#thirsty's fics
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Stuck at the Navy Ball
So… I decided I wasn’t done playin’ with the boys.
As this is a continuation of the original Stuck in the Middle fic, I highly recommend that you read through that before diving into this. Could you dive headfirst into this? Yes. There might be a little confusion, though.
Inspired by a comment someone left on SitM over on AO3.
Pairing: Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron “Slider” Kerner
Summary: You, Ice, and Sli haven’t lost that loving feeling. So when the flyboys are reunited at the 1986 Navy Ball, it's only natural that they bring a bit of chaos with them.
Word Count: 4200
Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, under-negotiated situations (but everyone involved is fine), fingering
Chapter: 1/4
Minors DNI
gif originally posted by neuromancer1888
Chapter 1: Under the Table
The invitation arrives early in September, printed on thick cardstock and addressed to your brother. But if Viper’s words are to be believed—and you’ve yet to hear of a situation in which they aren’t—Pete’s attendance isn’t exactly optional. So the summons finds its way from the trash onto the fridge, rough edges taped back together.
Please Join Us For the 211th Navy Ball.
Monday, October 13th
Washington D.C.
Cocktail Hour 1700 | Ceremony Begins 1800
Live Music. Food. Dancing.
The same invitation has Carole positively giddy. Born and raised in Virginia, she’s been looking for an excuse to fly east to visit her parents. And for a party? Isn’t that swell! Arrangements are made for Bradley to sleep at his grandparents on the night of the ball before Goose—whose PT-mandated wheelchair has landed him desk duty—is home from work.
Which is how, roughly one month later, you find yourself in Goose’s room at the Hyatt Regency on Capitol Hill, sharing precious mirror space with Carole. Breathing in Aqua Net while putting the finishing touches on your looks.
The hotel calls the four of you a taxi, Goose’s wheelchair is stuffed into the trunk, and then you’re off to meet your date.
Singular.
There hadn’t been a question of if you’d attend or whose arm you’d decorate once Pete’s invite arrived. Officially, you’re at the ball with Ice. After Layton, Ice had made it a point to be seen with you while he was off-duty. Your relationship, which you’d tried to keep on the down-low, was worth showing off publicly after he and your brother had dropped their rivalry in favor of mutual respect. Friendship.
But the other half of your relationship was still very much under wraps.
That fact hadn’t stopped you from nodding eagerly when Ice pulled you close to ask you to attend the Navy Ball with him. Ice wants to climb the ladder, and earning stars is more than clambering into the cockpit every morning or disappearing on a carrier for the better part of a year at a time. It’s politics. It’s achieving perceived milestones on or ahead of schedule. And in October, for Lieutenant Tom “Iceman” Kazansky, naval aviator and promotion hopeful, it’s attending the Navy Ball with a woman on his arm.
Pete wrestles the wheelchair out of the trunk while Goose pays the cab driver. As you step into the crisp October evening, you marvel at the palatial, white-stone building that is to be the backdrop of your night. A steady flow of servicemen and women crossing beneath grand archways with their dates for the promise of a good night.
You aren’t left alone to gawk for long before you catch sight of them chatting with someone or another: decked in their whites, Slider leaning against the wrought iron rail and Ice to his side. Ice’s gaze flicks to you instantaneously, as if he’d felt your eyes land on him. The natural pout of his lips morphs into a grin as he excuses himself from the conversation and moves toward you against the flow of the crowd. Slider follows close behind, ultimately making his way to Goose, Carole, and your brother. But you catch the hesitation in his step. The course-correct.
Events like these will be challenging for the three of you—that had been a foregone conclusion—but this knowledge doesn’t make it any easier. It feels all sorts of wrong to have Slider keep himself at such a purposeful distance when you’re used to his proximity. Even at the O Club, he manages to stand close. Doesn’t shy away.
Before your mood can be irreparably embittered, Ice takes your hand in his and coaxes you into a slow spin. “You’re beautiful,” he coos as he kisses your cheek, and a delicate smile lights your lips.
The dress had been a surprise. Something you’d insisted on buying yourself despite Ice and Slider offering to pool their money for something truly extravagant. But after years spent in the foster system, even the thought of spending money on something so frivolous left a bad taste in your mouth. Instead, you’d taken Carole, your more comfortable budget, and found an old gala dress at a thrift shop. The sleek, black velvet gown up to your collarbones with the slightest sparkle as the fabric shifted beneath the store’s old lights ticked all your self-imposed boxes. A dress fit for an aspirational young officer’s date, even after Carole added a slit up the left side to show a little leg and “bring the dress into this decade.”
“Look who’s talking,” you say, squeezing Ice’s arm as it’s offered to you. Typically, the change of season calls for blues, but the Navy Ball is an exception to the rule. You wonder whose wife you have to thank for that because although your boys look damn fine in both, you have a not-so-hidden preference. “And Kerner didn’t clean up so bad, either,” you shoot in Slider’s direction with a playful grin.
“Surprised?” Slider asks, brow raised. You shrug because, no, you’re not surprised, but you aren’t sure what to say that will fly under the radar. And that’s the name of the night’s game. That doesn’t stop Pete from rolling his eyes as he passes you with Goose and Carole on their way to the building’s ramp.
The closest you ever got to a ball before tonight was prom—not yours; you’d been on staff at the venue. Frankly, you’d half expected you and Pete to have been blacklisted, given your father’s ill-gotten reputation, but they let you in without issue. You wonder if Pete’s face appearing on the front page of every magazine in the English-speaking world has anything to do with it, but you keep that to yourself while Ice, ever the gentleman, escorts you further into the event.
If the outside of the building is beautiful, then the inside is magnificent: all barrel vaulted ceilings decorated with Romanesque gold leafing and warm mahogany. A vast hall that steadily fills as guests arrive for cocktail hour and to mingle before the evening officially kicks off.
Slider spots Carole’s shock of blonde hair by a table with easy access for Goose and herds Ice in her direction. They aren’t alone at the table. “Merlin,” Slider barks, bounding over to shake his fellow RIO’s hand. “I thought you were stationed over the Atlantic. What’re you doing here?”
“Turned out to be an exercise. Over and back in sixty-two days.”
“And just in time for the party,” the woman at his side chips in, and Merlin wraps an arm around her to pull her close.
“Oh! Tom Kazansky, Ron Kerner, my wife, Laura.” Ice takes the opportunity to introduce you in turn. The conversation is easy-going, Ice and Slider filling Merlin in on their time instructing at Miramar.
Slider gets in several quips about Ice having a list of officers whose asses he needs to kiss to speed up a promotion when Ice spies one of said officers. He gently tugs you in the right direction so you can play the part of the doting girlfriend. The officer—a captain—quickly introduces you to his wife before he and Ice talk shop.
You manage to pluck a champagne flute from a waiter’s tray, sipping daintily and nodding along with the captain’s wife. Considering most of your knowledge concerning the Navy revolves around the planes your brother flies and the stunts he’s pulled in them, the conversation goes in one ear and out the other.
Not that it matters. Your role tonight—thankfully—is just to follow Ice around and look pretty.
The captain’s wife finishes her champagne in record time, and though you’re hesitant at first, you aren’t too far behind her. It is at this point, glass empty, that Slider appears like your guardian angel. “Captain,” he nods. “Ice.”
“Captain Reid, have you met my RIO?” Ice asks, knowing full well that Slider has no interest in schmoozing. Much like your brother, Slider is there because it is expected of him. Unlike Pete, Ice doesn’t need his friend’s emotional support or commiseration to make it through such events, mandatory or otherwise. Every opportunity like this is one Ice can use to his advantage.
Slider offers the captain a firm handshake. “Lieutenant Ron Kerner, sir.”
“Your RIO? I thought you were stationed at Miramar?”
“The perks of winning the trophy, sir,” pride leaks through as Slider says it. He and Ice worked damn hard to finish at the top of their class. “We’ve been together since flight school. When Ice took a teaching position at TOPGUN, I followed.”
