Underwood.
pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x wife!reader
content/warnings: sickeningly sweet fluff, Bradley as a girl dad, mentions of sexism.
word count: 1.4k
Now he's wrapped around her finger, she's the center of his whole world
And his heart belongs to that sweet little beautiful, wonderful, perfect all-American girl
Bradley groaned as he jogged up the front steps, his boots heavy against the brick as he walked up the veranda to the front door. An American flag flapped in the breeze, the pole nestled in the stand attached to the pillar on the front of the house, the mid-afternoon sun striking the front yard, basking over the dozens of plants and greenery that were planted there. Bradley kicked his boots off the moment he crossed the entryway, stacking them neatly by the door. He started unzipping his flight suit, his tanned skin slicked with sweat from the training exercises he’d completed earlier that day. He thought about the list of things he wanted to do before he settled in for the night with you - a shower was the first priority at this point.
Peeling the olive green suit off his skin, he discarded it in the laundry hamper in the bathroom. His white t-shirt and boxers followed suit, along with the thick, military issued socks. He’d plan on washing those tonight after dinner. He padded along the hallway to the bathroom, his balls of his feet sticking to the cherry wood flooring. The cool water flowing from the shower head was a refreshing comfort compared to how warm he was earlier, he contemplated asking for a transfer to somewhere colder after today - the hot Pacific coast sun was brutal, and despite having lived in California for a few years now, Bradley hadn’t adjusted. Not that Virginia Beach had been much cooler - at least, not in the summer, but it wasn’t as consistently warm as it was on the west coast.
As Bradley stepped out of the shower, he wrapped a plush, lavender coloured towel around his waist. Shaking his caramel coloured curls dry, he approached the vanity, reaching for the pomade - the same brand he’d been using to tame his hair since he was 14. His mom had taught him that trick - using a styling pomade to keep his curls intact, but less wild than they would be left to their own devices. Part of him wondered if he just never changed brands because it was the one she’d suggested for him, one of the last happy memories of his mother that he had clung to for the last 26 years.
“Bradley? I’m home!” you called out from the bottom of the stairs, having seen Bradley’s vintage Ford Bronco parked in the driveway.
“Upstairs, honey!” He yelled back, his deep voice echoing throughout the empty house.
He quickly pulled on a pair of denim shorts and a fresh, white t-shirt, grabbing his favourite floral print button-down on his way down the stairs. He beamed at you, leaning in to give you a loving peck on the cheek. He knelt down in front of the car seat you’d placed on the floor, smiling softly at his infant daughter as she stretched and yawned, waking up from the nap she’d taken on the car ride home.
“Good mornin’ sunshine! How’s my girl?”
Bradley held his index finger out to baby Tatum, smiling as she gripped it tightly in her hand. He began unbuckling her harness with his free hand as he spoke to her.
“Did you have a fun day with Mama? What did you do, princess? You and your mama go shopping for some new clothes, baby girl?”
Tatum let out a happy sigh as Bradley scooped her up in his arms, holding her close to his chest. He leaned his head down to kiss her forehead, his hand moving up and down her back in soft, slow, gentle strokes as he cuddled his baby. He took a seat on the couch, leaning back slightly so Tatum could recline on his chest. He smiled up at you, waiting patiently for you to start showing off the different outfits you’d purchased for Tatum. He’d always sworn that he’d never be the type of father who’d dismiss things he wasn’t interested in - whether it was baby clothes, or ballet, baby and me classes or going for walks around the neighborhood with her - he’d always try his best to be into it. It’s how his mom described his father - always interested in anything to do with Bradley when he was little.
You delicately sifted through the array of dresses and outfits, each garment infused with your hopes and dreams for little Tatum. With tender affection, you recounted where and when you had acquired each piece, your voice tinged with a blend of excitement and maternal pride. Tatum slumbered peacefully, her soft breaths creating a gentle rhythm against Bradley's shoulder, while you poured your heart into sharing your plans for her future attire.
As the last dress found its place, you sank onto the couch beside Bradley, seeking solace in his comforting presence. Nestling into his side, you felt the warmth of his embrace envelop you, his arm offering both physical and emotional support.
“Are you happy?” you murmured softly, a trace of uncertainty lacing your words as you chewed anxiously at your bottom lip.
A flicker of confusion danced across Bradley's features before he met your gaze with unwavering reassurance.
“Of course I’m happy, why would you ask that?”
“It’s silly,” you sighed, a moment of vulnerability surfacing before you continued, meeting Bradley’s brown-eyed gaze as you spoke, “It’s just that…you know how I took Tatum to that mommy and me group?”
"Mhmm, every Wednesday," Bradley affirmed, his attention fully focused on you.
“Right! That one. Well…one of the moms was saying how she was so thankful her baby was a boy, because her husband wanted a boy really badly and she didn’t want him to be upset if he didn’t get what he wanted…”
Bradley's brow furrowed with concern as he gently kissed Tatum's forehead, a protective gesture that spoke volumes.
“Babe, he sounds like a dick,” Bradley interjected, shaking his head as he gently kissed Tatum’s forehead again.
“I’m not finished yet!” You said as you held your hand up. “So anyways, she said that, and a lot of the other moms started talking and saying how their husbands were disappointed when they had girls or relieved when they had sons, and then they said how lucky I was that you were happy with a girl. The one of them said her husband pretended to be, but then he was totally different and genuinely happy when they had a boy next.”
“And you think I’m doing that?” Bradley queried as he tilted his head to the side, looking at you.
“Well, no, but…would you tell me if you’d wanted a son instead?”
The corner of Bradley's mouth lifted in a soft smile, his gaze softening as he met your eyes. "No," he replied emphatically, shaking his head. “Because I’ve never wanted a son instead of Tatum. Not once.”
“You haven’t?” You said as relief washed over you, Bradley's words washing away any lingering doubts.
“Not for a second. I’ve wanted Tatum from the minute you told me you were pregnant - I never really gave a shit whether she was a boy or a girl. She’s mine and that’s all I care about. It just happened to turn out that she’s the second Bradshaw girl around here to steal my heart, after her mama.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm, you know that song, the one where she says about how her daddy was praying for a boy, but got a girl instead and she was wrapped around his finger? Then she grows up and asks her husband one day what he wants, and he says he just wants a sweet, beautiful All-American girl like his wife?”
“Yeah, I know it,” You laugh softly as Bradley begins to hum the tune of the song, singing it softly as he looks down at Tatum.
“That’s exactly how I felt when you told me you were having a girl. I just wanted a beautiful little baby who looked just like you, and that’s exactly what I got. Now I have two beautiful girls who love me more than anything, and I would move mountains for the pair of you. We could have twelve girls for all I care - I’d love every single one of them just as much as I love you.”
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Title: The Parent Trap
Fandoms: Batman (DC Comics) and Danny Phantom
Ships: None
AUs: Demon Twins
Warnings: Character injury, discussions of death.
Summary:
It was just an ordinary night on patrol until...
“We need an evac,” Dick said, cutting the chatter off, “bird down.”
“Spoiler, you’re the closest to the cave. Nightwing, who’s with you?” Barb asked, “And how bad is the injury?”
“Robin,” Dick replied with some confusion before adding on with confidence, “a leg injury, we’re pretty sure it’s broken.”
“Robin?” Tim couldn’t help blurting out, looking over at Damian next to him, perched on his bike in full Robin costume. “But here’s right here, with me.”
---
Damian had been acting strange for the week or so. Rather, Robin had been acting strange for the last week. Not many people actually lived full time in the manor anymore, but everyone agreed that during the day he was his usual self. During patrols, however, he was simply a little… off. Like tonight for instance: Batman was away from Gotham on official Justice League business and Nightwing had agreed to cover his usual patrol route; normally Robin would tag along with Nightwing, giving the excuse that he needed to make sure Dick did the route correctly while everyone knew the demon brat really just wanted to spend more time with his favorite brother. But tonight…
“I will be joining you on your case, Drake.”
“You will?” Tim asked skeptically. Dick had already suited up and left, yet instead of scrambling to go catch up here Damian was, already all suited up, demanding to join Tim of all people.
“You are doing a stake out for street racers, correct? What will you do when they inevitably split to lose you?”
He sadly had a point, having someone else there would help. “Are you going to stab me?”
Robin didn't say anything, simply stood there and stared Tim down.
After standing there for a full minute, Tim sighed and headed for the vehicle bay, Robin hot on his heels. Without another word they donned helmets and slung legs over their bikes. Weird, but not unheard of, just another thing that was a little off. Not that Tim was entirely unhappy, he wanted a chance to observe Damian’s behavior. Even if he thought Dick was more likely to get Damian to open up.
…
And Tim was bored. The first half of patrol was quiet and uneventful, the street racers hadn’t shown up at their usual time/place yet, and Damian hadn’t said a damn thing the whole night. It’d just been the two of them riding around, not finding anything that needed their attention, and just being… normal. At least the usual chatter from the others was there to keep him company.
“We need an evac,” Dick said, cutting the chatter off, “bird down.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Spoiler, you’re the closest to the cave. Nightwing, who’s with you?” Barb asked, “And how bad is the injury?”
“Robin,” Dick replied with some confusion before adding on with confidence, “a leg injury, we’re pretty sure it’s broken.”
“Robin?” Tim couldn’t help blurting out, looking over at Damian next to him, perched on his bike in full Robin costume. “But here’s right here, with me.” The shadows around them grew deeper, seemed to sharpen.
“What? No, I’m looking right at him.”
“Well so am I!”
“I’ve got your cams up and… well shit,” Barb murmured.
“Oracle,” Damian? Robin? Some imposter? said into the quiet comms, a hand up to his helmet, “send me Nightwing’s location.”
“Robin,” Oracle started, only to be interrupted.
“We’re in sector 36,” Damian? Robin? Some imposter? replied, going so far as to give longitude and latitude coordinates and a description of the building roof they’re on.
“Copy that,” Damian? Robin? Some imposter? said before revving his bike’s engine and taking off.
Tim would never admit to nearly losing him due to sheer shock. Too busy screaming “What the fuck” in his own head to remember he needed to follow, but follow he did. This… this might explain Damian’s strange behavior over the past couple weeks. If there was an imposter running around with them, but they would have surely noticed, right?
“We can’t have everyone abandoning their patrols!” Barb said in clear frustration. Heard clearly because the chatter was still gone, nothing but dead silence. You would think everyone would be demanding answers, peppering the Robins with non-stop questions. Hell, Tim wanted to, but he was too busy keeping his bike under him as he chased after his Robin.
“Red Robin and I are on motorcycles,” Damian? Robin? Some imposter? told Barb, “which means we have the small vehicle first aid kits, including analgesics, splints, and extra bandages.”
“We could use the splints,” Dick said faintly.
“And doing first aid before evac arrives means less time faffing about once Spoiler arrives.”
Tim nearly crashed, barely righting his bike. To hear Damian’s voice say “faffing about” was just… weird. Does that mean Tim’s Robin was the imposter?
“You all are faffing about right now,” Damian? Robin? Some imposter? grumbled before hissing.
“Stay still,” Dick chided.
Okay, so maybe “faffing” was a phrase Damian had recently learned from a classmate or something, Tim sure didn’t know. And oh thank god, they must have arrived. Damian? Robin? Some imposter? was parked on the sidewalk, helmet already off and just pulling the field kit from the bike’s storage. He didn’t even spare Tim a glance, simply looked up at the very tall building, looked down at his grapple, shrugged, put the grapple away, and then lifted off the ground and into the air.
“Shit,” Tim said softly but with feeling.
“What?” Barb asked, clearly very tense.
“I think my Robin was the imposter, he just flew up the building. Like Kryptonian flew.” Is this Jon? Were he and Damian pulling a Bruce and Clark? Except it couldn’t be, Jon had started packing on muscles while Damian was still in the lanky growing-taller-before-filling-out stage.
“Really, akhi?” Damian? Robin? Some imposter? asked in exasperation.
“Hey, the jig is well and truly up at this point,” Damian? Robin? Some imposter? replied.
Okay, that was really weird to hear in Damian’s voice. And oh wait, maybe Tim should get up there too.
“Oh shit, there really is two of them!” Dick said in shock. “Uh… hello there… other Robin?”
“Hello Nightwing, I brought the kit. I…” Damian paused, then sighed into the comm, “akhi, what did you do?”
