#but I could never get more than a few days before the skin behind my ears became irritated again
Note
I may be a day or two early for wip wednesday but I absolutely need to know what happens next in ur time loop fic of Andrew
WIP Wednesday
part two my "aaron dies and now andrew is stuck in a time loop" fic (part one)
on ao3 I would tag this as "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings" so if you need to know more because you think there might be something that could trigger you, let me know and I'll let you know
This would be chapter 2 out of four of my Andrew time loop fic
Again, this is a wip, a first draft. So keep that in mind.
Formatting is a bit weird because I copy pastes from docs
He feels frantic as he drives on now familiar roads, his thoughts swirling in his brain and bouncing inside his skulls, unable to tell where one begins and the other ends, unable to make sense of the nightmare that he has found himself trapped in. Cars race past him as his thoughts race in his brain, images of Aaron's cold and pale body flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinks, the coldness of his brother's hand and the stillness of his chest something that will never stop haunting him for as long as he lives.
“What? Is something wrong?” Aaron asks as soon as he picks up the phone, worry clear in his tired voice.
Andrew's breaths get lost in his lungs, unable to find their way out.
Aaron is alive.
Aaron is alive again.
“Andrew?”
“I'm going to stay with you for a while,” is everything that he manages to say, his voice quieter than he intends it to be, his hands squeezing the steering wheel until they turn white.
“What? Why? Did something happen?” Aaron asks and Andrew wants to scream at him.
“No,” he says. “I'm already on my way.”
“Andrew,” Aaron sighs. “For how long? Don't you have games and practice?”
“I hurt my wrist so I can't play for two weeks.”
“You can't stay with me. I have plans.”
“What plans?” he asks, wondering how many times Aaron has lied to them before, how many other times has he pretended to be busy while his only plan was that of getting high.
“With my friends.”
“You don't have friends. I'll be there in a few hours. Bye.”
He doesn't give Aaron any time to reply, any time to protest, before hanging up, Aaron's voice making his head spin, his blood boil.
He wants to hug his brother, he wants to feel his chest move, his heart beat, his blood flowing through his veins. He wants to touch Aaron's skin and feel nothing but warmth. He wants to look him in the eyes and see them shine.
He wants his brother to never be dead again.
♤♤
He sits outside of Aaron's locked door, the clock inside of his head ticking and ticking, each second that passes feeling like a lifetime spent in hell, wondering if the call is going to come anyways, wondering if Aaron is already dead. More than once he wants to drive back to the hospital where Aaron died, where Aaron will die. More than once he takes his phone out of his pocket and dials Aaron's number without ever calling him.
It's ten minutes past three in the afternoon when Andrew's phone rings where it's sitting on the floor by his side. Andrew's breath gets caught in his throat, his whole body tensing at the sound until his every muscle aches and screams, begging to be released, his heart pounding against his ribcage.
But when his eyes finally find the courage to look down at the bright screen by his side, it is Aaron's name that meets his eyes and not the hospital's number (a number that had now been printed inside of Andrew's brain and that he would never be able to forget.)
“What,” he says flatly as soon as he picks up the phone, his muscles still tense, his heart still racing.
“Are you really waiting for me?” Aaron asks in a tentative tone that Andrew can't decipher. Finally Andrew starts to relax, Aaron's quiet voice like sweet honey washing over him.
He hums in reply.
“I'm- I'm almost there. Wait for me,” Aaron says as the words rush out of his mouth and stumble all over each other.
“I've been waiting for almost two hours so you better be quick,” Andrew replies, unable to deny to himself just how much he longs to finally see his brother alive.
Andrew had long since learnt to keep his emotions trapped inside of his ribcage. Some would oftentimes run away from him, slip through the cracks, escape from their perfectly built prison: in the morning with Neil's peaceful face resting by his side, the brighg sun shining on him, his hair messy, his face puffy, a soft smile on his lips; in the night with Neil's flushed body under his, his warm hands gently placed on his shoulders, his soft moans filling the quiet room.
But it had been a long time since his emotions had come crashing against his chest, threatening to split his ribcage open, uncovering his most safely guarded secrets. He had forgotten how much it hurt, how raw and vulnerable it made him feel.
“Hey,” Aaron says breathlessly, breaking the silence and coming to stand in front of a motionless Andrew.
Andrew just stares at him blankly, taking notice of every single thing that is Aaron, of every aspect of him, every detail. Aaron looks tired, Andrew notices, his skin is pale, ink spilled under his bloodshot eyes but his pupils are normal, he looks rail-thin, his collar bones heavily pronounced.
Andrew says nothing as his brain reminds him of the list of “Common Physical Signs of Drug Usage” that he had read once on the library's computer when he was fifteen.
“You ambush me like this and you are not even going to say hi?” Aaron asks as he opens the door, but there is no strength in his voice, no malice in his words.
“Hi,” he says as he walks inside the now familiar house, his eyes falling back on the family picture displayed in the living room.
“Give me a second,” Aaron says before running inside his room and closing the door behind himself, probably trying to tidy up the mess that Andrew had already seen.
He sits on the couch, unable to come up with a plan of action, with a strategy. He had already asked Aaron before if he had relapsed and Aaron had denied it. Would he ever tell Andrew the truth if he asked?
“So,” Aaron says as he walks out of his room with a black trash bag. Andrew just looks at him. “Are you going to tell me why you decided to crash at my house for who knows how long?”
“Am I not allowed to want to spend some time with my dearest brother?” he asks with a sweet and ostensibly fake smile on his lips, trying not to think just how much truth was actually hidden in those words.
Aaron scoffs at him, “Sure, because you totally just wanted to spend some time with me,” he says and something in his voice makes Andrew pause. He just stares at him, his brows furrowed, trying to figure out something that he knows is standing right in front of him and yet he cannot seem to be able grasp.
There's a tense silence for a few seconds as Andrew just stares at his brother, at the way air fills his lungs, as the way his chest moves.
“Fine,” Aaron breaks first. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, as if he's dealing with a troublesome kid. “Fine. You don't have to tell me now. Just- Are you okay? It's nothing bad, right?”
Andrew is taken aback by the concern in his voice before anger fills his vision. No nothing too bad, he wants to say. My own fucking brother died. No biggie.
“No, nothing too bad,” he says between clenched teeth.
♤♤
They spend the rest of the afternoon playing on Aaron's old PS2, the same one that he has owned longer than Andrew has known him. It was quiet and comfortable and Andrew could tell there was something else going on inside of his brother's mind, something that was clouding his brain, making his moves sloppy, his attention fragmented.
“Do you feel like you are going to relapse?” Andrew asks. “Don't lie to me.”
“Where does that even coming from? Fuck-” Aarons scoffs as he misses a jumps and falls down a cliff.
“Do you?”
“No? Not more than usual,” he says distractedly, his whole attention on the game in front of him.
You used today and you died, Andrew almost says. Stop fucking lying.
“If you feel like using again, just tell me,” is all that comes out of his mouth, his eyes landing on Aaron's focused face. “Promise.”
“Sure,” Aaron says, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.
“Promise,” he repeats loudly.
“I- I promise,” Aaron says, his eyes finally meeting Andrew's.
Andrew knows it won't be enough. Aaron had lied before and he would have no qualms in lying again, in breaking a promise. But he found it difficult to worry when Aaron was sitting right by his side, their shoulders brushing against each other, Aaron's warmth washing over him.
It's 7 pm when Andrew silently gets up from the couch and heads towards the kitchen with the intention of preparing them dinner.
“What the fuck Aaron.”
“What?” Aaron says from the living room, the sound of the game almost drowning his quiet voice.
“Why the fuck is you fridge completely empty?”
“Oh,” Aaron says, turning off the game.
Andrew waits for a second, then two, expecting to receive an actual reply from his brother but getting only silence in return.
“We can go grocery shopping tomorrow,” Andrew says, sitting back down on the couch, his hand grazing Aaron's shoulder. “Let's just order take out for today.”
Aaron nods as Andrew takes his phone out of his pocket to order take-out but notices a couple of unread messages from Neil.
To: 0 Neil:
I'm going to stay with Aaron for a while
From: 0 Neil:
is everything okay?
To: 0 Neil:
I'm here to figure it out
Dinner is quiet, just like the rest of the afternoon had been quiet. Aaron's gaze never leaves his food, his eyes unfocused, his mind full of thoughts that Andrew isn't able to read.
If only he could jump inside of Aaron's head and search through his brain, Andrew thinks, maybe then he would find the answers he's looking for, maybe then he would find the right questions.
He used to think of Aaron as someone easy to read, his goals and ambitions prosaic. He always thought he knew what Aaron wanted, what he longed for. Every action Aaron took and every comment he made used to be something Andrew could decipher and understand. And yet, now that he's standing in front of him, he wonders if he ever really knew Aaron at all, if this whole time he had been reading Aaron's signals all wrong.
“Why don't you have any friends?” he asks, his eyes scanning Aaron's face for a reaction, for a sign.
Aaron's pauses for a second, his eyes focused on his food, “Of course I have friends,” he says, his eyes meeting Andrew's. “Why would you think that I don't have any friends?”
Aaron's face doesn't betray him, his eyes seem truthful and his voice doesn't shake. If Andrew hadn't known better, he would've believed him, he would've fallen for his lie. How many times, he wonders, has Aaron lied straight to his face? How many times has he tricked Andrew before?
I can tell when you're lying to me, he used to tell Aaron. Now he wonders if he ever really could.
“Don't lie to me,” Andrew says, his voice cold, his gaze unforgiving.
“I'm not-”
“Don't lie to me,” he says again, his gaze just a little softer.
“How would you even know,” Aaron muebles as he puts more food in his mouth with his brows furrowed and an uncharacteristic pout on his lips.
In the past, Andrew would've pushed. In the past, Aaron would've been colder.
“What's going on with you,” the words leave Andrew's mouth without his permission.
“I just-” Aaron says before shaking his head, something that Andrew can't read flashing in his eyes. “I'm tired. I'm going to bed now.”
Andrew can't do anything but watch as Aaron retreats back to his room and closes the door behind himself with a soft click. He sighs as he drops his head on the couch and stares at the white ceiling feeling lost and confused. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do.
He doesn't know how to save Aaron from himself.
♧♧
The first week passes quickly, Aaron spending most of his days at the hospital and his evenings locked in his room studying while Andrew is left alone with his own thoughts and fears, images of his dead brother spinning like a carousel inside of his brain.
Every night he wakes up from nightmares, his body numb and damp with sweat, Aaron's cold body flashing behind his eyes.
Every night, he sofly opens Aaron's bedroom door and stares at his brother as he sleeps, at the way his chest rises and falls, at his pink skin and slightly flushed cheeks.
He's alive, he tells himself, over and over again. And yet he can still remember when Aaron hadn't been alive.
♧♧
“We should do things together,” Andrew tells Aaron one morning while he's still lying on the couch after having spent a whole night googling “How to make sure your brother doesn't relapse again”.
“What?”
“Make a list of things that you want to do and we'll do them.”
“Why?” Aaron asks, walking out of the kitchen.
“You don't want to?” Andrew replies, tilting his head.
“You always have a reason for things.”
“If you don't want to-”
“I do,” Aaron interrupts him, his eyes wide.
“Then make the list and give it to me when you get home this evening.”
“I just don’t- Fine,” Aaron says with a sigh as he heads for the door. He stops there for a second, his hand on the handle and his bag over his shoulder.
“What,” Andrew says as he takes his phone from the coffee table.
Aaron just furrows his brows and shakes his head, “Bye,” is all that comes out of his mouth before leaving the apartment.
Androw looks at the closed door, his heart racing like it does every time Aaron leaves his sight. He can feel little ants crawling under his skin and he knows that's where they'll stay until he'll see Aaron, alive and breathing, again.
♤♤
That evening Aaron comes back later than usual. Fourteen minutes later, to be exact.
Andrew is pacing the length of the living room when he hears the jingle of Aaron's keys as he pushes them in the lock. A few seconds later, Aaron walks inside the house and throws his coat on the hanger as if nothing is wrong.
“You're late,” Andrew says between gritted teeth as he stalks towards Aaron.
“What?” Aaron asks in confusion and bends down to untie his shoes.
“If you come home late you have to text and let me know.”
“I'm not even that late, just a few minutes and-”
“Fourteen.”
“What?”
“Not a few minutes. Fourteen minutes.”
Aaron sighs as he stands back up, confusion written all over his face.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew picturing Aaron's cold body in a back alley, on a white hospital bed, in a closet, in the middle of an empty street.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew picturing Aaron's vacant eyes staring at the sky, his pale skin tinted blue with death, his chest unmoving, his heart still.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew recalling Aaron's cold fingers in his hand, his icy forehead under his lips.
Fourteen minutes of waiting for his phone to ring, for the Doctor’s voice to inform him that his brother had died.
“I'm sorry,” Aaron says but it comes out as a question.
“Whatever,” Andrew replies before leaving a confused Aaron at the door and locking himself in the bathroom.
“Tell me something,” he says on the phone, his arms tightly wrapped around his legs as he sits in the corner between the sink and the wall.
He doesn't listen as Neil talks about his day, about practice, about anything and everything that comes to his mind. He lets Neil's calm and soothing voice wash over him, until it seeps into his brain, into his bones. Until breathing doesn't hurt anymore and the ants have left his body.
“Why won't you tell me what's wrong?” Neil asks on the other line, his voice full of worry.
“Aaron,” he says, his brother's name burning his lips as it leaves his mouth.
“Is he sick?”
“I just need to make sure he doesn't do something stupid and accidentally kills himself in the process.”
“You think he's going to?”
“I know he is.”
“Alright,” Neil says with a sigh. “But you have to promise me something.”
Andrew humms.
“Don't hurt yourself while trying to help him.”
Andrew stays silent for a second. There is nothing that he wouldn't be willing to do if it means saving Aaron from his fate, “I can't promise that.”
“Andrew-”
“He's my brother, Neil.”
“Does he even want to be? He just left you and Nicky and never looked back. Why would you put your mental well being at risk after all of your hard work for someone who wouldn't do the same for you?”
“That's not how it works.”
“What?” Neil asks.
“This is not a deal or a transaction. I'm helping him because I don't want him to be dead, not because I want him to do the same for me, not because I want him to give me something back,” he takes a deep breath and shakes his head even if Neil can't see him. “I just don't want him to be dead.”
“Fine just- just be careful and call me when you need to.”
“I will.”
A knock on the door interrupts Neil in the middle of a sentence, “I made dinner,” Aaron's soft voice comes from the other side when Ansrew doesn't reply.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Call me,” Neil replies before hanging up.
They eat dinner quietly on the couch, the sound of Aaron chewing something crunchy loud in the silent room.
"If you still want I have the list” Aaron says with downcast eyes.
“Then get it,” he replies after another long silence.
Andrew watches as Aaron rushes towards his bedroom, his bowl hastily placed on the coffee table.
Why are you so different, he wants to ask but doesn't.
“Here,” Aaron says a few seconds later as he hands him a wrinkled piece of lined paper, Aaron's elegant handwriting filling the page.
Andrew just nods at the paper and places it on the sofa by his side.
“You're not going to look at it?”
“I'm eating,” Andrew replies.
Aaron nods, his lower lip trapped between his teeth, a dot of blood staining his skin.
“Stop that and eat,” Andrew says, tapping Aaron's chin with his finger.
For a second it looks like Aaron is going to say something but before anything can come spilling out of his mouth, Aaron shakes his head and goes back to his dinner.
♧♧
“We're going for a picnic,” he tells Aaron on Wednesday, a week and a day after Aaron's death.
“What?” Aaron asks as he looks away from the open book on his lap.
“It's in your list, isn't it?”
“I mean, yeah but-”
“You have an hour to get ready. Chop chop.”
The sun is high in the sky by the time they reach the park. It's still a little cold outside, the air a little chilly, the sun a little weak.
“This is so nice,” Aaron says as he fiddles with the hem of the table cloth that Andrew had placed on the ground. There is a smile that Aaron is trying to hide on lips and it makes the ants under Andrew's skin disappear for a second.
“I always saw families having picnics when I was in primary school,” he tells Andrew as he bites the tuna, mayo and lettuce sandwich they had bought at the café near that park. “It would be better if Nicky were here too.”
Andrew just hums in reply.
“What's your favourite sandwich?” Aaron asks, trying to fill the silence.
“Probably-”
“Wait,” Aaron interrupts him. “I'll try to guess.”
Andrew looks at him a little puzzled as Aaron furrows his brows, a look of deep concentration painted on his face.
“I've got it,” he says after a few seconds, a crumb of white bread falling from the corner of his mouth. “Pulled pork with BBQ sauce.”
Andrew just nods.
“Now you,” Aaron says as he takes another bite from his sandwich.
“Me what?”
“Guess my favourite,” Aaron says, sounding a little too excited, his smile too bright.
“It's not that hard to guess. It's the same as mine. It's what we always got from highschool to college.”
“Mine is meatballs,” Aaron says quietly as he takes another bite of his sandwich.
“Since when?” Andrew asks. It had been years since the two of them had last eaten a sandwich together. Andrew can't help but to wonder what more he missed in Aaron's life.
“Since I was seven and a guy from school gave me a piece of his because I didn't have anything to eat,” Aaron says calmly without looking at Andrew. “I hate BBQ sauce.”
“But we always for pulled pork and BBQ,” Andrew says. It was their favourite, they would always eat it together for dinner after school.
Aaron just shrugs, “It was your favourite,” he says.
“But you-” Andrew begins but is interrupted by a ball landing on his leg.
“I'm so sorry,” a kid shouts as he runs towards them with his brother behind him. “We are so sorry. It was an accident.”
“It's fine, no one got hurt,” Aaron says, picking up the red ball and giving it back to the kid. “Just be more careful next time.”
“Oh my god it's clones,” the smaller child says while hiding behind his brother. “Like in star wars.”
“It's twins you idiot,” the older brother reprimands him as they run away.
♧♧
When Aaron gets back home on Thursday's evening at 9:45, he looks tired and upset. His shoulders are hunched, his movements slow, his eyes never once lift from the floor.
“What's wrong?” Andrew asks from where he's sitting on the couch.
“Just a bad day at work,” Aaron replies, his voice so low Andrew has to strain to hear him.
“Come,” he says, patting the couch.
“I just want to-”
“Come,” Andrew says again.
Aaron trudges towards the couch and Andrew can see a little tremor in his hands. He looks for signs of drug use but comes up empty.
“Speak,” he says as soon as Aaron is sitting on the couch by his side, his chin resting on his knees as he hugs his legs to his chest, his dirty shoes on the couch.
Aaron opens his mouth but no words leave his lips, just a shaky breath.
“It's okay,” he says as he watches the tremble in Aaron's lips. “Take a deep breath.”
Aaron shakes his head, his eyes wet, “I told his brother it was going to be fine but I-” a dry sob breaks Aaron’s sentence right in the middle. “It was just a little kid and it wasn't even- it really wasn't-”
“It's okay, Aaron,” he says even if he knows it's not.
“And his brother was just there alone and I told him- Andrew I told him that it would- that it would be fine,” there are tears running down his reddened cheeks.
“Can I touch you?” Andrew asks and waits for Aaron to nod his permission before taking Aaron's hand into his own. “You did what you could.”
Aaron closes his eyes for a second, “Can you-” he shakes his head.
“Can I what?”
“Nothing. It was silly.”
“Tell me,” Andrew says. “I'll decide if it's silly.”
A pause and then, “Can you sleep in my bed tonight?”
There is a longer pause, silence fills the room as Andrew thinks it over.
“I told you it was silly,” Aaron says, his eyes now open. “Forget about it.”
Andrew stays quiet for another second, “We can,” he says.
He waits for Aaron's breathing to go back to normal, for the tears to stop flowing down his cheeks, for the tremor in his hands to subside, and then he helps his brother back on his feet and towards his room. Aaron's legs are still shaky, his hold on Andrew's hand tight.
“I'll go wash up,” Aaron says, taking his pyjamas from where he had thrown it that morning and heading for the bathroom.
Andrew sits on the side of Aaron's bed as he waits, scanning the room. He finds it to be more tidy than it had been when Aaron had died, but still disorganised and messy.
“Why is it so messy?” he asks when Aaron walks back into the room. “You always used to keep everything tidy and in perfect order.”
“I just-” Aaron shakes his head and lets the sentence die. Andrew looks at him.
“Come on then,” he pulls down the covers and lies under them. He had missed sleeping in a real bed.
“You don't have to,” Aaron says standing in front of the bed.
“I know,” Ansrew replies. “It's my choice. Just don't touch me.”
“I won't,” his brother reassures him before climbing on the bed.
They lie in silence for a while, Andrew on his back, Aaron on his side, his eyes trained on Andrew.
“You're staring at me,” he says as he looks at Aaron from the corner of his eye.
“When I was a kid,” Aaron whispers as if he were sharing a secret. “I always wanted a brother to share everything with.”
Andrew hums in reply.
“I wanted to build a fort with covers and cushions that only me and my brother could enter. Our secret place where we would always be safe and never lonely.”
Andrew turns on his side and looks at his brother in the quiet dark.
“Goodnight Aaron,” he says, placing his hand on top of Aaron's.
“Goodnight Andrew.”
♧♧
“We are going to the market,” he tells Aaron Friday morning as soon as Aaron leaves his room
“I need to be at the hospital at 1 pm,” Aaron replies.
Andrew nods, “We're leaving in an hour.”
Andrew had never been to a farmers market before nor had he ever wanted to go to a farmers market.
“This is so fun,” Aaron is saying as Andrew tries to dodge the crowd of people that is flowing around him. “Look.”
Andrew isn't sure what Aaron is pointing at, nor does he care that much. The crowd is overwhelming, people constantly bumping into him and touching his body.
They walk around for a while, Aaron pointing to flowers and plants, fruits and vegetables as if he were in a museum instead of a street market.
“Did you know that to make just one pound of honey it takes 2 million flowers?” Aaron asks as they walk past a stand of honey. “Do you like honey?”
“What?” Andrew asks, distracted by a woman who bumped into him.
“You like sweets, so I was wondering if you like honey.”
“I don't know. Never tried.”
“Oh then I should totally buy you some. Come on,” Aaron says walking towards the honey vendor.
“Do you like honey?” Andrew asks as they wait for their turn.
“It's not really something you can eat spoonfuls of or you'll get sick, but I like it.”
They sit on a bench away from the crowd as soon as they buy the honey.
“Here, taste,” Aaron says, scooping some honey on the wooden spoon the vendor had given them.
Honey is sticky and sweet and it makes Andrew's throat burn a little because of the overwhelming sweetness.
“You don't like it?” Aaron asks with a little frown on his face.
Andrew shakes his head.
“Sorry,” Aaron mutters while closing the honey lid.
“What are you apologising for?”
“I thought you would have liked it,” Aaron shrugs.
Andrew just stares at him confused, his face blank.
“It's whatever,” Aaron says as he gets back up on his feet. “We should go home.”
Andrew watches as Aaron throws the jar of honey in the first street bin they find while they head towards Andrew's car.