“And how does a man of your stature fit in the cockpit, lieutenant?” the captain’s wife asks from beneath heavily painted lashes.
The grin Slider offers her is loose. “It’s a bit of a squeeze, but no complaints so far.” The minute narrowing of Ice’s eyes says behave. You nearly avoid snorting, hiding the unladylike compulsion behind the rim of your empty flute, a reflection off the crystal drawing Slider’s eye.
“Actually,” Slider says, hand twitching as if he’s had to stop himself from resting it against your back, “I noticed your glass is empty.” Sli nods toward the bar, an invitation to refill your glass. You look up at him with a grin—a genuine one, not the soft smile that’s grown stale throughout Ice’s conversation—acceptance on your lips when–
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ice’s brow wrinkles, noticing for the first time that you’ve finished your drink.
”I didn’t want to interrupt,” is your bashful answer.
”Don’t be ridiculous,” Ice says. “I’ll come with you.”
”You don’t have to leave.” Slider will take care of me, you don’t say.
Ice picks up on the silent part but blatantly ignores it. His eyes take on that warm, charmed look, tongue peeking out before his lips curl into that honeyed smile you love so much. “You’re too good for me,” he says as if it’s a secret meant only for you. There’s no doubt he means it, but something about the way he’s playing the sentiment up for the brass makes it feel different in a way you’re not entirely comfortable with. No mistakes. “If you’ll excuse us, sir. Ma’am.”
Captain Reid is already turning to walk the room with his wife when Ice’s eyes narrow into what can only be described as a glare at Slider, his arm cementing itself around your waist in a way that probably looks far more relaxed than it feels.
”What?” Slider asks, shooting for casual, but now you’re not sure you’re buying it, either. “I’m just trying to do my part so you can talk to everyone on your list.” The subconscious flex of Ice’s jaw, as if he wishes he could chew out his frustration on the butt of a cig or some gum, doesn’t go unnoticed, but it does go unheeded. “Admiral Benjamin is on your list, right?” You perk up. As in Penny Benjamin? “I think I saw him by the corner with wife number three and Commander Johnson.”
“You know,” Ice says, his grin glacial, “it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you rubbed elbows at an event like this.”
Slider scoffs, though it’s affectionate. “Why bother? We both know my military career ends when you take a desk job. Besides, I think my time is much better spent keeping your date’s cup full.” You’ve all agreed to go to the bar, but no one is moving. The tension between Ice and Slider is palpable.
”Okay,” you interrupt. There’s something off about their banter tonight. You’ve seen Ice stare down many a handful of people since landing in Miramar, but never Slider. It’s enough to raise a sculpted brow. “What am I missing?”
Slider senses blood in the water. Sees the smoke in the air. The grin he gives you is far tighter than the one he gave the captain’s wife. He opens his mouth, but Ice beats him to the punch. “You said something about grabbing my date a drink.”
Slider’s jaw clicks shut, but his grin isn’t so easily wiped away. “More champagne?” When you nod, Slider picks his way toward the bar while Ice escorts you to the side of the room where there’s more room to breathe and a lesser likelihood that someone will overhear when he presses close. “Sli’s upset that you’re with me tonight.”
That’s it? You hadn’t thought the arrangement would bother Slider so much. The three of you had discussed it and mutually concluded that you should go with Ice. That you had to go with Ice. Was Slider having second thoughts?
“Well, not upset,” Ice concedes at the concern that drags your lips down. “But he was talking a big game.”
Color you curious. “What’d he say?”
“Well,” Ice pulls you closer so his breath tickles your ear and you can smell the mint on his breath, “he thinks he can get you off before we leave the building. Steal you away while you’re being my pretty little girlfriend for the brass.” You gulp. Where is Slider with that drink?
”Oh.”
Ice chuckles. “Yeah. Oh. But I’m not worried.” Two fingers find their way under your chin and lift until your eyes meet Ice’s. “I know you’ll be good for me.”
“What’s the winner get?”
”Bragging rights.”
”And?”
It’s impossible to miss the way Ice’s eyes flit to your lips and linger there because he can. Those are the perks of being your date out in the light of day. “Can’t that be it?”
“Could be,” you breathe and slowly wet your bottom lip with your tongue, delighting in the way gray-blue eyes track the movement, “but it isn’t.”
Ice double-checks that no one is eavesdropping on your conversation. “You remember what got delivered the other day?” Your breath hitches. Yeah. You remember the catalog order you’d put in for a remote-controlled toy. The excitement and disappointment that had come with unfortunate delivery schedules. “Single-night, exclusive access once we’re all home.”
”That’s quite a lot on the line.”
”It would be,” Ice concedes, one large hand spanning the small of your back, warming you and holding you close enough you can breathe in his cologne, “but you can be good for me, right, baby? I’ll make it worth your while.” You nod, a little dumb as you inhale teakwood, sage, and sea salt.
It’s sure to be a profoundly satisfying night as long as you can stick to the script.
“I’m not going to make it easy on you,” Slider promises, appearing by Ice’s shoulder.
”Wouldn’t be fun if you did.” Ice’s smirk is all cocky confidence, cracking only when he notices Slider has only fetched two flutes of champagne.
”Only got two hands, Tommy,” Slider says with a toothy grin, “but I’ll keep her company while you grab yourself a glass.” The crystal buzzes with the steady fizz of bubbles, your fingers brushing Sli’s ever so slightly before Ice pulls you back into the throng.
The room becomes more difficult to navigate with each new attendee, but Ice only seems more in his element as cocktail hour drags on. He introduces you to a flurry of officers and their wives whose jewel-tone dresses all start to blend together, brushing shoulders with the men who ultimately control his upward trajectory.
On his arm, you smile and nod, interjecting where appropriate because, despite the smattering of female officers present, the Navy remains very much a boy’s club.
Still, it’s nice to be shown off so publicly. To delight in the knowledge that Ice’s attention never strays far from you despite his planned schmoozing. You preen each time he introduces you to someone new with a tender look—there are many things tonight that may be manufactured, but that look isn’t one of them.
An ache blooms in the ball of your foot as Ice delivers on the same script over and over to increasingly dismal company. The throbbing is nothing compared to the pinpricks in your cheeks, though. Beauty pageant smiles are their own form of torture. But this is important.
It’s all for a good cause.
Tonight is important to Ice, so it’s important to you.
You’d do anything for your boys: ignore every sour expression at your last name, force a pleasant laugh along with each rear admiral’s wife, stifle a relieved sigh when everyone is invited to find their seats for dinner.
The flyboys have claimed three closely clustered tables during your absence, forcing others to walk around them as they spill into the spaces between each table, leaning close to make up for the distance forced by post-graduation reassignments. Viper is curiously absent, or perhaps Jester had pulled the short straw and been stuck with babysitting duties.
But there’s someone you don’t recognize at your table, sat between Merlin and Slider, a stranger in your midst. A smile splits Ice’s face when he spots him. “Cougar?” The man stands and pulls Ice into a quick embrace, Ice’s hand on the man’s—Cougar’s—shoulder. Ice makes quick work of introducing you to Bill Cortell and his wife, Maria. “Cougar and I were like brothers in flight school,” Ice beams. “We were supposed to meet up at TOPGUN, but–”
”It turned out for the best,” Cougar cuts Ice off goodnaturedly with a quick nod toward Pete. “Besides, desk life isn’t so bad.” Ice raises a brow at the assertion while Goose lets out a ‘bullshit!’ “Okay,” he cedes, “it’s pretty bad, but I wouldn’t give up being at home with Maria and the kids for the world.” Maria, who is heavily pregnant, rests her hand over her bundle of joy.
The lights choose that moment to dim, commanding stragglers to find their seats, but neither man moves. Slider stands up. “Here,” he offers Ice his seat on Cougar’s left because the two clearly have some catching up to do. Ice takes the seat while you slide over to stay seated next to him, and Slider takes your spot as the lights come up on the stage for the opening ceremony.
By the time everyone is seated and some speaker makes his way to center stage, Ice is only half paying attention to the night’s program. He and Cougar have a lot to catch up on in appropriately hushed whispers. You’re about to zone out when you’re yanked back to the present by a hand on your knee.