Damian tsked, “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Your leg is broken!” Damian yelled.
“Did you see that with your x-ray vision?” Damian asked.
“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not Kryptonian,” Damian replied. “I don’t have x-ray vision.”
“Sure sound Kryptonian,” Tim muttered under his breath. The Robin that flew had slipped into a faint Midwestern drawl that reminded him of Clark.
“Can you just give me the kit?” Dick asked both warily and wearily.
“Right, yes. Here.”
Tim had made it onto the roof by that point, just in time to watch one of the Robins hand over the kit to Nightwing before kneeling next to the other Robin, who had his leg stretched out in front of him while he sat half propped up on his elbows. The laying down Robin (the real one? The one that hasn’t shown any meta powers yet, anyway. Is one of them the real Robin or were they both imposters?) let himself fall fully on his back and held a hand out. The meta(?) Robin kneeled next to him and took his hand. “You’re going to be okay.”
“I am more worried about you, you’re not used to this.”
“Yeah, normally I’m the only one getting hurt, and I usually don’t have bones when that happens.” Imposter Robin laughed at that.
“What the fuck?” Tim said under his breath, what does that mean?
“Focus,” Dick chided as Tim came to join him in tending to Damian’s(?) injury.
“Batcopter ETA five minutes,” Barb said. “Agent A has the medbay prepped.”
Imposter Robin flinched at that. Odd.
“Focus,” Dick hissed. “Save the mystery for after we get our downed bird home.”
Tim almost pointed out they couldn't be sure either Robin was even the real one, but a scathing look from Dick that burned even through the domino white outs had Tim snapping his mouth shut. Instead he nodded and set about helping Dick set and splint Robin's leg.
Steph arrived right on time, between Dick, imposter Robin, and Tim they got the real(?) Robin loaded onto the batcopter. Then the imposter pulled something from his costume and tossed it at Dick.
“Keys?” Dick asked.
“We gotta get Robin's bike back to the cave somehow.” He hopped into the batcopter and settled next to the injured Robin.
Dick held out the keys, “And as Robin shouldn’t-”
“No,” the imposter interrupted. “I’m not leaving him.”
Seems it was Tim’s turn to be the voice of reason. He put a hand on Dick’s shoulder, “Robin trusts him, we’ll meet them back at the cave in a minute.” If the injured Robin even was the real Damian, if the imposter didn’t use his unknown powers to escape, if any slew of unpredictable situations. Holy hell, Tim could see why Bruce was so paranoid about knowing everything about everyone. He’d be in the middle of three panic attacks and an existential crisis on top of a heart attack if he were here right now. But he wasn’t, thankfully. Instead Tim pulled Dick away from the batcopter so Steph could take back off and head to the cave.
Soon Dick and Tim were on their respective bikes, Nightwing looking ridiculous on Robin’s candy apple red paint job, and were zooming through the streets at a pace that was while fast still gave Tim time to actually think. He went back over everything the two Robins had said since Nightwing had called in for an evac. And then it hit him.
“Akhi.”
“What about it?” Dick asked.
“It’s what they called each other.”
“Brother,” Cass added in her soft voice.
“Right, in Arabic. They called each other brother. And recently Robin told us about his twin brother.”
“Are you telling us that Robin’s twin brother came back from the dead and decided to just… join us on patrol?” Dick asked in disbelief.
“He told us several weeks ago, and has been acting odd on patrol for nearly two weeks now. If when he told us was when he found out, or at least started planning this, then they had a few weeks for Robin to give his twin a crash course on us before pulling this stunt.”
There was muffled laughter in the comms, but Tim wasn’t sure who.
“But why?” Oracle asked.
“A prank?” Dick asked.
“A test of some kind,” Tim said in a monotone. There was a double tap on the comm, Cass’s form of nonverbal agreement.
“The batcopter has arrived back at the cave,” Oracle informed them. Everyone else grew quiet, waiting for whatever was about to happen to happen.
“... -nk went too far,” Damian (or his twin?) was saying into the comm.
“TT, it did not,” Damian replied.
“You couldn’t taste their emotions,” okay that was the twin, and what a weird way to phrase that, “they were really scared.”
“You like the taste of fear.”
Wow, Damian, really not helping with how creepy your long dead twin is being.
“Well yeah, obviously, it’s delicious. That doesn’t mean it’s okay to go around purposefully scaring your family.”
Fear is delicious?!
“What does it matter? As you said, ‘the jig is up’ and the prank is over. We will have to explain ourselves when the others arrive.”
“Others like me?” Steph asked cheerfully.
“Great, time for the great bat interrogation,” the twin said with exactly zero enthusiasm.
“Not until Master Damian has been seen to,” Alfred said. Tim could just see the raised eyebrow.
Tim tuned the rest out as those actually in the cave set about the logistics of getting Damian moved to the medbay.
“He can taste fear?” Tim asked incredulously.
“You know as much as the rest of us,” Dick said back.
“Does that make him an empath? He said he’s not Kryptonian, would that make his power suite closer to a Marian? Wait, neither Talia nor Bruce have the meta gene, how’d he even get powers?”
“Maybe he got them from the Lazarus Pits?”
There was a snort in the comms, “Then why didn’t I get powers?”
“Hood? What’re you doing on our comms?” Dick sounded far too delighted.
“I have an alert set up for whenever your chatter stops, it’s always a bad sign.”
“Fair enough, you heading to the cave to meet the demon brat’s long lost twin?”
There was a scoff from Jason, “Of course!”
“Everyone’s headed for the cave,” Oracle said with a tone of defeat.
“Stuck in ops?” Dick asked.
“Well someone has to keep an ear on things while the rest of you get to go have fun.”
“We’ll keep our comms on.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Tim and Dick both laughed at that. Fortunately they arrived back at the cave at that point, quickly parking their bikes and all but running over to the medbay. Steph was standing just outside the door, clearly keeping an eye on things while Alfred and the twin fussed over Damian. Tim and Dick went to go join Steph at the door, none of them willing to risk Alfred’s wrath should they get in his way. Cass joined them shortly after, all four staring as Alfred finished up what he could do for Damian. The demon brat was laid out on a medical cot, his costume set to the side, down to just the thin layer worn under the armor, mask already removed.
“Leslie has been called, she’ll be here in the morning with the necessary supplies. I’m afraid you will have to remain here until then, Master Damian.”
Damian tsked, but otherwise said nothing.
“And now I do believe we are all owed an explanation.” Alfred turned ever so slightly as his attention turned to Damian’s twin.
Damian responded by struggling in his bed.
“What are you doing, akhi?” the twin asked, clearly exasperated.
“I will be sitting up for this,” Damian snarled.
Without a word Alfred handed Damian the bed’s controls, allowing him to slowly raise himself into a reclined sitting position. Alfred raised a brow as if to ask if that would do, Damian only glowered at the wall.
The twin started pulling his domino off. Damian tsked yet again and handed his twin a wipe to help pull the mask off. “Ancients,” the twin said, which Dick mouthed in confusion, “you lot sure do love your theming. And I thought the ghosts had it bad.”
“Ghosts?” Tim mouthed, exchanging quick, confused glances with Dick.
“So yeah, hi. I’m Danny, Damian’s long lost twin.” The twin, now known as Danny, said with a little wave after he got the domino off. And there was no denying that he was Damian’s twin, he had Damian’s face in every feature save his eyes. While Damian clearly had Talia’s eyes, Danny’s were all Bruce.
“Everyone, this is my brother, Danyal Al Ghul Wayne.”
“Legally not my name anymore.”
“Legally?” Tim asked.
“Yeah, I got adopted!” Danny grinned again, all sunshine and cheer that was so wrong when he had Damian’s face.
Tim snorted, Bruce’s kid had been adopted. Oh things just got complicated but the irony of Brucie being on the other end of a kid getting adopted was still a fun kind of irony. Or maybe Tim had gotten to the everything-is-hilarious stage of sleep depravation.
“So what is your legal name?” Dick asked.
“Um… I’m not sure I should tell you that.” Danny fidgeted nervously. “Not yet anyway. I mean, Bruce… uh… our father? Isn’t here and like… shouldn’t he be told? Too? Or first? Honestly I’d rather just be able to tell everyone at the same time rather than having to go over the whole thing every time someone new walks in the door.”
As if he had timed it to happen that way, Jason came roaring into the cave on his bike. There was a collective sigh as everyone crowding around the outside of the door knew they’d have to wait for Jason to get there before things could continue, even if he had been listening in along with Oracle on his way in.
Danny’s face lit up as Jason, still wearing his full Red Hood gear, came into view. He whooped and threw both hands in the air as he ran out the door, somehow not even touching any of the vigilantes crowded in the way.
Jason stopped dead, his own hands raised up halfway in front of him as if unsure what to do. Danny just slapped both of Jason’s with his own in a kind of low five, then bounced excitedly in place. “Undead solidarity, yeah!”
“Uh… what?” Jason’s modulated voice asked in its usual monotone.
“I’ve been dying to meet you!”
“Heh, have you? Were you dead set on meeting the best?”
Damian groaned, “Stop encouraging Danyal’s insipid sense of humor.”
“Yeah, you’re the best!” Danny continued as if Damian hadn’t said a thing, “My favorite new brother!”
Dick gasped and clutched his chest.
Jason pointed at him and laughed as he slung an arm over Danny’s shoulders. “I see you are a kid of taste. How do you feel about Jane Austen.”
Danny winced, “My dude, I’m a guy in high school.”
“And so was I once, but we can’t all have my impeccable taste.” He started walking Danny back over to the medbay. “Anyway, Bruce shouldn’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, we really going to wait that long for the whole story?”
Danny winced, then cursed quietly under his breath. “We’ll have to, something just came up.”
Everyone frowned at that, “What do you mean?” Damian asked.
“The real deal got into a fight and uh… they’re pretty strong. I think I’m gonna need to recombine.”
“What?” Jason said, it was hard to tell if the flatness was his own voice or the modulator.
“Oh uh… I’m a… what’s that word again… doppelganger! That’s it. The main body’s back home and,” he winced again, a bruise blooming across his cheek in real time. No, in double time, it was like watching a time lapse of a bruise blooming and slowly starting to heal. “Look, having my attention and powers split like this is normally fine, a good way to keep my powers in check for fighting normal humans actually. But uh… let’s see… I think I’m fighting Plasmius?”
“We don’t know who that is,” Damian said with a sigh. “He keeps saying names of people or things like I’ll know what it means.”
“It means I can’t afford to have my attention and powers split over two bodies, so I’m about to poof. Sorry. But I’ll be back tomorrow, summon me after school Dami?”
“Summon?” Everyone but the twins asked in confusion.
“Of course, Danyal. Good luck fighting your rogue.”
“I think the fruit loop counts as my arch nemesis, unfortunately. But I gotta sorta slide back, can’t have all of tonight’s memories and my half of the power hit me all at once. This might look a little freaky, but it’s normal and I’m fine I promise.”
Jason unslung his arm from Danny’s shoulder and took a step to the side. They all gawked as Danny closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, his breath frosting in what should be warm air. His face, the only part of him not covered by the Robin costume, started to go invisible at the same time his skin and hair started to gray. Then he was gone and the costume was left behind, slumping to the floor in a pile.
Everyone stood there for a moment, staring at the colorful pile of armor, then they all turned to look at Damian.
“TT, don’t ask me. I still don’t have a full list of everything he can do.”
---
Tim, along with everyone else, was at the manor the next afternoon. And he did mean everyone, even Kate, Harper, and Cullen were there. Hell, even Jason was there, on time no less. Damian had put “17:30 sharp” in the family (minus Bruce) chat and they knew he meant it. They were crowded into one of the larger sitting rooms, every chair filled save a chaise lounge that had been reserved for Damian. The boy of the hour arrived right on time, with five minutes leeway to set everything up.
“So tell me again who you want to introduce us to, chum?” Bruce asked as he followed behind Damian. Alfred brought up the rear, a plate of fresh cookies in hand.
“I haven't told you yet, Father. Have some patience, it will all make sense soon.” Damian settled on the lounge, setting his crutches to lean against it before pulling something out of his pocket. It was a small metal container, he popped it open and pulled out what appeared to be a bright green handkerchief. Very bright green, possible letting off light, neon toxic green. Duke made a soft surprised sound. Damian spread the cloth out on the coffee table in front of him and smoothed it out.