♧♧
“Neil's playing today,” Aaron says on Sunday as Andrew is cooking dinner.
“Yeah,” Andrew replies because he noticed Aaron hates not receiving a reply.
“Do you want to watch the game?” he asks but then immediately turns on the TV without waiting for Andrew's reply.
When he goes into the living room with their dinner (Aaron's favourite italian pasta), the game has already started and Aaron is comfortably sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, a fluffy blue blanket around his shoulders.
“Thank you,” Aaron says with a smile, taking one of the plates from Andrew's outstretched hand and placing it on his legs. “It just started so you didn't miss much.”
It surprises Andrew how much Aaron talks during the game, how much he notices about the players and their plays, how much he knows about Andrew's team.
“Yeah, he's been doing that the whole season. He really needs to work on that.”
“You've been keeping up with the championship?” Andrew asks.
“Not really, I just watch the games where you, Kevin or Matt play.”
Andrew purses his lips as a mix of emotions explode in his chest. He wants to dig deeper, to ask why. Aaron never showed up for the foxes reunions at Wymack’s place, he cut all contact with everyone, he never once showed any interest in anyone, any will to be their friend.
Andrew wonders when had Aaron stopped making sense. He wonders if Aaron had ever made sense in the first place at all or if Andrew had made up a version of his brother in his head that had never once been real.
They spend the rest of the evening watching the game, a little smile on Aaron's lips as his hands flail around when he tries to explain sometimes to Andrew.
Could it have always been this easy? He wonders. Did Aaron have to die twice for them to finally spend time together like normal people?
Maybe, Andrew thinks, maybe everything can be fixed.
♧♧
“We are going to the zoo,” he tells Aaron on Monday morning while Aaron is still lying in his bed.
“What?” he asks, his voice low and full of sleep.
“Get ready, we're leaving in an hour.”
Andrew hates the zoo. It's boring and uninteresting. He doesn't care about where any of the animals came from nor from what they had been saved. It's cold and cloudy and the tips of his fingers are frozen. But the zoo was on Aaron's list and it seems to be working perfectly as a distraction: Aaron keeps speed-walking from one enclosure to the next, reading out facts that he seems to find interesting and cool.
“And this one was saved after hunters shot him down and he lost his ability to fly,” Aaron says after three long and excruciating hours of walking around the zoo surrounded by screaming children and annoying adults. “Isn't that so heartwarming?”
“Heartwarming?” he asks, focusing on the sad little bird sitting in the middle of a huge green field.
“Someone found him when he was just about to die and decided that he was worthy of being saved. They took care of him and gave him a new home.”
“He's a bird who can't fly. Alone in a huge field. It would've been more merciful to just let him die. What kind of life is this?”
He can feel Aaron's gaze on him as he looks at the bird but when he turns towards him, Aaron's eyes are back on the bird. He doesn't look excited anymore, his gaze soft and sad, something that Andrew can't decipher in his expression.
“It's almost lunch time,” Aaron says, looking away from the bird. “We should go home.”
♧♧
“Next time you are the one who has to visit,” Andrew says on Tuesday morning as he packs his bag. “We should also invite Nicky,” he adds.
“Sure,” Aaron says but there is something strange behind his eyes.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, just- I'm just very very tired,” Aaron says, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“You are not feeling like you're going to relapse, right?” Andrew asks, staring right into Aaron's eyes.
“What? No. No I don't,” Aaron replies, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Promise.”
“I promise,” Aaron says lightly.
“This is very serious Aaron. Promise me you won't touch any type of drug for any reason.”
“Andrew. I promise I won't touch any type of drug. Unless I'm administering it to a patient. Good?”
“Good.”
“Can I- Nothing,” Aaron says with a shake of his head.
“Tell me.”
“It's silly. Forget about it.”
“I'll decide if it's silly,” Andrew says.
“Can I hug you goodbye?”
Andrew is silent for a second. He can't remember ever hugging Aaron in his life. Not once.
“Yes,” he says.
Aaron moves slowly towards him, as if walking towards an easily spooked animal, afraid that I'll run away. When he's finally standing in front of Andrew, he carefully lifts his arms and places them around Andrew's neck, his cheek resting on his brother's shoulder. Andrew can feel Aaron’s warm breaths on his neck, his brother's heartbeat pounding on his body where their chests are touching.
Aaron is alive. His brother is still alive.
He tightens his hold around Aaron's waist. He had never hugged his brother before, he thinks again. In two other lives Aaron had died without ever getting to hug his brother.
Andrew could've gone his whole life without ever getting to share something as trivial and mundane as a hug between brothers.
♧♧
It's Tuesday, the twenty-second of May at six in the afternoon when Andrew's phone rings, the soft voice of a doctor on the other side, the words coming out of her mouth venomous and wrong, lies that Andrew can't comprehend, can't accept.
“That's impossible,” he says getting up from his couch. “Aaron promised he wouldn't touch any drugs. He promised me.”
Aaron promised. He had promised.
“Drugs?” the Doctor asks. “I'm really sorry for the misunderstanding Mr. Minyard but Doctor Minyard's cause of death isn't drug related.”
“What? He didn't overdose?”
“No, Sir. Your brother he- he I'm so sorry. He jumped off a bridge. I'm so sorry.”
Aaron had always claimed that he didn't feel like he was going to relapse. Why hadn't Andrew believed him.
He had been asking the wrong question the whole time. He had tried to solve the wrong problem.
Can I hug you goodbye? Aaron had asked a few hours ago.
Yes, Andrew had replied.
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I'm thinking about getting my ears re-pierced, so I'm doing some research on it and I found this really funny thing.
An article from a jewelry store (it's the first thing that pops up when I googled surgical steel alergy, which I am pretty sure I have) says, in the same sentence that nickel allergies (which are typically the cause of bad reactions to iron-based alloys) are very rare and then they say 10% of the population has some form of it. That's not very rare. That's 1 in 10 people. In medication side effects lists, 1 in 10 is considered common.
So, yeah, fucking stupid ass jewelry website trying to sell their stupid ass jewelry by misleading their readers/customers.
#irl stuff#jewelry#piercings#earrings#I say re-pierced because I got my ears pierced when I was like 4#with a piercing gun and surgical steel earrings#which is actually pretty late for a girl to get her ears pierced here#most parents have their babies ears pierced before they're 1#especially when in the early 2000s#millenial parents may have a bit more sense and respect for their literal infants bodily autonomy than gen x did#apparently people assumed I was a boy a lot because I had very short hair and no earrings#the phrase 'oh she's a girl? but she doesn't have earrings' was something mom heard more than once#so anyway at 4 the peer pressure and gender norms got to me and I got my ears pierced#queue 3 years of battling horrible eczema behind my ears because of an allergic reaction#and my parents not wanting the holes to close so I had to keep wearing earrings#I got golden ones after that which irritaded my skin much less#and then when I was in first grade I lost one earring and stopped wearing them all together#lo and behold the eczema stopped being an issue#I tried qearing earrings occassionally as a teenager#but I could never get more than a few days before the skin behind my ears became irritated again#by now I'm pretty sure the holes did close#but I'd like to give earrings another shot#I will need to do a lot more research and probably get allergy testing before I get there
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Hello lovely ~ gonna request what we were talking about~
Alastors antlers shedding♡ literally? Anything you wanna say about it
Shedding Season
Alastor x GN!Reader
TW: Antlers being Shed, Alastor being clingy. 18+ as it does mention Alastor having a rut. Nothing graphic I promise
A/N:This is my take on how he would deal with his antlers shed and how he deals with his rut.
Alastor finds himself needing help with shedding his antlers. You decide to help him out
It started off fine for Alastor, at first it was more of an urge to stay near his lover, you, it didn��t really bother him as he was a busy man and had things to take care of but it got worse after a day or two. The urge to stay in your vicinity got worse as he got even more agitated than before if he strayed away from you or Satan forbid Lucifer or Husker got too close to you. Then it was the constant motion of him rubbing his face into your neck or shoulder when no one was around, you didn’t seem to mind one bit but it agitated him to no end. But the feeling went away once you carefully ran your fingers through his hair, brushing near his antlers and ever so carefully scratching which caused him to pull you closer to him.
Then it was how his body was reacting, how he couldn’t even wear his own coat anymore. It was like every article of clothing was suffocating him and how he hated it so. The best course of action he thought of was hiding in his room away from prying eyes and ears as he snarled out rubbing his horns on one of the many trees in the bayou in his bedroom. He didn’t need you to see how pathetic he looked and felt, his sweet doe would never look at him the same if they saw him like this. He was sure of it. Despite being in his own room, the wind of the familiar bayou felt on his warm body wasn't enough for him. It wasn’t until he heard a knock on his bedroom door that sent his ears turning to the sound and his head snapping up in anger.
“Alastor? Darling?” You called out from the other side of his bedroom door, his heart pounded before he willed his way towards the door ignoring the pain his antlers were giving him. He shakily gripped the doorknob before opening it only a bit. “Yes, Dear?” He asked softly trying to keep his anger at bay as his chest heaved with every heavy breath. You softly smiled at him, “May I come in?” You asked, holding onto the door frame leaning closer to him.
He weighed the options for a moment before eventually allowing you into his room, finally noticing the small basket in your hands, he tilted his head confused. Closing the door behind you he watched as you sat on his chair and waved him over, “Come here you silly deer.” You teased, causing him to huff but he followed your directions as much as he wanted to argue, he knew better. Especially at this moment. You held out your hands to him, the basket on the side of the chair, he slowly held your hands as you pulled him to sit on the ground in between your legs, his back towards the chair.
“Need a drink or something to snack on, Love?” You asked him as he shook his head silently, he was rarely ever silent. You reached up and gently rubbed his shoulders noticing how warm his skin felt. “You’re rut is around the corner isn’t it?” He froze at the mention of his rut as his hand reached up to rub at his face. “Yes..I do believe it’s that time of year again, Cher.” He replied the radio static filter from his voice was gone as he let out a deep heavy sigh.
You reached down and grabbed a cold water bottle to hand to him. “Drink up, Al..I’m gonna try and help you get this velvet off your antlers okay?” You whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his head. Alastor could only nod and mumble out a warning but you’ve been through this rodeo with him before. You reached down to get the tools from the basket as well as some of his favorite snacks that you got from Rosie earlier today. “They might shed as well, Al..just let it happen okay?” You carefully brushed back his hair seeing as a few strands stuck to his head that was covered in sweat. He could only reply with a hum leaning his head back against you. You were gonna have to get him a cold rag soon as well.
As you began to slowly and carefully help get the velvet off of his antlers he let out a low groan closing his eyes as sweat covered his face and neck. “Want me to go get you a cold rag, Darlin?” You asked softly tilting his head back carefully watching as he opened his eyes, his everlasting smile had dropped a while ago. “No..not yet..” He whispered out, you went back to silently helping him knowing how overwhelmed he gets during these times.
It was only after you had gotten all of the velvet off of his antlers that something hit the floor with a soft thud making Alastor jump nonetheless. You looked over after making sure you had everything put back up and noticed his two antlers had shed, making him grumble loudly as he leaned his head back into your stomach. “Come on, Al..let me go get a rag for your face and neck.” You whispered slowly getting up as he leaned forward watching you. “Take a sip of water and eat up, okay? I don’t need you dealing with your rut on an empty stomach.” He waved a hand towards you but did what you had asked of him.
The rest of the night was spent with him sitting between your legs as you carefully washed the sweat from his face and neck, whispering soft reassurances as he kept drifting in and out of sleep. Soft jazz playing in the background as his shadow carefully wrapped around your body.
He felt a million times better and he knew that the weeks of his rut would be over soon enough with you helping him with how uncomfortable it made him.
#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel imagine#alastor hazbin hotel#alastor x reader#alastor x you#alastor x gn!reader
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something old, something new
pairing: patrick zweig x f!reader
summary: when your childhood best friend asks you to get married, how are you supposed to say no?
word count: 7.2k
warnings: MATURE (mentions of sex but no explicit sex scenes), marriage of convenience, fluff, mentions of alcohol, patrick is a bad friend (but he improves), friends to spouses to lovers, fake dating, yearning and pining, everyone is bad at communicating, many feelings are being repressed, mentions of dieting in an athlete way, one singular creepy old man, no use of y/n
author’s note: i cannot get this tennis man out of my head!! i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!
It wasn’t every day that you could count on hearing anything from your childhood best friend, but it seemed like whenever you did hear from Patrick Zweig, it was always an ask for something more shocking than the previous one.
As kids, you spent many evenings doing the homework that Patrick didn’t want to do, despite the fact that you didn’t really want to do more homework either. At boarding school, you’d somehow become his personal designated driver, answering his calls no matter what time and groggily picking him up from whatever party he’d found himself at. In your adulthood, you found yourself becoming a go-to stand-in for him at events he didn’t feel like attending. The amount of times that you’d shaken hands at charity galas and introduced yourself as Patrick’s girlfriend, despite not having a single romantic encounter with him, was frankly astounding.
It seemed like whenever Patrick needed something, you were the first person he reached out to. After his parents, of course.
You dreaded knowing the reason behind the simple hey, text message you’d just received, but you were sure that you’d find the reason out sooner rather than later–and that whatever the reason was could not have been good.
Like clockwork, only an hour after you’d received his message, Patrick appeared at the doorway of your apartment. He came to you equipped with his secret weapon, the kicked puppy look that he often used on you before he asked you for a ridiculous favor, like breaking up with his girlfriend for him or telling his mom that he still wasn’t joining the board of the family business.
You sighed as you took his less-than-stellar appearance in. Downtrodden expression, wrinkled and sweat-stained shirt, as if he’d gone to the gym to sweat out his feelings before coming to you, and eyes so red-rimmed, you wondered if he’d been crying.
If you had to guess, he’d either been arguing with his parents, who knew exactly how to get under his skin, or his tennis friends, who also knew exactly how to get under his skin, or his latest girlfriend, who probably confronted him about his own wrongdoings. Regardless of who had upset him, he had obviously come to you to lick his wounds.
Like always, Patrick stalked inside without asking you for any further permission. The two of you had done this song and dance more times than either one of you would like to admit.
“How are you?” he asked, stopping in your kitchen to steal an apple from your decorative bowl of fruit.
“I’m good,” you said with hesitation, eyeing him once more. He really looked like shit. If he hadn’t looked so sad, you would’ve told him exactly how much shit he looked like.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I am?” he questioned, a little pathetically.
“No,” you walked off to your living room, fully expecting him to follow you. You were unsurprised when he did exactly that. “Let’s just get right to it. Why’d you come over here?” you asked as the two of you sat down on your couch.
“My parents are cutting me off,” he explained, voice breaking as he spoke.
Surely, this couldn’t all be over an empty threat. They seemed to threaten Patrick with this every few days. In fact, you’d been in the room with him when his parents promised that he’d never see another dime from them–more than once. Every time, it ended with them coming to their senses and throwing more cash at him.
“That’s what, the twentieth time?” you laughed. “They always threaten to cut you off. What’s different this time?”
“This time, they mean it.”
You laughed even harder in his face. If you had a quarter for every time you’d had this conversation, you’d be richer than the two of your families combined.
“I’m serious,” he inched closer to you. “They’re tired of funding my ‘tennis habit’. They want me to get serious about life. To join the board and start a family. My dad showed me an edited draft of his will and everything”
“So?” you prompted, trying to figure out where you fell into the equation. Hopefully he wouldn’t try to put you up to something absurd, like seducing his father into convincing him to not threaten Patrick’s inheritance.
“So, tennis is the only thing I care about.”
“Okay…” you trailed off. “What would you like me to do about that?”
“I need you to help show my parents that I have a vision for the future.”
“Again, Patrick, what exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Marry me.”
You weren’t sure what you expected him to say, but it certainly was not that. Your mouth instantly dropped open and you were sure that you were gaping like a fish. Maybe if he had asked you ten years ago, you’d have instantly said yes, but you’d let that naive dream die after you’d come to realize the transactional subtext of your friendship.
“What?”
“I want you to marry me. I was thinking… you remember when we were younger and we made that pact, that if we weren’t married by the time we were adults, then we’d get hitched?”
You continued to stare at him, completely dumbfounded and not believing a single word coming from his mouth. “I… I…” you couldn’t even form the words. “We were kids!”
He gave you a halfhearted shrug, as if that didn’t matter at all, and as if he didn’t just ask you to be legally and romantically bound to him forever.
“You are fucking unbelievable! You haven't talked to me for anything other than asking me a favor in years, I barely know you’re alive apart from the random drunk texts you send me, and now you want me to marry you? Do you even hear yourself?”
You scoffed and stared at him in disbelief. “And that has to be the worst proposal in all of human history. First you tell me that tennis is the only thing you care about and then ask me to marry you? You’re a joke.”
He let you finish your rant, but after a beat he finally asked. “…Is that a no?”
———-
Stranger things had happened to you than marrying your childhood best friend just a month after he’d randomly popped back up in your life. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you walked down the aisle on a beautiful beach off of the Amalfi Coast.
The last few weeks had been an absolute whirlwind, with what felt like every second of your time consumed by making guest lists and invitations, booking hotel rooms, and finding a dress that you liked enough to get married in. Obviously, you knew this was more of an elaborate scheme than a celebration of love, but you wanted it to be nice anyway. For all you knew, you may never get married again.
You don’t know what possessed you to say yes to Patrick. Maybe the small, desperate part of you that had been begging him to truly see you since you were old enough to realize he didn’t, or maybe the desire to finally have that fairytale destination wedding you’d been dreaming about from the time you learned what a wedding was. Regardless of the reason, both of your families were overjoyed by the union. In one fell swoop, you’d been able to satisfy both of your parents’ desires for you to settle down, and you’d done it with someone both pairs approved of.
You had to give props to Patrick, the ceremony was beautiful. Given the short timeline, the two of you decided to divide and conquer the planning of the event. You were sure that he’d outsourced the work, since he was still in the middle of his tennis season, but whoever he hired did an excellent job at giving you the wedding you’d always wanted.
Despite the very short timeline everyone had been given, you were able to wrangle all of your close family and friends to Italy to watch you elope. Your parents had insisted on inviting second cousins and shareholders to your wedding, but you’d somehow convinced them that you and Patrick wanted a smaller, more intimate ceremony. It was probably better to have less people there, lest someone notices the artificial nature of your union.
Part of you felt like you’d pulled off the greatest prank of all time as the two of you stood up in front of your small crowd, gazing as lovingly as you could manage into each others’ eyes while the officiant said his spiel, but the other, more logical part of you filled with dread as the reality of the situation began to set in. Patrick seemed to have a way of always dragging you into a shitty situation, and you hoped for both of your sakes, that that wouldn’t be the case for your marriage.
After what felt like a lifetime, Patrick began to recite his vows, claiming to have loved you since you were children, and promising to continue to love you ‘till death did you part. If you had been marrying literally anyone else, your knees would go weak with swooning.
Unfortunately, you were cursed with the knowledge of the reality of your situation, one where your vows sounded more like: “We only have to stay married until I retire, which should be sooner rather than later. We don’t have to do anything together: no galas, no family dinners, no family vacations. Hell, you don’t even have to come to my games. And we don’t have to be exclusive either. This is basically just a title, so feel free to see anyone you want to. I can already see the worry in your face. Stop that. We can hire someone to make us prenups, so the divorce will be an easy, clean split of our assets. See? It’s not that bad.”
The dichotomy between the words he’d said to you a month ago and the bullshit he was spewing now almost made you laugh, but that was clearly not the reaction you were meant to be having when the love of your life was publicly declaring their feelings for you.
Once he finished declaring his romantic, empty words, you began to read off your vows. They fell in a similar vein to his, a proclamation of a lifetime-spanning love that didn’t really exist in the first place. But when you glanced up at him from your slip of paper, he was really selling it. He stared at you like he adored you, like he wanted to study every inch of your face after running off with you into the sunset.
The ridiculousness of it all finally hit you like a freight train, and you managed to pivot the laugh that was creeping up into your throat into a weepy sounding crack of your voice. Surely people cried during their own weddings.
You finished off your vows, doing your best to pretend like this whole ordeal wasn’t the most ridiculous scheme you’d ever been dragged into. You imagined a world where he was less selfish and you were less selfless, one where you were exchanging these vows with sincerity, and it helped you to get through the words that you knew were almost completely meaningless.
The two of you then took turns placing the ring on each others’ fingers, with Patrick giving you a ring with the largest diamond you’d ever seen, and you giving him a band that had been passed throughout your family. He’d agreed to give you the heirloom back once you divorced, so you couldn’t complain too much about giving it away in the first place.
The announcement of being able to kiss the bride rang out in your ears, yet you still found yourself surprised when Patrick eagerly wrapped his arms around you and kissed you passionately. Cheers erupted around the two of you, and you pulled away as the officiant declared you Mr. and Mrs. Zweig.
You had successfully tricked your audience, and yet, you still had the strangest feeling.
Your reception felt far more natural than your wedding ceremony. After a change of outfit, a huge bowl of pasta, and a few flutes of champagne, you were feeling substantially better about the arguably poor decision you’d just made. You chatted up your friends, who jumped at the opportunity to comment on how cute of a couple you two were, did some light matchmaking between single guests, and placated both of your parents with manufactured acts of affection. You even managed to get Patrick out on the dance floor, after he swore to you that he didn’t dance.
By the time the two of you were stumbling back into your villa, the woes of the day had practically been forgotten. When you were having this much fun, who cared about a massive, potentially life altering decision?
You immediately made a beeline to the bathroom, anxious to get into your comfortable pajamas and to wash your face after a long day of wearing tight, extravagant dresses and a heavy layer of makeup.
“So what did you think of your big day, Mrs. Zweig?” Patrick called out from the other side of the bathroom door, where you were sure he was also preparing for bed. “Was it everything you wanted and more?”
“I think this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” you paused as you thought about something before confessing, “but it was everything I wanted and more.”
“Yes!” he celebrated from where you couldn’t see him, though you could perfectly envision the goofy look on his face. “I owe it to you after everything I’ve put you through. I just hope you weren’t too let down by the groom.”
“What?” you drew out before blowing a raspberry. “Of course not. You looked very handsome today,” you complimented in between splashes of your face.
“You looked pretty beautiful, yourself,” he complimented you right back.
“Aww, thank you, honey,” you emphasized the pet name.
“Hmm, I don’t know if I like that,” you heard the squeak of the bed from behind the door as you assumed that he’d sat down.
“Hey, you’re the one who made me marry you,” you pointed out. “Am I more than you bargained for?”
“Of course not, babe,” he emphasized his own pet name, which sent you into a fit of laughter. “It’s just so weird to hear you refer to me as anything other than an asshole.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re still an asshole,” you replied as you walked out of the bathroom, donning an old shirt with the logo of your boarding school and an equally old pair of shorts. “Just a married asshole.”
You took in the sight of your now-husband as you made your way to your side of the bed, surprised to find that you quite liked the sense of domestic bliss you were feeling. The bed dipped as you sat down and glanced back at Patrick with the slightest bit of hesitation.