Above the table, for prying eyes, Slider doesn’t give anything away. Attention seemingly focused on the stage. Below the table’s skirt, however, you press your thighs together as Slider’s hand massages the skin exposed by the modified slit in your dress. Familiar callouses drawing senseless patterns above your knee. His hand stays there, occasionally giving you a comforting squeeze, like he knows you crave reassurance through gentle touches after being dragged so far out of your comfort zone. It’s nice. Before long, between the buzz of quiet conversation and each soothing caress, you relax back into your chair.
Polite applause fills the room as the admiral gives the podium to the next presenter. Pete and Carole chuckle at something Goose murmurs. Wolfman yawns. Someone coughs. A waiter comes around to top off champagne.
You wrap your fingers around the delicate stem of your flute, raising it to your lips in the same instant that Slider’s palm shifts so it’s wedged between your thighs. Your sharp breath is lost in the crowd as nimble fingers creep higher, never once pausing their massage.
The corner of Slider’s lip tugs the slightest bit up. Smug bastard. When you’re sure no one is paying attention, you give his wrist a tug, but instead of retreating, Slider brushes a finger against the flimsy fabric of your panties.
Your heart jumps into your throat as you become hyper-aware of how loud your breathing is, and your brain kicks into overdrive. Can anyone hear you over the clink of glasses? Your nails dig into the meat of Slider’s wrist in surprise, but you’re fairly confident that the rest of you looks normal—suddenly, you’re not sure what that means.
Is this the way a normal person’s mouth rests? The way a normal person sits in their chair? You need to leave, but you can’t. Being good for Ice, among other things, means not causing a scene. Not fleeing the room in the middle of a presentation. Not letting anyone know that while your boyfriend dutifully splits his time between the podium and his colleague, his RIO is pushing your underwear to the side for better access to your cunt. How you’re responding to his touch.
“Hey.” Pete��s giving you a strange look from across the table. “You okay?” From the way he’s pulled a face, you missed the bar for normal, and now Goose and Carole are also looking your way.
“I’m fine,” you hiss. “I-” need a distraction. You mentally stumble as Slider continues to stroke up and down your slit, his fingers spreading the wetness until they glide effortlessly through your lips.
The universe grants your wish when the crowd bursts into polite applause and the mic is turned over to the next speaker. “Isn’t that Admiral Benjamin?”
“As in Penny Benjamin?” Carole perks up, sitting tall in an attempt to get a better look at the stage while Pete bangs his head onto the table. Probably. You’re admittedly not paying attention.
Pleasure zings up your spine as thick fingers nudge your clit. A reward for redirecting the eyes on you. It’s everything you can do not to press your hips into the pressure or let your head loll back with a gasp. And with Penny’s father keeping attention off of you, Slider hooks an ankle around yours to encourage your legs further apart.
You shouldn’t, but Slider has always been convincing.
Ice won’t be particularly pleased with how promptly you gave into Slider’s suggestions, how readily your legs fall open, but that’s barely a blip on your radar as firm circles rub into your clit. The devil on your shoulder whispers that if Ice had really wanted to win, he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be so easily distracted.
None of that matters nearly as much as it should when your heart pulses between your legs.
A hand lands on your velvet-covered thigh. Ice. “Sweetheart.” You whip your head around too quickly for the move to be anything but suspicious. Like you’ve been caught with your hand—or someone else’s—in the cookie jar. You try to focus on the cool, grounding pressure of his touch. It’s working, you think, but your leg is still trembling from the effort it takes to keep still. Keen eyes move from your face to your leg, trembling under his touch, to your lap, and then to Slider, where they narrow almost imperceptibly. “You alright?”
With a nod, you reach past your champagne for water to wet your dry throat. “Just taking it all in.”
A poor choice of words. Ever the opportunist, Slider presses a finger into your hole, the stretch delicious and unexpected enough that you almost choke. If anyone catches the color on your cheeks, you hope they’ll blame your earlier drinks.
“I was just saying I didn’t know Maverick had a sister,” Cougar says, this time loud enough for the table to hear him.
“He doesn’t talk about me much.”
“Yeah,” Pete scoffs, “because when people find out about you, this–” he gestures between you and Ice “–happens.”
“You got any other sisters, Mav?” Chipper’s question from the next table over prompts Pete to load a pomegranate seed onto this salad fork. He’s ready to launch, but a disapproving look from Jester dissuades him. Goose flips Chipper the bird in a show of solidarity.
“So when did this happen?” Cougar asks, eyes flitting from you to the blonde on your right.
Slider chuckles and leans into the conversation at the same time as he crooks his fingers. You bite the inside of your cheek. The circles Ice is rubbing into your knee aren’t as distracting as either of you wants them to be. “He hasn’t been able to keep his hands off of her since we made it to Miramar.”
Hypocrite. You clear your throat. “About five months?”
“Aw,” Maria sighs in that way so many in long-term relationships do. You try and fail to focus on that as a second finger prods at your opening before pushing in slowly. “You’re still in the honeymoon phase.” Thankfully, Ice steps in with a reply because all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears when Slider rubs his fingers against your sweet spot, thumb applying steady pressure to your clit. Your nails dig crescent moons into Ice’s wrist in a last-ditch attempt to ground yourself because if Slider keeps this up, it’s going to take a miracle to keep you from causing a scene.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Viper’s unapologetic quip appears from seemingly nowhere. Your own personal savior. “I need to borrow Iceman and Slider, Maverick and Merlin, Hollywood and Wolfman.”
You shiver at the abrupt emptiness. Slider wipes his fingers, dripping with arousal, off on the tablecloth, eyes locked on Ice.
Next Chapter
#thirsty's fics#fic: stuck in the middle#fic: stuck at the navy ball#chapter 1: under the table#tom iceman kazansky x reader#tom iceman kazansky f!reader#ron slider kerner x reader#ron slider kerner x f!reader#female reader#afab reader#tom iceman kazansky x reader x ron slider kerner#back for another reader sandwich#top gun fanfiction#top gun smut#tom iceman kazansky smut#ron slider kerner smut#the one where mav's sister continues to fuck his rivals-turned-friends#nick goose bradshaw#carole bradshaw#all the flyboys really
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u asked for smutty thoughts abt miguel o'hara? squirting. there's not enough content about him reacting to/making reader squirt and it's honestly a little tragic
oh my god. yes. please. I need this, like right now. we need more of him and squirting, it's not tragic anon...it's a crime!
pairing || miguel o'hara x fem!reader
warnings || smug obviously, squirting, oral (f receiving), Miguel being a menace, overstimulation if you squint
note || send more, I need more of Miguel! that man is a walking sin, please comment/reblog and follow!
BLOGS | WEBSITE | AO3 | WATTPAD | TAGLIST
Pleasure, pleasure was the only thing you could feel. Miguel lapped on your cunt like a starved man, his hands gripping your thighs.
Your hands were threaded into his brown locks, holding onto them for support. He pushed in as deep as possible, concentrating on curling his tongue against your sensitive spot which had your eyes roll into the back of your head.
“You taste amazing, cariño,” he mumbled into your drenched cunt, face glistening with your juice. Miguel pressed his thumb on your bundle of nerves, drawing tight circles.
Wanting to buck your hips up against him but being quickly shut down by the hungry man between your legs, “you stay right here,” he ordered.
A tight knot formed in your body, one you couldn’t quite place as it wasn’t the usual orgasm feeling. No, it felt stranger but still like a feeling that needed relief and just as the thought of relief crossed your mind your juice spilled out against Miguel’s face.
You didn’t react, you didn’t know what had just happened, your mouth was wide open and everything that came from your mouth was a loud moan. The feeling of finally letting go overtaking you.
Miguel looked at you with pure adoration, “mierda,” he groaned, continuing working on your cunt. It was pure heaven for him, you tasted divine to him and he could never get enough.
"Making such a mess for me cariño," he said with a smirk. Your moans had turned into cries and tears streamed down your cheeks. Everything was too much, Miguel didn't stop his movements.