“Damian,” Bruce said carefully, “what is that?”
“A summoning circle, obviously.”
Wait, Danny was serious about being summoned?
“Can… can you even summon living people?” Dick leaned over from where he was perched on the couch’s arm to whisper to Cass, who was perched behind Tim on the couch’s back. Tim and Cass both shrugged.
“Damian, dealing with the occult is very dangerous.”
“It’s quite safe, Father.” Damian pointed down at the white markings on the handkerchief, “Since all the sigils are on here permanently there is no chance of making a mistake drawing them by hand. This group here is his name, this circle can summon one person and one person only. The rest of these are for protection. And this spot here,” Damian tapped on a small circle within the outer ring, “is to activate it. It does require a single drop of blood, it was the safest way to make the circle.”
“Blood?” Bruce asked flatly.
“It will make sense when I call him, do you trust me?”
“I’m not sure I trust whoever this “him” is,” Bruce grumbled.
“But do you trust me, Father?”
Bruce sighed, “You promise whoever this is means us no harm?”
“Of course, I promise.”
“I met the young man last night,” Alfred said as he placed the plate of cookies in the circle. “I found him to be polite and sincere.”
“So this is to do with whatever happened last night that I can’t get any of you to tell me about?”
“We want to explain it ourselves,” Damian said firmly. Then he pulled out a batarang and carefully poked a finger. “Blood of my blood, I call forth the spirit of my brother, Danyal.” He touched the drop of blood to the handkerchief, which lit up as the air around them shifted.
A figure began floating up from the circle, glowing white hair that waved as if they were under water, ashen skin, glowing Lazarus green eyes, a wide smile filled with sharp fangs. This… this wasn’t Danny, was this? The figure seemed to be wearing some kind of black jumpsuit, white gloves picking up the plate of cookies as they passed through the plate. They had no legs, after the belt the body just continued in a long tapering tail that ended like whisps of smoke. They were glowing, they were slightly see through! What was going on?
This wasn’t the boy they’d met last night.
“Father, my brother. Danyal, our father.” Damian paused, then added on, “And the rest of our family.”
“Hi,” the figure chirped, then seemed to shrink into himself as he looked around. “I uh… prefer to be called Danny. The only people who full name me are usually trying to kill me. Or send me to detention.”
That was Damian’s, or rather Danny’s voice alright. Even still had the faint midwestern drawal.
“Why do you look so different?” Dick asked in shock.
“It’s… a long story. Which I’m supposed to tell everyone.” Danny shrunk further into himself, looking miserable. “Please stop being so scared.”
“They are simply adjusting to your unfamiliar form, they will get over it,” Damian said firmly, glaring at everyone in the room.
“It’s not just fear, Dami, they’re horrified.”
“Sit down, eat your cookies. Alfred worked hard on those.” Damian patted the empty space next to him on the chaise lounge.
Danny turned and spun in place to sit down, looked down at where his tail was curled up under him, made a sour face, then the tail was suddenly replaced by a pair of legs tucked under him. He shoved a cookie into his mouth, now sporting normal teeth from what little Tim could see. “S’good,” Danny slurred, glancing over at Alfred who merely nodded his approval.
“Some time ago,” Damian started, as if that wasn’t the most vague way to start, “I summoned Danyal the first time. I am aware it was foolish, I will not hear about it.”
“I called him dumb already,” Danny added in. “I mean, I had to go find someone to explain how the circles work and what makes them safe or dangerous first, but yeah, I called him dumb. Then I had some friends help me make this,” Danny reached over and tapped the handkerchief, “then I went to three trusted uh… mentors? I guess I’d call them? And made sure with each of them this thing is legit before giving it to Dami.”
Bruce hadn’t moved, still standing in front of the coffee table, slack jawed, staring blankly down at Danny and Damian.
“Is he okay?” Danny stage whispered to Damian.
“Perhaps keeping it a surprise was not the optimal option.”
That seemed to snap Bruce out of it, “I think I need to sit down.”
Dick hopped up to guide Bruce to the nearest open seat, which happened to be the chaise lounge. Danny quickly flew up and moved to float cross legged in the air just on the other side of Damian, as if he were sitting in some invisible chair. He munched another cookie before offering the plate to Damian, who took a cookie for himself.
Once Bruce and Dick had settled back down, Damian decided to continue the story. “More recently I needed to do a covert investigation, but I couldn’t allow any of you know.”
“You what?” Bruce asked, clearly upset.
“I know, he still hasn’t even told me what it was. And I had to cover for him!” Danny sounded so offended.
“I had Danyal take my place in patrol while I was away.”
“When?” Bruce asked, voice dipping down as he leveled a steely glare at Damian.
“You never noticed, I think that speaks for itself. So as a test-”
Cass and Tim bumped fists.
“-Danyal has been joining us on patrols for the last twelve days.”
“Almost made it the full two weeks too,” Danny said airily. “That reminds me, you owe me fifty bucks.”
“What? No!” Damian shot back angrily. “They found out before the two weeks were up, clearly I won that bet and you owe me!”
“They didn’t figure it out, that part of the bet is a draw at best for you. No, the fifty is because you’re the reason they found out. It seems awfully suspicious you got into some kind of accident right before the deadline, how did you break your leg again?”
“I did not break my leg on purpose just to win a meaningless bet!”
“Okay, both of you need to calm down,” Bruce said, looking unsure if he needed to step between the two squabbling boys. “You… had a bet?”
“I bet fifty bucks I wouldn’t give myself away before the two weeks were up, Damian bet fifty bucks you’d figure me out before two weeks. And they didn’t figure it out.” Danny turned to glare at Damian as he said that last part.
“Fine,” Damian conceded with a pout. “I shall venmo you your winnings.”
The ghost floating in front of them has a venmo. The ghost floating in front of them has a use for US currency. What is going on? Is Tim hallucinating?
Damian’s pout deepened, “I am still disappointed in you all for not noticing a whole extra person joining our patrols.”
“In my defense, I don’t patrol with you guys,” Duke joked.
“In our defense, we were suspicious,” Tim added.
Bruce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Damian, we had no way of even expecting you to switch places with your long lost dead twin.” Bruce paused, then looked over at Danny. “How did you pull that off? No offense Danny, but you are very easy to tell apart right now.”
“Oh, that’s because I can do this.” A bright flash of light washed over Danny, changing him back to the boy Tim had met the night before, only wearing baggy casual clothes instead of brightly colored armor.
Duke yelped and covered his eyes, “A little more warning next time? Damn, that was bright!”
“Oops, sorry.”
“Oh thank god, I was so worried,” Steph murmured from next to Tim.
“Well that was flashy,” Dick said.
Bruce seemed broken again, staring at the now living, black haired, blue eyed boy sitting cross legged in the air next to Damian.
“Okay, so what the fuck was all that?” Jason asked, motioning to Danny. “Are you dead or aren’t you? Because you don’t look dead right now.”
“Neither do you,” Danny snarked back.
“I’m not dead though.”
“You sure?”
“Not anymore,” Jason said stubbornly.
“No one ever comes all the way back, not anyone who was dead dead.”
“Please stop,” Bruce begged. Dick whimpered in agreement.
Danny ducked into his shoulders again, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“Since it would be inconvenient for Robin to be missing at the same time I have a broken leg,” Damian said as a clear subject change, “and we have a perfect stand in who’s already proven himself in the field, Danyal has kindly offered to cover for me for the next few nights.”
“I managed to soup Plasmius last night, so that gives me two, three days max of not having to worry about his schemes. My friends can cover for me during the night so long as I’m still back home during the day. Unless a rabid ancient show up, anyway.”
“What does any of that even mean?” Tim begged.
“We could use some context,” Dick added.
“Right, I guess this is when the life story portion starts,” Danny said with a sigh.
“Perhaps you would prefer to talk over dinner?” Alfred asked from the room’s doorway.
“Dinner sounds great!” Danny cheered as he hopped to his feet, now firmly on the floor. “I’m not sure talking about dying and coming back is the best dinner conversation though,” Danny said absently as he and Bruce helped Damian to his feet.
“Alfred usually has a strict no work talk at the dinner table rule,” Tim teased.
“I think he can make an exception for someone’s life story,” Duke laughed. There were several murmurs of agreement.
“Alright, well I guess we can start with the first time I died,” Danny said as the group slowly filed out of the sitting room and towards the dining room.
#nenna writes#fanfiction#dpxdc#dc x dp#danny phantom#dc comics#batman#batfam#demon twins au#danny and damian are twins#i like the parent trap trope okay?#it's soooooo much fun#poor brucie is having a heart attack thre panic attacks and an existential crisis#and that's before basically getting told jason's still dead
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Shark
- 🦈
(Brainrot time! Blame dougielovelove for their new work. Had a bit of a bad day and i usually dont write spicy things
This one can be set in monster au. Readers a captain of a whole different task force meant for oceanic endevours. Im talkin the readers a shark hybird (biased) their lieutenant a whale hybird, sergent an orca or a pufferfish, their newest recurits a fuckin salmon, the works.
They're close knit, heck even poly if you want. Price and the Reader meet through connections with Laswell. They find out they hav the same target, price is stubborn and wont drop the mission, despite how most of his team is not suited for water.
Reader respects it and they work really well together. A bit too well, even to the point theyre considering merging the teams.
Completely honest, Price is starting to fall for their fellow captain. I mean how can you not, they've swooped in and saved them countless times, preventing the oceans waters from completely swallowing them in the dark abyss.
Not to mention his sergents and lieutenant are just the cutest, so eager to do well and work together with his own. Just protective instincts, hit him to the point hes pickin everyone up and scentin them. They're his hoard now.
Reader and Price are settleing paper work in his office. Readers busy writing down important information and signing off reports, but price cant help but stare. How swift his hands move as each words is made and written, how tight his claws grip the pen with every small minisucle flick of the pen.
He hiccups a small flame when their fellow captain decided to extravagantly spin his pen when he trys to recall the missing info. How smooth it moves between his blackened fingers, swirling and turning flipping all between nimble and flexible rough- and hes hard.
Reader realizes Price is distracted, before he can call out their name, he glances down just to see whats got him so wrapped up in his mind.
Now all i can think about is Reader forcing Price to focus and finish his paperwork while hes got both his assets shoved up his ass. Price is just a mess, making his paperwork a completely unusable. Yet, the reader still wants him to finish, becuase if he dosent Price definitely wont.
Or they decide to have some fun, release the pent up desire the poor dragons been keeping buried. A soilder be it 141 or be from the readers own team, walks in. Can't help but love how the stoic draconic captain looks so small and pathetic under his co-leader. Joining in on the fun just to see how wrecked this great leader can get.)
Okay, this is cool and my horny is up but I made a few changes as I like characters to be more mythological and just animal hybrids, though those are cool too
CW:NSFW, quick and rough, subbot Price, Gaz, Oc sergeant, domtop reader
Price loves you. But you are one cruel bastard.
Those big rough hands of yours trace his taught belly, webbed fingers making a shiver crawl up his spine and stealing what little thoughts are left in his head as one of your hands trails down the smooth scales of his tail. "Come on dear captain, just a few more pages to go." You purr, chest rumbling against his back like the thrum of an engine, your lips tickling his pointy earlobe.
Price swears he's going to die; pants around his ankles and legs spread, stretched so wide on both of your shafts he can feel your heartbeat by the way your cocks twitch against his walls, each labored breath making his hole clench down desperately, his own hard cocks left hard and unattended.
It would be one thing if you claimed him like he wants you to, pushed him flat on the desk and fucked into him like he's nothing but a bitch to pump full of your cum.
But you don't. You just sitting inside him, hard and throbbing and still despite how much he tries to tempt you by clenching down. Price finds himself cursing the amount of patience you have.
"Sweetheart," He groans, voice too light and whiny for his own ears, head thrown back to give you a heatless glare. "C'mon, don't tease me." Price tries to grind his hips down but you hold him firm.
"Not until you finish those reports." You grunt, authoritative, and Price is stuck between wanting to bite you in revenge and trying to stifle a pathetic whine. "Go on, you only have a few pages left."
Those damn reports. Price can barely read his own handwriting, a light tremor in his fingers from the way your cocks press against his prostate. "Cruel bastard." He growls, sucking in a breath and clenching around you.