“Is this weird for you? I can go to the spare room, if you want me to,” he offered, surely in reference to the two of you sleeping in the same bed.
“Don’t worry about it,” you assured him, setting a steady hand on his knee. “What kind of couple would we be if we didn’t spend our wedding night together?” you teased.
“The kind of couple that marries for convenience?” he suggested.
“Hey, who’s to say that this isn’t love? I had the biggest crush on you when we were kids. Maybe some of it lingered, or some shit.”
“Oh yeah?” he looked at you with that sleazy smirk that you both loved and hated. “What happened?”
“Hmm… I think I realized that you’re a dick,” you matched his smirk with a challenging one of your own.
“Huh. Did you have this realization before or after you started seeing Dan Thompson?” he questioned.
You were surprised by the mention of your first boyfriend, particularly because you weren’t sure that Patrick remembered any detail about your personal life, let alone your love life. “I realized it after you started treating me like your workhorse.”
“Oh okay, so you had a crush on me while you were with your boyfriend. Good to know.”
“Shut up,” you groaned and turned away from him as you finally full laid down.
“Would it make you feel better to know that I also had a crush on you?” you heard the bed sheets rustle as he scooted closer to you, and you turned back to face him.
“You’re lying.” You couldn’t see any world where that would make sense to you. In your youth, it seemed like Patrick was always off somewhere with a new person, and none of those people were you. Not that you had an issue with it, but the thought that the two of you might’ve had crushes on each other at the same time without either of you pursuing each other felt kind of weird.
“Nope. You’re the first person I ever jerked off to,” he said as casually as if he were telling you what he ate for breakfast, not breaking eye contact with you.
“Ew, you’re so gross,” you gently pushed him, but your hands lingered where they sat on his chest. “Was that supposed to be romantic or something?”
“That’s not romantic to you?” he asked with all the sincerity of someone who was fully committing to a bit.
The two of you broke out into laughter. Once you finally caught your breath, you began once more. “This is gonna be a long marriage.”
“Hopefully,” he remarked in response.
“If you keep talking to me like that, I will literally go get our marriage annulled, like right now.”
“Please don’t,” he whined, grabbing one of your hands from his chest and kissing your fingers. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Every time you promise to make something up to me, an inconsistent fairy gains its wings.”
“Hey,” his tone suddenly became very serious, completely catching you off guard. “I really am sorry that I’ve been a terrible friend. I don’t know that I’ve ever said it, but I am. You deserve so much better than me, and I don’t even know how I convinced you to do this for me.”
You almost started to laugh, unable to take the absurd situation seriously. You’d been waiting years to hear him genuinely apologize, and now hours after you’d married solely as a favor to him, he was finally telling you what you wanted to hear.
“Please. I’m serious. I know you think I’m a piece of shit flaky ashhole, and I am, but I want to be a better husband to you than I ever was as a friend.”
You felt your heart stop beating for a second. The word husband sounded so foreign in his mouth. You couldn’t quite pin how you felt about it, but you knew you felt uncomfortable with the intimacy of his words.
“Patrick, please shut up,” you squeezed your eyes shut, suddenly a little overwhelmed with the Patrick of it all. In fact, you couldn’t think of anything more encapsulating of your experience with him than the whiplash you got from that moment. He could be a complete asshat, but his occasional moments of earnestness kept you following him like a lost puppy, accepting his apologies and granting him ridiculous favors, despite your better judgment.
“Are you okay?” he asked, moving closer to you to get a good look at you. You swore you felt your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.
“I’m fine, I just-“ am overwhelmed by you being sweet? Can’t believe that I’m hearing you say this to me after so long? Also can’t believe that you and I are married?
None of the right words seemed to come to you, so you did the second best thing you could think of.
You pecked his lips and pulled away as if you’d just touched a hot handle. You didn’t know what had come over you, and immediately began to apologize profusely.
“Oh my god, I don’t know-“ you were cut off by his hands on your face, greedily and sloppily pulling you back in for another kiss, this one far more passionate and confident than the first.
Your kiss was messy but fervent, years of pent up sexual frustration and non-sexual frustration behind your every movement. As you kissed, you moved to straddle him, feeling a little ridiculous in your ratty old clothes, but that didn’t stop him from groping you over your pajamas like you were the hottest thing on the planet.
Maybe the strangest thing to happen to you that day wasn’t even your wedding.
——
That night was the first in a series of very strange events. You couldn’t even fully wrap your head around what was happening in your marriage. You just knew that the two of you had become closer friends than you’d ever been before, and that you slept together when either of you had the urge. It was basically a no strings attached situation, except, legally, all strings were attached.
If you were confused by your arrangement, you were sure that your friends were even more lost, something they proved to you as they interrogated you over brunch.
“So, just so we’re clear, you married him as a favor?!” your friend asked in complete disbelief.
“Well… yeah, basically.”
“Shit. Can I ask you for a favor of a million dollars?” she joked, leading to the laughter of your other friends at the table.
“Well, that’s different. At least with our marriage, we both benefit. He gets his parents off his ass about being so focused on tennis that he doesn’t have any future prospects, and I get my parents to stop trying to marry me off to every single rich boy they find.”
“But you’re not like, actually married. Like you guys don’t have feelings for each other?” another friend questioned.
You sipped your mimosa before explaining your situation for what must’ve been the fifth time that day, “we’re basically friends with benefits.”
“But you’re legally married? Like, the wedding was official and stuff?”
“Legally? Yeah. But it’s literally just that,” you clarified.
“Legal marriage and sex?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, hoping that they were finally catching on.
“Then… are you guys seeing other people?”
“Oh yeah, what ever happened to that one model guy you were seeing?” another one of your friends pitched in.
“It didn’t really work out,” you addressed that with an understatement. He rightfully flipped his shit when he found out you were going to be marrying someone else. “But neither of us are seeing other people. I don’t think either of us want to risk bringing anything back to one another.”
“That sounds pretty committed to me.”
“Not really,” you dismissed.
“Then why are you even together?”
“How many times do I have to explain how we both benefit from this?”
“No, not legally, or socially or whatever. Why are you hooking up with him? Aren’t you scared you’ll mess up your friendship or something?”
“Well, the sex is really, really good. But I’m really not worried. There's no romance between us. We’ve been friends for so long that it’s just… weird to look at him like anything other than my friend. It’s basically a loveless marriage of convenience.”
Your friend shot you a skeptical look. You just shrugged her off.
———
The moment you found out your afternoon meeting had been canceled, you reached out to your assistant to make arrangements for you to go to Patrick’s tennis game. He’d been on a winning streak, and though he insisted that you didn’t need to come to his games, you knew that he secretly liked having you there.
Over the past few months of your marriage, you’d grown to realize that he often didn’t say what he actually meant. Like the time he told you that he preferred to live alone, before breathily confessing in your ear that he slept better by your side. Or when he swore to you that he loved the pancakes you’d served him, despite the food being some of the worst you’d ever put in our mouth and him being on a diet. You almost found it sweet that he tried to prioritize your feelings over his own, which was surely a result of overcompensation from the way he had treated you for the majority of your lives.
You arrived at his match just in time to watch him take a break, making your way into the stands and finding a seat where you’d have the best view of your friend as possible. You didn’t expect him to scan the audience and find you until much later on, but you were pleasantly surprised when the two of you made eye contact and he absolutely lit up. You waved, then gave him a thumbs up in hopes to communicate your support from far away.
While you couldn’t always make it, you liked to play the role of supportive tennis wife. Getting dressed up and making an appearance not only publicly legitimized your sham of a marriage, but helped you to reconnect with some of your former boarding school classmates, who were often in the stands supporting a friend or a loved one. You also just liked to watch him play, as witnessing the passion and ferocity he had out on the court was extremely entertaining, and even at times, mildly arousing.
With their break ending, Patrick went back out on the court and played just as well as you expected him to, crushing his competition, and looking up into the stands at you to celebrate once he’d scored the winning point.
At first, it was surprising how proud his wins made you feel of him, a feeling that you explained to yourself by arguing that if he wasn’t giving his absolute all to tennis, then your marriage had basically been all for nothing. Although that did still ring slightly true, the truth was that you were simply proud of Patrick. Whether you liked it or not, the two of you were a unit now, which meant that his wins were your wins and vice versa. In some ways, it was kind of nice to be part of a team. Or at least his team.
You met Patrick down on the court, where he paused from packing his bag to immediately greet you with a kiss to the forehead, a small act of intimacy that was typically reserved for situations far different from the one you were currently in.
“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming!” he exclaimed, pulling you in for a half-hug.
“I didn’t know I was coming either,” you instinctually wrapped your arm around him in response to his half-hug. “Great job out there. You kinda demolished him!”
“I did, didn’t I,” he said just loud enough for you to hear, still wanting to appear like a good sport. “I have to go get ready for the press conference. Do you want to meet me at my hotel?”
“Of course. You don’t mind me staying for the night?” you probed, despite knowing the answer. He wouldn’t have asked you to go to his hotel in the first place if he’d minded.
“You know I never mind you staying for the night,” he gave you a cheeky wink.
“You’re so sleazy,” you commented with fake disgust.
“You started it,” he replied, reluctantly pulling away from you and reaching into his bag to grab his hotel keycard. “I’ll text you when I’m heading back.”
The moment you received a message about him being on his way to the hotel, you made a very lengthy phone call and request to the restaurant in the building. Technically, he shouldn’t be eating any of what you ordered, on account of him being on a strict diet plan, but you figured that he deserved it after playing the way that he did. Besides, Patrick liked thoughtful acts of service, and you figured that this would count as one.
“You know me so well,” he practically gasped as he stepped into the room, taking in the platters of food you’d laid out for him.
“What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t?” you teased, though your sentiment was somewhat accurate, and it was clear that the two of you had grown to know each other far better over the past few months, you hoped that your friend wasn’t interpreting your words in too serious of a way.
The two of you laid out on the pristine hotel bed, eating the feast that you’d ordered without much dialogue between you, other than a comment on how good something was, or a request to pass an item to one another. It felt oddly domestic, and oddly enough, you liked it. Maybe you liked it even more than you’d been willing to admit.
“I’m gonna go shower,” he announced after tossing his napkin onto a cleared off plate.
“Want some company?” you offered, raising your brows at him in a playfully suggestive manner.
“Is that what this is all about?” he feigned offense.
“Maybe,” you trailed off. “Or maybe I just wanted to celebrate the greatest tennis player of all time,” you purred.
“Come on. You and I both know that is far from the truth.”
“Well you’re the greatest player in my heart,” you praised, much to his chagrin.
“Ugh. Shut up and come shower with me.”
As you sleepily ran your fingers through his damp hair, you were surprised when he broke his silence with a comment seemingly out of the blue. It was more of a mumble than anything else, but you’d grown accustomed to his muffled words over the course of your marriage.
“You’re so beautiful,” he randomly complimented you.
“You know you don’t have to compliment me to get into my pants, right?” you asked with a hint of laughter in your tone.
“I’m not trying to,” he pecked your arm–the limb he had the easiest access to at the moment–as if he was trying to emphasize his point, though all it did was bring heat to your cheeks at the reminder of the way he’d pressed slow and meaningful kisses along your calves and inner thighs while the two of you were in the shower. “You just looked so good today, I couldn’t not comment.”
“I don’t look good every day?” you asked facetiously, trying to deflect from the warm and fuzzy feeling his compliments and affection were making you feel.
“Of course you always look good,” he reassured you rather than playing along with your game of joking instead of addressing your feelings. “I just don’t tell you that enough.”
You weren’t even sure how you could respond to that. Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to mince words tonight, but you couldn’t bear to match his genuinity with cheap jokes. The only real, genuine thought to pop into your head were three ridiculous words that you immediately batted away. You couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than randomly declaring your love to a husband who wasn’t really your husband in a marriage that wasn’t really a marriage.
Out of ideas, you hit the lamp on your side of the bed. “I appreciate it. Goodnight.”
“Night,” he parroted back to you, remaining snug against your chest, despite the fact that your hands had stopped threading through his hair.
Deep down, you knew that those three words had been on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, too.
——
Being in the social circles of filthily rich people meant you often found yourself at random charity events, hosted by the nonprofits of families and business owners looking for a particularly large tax break for the year. Over the years, you’d felt that you’d seen and participated in it all: marathons raising awareness for a serious, but extremely rare disease, date auctions to raise money for a cause that certainly didn’t justify you having to go on a date with a man almost forty years your senior, or galas for nearly-extinct sea creatures that were essentially used as an excuse to stand around and network while drinking expensive alcohol and eating hor d'oeuvres.
You seemed to find yourself at a lot of events like the latter, including the one you were standing at now. The gala, which took place in the art exhibit it was raising money for, was a rather standard one, filled with the typical suspects who regularly attended those events.
It was slightly ironic to be at the event with Patrick as your plus one, as this was the exact type of event he would’ve texted you about an hour before it began to ask if you would play his concerned partner for the night who told everyone a flimsy excuse about him being under the weather.
It also served as somewhat of a reminder to you of the massive growth that your friend had undergone since the two of you became legally bound to one another. It finally felt like Patrick saw you as a true friend, instead of a reliable person who would do his dirty work. It finally felt like he cared. In some ways, your marriage was the best thing to happen to your friendship.
Patrick returned to where you were standing, this time with two flutes of champagne and a delicious looking appetizer in his hand.
“You’re too kind,” you said as he passed you your drink.
“Anything for my wife,” he mockingly bowed in front of you and you chuckled and shook your head. Over the past year, the two of you slowly became slightly more comfortable with referencing each other as husband and wife, but only really as a joke. You guessed that in a lot of ways, that’s what your marriage was—a ridiculous inside joke.
He was just about to feed you a hor d'oeuvre when you were approached by a wildly unwelcome figure: the man who had purchased a date with you a few years ago. Despite your one very awkward, stilted date, he never really seemed to get over you–which he made a point to prove at every event you both happened to be at. And unfortunately for you, his generous donations landed him on the guest list for the majority of these events.
You were used to fighting him off on your own, as he seemed to come and flirt with you regardless of how inappropriate it was for the setting of the event, or even when he already had a beautiful young bombshell hanging on his arm. At this point, you’d learned to just tune his every word out and flee as soon as you possibly could. He was annoying, but he wasn’t dangerous.
“Hey, honey,” he greeted you way too comfortably. You’d given up on asking him to call you by your name a very long time ago.
“Hi, John,” you reached out to shake his hand and cringed internally when he kissed the back of your hand.
“Oh honey, who is this?” Patrick immediately lept in, surprising you with his unsubtle passive aggressive tone and ridiculous use of a pet name.
“You don’t remember me? I swear, we’ve met a few times.” John asked, trying to smile despite clearly being agitated by the presence of competition.
“Some people are more forgettable than others,” he said with a shrug. “How do you know my wife?” He emphasized the word and you pushed down the small inkling of pride you were feeling. Whether it was from watching Patrick try to scare this annoying man away from you, or being so proudly referred to as his wife, you couldn’t be sure.
“Finally settling down, eh?” he directed at you, then directed his next statement to Patrick. “We went on a date back in the day.”
“It was for that one date auction thing,” you quickly added context, but paused when you took in John’s less than pleased look. He was a large donor at your own family’s nonprofit, and you were sure that your parents wouldn’t be too pleased with you if they found out he pulled out over you hurting his feelings. “We had a lot of fun, though.”
“We definitely did,” he chuckled and smirked. You wanted to punch him in the mouth. “We should definitely do it again sometime.”
It was clear that Patrick was not taking kindly to seeing you be flirted with so brazenly in front of him. Part of you wondered why he would be possessive, since part of your initial deal was that you could see whoever you wanted, even if that happened to be a creepy old man with a lot of money. The other part of you was enjoying seeing him so fired up. Particularly, seeing him fired up over you.
“Our schedule is just so busy. Between work and us trying to start a family, I just don’t know when we’ll have time to see you again.”
Trying to start a family? That was definitely news to you. Although, the idea didn’t sound awful. Wasn’t it everyone’s dream to start a family with their closest, most dear friend?
“Well, she knows where to find me, right, honey?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled, looking into your glass like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
“Now if you don’t mind, my wife and I are going to go check out the exhibit,” Patrick announced, grabbing your hand and taking a step away from John.
“You two have fun,” he said before clapping Patrick’s shoulder and leaning in to begin a stage whisper. “Make sure you treat her right and cherish her. If you don’t, I might have to swoop in and do so myself.”
He winked at you and you bit back a gag.
“Don't you worry your wrinkly little head. Nobody lov- cherishes her more than I do,” he theatrically patted his back much like he’d initially done to him. “See you around.”
Did he almost say what you think he almost said? Surely you misheard him, or he was just playing up your relationship to scare away that creepy man. It really wasn’t anything to think twice about.
Once the two of you had walked away far enough to be out of earshot, you finally addressed what had just happened. “Thank you, bodyguard. You don’t even know how much I despise that man.”
“He seems like he’s the worst,” he agreed with you, looking back over his shoulder.
“That’s because he is,” you emphasized. “This is so random, but did you mean what you said earlier?”
Patrick suddenly paused, his face going pale like he’d just seen a ghost. You were a little confused by this reaction, as he’d said nothing to warrant that level of fear.
“Do you actually want to start a family? Obviously not now, while you’re still playing tennis, but maybe eventually? I know we don’t have the most traditional marriage, but, I don’t know. Neither of us are getting any younger, and it might be fun to co-parent with my best friend,” you were clearly rambling now, but luckily, Patrick came in to rescue you for the second time that night. He looked far less aghast now.
“I would love that,” he said to you with a genuine smile. You matched his with one of your own.
———
“Do you have any big plans for retirement?” a reporter asked for the final question of the press conference.
“Mostly just eating a lot of burgers. And maybe learning how to play pickleball,” Patrick responded, never one to give a serious answer to questions that weren’t explicitly about tennis.
It was a ridiculous note to end on, but it felt right. You’d found that to be the case with most things in your life that pertained to him–most notably your marriage, which ended up being far more than you ever expected it to be.
After the press conference had come to a close, Patrick met you outside by the car, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, then leaning down to peck your baby bump.
“How does it feel to be retired?” you asked, ruffling his hair while he was still bending down.
“It feels like you might divorce me,” he joked. Obviously your marriage deal was only meant to cover the time that he was still playing tennis, but after years of a complicated marriage that suddenly became significantly less complicated once you finally confronted the fact that the two of you very obviously loved each other, it seemed unlikely that your union would end any time soon.
You glanced down at your baby bump, then back up to him skeptically. “I hope you’re not being serious.”
“Come on, I never know with you. You’re the one who friendzoned me the entire first year of our marriage!” he exclaimed.
“That was a lifetime ago,” you countered before taking his hands in yours. “If you’re really worried, I have zero intentions of ending our marriage.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he grinned, stepping away from you. “Let’s get going. I don’t want us to miss our reservation.”
You nodded and obliged, passing him the keys before heading to the passenger side of the car.
Once you sat down, you were overcome with the urge to say something. You had spent so much time bottling up and pressing down your own feelings, that it was now hard to resist letting things out when they came to you.
“I’m so proud of you,” you blurted. “And I love you. So much.”
Patrick smiled at you genuinely, before his look turned into a slightly more devious one. “I love you so much, too. One might even say I love you more.”
“Don’t even start with that,” you laughed, not in the mood to have the kind of back and forth with him that you had at least once a week. Considering that you were carrying his child, you were pretty sure that you were the winner of the love competition.
“Fine. We love each other equally,” he conceded.
“That’s more like it.”
You tried to think back to one specific moment where your marriage had crossed over from being one of convenience, into a union with genuine feelings attached, and realized that you weren’t exactly sure. It could’ve been the first night you spent together, when you’d finally allowed yourself to consider what your relationship might look like beyond a simple friendship, or maybe it was even earlier than that, when you gazed into Patrick’s eyes as you read off your vows. The look of pure adoration he gave you was one that you had grown familiar with throughout the course of your marriage, but you hadn’t realized at the time just how genuine he had been. Or maybe even the moment Patrick asked you in the living room of your apartment, when you’d been the first person he thought of to carry out his ridiculous scheme, and you’d said yes despite every logical part of your brain that screamed at you to say no.
Whenever it began didn’t particularly matter. What mattered now was that the two of you fully intended to spend the rest of your lives together.
#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig#patrick zweig x you#patrick zweig fic#patrick zweig imagine#art donaldson x reader#challengers#challengers fanfic#challengers fic#josh o'connor x reader
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lace garters
words : 3,903
tags : 18+!!! mdni! escorts , sex work , reader ! sex worker , vaginal sex , finger fucking , finger sucking , porn with feelings , brothels , oral sex , save a horse ride a whattt
p.s : this is also posted on my ao3!! ( divider by siren4u & gif by drewstarkrs )
billy was a virgin, surprisingly, he didn’t have time for a girlfriend, and the quick fucks from the escorts never enticed him much. many offered, when he would stop quick at towns for a simple beer or to take care of things— he would typically get stopped by the escorts dressed in their gorgeous silks, tight corsets, and sleeves that fall off their shoulders so easily it has your fingers itching with desire to fix it. it would make even the most sane man turn mad, and somehow billy never allowed himself to fall for it.
not until now, an escort stops him before he walks in a bar, “how old are you, dear?”
“19, ‘bout to turn 20,” his voice is smooth and sweet, southern drawl sweeping out with ease.
the girl hums out, tipping out of the way to allow his eyes to another girl standing far behind her, you, “you’re too young for me, dear, you should talk to her. she can show you a good time.”
typically billy would say no, offer a few coins for their efforts and simply walk into the bar like nobody had offered. but something was different when his eyes fell on you, you weren’t like the other escorts, quick to talk to the men and get some money for the events that take within the confines of the motel walls. you were rather looking off in the distance, your position more reserved rather than comfortable. it had him wanting to know more.
to be fair, billy was bored these days, all he did was travel and go from town to town, never leaving a mark on those behind. other than his wanted posters, which by the way, had an awful drawing on it. how the hell was he ever supposed to get a girlfriend with drawings like that made about him? each step is slow, calculated, as he moves over to you. he notices that mid way, your attention seems forced away from him.
are you afraid of him? he tips his head in your peripheral, easily looming over you, “darling.”
your eyes snap to him almost immediately, widening as if you didn’t think it would truly be him, yet you mumble out a, “honey.”
“lady over there told me to talk to you,” his head tips up, blue eyes piercing into you, even through the deepest of the night.
“i don’t want trouble,” you finally turn to him, the smell of musk and gunsmoke filling your nose as he bites through the toothpick in his mouth, “i hear you’re wanted.”
“wanted, but not trouble,” he corrects, smirk tugging at his right lip, “you don’t gotta tell anyone.”
“wasn’t plannin’ on it,” your voice is so sweet, it nearly has him doubling over. you’re teasing him, clearly, but billy has never backed down to a challenge once in his life, he can bet on that.
his eyebrow twitches upright slightly, “how much for thirty minutes, beautiful?”