If anything you squirting spurred him on, "Miguel, fuck," you nearly screamed when you felt the feeling again.
Your mind was too hazy to know what you did, you only knew how good it felt. The burning sensation made you tighten your walls around Miguel's tongue. Said man knew exactly what was about to happen again.
Pulling away from your cunt he replaced his tongue with his fingers. Instead his mouth latched onto your thigh, sucking on your skin.
Your whole body twitched, back arching, hands gripping the sheets. God, you couldn't string one thought. Miguel saw it on your face, the way your eyes scrunched together, lips parting to release each cry.
He could swear it was the most beautiful sight he ever saw, but he needed you to squirt again. Needed to taste you once more.
Without hesitation he bit into your thigh, with his sharp fangs. No venom was to come from them, but oh, how you loved the pain they brought you, practically thriving in it.
"Miguel, please, I-," you were never able finish that sentence as your second orgasm washed over you. "Look at you," Miguel whispered as he watched your juice spraying from your cunt. He pushed his mouth back on your cunt, making sure to catch every last drop.
"Yes, yes, make a mess of my face cariño," you couldn't even hear him, your ears felt numb, your body filled with exhaustion, "just like that," he mused, his cock now rock hard from the sight of you.
"I need to make you squirt every time now, cariño," he told you proudly.
You mumbled something that no one could understood, too fucked out by him. However he didn't care, no he hosted you up on his lap. Your sensitive cunt hitting his cock, "god, Miguel." A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, "there is no god cariño, only me and I'm gonna have you squirting till the sun rises."
That was a promise he intended to keep…and did.
and I —
please comment/reblog and follow!
BLOGS | WEBSITE | AO3 | WATTPAD | TAGLIST
#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara smut#miguel spiderverse#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel spiderman#miguel o'hara drabble#miguel o'hara scenarios#miguel o'hara fanfiction#miguel o'hara fic#vee's thirsty 👀✨️
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How good do you think Mizu's mouth skills are?
𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬
𝙈𝙞𝙯𝙪 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙚
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: +𝟭𝟴, 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗻𝗶, 𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗻𝘆 𝘀𝗲𝘅, 𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗹 (𝗿! 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴), 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 (𝗿! 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴), 𝗰𝘂𝗺 𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟱𝟵𝟮
𝐀/𝐍: 𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗯𝘆 𝗺𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗵, 𝗜 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻 𝗰'𝗺𝗼𝗻. 𝗦𝗵𝗲'𝘀 𝗺𝗲𝘀𝘀𝘆. 𝗣𝘂𝘀𝘀𝘆 𝗱𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗸 𝗠𝗶𝘇𝘂?
𝗟𝗲𝘁'𝘀 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘇 𝗜'𝗺 𝗮𝗹𝘀𝗼 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀.
"Feeling good princess?"
Mizu’s cold fingers traced patterns along the outside of your thigh. Head encaged by the soft plush of your legs giving your needy cunt sloppy languid licks. Your hand grasping her hair for leverage, looking below you laid the sword wielder between your legs, mouth agape as heavy breaths leave her lips.
“Course you do, you’ve been waiting for this the whole day, haven’t you?” The sounds of your slick echoed through the walls of the brothel. You silently whimpered, legs opening more and grinding on her face. She groaned, the tip of her tongue protruding against your clenching hole, more slick coming out of your pulsing cunt.
“Didn’t you say you have not tasted a woman?” You squirmed, face flushed from the squelching sounds of your pussy with each slurp of her mouth, “So fucking wet…” she mumbled, gently nipping at your clit, making you let out a shaky moan. As you threw your head back, thighs trembling from her constant stimulation.
“That doesn't mean I don’t know how,”
You groaned, watching as her tongue lapped at your arousal, sliding in between your slick folds. Her hands gripped your thighs tighter, leaving faint red marks, pulling you closer to her mouth as her sapphire eyes stared into yours.
Moaning at the sight, pussy clenching against her tongue, and later around it as she pushed inside, “just like that.” She hummed, going back to your clit to tease it with her tongue. You could see in her half-lidded eyes that she was pussy drunk, lazily and messily lapping at you, eyes closing as she moaned at the taste.
You tugged on her hair, making her hum as she sucked on your clit, slightly shaking her head before pulling away and spitting in between your folds, you whimpered.
She couldn’t even speak, completely lost on your cunt, mind fuzzy. Spreading her drool with her fingers. Your back arched as she pushed her ring and middle finger inside, watching your lips stretch around them to take her. She bit down on her lip, moaning when you whimpered as she stared at your cunt being filled and split open by her fingers.
You were taking her so easily. “Mizu,” you sighed, moaning when her lips were back on your clit, making your thighs shake. You knew you weren’t gonna last, not when she found the spot that had you see stars, curling her fingers to hit it over and over and over again. She knew it too by the way your grip tightened on her hair, hums and whines leaving your lips.
“I’m gonna cum!” you quickly muttered, moaning as she went faster, sucking harder on that little bundle of nerves. She didn’t relent until you were gushing inside her mouth, making her groan in pleasure.
You always tasted so good.
Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, tongue desperately lapping at your cum to swallow it whole. You sighed as she fucked you through it, leaving you a trembling mess on the futon as she pulled her fingers out and sucked them clean, with a bit of strength left you tried to get off of her face, but with a gentle yet firm grip she pulled you back down, arms caging your thighs, as her nose bumped against your clit eliciting a yelp from you.
She anchored you to the moment, refusing to let the intensity fade. Her voice, a sultry whisper, teased the air as she continued, "I'm not done, I'm sure you've got more in you."
#blue eye samurai#mizu brainrot#blue eye samurai x reader#fanfic#mizu blue eye samurai#bes#mizu x reader#mizu x you#fic#request#mizu smut#bes smut#wlw smut#bes x reader#blue eye samurai mizu#bes mizu#mizu#oh wow#thirsty for some action in this economy#the blue eyed samurai#mizu bes#i need her so bad#this is who we are#yeah#this is so real#delusional#pussy drunk#i feel called out
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ANBU Commander Owl from Run With the Hares (Hunt With the Hounds)
#naruto#anbu!sakura#Owl#OC#if this wasn't a kakasaku fic it would be an owl/sakura fic cuz im thirsty
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Thirst/comfort????
How about Luci about to have sex with reader (their first time) and they cant at all relax? They're really tense and shaky because they know its gonna hurt. (Luci comforting reader during the whole thing? i dont know if this counts as a thirst)
-🍊Oranchi🍊
18+ nsfw headcanon // minors do not interact
Omg 😩💕!!!
Lucifer is a caretaker at heart and that extends to the bedroom. Depending on what u want huehue 😏
He knows if it's done right, it shouldn't be that painful. Of course he knows everyone is different but he assures you that he will try to make it the least painful as possible, 'slow and steady' is how it'll be done he tells you when he sees how nervous you are.
He would be so soft and sweet, he loves you and he wouldn't do anything to harm you. He would check in on you frequently through out the whole session. He'd be so gentle, praising you when he can.
"Look at how well you're taking my fingers already."
He'd press soft tender kisses to your face and neck as his warm lubed up fingers gently finger fuck you. He'd murmur a small "we can stop anytime you're uncomfortable my little lamb."
He will make sure you're as comfortable as you can be. After all, and perhaps there's some selfishness here, it'd hurt his pride if you didn't enjoy your first time with him.
"Mm...doing so good. The tip is already in, how are you feeling?" He asks and presses a sweet kiss to your forehead.