His chest flares with pride the second your claws dig into his body, not even your mind able to hold back the animalistic need to buck into the tight willing heat surrounding you. But it's a double edged sword — a hiccup of flame sparks from his mouth, your cockheads bumping his prostate and making a bead of precum spurt from his cocks.
"As if you're any better." You growl in his ear, your hair tickling his skin as you roughly nip at his though hide, pleasure and pain loosing their borders in his mind.
He doesn't notice the nicking on the door, but Price is ready for hell to swallow up when he finally registers the door open, his blue eyes rising to meet Sullivan — your hippocampus sergeant — who looks just as mortified to walk in on you like that as Price.
Sullivan's dark horse ears flicker back, the iridescent scales along his cheeks turning from ocean green to a vibrant embarrassed pink, "I- is this, this a- I can leave if, if, if- this looks like a-" The poor man stumbles over his words, eyes bouncing between Price's debauched form and your amused face.
It gets worse when Gaz pokes his head in behind Sullivan, "Hey captains are you-" His jaw falls, pupils dilating like he's a crow that just saw a shinny penny. "-oh."
You just chuckle, rough voice putting Sullivan at ease. "At ease boys," You snort, don't even attempt to hide anything, one hand sliding down to stroke his cock, so slick with his precum that his shaft slides through your hand just from you squeezing it. "Need something boys?"
Even from here Price can see the way Sullivan's eyes darken as well at the deep moan that tumbles out of Price's throat and Price has to bite his lip to keep the noises in check.
"I-" Sullivan sucks in a breath, scales slowly turning to the shade of an overcooked lobster. "I. . . I forgot."
"Can we join?" Gaz asks, chuckling at Sullivan's wide-eyed look. "What? As you weren't thinking it." He shrugs and places a kiss on his cheek when Sully nods meekly.
"I don't know." You hum, letting go of Price's cock to tilt his head to you, meeting his eyes. "Do you want your boys to help you keep focused?"
Price swallows, knows that all that awaits him should he accept would be pleasurable torture, but his bones burn with the need to have his hoard close to him, taking care of him for a change. "Yeah," He growls, less whiny and more demanding.
You hum and roll the chair back to create space for the two men beneath the table, "On your knees." You don't miss the way the authority in your voice makes both men shiver.
"You heard him," Gaz grins and pulls Sullivan towards you two by the hand, reminding you more of a puppy than any harpy as he happily gets on his knees.
Your gaze skirts to Sullivan as he tentatively settles on Gaz's right, pitch black eyes hidden behind that fringe you keep telling him to cut. "You alright with this Sully?" You ask, knowing the man's sexual experience is limited to one girlfriend and your team, and even then he's shy about many acts. "You don't need to do something you're unsure about. No one is going to be mad."
"I, yes. I want this." He swallows, looking back at you. "I, uh. . . I got some pointers." He says shily.
Gaz just snickers and throws his arm over Sullivan's shoulder. "I helped," He says proudly, wing spreading out to wrap around Sully's back.
"Rubbing off on my sergeant already huh?" You snort, your attention turning to Price when he growls, capturing his lips in a kiss to placate his demanding draconic side while your hand lets go of his cocks — an open offering to the two sergeants.
"Only in a good way." Gaz grins and leans in, opening his mouth and pink little tongue lolling out to lick at one leaking cock like he knows Price likes, lips wrapping around the tapered head and sucking on it, amusement bubbling in his chest when you hold Price's hips firm so he can't buck up.
Sullivan follows suit, less confident but still willing, holding the other cock in his smooth scalled hand and tentatively giving the crown a kiss, dark eyes watching both of your reactions as he slowly trails kisses around the cumhole, growing bolder with every small whimper until he's gently suckling on the tip like Gaz had done.
"You're doing good Sully," You praise, even your voice is hoarse from the way Price squeezes down on you now that the two sergeants are servicing his cocks. "You too Gaz." You reach down to gently pet his hair so Kyle doesn't feel left out, "Both of you, so good for me and Price."
Price, for his sake, may as well be a mindless animal from the way his brain is steadily melting out of his cocks like a lit candle, moaning low in his throat, his eyes closed to just feel the pleasure that's assaulting him on both ends. He can tell the difference between Gaz's and Sullivan's mouths, the duality of firm swipes of the tongue across his shaft and the kitten licks on his most sensitive parts making his head swim, hips trying uselessly to fuck into the hot mouths and your own cocks.
He whines when you grip his hips firmly. "No," You snort, both arms keeping his hips still so he can do nothing but endure. "You're not getting off until the job's finished."
Price shivers, "Bastard." He growls weakly, his eyesight blurry as he tries to focus on the document.
"Pot, kettle." You grin against his skin, helping guide his arm towards the documents where he left off. "C'mon, it's just a few pages, then your sergeants will be able to reward you fully."
#gnome correspondence#cod mw2#x reader#male reader#top male reader#captain john price#kyle gaz garrick#oc#captain john price x male reader#captain john price x reader#captain john price x oc#kyle gaz garrick x male reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#cod mwii#cod modern warfare#cod smut#monster 141 au#monster cod au#monster 141
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"anton stop staring, it's rude" eunseok playfully swats his hands over anton's face, breaking his hard long stare at your outfit that you are wearing today
what's wrong with what you were wearing?
you consciously look down at your outfit. second guessing if it was a bad idea to wear your oh-so-coincidentally matching hoodie with your not-so-secret boyfriend wonbin
"oh sorry y/n. i was just thinking about where i saw that hoodie you were wearing. i could've sworn i just saw that somewhere but i can't pinpoint where exactly" anton sheepishly bows to you, feeling apologetic for staring at you for too long
"oh no worries, ton! you probably saw it somewhere at the mall or something" you smile at the maknae, hoping he'd drop it but you don't miss the mischievous glint in his eyes
and of course as all stories go, wonbin and seunghan both walk through the doors mid conversation
you go turn around to check who just came in and lo and behold, it was wonbin who was wearing the exact same hoodie as you were.
wonbin stops talking with seunghan the moment you two made eye contact. he was about to greet you like normal to avoid any suspicion from his own bandmates but with the way your face just contorted into horror, he looks around to see what could be the cause.
that is until he notices your hoodie. the same hoodie that he got for you as a little gift when he went shopping alone once. a couple hoodie.
"i definitely saw it from the mall, alright" anton bursts out laughing, putting two and two together. finally! he caught you two in the act.
seunghan makes a confused sound before looking between you and wonbin and pieces it together. like a light bulb just went above his head, seunghan started screaming and jumping around you and wonbin
"oh my god is this how we find out?!" seunghan exclaims in joy, not believing the fact that this shit just unfolded before his very eyes
you feel your face heat up in embarrassment that you two were caught in the act. your little secret was now out to the members.
"there was no reason for you guys to hide your relationship, we can already tell from the get-go that you guys have something going on" eunseok points out from the couch.
sohee, sungchan and shotaro all join in the conversation after hearing all the fuss and commotion was about from the neighboring practice room
"hey! what gives- OH!" sohee gasps, bumping into sungchan who stood still in shock by the doorway.
"congrats binnie~" shotaro teases wonbin pulling him into a hug
not taking much of this teasing much longer, you stomp your leg and raise your voice at the members
"don't you guys have practice to attend to?!" you say, gesturing to the practice room and all. to which the boys all respond by laughing at your little outburst in attempt to divert the attention away from the fact you two have been caught.
"we'll go right back to practicing if wonbinnie here proves that you two are in fact in a relationship" anton proposes, crossing his arms in attempt to look all menacing (he is btw)
wonbin rolls his eyes and looks around his members, "c'mon guys. manager hyung will scold us if we don't practice a lot today" he tries to reason out with his members but it just doesn't prevail
"kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss!" seunghan and sohee start chanting, causing a chain reaction with the rest of the members who obviously followed suit
you and wonbin both grumble. they will never let you hear the end of this.
"c'mon wonbin i know you want to kiss her right now" seunghan hollers, laughing his ass off next to sohee who was all giggly with the whole situation
wonbin then slowly comes near you, earning a earful of cheers and whistles from the group. you look up at him and mouth "are you sure?" to which he nods his head yes. he leans his head down just right above the shell of your ear, "so they can shut the fuck up" he whispers, making you giggle
"riize's own rizzler is rizzing" anton yells making seunghan double over laughing.
you close your eyes as you brace for the impact of wonbin's lips against yours. to which you only feel the short peck on your forehead. you open your eyes to see glaring back at his members.
"there. i kissed my girlfriend in front of you weirdos. happy?!" wonbin snarls at his group, only to be met with kissing noises from the rest of the members.
"whatever lovebirds. just keep in, yeah?" anton jokes, causing wonbin to lunge at him. "HYUNG!"
#riize imagines#riize x reader#riize scenarios#wonbin imagines#wonbin x reader#wonbin scenarios#park wonbin imagines#park wonbin x reader#park wonbin scenarios
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Sleepy Bucky
Overworked and exhausted beefy babie Bucky. He’s borderline acting like a toddler because he’s so tired and doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s beyond just sleepy, nearly delirious from a lack of rest after spending weeks on a mission. He’s all pouty and grumpy on the jet ride over, dragging his duffle back behind him as he trudges through the compound.
“Hey Buck” You greet him from the couch where you were watching TV, only for him to wordlessly flop forward and face plant himself onto the sofa. “You okay?”
He lets out a grunt while you pet his hair, coaxing him to at least lie on his back instead of suffocating himself into the couch seat.
“What’s wrong Bucky”
“Wan a poptart”
You were sure you heard incorrectly, there was no way the super solder had requested the very treat he said was nothing but sugar and chemicals (though it didn’t stop him from finishing the whole box the first time he tried them).
“A poptart?”
“Stwabewy poptart”
You blink at his slurred words, watching him curiously as he rolls off the couch to slump onto the floor like a starfish, eyes wide open, arms and legs splayed out to the sides.
“Do you still want the poptart?”
“Ya”
You nod, heading over to the kitchen to toast a poptart for him, occasionally peeking over to see what new pose he’d put himself in. You bring the poptart for him on a small plate along with a glass of milk, placing it on the coffee table where he’s still laying down. He pouts when you don’t put it on the floor within his reach, not bothering to sit up from his chosen position.
“Feed me” He demands, looking at you with puppy eyes while you giggle, sitting down beside him and bringing the poptart to his mouth so he can take a bite. You’re not a fan of him eating in such a pose but it’s not like your strong enough to move him yourself.
“Careful, don’t choke”
“Save me. Give me mouth to mouth” He snickers to himself, while you roll your eyes, letting him take little bites.
“Wan milk” He rolls over onto his front, humming contently when you bring the glass for him to take a sip. You can’t believe you have to deal with this absolute manchild, letting him finish his snack.
“Why don’t you get some rest” You see his eyes starting to close, but his body still too wired to actually fall asleep.
“Don’t wanna” he rubs his eyes, unsure of what he even wants anymore.
“Alright, how about we just put your things away and change into something more comfy” Your reason with him, relieved when he nods and allows you to help him up, taking him to his room. He tosses his bag aside before starting to take off his gear, grumpily huffing when his zip gets stuck.
“My zip” He pouts, dropping his arms to his sides, ready to crawl into bed with his tac suit on at this point. You giggle, gently tugging it till it easily slides down, helping him with the rest of the belts and buckles until he’s in just his boxer briefs.
“How about your joggers and a tshirt?” You were about to go to his closet to grab his clothes but he has no interest in putting clothes back on.
“No”
“But you’re just in your underwear Buck” You say incredulously while he starts making his way to bed, slipping under the covers.
“M’not nakey. Just half” He shrugs, giving you grabby hands, hoping you’ll join him. You sigh, joining him under the covers, hoping he’ll go right to sleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.
“Wanna sleep” He whines, and you can’t help but laugh because it’s very clear he needs it and no one’s stopping him from going to bed.
“Go to sleep Bucky”
“Okayyy” He drawls, shuffling around the sheets, huffing with each position, deeming nothing comfy enough for him to sleep. He reaches over for you, disregarding his pillow and replacing it with you instead.
“What are you doing Buck”
“M’a koala” He mumbles, burying his face into your chest and wrapping his arms and legs around you, his body starting to finally relax, all the tension in his muscles dissipating into thin air once hes wrapped around with you.
“You’re a 6 foot super soldier” You huff, shifting against his wishes, trying to get air back into your lungs while he lets out a disgruntled grunt each time you squirm. “And you’re heavy”
“You movin’ too much” He complains, eyes still squeezed shut, hugging you tighter, starting to fall in and out of sleep at the feeling of your warmth.