“you can satisfy me in thirty minutes?” you tease, smile widening at your own joke.
his head cocks to the side, and he can’t help the way he licks his lips, cockiness coursing through his veins, “i probably could in ten.”
you can’t help the way your flesh feels like rubber over molten, cheeks flaring to a new maroon that you hadn’t expected. your eyes dare to match his, the lust unsheathed in the teal of his eyes, “thirty will be just a few coins.”
his hand moves to your jaw, tipping your head up further to look at him with ease, now you have no choice of looking away, “you don’t think i can in ten?”
“i doubt it,” your skin is hot underneath his touch, despite your bold demeanor.
“we’ll see.”
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
the motel carried the same smell as it always did, the mix of mustiness, smoke from cigars, and whiskey. billy’s gut churned as you led him to the room that you always rented, surely, he was cocky at first— then he began to worry if he would even be good enough. he was a virgin, after all, and he’s sure you’d been with mostly experienced men. he doesn’t say anything once the door opens, seemingly every worry dissipates as you look back at him with a different look, your lashes flutter over your eyes with ease, the look is more seductive, siren like.
if you were a siren, consider him the sailors in those tales, lost in the tides and addicted to the song that oozed out your vocals.
he allows you to guide him to the bed, sitting him down on the thin, firm mattress with your hands lingering on his shoulders, “what would you like me to do?”
“i’d like for you,” he trails off, eyes tracing down your body, “to get on your knees.”
your hands leave his shoulders as you ever so slowly kneel down, every movement is well thought out, calculated, your body flowing in the most seductive ways. despite your lowered body, your eyes still remained up at him, the sudden doe look in your eyes making his legs spread ever so slightly. his hand is gentle when it touches your cheek again, pinky lining underneath your jawline as his thumb threatens against your lips.
it’s dangerous, the way you look at him, like your gun is being drawn to him with your finger teasing the trigger.
“and?” you add, his thumb teasing your now open lips. he tried not to flinch when your mouth encased his thumb, the warmth wetness of your mouth enveloping the skin. he finds himself unable to speak, unable to wonder whatever he wants— he wants to be stuck in this moment forever, it was greater than any other treasure he had come across. you were so good at your job, it made him want to know the lengths of your skills.
“suck me off,” he finally speaks, gentle to remove his thumb from your mouth.
it was a statement that you were used to, the firm tone, the expectation to get to it immediately— yet you are somehow surprised when it comes from him, it’s less firm, not like a demand but rather an offer, and there wasn’t a feeling of being rushed. for a man who seemingly had no time for women, he surely had a way to talk to them, to be gentler with them, unlike the other men. it was always cowboys who had the better ways of treating women, respectful with every word, or touch. his eyes are heavy on you, the curtains of your eyelashes blinking up to him, your lips tinted a sweet rouge due to a patted on lipstick, and he finds himself pushing his thumb across your lips, smudging the burgundy ever so slightly.
your hands smooth over the fabric of his pants, fingertips teasing the leather of his belt which accompanied his gun holster as you palmed him through his slacks. the touch of the leather was rich, sturdy and every loop was clean cut, rather than loose and falling apart like many belts you had undone before. you hear him groan as your hand gently pushes against his clothed cock, his back stiffening ever so slightly as a chill runs up it.
he tilts his head to the side ever so slightly as you undo his belt, your fingertips threateningly close to his gun holster as you pull the leather from the metal to loosen it. a chuckle vibrates from his chest, voice lower than usual, “careful, princess.”
he lifts his hips as you tug down his pants, boxers following soon after to slip down to his ankles with ease. a hiss escapes him as soon as his hard dick is released to the cold air, with the opposing blow of your warm air on his tip. he was already so hard, as if he had been aching for a day like this. his hand moves to wrap around his base, hips scooting closer ever so slightly.
“open,” his voice is husky, yet velvety, like the thorn of a rose to the petals.
you’re quick to allow your jaw to fall slack, tongue smoothing out past the burgundy that coats your lips, as if you expected his next command. he taps his tip against your tongue, biting back the groan that thunders inside his every limb at the feeling of the warm, wet muscle. he allows you to take the lead, your tongue following the underside of his dick, memorizing each vein. when you reach his tip, you press a few sloppy kisses to it that has his breathing roughen, allowing you to open your mouth once more and take his length inside.
he sucks in a deep breath, a hoarse groan escaping past his lips when he exhales, allowing his teeth clench on the thin wooden toothpick that still remained in his mouth. his head tips back when you hollow your cheeks only mere seconds into sucking him off, his hat slipping off his head and falling onto the plush of the bedsheets.
his breath becomes ragged with the more you bob your head, allowing the tip to reach the back of your mouth, to the throat. his free hand moves to pass through your hairline, gripping at the beginning of your hair, even through your updo, loosening the tightening of the strands. the muscle in his arms flex underneath his short-sleeved button up, veins popping out every time you reach the base.
“good girl,” he breathes out, the whimper that vibrates around his cock making his release come quicker than expected, hand bunching up your hair as he has to move you back, off his dick to stop his orgasm. he heaves, noticing the way strips of saliva connect your mouth to his dick. he moves his hand from your hair down to your lips, watching the way your mouth instinctively opens then closes around his fingers, sucking them in with pure ease.
he allows you to wet them with your saliva until he pulls them out and mumbles a soft, “come.”
he helps you up onto his lap, the metal of his gun is a cooling sensation on his heated skin as he moves back, reaching under to toss his gun elsewhere. he had his guard down now, despite the large bounties on his head, he was too focused on you, and giving you the pleasure that you deserved. as you straddle him, his fingers dared to touch the bottom of your dress, threatening to raise, “may i?”
your eyes are tantalizing when they meet his, like the threatens of the deepest lust lie within them, and billy is willing to dive in, “you may.”
his hair is messy now, like he never took off that damn hat, and when he did— he didn’t bother to fix the hair underneath.
every movement is careful, meant to be more meaningful than a quick fuck, he raises your skirt until his eyes catch on to a white lace garter that’s propped around your upper thigh. so sweet, the purposeful placement of it all, it’s like a prize for whoever gets to raise your skirt. as you sit on his lap, your arms rest on his shoulders, a hand threatening the skin on the back of his neck as his hands move back around your waist, through the silk of the corset to the strings that hold it together on the back. his eyes are stuck onto you as his fingers begin to tug at the tie of the strings, they were in a harsh knot, but billy always knew his way around things.
kissing clients was typically a line many of the women wouldn’t dare to cross, sometimes not even you, but the way his eyes kept tipping down to your lips had you threateningly close to the now faded line. as the laces of your corset loosen, your head tips down to where your lips barely brush him, you can smell the mint already before even getting a chance. your lips move to close around the toothpick that he kept in his mouth, moving to spit it out and he was quick to chase your lips. as soon as you had spit out the toothpick, his lips finally pressed against yours, allowing your freshly manicured hands to curl through his brunette hair.
the fresh smell of your rose and jasmine was quick to his nose as he inhaled you up close, tongue teasing against your lower lip ever so carefully. there was a certain thirst that billy found himself feeling as he moves to spread your mouth open with his own, allowing your tongues to both clash, the mix of spit and remnants of mint and a cigarette becoming prominent to the taste. he wanted to drink every word from your lips, to suck in your siren song like his life depended on it.
when your hips bucked up against him, needy to feel a form of friction, it had encouraged him to finally free you from the confines of your corset. your lips part when he breaks the kiss, his lips trailing kisses down to your jaw, throughout until he meets your neck, the softness of his kisses making it feel as though doves were flying through the confines of your body. when his lips begin to move to suck on the delicate skin, you hiss, “dear, dear, you can’t leave marks.”
“your rules or brothel rules?” he murmurs against your skin, moving to toss away your corset onto the floor.
“brothel rules,” you hush out, and you feel his lips curl onto your neck.
“then ‘m gonna leave as many marks as i want,” he falls back into your skin, lips taking in the skin between his teeth as he moved to mark you as his own. the desire to have a prostitute as your own was a dangerous game, but billy had been a part of many dangerous games before, and now he was pulling all his money in with the unluckiest of cards— yet he still finds himself with the pride of feeling he will win. his lips pause at one of the pulse points on your neck, noticing how your heat beat quickens, and flutters, was this typical?
he wasn’t sure, but he finds himself praying it’s a good thing. he chuckles as your hands are desperate to unbutton his shirt, pushing each wooden button through the loops with ease, you had done this a million times before, this is the only time your heart is thumping in your chest when you do, though. he moves his hand down to take a hold of one of your wrists, “easy, girl, easy.”
“you said ten minutes,” you remind him, smile dripping on your lips.
“mm, i want longer than that,” he helps you unbutton the last few before taking off his shirt, noticing how your eyes trail down his figure.
“just sayin’ that because you can’t make me cum,” you break into a soft laugh against him, and he can’t help the way a small smile curves his lips as he takes off the dress that you were wearing. your body is alike to the statues you could only dream of seeing in those beautiful stories about gods and women who ruled. women who were worshipped, even as billy knew you for mere minutes, he found himself wanting to kneel at your altar, to worship the ground you walk on. to make you cum would mean more than he imagined at first, he wanted to be that man, to pleasure you in ways others haven’t.
his fingers slip underneath the hem of your panties, immediately exposed to the wetness underneath as it coats his fingers, “can’t make you cum yet you’re so wet for me, hm?”
you bite your lip, allowing your hips to sway against his fingers as pleasure envelopes your every thought almost immediately. though billy wasn’t quite sure about what exactly to do, he had heard the other cowboys speak of this, and he hoped it delivered as much pleasure as they said when he dips a finger inside of you. you’re loose around him, wet, yet sucking him in so easily. he’s quick to add another, finding his rhythm almost immediately and getting cocky with it. he dares to let his thumb tease the edges of your clit, as if he didn’t know it was there and he was merely looking for somewhere to place it.
he notices the way your nails dig in to his scalp, biting your tongue so hard that crimson may bleed from it with ease.
billy had kissed many women, been on the brink of sex, and yet none have reacted the ways in which you do. they were quick to show how they react, every emotion not blanketed behind a curtain of embarrassment but now, despite it being your job to over exaggerate the pleasure, you found yourself shy to make noise. he moves to allow another finger to push inside of you, the pink velvet of your insides encasing his fingers with ease. he hears you gasp when his fingers threaten to curl, and he allows himself another smile. his thumb moves to your clit again, and that’s when your grip becomes lethal, biting your lip no longer becoming a guard for your moans.
“please,” you mumble out, whimpering.
“please what, princess?” you’re putty in his hands, and he’s kneading you with ease.
“i.. i need you,” you moan out, to be saying this to a wanted man, one who has killed, and committed theft, as well as escaped from prison— it was something you swore to never do. yet you were having sex with him and his touch felt so gentle it was as if it never happened, how could a man so dangerous be so kind? you feel a vein pulse from his neck as he finally pulls his fingers out, his eyes following yours as he moves his hand up to his mouth, allowing his fingers to move in between his lips and the taste of you to savor his tastebuds.
your pupils dilate at the sight of him tasting you, skin warming before you can even realize that you’re moving to take his fingers out, replacing them with your tongue as your mouth presses against his again. his hand falls on your waist, other hand guiding his dick to your cunt as he deepens the kiss to feel you moan against his mouth. your tongues fight for dominance, each movement a hunger of it’s own but yours falls submissive as soon as his dick slides into you with ease. your velvet is tighter around him than he expected, and he feels the vibrations of your whines against his tongue, mumbling a small, “you’re so big—“ against his lips.
once you reach his base, you pull away from his lips, a mere string of saliva connecting you both like a lifeline.
now you have the lead to take, your lips connecting with his neck to leave marks on him, you wonder how the other cowboys will react as your hips start swaying on his dick, riding him with ease. will they laugh at him for all the prominent hickeys? there’s no way he could hide it, you’ve heard billy had girlfriends all around in many different towns and parts of the state, what if he went back to them and they saw all the marks? it would trace back to you, you’re sure of it, but something about that fills you with a sense of pride rather than fear. you’ve always adored the outlaws, even though you were raised to be a good christian woman, a good girl. the outlaws were always the sweet talkers, as you were told from the other girls at the brothel. you were told stories about how well they treated the women, their touch being better than most the regulars, their words so dirty you’d only dream of being told it until you had finally heard it.
now you found yourself in love with the idea of trouble, as you wrap yourself in the silks of his touch and the pleasure he gave you. his head tilts back to allow you more access to the free canvas of his neck, his hand raises, then immediately smacks onto the flesh of your ass. the slap tore a cry from your throat, into the skin that coats his neck, and a plain redness forms around the mark of his hand, branding you.
somehow, this was more intimate than your previous affairs, even despite the roughness of the sex. it felt like a wild play of ballet, an opera you would only dream of seeing, the gracefulness of each movement and the sweetness that drips like honey off each sound, even the sounds of skin slapping as you ride him. you taste the bitterness of his cologne as you reach the sides of his neck, sucking the pale skin with a need to create marks that last. he’s fascinated by your every movement, if this truly was a ballet, he would find himself in the crowd, watching the dancer move with such purity even during such a lewd act.
you felt yourself curl as your orgasm builds again, and it seems he is too in the way his hips begin to rock. every movement feels like being coated in molasses, trying to swim through it, the orgasms scorching through your inner thighs to your core until it wracks your body, hitting you harder than it had any other time. you don’t know what it was about him, but you were quick to flutter around him, and that had him pulling out, stroking himself for mere seconds until white stripes fall in messy streaks across your skin.
he pulls you closer when your lips move so your head tilts onto his shoulder, both of your guys’ chests heaving as if you had just been working out, as if you were running towards danger and felt the warmth of it’s embrace reel you in. it was billy’s arms, his eyes closing for a mere second before they open again, “thought i couldn’t make you cum.”
you hate the way you smile so easily at anything he says, the way you melt into his touch, the way even though you were merely a one night stand it felt like you wanted this to be an eternity, you wanted him to be a regular.
“mm, i faked it,” you say with a smile, so clearly a lie.
you move so he slips out of you, your cunt clamping around nothing as it missed the feeling of him inside of you. soon, you reassure yourself as you stand, convinced he will be returning. poor, poor girl, you were just another victim of the sweet talkers with pretty faces. it worsens as your legs become jelly, and he’s quick to stand, hands fastening to your waist and holding it to keep you balanced. his chuckle turns to a laugh, a deep, hearty laugh, “you sure, doll?”
you roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to his cheek, somehow your lipstick remained and it kept the mark staining his cheek as you left your kiss there. then you moved, taking your clothes and putting them on, “goodnight, billy.”
#billy the kid#tom blyth#coriolanus snow#coriolanus fanfiction#coriolanus x reader#billy the kid x reader#billy the kid x you#billy the kid smut#billy the kid fanfiction#tbosas#the ballad of songbirds and snakes#smut#coriolanus smut
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You were standing in the kitchen, your shirt exposing your shoulders whilst leaving a majority of your back uncovered. You were cutting up veggies for dinner, swaying back and forth as you hummed a tune that was stuck in your head, not realizing he was standing behind you and gazing at your figure lovingly, admiring your fluid movements...
Malleus
He smiles gently. He loves moments like this, walking in on you doing something so mundane made the rhythm of his heart even out with tranquility. Next thing he knew he was behind you, bending over to allow hands to wrap around your waist. You let out a startled gasp, halting your movements. Malleus then pressed his lips gently against your shoulder, planting a gentle yet warm kiss. You blushed and leaned your head towards his, chuckling at his sudden affection.
"You're skin looks soft right now...if you're not careful, I believe you may be eaten by a dragon," He joked. You chuckled and rolled your eyes, your hands continuing to work on the meal at hand.
"Would you like to help me?" You asked with affection in your tone, turning your head enough to give him a kiss upon his cheek. He smiled at this before standing up straight, heading towards his apron hanging up.
"I'd love to, dearest."
Lilia
The short Fae hovered over to you eagerly as you worked the veggies you cut into the pan, however you already knew his tactics. You turned around swiftly spatula in hand, quickly knocking whatever monstrosity was in his hand. You were successful and causing him to drop the strange shaker of spices he had attempted to sneak into your dish. He raised an eyebrow as you turned back around with the roll of your eyes before sneaking his arms around your waist and his lips heading towards the crook of your neck.
"You're getting better at that," He chuckled, "Although I'm feeling a little rejected! This meal could of course use some more ingredients...that dried lizard skin spice I acquired is supposed to be incredibly good for you. I was rather excited to try it..." You huffed in exasperation, not replying to his antics. You hadn't much of a reaction until you felt his teeth grazing your shoulder , biting down. You hissed slightly, giving him a side glare.
"What a glare! I couldn't help myself my little bat. You look far more appetizing than food right now..."
Trey
"Are you making dinner?" The voice of your loving boyfriend called out, walking over to you before putting on an apron and taking out various amount of ingredients. You glanced over at him before grimacing slightly.
"Trey..." You said hesitantly, "if you keep insisting on making dessert every night, I'm going to inevitably gain a lot more weight than I want to..." Trey looked startled at this, turning to you with eyes wide open with shock. He immediately rushed to your side, giving you a brisk embrace. His hands held you around your sides as he caressed your hips lovingly, planting a kiss on your forehead.
"Don't worry about that," Trey said, pushing his glasses up and onto his head , staring into your eyes with nothing short of affection, "What matters is you enjoy what you're eating. I won't force you of course, but if gaining weight is what you're worried about, get that out of your head right now." He used his strong arms to hold you tightly to his chest, his lips trailing kisses down your jaw. You smiled and hugged him back, taking in his warmth. He always knew how to make you feel loved as he whispered into your ear, "you're perfect..."
Rook
He spent a few moments simply basking in your beauty, staring at you with his hands folded leaning against the frame of the kitchen door. He could honestly stare at you like this all day, he never was bored of you in any way shape or form. He finally took a few steps forward into the kitchen, arms widening as if ready to give you a hug.
"Chéri," He called out. You gasped and dropped your spoon, turning around before your face lighting up at the sight of your loving boyfriend. You eagerly jumped into his arms, Rook catching you with ease and his lips pressing a firm kiss against your forehead. "Is that chicken fricassée I smell? My dear you know my heart~" You chuckled and looked up at the (rather dirty) male.
"How was hunting? Successful I presume?"He gave you a nod and hummed peacefully, leaning over to give you a kiss before your hands interupted him, your finger held up to prevent him from planting that kiss. "Great!" You said, "Which means you get to shower and clean up. You smell like rode kill." Rook dramatically tilted his head back and placed his hands over his heart, acting as if he were in pain.
"Oh you wound me!" He cried out, before chuckling and turning on his heel, "then I shall be quick! I wish to claim that kiss as soon as I can~"
----
Check out my masterlist!
#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland x reader#trey#trey clover#trey clover x reader#trey twisted wonderland#trey twst#Rook Hunt#rook twisted wonderland#Rook x reader#rook hunt x reader#Malleus#Malleus draconia#malleus draconia x reader#Malleus x reader#Lilia#Lilia Vanrouge#Lilia x reader#lilia twisted wonderland#lilia vanrouge x reader#lilia vanrouge headcanons#trey clover headcanons#twisted wonderland headcannon
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The Things I Never Said: Part 2
Pairings: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader
Summary: upon learning about your pregnancy simon thinks there are things he needs to take care of.
Word Count: 1.2k
Tw: Angst, fluff, hurt with a lot of comfort, banter. The task force is there for you💞 i think that's it✨
A/N: here it is, i never planned a second part so forgive me if it's not as good! Still hope you like it. Already working on a request that's similar to this one🐸✨ thank you so much for all the support. Reblogs and comments are appreciated! Remember english isn't my first language, corrections are welcome🩵
Masterlist✨ | Part 1 | Part 3
Simon pulls you closer to his body, one arm draped over your form and hand resting on your stomach. The storm is raging outside, the thunder startles you every five minutes. You stay there in complete silence as the realization of this whole thing settles in your minds. He wants you to be safe now more than ever that's why when he's reliving the events of the day it hits him. He had thought the worst, that you were abandoning him, that you got tired of him. Simon would never say this to you but losing you would be the end of him. Enraged and with his heart racing he had hopped on his motorcycle. The soft caressing of his fingers stops abruptly, body going rigid behind you. You turn your face in worry.
"Simon?" You call him. You were beginning to fall asleep. "What is it?"
"That fuckin' muppet." He snarls. "I was so caught up in you leaving that I'd forgotten he hit you. That cunt... fucking Christ." He sits. "Let me see." He lifts your shirt just above your belly with gentle hands.
"Love, I'm... it's fine." Simon sucks in a sharp breath as his eyes land on the bruised area of your skin.
"What did the doctor say?" He demands, eyes somber.
"She said i should stay in bed for a few days and to not lift heavy things or you know just... overwork myself."
Simon rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands, disgruntled.
"This is on me... my bloody fault"
"Hey, stop now." You stand up, coming to a sitting position to mirror his stance. "You didn't know." Soft hands fall on both sides of his face. "I should've told you before this happened, if anything this is on me."
"If something happened to you i would never forgive myself, kid. Lie down. You need to rest. I'll be here when you wake up."
-
Simon's been waiting for this day since the incident. You're still at home, recovering from what could've ended with you in a hospital bed and a broken heart.
"You sure about this, Sir?" Gaz asks, worried about what might happen. "It's just training right?"
"Just training." Simon's eyes are set on that bastard. Craning his neck he steps on the sparring mat. As much as he wanted to go find him and kill him he couldn't do such thing. But after the images that flooded his mind made him realize how dangerous it had been. What could potentially have happened the rage within him is boiling his blood. And now he needs somebody to pay the price. Choices have consequences and he nearly had a painful one. If he had insisted just more...
Breathing harshly he looks him in the eye. Poor muppet doesn't know what's coming for him. He stands there confidently, thinking he has a chance against Ghost. Not Simon, the man only she gets the chance to see.
This is Ghost about to fight.
-
For some reason you decided to stop by the local pastry shop and bring something for the task force. You're feeling much better so that's why you're walking down the corridor of the military compound. With a shirt that's nearly too oversized a pair of combat boots and a cap. You figured you could have these outside of the base and enjoy a nice day with your teammates. You missed them already. Since Simon had been reluctant to leave your side, and you loved it that's for sure, but he wouldn't let you do much as simple tasks like washing the dishes or doing the laundry.
Walking past the doors you're greeted with loud cheering and yelling at the two men in the middle of the mat. Your smile quivers until you process the scene in front of you. Not surprised, not worried. He's gonna be just fine. The other poor boy... Price is the first to notice you, approaching you in three long strides. He had decided to stop by and watch, that's how they sort things out.
"Here, let me help you with that." He takes most of the desserts from your hands, scrutinizing your features with slight concern. Your eyes glued to Simon's hulking body. "I'm gonna assume he doesn't know you're here. Shouldn't you be resting?"
"I'm not on duty, Captain."
"I'm not asking as your Captain but as a friend."
You turn to face him with the ghost of a smile on your lips.
"I'm feeling better so I wanted to see you all, maybe we could have these together as soon as Simon is done with his personal grudge."