"Oh my little lamb wants more? Very well then." ⬦
also someone requested a virgin mc version of this back in june and I've been sitting on it ever since. perhaps I should continue to work on it?🫣
Lucifers part is actually done and idk if I wanna release that by itself or not in case I don't actually finish it... Decisions of an amateur writer. 😔
#the virgin™️ agenda will always be top tier to me ♡#also tbh I consider this a thirst ig bc like it's not a proper fic & more like just...thirsty chatting/hc sharing 😆🥰#if I end up writing something proper from a thirst then it's just a win at that point for the both of us LOL 😭🥳#also hello oranchi welcome!!! 🥰♡♡♡#tysm for this! it got my writer brain going & I always appreciate the hell out of that!! ♡#fuck luci's so daddy to me alskdkglgl#obey me#obey me lucifer#obey me smut#obey me headcanons#obey me lucifer smut#obey me lucifer headcanons#obey me lucifer x reader#obey me lucifer x you#obey me x reader#✩ — the star: 🍊Oranchi🍊!#◇˖・ﾟ— › cosmic obey me . ⊹
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i cannot write diluc as a mean dom or something like this man worships the ground you walk on
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The only SFW(ish) panels of a comic I made about Leo going into mating season~ 👀🤭
Lol This is like 3 thirsty Thursdays put together since I was on medical leave~ Hope you guys like it!! It was super fun to make~
Full 12 pages over on my Patreon~
(These characters are 25+ years old, all of the characters I depict this way are not minors) 💙🐢💙
#landselspicyart#landselcomic#quicksketchfic#thirsty thursday#rottmnt leo#rise tmnt#save rise of the tmnt#rise of tmnt#rottmnt#rise leo#rise of the tmnt#save rottmnt#rottmnt x reader#rottmnt leo x reader#reader x leo#aged up characters#aged up leo#leo x reader#leonardo#ao3 fic
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Strauss asking reader into her office to talk about the tiktoks reader made about Hotch? 🤭
You haven't even greeted the team before Strauss sends you an email, asking you to meet her in her office as soon as you get in. You can't help but feel annoyed at the message, dropping your stuff off in a huff on your desk.
When you knock on her opened door, you see Aaron sitting in one of the chairs across from her, eyebrows raised when he sees you enter. "You wanted to see me?"
Strauss nodded, gesturing to you to come inside. As you shut the door behind you, she continued. "I wanted to talk to you and Agent Hotchner about a few videos you posted that are questionable."
Immediately you know what she's talking about. Glancing at Aaron with fear in your eyes, you saw his lips twitching, fighting back a smile. You don't know whether to be embarrassed and mortified or annoyed he isn't as worried as you.
Clearing your throat, you turned back to your boss's boss, slowly sitting down in the chair next to Aaron. "What videos?"
You see Aaron cover his lips with his hand when Strauss pulls out her laptop, a video you made from your TikTok account on the screen. Without a single word, she hits play and Umbrella fills the office as you lip sync to it with Aaron in the background looking up after a second and a smile forming on his face.
In the caption you've written, "When he's a 6'2", 45-year-old criminal profiler in a suit and tie." while lip-syncing the "Come into me" part of Rihanna's song. When the video ends, you look over at Aaron and see he's expressionless. You start to panic.
"Oh ... That one. I see." you said, inwardly slapping yourself for the answer. Strauss
raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"
"There's more," Strauss replied, ignoring your question as she clicks on another video.
You can't help but cringe as the sound plays very loudly. When the video finishes, she raises an eyebrow. "Now what did you mean when you said 'catch me on that dick tryna ride like a rodeo' with a picture of Agent Hotchner?”
You can't help the awkward laugh that escapes you because despite not knowing if you're in trouble or not, Strauss saying dick made you giggle. "Technically, I didn't say it. It was the song."
"You wrote it in the caption, didn't you?"
“. .. Yeah."
Silence fills the room and before you can ask, she pulls up a video of you filming
Aaron-who was well aware of the video, by the way, with the caption "Him in a beard >>" and the sound of dogs barking as the audio. You hear a nearly inaudible laugh from the man sitting next to you but you don't dare look.
Strauss clicks on another TikTok, but instead of a video, it was photos in a slideshow. You had to bite your tongue when the "Get destroyed or get destroyed" caption showed up along with a picture of Aaron with his tie undone. This was truly the weirdest, most embarrassing, and funniest shit you've gotten in trouble for.
When Strauss doesn't continue showing you videos you made about how hot your boss is—there's so much more, so much that someone might think you're dating—you meet her eyes and give her an apologizing look. "I'm sorry, I didn't know this was against policy."
"It's not," Aaron answers, speaking for the first time since you entered the room. "What did you want to talk to us about, Erin?"
She sighed, closing her laptop. "Aaron, I've told you before, there's no reason to hide this relationship. It's better to tell me what's going on other than have someone else find out and have another sexual harassment meeting again."
"Oh, he and I aren't—" you start to say, gesturing between you and Aaron.
"No, but you'd like to be." Strauss cuts you off, eyes narrowing at Aaron. “There's no policy against coworkers dating but there are rules if you start dating your subordinate."
Aaron nods, glancing briefly at you before speaking. "And what are those rules?"
"You must BCC your emails to each other to someone in HR, and complete the sexual harassment training segment again," she responded.
"Alright," Aaron replies, nodding once again.
You're dumbfounded when she dismisses the both of you, eyes flickering back to Aaron as you walk out of her office. Once you're back at your desk, you turned to him. "Well that was embarrassing.
He snorted. "Not as embarrassing as Bob from HR will be when he reads our emails."
You blinked. "What?"
Aaron smiled, slowly backing up from your desk as he made his way to his office. "We'll have to BCC him in our chats, honey."
#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner fic#criminal minds#reader making tiktoks abt her boss#reader being thirsty af for aaron hotchner
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I AM BEGGING, DROOLING , ON MY KNEES, FOR YALL TO ALSO WRITE FOR CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE PLEASE. I'VE BEEN SURVIVING ON CRUMBS WITH THE FANFICTIONS FOR THE PAST FEW YEARS .
#IM BEGGING YALLS PLSWHFGDAGFA#ALSO KEEP IT COMING WITH THE GHOST X READER FICS <3#captain price#cod mwii#ghost x reader#captain price x reader#lowkey thirsty for them frfr#simon riley x reader#cod mw x reader#cod#john price x reader#soap x reader#john mactavish x reader
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Been listening to Latin music all week (mostly cuban) and I can’t stop imagining Sanji absolutely hypnotizing Zoro as he dances (some ballroom style stuff?)- like his hips and legs just rhythmically moving, fast paced, his hips jutting from side to side and just OOZING confidence and sex appeal when usually he’s just a pathetic little meow meow when he tries to be suave
Zoro absolutely cannot handle how hot the stupid cook is and is definitely not jealous of whoever he’s dancing with and goddamn his legs and ass are just perfectly on display like this and the suit stretches sinfully across his cheeks when he lunges low-
He thinks the fast paced stuff is hard to handle and then it switches to slow and oh no it’s even more sensual and close up, skin to skin, and it brings absolutely inappropriate images of Sanji writhing in very different circumstances in his mind
#zosan#zoro x sanji#zosan thoughts#roronoa zoro#black leg sanji#dancing Sanji just#aaaaa#it would be so hot#if only I had the talent to draw this#it works so perfectly in my head#sorry for the thirsty thoughts lol#Sanji headcanons#one piece zosan#zosan fic idea
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Chapter 3: Behind the Door
Pairing: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron "Slider" Kerner
Summary: Interrupting Iceman.
Word Count: 4100
Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, semi-public sex, fingering
Chapter: 3/4
Minors DNI
Previous Chapter
Slider's head whips around, shoulders drawn tight toward his ears as the crash of the door startles you both.
"Kerner!"
The split-second of terror subsides with that voice.
Ice.
Slider grunts, stubbornly diving back between your thighs. A man on a mission.
"I know you're up here, and I'm giving you to the count of three."
"No," you whimper, hips rocking against Slider's fingers, urging them to work faster. "Don't stop."
"One."
Instead of responding, Slider's breath ghosts over your clit as he presses two fingers into your cunt, curling them to pinpoint your sweet spot and hurtle you toward the edge.
The click of Ice's shoes is loud as he stalks toward you. "Two."
"So good," Slider hums against your slick skin. You squeeze your eyes closed, keening at the praise. "Almost there, baby."
Sli hisses as fingers fist in his short hair and yank him from between your legs.