“Cause you’re squishing me bub” You snort, grazing his scalp and softly rubbing his temples while he purrs against you like a needy kitten. In his state of half slumber, he only registers bits and pieces of what you say.
“M”not squishy” His voice is muffled as he keeps his face pressed into your chest.
“No, I said you’re squishing me” By now theres no point in trying to tell him what you mean, he’s too sleepy to understand anything.
“My squishy” He sleepily mumbles, letting out a content sigh when you pull the covers up over both of you. “G’night squishy”
#beefy bucky#beefy bucky barnes#beefy bucky barnes smut#Bucky Barnes#James Buchanan Bucky Barnes#james buchanan barnes#james bucky barnes#james bucky buchanan barnes#bucky barnes fluff#marvel fluff#Avengers#avengers fluff#sleepy bucky#sleepy bucky barnes#soft bucky#needy Bucky#needy bucky x reader#needy bucky barnes#needy bcuky#needy bucky x you#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky x f!reader#bucky x f reader#beefy bucky x you#beefy bucky x f reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x reader smut#bucky barnes x you#soft bucky barnes
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Thrilling Bet
Honkai Star Rail - Dr. Ratio x Aventurine
A/N: I know it's WAY too early to write anything about these two, but that leaked LC is living in my head rent free and I needed to get this out of my head so... yeah.
Also, keep in mind this is written before official releases and they may be OOC.
Summary: Aventurine comes up with an interesting bet.
Word count: 1482 words
“Ve~ri~tas,” Aventurine nearly sang, bursting into the room without the slightest care or respect for the other man’s privacy. Ratio closed both the book in his hands and his eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘Patience, Veritas, patience,’ he repeated inside his mind, remembering why he agreed to deal with someone like Aventurine in the first place and how they even ended up together.
Turning his head to look at Aventurine, Ratio gave the blonde a cold, piercing glare. “What?”
“Are you busy?”
“Well, I was rea-”
“Good, because I just happened to find out something really interesting and I’d like to share it with you, my dear Veritas,” Aventurine chuckled after promptly interrupting the other, placing his hands on Ratio’s shoulders as he stood behind his chair. “And I’m sure you’ll love to hear this one.”
“Could you not touch me so casually?” Ratio hissed, slightly flinching when he felt the touch against the bare skin of his left arm. “And, please, go straight to the point this time. I don’t wish to waste another afternoon hearing about your gambling adventures.”
“Geez, so cold, are you mad at me? You are so tense today, you need to relax ~” Aventurine insisted, returning his hands to the top of Ratio’s shoulders when the scholar tried to dislodge them. Aventurine pressed his thumbs, as if to give the man a massage while starting another of his monologues.
Ratio let out a small groan when Aventurine refused to stop touching him, but couldn’t help but feel a shiver running down his spine as that massage-like motion started. It was almost good enough to make him ignore whatever Aventurine was ranting about this time. Ratio hated to admit it, but Aventurine knew how to get him to do things, to get him in the mood.
But there was a fatal flaw in this whole scene, one that not even Ratio’s most complex calculations could have foreseen.
Aventurine’s touch felt ticklish. Not like a light tingle or a bothersome fluttering over his skin. It felt annoyingly ticklish. Enough to have Ratio gritting his teeth to avoid letting an embarrassing smile make its way to his face.
“Veritas, are you listening? You're way too quiet - even for you,” Aventurine called, bringing Ratio back down to his senses. Aeons, he was so focused on finding a way to ignore that feeling that he couldn’t even bother to hear that gambling addicted blonde.
“No, sorry. I dozed off for a second. You were saying?” Ratio muttered, letting out a sigh of relief when those hands finally stopped pressing into his skin.
“Oh? Were my hands this good?” Aventurine teased and Ratio could hear the smirk in his voice. “My, I can always give you more if you want, handsome, you just need to ask nicely.”
“That was not- sigh. Suit yourself,” Ratio stopped himself, letting out what sounded like a confident chuckle, but it was only an attempt to hide what was really going on from Aventurine’s attentive gaze.
As someone who gambled that often, Aventurine had an amazing eye for details, noticing every little thing, catching all the signs and figuring out the meaning behind every sign one’s body could give. Still, Ratio also knew that man liked the palm of his hand and that there was a chance he could make it go unnoticed. “Anyway, back to the topic. What was it that you needed to tell me so bad that you couldn’t even knock on my door?”
“Oh, that?” Aventurine giggled, lightly tapping Ratio’s shoulders with the tip of his fingers, “I already forgot, it wasn’t that important.”
Uh oh.
Despite a calm exterior, Ratio felt like things were starting to drift from the path he planned them to go. It didn’t take a gifted intellect like his to figure out that something else caught Aventurine’s attention, that something aroused enough of his interest to put his ranting aside for a moment.
“You know, Veritas,” Aventurine started, stopping the massage and gently sliding his hand from Ratio’s shoulder down to his arm. Walking around the chair the scholar was sitting in, Aventurine took off his glasses with his other hand, eying the other man with a gleam in his eyes. “I actually wanted to ask if you wouldn’t have time to play a game with me. It’s been a while, no?”
Ratio crossed his legs, leaning back into the chair as he looked up to Aventurine’s face with a defiant, but uninterested look. “I could swear I told you I was in the middle of a readin-”
“Fantastic, so, it’s a simple bet, nothing ‘unreasonable’ this time, I promise,” Aventurine insisted, mimicking Ratio’s way of talking when using one of his comments about the blonde’s endless games.
“And if I agree, will you get yourself out of my room?”
“Maybe,” Aventurine grinned, squatting in front of Ratio and uncrossing his legs, resting each of his hands over Ratio’s knees. “Are you ticklish?”
“Hm? Is that your game?” Ratio asked mockingly, putting up a confident act.
“Not really, but it takes an important part on it. Because I could swear I saw you smiling when I was fiddling with your shoulders.”
“I’m afraid we are not on the same page.” Ratio sighed, resting his head on one of his hands while he considered the pros and cons of kicking that blonde away from him at that exact moment.
“Please, a man like you could have done better at feigning ignorance,” Aventurine smirked, slightly digging his fingers into Ratio’s legs. “Answer me, Veritas, are you ticklish? Because I bet you are.”
“Statistically speaking, every person is ticklish to some degree. It’s only natural for us to-”
“Nah-ah, I don’t care about statistics,” Aventurine interrupted before pulling himself a little closer, making Ratio freeze on spot. “I’m going all in on this one, Veritas.”
“...There could be a huge backlash if you lose this ‘bet’, Aventurine…” Ratio warned, hoping he could develop a way to sink into that chair in the next seconds.
“And that’s the fun part, Veritas. There is no thrill if there is no risk.”
Ratio could feel the heating spreading across his face when Aventurine looked at him like that. His heart beat fast and his thoughts crashing one into the other, giving him no logical solution for this situation. “That’s enoug- AGH!” Ratio squeaked like a dog’s toy when Aventurine quickly moved his hand and squeezed his side, his fingers digging into that exposed portion of skin and sending electric shooks up to his smart - but now useless - brain.
“Hah,” Aventurine laughed, “jackpot.”
“Aventurine, no. I’m seheheri- ah! N-nohoh!”
And so, Ratio found himself trapped against that chair, stuck between the soft cushions and Aventurine’s hands. The gambler didn’t waste a single second, using one hand to dig and stroke Ratio’s exposed sides while the other pinched the top of his thigh. “You know the drill, Veritas, I won the bet, so it’s only fair I get to enjoy my prize.”
“D-dohohon’t- ahAHah, t-take me fohohor one of yohohour stuhUHupid games!” Ratio managed to protest between giggles, holding into Aventurine’s arms as he tried to pry his hands off his body. “Now stohohop this, yohohou idiot!”
“Ah, as expected of you, Veritas, even laughing like this, you’re able to keep that sharp tongue of yours,” Aventurine mocked, dragging his nails against Ratio’s side and making the man’s laugh rise an octave. “But I have to say, your smile is as handsome as I expected. You don’t disappoint, do you? Heh ~”
“S-shuhush! AhahAHa, e-enohOHOhough!” Ratio threw his head back, taking as much air as possible to his lungs in a deep gasp before breaking into a renewed fit of laughter. He managed to get a look at Aventurine’s face through squinted eyes and - if the small tears clinging onto his lashes weren’t distorting his sight - he looked more amazed than ever.
Ratio couldn’t remember Aventurine smiling like that even when accompanying him to his wild gambling nights. Was tickling him really this amusing for him?
In those short seconds he was lost in his thoughts, Aventurine managed to get a hold onto Ratio’s legs and sit himself on top of his lap. Now at a much closer distance, they could admire each other’s features: the rare sight of Dr. Ratio with a flustered expression and Aventurine looking dazzled by his new discovery.
“So,” Aventurine whispered, giving Ratio a break from the tickling but pushing him against the chair by his shoulders, keeping him pinned in place, “where else are you ticklish, Veritas?”
“H-hah…” Ratio wheezed lightly, closing his mouth shut before his lips curled into a grin, “take a guess, Aventurine. No, rather… make a bet. But you know better than anyone else that the higher the stakes-”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever… I just want to see that handsome smile again, Veritas. It’s worth the risk.”
#honkai star rail#honkai star rail tickling#dr ratio#aventurine#aventurine x dr ratio#aventio#lee!dr ratio#ticklish!dr ratio#ler!aventurine#tickle fic#written before canon#veritas ratio
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wake up, sleepyhead
wriothesley x f!reader
wc: 2.1k
synopsis: this was just an excuse to write sleepy grumpy domestic wriothesley that is the whole point of this lmfao
a/n: i started writing this in past tense and then halfway through i changed to present tense for some reason???? anyway i just went with the present tense for this one so i apologize if you don't like that :c
It's been about a week since you left the Fortress of Meropide. You had gone home to visit with your family after not seeing them in so long. Ever since you moved down to the Fortress of Meropide you were rarely without your boyfriend, Wriothesley. You were coping rather okay. It felt weird at first but you have your family with you. Wriothesley? Well, he had his own ways of coping. By burying himself in his work. Not only was he working harder than necessary, he was also beginning to take it out on others. It was pretty obvious to most of the prisoners and other workers that the Duke was in a mood.
“Wait, the Duke is coming, let’s move over to the cafeteria. His grace has been pretty agitated lately” a prisoner whispers to his friend in the direction of the production zone. The corner of Wriothesley’s mouth twitches in annoyance as he passes by them, fully being able to hear. “Don’t you have work you could be doing you two?” he speaks over his shoulder. Normally, he wouldn’t have given a remark like that any thought but today wasn’t normal. He felt like he was going insane.
"You know what" he turns to the guard that has been walking by his side, "Please give Miss Sigewinne my sincerest apologies. I have some work I would like to deal with back in my office". "Of course, your grace" the guard salutes and continues to make his way to the infirmary. Meanwhile, Wriothesley begins stomping his way back to his office. Once he is alone, he runs his fingers through his hair and sighs a very heavy and loud sigh. "I just need to get to work" he tries to shrug off whatever it is that is making him feel so insane.
When he sits down in his chair to begin working, the words on the papers in front of him seem almost foreign. His mind begins to trail off. The day before you left, the two of you went to the overworld to do some window shopping. You had been begging him for forever to do more domestic activities together. It wasn't that he didn't want to do those things with you, he just wasn't sure it would suit him or that he would even be good at them. He didn't want his lack of interest to drag down the mood but he knew he would be a fool if he ever turned down an offer to spend more time with you.
Images of you that day continue to pop up. The way the sun kissed your skin and made you almost glow, even in the light. The way you would engage in friendly conversation with the other Fontainians so effortlessly. It was like he was spending his days with an angel. You had run into Charlotte from the Steambird while you were out. He wasn't super familiar with the woman, only having met her on one or two occasions, but he knew you two were close. Before you moved down to the Fortress of Meropide you had actually worked at the Steambird. A little while after you worked there you almost got a job at the Court but Monsieur Neuvillette thought you would fit well working alongside Wriothesley. At first when he had discovered the Iudex had sent you to work with him, he was a little irritated. He wasn't one to go against the wishes of Neuvillette so of course he trusted his judgment regardless of his own personal feelings. But, not soon after you began your time there, he quickly realized the real reason why you were sent down there.