Price chuckles. Reluctant to see the rest of the fight, you keep talking to John until it comes to an end. More cheers and clapping echoing around the place. You take a quick glance and get a glimpse of the younger soldier limping while he plops down on a near bench, his teammates gathered around him holding a towel out for him to clean up his face. Footsteps approach you and Price, Simon's frowning behind the mask you can tell by the way the corner of his eyes wrinkle.
"Hey little lady!" Soap greets you with a big smile, hugging you tightly. "Heard you got all knocked up!"
"For fucks sake, Johnny!" Gaz scolds him. "Have some more respect for the girl."
Johnny rolls his eyes feigning annoyance letting Kyle hug you too.
"Don't bet mad at him. We all know why he had to do it." He whispers before pulling away.
When Simon joins you, you're aware of what's coming.
"You're out of bed." He points out, blankly.
"It's been almost a week. As long as I don't lift heavy things I'll be alright. Remember?" You speak back. You reach out for his hand and intertwine your fingers with his. The rest of the team silently walks away to the outside giving you some privacy. Simon studies you, all of you. There's a spark of worry in his blue eyes that you don't like. "Don't worry about me anymore."
He pulls you closer, arms wrapping around your shoulders as he inhales deeply.
"Is that my shirt, doll?" He asks in a hushed tone. You chuckle, burying your face in his chest.
"I missed you, and it smells like you." Simon prompts you softly to start walking outside and join the rest. "You're not hurt, are you?" You stare up at him.
"Don't you worry about me, he wasn't able to land one single hit, love."
You pull him down kissing over the black balaclava where his lips would be.
"I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for not telling you Simon." You sigh.
"I understand now why you didn't, kid. I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself for not making you feel safe enough to tell me. If anything I'm to blame."
"Is there any chance I may touch your belly?" Soap asks as soon as you sit down next to him.
"Yes." You reply with a wide smile.
"No." Simon growls at the same time.
"Jesus! I suppose that naming the child after me is also off the table?"
"Absolutely."
A round of laughs echoing around and along the backyard. Your eyes scanning every person gathered in this very moment. Loyalty, admiration, respect and love.
A family of your own that would soon get a new addition.
"What if it's a beautiful girl?" Gaz interrogates.
Everyone goes silent.
"Fucking hell." Simon whispers.
He's fucked.
#call of duty modern warfare 2#cod mwii#cod#cod mw2#cod x reader#cod ghost#cod mw22#simon ghost x reader#simon riley imagine#simon ghost riley#ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost imagine#john price x reader#soap mactavish x reader#gaz x reader#call of duty ghost simon riley#cod simon ghost riley#fanfic
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hello, i hope u’re doin okay 🫶 i wanted to ask you could u write smth where we have an age gap in our relationship w Simon (legal ofccc) and we’re a bit scared of 141’s reactions ?
thank u sm even if u don’t feel like writing this <3
hi, hun. hope you enjoy ♡
⊹ simon riley never made a big deal about you being younger than him. he rather adored how sweet and innocent you were for him. he loved to have you by his side, and so he suggested you’d meet the 141. you were nervous, you weren’t bad with new people, that wasn’t it. but you couldn't stop thinking about what they might think, these guys were such an important part of simon's life, you wouldn't be able to handle it if they didn't like you. and what did your relationship look like to them? him being the older guy that spoils you and you being the bratty younger plaything? they probably wouldn't even take you seriously, maybe they’d see you as just another stupid girl.
but simon was persuasive, he knew how to convince you to do his bidding. he trailed sweet kisses down your neck, whispering into your warm skin. 'they'll adore you, my love’, he'd say. his hands wandering from your waist to your hips, grabbing you in the sweetest way he could, just hardly leaving bruises behind. 'please come with me, just meet them.' he punctuated his words with a nip on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, leaving a faint mark behind. you sucked in a low breath, hardly able to focus. his skilful fingers winding their way around your thighs, massaging them, and ever so slowly moving toward your throbbing core. 'trust me, love.' he captured your lips with his, pulling you into a dizzying kiss that left you breathless. you could only nod, barely able to register what you were agreeing to.
⊹ so, the day came when you would meet the guys. with simon at your side, you stepped into the bar everyone had agreed to meet. your heart was beating so wildly in your chest that you were sure everyone would know just how nervous you were by just looking at you. but against your best beliefs, it was nothing like it. first, you met gaz or kyle, how he had introduced himself. oh, and how happy you were he was the first one of the bunch. with his easy smiles, he made you feel so at comfortable. so much so, that it barely shook you when you met the stoic captain price next. thankfully, the short-lived introduction was interrupted by no one other than soap, who with no time to spare swept you up to join him at the bar and ‘get fucking drunk, bonnie’.
a few drinks and a couple of shots later you couldn't stop yourself, your brain-to-mouth filter having stopped working approximately 3 drinks ago. so you blurted out, 'I'm so happy that you guys like me, you know, I was kind of scared that you would think it's weird that simon and I have such an age gap.' you smiled shyly, immediately regretting even saying anything at all when everyone became a bit quieter than before. now you had ruined it.
but instead, a low chuckle turned into a laugh. 'no, no, see we're happy for the old man here, getting some fresh meat', soap exclaimed, earning more laughter from the guys and you. except for simon who looked like he was ready to pounce on the poor guy.
#✧･ﾟ⊹ astra writes 📖#Simon Riley x reader#simon riley x y/n#simon riley x you#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost Riley x y/n#ghost x reader#ghost x you#ghost x y/n#ghost#simon ghost riley#simon riley#cod mw2#cod#call of duty#request
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liar
pairing: bangchan x f! reader
rating: sfw
tags: sharing a bed, just pure softness, cuddling, best friends to lovers, pining, confessions, tired chan
wc: i'm too lazy to count but idk it's probably 2k 😭(I'm definitely wrong)
your doorbell rings when it's close to midnight, its sound reverberating through every corner of your little apartment. your socked feet carry you from bed to the door on autopilot. you weren't sleeping, but you were nearly there.
you open up your front door and off-white light from the hallway spills shamelessly into your dark living space. Chan stands there, bag slung lazily across his shoulder, eyes droopy with sleep.
"they borrowed my place for a party i don't wanna be at," he declares. "I'm sleeping here."
he walks in without waiting for an answer, wrapping you in a quick, one-armed hug for a greeting on his way. his bag finds its place on your couch. he switches a couple of lamps on here and there and fixes a photo frame on his way to your bathroom with a towel and some clothes in hand.
you kind of like how it's so natural for him to be at your place. like he belongs here. like he could live here.
you wished he would.
you lay back in bed, shifting to a side, leaving the rest of the space for Chan. ever since you first cuddled up with him a few months ago, it became an unspoken rule between you to always sleep cuddled up when alone.
it was one of the best parts of your friendship with him. you could abandon every care in the world when he was around and just be. He was always there- gentle, warm, protective, kind. everything you wished for in a man.
everything you can't have.
it had been weeks since you had gone to bed without thinking of him. even in the face of extreme exhaustion and no contact, Chan never failed to slip into your thoughts. he needed to compensate you for all the nights you couldn't sleep just because he did something adorable during the day and you wouldn't stop thinking about it.
he needed to apologize for every time you accidentally called one of your friends by his name, just because he wouldn't leave your head.
and he needed to desperately make up for nights like these. nights when he would touch you and let you touch him, but never enough. there was always a weighted, invisible boundary you hated with all your guts. a burning line you couldn't cross.
so, over the days, you had learned to make peace with what you got, no matter how little. you had learned to make the most of his arms around you, the firmness of his torso pressed to your back, the warmth of his breathing behind your ear, his occasional sleepy rambling.
sometimes he said your name.
before you knew it, the mattress dips beside you, the familiar scent of Chan's shampoo filling up your senses. you came alive a little.
his arm slips across your middle, pulling you as close as humanly possible into the abyss that was his warmth. you could spend an eternity here without a syllable of protest falling from your lips.
“i don’t have a shirt on, is that okay?” he mumbles into your hair.
more than okay, you wanted to say but for the sake of the friendship you had spent years building, you resorted to a small hum. he usually slept barely clothed, but when with you, he always asked. he made sure never to cross any lines. he was cautious, reserved. too far.
“is everything okay?” you ask. “you usually do not turn down a chance to party.”
you feel him move behind you, long fingers fiddling with the thin fabric of your t-shirt. he yawns like a puppy.
“i’d had a busy day,” he begins. “i needed some sleep and you know how bad i am at getting to sleep alone...”
his knuckle accidentally brushes your navel. you shiver.
“…besides you weren’t there. i’ve missed having you around y/n, now that i see it.”
your skin flushes hot, lips involuntarily swelling into a smile. you turn your face into your pillow, determined to bury your happiness into the fluff.
“i’ve missed you too,” you confess.
his blunt nails graze against your flesh again, and you wonder how much of it was accidental anymore. could Chan tell? did he know how down bad you were for him?
“liar,” he whispers, squeezing your body lightly into his own.
he liked to do that, you had noticed. almost as if finding a way to inch closer, as if making up for the fact that there would always be some molecular distance between you no matter what.
or maybe you were just reading too much into it.
you place a hand over his own, fingertips drawing subtle lines into his pale skin, tracing the veins you stared at shamelessly in broad daylight.
“you really think i’d lie to you?”
“you wouldn’t?” he asks.
you turned around, facing him. your hand settles on his bare chest. you could feel his heart beat beneath your touch.
“no,” you confirm. “never.”
he smiles, his hair getting into his eyes as he puts his forehead against yours.
“okayyy,” he giggles. “tell me something then, since you claim to not lie.”
your heart picks up pace, hammering beneath your chest, and you were half afraid Chan might hear it. you swallow thickly, a small lump forming in your throat.
“yeah?”
his gaze wraps over you like a veil, clouding everything else just enough that he is all you can see.
"do you like me?" he whispers.
the question drops in your heart and sinks into your gut. you've been caught, red-handed. but you were so careful, so vigilant, looking but never for too long, complimenting him but being careful not to flirt, telling him you love him when he needed to hear it but taking care to conceal the love you felt.
you want to play it cool. you're scared of how it's going to go.
"duh," you say. "of course i like you, why else would we be friends?"
he clicks his tongue, a soft laugh escaping his lips. he drops a light kiss on your forehead and you sigh.
"you're not that naive," he states. "come on, I'll wait for you."
you feel your cheeks heat up. it gets harder by the second to stay still, not with chan's fingers rubbing warmth into your back, his face so close you could steal a kiss. he was no fool. he never had been. who did you think you were hiding from?
"i..." you begin, your mouth drying up. "yeah."
you feel his marble fingers slip under your chin. pressure, soft but commanding, forced you to look at him.
"you what, sweetheart?"
the endearment sent you spiraling. you squeeze his muscled shoulder, fingers digging into flesh.
"don't be an ass," you say. "i'm not gonna say it."
he chuckles. you watch his gaze move across your face, settle on your lips, and then back to your eyes again. you didn't want to think ahead of yourself.
you didn't want to break your heart.
he leaned in, his arm circling around your waist, his mouth leaving a soft kiss to your temple. you could die like this and it wouldn't be so bad.
"please," he whispers. "you said you'd be honest."
and who were you to turn down chan with his gentle voice and sturdy hands and body warmth and huge heart and ---? you could go on forever.
you grind your teeth together unconsciously, draw in a deep breath, and sigh. he knows you're giving in.
"i do like you," you admit finally. "so much more than a friend."
his palm slides up your back and finds your hair, long fingers gripping them and pulling you in. he smiles when he kisses you- mouth tasting of cinnamon and longing and want.
"fucking finally," he breathes. "you've got no idea how long i've waited for this."
you melt into a caramel puddle in his hands. you lean in again, pressing your lips onto his like he'd disappear, like this is all you've got.
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#bangchan#bangchan x reader#bangchan fluff#bangchan skz#chan skz#chan x you#bangchan fic#bangchan headcanons#bangchan stray kids#chan fic#stray kids#skz#chan fluff#cuddling#best friends to lovers#bang chan#skz fluff#skz x reader#skz imagines
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never going back again - 03
summary: ghost finds himself at the wrong safe house, injured and unable to call for backup
simon ‘ghost’ riley x innocent fem!reader
warnings: mdni (18+), mention of nudity, mention of food, simons a flirt
prev part masterlist next part
a/n: haven’t proofread this yet, sorry for any grammatical errors
It’s a loud banging that wakes you, echoing through the walls of the small cottage, shifting frames on the wall as it continues.
In a sleepy daze you remember how Simon had mentioned he was going to fix the shower, something about mould and needing to redo the tile, what you didn’t recall was him saying he’d start work promptly at 7am, effectively disrupting your peaceful slumber.
You trudge your way out of the bedroom, wrapping the blanket around your form for some warmth as you stand in the doorway to the bathroom, heavy eyes watching him.
It takes him no time at all to acknowledge your presence, probably due to whatever training he’d acquired over the years, he could notice a mosquito shift from 10 feet away, such keen eyes.
He turns to you, his dark clothes sprinkled with powdered remnants of tile, “Did I wake you?”
You smile weakly, “You know there’s no rush, can always start these things, I dunno, in the afternoon”
“Woke up early, wanted to get a head start”
“Head start, sure, yeah” You dig your palms into your eyes, trying to rub the sleep from them, he drops his tools, moving closer to you and gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists, tugging them from your face.
“How’d you sleep love?”
“You mean before you shook my entire house at the crack of dawn? Very well, you’re quite comfortable”
“Am I?”
You smile, shifting your arms to wrap around him, letting the blanket draped on you fall to the floor, he snakes a hand behind your head, tugging it against his chest as he lifts his mask slightly, planting a kiss on the crown of your head.
“How long is this gonna take?”
“Shouldn’t be more than two days”
“You understand this is my only washroom”
“I know”
“And I use it”
“Mhm”
“Please don’t destroy it”
“Wouldn’t dream of it”
You peak your head around him, getting a full glance at the room, it’s a complete mess, tools and dust everywhere, fallen tiles scattering the floor.
“Oh my god”
He pulls back, following your line of sight, “It’s not that bad”
“Not that bad, Simon, be serious”
“You still have the bathtub”
You huff, your forehead falling into his chest, “Just, promise me you know what you’re doing”
He scrunches his face under his mask, “I know what I’m doing” Running his hands up your arms, lying.
“Okay, I’m trusting you”
“Go get some tea love, I’ll take a break soon”
You lift your head from him, gazing up at his masked face before turning around, picking up your fallen blanket and making your way to the kitchen, jolting at the sudden clanging from a wall away and silently praying he wouldn’t destroy your entire washroom.
It’s takes him a few hours before the banging stops, your hearing feeling like it was permanently damaged from the consistent noise as Simon emerges, completely covered in dust.
You bite back the smile that pulls on your lips as you watch him saunter in, reaching for a mug and pouring himself a cup of tea before dramatically huffing a breath while he sits down.
“Done yet?”
He chuckles lightly, shaking his head, “Done taking the old tile down”
“Seems like it took all your energy old man”
“Old man?”
You laugh lightly into your tea,
“Believe me love, I’ve got energy to spare” He smirks under his mask as you choke into your tea, drops of the liquid spurting from the mug as your cheeks flush.
You clear your throat, tilting your head lightly “Wanna use some of it to help me in the garden?”
“Give me five minutes”
You smile, standing from your chair and walking beside him, placing a hand to his shoulder and dragging it along the skin as you walk away.
It takes him more than 5 minutes to meet you, more interested in watching you move around the land whilst sipping his tea, the privacy granting him the opportunity to drink properly without the hindrance of his mask, he made a mental note to buy you proper tea considering the stuff you had tasted like wet dirt to him.
By the time he found you in the garden he had changed his clothes, opting for a more comfortable t-shirt and jeans, the man looked damn good, his arms flexing under the thin cloth that allowed you perfect sight of the ink on his arm.
“Must be hot with that mask on all the time”
“M’not gonna take it off” He groans, standing behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, he leans in to your ear “Yet”
You bite you lower lip as the thoughts flash through your mind, really you didn’t mean the words in a teasing way, more of an observation but now all you could think about was what he looked like. You knew his eyes were dark and his lips were full and pink, that his jaw was muscular and stubbled, from the few angles he granted you, you could tell he had scars on his face, specifically one that spanned his chin going down and another that cut through his left eyebrow.
It was enough, the small glimpses of him, the mystery intriguing but now there was a desire to know him under the mask, how he looked alongside who he was.
“Okay” You break yourself from your thought,la, pulling his arms from you and turning around, “I need you to help me plant these”
“Yes ma’am”
You hand him a small shovel, kneeling in the dirt, “So dig a small hole here, and then just put the pods in and cover them”
“Seems simple enough”
“So you won’t mess up?”
“I didn’t say that”
You smile, “Just do your best, need these to eat”
You watch him struggle to choose spots to dig, clearly overthinking his moves as he twists his body, reaching across the beds.
You shake your head, patting down the dirt in front of you at you settle one of the plants, untangling the vines and sitting back, wiping your hand across your forehead.
“Just plant it Si”
He whips his head to you, his eyes glued to your face in a panicked manner, it makes you uneasy,
“You okay?”
You slowly reach a hand down to rest on top of his, watching his reaction,
“Yeah fine” He shakes his head, “No one’s called me that in a long time, took me by surprise”
“Oh, m’sorry it just slipped out”
“No, I like it, sounds nice coming from you”
“Oh” You turn your gaze down, how did he always manage to make you so nervous, his hand meets your jaw, moving your gaze up to him as he holds you, his other thumb moving to swipe across your forehead.
“Got somethin”
He shows his palm, a smear of dirt on it as you realize, using your own hand to wipe it, you glance down at your body, stains of grass and soil covering you as you laugh.
“You’re filthy”
“You’re no better” You joke, gesturing to the clumps of spilt soil on his lap,
“Could probably use a shower”
“You think you’re so funny”
“Sometimes yeah”
You huff, grabbing a small handful of soil and tossing it at him, he closes his eyes for a moment, “Seriously”
You can’t fight the laughter that erupts from you, the dirt sticking to his sweat covered skin as he looks at you.
You yelp as he pounced on you, throwing your body back into the dirt as he hovers over your frame, his fingers tickling at your sides as you writhe under him.
“Say you’re sorry”
“Will not” You manage through laughs
His fingers poke at your skin, smearing the dirt from his arms onto your clothes in the process,
“Please, can’t breath”
He leans back with a smile, watching your heavy breaths raise your chest as your arms fall to the ground.
“Apologize”
“I’m-“
You’re sentence is cut short as you hear a car pull up, it’s door slamming shut, Simon jumps from you in full fight mode, extending an arm back to keep you guarded as a man exits the vehicle.
You squint your eyes at him, pushing Simons arm down gently as you recognize the person.
“William?”
“Hey doll”
Simon looks between you and the man, a sudden fire burning under his skin at the pet name, he stands back slightly as you approach him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Who’s this?”
You glance at Simon, giving him a small smile before turning back, “A friend”
The term feels like a punch to his chest.
“Pleasure” William extends a hand to Simon who neglects to shake it, eyeing the smaller man’s frame before turning back to you.
“What do you want”
“Came to drop something off, or someone rather”
He walks toward the car, opening the back door quickly as you watch a furry mass sprint toward you, gasping as you kneel down to meet it.
He licks your face as you scrunch it, running your hands over his fur, laughing as he prances around you before he catches Simons scent.
Simon watches the animal intently, studying it’s moves, as it approaches him quickly, jumping to his chest, licking his arms.
“He missed you, and I’m moving”
You tilt your head to him, “Moving?”
“Going to Spain, my mums sick”
“Will I’m so sorry”
“S’alright, just figured Riley needed a better place to stay”
“Yeah of course, thank you”
“We’ll I’ll get out of your hair, seems your busy, it was nice meeting you Simon”
Ghost is at a loss for words, he simply nods toward the man, his gaze focused on Riley.
“Seems he likes you”
“Where’d you get this dog” His tone is serious
“We adopted him when Will and I were together, he’s a retired-“
“Spec ops dog”
“Yeah? How’d you know”
“This is my dog”
“Simon what are you talking about?”
“I work in the military, that’s my job”
“And Riley was yours?”
“For a few years yeah, last they told me he’d retired in the states”
“They didn’t let you keep him?”
“Not protocol, I’m not home much”
“Home” The word triggers something in your mind, he’s not home, this isn’t his house, you’d been so caught up in being around him you’d completely forgot that he has a life outside yours.
Simons eyes crinkle as he plays with the dog, rough housing with him as they roll in the dirt, “We should get inside, looks like rain”
“Be in, in a minute love”
You walk slowly toward the house, resting your back against the front door and shutting your eyes, why hadn’t you thought about him leaving, there were people relying on him, it’s not like he could stay forever.
Even with the anxiety in your chest, your heart swells at the sight of Simon playing with Riley, even in the short time you’d known him, you’d never seen him this comfortable, he was so happy.
You glance at your arms, caked in dirt and sweat, deciding you needed to wash off. Stumbling over the mess of the washroom to turn on the bath, closing your eyes as you sink into the warm water.
Losing track of time in the water you notice your skin had grown wrinkled, scrubbing off the last bits of dirt and stepping out, wrapping a towel around your body and carefully navigating around the room.
Apparently during your alone time, Simon and Riley had moved their fun into the house, moving around the rooms together as they settled in.
You open the door, bumping directly into Simons chest, your nerves jumping as you collide. In a panic your towel falls,
“Sorry I didn’t see you” He struggles to get the last words out, his eyes roaming your naked form as you quickly move to cover yourself,
“Oh my god!” You reach for your towel but Riley runs over, grabbing it with his teeth and running away, “Riley! No, not a toy!”
Your cheeks flush with heat as you glance up, Simons eyes glued to you, your own eyes blown wide as you scurry away, slamming your bedroom door shut.
“Hey, wait” He follows you, leaning against your door as you drop your head to your hands on the other side.
“Please, go away”
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad”
“You saw my whole body”
“Lucky me”
“Simon” You laugh,
“It was bound to happen at some point”
“Well these are awful circumstances”
He moves the door open slightly, his eyes on your face as you hide behind the wood, face flush, he smiles, reaching to lift his mask slightly as he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss.
“You’re so beautiful”
You take a deep breath, smiling against his lips before shoving him back and closing the door. He sits down, back resting against the door as you shuffle around in your room, quickly throwing on clothes.
“I’m serious, the most perfect girl i’ve ever seen, honestly just can’t believe it took this long for you to get naked”
You open the door quickly, his body falling backwards onto the ground, wincing lightly as he laughs, his eyes opening to see you standing above him.
“You’re very cocky, has anyone ever told you that?”
“Actually yeah”
Shaking your head you step over him, making your way to the kitchen, Riley following closely behind you.
Simon appears in the door frame, watching you pull food from the fridge, tossing items into pots and onto the cutting board.
“You hungry?” Twisting your head over your shoulder,
“Starved”
He rests an arm above his head against the frame, watching you cook, his hand extended down to pet Riley, this was perfect, the life he never knew he wanted, he had you and his dog and goliath his own little family.
He gives you some space to work, settling on the couch while Riley rests at his feet, seemingly tired out from the day. He reaches for the small tray of electronics on the table, toying with his comms for a moment before piecing it together finally, clipping in the missing cord.