"Three."
You whimper at the sudden loss of stimulation and the pour of cool night air over heated skin.
Slider has the audacity to flash Ice a smug smile. "Oh," he says as if he hadn't known the two of you were no longer alone. "Hey, Ice."
Pale eyes narrow as if asking Slider if that's the game they're going to play, then Ice pulls a tissue from his pocket and holds it to his RIO. "You've got lipstick on your face."
Slider's tongue peeks out to lick his lips. "That's not the only thing on my face."
Ice doesn't dignify him with a response, only releasing Slider when he stands and steps back to give you enough space for Ice to resettle you—steadying you on your own two feet and smoothing wrinkled velvet before procuring another tissue to help clean up the rouge smudged beyond the bounds of your lips.
Once you're deemed presentable, Ice descends the steps with his hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding you with an insistent tug that makes you feel more like an insolent child than his date. You want to stamp your feet as Ice assures you that he only needs to talk to a couple more officers he wants to speak with before you can get out of there.
Between the forced separation through staggered travel to D.C. and the night's two encounters—both of which had taken you to the very edge before leaving you high and dry—you're at your limit. So, to say you aren't paying attention to the conversation is an understatement. How are you supposed to pay attention to anything when you're oscillating between the jitters of unsated arousal and lightly filtered frustration?
Because who the hell does he think he is—do they think they are—to draw you into their little macho pissing contest? It's a wonder Iceman and Slider can both fit into the cockpit with their egos so blown out of proportion.
What should it matter in the end? They know you're going home with both of them.
Not that you get to say any of this. Instead, you're left to stew with empty eyes, a pinched smile, and a clenched fist at Ice's side as he makes a good impression on a commander. You're scraping the barrel with each half-hearted laugh at the officer's dull jokes, the Brut in your glass swirling between your fingers untouched. Each shift of your legs brings you closer to angry tears as the spit between them turns tacky, the microabrasions from Slider's stubble smarts reminding you of your lack of undergarment and the dissatisfied, borderline painful feeling of emptiness.
But it'll be a cold day in hell before you let any tears fall. You have your own pride to manage, and besides, no one wants to mingle with the serviceman whose date's eyes burn a tear-stung red.
"How much longer?" you ask Ice once the commander leaves.
Ice gives you an assessing look, eyebrows pulled down, and his head lightly tilted. You can't tell if he feels bad about what he's putting you through or is confused by your shortness of tone. "Impatient?"
You scoff, barely repressing the urge to cross your arms. Instead, you take a sip of your Brut, nose wrinkling as it bursts bitter across your tongue. "Whatever," you huff, done with the conversation and resigning yourself to more of the same. Ice had said there were "a couple" officers he wanted to talk with, after all.
Ice draws a deep breath in through his nose; lips pursed as he looks up to the ceiling. You know he's looking for the right words. You're still determining what those words would be. You know for a fact he won't find them painted on the ceiling.
Lucky for you—because you're not done being upset with him yet—Ice can't pinpoint what he's looking for before you're interrupted.
"Woah!" a familiar blonde excuses, bumbling into Ice and nearly spilling his beer on matching whites. "Sorry about that, still got my sea le– oh! Ice, hey!" Excuse dropped as a beamish grin overtakes Wolfman's face, cheeks tinged pink with drink.
"Wolf," you giggle as Wolf pulls you into a better mood with a friendly hug. It's hard to be all doom and gloom when Wolf's involved; he's a veritable ray of sunshine. "Where's 'Wood?"
"Pfft," he snorts. "Where's anyone? I mean, 'Wood's somewhere with his girl, but one minute I'm with Sli and Chip, the next Sli's gone and Chip's found himself a pretty little thing to dance with." He shrugs, not looking too plussed about his situation.
"I'll dance with you, Wolfie," you jump to offer. "Ice is being boring anyway."
Ice frowns. Wolf laughs. "Who am I to say no to a lady?" he asks, pulling you into an off-kilter twirl. "Don't worry, Ice, she's in good hands!" he calls over his shoulder as you practically drag him toward the dancefloor.
What Wolfman lacks in prowess, he makes up for in enthusiasm. By the time Hollywood and his fiancée find the two of you on the dancefloor—not a surprise since 'Wood and Wolf are practically connected at the hip—you're a little breathless from trying to keep up.
It's a good time, but you can only be so distracted, and it's only a matter of time before you begin scanning the crowd. Either you'll find Slider, or he'll find you, but you'll be damned if he doesn't finish what he started.
You know Ice has people he wants to impress and a ladder he's trying to climb, but shouldn't you be at the top of his list? With this thought at the helm, it isn't long before you spot a head of brown curls that towers above the rest. You rock onto your tiptoes to feed Wolf a lie—bathroom—and push through the crowd alone.
Except as you get closer, it becomes glaringly apparent that this tall brunet is not Slider.
You scowl at no one in particular when you come up empty-handed.
As you decide to keep searching until you find Slider—and, ultimately, relief—someone grabs you from behind.
You whirl around, ready to smack the person's hands off of you.
It's Pete.
You smack him anyway.
"Ow!" Pete yelps, more from surprise than pain. You didn't hit him that hard. "What the hell?!"
"Pete Mitchell, who do you think you are grabbing a lady–"
"You're hardly a lady."
"–from behind like that. You almost gave me a heart attack!"
Pete disarms you with a light pinch to your side that has you clamping your arms against your sides to protect against further tickling. "Where're Tweedledee and Tweedledum? Didn't think I'd catch you without one or the other."
You suppress a roll of your eyes. "Who knows."
"Sooo," Pete drawls a bit awkwardly, "does this have anything to do with the weirdness going on between the three of you?"
"Oh my god. You know," you groan, unable to stop yourself from hiding your face in your hands. How embarrassing.
"I don't know-know," Pete's quick to correct, "and I don't want to. But I know something's up."
This isn't something you're delving into with your brother. "It's nothing. Forget it."
"Doesn't seem like nothing if you're avoiding them."
"Like you're avoiding Penny's dad?" you snark back. Deflecting. "I'm surprised you decided to stick around."
"He's old. It's probably past his bedtime," Pete says confidently, a smile tugging at his lips. "The night's mine."
"Whatever will you do with this newfound freedom?" you tease.
Pete gives a half-shrug, surveying the room. "I'm sure some poor officer brought his daughter so she could meet the love of her life."
You don't bother holding in a mocking laugh. "And that's you?"
"No." Pete makes a face. "But I can be her something for the night."
"Ew," you grunt because you so do not want to get into that with your brother. "I need a drink."
A hand catches your elbow as you turn. "Going somewhere?"
You refuse to look as you shake Ice's hand off and continue walking.
"So you're going to ignore me." It's a statement.
"Don't you have other people to talk to?"
Ice reaches for your elbow again, turning you so he can meet your eyes with his own. "I want to talk to you."
"That's my cue," Pete mumbles as he slinks into the crowd, presumably to find trouble.
Neither you nor Ice move, and your stomach roils as his jaw sets, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You're mad at me."
Part of you wants to tell him off. Instead, you shake your head. "I'm not mad. I'm frustrated."
"Okay," Ice says, with a curt nod, his shoulders—which had been bunched—rolling back as he becomes more sure of himself. "I can work with that."
Something about the way he says it rankles you, and you sneer. Earlier, you'd been all aboard hanging off Ice's arm, but now you're wound tight enough to burst, and all you want to do is take a hot bath. And now that he's made you this way, you're something that needs to be dealt with.
"Let's grab some fresh air," Ice says, loud enough to settle any eavesdroppers as he leads you toward the outdoor courtyard with a gentle but commanding grasp on your elbow.
But you pass by the turn for the courtyard.
"Where are you taking me?" The smell of cigar smoke thins as you walk along less-traveled hallways.
"I'm taking care of it," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and continues to drag you after him.
Venturing further from the intended party spaces, the lights dim. You doubt the venue means for you to be down here.
Instead of voicing these thoughts, you scoff. "Helpful."