"So, how is Y/n doing with her position at the Fortress?" Neuvillette asked Wriothesley after they finished discussing other work matters. He eyed the Iudex for a moment, "I'm sure you can make a pretty good educated guess". A sly smile slowly graced Neuvillette's face, "That's good. I often worry you get too wrapped up in your work and forget that you can still be a person and not just the Duke". His sincere words make Wriothesley soften his body language a little more.
"I hope you are happy"
"I am. Thank you"
As Wriothesley's mind continues to play through the last time he was with you, his head lowers onto his desk and into his arms. His eyes close as he tries to soothe the headache that is beginning to pound at the back of his head with his thoughts of you. It wasn't long before he was asleep.
When you arrive at the Fortress of Meropide you take in a long drawn out breath. "Home" you softly say to yourself. Yes you just were home technically but, this is different. This has become your new home.
You first make your way to the infirmary to visit with Sigewinne. "Y/n! You're back!" she smiles brightly before giving you a hug. "Oh I've missed you so much Sigewinne. I hope things have been alright down here" you fix her hat and hair for her after having accidentally tousled it in the hug. "Things have been fine! The Duke has been a little troublesome to deal with however" she giggles. "Oh? Has he been upset?" you ask concerned. "He's just been working a lot and it's been putting him in a bad mood. Although, I'm pretty sure it's just because he's been missing you so much" she explains. You smile fondly at the girl "I see. Well, I just wanted to see you to give you this" you reach into your bag and pull out a very ornate looking wooden bowl. Sigewinne's face lights up, "Ooh! You didn't need to bring me a gift". "Oh please there was no way I wasn't going to bring you something back. I just thought you might like to use it for medicine or even making your drinks" you smile as she takes the bowl from your hands. Her hands trace over the carvings of the bowl and she smiles up at you, "Thank you so much. I will make excellent use out of this!".
"It was nothing. Well, I'm going to go see Wriothesley now" you start to say your goodbye. "Oh, by the way, he was supposed to meet with me today to discuss something but he didn't show up. When the guard told me he decided not to come see me I got worried so I went to check on him" she goes on. "Is something the matter?" you ask as you wait for her to get to the point of her story. "He was asleep at his desk when I got there" she giggles softly. You smile "Don't worry. I'll make sure he gets proper rest in his own bed later".
You try to open and close the doors to Wriothesley's office as quietly as you possibly can. They are rather heavy doors and it's sort of a chore to open them at times which makes times of sneaking in very difficult. Guess that was the point. Once you make your way up the steps, you finally see him. Soundly sleeping with his head in his arms on his desk. You can't help the adoring smile that spreads across your face. His lips are slightly parted and his hair is gently tousled. When you get closer to him you notice a pink star sticker pressed to his cheek. "Oh Sigewinne" you softly laugh.
You've finally decided that you've admired your boyfriend and his beauty long enough. "Wriothesley" you gently touch his shoulder and say his name in a light sing-song voice to rouse him awake. His eyes flutter open and when they focus and see you standing next to him, he feels like he can breathe again. "You're back" his voice is just a little husky from having been sleeping with his mouth slightly open. "Indeed I am. Why are you asleep at your desk?" you ask as you set your bag down and begin to reorganize the papers that are messily spread around his desk.
He scratches the back of his head and yawns, "I was just resting my eyes". The way you immediately side eye him doesn't go unnoticed. "I talked to Sigewinne" you finish tidying, "She told me you've been burying yourself in work and you've been having a temper with everyone".
Wriothesley doesn't respond. He just stands up and pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face into the crook of your neck. "Archon, I've missed you so much" he sighs and takes a deep breath to take in your scent. Your heart melts as you feel the soft hum in his chest as he holds you against him. "I've missed you too, my love" you let one arm move from his back to allow your hand to find his hair. You rake your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck and you can almost feel him hold you tighter after the gesture. He really did miss you.
"How about, I get you home and get you to bed. It's starting to get late and you need a proper night of sleep" you gently push him away from you because you knew he wasn't moving if you didn't tell him to. The more the two of you stood there not embracing, the more his body mourned the loss of your touch. The man groans slightly when you move even further away from him to get ready to leave.
"Man you are just Mr. Grumpypants" you tease as you sling your bag over your shoulder. Wriothesley chuckles, "Can you blame me? I've been without Mrs. Grumpypants for the past week" he grabs his coat off the back of his chair. "'Mrs?'" you glance over at him before fixing your hair. The grumpy mood that he was in suddenly dissipates when he hears the hopeful sounding tone in your voice.
He walks over to you and lifts his hand to the side of your face and cups your cheek. His thumb gently rubs your cheekbone and you nestle your face into his hand like you have to chase it. Your eyes look up into his. "I know that look" you softly say as you feel yourself sway closer into him. You never thought you would live to see the day where the Lord of the Fortress of Meropide had the most intense look of yearning you've ever seen on a person's face.
You lift your hand to the back of his head and pull him down to kiss him. The way your lips move in sync with each other and how connected you feel in the moment is enough to make you feel like you were in a dream. His rough hands everyone knows can cause serious damage are now delicately placed in your hair and on your waist.
When you separate, you move your hand from his hair and finally remove the sticker that was stuck to the side of his face. "Couldn't have said anything earlier?" he laughs. "What? Pink is totally your color" you grin.
When the two of you return home together, Wriothesley thinks back to the thoughts he was having before he fell asleep in his office. The thought he had about how he knew you loved the domesticity in a relationship. He looked down at his hands and at the scars that covered his arms. The same hands and arms that hold you so gently. Memories flood his mind of all the times the two of you held each other, made dinner together and shared stories of your days with each other. "I was thinking" he starts as you enter the room for bed, "We should make that window shopping thing a weekly thing". "Oh yeah?" you smile. You make your way across the room to him and stand in front of where he is sitting on the edge of the bed. He absentmindedly reaches out for you and pulls you onto his lap so you straddle him. Him being touchy when you were alone wasn't abnormal. The fact that you knew he was acting like this because of how much he missed you made it different. "I think instead of just window shopping once a week, how about we go see a show at the opera house? You always talk about how you've been missing it" you suggest as you run your fingers through his hair. A toothy grin forms on his face, "I can't wait". He wasn't as bad at this domestic stuff as he thought.
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miguel o’hara x reader || “te amo”
chapter 2: “cafécito” (masterlist)
wc: 1.3k
(minors/ageless/blank blogs, do not interact)
“would you still love me if i wasn’t who i said i was?” the words dump out of miguel’s mouth before he can think to stop them and you turn around, incredulous.
he’s been on this earth for seven days and the guilt of usurping the version of him native to it, is still eating away at him as much as he enjoys you and gabriela.
your voice rings out before he can stutter a sudden apology or explanation.
“that’s a big question to ask before i’ve even poured a full cafecito, mi amor? did vulture bonk you in the head a bit too hard last week? can we start with a ‘good morning, my love. how did you sleep?’”
miguel gives a sheepish grin and shrugs out a ‘no, he didn’t.’ but it’s another technical lie. the vulture had injured the miguel you knew to the point of death but not the one who you’re kissing now.
he’s a replacement, a man from another universe who made a choice only a week ago to not leave you widowed, to not leave your daughter half-orphaned, and to not leave your nueva york without a spiderman.
but in the soft moments like this where his lips are on yours that he doesn’t feel like a replacement. where he feels that you’re his because you fell in love with miguel o’hara and he is miguel o’hara.
his lips are soft and intent on memorizing your taste - which at the moment is that of sugar and café bustelo.
“lo siento.” he chuckles softly. “buenos días, mi amor. how did you sleep?”
“very well, thank you.” you give a loving smile, handing him his small glass of coffee. “you know, you’re a lot more cuddly lately. it’s nice to fall asleep to - you should take time off more often.”
he chuckles. so he’s more of a cuddlebug than his past counterpart? that means you have spotted a difference.
miguel was hesitant to even share a bed with you this past week, still feeling like an intruder. it’s wrong to sleep next to a woman he doesn’t know but you do know him.
he knows you now too, having taken the whole week off of spider-man duty to adapt to being a father and husband.
sitting with lyla at the computer to memorize everything - your birthday, your anniversary, your family members and how you met. watching video of you revealing your pregnancy, of your wedding - every happy detail he can find to be the miguel you deserve.
it’s not him but it looks enough like him that he can close his eyes and pretend they are his memories with you until he has stayed here long enough to make some of his own.
and in little ways he has. it has been intoxicating to have you throw your arms around him and enthrall him with good night kisses; to fall asleep in the hold of a lover. with how small and comforting you are he’s gotten an addiction to holding you close - to having a constant reminder that you’re real and his now.
without warning your waist is wrapped by a string of neon red and jerked onto his lap, his hands happily gripping the fat of your thighs before roaming up and down.
“míguel! what did we say about webs in the kitchen?” you whisper harshly - raising your voice could wake the baby in the other room.
“ay, pero mamííí…” miguel whines playfully. “you said it yourself i’m a cuddler. you’re too cute to not be in my arms.” he chuckles and lets his nose and lips roam ever so gently up your neck with a smirk that hints at his sharp teeth.
whatever noticings you had about him being a bit different this week - it all melts away. he’d been a little more awkward, more spaced out, more terse. not responding to your inside jokes as if his mind was in another world. but now, you chalk it up to him having witnessed a hard death as spider-man the night he came in with blood on his suit. anyone would have an off week after that.
you know miguel has always been a hard working man but this is the one you know - serious but smiling, and deeply in love. your annoyance at being pulled in by his webs breaks and you roll your eyes, fingers pinching his cheek.
“you know, you weren’t who you said you were when we met.” you start, meeting his wide brown eyes that watch the curve of your lips as you speak.
“standing me up because you had ‘work,’ knowing all these strange facts about genetics and technology passing them off as some hobby, making up how you kept getting cuts and bruises. i swear i was one more missed date from popping you in the head, hombre.”
you flick his forehead and he pretends to flinch with a laugh before letting your hands glide through his dark brown curls.
“pero… there you were. la araña. and everything made sense. and i was mad yes - i bet all of nueva york could hear me chew you out that night. but i was still in love with you.” you give this soft, wistful expression that makes his heart race.
“so to answer your stupid, pre-coffee, way-too-early-in-the-morning-ass question; yes. i’d love you if you weren’t who you say you are. so long as miguel o’hara loves me y mija - i don’t care who he is.”
miguel feels the most overwhelming sense relief of relief spread across his bones and pulls you down for another kiss, words exhaled against your sweet lips.
“he does - i do. yo te amo.” and despite having only really known you for days, despite only having experienced the falling in love through screens and data collection and practiced sentences, miguel o’hara thinks he really means it.
“yo te amo también, araña…” you whisper.
the two of you enjoy the silence before you snap back up. “but shoot one more web in this kitchen and see if i don’t divorce you.”
“yes, ma’am!” he releases you hurriedly not letting his emotions show on his face, distracting himself with another chug of coffee that only makes his heart go faster.
-
there is one more difference you notice in miguel. it only catches your eye when he’s holding your sweet, little bundle of joy.
miguel fell hard and fast for the girl, who has inherited so many of his features even having barely just passed a few months old. he’s elated to have a daughter who he can father; he’s not the original miguel who met and courted and married you but he will be the father who sees her grow and walk and talk - possibly crawl onto walls if his arachnid genetics pass down too.
your answer to his question over coffee confirmed to him that he gets to be your husband but no confirmation is needed that little gabriela is his daughter and his alone.
it makes all that first week of pretending, all the intricacies of interdimensional travel, completely worth it.
he’s a brooding superhero, but he’s all smiles around her. when she giggles, when she eats, even when she makes caca, miguel is quick to cover her in kisses and praises at her very existence.
“i still can’t believe she’s real.” he whispers as he rocks her to sleep, body electrified by you hand on his arm as you both stare down in wonder.
“sí, es real. papí’s muñequita linda, no?”
“sí… mi princesa.” he kisses her head - she’s so incredibly tiny in his toned arms and against his broad chest.
when he places her in her crib and straightens as he stands back up - that is when the exact difference finally hits you.
“¿míguel, mi amor?” you start, “have you gotten…bigger?”