There’s a massive weight on his shoulders, he knows what he has to do, he has a team waiting on him, a family, less conventional yes, but a family none the less, the team were his brothers, he had to get in contact.
He grabs his comm, tucking it to his ear before moving into the bedroom, closing the door so you couldn’t hear.
“Bravo Delta, this is Ghost”
He waits a few minutes before repeating himself, double checking his channel, those few minutes make his heart sink lower, either no one was there and his team had forgotten him, or his comms really were destroyed, and he could stay with you.
“Ghost?”
“Captain, good to hear your voice”
“Christ Son, we thought you’d died”
“Not yet Sir, just a little misplaced”
“Send your coordinates, we’ll get you evac”
“Negative Sir, I’ve got hostiles in the city near”
“Can you get out? We need you on base”
“How much time can you give me?”
He hears Price take a deep breath, murmuring to someone else in the room, “Three days Simon, then I’m sending everyone I have to get you”
“Copy, see you in three days”
“Be careful”
The line goes dead, Simons worries surfacing, he had three days, he didn’t want to face the idea of leaving you let alone how you’d react when he told you, he’d finally gotten his family, he wouldn’t give it up this easy.
tag list: @pepsicolacoochie @coolbanana44 @konigsblog @lialacleaf @mli345 @gghoulzz @fuckface-6996
#cod mw2#simon riley x reader#cod mw x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley#ghost cod#ghost x reader#mw2022#ghost mw2#call of duty mwii#cod x reader
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Been Away ⭒ Miles Morales
Synopsis › You were tired of his secrets and lies, so you did the one thing you promised you’d never do and walked away. But Miles Morales wasn’t going to let you go so easily.
Pairing › Earth-42! Miles Morales x Fem!Reader
Inspo › “Been Away” - Brent Faiyaz
Includes › ATSV SPOILERS, Angst, the tiniest bit of fluff, pet names, spanish, a microscopic amount of manipulation, toxicity, going back to your ex, stalking, harassment, mentions being mugged, mentions being stabbed, mentions the police
P.S. › I do my best work when I’m sleep deprived.
P.S.S. › Reading comments and reblogs really make my day, even if you’re telling me my commas suck. Requests are also open.
Y/n pulled down the sleeves of her crocheted sweater as she stepped out of the bodega, white plastic bag of chips and candy in hand. The sun was close to setting behind skyscrapers and plunging New York City into its usual state of terror. It was dangerous to be alone on the streets, but Y/n figured she’d be fine walking a few blocks to her friend’s place. She pushed through sidewalk traffic, passing others who were just as eager to be safe in their homes.
Her phone chimed with a text.
Unknown: Turn left.
She paused, looking up to scan her surroundings. There was nothing strange or out of place. Just stores closing up for the night and people minding their own business. Despite how normal everything seemed to be, Y/n knew better. She spared a glance at the alley to her left, immediately deciding against it and kept walking.
Another chime. She ignored it and the next. Stopping wasn’t worth possibly ending up on the eleven o’clock news. At least that’s what she told herself. The less rational part of her mind had a thought. In some ways more terrifying than being mugged.
Tucked away in her pocket, her phone rang. This time she checked. Unknown. Y/n scoffed, rejecting the call.
Unknown: One more chance.
Unknown: Take a left.
Unknown: I won’t ask again.
Her phone rang once more. With a long, begrudging sigh Y/n swiped to accept. “I thought you weren’t going to ask again,” she said, her eyes darting warily to the darkening street.
“Make a left, Y/n,” a deep distorted voice ordered from the other line. Her heart dropped. Maybe the irrational part of her brain wasn’t as off kilter as she thought. The call hung up like she didn’t need anymore convincing.
The yawning mouth of an alley stared back at her. She took a calming breath, inhaling the morning rain before stepping away from any potential witnesses. Her footsteps echoed in the eerie silence of the alley. Her skin heated in either fear or anticipation, she didn’t know. “I don’t have all night,” she spoke into the open air. “I will leave.” Y/n attempted to hide the tremble in her throat.
Her ringtone was shrill in the alley. She jumped. The bright smiling photo of her friend illuminated her face. She did not hesitate to answer. “Hello?”
“Thank god! You’re still alive. Are you close?”
“Yeah, I’m almost there, Ellie,” Y/n began to exit the alley. “The bodega line was long.” She rustled her haul of snacks.
“It’s getting dark. I can send my brother to meet you. Ya know he’s always had a bit of a thing for you and now that you’re single…” Ellie trailed off. Y/n could practically hear her smile.
She rolled her eyes, laughing nervously, “You don’t have to make him come get me. I’ll be—” She was cut off by her own scream ripping from her throat. A streak of darkness and neon flashed in front of her, swiping the phone from her hand. Her grocery bag tumbled to the concrete as she stumbled over her heels. Cold metal met her back. A well defined arm snaked around her waist, held her impossibly tight.
“Y/n? Y/n!” Her friend’s voice rose over the speakers.
The smooth phone screen pressed against her cheek. “Tell her you’re okay then hang up,” the same warped voice demanded in her ear.
Y/n felt her lips move before he ended the call. Some quick lie about a monstrous rat. Blood thrummed through her skull along with her ragged breaths.
“Let me go!” Y/n wrestling out of his grip with no resistance, finally turning around. She halted. Pixelated eyes narrowed at her. What had she been expecting? Was a mask better?
Getting slashed for the money in her wallet and being left for dead by a dumpster was starting to sound more appealing than her current situation.
Mechanic panels whirred and parted open. Rich, penetrating dark eyes took in every inch of the girl in front of him, peeling back layer after layer in that calculating glare Y/n knew all too well. “Hola, mami.”
She hoped to never hear that name fall from anyone’s lips. Much less his. Y/n allowed a selfish moment to let her gaze wander. His braids were fresh, obviously not her work. Fade clean. Jay’s untied. Bronze skin annoyingly flawless. He was the same, except for the faint bags decorating his eyes. His chuckle bounced off the brick walls, catching her. It was sobering.
“You have one minute, Morales. One minute before I run screaming and call the feds on your ass,” she crossed her arms.
“Morales?” Miles raised an eyebrow. “Damn. Is that what we doin’ now?”
“Fifty.”
He circled her like the predator he was, each footstep deafening. “You look good, ma. Where you goin’ so late? It’s not safe.”
“You know where! You’ve been following me, remember? How long have you been doing that for? Just another secret, huh?” Y/n was on the verge of yelling, her initial fear replaced by pure rage. “You’re not even going to deny it.”
Miles dared a step forward. Y/n took two back. “You’re afraid of me.” Her lack of an answer was a shattering confirmation.
“I’m afraid of what you do, Miles,” she motioned to his suit, the spray painted insignia physically painful to see on his chest. The Prowler. She would have never fathomed the possibility if she hadn’t seen him in action herself. “You’re a criminal. You steal. You’ve killed people,” she choked trying to swallow back tears.
He dragged a gloved hand down his face. “You don’t understand.”
“You’re right! I don’t get it. You changed and I don’t understand why.” Her waterline welled. Three months of suppressed feelings threatened to rear their ugly heads when he was near. Because of him, of course.
It was ironic how much he made her feel, even now. Ellie, other friends, Y/n’s family never fully warmed up to Miles. He was unfeeling, nonchalant, closed off. They couldn’t see how a girl like her could fall for him and stay. At least that’s the promise she made.
“So did you. You walked away. Left me. What happened to our forever, Y/n?”
“You expected nothing to change? In what world would I not react or feel some typa way?” She tensed. Another wave of anger seared through her veins. How dare he turn this on her? “Oh wait,” her laugh was humorless. “I was never supposed to find out.”
“I have to do this. The world ain’t right and I need to protect the people I care about,” he placed a hand over his armor, over his chest. “I couldn’t do shit about my dad, but you…” He stalked closer. This time she didn’t back away.
Miles grasped her hand, placing it over his heart. She couldn’t face his intensity for too long, not without air. He wore the same musky cologne she gifted him for Christmas.“Mirame,” he tilted her delicate face towards him. “Mi corazón, I can keep you safe. You gotta let me. If something happened to you I don’t know what I would do.” His chiseled features twisted, barely able to utter the words. He finally closed the space between them, resting his forehead against hers.
“One minute,” Y/n whispered. It had been more than one minute.
Without separating, he slowly slipped her phone into her back pocket, letting his fingers linger by the waist of her jeans. “Call them. I’ll stay right here and you can end this. You’ll never have to see me again. Prometo, mi corazón.”
She should have listened when Ellie told her to stay away. Undeniably gorgeous, genius level intellect, sexy accent. There was always a catch, she said. She was right. But there was one drawback not even her best friend predicted.
Y/n pulled away. Suddenly the autumn air was too chilly through her sweater. She unlocked her phone. Typed 9-1-1. She looked up through her lashes at Miles as if he would melt into the shadows and escape. She didn’t expect sheer defeat to paint his face, unhidden behind his usual mask of indifference. Her thumb froze.
Miles Morales had Y/n entranced. He’d woven himself into her being, hollowed out a space in her soul just for him. Those titanium claws were in deep and she didn’t know if she had the strength to pry them out or wanted to.
Y/n pocketed her phone. She resigned to every emotion she harbored for the boy in front of her. She chose every wrong decision. “Go, Miles.”
His grin was smug. “Should I call you?”
“Don’t push it, Morales.” He draped his arms around her shoulders, dragged her into his warmth. “I’ll unblock you. Sound good?”
Miles angled his head. His smile stretched to his eyes, showing those rarely seen dimples. “Sí, mami. Whatever you want.”
#iivri writes ˚·⊹ ⟢˖∿#spiderman across the spiderverse#spiderverse spoilers#spiderman#miles morales#prowler miles#earth 42#earth 42 miles morales x reader#miles morales x y/n#miles morales x reader#miles morales x you#angst#spider man: across the spider verse#spiderman angst#spiderman fluff#mcu#mcu imagine#Spotify
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losers | remus lupin
“Please.”
“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?”
you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]
fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.
It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes.
“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”
That seems rather harsh to you. It isn���t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating.
It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye.
A phone number.
If lost, please call.
You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day.
It goes for ages.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”
“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”
“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”
“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”
“Sure. Of course.”
You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”
Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess.
You’re the opposite of fearless.
The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it.
You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it.
“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you.
You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches.
He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on.
“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”
Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip.
You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”
If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”
“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”
“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness.
“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”
“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”
“You must be good friends.”
You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles.
“We must be.”
The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?”
“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, really."
Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you.
"That's you?" Moons asks.
"That's me. Sorry."
"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling."
You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside.
You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with.
What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair.
You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it.
"Nice highscore."
You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound.
You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair.
"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?"
His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?"
That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course."
Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting.
"Sure you don't mind?"
"I'm paid not to mind."
"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please."
"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?"
He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be.
"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused.
He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you."
You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me."
"Yeah."
You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes.
"Is there something wrong?" you ask.
You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands.
"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it."
"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul."
You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable.
His long silence makes you squirm.
"A thank you, then.”
He offers you an envelope. You take it.
The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside.
You look up in shock. "I can't–"
He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view.
He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one.
You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself.
You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line.
"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it."
"Are you kidding?"
"No, seriously."
She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach.
You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front.
You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes.
It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way.
This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it.
The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited.
The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin.
And last on stage… last on stage is Moons.
You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe.
That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage.
You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours.
Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing.
His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow.
They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them.
They're good.
Like, too good to be openers for long.
The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out.
You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places.
You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set.
"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship."
"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl.
"Thanks, Mary," Moons says.
What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons.
You try not to tense as footsteps approach.
"Can I sit?" he asks.
You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up.
"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say.
He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup.
"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted."
He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.
"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion.
He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?"
Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then.
"I like music,” you say.
"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup."
"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice."
His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet."
Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call.
Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar.
The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over.
"Hey, it's you!"
You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together.
"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.
James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"
"I'm good. Um, and you?"
"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?"
"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians."
He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames.
"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now."
"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says.
"And the handsomest."
"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly.
Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?"
"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here."
Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound.
"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.
Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back."
You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody.
Not that it matters if he is or isn't.
But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is.
There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything.
"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say.
"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?"
"I'm not a big drinker."
"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino."
What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?"
Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much."
"What's in San Marino?"
"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.
The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding.
Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it.
You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch.
"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.
He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."
"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino."
He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar.
"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."
—
James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again.
James has never seen Remus like this before.
His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever.
James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour.
He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out."
He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close.
But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy.
You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.
Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly.
—
Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes.
It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does.
He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone.
You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake.
"You play Snake?" you ask.
"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.
"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.
Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming."
He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it.
"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?"
"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous."
"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before."
"This is your first date?"
You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that."
"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special."
"It doesn't," you say.
"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–"
"Why would you?" you joke, grinning.
He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?"
He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair.
"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it."
He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners.
"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?"
He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect.
"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married."
"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance.
"He's devoted," you guess.
"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding."
You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared.
"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying."
"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest.
"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man."
"Half?"
"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me."
"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say.
James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does.
Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other.
"They've always been like brothers."
"But not…"
He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time."
Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now.
"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful."
"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes.
He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise."
You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own.
"Charming, isn't it?"
"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?"
"Wolf."
A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in.
"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all."
You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another.
It's not so bad. It's agonising.
"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this."
"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay."
"I just blurted out what I was thinking–"
"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder."
You like that he says it as if it's a good thing.
You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time.
"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says.
Not promising. "Okay."
"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me."
"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.
Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries."
He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh.
"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down.
"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep.
Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume.
"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"
“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”
“What do you want to hear?”
The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking.
It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo.
You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same.
The date is suddenly over.
“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest.
You nod rather than answer.
Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes.
A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”
“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling.
“Do you want my coat?”
“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours.
He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?
His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”
“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands.
You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it.
“How will you get home?” you ask quietly.
“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”
“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“
“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again.
“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
“Fits the recipient.”
It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long.
“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming.
“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.
“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly.
He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”
He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered.
The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you.
"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking.
You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own.
You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath.
He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm.
“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I can wait,” you say.
“I couldn’t ask you to.”
You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane.
“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.
He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”
You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him.
—
Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.
He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie.
Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated.
And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away.
“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure.
You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”
“No.” His head has never been this clear.
He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date.
Which means he has to get out of his head.
Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice…
He wants to see what other sounds you make.
Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll go slowly.”
“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible.
He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice.
“I’m a bit preoccupied.”
He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands.
Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still.
Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips.
Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”
“Please.”
“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?”
He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.
Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down.
Your thumb traces a scar.
He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs.
He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor.
Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone.
“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.
You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.
Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”
He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”
“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again.
He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat.
He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat.
Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine.
“Was that alright?” he asks.
You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time.
“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden.
He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”
You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.
He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.
Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge.
He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”
All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move.
“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”
“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.”
Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore.
The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart.
He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said.
Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes.
Close? Remus is fucked.
“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”
“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back.
His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans.
He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.
“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far.
“Let me clean you up,” he says.
“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”
He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly.
He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up.
He drags the quilt over your naked back.
Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead.
“Don’t think so.”
He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”
You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up.
“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”
He hums. “What?”
“Could I kiss you again?”
You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently.
He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought.
“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”
You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen.
You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3
#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin x fem!reader#remus lupin smut#remus lupin x you#remus lupin x y/n#marauders era#remus x reader#remus x you#marauders#remus lupin drabble#remus lupin blurb#marauders x reader#remus lupin imagine#remus lupin fanfic#remus lupin fanfiction#the marauders
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ೃ⁀➷ ALL I WANT ✧.*
a/n: tooth-rotting fluff !! this is so so mushy and soft. kissing and some touchiness but nothing too crazy i think. also this is unedited brainrot i wrote at 2:30am so enjoy ... <3
Neuvillette has never told you that he loves you.
The words are always there— resting heavy behind his teeth just waiting to burst out at the most inconvenient times, and yet he's never brought himself to say them.
You don’t need the words to prove his devotion to you anyways, already aware that there is no other soul in the world able to hold him the way you do. But he’s always wanted to say it, stopped only by his own fears.
Immortality is a funny thing. In a thousand years you could be nothing but a distant memory for him, gentle whispers in the back of his mind or ghostly touches wisping over his skin.
The idea of losing you terrifies him, but he knows the loss well and knows to keep his heart safeguarded somewhere deep within himself. I love you are words he only murmurs into your skin while you sleep, or chanted in his head when you hold him.
However, you’ve been proving it difficult to resist ever since you moved in with him.
There's nothing extravagant about the way you wake up, nothing extraordinary or strange. You wake up like any Fontainian would: cold and gloomy and complaining about the weather.
Despite how ordinary it all is, it doesn't stop him from spending the first few minutes of the day admiring your face before he inevitably has to get out of bed to get ready for work.
Mornings are his always favourite; the slow stirrings of the day like a calm before the storm. Those few minutes are precious to him more than anything in the world, where he can do nothing but kiss your sleeping face awake and keep you wrapped up in his arms.
You've recently made it your routine to follow him out of bed a few minutes later. He hasn't found out why exactly until today.
He doesn't even need to turn around to know it all— every part of you memorized and carved into each muscle and filling any thoughts that cross his mind.
The slow shuffling of your feet across the room; the quiet yawn that makes him smile because he can imagine your face; the bumping of your body into the back of his in your clumsy state.
It's all comfortable. Familiar. You.
"Morning..." You mumble, arms wrapping around his waist and nose buried against his back.
"Seems someone slept well," he hums.
Your arms squeeze his waist a little tighter. "Because you keep the bed so warm."
"I see. Is that the only reason you decided to crawl out of bed this morning?" He asks with a little lift of amusement, placing his mug down and watching the ripples stir in his coffee.
"No," you lie rather blatantly, and he laughs in a way that makes your heart flutter. "....Shut up."
"It’s quite rude to say that to the Iudex, no?"
"Shut up," you huff again. Your hands carefully climb under the hem of his shirt and explore the expanse of his skin. The cold this exacts on him makes him stop in his motions. He shivers before finally turning around to catch your wrists.
You frown, gently knocking your face back into his body— his chest this time, where you can hear his heart beating.
"Not my fault you're so warm."
Neuvillette only sighs, scooping you fully into his arms and leaning back onto the counter so you can rest your weight against him.
And he knows every part of you like this too: a memory chained to his beating heart. A second life breathed into him meant only to remember you this way.
He knows you're cranky because the sun just rose and here you are, already shuffling around the cold house since he left his side of the bed empty. He knows that you're impossibly perfect in his arms— a piece of a puzzle hand-crafted for him to hold. He knows that it will be sunny today.
You are everything. Everything.
He pulls you away by the shoulders, nose brushing against yours as he leans in close to kiss you. There's a pause just before your lips meet— an apprehension in his actions. He sighs, shaky and nervous.
"I love you."
Then he kisses you slow and sweet, the same way he has always savoured that feeling twisting in his heart at the very thought of you. Enduring and knowing, lacking any more hesitation because he knows this is exactly what he wants and where he needs to be.
You're blinking at him dumbly when he pulls away, lips parted in such a cute way that he wants to lean in again.
"I must be hearing things because I swear you just said–"
"I love you," he repeats quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed by his confession yet unable to contain the words anymore.
Your expression twists in wonder and for a moment he can't help but think that you're the most beautiful person in the world. In the centuries that he's been wandering Fontaine, he's never been so sure of one thing:
"I love you," he says for a third time in full confidence. His lips crash into yours again in a frenzy, a flurry of emotions swirling in his stomach and so many thoughts screaming in his ears that he can't think straight.
When he stops for air he doesn't fully leave you, mouth still married to you as he kisses along your cheek to your jaw. You laugh, arms circling around his neck.
"Can you say it again?"
And he will. He would say it a million times just to see you smile like that again.
© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.
🏷️ @saetoshi hi my beautiful
#— whispers in the wind ✧#this is my sacrificial fic for him to stop being a fucking bastard and give me cons#(i'm delusional🤞🤞)#genshin impact#genshin#genshin drabbles#genshin impact drabbles#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#genshin x gn reader#genshin x gender neutral reader#genshin fluff#neuvillette#neuvillette genshin#neuvillette x reader#neuvillette x gn reader#neuvillette x y/n#neuvillette x you#neuvillette fluff#neuvillette x gender neutral reader
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Grease and Oil
⨳Mechanic!Mingi⨳
TW: cursing, smut wrap it before you tap it
Word count: 5,6k
A/N: I don't think I'll ever let go of bleached spikey haired Mingi. It changed something in me, I'll never be the same. I have nothing to say except...why did I even write this? Song Mingi stop haunting me, thank you. It's not the best, but the best I can write lol. Feedback is very much appreciated!
The smell of grease, oil, and gasoline weren’t something unfamiliar to me, nor were they nauseating. It was something I was used to. These were familiar scents; scents which I have started associating with home. Cars, too, were something I associated with a feeling of familiarity, of something dear to me. Walking inside my father’s car service was like a second home, a place I knew like the back of my hand. I wasn’t huge on fixing cars, but I knew a few things here and there. Despite my father’s attempts at making me a great mechanic one day, I struggled to understand the in-depth parts and mechanism of a car, therefore I settled on appreciating their beauty. Can’t say my father was too happy about it, but his concerns faded away when I found a path for myself. I applied to a college, choosing to study literature as I struggled finding anything else I liked. Perhaps creative writing was a subjected I happened to enjoy too, but I had no idea where my degree would take me one day. I had no intentions of teaching English literature, the children these days were awful and very disrespectful. My short temper would’ve surely gotten the worst of me if placed in a situation where I had to deal with rude kids. And so, I settled on reading my books and pouring my feelings out into short poems when I wasn’t at college. Or by wasting my time away at my father’s car service. It’s not like I had anything better to do—I actually did, but procrastination is my best friend. Besides, most of his employees are above the age of thirty-five, and two of them I have known since I was a little girl, they could be really fun to hang around…and it’s not like I would often stop by because my father has an employee who is barely a few years older than myself. And it’s definitely not because he is the hottest man alive I have ever seen. He’s a tall and lean guy, his posture immaculate with his shoulders always pulled back, his long legs worth envying and shoulders so broad you could hide behind them and nobody would see you. In the summer, he usually wears tight tank tops, showing off his humble muscles, biceps finer than most guy’s of his age. And his pants, which are fireproof, cling onto his body, showing off his narrow waist. This guy was a sight for sore eyes and I couldn’t blame the few ladies who would occasionally stop by, completely taken aback by this guy’s visuals. It wasn’t fair that he had a perfect body, especially when his face was good-looking too. God sometimes had favorites and Song Mingi definitely was one of them with his long nose, sharp eyes and cherry red lips, a singular mole underneath his left eye decorating his flawless skin. His personality also made him desirable and that just made him a dangerously charming and handsome human being. Perhaps my frequent visits to the service during the summer were sort of his merit too, not just the want to spend some quality time with my father as he spent little time at home. I knew he was busy; I couldn’t blame him. His service was one of the best in our little town and money didn’t just magically appear, you had to work hard for it and that’s what he did, he worked his ass off all the time. The fact that he has employed Song Mingi was just the cherry on top, the little motivation I needed to perhaps learn more about cars.