Making sure you're alone, Ice pulls you down a deserted hallway. "You're frustrated. I have people to talk to," he says slowly, sparing you a glance.
You frown. There goes Ice, talking about other people. Again.
He beelines for two unassuming doors, reaching out to the first, but its handle jiggles. Catches. Locked.
"I'm taking care of it."
Before you can challenge that assertion, Ice steps to the side and grabs the handle to the second door, marked STAFF ONLY.
It clicks.
Ice pushes you inside, following close behind.
The light coming through the foot of the door isn't enough to tell you where you are. But the clinical, electric-orange antiseptic smell of cleaning supplies invading your nose, singeing the hairs, is more than enough to give it away.
When you cross your arms over your chest, something falls to the ground with a wooden clack! "By dragging me into a janitor's closet?"
"Well, you said you'd be good for me, but that didn't last long."
You reach for where the handle must be, but Ice anticipates your moodiness and moves to intercept, deflecting your hand. "But the bet was that Slider couldn't get you off." His breath fans your face as he leans in, so you tilt your head away to avoid his lips. Stubborn. Undeterred, he kisses the long line of your neck, and the ghost of soft lips has you holding back a gasp. "So I'm taking care of it."
"What if it doesn't want to be taken care of?"
Sharp teeth are a shock beneath the hinge of your jaw. "Don't be a brat."
A strangled moan trips past your lips as he catches you off guard.
You don't have to see Ice to know he's smirking. "Noted." Then his hand is cupping your breast. "So, are you going to let me take care of you or not?"
You're not proud of how quickly you crumble, but it's like a switch flips. You hope Ice is okay with the whiplash because after an entire night of teasing, you're desperate for relief. "Please," you whimper, pushing yourself further into his orbit. You want so bad it hurts.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. I've got you." Ice captures your lips in a heated kiss—nipping at your bottom lip so you hiss and open up for him. He knows what you need, and he's (apparently) going to give it to you.
Your fingers, clumsy in their haste, scramble for Ice's belt, but he brushes them aside. "This is about you. I'll get mine later," he says, tilting your head to the side so he can track wet kisses up to the spot just below your ear, electricity sparking down your spine as teeth tug at the lobe. "When I lay you out on my bed."
A high-pitched, excited moan is your answer, interrupted by Ice's fingers over your lips. "You've gotta be quiet," he purrs, voice low in your ear. "Wouldn't want anyone to hear us."
"Then kiss me." He does. And as you breathe in deep, the whole situation makes you feel like you're back in high school: shelving digging into your lower back like you're sneaking around, trading uncoordinated kisses in the janitor's closet with David Hodges until your brother finds you and rips poor David away for an ass-beating. But infinitely better.
Ice's lips are familiar. Urgent and addictive against your own as he swallows your whimper—nothing like David.
Ice pinches your fat bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it with a slick smack. You suck in a sharp breath, lashes fluttering open to look up at the shadow of him in the dark. "So pretty," he growls, fabric rustling as he hastily cuffs the sleeve of his jacket and pushes it up to his elbow to keep it safe from what he has planned.
Handfuls of velvet are bunched around your waist so you can spread your legs more freely, and Ice can slot his hand between them.
Threading your fingers through his hair, you return his lips to yours. You both groan from the kiss—you from the relief of his hands on you, the promise of a sweet release; him from how wet and needy you are (Slider's work, really, but Ice seems keen to reap the benefits).
When you break apart to gasp for air, Ice husks, "I'd get my mouth on you." And it conjures the image of Slider's wicked brown eyes looking up at you from between your legs, your cunt throbs. God, you want that. "Too bad I can't smell like pussy while I'm talking to the brass." But he allows himself the indulgence of a single taste, bringing fingers slick with your arousal to his lips.
You shake your head, unsure if his eyes have adjusted enough to see you. "Unprofessional," you agree, dizzy as his fingers plunge back into your heat. The heel of his palm grinds deliciously against your clit, his fingers working with the frantic cant of your hips as you chase a high that's walking the line of pain in its evasion of you. A steady, unignorable ache.
Ice drags his nails over the dense fabric covering your tits, your nipples pebbling at the faux cool sensation. "Tell me what you need," he whispers against your lips.
Relief is so close the air is thick with it. It tastes like Lysol. You stutter out a breath, and it morphs into a quiet whine. "Just like that," you mewl. "Keep touching me like that."
"Yeah?" Ice teases, a third finger sneaking into you and zeroing in on your sweet spot, thumb coming up to rub circles into your clit. What little light there is in the closet glints off the sharp point of his teeth as his lips part. "You're going to cum on my fingers," he declares, and your heart skips a beat when it jumps into your throat. "Then, you're going to go back to being my good, pretty girlfriend while I talk business," he presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your lips, and you can't contain a needy, lilting whine, "and no one will know you needed to cum on my fingers just to make it through the night."
"Oh god," you sob, nails digging into the starched fabric of Ice's jacket. You're right there. Liquid flames lick at your core, your tummy tied in knots and thighs jumpy as Ice speeds up his fingers, a muffled squelch each time his fingers bottom out, knuckles pressed tight to your cunt.
The two of you are so distracted that you don't hear the frantic footsteps until they're almost on top of you.
Ice jerks his fingers from you, yanking your dress back into place at the same time as he steps between you and the door to the closet, blocking you from whoever's about to fling the door open.
But it doesn't stop your eyes from meeting your brother's over his shoulder.
Pete slams the door shut.
Silence. Then: "You still dressed?"
Posture going rigid, Ice shoots the door a barbed look. "Maverick–" Pete shushes him through the door. He must be pressed up against the wood. Ice gives in but doesn't give up, continuing with a more hushed, "–what the hell?"
A pause. "That's not a no," your brother mulls. "Scoot over. I'm coming in."
"No!" You and Ice hiss simultaneously, but Pete is already squeezing himself into the closet with the two of you, pressed tight against Ice's back as he shuts the door firmly but with as much care as he gives his Kawasaki.
"Look," Pete whispers, and maybe his hands would be up in a placating manner if there were enough room, "I either hide in here with you two or hack it out there with Admiral Benjamin."
Without the distraction of each other, you and Ice hear far more measured footsteps hesitate at the far end of the hall before heading in your direction.
"I like your chances," Ice bites. "Leave."
Pete jostles all three of you as he turns to get into Ice's face as much as he can, given the confines of the closet. A shelf creaks, but nothing falls. "Well, it won't look good on you either," he whispers furiously. "Huh? Ice-cold, no mistakes, making out with your date in a closet like you're at junior pr–" Ice slaps a hand over his mouth, and the three of you fall deathly still.
The tension thickens until the footsteps pass you by.
No one dares to let out a quiet, adrenaline-shaken breath, even when the footsteps sound like they must have reached the other end of the hallway. Pete does, however, allow his shoulders to sag in relief.
Then, the footsteps pause.
They grow closer—louder—once more. This time, the muffled chaf of dress shoes on the carpet sounds like it's purposefully approaching the closet. Each step ratchets the tension up exponentially. You hold still, certain that if you shift your weight, something on the open shelving will give away your location. Ice, still shielding you from the door, brings a hand up to pet the back of your neck; the cool metal of his Academy ring—grounding any other time—sends a nervous trickle down your spine.
Benjamin is obviously after Pete, but how bad will it look that the two of you are in the closet with him?
There's a mechanical squeal of metal catching, handle turning, getting stuck. Jiggle. A grunt as he encounters the locking mechanism of the next door over.
Two shadows block the ambient light at the bottom of the door.
Well, you pinch your eyes closed. This will be embarrassing.
"Admiral Benjamin," someone calls from further away.
"Ah," the response comes uncomfortably close to your door. "Lieutenant…?"
"Kerner, sir." Slider. "I was with Lieutenant Kazansky earlier. Did you ever find Mitchell?
Two quick raps on the door. Pete flinches. "I believe I have." And Admiral Benjamin sounds smug.
The statement hangs in the air.
"In a closet, sir?" You can see the skeptical raise of Slider's brow in your mind's eye.