#x reader#miguel o'hara#miguel o’hara x black reader#miguel o’hara x reader#x latina reader#spiderman across the spiderverse#spiderman#spiderman 2099#atsv#across the spiderverse#fluff#angst
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WHAT DO YOU MEAN PARTS 4 AND 5 CANCELED!!!😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡 I want CHUUUYYYAAAA GGRRRRRRRRRR ARFFFFFFRUFFFFFFFFFFFFFF RUFFFFF ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG (plz consider changing you mind)😁
PFFFFT I will write Chuuya just for you because this made me laugh really hard. Apparently barking at me is a successful tactic lmfaoooo
He fucks you when you're stuck -- Chuuya edition
You're on an infiltration mission with your PM squad. You're all made to blend in with another group to seem like regulars as you start to get closer to your target.
This leads to you picking up yoga purely to be in the same class as your target's partner. You make sure to lay your yoga mat close enough to hers so you could hear if she ever talked about your target (she didn't)
You and several other PM members share a hotel suite. You and two others share one bedroom while another two people sleep in another room.
Chuuya is one of your roommates.
Your group is gone, out either getting lunch or working or something you don't know don't care. You got a new pair of athletic leggings to wear to yoga and you were trying them on in your room with the door open bc no one else was there. right?
Well the leggings are TIGHT even though they're your usual size the fabric is soooo tight and focused on compression that you can baaaarely get into them. It takes you a long time and a genuine LOT of focus to pull them up your legs, over you knees, holy shit your thighs are a struggle, YOUR ASS IS A FUCKING PAIN TO GET INTO THESE GOT DAMN LEGGINGS but you're so fucking determined you will NOT accept failure at this point.
You finally get them up over your hips and around your waist and decide... you fucking hate them. they're ugly and they're too hard to put on, you're deadass standing there panting and with a little bit of sweat on your forehead. it was so damn hard to get into these stupid leggings.
At the exact moment that you push the waistband down, someone walks in the room behind you and closes the door. you're so startled that you fall forward, leggings still stuck on your thighs with the waistband holding your knees together.
"well, well, well," chuuya says, saunting over as you turn over so your ass isn't in the air.
you try to cover yourself, you try to kick at him, but he chuckles and eaaaaasily strong-arms you. he pushes your legs back, puts the waistband of your leggings behind your head, and fuck, now you're stuck bent in half on the floor with chuuya kneeling in front of you.
"What the fuck????" you ask, trying to lean your head down far enough to get the leggings to unhook from your head but they wont, they're too stuck on your legs, too stuck around your head.
"you were giving me a show and you think i'm not gonna get a front row seat?" he asks, running his hands along the back of your thighs, slowly letting his thumbs get closer to your panties.
"what the fuck are you talking about??"
"wiggling into these damn pants, showing your ass off in the mirror, then bending straight over. i've been sitting on the couch the whole time, the fuck you think i was gonna look at?"
"i didn't know you were there!!"
"bullshit. i know you've been making eyes at me. this was all part of your plan, huh?" by now he's rubbing you through your underwear and you're clenching, twitching, trying to squirm away from him despite how your body warms up subconsciously to the touching.
"Chuuya, I didn't know you were there!!! I was not doing anything" you don't sound convincing even to your own ears, something about trying to be sincere with him right now sounds like a script from a badly written porno.
chuuya's fingers sliding under your panties and into your vagina really emphasize the "badly written porno" feel to this whole ordeal.
"oh no? then you just danced your little ass around and bent over for no reason huh? and you've not been flirting with me and sitting next to me and laughing at my jokes, huh?"
"that doesn't-- ahh-- that doesn't mean anything" you try to insist as he fingers you. he smirks when your voice breaks.
"no? then sounds like you need to be punished for working me up. making me think you liked me."
"p-punished?"
"gonna fuck you so good," he says, adding a second finger to your pussy and using his thumb to brush your clit. "you're gonna beg for this cock and say 'sorry daddy' for leading me on."
#ask answered#chuuya x reader#chuuya headcanons#chuuya smut#bsd x reader#bsd smut#bungo stray dogs smut#bungo stray dogs x reader#bsd headcanons#bungo stray dogs headcanons#this was literally the best ask i think ive ever gotten
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Lazy Day.
Knuckles The Echidna (movie/tv series) x reader
Sypnosis: Imagine being the first person to help knuckles finally truly relax.
Series: Knuckles (tv series)/ The Sonic Movies
Wc: 1.1k
Themes: Fluff, comfort, can be seen as platonic or romantic.
Note: Takes place in episode 1 of the Knuckles series
Masterlist
“That’s it, I’m gonna be late for work. You two,” Mrs. Wakowski gestures towards Sonic and Tails, “keep away from Knuckles.”
“Roger that!” Sonic salutes dramatically, and Tails follows suit,
“Noted, Mrs. Wakowski,”
Mrs. Wakowski manages to phone another friend to give her a ride to work, still fuming, while Sonic shrugs and figures he’ll spend time with Tails. They leave the house to go for a walk- it was a beautiful day after all. Sonic picks up baseball gloves and a ball on the way out of the house, and Tails swishes his tails in excitement when he spots the objects, setting foot out of the house.
A few minutes later you walk in through the doors, a few bags in hand.
“Hellooo!” You call out.
With no response, you raise a brow. Usually, the trio greets you. You then remember Mrs. Wakosky having work, but that still doesn’t explain the other three. You shrug it off, unloading the groceries on the countertop. You wash a bowl of grapes, walking around with them on the search for your favorite echidna.
You first check out the workout room, but he’s nowhere to be found. Then, the couch where you’re expecting to find Sonic and tails, but still nothing. Eventually you make it to the attic where Knuckles resides, a grape being tossed into your mouth.
“Knux?”
He grunts in response, not bothering to turn his head towards you. You tilt your head at him, raising a brow. Then you finally ask him what’s on your mind;
“Knux, what are you doing on the floor?”
“I have been grounded.”
You think for a moment, then chuckle.
“Hun, that doesn’t mean you have to lie on the ground. I expected you to be the type to still train or work out while grounded,”
“I cannot go to the workout area,”
“Are you making up excuses? You? Surely you can still do pushups-and sit-ups,” you teased.
He swiftly sits up, exclaiming; “You are a genius!”
You giggle as he sets off to start doing pushups, doing them at an ungodly speed. You always were impressed by his strength, praising him often. Although he claimed that your praises meant nothing, you couldn’t help but notice the way he smiled and sped up whatever exercise he was doing at the time.
You watched him for a little while longer, eating your grapes before getting an idea. You stood next you him and he paused his now one-handed pushups, looking up at you,
“What do you want?” You knew he didn’t mean to sound rude, so you smiled and replied, “I was just thinking- what if I sat on your back as an extra challenge?”
You’ve done it before, he was the one to ask you to do it last time.
“Excellent idea! Though, that is no challenge for me.”
He got back into pushup position, and you quietly sat on his upper back, attempting to balance. Once he counted 10 more pushups, your hand hovered in front of his mouth, grape in hand. He froze for a second, analyzing it, before taking a bite and humming. From then on, you offered him a grape for every 10 pushups. It seemed like a good way to keep him going, as he seemed to speed up.
Once the bowl of grapes was finished, you encouraged him to take a break. It wasn’t easy of course, but you got him to hold off on pushups until you came back with a bowl of other fruit- peaches, apple slices, and mangoes. You came back only to find him doing sit-ups. You sighed and he told you between soft grunts- “I am not doing pushups, like you asked.”
“Well- yes, but the whole point was to give you a small break. How about let’s pause for a little and spend some time together instead?”
He squinted at you, glancing over at your soft smile- one he couldn’t resist. You grabbed a few pillows and blankets from around the house while you got Knuckles to pick a movie that he’d be interested in. When you came back, he hadn’t chosen one, claiming that he only wanted to watch something you would enjoy. Very sweet and all, but you wanted to make sure he didn’t just get up and start working out halfway through the movie. So, you picked three movies of varying genres, and he picked the action one out of them- the one you already assumed he’d like most.
As it played in the background, you asked him what had gotten him grounded.
“The blue hedgehog wants me to ‘relax,’” he answered with air quotes.
You nod, humming, focusing on the movie. After you’d gotten all snuggled up in the blankets and pillows, he sat a few feet away from you.
“You don’t have to be a stranger, y’know. Come on, sit closer,” You muttered in a low voice, not wanting to talk over the movie too much. He contemplated for a moment, sitting much closer to you now. You offer him an apple slice, holding it to his lips.
It doesn’t take long before he’s asking you about the movie and why people are doing certain regular human things, you enjoying his short excited comments. He punches the air and kicks his feet when he’s excited over a scene in the movie, too adorable.
Eventually, he gets tired out and you feel a weight on your shoulder. You smile at the scene before you- you’ve never seen him so calm and peaceful. You’ve seen him happy, you loved playing games with him and the boys, but this was different. Seeing him sleeping was something unusual, as he rarely slept around others. ‘This must mean he feels completely comfortable,’ you thought with a content expression.
You lean back, putting the plate of snacks aside, and his head falls to your chest. As it rises and falls, he snuggles into you in his sleep. You begin to gently pet his fur, taking a moment to press a soft kiss to it. He wraps his arms further around you, tugging you impossibly closer, then loosening his grip.
It doesn’t take long for you to follow him into dreamland, soft snores emitting from you. Your hand still on his quills, head resting on the pillow behind you.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Hours later, Sonic, Tails, and Mrs. Wakowski come back home only to find knuckles relaxing in your hold.
“Huh, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. He does always seem to calm down around them.”
“I knew they had a thing for eachother!”
“Sonic! Shh, let them rest,”
Tails quietly closes the door, letting the two of you relax in eachother’s arms.
.
.
.
April.26.24
#knuckles the echidna#knuckles series#knuckles tv show#sonic#knuckles fanfic#knuckles x reader#sonic fanfic#knuckles the Echidna x reader#sonic movie#sonic movie x reader
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Tipsy, smutty headcanons w/ cevans characters (pt. 1)
(aka: how steve and frank would fuck you after a few drinks)
Steve:
Steve’s never been one for PDA—nearly five months since you’ve started ‘going steady,’ but he’s still so polite about touching you, always keeping his hands to himself when you’re out together in public.
But all that changes with a few sips of Asgardian mead at an Avengers soirée, which gives him a high he hasn’t had the luxury of feeling since 1941.
It’s that point in the night when the party’s starting to wind down—just a small circle of friends gathered around Tony’s living room, jostling about who’s worthy enough to lift Thor’s hammer.
You’re sat next to Steve on the far end of the couch, amused by the group’s shenanigans. You laugh along at all the right cues, chin in hand as you butt in with a witty comment here and there. Meanwhile, Steve can’t focus on anyone else but you, eyes zeroing in on your smile, the way those red lips stretch around the rim of your glass. The soft curves of your body under that little black dress as you cross your legs, leaning innocently into his side.
With your attention still on the rest of the group, the alcohol encourages him venture out a little. Careful fingers skim across the top of your knee, a quick brush of his calloused knuckles against your thigh.
You miss it the first few times, but when his hand starts to inch closer and closer up the hem of your dress you turn to look at him, brows raised. You immediately notice the difference in his energy—eyes relaxed, head resting against the back of the couch as a lazy smile ghosts his soft lips.
Steve, you okay? You murmur away from the group, head cocked to one side.
Hmm? mmhm. He’s barely nodding, clearly distracted by something else.
You frown, about to follow up, when a loud crash from the group makes you jump—Tony’s ingenious plans to lift the hammer using the suit had backfired (literally), the propulsion from his glove blasting him all the way across the room.
The whole group starts groaning at the damage of the crash, and that’s when you feel Steve’s grip on your knee suddenly tighten. With everyone else distracted, he leans forward, hot breath teasing the shell of your ear as he whispers:
Can we go home?
You’re a little wide-eyed and breathless when it finally sinks in. One look at the way his tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip, his eyes shamelessly dragging down the outlines of your dress, and you’re shouting some incoherent excuse about an early morning to the rest of the group, grabbing his hand, and dragging his ass out of there.
He can’t keep his hands off of you in the back of the Uber, and as soon as the apartment door closes shut, he sleuths off all pretense of modesty, any sliver of chivalry he was holding onto at the party.
Steve, what’s gotten into you? Is this that stuff you were drinking at the party?
You’re laughing because he can’t seem to get you out of your dress fast enough, painfully hard beneath you as you run your fingers through his tussled hair, straddling him on the couch.
Dunno. haven’t…
He huffs out a breath, brows furrowed, pupils blown wide.