I was settled on top of my father’s working desk, tools pushed to the side, feet dangling as I watched him work on a car’s engine, getting more and more furious by the second as he couldn’t find one missing screw. I watched quietly as his phone rang again, making him sigh loudly before he straightened himself up and took the call, eyebrows furrowed. It was a hot summer day, the AC did little to nothing inside the hot service, and the use of different electrical tools only created more heat inside the spacious room. I had started fanning myself, overhearing my father make an appointment as an obnoxiously loud engine whirled past the entrance to the service, making my heart skip an excited beat. It was lunch break, and Mingi had just returned from eating his meal. He was gone by the time I had arrived; I was rather lazy this morning and thus didn’t bother getting out of bed before 12 pm. My father turned towards me as he finished his call, looking rather irritated. It wasn’t directed at me; however, I still knew a lecturing would follow because I sat on his tool desk…again.
“Get off, Y/N, I asked you so many times not to sit there,” He sighed tiredly as he headed for the exit, “I have to examine a car, are you coming to the front?”
Certainly not before I have seen Mingi, “I’ll wash my hands first, they feel slimy, meet you at the reception, dad.”
He nodded once and hurried outside, phone already ringing once again. Summer seasons were always busy, work pilling up quickly. I started fanning myself with my hands as another heatwave hit me, making me sigh. Not even a tank top and shorts were enough to stop me from sweating buckets. I pushed my hair behind my shoulders and gripped the table, about to jump off it, when the man I stayed behind for finally showed up. He walked through the open garage door, having to duck as it wasn’t raised enough for his towering height. He had his back to me as he walked inside, carrying two boxes, muscles of his arms bulging as a few guys greeted him, instructing him where to place the boxes. However, nothing could’ve prepared me for the wave of shook which rooted me to my spot. My mouth hung open as my eyes remained trained on Mingi, and I could only hope nobody noticed my shameless gaping. Three days ago, when I have stopped by last, the man’s hair reached his shoulders almost and was a faded light brown. Now, his hair was completely bleached blonde and stood up in all places, spikey. A hairstyle definitely shouldn’t have made my tummy do flips, yet I had nothing to swallow as I watched Mingi laugh with a fellow mechanic, explaining something to him animatedly. His black tank top was tucked inside his beige pants, a black belt holding it against his hips securely. A black bandana was tied to his left bicep and I licked my lips as my eyes ran over his frame, stopping for a second too long on his ass. Perhaps crawling onto the wall sounded like the most normal thing to do right now. Just as I was about to look away, the man he was talking to briefly glanced at me and Mingi suddenly turned his head, eyes falling on me. Looking away right now would mean admitting that I had been staring at him, so I forced myself to smile nonchalantly at him and blame the flush on my cheeks on the extremely hot weather—which combined with Mingi’s presence only made my body heat up even more. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I’d do anything to get railed by Mingi while he wore his working clothes with grease smeared on his cheek. My heart skipped a beat as a lazy smirk appeared on his lips as he took off towards me, making me gulp in panic as I straightened my posture.
“Hello, princess.” He called once he was close enough and I rolled my eyes at the nickname, acting as if I totally hated it. It did bother me at the beginning when he started calling me that, but I didn’t mind anymore. And it certainly shouldn’t have made me blush.
“Hi, Mingi.” I greeted him back, smiling as I crossed my legs and leaned forward, holding myself up by my hands. My knuckles hurt from the grip I had on the table, but I ignored that.
“What brings you here today?” He asked nonchalantly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. I didn’t want to look, but his biceps were bulging and I’m just a simple woman, “Thought you washed your car when you stopped by last time.”
Ah, yes, the good old excuse of washing my car when it didn’t need washing yet. To be fair, I had a cleaning problem so that was the main reason why I washed my car so often, Mingi being here was just another thing to motivate me to stop by more frequently.
“I did, I’m not here for that.” I admitted, clearing my throat as Mingi’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly, mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. He hummed shortly, the sound deep in his throat, reminding me how hot I found his raspy and deep voice. He had once whispered in my ear as he snuck up on me, wanting to scare me, and I swear to God, I almost reached Heaven that day.
“Are you here for me then?” The cute pout of his lips and the finger he pushed against his cheek definitely didn’t match the sultriness of his words and the look in his eyes. It made me take a deep breath as I forced myself to roll my eyes, embarrassed that he had a feeling I was only here to see him. I mean…I did wear my favorite off-shoulder top just because I knew we would see each other.
“Why the sudden change of hairstyle?” I decided to change the subject, but it only made Mingi smirk as he looked at me almost victorious, almost as if he knew I didn’t answer him because he was right. Mingi ruffled his already spikey hair with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Just wanted something new,” He answered, “besides, it’s so hot these days, my long locks only made me sweat more. I feel like a new man right now. What do you think, do I look nice?”
Nice was little said, I would’ve described him more like: hot, sexy, attractive, gorgeous, mouth-watering, “Yeah, you look nice. It suits you.”
Mingi smiled happily and bowed lightly before his phone beeped. I didn’t understand how a man like him could be so cute while looking like a Greek God. My eyebrows slightly furrowed as I watched Mingi chuckle and smile down at his phone, quickly typing something on it. Perhaps he was seeing someone? Of course, why would a man like him be single? It shouldn’t come as a surprise; I should have thought about that sooner. But then again, he never mentioned a significant other. With a sigh, I jumped off the table and dusted off my shorts, running my hands through my hair. Mingi paused, looking up at me through his long lashes. I forced a smile on my face, suddenly discouraged by my own thoughts, as I grabbed my phone off the table.
“Got to go, dad’s waiting for me.” I mumbled as Mingi’s eyes slightly narrowed, eyes swiftly running over my body. He nodded wordlessly and I turned around, taking off towards the exit.
“That top looks really nice on you.” My steps halted for a second as I looked back at him and chuckled before exiting the garage, walking towards the reception, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach at the simple compliment. I should probably download a dating app and find someone available to obsess over.
The blaring music and blinding disco lights in the living room were becoming too much as my tipsy head swirled around like a disco ball, throat parched up and dry from the lack of water. Certainly the amount of alcohol I have had was enough for the night as I pushed people out of my way, slightly wobbling as I headed for the kitchen, desperately needing water. A super rich guy from college threw a huge ass party and invited some guys over from our college, one of them being one of my close friends. I wasn’t one to turn down a good party, and when the alcohol was free, I would certainly attend it. Seonghwa and I had teamed up and played beer-pong together, kicking Wooyoung and San’s asses, but losing to Hongjoong and Yunho. We should have known better not to challenge those two competitive monsters. All in all, the night was fun and after having lost Sooyoung to some hot guy, I hit the dancefloor with Wooyoung and San, the three of us dancing our hearts out to every song. After a while, I grew concerned and started calling Sooyoung, making my two dancing companions almost take my phone away after six missed calls. But it didn’t take long for Sooyoung to finally text me, telling me she was upstairs with a Yeosang named guy smoking some weed, and that she’d be down in no time. I rolled my eyes at the text, huffing as I handed Wooyoung my phone to take care of. My skirt had no pockets and I forgot to bring a fanny-pack, I have grown tired of holding my phone, Wooyoung’s back pocket would do the trick until Sooyoung returned and I could give my phone for her to put in her little purse. The music wasn’t as loud in the kitchen as it was in the living room and it was also less packed, which made me grateful as I walked over to the window and pushed it open, smiling contently at the cool air which hit my face. I certainly needed to cool down. I grabbed a red cup which looked relatively unused and filled it with tap water, downing it in mere seconds only to fill it up again and again until I felt satiated. I threw the cup away and leaned against the counter, holding my thumping head in my hands as I closed my eyes for a second, thinking it would help. But it only made me more nauseous and I quickly opened my eyes as I massaged my forehead, still leaning slightly over. Somebody next to me asked if I was okay and I quickly nodded, telling them that I just needed a moment to regain composure again, and I’ll be off dancing once again. However, a weirdly familiar deep voice suddenly filled the kitchen, some high-pitched giggle following straight after the ridiculous joke the guy told. My nose scrunched up at the very cheesy pickup line which followed and I snorted, unintentionally catching their attention as they didn’t stand too far away.
“Y/N?” The deep voice asked surprised and my eyebrows furrowed as I finally raised my head, smoothing down my hair as it fell in my face.
“Oh, Mingi.” I muttered just a little surprised by his presence here. I wondered how he knew about the party, however, the black-haired girl by his side was a tell-tale. She was a student at my college and she was pretty as fuck. I sighed, and unintentionally glared at her, unimpressed by her presence next to Mingi. It’s not like I knew her well to form an opinion about her, but personally, I didn’t like her that much. Especially since Mingi seemed to be here with her. My eyes fall back onto him and my brain blanched for a second, never having seen him outside of the car service up until now. Him not wearing his tight-fitting clothes was something new and I couldn’t help but let my eyes run all over his body, taking in the sight in front of me. He wore a loose-fitting white t-shirt, the front slightly tucked inside his grey ripped jeans which were baggy. He wore a black pair of convers, and a black fanny-pack was pushed around to his backside to not bother him. However, what made me take a second to process what I was seeing were his accessories. His necklaces were layered as he wore a red braided like material which sat snugly against the base of his neck, then a silver chain followed, and a silver cross which reached just bellow his collarbones. His wrists were decorated with silver chain bracelets, matching the chain around his neck and he wore various rings, some bigger than the other, his right-hand sporting four meanwhile his left three. If all of that combined with his hair wasn’t enough, his fingernails were also painted black, albeit already coming off in some spots, but still painted black. He was a sight for sore eyes and it took everything in me to not grip his arm and walk us upstairs, completely disregarding the girl he was here with.
And she just had to speak up, “Oh, you two know each other?”
“Yeah, her dad’s my boss.” Mingi answered before I could and I raised an eyebrow as the girl took me in, unexpectedly smiling at me as she placed an arm around Mingi’s shoulders. My jaw tensed subconsciously and I licked my lips as I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“We go to the same college,” She told Mingi, offering her hand to me, “I don’t think we’ve ever really introduced each other, though. My name is Jennie, I’m Mingi’s cousin.”
“Cousin?” My eyebrows raised as I shook Jennie’s hand, “I’m Y/N, by the way.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Mingi playfully pushed Jennie off himself as he answered my question and Jennie just rolled her eyes.
“Whatever, giant, if I leave you alone with Y/N, will you behave?” She raised her eyebrows threateningly at Mingi and he just chuckled, raising his hands in surrender.
“I always behave.” He defended himself quickly, but sounded like he didn’t mean it at all.
“No, you don’t.” Jennie rolled her eyes then looked back at me, “I have to find my boyfriend, he’s somewhere here around, probably drunk off his ass. If Mingi bothers you, just knee him in the stomach really hard and come and find me, I’ll kick his ass for you—”
“I’m right here, you know.” Mingi rolled his eyes and ruffled Jennie’s hair, “Get lost before I chase you away.”
Jennie scoffed but walked away after she waved at me, leaving me alone with Mingi. My hostile behavior slightly dropped, but I couldn’t help look at Mingi with narrowed eyes. I knew what I heard while I was fighting the urge of throwing up. Why would anyone flirt with their cousin? That was disgusting.
“If Jennie is your cousin…why would you say a pickup line to her?” I couldn’t help but ask him accusingly. It made Mingi laugh as he stepped closer, smiling cheekily.
“Eavesdropping, weren’t you?” I opened my mouth to deny his claim, but Mingi didn’t let me, “First of, ew, that’s literally my cousin do I look like I fuck with family? And second, that pickup line was actually sent by someone whom I have been talking to, and I was just reading it to Jennie.”
“How many girls are you talking to currently?” The question tumbled past my lips before I could even think about it. I only could blame the alcohol for making me so straightforward and embarrassing.
“Wouldn’t you like to know…” Mingi chuckled and stepped closer, invading my personal space. I gulped and pressed myself harder into the counter, hands coming to grip the edge of it. A smirk appeared on Mingi’s lips as he leaned down to be eye level with me, eyes searching my face before they settled on my lips briefly. My head was spinning and perhaps I was seeing things, but his tongue poked out for a second, “You look really hot.”
I gulped and let out a quiet breath, looking down at myself. The leather skirt clung onto me like a second skin and the flower decorated corset did little to nothing to cover what I would usually hide. It was Sooyoung’s idea to dress up like this, she wore a matching set except her corset was green meanwhile mine pink.
“Uh, thanks.” I whispered and didn’t dare move as Mingi lowered his head even more, looking through his lashes as he looked me in the eyes. He’s never stood this close to me before; it only now made me realize the height difference between us. And I couldn’t help but faintly smell gasoline despite his strong cologne.
“Dressed up for someone?” He muttered and I felt a warm finger lightly trace the skin of my right arm. I gulped nervously and ignored the goosebumps on my skin.
“I didn’t know you’d be here—” I tried changing the subject, it seemed to be a habit of mine lately.
“But if you did know, would you have dressed up for me?” Mingi’s raspy voice whispered in my ear as he leaned closer, my mouth opening without a sound coming out. My tipsy brain didn’t exactly know how to function in that moment and that meant I had nothing to say. But as he pulled back, we made eye contact, and his intimidating gaze pulled an answer out of me instantly.
“Yes.” I would totally hate myself in the morning for admitting that, but I couldn’t help myself. Not when he was standing so close and saying things like that. A smirk pulled onto Mingi’s lips and suddenly his hand raised as he gripped a strand of my hair lightly and twirled it around, brushing it behind my ear. I watched him mesmerized, body slightly trembling because of different things. The opened window brought in the chill breeze and we stood close to the it; Mingi’s closeness and touch made me want to crash my lips against his, and I was fighting every fiber in my body to stop myself from doing that, thankfully not tipsy enough to lose all rationality.
“I think I know about your little secret, princess.” Mingi’s tone was playful as he suddenly cupped my cheek and tilted my head back, hovering his face over mine, eyes tracing my features slowly. I hoped my red lipstick wasn’t smudged and that it would be smudged in no time.
“What secret?” I asked confused, biting my lower lip as Mingi’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, his fingers slipping towards my nape as his thumb pushed against my cheek.
“About your little crush—” He barely whispered, eyes on my lips as my mouth parted, heart beating like crazy, “on me.”
Before I could answer him, his teeth caught my lower lip between his and he sucked on the flesh, making my face flush as I mewled, hand holding onto his waist for more stability as the counter wasn’t enough anymore. He held eye contact as he released my lip and I felt like crumbling onto my knees and giving him anything he wanted as my grip tightened on him, head pulled closer to his by the grip he had on my nape. Mingi’s lips barely brushed against mine and I tried to close the impossibly little distance between us, but he just tsked and smirked.
“Good girls eventually get what they want, princess, be a bit more patient.” I couldn’t help but groan in frustration as Mingi released me and took a step back, smirking as he swiped his thumb over my lower lip, smudging my lipstick. I threw him a glare, but he just laughed and then turned around and walked off with a cup he grabbed off from the counter. I couldn’t help but lick my lower lip, pressing a palm against my racing heart as I tapped the sweat off my forehead, needing another cup of water to cool off.
And I didn’t even have to wait for too long. Four days after the party, my father asked me to stop by the car service because he couldn’t decide what color to choose for the tuning he was doing for one of his friend’s car. I couldn’t have been happier to stop by as I made it my personal mission to stay away from that place for as long as possible, embarrassed by what happened between Mingi and I at the party, but also because I wanted to torture him a bit too. I could only hope he yearned to see me as much as I yearned for him. My father was out, having to pick up some pieces in the nearest city, which was half an hour away, so that meant he’d be gone for approximately an hour and a half. Everyone was gone by now from the car service as working hours were over, everyone except Mingi, of course. He had to catch up on his work as he had to skip a day for some undisclosed business. And yes, Mingi should’ve been working right now on that old car nobody actually wanted to fix, but here he was, balls deep in my pussy, thrusting into me like his life depended on it. I guess he was just a simple man too, and he fell exactly into my trap as I walked through the garage door wearing my little sundress, high heels elongating my legs. It didn’t take long for Mingi to stop whatever he was doing as he dragged me to the backroom, where there were no cameras, and pushed up on the table, wasting no time in undressing himself and working up the both of us. My head was thrown back from the constant pleasure his movements brought, his length reaching places no one else has before, my right hand gripping his bare waist as I rolled my hips to meet his thrusts. Mingi was biting his lips hard, holding onto my hips as I had to hold myself up with one arm, muscle straining with each strong thrust. Perhaps I should have expected him to be vocal, but the whines he would let out every now and then only turned me on even more, dragging my own moans out of me. Grease stuck to his left cheek, just underneath his mole and his already sweaty body from working was glistening once again, smelling strongly of the substance he has been working with to clean rims of the old car.
“I bet you’ve been fantasizing about me fucking you covered in grease and all sweaty from the long day I’ve had.” My only answer was a loud moan as he hit the sweet spot which made me see stars, and for a second, all I could hear were his own pants and the table squeaking louder and louder with each thrust.
“You have no idea—” I moaned as I clenched around Mingi, mind blanching for a second as he hit that spot again, “How fucking hot you look—like this.”
My fingertips dug into his hips and Mingi suddenly leaned down, pressing my back flat against the wooden table, rotating his hips as he suddenly slowed down. My mouth opened in a gasp and my legs went around his hips, one hand tangling in his blonde spikey hair as the other went around his shoulders to anchor myself. Mingi groaned in my ear as I clenched around his length again, his thrusts painfully slow on purpose, making me try to move my hips, but he had me pinned down by his heavier body.
“Fuck, please—” My whine was muffled by his lips as he pressed them against mine, pushing his tongue past my lips as I kissed him hungrily, wanting to feel more and more of him. Our lips moved messily against each other as Mingi slightly quickened his pace, but it still wasn’t enough. My eyebrows were furrowed as it started becoming unbearable and I whined, pulling my head away and choking on my words for a second, “I’m going to fucking die if you don’t go faster.”
I couldn’t believe Mingi had the audacity to smirk as he bit my lower lip harshly, making me push his head away as he chuckled amused, fake pouting at me.
“Thought I said good girls get what they want—” He completely stilled, bringing tears into my eyes out of frustration as I gripped his nape, trying to move against him to no avail, “And you’re being rather impatient right now.”
But before I could say anything, the slightly stood up and pulled almost fully out before slamming in again, his pace relentless and thrusts sharp as he threw his head back, moaning, making me grip onto his lower arm as he hit my g-spot over and over again, making my back arch as broken moans left my lips, nails digging into his skin. I was going fucking insane as his thumb found my clit and he started rubbing circles on it, making me cry out as I felt my orgasm building up, ready to snap any second as Mingi’s moans got higher and higher, my walls clenching tightly around him, bringing him closer to the edge as well.
“Fuck.” He hissed at a particular sharp thrust, his hips almost stuttering but I managed to meet his movements, desperate for my own release as I clawed at the wooden table, back arching as the pleasure became unbearable and the knot in my stomach snapped, making me let out a high-pitched moan, only for Mingi’s lips to muffle it as his hips stuttered, his own release following mine, filling me up. My body trembled and my lungs heaved for air as I came down from the high, our lips touching with Mingi as we both panted into each other’s mouths. His scent was intoxicating and I couldn’t help but burry my head into his neck and lightly bite down on his perfect skin, making him shudder. He didn’t pull out yet and I felt him twitch slightly, making me chuckle.
“So, I’m hot when I’m all sweaty and covered in grease?” He spoke up, voice raspy, and his words made me laugh as I allowed my head to rest against the wooden table, throwing an arm over my eyes. I could feel Mingi’s smile as he pressed a kiss against the corner of my mouth, swiftly pulling out.
“I said it once, I won’t say it again.” I peeked at him as he quickly pulled up his boxers and tight pants, adjusting his tank top.
“If I knew all I had to do was change my hairstyle for you to finally let me fuck you—” Mingi shook his head as he helped me off the table, smirking when I had to lean against it for support, my legs having gone numb, “I would’ve done it a lot earlier.”
“Perhaps if you weren’t so oblivious,” I threw him a glare and pulled up my panties, adjusting my dress, “You would’ve noticed how badly I wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you, idiot.”
Mingi laughed and threw an arm around my shoulders as he pulled me into himself, “Now that that’s out of the way…do you want to date or do you want us to just fuck?”
His question made me pause as I looked up in his eyes, biting my lower lip in thought, “You want to go out with me?”
“I sure do.” Mingi said it like it was the most obvious thing, then he jutted his chin towards mine, “What about you?”
“What do you think?” I asked with a chuckle.
“That we should go for a second round—”
“Mingi!” I pressed my palm over his mouth and threw him a little glare, “My father could be back anytime, you know. And yes, I do want to date you. Unless you’re always this annoying.”
Mingi fake laughed as he pushed my hand off his mouth, “Aren’t you just so funny?”
I stuck my tongue out at him and he tried kissing it, making me yelp and push him away, which made Mingi giggle as he placed his hands in his pockets, “So, tomorrow at six?”
“But you better shower before you come pick me up.” I pointed a finger at him as we went to leave the room.
“I thought I smelled hot—”
“You can’t smell hot, so just—” I sighed and looked at him, “Just—dress up. You—I mean, you know, you looked really good at the party. I haven’t seen you out of your work clothes before.”
“Aw, aren’t you so shy right now and stuttering all of a sudden?” He cooed and poked my cheek, “As if I wasn’t inside you—”
“Y/N, you still here?!” I heard my father’s voice shout from afar and I threw Mingi a warning look as I pushed him away. He walked towards the car he had to fix defeated, throwing me those sad puppy eyes and a pout as my father walked inside the garage.
“Hi.” I waved at him and he smiled, glancing at Mingi.
“You can fix it tomorrow too, you know?” My father said as he went to put his own utensils away. Mingi hummed but said he didn’t have much until he was done, liar. My father glanced at me and I looked away from Mingi, smiling at my father innocently. He just shook his head and threw his keys at me, making me clumsily catch them.
“Go pick up your mother, I’ll stay behind and help Mingi fix the car.” He muttered tiredly as he walked up to my soon-to-be-boyfriend, oblivious to what Mingi would soon become to him as well. Not just an employee, but perhaps a part of our family too. I jokingly saluted my father as I stopped in the doorway, turning to look at Mingi, who was already watching me.
“Goodbye, Mingi.”
“Bye, Y/N.” Mingi tried to fight the smile off his lips as I turned around and ran off with a giggle, cheeks burning suddenly with embarrassment.
Good girls eventually get what they want, don’t they?
Masterlist
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Title: Meat.
Pairing: Yandere!Ayato x Reader (Genshin).
Word count: 4.5k.
TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Branding/Burning, Prolonged Imprisonment, Forced Marriage, Possessive Behavior, Descriptions of Gore, Implied Stalking, Mentions of Pregnancy, and Suicidal Ideation. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
You always thought you would wear red on your wedding day.