…haven’t ffelt like this in a while.
Hands dragging up and down your sides, his lips worship every inch of your body. And you’re pretty sure your heart stops beating the moment he leans up to your ear, murmuring oh-so-gently:
Want you to ride me.
Please.
Brand fucking new, for Steve to voice his needs like that. You pull back, resting a hand against his chest, and he stares up at you like you’re the only person he’s ever known, completely exposed and defenseless. His heart thumps erratically under your fingertips—a reminder of his mortality, that he’s still just a man. Your man.
You keep him underneath you all night, teasing mercilessly until he’s a groaning, panting mess underneath you—cheeks flushed, hips bucking, nails gripping at the upholstery. He can’t do anything but take it, head rolling against the back of the couch as you bounce up and down on his cock, grinding slow and hard, coming to a complete halt before speeding back up.
And he’s grinning like an idiot the whole time.
F-fuck, you feel… you feel so good, a-always so good.
God, I love you.
He’s a stuttering mess when you finally let him come, a string of broken syllables that spell out your name.
When he rushes up to kiss you, you grin against his mouth, closing a gentle hand around his neck. Your index finger slides over to his pulse point, just to the right of his Adam’s apple, tapping in time with the rhythm of a heart that only beats for you.
Frank:
Frank drinks when he’s pissed. And today’s just been… one of those days. Repair went south on a boat he’s been working on for weeks, and he was called into Mary’s school (for the third time this month) because she’d snuck her laptop in her bag and got into a fight over it at recess.
He’s just dropped Mary off to stay at Roberta’s (after a lengthy conversation about ‘keeping that damn laptop at home’). On the drive back, he’s gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave indents because all he can think about right now is you, you, you.
He returns to an empty house, and it takes him a few bottles of liquid courage before he’s shakily looking up your name in his short list of contacts, texting you five simple words:
Can you come over tonight?
Like a dog to a whistle, you’re there in under 10.
He yanks open the door after the first knock, his lips swallowing your soft greeting as he kisses you fiercely, wasting no time as he pulls you into his bedroom.
Calloused hands drag down your hips, squeezing your ass before he slides your jeans off, pushing you onto the bed. Kissing his way up your neck, lips hovering over your jaw as heavy breaths warm up your skin.
Frank, you alright? W-what’s going on?
You slow him down, fingers grasping at the short hairs on his nape.
He nods against the crook of your neck, pulling back with a quiet sigh.
Yeah, m’fine, I just….
He’s never been great with words, but the familiar strain in his eyes tells you all you need to know. Cupping his face in both hands, you pull him back down, and his grateful lips respond to yours with fervor. His arm moves south, palm warm and heavy against your sex as he cups your mound. Drags his fingers against the wet patch on your panties until you’re arching into his touch and mewling against his mouth.
He’s desperate too, practically throbbing by the time he hastily shucks his boxers down and reaches for a condom in the bedside drawer. His hands are shaking, unable to tear his eyes away from you—your naked form sprawled on top of his sheets, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit as you smile up at him.
And when he finally sinks into your heat, it’s the first time in days the noise in his brain goes silent.
He fills his mind, instead, with images of you.
Your coquettish grin, delicate lashes fluttering against the tops of your cheeks as you blink up at him.
I’m all yours, baby.
Whatever you want.
You bring his hand up to your face, rubbing your cheek against his palm. Soft, pink lips mold around the tip of his thumb as you suck gently, circling your tongue over the tip, and it sends him over the edge.
With one of your legs hooked over his shoulder, he drives into you, deep. Hits that one spot inside you that’s got your pretty eyes rolling into the back of your head.
Fuck, yes. Right there, don’t stop.
Shit—m’not, not gonna last.
Let go for me, baby, I've got you.
He cums with a low groan, collapsing forward to bury his face in the crook of your neck as he bottoms out. When the aftershocks pass, you let him stay there for a while, fingers caressing the back of his neck while you listen to his breathing even out.
He rolls off of you, mumbling a quiet apology, embarrassment etched into his brows as he lets out a low chuckle.
Didn’t mean to jump you as soon as you got here.
Your chest heaves with laughter as you turn to the side, pink lips stretched into a wicked grin as you look at him dead in the eye.
Frank, never apologize for fucking me like that.
And despite everything that’s gone wrong that day, your words send butterflies to the pit of his stomach, making him blush like he’s a high schooler on prom night.
He’s only known you for a couple months now, and you’re a few years younger—vibrant and affectionate in ways that make him feel guilty on most days. And even though he’s asked to ‘keep things casual’ because ‘he’s not exactly in the best place to commit to a relationship,’ he knows from the light behind your eyes that it’s time.
He asks you out for lunch the very next day.
author's note: gahh this was so fun to write and I hope you enjoyed! remember to drink responsibly kidz!!! If you do drink, reply&lmk what kind of drunk you are (handsy, loud, sad, etc) I’m trying to see something lol
also working on a pt.2 w/ ransom+andy but lmk if you'd like to see any other characters!
(update: read pt. 2 here!)
#steve rogers#steve rogers fanfiction#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers smut#steve rogers headcanon#steve rogers fic#steve rogers fanfic#captain america smut#captain america#captain america fanfiction#marvel mcu#mcu fanfiction#chris evans#chris evans fanfiction#chris evans characters#headcannons#frank adler x you#frank adler x reader#frank adler smut#frank adler headcanon
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a fic with clingy trevor?
vacay vibes | t. zegras
My spring break plans failed to make it out of the gc so here's this while I wish I was on a beach😭🏖️
With the All-Star break about to start, you were excited for the extra time you would have with your boyfriend, Trevor. It wasn't his fault that he was always busy, and you were fairly busy with college as well, but you both knew that you could use some rest and relaxation for a few days, just the two of you. Trevor had planned a little trip for you two back in December and had surprised you with it for Christmas. A trip to Hawaii was a perfect gift that you both needed more than ever.
Now, you stood at the door of your beachfront rental that Trevor had booked and watched as he walked up the sand with his surfboard.
"Catch any waves, Zegras?"
Trevor looked up when he heard you, eyes wild as always. "You saw that big one? It was crazy!" Trevor planted his board in the sand and jogged over to where you were lounging in a beach chair.
"You wanna come surfing tomorrow? Then we can do it together," Trevor said excitedly. He plopped down in the chair next to you and shook his wet hair out.
"Trevor!" You squealed. He paid you no mind, even trying to pull you over to sit on his chair with him.
"No, absolutely not, T! You are wet and smelly and need to get that wetsuit off," you protested. Trevor pouted in response. Oh how you had missed that face.
"Shower with me," he said, not missing a beat. He started pulling down the zipper on his wetsuit to expose his chest.
"Trevor, I already showered this morning."
"So? It's 80 degrees, we could both use a shower!" Trevor successfully pulled you over to his beach chair at this point, and you sat on his lap.
You pushed up your sunglasses to give Trevor your best deadpan. His hazel eyes took in every part of your face, unable to concentrate on just one aspect.
"You're clingy," you mused. You and Trevor were always touchy with each other, that wasn't the surprise. You just hadn't been used to his urgency in quite a while due to the start of the semester.
"Maybe," Trevor said quietly. His hands danced across your skin, relishing in the fact that your daily attire had become a bikini on this vacation. "Just missed you. Missed having you at the games and giving us our good luck charm."
You chuckled. "I don't know if I'm the good luck charm, Z. The Ducks aren't doing as bad as last year, at least."
"I don't even wanna talk about hockey. We need a whole new team," Trevor groaned. You knew he constantly beat himself up over the losses his team racked up and the last thing you wanted to do was to stress him out on his vacation.
"Okay, no hockey in Hawaii," you laughed. "And I missed you, too, T. I'm glad my classes won't be taking up too much time anymore" you smiled. You pulled him into a soft kiss, which quickly turned passionate. Trevor's hands found the sides of your bikini way too quickly and you slapped him.
"Okay, if you want to be clingy then you have to go shower, get this wet suit off, and then make lunch with me. Deal?" You asked, raising your eyebrows in question. Trevor nodded enthusiastically.
"Whatever you say, baby!"
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PLZ PLZ PLZ MORE ARRANGED MARRIAGE SEJANUS??PLZ?
The realization hits you all at once, like a train speeding down the track. The weight of it makes you lose your breath, room spinning and swimming in and out of focus as if you’ve been poisoned. You haven’t, you know that, so you force a smile onto your face and nod along to whatever story Sejanus is telling you, his eyes all lit up as he gestures animatedly.
It makes you sick, just how sweet and kind and wonderful and beautiful Sejanus is without even knowing it because no one’s ever told him. You should tell him, and you would, if you were able to form words, but that skill seems to leave you whenever you look Sejanus in his big brown eyes.
“Do you wanna get some air?” He cuts himself off, voice clouding with worry as he sets his hands on your shoulders, his gentle, kind hands that you think about so much. He’s so observant, able to notice a slight change in anyone, and always so caring, especially when it comes to you.
The air was starting to feel a little suffocating, so you nod and allow Sejanus to slip his hand into yours, leading you from the crowded room and out of your house, down your familiar path to a little clearing in the trees, a secret spot just for the two of you.
Taking gulps of the fresh night air, you squeeze Sejanus’s hand in lieu of a thanks. His grip slackens, so you take the hint and drop his hand.
“Wanna finish your story?” You ask, looking at the stars instead of him because you can’t possibly speak when you’re face to face. It’s a new development, and not one that you’re proud of.
“Oh, it wasn’t important,” he bats the suggestion away, as if it would be ridiculous for him to be able to get through speaking without someone or something cutting him off. He’s too kind, never wanting to stir up trouble and letting people act however they want towards him. You know he’s brave too, and you’re just waiting for the day that he’s fed up with all the comments and jabs that come from the academy.
“It’s important to me,” you gather yourself to turn and smile at him, grin growing at the shocked look on his face because he’s just too adorable. The shock gives way to a blush, and he nods and clears his throat before finishing his story. At some point, the two of you end up sitting on the ground, despite your expensive clothes, and you find yourself wondering if you’d be able to move a bench here without anyone noticing.
When his story ends, you just sit in silence, enjoying the feeling of the warmth radiating off of Sejanus by your side. You want to curl up against him, rest your head on his shoulder and close your eyes for a while, but before you can even think about it, he’s twisting his upper body to face you.
“Thank you, for listening,” he says, as if listening to him talk about anything is a chore, when you could sit and listen to him talk about whatever he’d like for hours on end. You want to wrap him in your arms, you want to kiss him, you want to do anything to let him know exactly how you feel because you’re not sure how much longer you can handle the ache in your chest whenever you look at him.
“I’ll always listen to you,” you tell him, sincerity coloring your voice as he ducks his head, as if he’s the one unable to hold eye contact for longer than a minute without losing his mind. Your Sejanus, sweet, kind, beautiful Sejanus, is much too good for you, too wonderful and kind for you, with all of your cracks and flaws and faults. It seems like a cruel joke to set the two of you up together, someone so whole and someone so broken, someone so kind and someone so jaded.
You can’t dwell on how wonderful he is for too long, though, because he’s settling one of his kind hands onto your jaw, stroking his thumb up and down your cheekbone as if he can sense the sadness welling up inside of you and has decided to dispel it. You follow suit, cupping his jaw in your hands and enjoying the feeling of closeness and needing to get closer.
The two of you lean in at the same time, and suddenly you’re kissing Sejanus Plinth and it’s like the world finally makes sense. It's your first kiss, a little awkward but all sorts of lovely, and you never want to stop, never want to be farther apart than you are right now with no space for you to breathe. He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead on yours, and you keep your eyes closed, replaying the moment over and over while his ragged breathing fills your ears. You wonder if his heart is pounding as quickly as yours, if he can hear it slamming against your ribcage as you try to steady your own breathing.
“Kiss me again,” you whisper into the millimeters of space between you, fearing a rejection until he’s leaning impossibly closer and your world shrinks down to what’s right in front of you, just you and Sejanus in the little clearing behind your house, and nothing else exists, nothing else matters.
Dedicated to @beybaldes who I love dearly and who lets me scream at her about these losers <3
#sejanus plinth#sejanus plinth x reader#sejanus plinth x you#sejanus plinth fanfiction#sejanus x reader#sejanus x you#the ballad of songbirds and snakes fanfiction#the ballad of songbirds and snakes
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