It was a family tradition – passed down with dutiful care for as long as anyone could imagine. Your grandmother had given her dress to your mother who had gifted it to you, her only child, on your eighteenth birthday, years before you would so much as think about getting something as permanent as marriage. Still, you safeguarded it with a religious devotion, never going more than a week without laying it out to check for signs of moths or mold. When you found yourself on a boat set on a course for Inazuma and could bring nothing but what could fit in the space underneath your bunk, her dress was the only item you truly could not bear to leave behind.
It was one of the few things Ayato let you keep, when he first brought you to his estate. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d known that you’d throw yourself off the nearest cliff if anything ever happened to that dress. You still would, if he so much as touched it without your permission.
The kimono you were being fitted for now was not red. The fine silk was pure white, the detailed embroidery along the hems and sleeves dark blue and bright, shining gold. The symbol of his archon glowed violet on the swell of the train – meant to appease the other factions of the tri-commission who protested when Ayato announced his intent to not only marry a commoner, but a foreigner. You hated that embellishment most of all, more than the sickly way his colors crawled over your body, more than the irritating smoothness of his favored silks where they hugged against your form and groped at your skin. It marked you as a tool, something to be used to one end or another. It marked you as a sacrifice – and an unwanted one, at that.
“Just as exquisite as I knew you’d be,” Ayato announced, his voice strong and unabashed. You’d begged him not to, but he’d insisted on sitting in on your appointment, making sure you couldn’t correct seamstress or overrule any of the choices he’d made on your behalf. The tailor hummed as she fastened a temporary sash around your midriff, tight enough to press uncomfortably against your ribs. If you needed to cry on your wedding day (which, in all likelihood, you would), it would have to be loosened. “How do you like it?”
You hated it. You despised it. You wanted to claw it apart with your own pristine nails, separate each thread and seam with your very own teeth. You would’ve set yourself on fire just to see it turned to ash that much sooner.
“It’s perfect.” Your own voice sounded distant, distorted. There was no façade of sincerity. He knew as well as you did that there was nothing he could force onto you that you wouldn’t loathe, and you knew that any word uttered as to your hatred for him outside of the privacy of your shared bedroom would result in a collection of fresh rope burns to decorate your wrists, the better half of a night spent bent over his knee. “So long as it pleases you, my lord.”
You dropped your eyes to the floor, attempting to spare yourself what suffering you could, but your resistance didn’t matter; you could hear the sharpness of his smile, picture the way his head tilted to the side as he basked in his own self-satisfaction as he went on, addressing the tailor. “If there’s a veil, you can get rid of it.”
You didn’t think you would ever get used to the way his voice seemed to grate when he was happy with himself.
“I think my heart might give out if I’m not able to see my beautiful fiancé’s lovely smile.”
~
After meeting Ayato, you began to dream in red.
It was more of a pink, at first – during the first few weeks of his courtship, when the extent of his intrusive affection was a few dendrobiums left on your doorstep and a lingering glance as the handsome young commissioner passed your stall during his weekly stroll through the city market. For a short while, after his possessive habits began to rear their head and you were able to catch his guards in your peripheral more often than not, your subconscious was tinted a near-violent shade of scarlet, the kind that would leave you drenched in your own sweat and half-suffocated by the time you forced yourself to wake up. Recently, since he announced your engagement, they’d taken on a darker shade; choking velvets and deep crimsons blurring the distorted setting as Ayato’s faceless body moved on top of you, as his mouth unhinged and his lashing tongue dragged you down his waiting throat. On your worst nights, he’d tear you apart with his hands, first, divide you into neat, orderly pieces that he could slip past his lips and savor one at a time, one after another, until there was nothing left of you. He’d always preferred you in your most consumable form.
It was ironic, really, considering just how little red he let seep into your waking life. Maybe you had a deficiency; like a pregnant woman craving fish to make up for a lack of calcium. The closest you got to red from the doorway to his study were a few cherry blossoms fluttering past the window, their color dulled by age and their tree nearly stripped bare by the approaching winter. He looked away from his paperwork as you shrugged past the screen door, his pale eyes lighting up as he saw the tea tray in your hands. It was Thoma’s handiwork, but you doubted Ayato cared. He wanted to see you in the role of a caretaker, playing out the part he wrote for you to the best of your limited acting skills. What happened behind the curtain was none of his concern.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked as you set the tray on his desk. “I can’t remember the last time you visited me on your own.”
You flashed him a small smile. “Can’t I dote on my soon-to-be husband freely?”
He visibly straightened at the word ‘husband’, a familiar zeal infecting his expression. There was a quirk to his grin, a light tap to his thigh, and the tea went ignored as you obediently fell into his lap, your legs hanging over the side of his chair as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you snug against him. If he was a monster, he’d be one with a thousand hands and a million fingers; he couldn’t seem to go a full minute without clutching at your hips, groping at your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a deep, relieved sigh. “Husband,” he repeated back to you, all spellbound awe and deceiving wonder. “Archons, I can’t wait to be your husband.”
You wondered, sometimes, if it was his childhood that made him the way he was. After so many years of loneliness, so many tiny disappointments and frigid betrayals, you could only imagine he’d be eager to grab the first warm body he could and refuse to let you go. But, he let Ayaka come and go as she pleased, and seemed to take a certain delight in sending Thoma off on long-winded, far-flung errands. Whatever cruelty his upbringing had bred, it was clearly reserved for you.
His hand slid underneath the slit of your yukata, his breath turning hot and unpleasant against your collarbone, and you drew back with an airy laugh. “I do have an ulterior motive,” you admitted, hoping his curiosity would offset his insatiability, if only for a few seconds. “It’s about my wedding dress.”
“The breathtaking and priceless dress I’m having made by the nation’s most talented tailors so that all of Inazuma will know that I’m marrying the most beautiful person in Teyvat?” He raised his head, clicking his tongue. “What about it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” you said, because he wouldn’t listen to you if you didn’t and you needed him to listen to you. “It’s just— I’m such a long way from home, and I know my family won’t be able to come, but—” You cut yourself off, swallowing back the bile that threatened to spoil your sweet smile. “I was hoping we’d be able to incorporate my mother’s dress, somehow. If it’s not too late.”
It wasn’t. You’d been tracking the progress of his tailors meticulously, counting down the days until your wedding like a prisoner waiting for their execution date, and if it was one of his whims, another row of bedding added onto the sleeves or a new embroidery pattern worked onto the train, you knew that there’d be all the time in the world to make any adjustments he asked for. Still, his smile wavered, a brief sigh slipping past his lips as he shook his head. “My love,” The petname lulled off of his tongue as if it’d been coated in sugar and syrup and all the worst things you could think of. “That’s quite the risk to take. The poor thing’s so old, it might fall apart as soon as the tailor’s needle touches it.”
He'd been crueler, before – called the dress a rag as he looked at you with disdain-tinted pity, swore that your reliance on the filthy relic must’ve been caused by some inherent failure of your homeland – but your heart still clenched just a little tighter in your chest at his veiled disdain. “I’d like to try, at least.” Your hands curled around his collar, your frown taking on a more pleading note. “Please, my lord?” A pause, a tightened hold. “Please, Ayato?”
It was his given name, loving and tender and so rarely spoken in your voice, that did him in. He relented with an airy groan, letting his head roll forward in faux exasperation. “We’ll see.”
You beamed, but he was too lost in you to notice, already preoccupied with pressing open-mouthed kisses into your shoulders, your neck. The sash of your yukata was drawn loose, your sleeves pulled down to your elbows and your body shifted onto his desk, where he could spread your legs apart and bury his face between them. Your eyes drifted back to the cherry blossoms trickling past the window, but whatever tree they’d been falling from had finally been stripped bare. All you could see was the bright, cloudless sky – blue enough to leave you burnt and begging for a storm.
~
Two springs ago, the Kamisato Estate had been overrun with finches.
It’d been a comedy of errors, in hindsight. Ayaka had taken up a fondness for a new kind of flower – one native to Sumeru, introduced to her by an outlander with golden hair and knowing eyes. Thoma, the miracle worker that he was, quickly found a way to propagate it in the estate’s garden, and within the month, little violet blossoms had consumed all that they could reach despite the best efforts of the gardeners to keep them in-check. It would’ve been a delightful problem to have on its own, but the peak of the infestation happened to align with an annual migration of a type of finch that happened to hold a particular shining for a plant with a similar shape and color and— well, anyone could’ve guessed what happened next.
It was a nightmare for Thoma and the other groundskeepers and, since Ayato was staying in the city on business, paradise for you. You spent your days in the courtyard, showing the servants’ children how to braid crowns out of vines and press flowers between the pages of books stolen from Ayato’s personal library. You and Ayaka fed seeds to the red-crowned invaders and coaxed them close enough to pet and sketch, as little talent as you had for the latter, and she listened as you rambled excitedly about the crane-headed whistles you used to make every summer for a very wealthy ornithologist with very slippery fingers. She was just as lonely as her brother, albeit significantly less deranged, and you – trapped, isolated, desperate you – were the perfect victim for her. The two of you were never quite friends, but you came close that spring.
And then, Ayato returned. The flowers were uprooted, the children sent back to their chores, and the finches driven away with nets and stones and salt. You sobbed for hours the day the final flock left, and by means of consolation, Ayato presented you with a blue-speckled wren in a cage of pure silver, silk flowers bound to the bars with yellow ribbons as a reminder of your lost haven. To this day, you still aren’t sure if he meant it to be as cruel of a gift as it was.
You made it all of two days before risking another month spent shackled to Ayato’s bed and sneaking past the guards posted at the estate’s frontmost gates, the golden cage tucked against your chest. You released it in the woods, somewhere with plenty of tree cover and places to hide while it remembered how to be a wild creature, and watched with a smile as it fluttered past the cage’s door and into the open air, eventually landing on the leaf-littered ground.
It hopped all of three tiny steps before a fox emerged from the underbrush and swallowed it whole.
~
“Are you still with us, love?”
You should’ve gone limp. You should’ve acted as if the pain had gotten to you. You should’ve pretended you were dead to the world and that you couldn’t feel his cock languidly thrusting into you and that you’d gone numb to the searing iron slowly cooling into against the small of your back but, for as resentful as your mind was to him, your body was entirely subservient to Ayato. You tried to respond verbally, and when your voice caught in your throat, you forced yourself to nod, the motion small and shaky. Ayato rewarded you with a breathy chuckle, a fleeting touch to the curve of your spine. A hundred pinpricks of purified agony accompanied his touch.
The silver brand had been commissioned from the finest metal crafters in Inazuma City, made to resemble the warped camellia that was the Kamisato Clan’s crest, and you let out an agonized scream as Ayato drew it back and pressed a calloused thumb into the tender patch of burnt skin. “You always do make such pretty noises for me.” He circled the shape of the white-hot bloom, drawing out another ragged whimper. “It’s a shame I only get to hear them when you misbehave.”
You wanted to apologize, to beg for his forgiveness, but try as you might, you couldn’t seem to remember what you’d done wrong. You hadn’t tried to run away. You hadn’t talked to any of the servants. You hadn’t done anything aside from smile and sit beside him as he spoke with the head of another clan – an older man whose eyes burnt into you for the entirety of their brief conversation. As far as you could tell, he was just a particularly shameless nobleman trying to decipher the curiosity that was the Yashiro Commissioner’s reclusive bride, but Ayato hated letting other men gawk at you at the best of times. Such prolonged exposure would’ve surely brought out the worst of his possessive habits.
You felt something tighten in your chest, catch in your throat, but you only realized you were crying when Ayato’s lips ghosted over your cheek, the gentleness of the gesture quickly replaced with the brutality of his fingers tangled in your hair, your head forced down and into the plush of his bed. You body threatened to collapse, but his free hand fell to your hip, keeping your back arched and your ass raised as he ground lazily into your cunt, in no rush to put you out of your suffering. “I think,” he groaned, lust heavy in his voice. “We’re going to have a big family. Half a dozen kids, at least.”
You beat your fists against the mattress, shaking your head violently, and he twitched inside of you. “They’ll have your eyes,” he went on, a sadistic delight in his voice. “And my swordsmanship, and I’ll love them as much as I love you.” He paused, the head of his cock scraping against something deep and vulnerable inside of you. “Well, almost as much as I love you. As much as I can.”
You tried to struggle, to get away from him, but Ayato held you close, his grip as unrelenting as his slow, aching tempo. With a calculated sort of grace, he leaned towards you, slotting his chest against your back and bringing his mouth to the shell of your ear. “You don’t think it’s too soon to start, do you, darling?”
All you could do was try and fail to scream in response.
~
The first gift Ayato ever gave to you was a necklace the color of freshly split sapphires.
He insisted that you not think of it as a present, that you consider it little more than justified repayment for an item from your stall broken by the clumsy fingers of one of his couriers, but it was a present, it couldn’t be anything else. His courier had paid for the ruined pottery days prior, and yet, he’d sought you out in person to apologize with that sun-bright smile, to let his fingertips brush against yours as he passed you a satin-lined case with a perfect, ocean-blue velvet choker tucked safely inside. It was a beautiful thing, embellished with silver and dripping with transparent crystals, but you’d liked the color most of all. It’d reminded you of Ayato, and there’d been a time when you treasured any excuse to think of him.
You’d worn it the first time you saw each other properly, too. The occasion wasn’t formal enough to warrant something so needlessly extravagant, but you couldn’t seem to stop smiling for the entirety of your brief-meal-turned-seven-hour-conversation, and as your night came to an end, perched on the edge of a cliff underneath the Raiden Shogun’s palace and breathless from laughing, he told you that if you weren’t careful, he might just fall in love with you. You’d told him that, if he waited a few more days, you might fall in love with him, too.
You’d been wearing the same necklace when he broke your heart for the first time. It’d been an overcast day, the sky a clouded blueish grey and the shogun’s fury just barely audible in the far distance. He told you, with that perfect grin and those lonely eyes, that it really was terribly improper for the lover of a commissioner to run some meager stall in a sweat-soaked market, that he owed you better than a cramped room on the outskirts of the city where you had to wade through hours of farmland to reach anything of importance. When you said that you enjoyed your work, that you adored the back-breaking labor of your craft and loved having neighbors who would leave baskets of cabbage and lavender melon on your doorstep in exchange for misshapen cups and off-pattern bowls, he laughed as if you’d said the funniest thing in the world and cupped your face in his hands, pulling you into a kiss deep enough and sweet enough to make you forget whether or not you’d agreed with him.
You were brought to the Kamisato estate less than a full month later and had yet to leave since.
~
The final garment was delivered two weeks before your wedding day. You watched from your pavilion as Ayato met the courier at the estate’s gates, accepting a large package wrapped in scarlet silk and brushing off the guards’ attempts to carry it on his behalf. You were embroidering, that day – a delicate, time-consuming art that Ayato praised in comparison to the messy, unpredictable medium of clay. You loathed the monotony of it, the strictness of the patterns, but it meant Ayato was less likely to break your fingers when he found you scrounging away spare mora in the hopes of some perpetually eventual escape and so, you embroidered.
“My mother’s dress,” you said, as soon as he was close enough to hear you. The wooden hoop was forgotten in your lap as you stared up at him, hope written clearly across your expression. “Do you know what they did with it?”
His grin widened. “Eager, are we?” You nodded frantically, and he added, “If I’d didn’t know better, I’d say you care about a dress more than your own betrothed.”
He settled next to you, the package laid across his thighs. He moved to unwrap it, then pivoted – his attention shifting as his gloved hand took hold of your wrist. He’d been touching you more delicately, lately, something you couldn’t help but link with his long-brewing but only recently materialized desire for children. It was a problem you elected to deal with later on, after the wedding, if only for your own inability to process just how horrific of a problem it was.
(There was a part of you which knew, even before your conscious mind could bear to accept it, that you would never be able to love something he put inside of you. Ayato’s obsession was enduring, able to feed off of nothing and contort reality to suit its needs, but your love had always been a rational thing, bound to end the moment it became inconvenient to house. Your love for your homeland died with your mother. Your love for Ayato died with your abduction. And, whatever love you could’ve had for a child— no, a shackle would die the moment the foul creature was born. You could hold no affection for a child that was made in Ayato’s image, that would be cleaved from your flesh for the sake of his happiness, and if by some miracle you did love the monstrosity, then you could only assume it would be because you’d abandoned all hope for yourself. Both futures seemed equally grim.)
“Ayato,” you simpered, leaning against his side. “Please?”
He rolled his eyes, playing soft as he handed you the oversized package. “It should be wrapped separately. I said I didn’t want to see the finished product until the day-of.”
Your hands shook as you undid the many knots. A smaller bundle sat within, separate from the tumor of ivory fabric you forced yourself not to linger on, and you took it up with a desperate sort of keenness, practically trembling as you tore it open with no regard for the integrity of its packaging. The crimson silk was torn away to reveal—
Blue.
Dark, never-ending blue.
“The color came out so beautifully. I’m glad you protested the way you did – otherwise, I might’ve never known we were missing something on our wedding day.” This time, you didn’t fight as he tore the remains of your mother’s dress out of your hands, holding out a sash the shade of apathetic night. You searched for something familiar, for something you could use to ground yourself, but it was absent of all recognizability, desecrated to the point of being all-but alien to you. “It had to be dyed, of course, but I’ve been told the process only cost it a moment of its integrity. The tailors—”
You blinked, but your vision remained black when you opened your eyes. Your body was lurching forward, and then you were in Ayato’s arms, limp and buzzing. Ayato was laughing, as shocked as you were drained, and you made no effort to pull away from him. “My poor little wife. I know – the anticipation’s almost too much to bear.” He pressed a kiss into your forehead. “Why don’t we spend some time together, like we used to? I think I can push my obligations aside for the day, considering the occasion.”
You didn’t respond, but he gathered into his arms regardless. He had always seemed to prefer you as dead weight.
~
You did end up in red on your wedding day, but you doubted you’d be getting married, anymore.
His own sword slid and out of his back with a wet, gripping noise – only interrupted when the blade slipped in your hands and hit bone rather than viscera. Blood splattered against the white of your kimono with every plunge, staining the susceptible fabric easily and leaving you struggling to keep your feet underneath you as the puddle of scarlet grew deeper, as the screen walls began to drip and your lungs filled with copper and iron. Ayato, the ever-worried lover that he was, had come to check on you before the ceremony, fussing over your blank eyes and the tear-tracks that had ruined your make-up twice, by then. He’d been concerned, but giddy, unable to keep himself away from you despite his many promises of tradition and decor.
He'd made it three, maybe four minutes before beginning to toy with the clasps running down your chest.
You’d taken up the first thing you saw – a hand mirror gilded with shining rose gold – and brought it down on his head.
That, on its own, would’ve left him with a scar and little else, but you’d worked quickly, drawing the sword from its sheath on his belt and bringing it down into anything that seemed vital, anything you could reach, anything that bled calming, soothing red. He stopped moving on the fifth strike, his uncalled upon Vision going dull on the sixth, and on the seventh, you heard someone call for the guards.
You waited until you could hear their footsteps before falling to your knees, bringing the point of your blade to your stomach and clenching your eyes shut, praying to any archon who would listen that you’d hit something they couldn’t be healed, that they’d lend you a more merciful fate than another jail cell, another lifetime of entrapment. You plunged the blade into your stomach and—
And were met with little more than a cold, blunt sensation and a bottomless pit of despair.
You opened your eyes, your gaze flickering from your ice-coated blade to the doorway of your dressing room, now occupied by Kamisato Ayaka, one hand raised and her Vision pulsing at her side. Guards rushed in on either side of her, grabbing at your shoulders and wrists, but your stare never left Ayaka, her parted lips, her flushed cheeks.
Her bright eyes, just as blue and just as lonely as her brother’s had ever been.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yandere oneshot#yandere genshin impact#genshin impact#genshin x reader#genshin imagines#yandere genshin x reader#yandere genshin imagines#yandere kamisato ayato#yandere ayato#ayato x reader#kamisato ayato x reader#yanderecore#yancore
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NSFW BUT PLS PLS COCKWARMING MIKE
WARNING: NSFW, SMUT, PLEASE KEEP SCROLLING IF THIS TYPE OF CONTENT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE
You had been thinking about it, definitely a lot, especially when you’re both tired, or just enjoying each other’s company and need to feel close, but you never had the guts to say it.
Today was one of those days. Abby was with Vanessa and neither of you had to go to work, so you were using your free time like you always do, cooking together, eating your dinner in front of the tv to catch up on your shows or find a movie you haven’t seen and cuddling.
You were doing just that, cuddling on the couch while you enjoyed his warmth behind you. It was like any other cuddle, until he started stroking your hip, softly up and down. Then up to your sides and to your neck. He just loved touching you anywhere really, and tonight his touches weren’t sexual, in fact, they were all too familiar, but the way his wandering hands felt against your skin made you feel different, almost as if you were hungry for more.
“Mike?” You whispered after taking a deep breath, getting ready to spit those words out. He hummed in response, his hands moving down to your hips again “I was thinking… uh- we could- I want to try something” He looked down at you as you tilted your head to look at him.
“What’s that?” He asked, curious.
“I feel- I just want to feel you close to me” You mumble, blushing as soon as the words leave your mouth.
“Oh” If you were suggesting what he thought you were suggesting, he definitely couldn’t believe it. You were always a little shy when it came to asking to try new things “How close?”
“Like really close”
A wide smile appeared on his face, his hands wandering around your body more desperately than before “Yeah?” He asked, and you just nodded “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you, baby”
You let out a sigh. You knew he’d make you say it but you really didn’t wanna say it “Can you like… Uh- I was just thinking that maybe we could-” You stopped talking, you were really hoping you didn’t have to say it, but with a look he urged you to continue “I want you inside me” You force the words out.
His smile grew bigger as he got closer to your ear, so so close “You mean you want my cock inside you?” He whispered, his voice suddenly dropping low.
“Yes”
Your heart started to race when you felt him shifting behind you, reaching for his pants “While we cuddle? You want me inside you while we watch a movie?”
“Yes please”
He slid his joggers down, working to harden his cock just enough to slip it inside you. Your curiosity gets the best of you, so you turn around to watch him give himself a few strokes, his own spit coating on his cock.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, his breathing staining a little at the feeling. You’re almost mesmerised by the view, but you were pulled out of your thoughts once he opened his eyes again.
“Turn around” He commands you, and you immediately oblige “C’mere”
You go back to your previous position as you slide down your panties and roll up his your shirt, waiting for him to get comfortable behind you. He used his already wet hand to find your pussy, letting out a shaky breath as soon as he touched you.
“Fuck, you’re so wet” He whispered against your ear “How am I not gonna fuck you right now?” He pulled his hand away and lifted your leg a little, allowing him to align himself with your entrance “Ready?”
You nodded in response, and just a second later you felt his tip, and then the rest of his cock slowly inching into you. You both let out small whimpers, followed by a quiet ‘fuck’ when he was filling you completely.
#concept friday#mike schmidt concept#mike schmidt#mike schmidt x reader#mike schmidt imagine#mike schmidt fic#mike schmidt x you#mike schmidt fanfic#mike schmidt smut#fnaf#fnaf movie#fnaf movie x reader#josh hutcherson
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