The shadow shifts. "I'm sure he came this way."
"Well, I just saw his RIO headed toward the taxis." A pause. "He's a slippery little shit. If he was here, he's long gone by now."
"Hm." Admiral Benjamin doesn't move, but from the sound of things, neither does Slider. "Well, Lieutenant. Really good stuff on the Enterprise."
Slider thanks him as the shadows disappear from the doorway and footsteps hurry off on a Goose chase.
When you're sure the admiral has left the vicinity—thankfully not asking Slider why he decided to stick around—Pete stumbles out of the closet with all the grace of a baby giraffe but none of the height. "Aw, Kerner," he teases with a dopey grin, "you do like me."
Slider snorts. "Don't thank me yet. The Geese are waiting for a taxi."
Pete's chin falls to his chest, and he mumbles a "goddammit" before hurrying to see if he can avoid Admiral Benjamin by sneaking through the courtyard.
"They're not the only ones," Slider tells Ice, nodding in the general direction of what remains of the Ball's attendees. "If you want to talk to anyone else, now's the time."
But as you practically tremble between them, Ice looks at you—really looks at you—and his features soften. He cups your shoulder, offering but not pulling you into his side. "I think I've networked enough for one night," he declares, tone light. His thumb rubbing back and forth, soothing.
Then those gray-blue eyes are on you, and his lips stretch into a slow, soft smile. "No one I can't talk with some other time."
"You sure?" Slider asks. Then, hushed, "I can take care of her while you finish up."
There is quite literally nothing you want less. The venue is clearly cursed, and you don't plan on sticking around long enough to find out what other ways you can get caught or edged tonight.
"The bet's off," Ice states before you can say 'no,' and your heart flutters. If Ice wasn't going to stick around for one last round of shoulder-rubbing, then winning was only a matter of getting you in a taxi.
For his part, Slider doesn't seem as shocked as you are by Ice's declaration.
Ice feathers a kiss to your temple before you can second-guess his decision. It's the most relaxed you've seen him all evening. "Let's get you a taxi."
"Wait." Slider pushes off the wall. He procures a key from his pocket and presses it into Ice's hand. "Holiday Inn. K Street. Leave in 10 minutes."
Ice fiddles with the thick plastic of the keychain but pays it no real mind.
"Don't give me that look," Slider boos.
Ice licks his lips. "You know our rooms were comped, right?" It's a perk of being summoned to the event, you're sure.
Slider takes a half step forward, the three of you the closest you've been all night. From this distance, Ice has to look up ever so slightly to meet Slider's cocky gaze. "You want to what?" he asks, voice going deep and quiet enough no one else could hear if they happened by you. "Pile into a single room at the same hotel everyone else is staying at?" He motions between the three of you. "How's that going to work?"
Some like to write Slider off as all muscle, no brain. But it's his job to see things others don't—things Ice doesn't. He knew they couldn't take you back to their fancy hotel rooms even before he came to the event tonight. The safest solution had been to shell out for a lesser room somewhere you were less likely to turn heads.
"She isn't exactly known for being quiet," Sli stresses.
Ice ponders the key for long seconds before he pockets it with a nod.
Slider smirks. "That's what I thought."
#thirsty's fics#fic: stuck in the. middle#fic: stuck at the navy ball#chapter 3: behind the door#tom iceman kazansky x reader#tom iceman kazansky x f!reader#ron slider kerner x reader#ron slider kerner x f!reader#female reader#tom iceman kazansky x reader x ron slider kerner#top gun smut#tom iceman kazansky smut#ron slider kerner smut#the '86 flyboys#because is fucking your rival-turned-friend's sister even fun if you don't have to be over-the-top sneaky about it?
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Thirsty Thursday - Family Video
steddie, omegaverse, mdni 🔞
Eddie’s putzing around in the horror section at Family Video when the bell over the door jingles. He glances without thinking, shocked to see Robin Buckley lead Steve Harrington inside.
He’s nosy, wants to know what the hell is up with that. But he also doesn’t want to attract Keith’s attention. Eddie’s taking his time to hang in the A/C as long as possible, nearly an hour already.
Not that Buckley is capable of being quiet, so he hears plenty.
How they’re job hunting and how Robin probably knows more about film than Keith does. How Steve Fuckin’ Harrington likes Return of the Jedi! Even if he can’t remember the title and calls ewoks teddy bears.
Color Eddie surprised.
Add in Steve’s bright, colorblocked outfit and his swoopy hair, the way he absolutely takes out the Fast Times promotional standee and hurries to fix it, resume in his mouth like an enthusiastic labrador retriever.
Embarrassingly, Eddie realizes he’s been pumping out his campfire and marshmallow scent, too charmed to lock down his sudden interest, subconsciously trying to draw in the stupidly endearing omega.
He figures he should go before he actually catches any attention, dipping around the counter and out the door, but not before he hears Buckley and Harrington get hired on the spot.
It’s easy enough for Eddie to memorize Steve’s schedule, only going to rent movies while he’s working. Sometimes he drags the guys with him, or maybe just Jeff, giving more cover to surreptitiously stare at the moles on Steve’s neck.
“You aren’t being nearly as sneaky as you think,” Jeff mutters on more than one occasion . “Just go talk to him.”
“Can’t.” Eddie keeps Jeff between himself and the counter, eyes on the slasher movies like he’s agonizing over his decision.
“Why not?”
“Cuz I’ll say something stupid like, ‘Please, sit on my face, I wanna drown in your pussy.’ That’s why,” Eddie whispers, risking a glance towards Steve.
“What? Seriously!”
“Have you seen what a mess he is now? And add in that apple pie scent—my mouth is watering and my dick is—”
“Christ! I’m sorry I asked. But I still think you should talk to him.” Jeff turns his attention to the shelf in front of them. “Nightmare on Elm Street?” he asks, reaching for the case.
“Yeah…” Then Eddie stares as Jeff brings the tape up to the counter, his best friend effortlessly making small talk and laughing as he rents the movie. Like a coward, Eddie hurries out of the video store, waiting for Jeff in his van.
When Eddie goes to return the tape the next day, he’s surprised when Steve looks at Robin and says, “I’m going on my break,” even as he accepts the tape from Eddie, their fingers brushing.
“Yeah, whatever,” Robin answers, flipping through a magazine.
Broad fingers wrap around Eddie’s wrist and drag him back to the Family Video break room past the “Employees Only” sign.
Steve smiles at him as he closes the door behind them. “Sorry. Just got tired of waiting for you to make a move.”
“What?” Eddie has never known Steve Harrington to be the kind of omega who waits for an alpha.
“You aren’t doing a very good job of controlling your scent.”
Eddie gulps, cheeks heating.
“And your friend said you were super into me, which… Yeah, definitely picked up on that.”
Nodding, Eddie waits for his tongue to untie, pretty sure he’s gonna die first when Steve steps closer, presses his hand to Eddie’s chest. “You surprised me,” he manages to say.
“Sorry about that.” Steve doesn’t look sorry at all as he leans in, sniffs at Eddie’s neck. “I’m too used to Robin, bad at personal space with pack.”
“Not what I meant—the ewoks—I mean. Shit. Wait.” Eddie closes his eyes, Steve’s scent filling his nose and making him warm. He smells safe. Familiar.
“Yes?” Steve murmurs, hand moving up to touch the skin above the collar of Eddie’s shirt.
“Not pack, what do you mean bad at personal space with pack?”
“Can tell you should be pack.” He nuzzles at Eddie’s cheek and whispers, “Want to be your pack.”
Eddie gives into his instincts then, whining and holding Steve’s face still, bringing their mouths together. He has no idea what he’s doing, but Steve clearly does as he gentles the kiss, grinning as he pulls away.
“My shift ends at seven. Meet me at my place at seven-thirty.”
Eddie nods. “Uh-huh, yep, whatever you say.”
Steve glances up at the clock. “But we’ve still got six minutes before my break ends, and you need to practice,” he teases, pulling Eddie back in for another kiss.
#steddie#omegaverse#ficlet#alpha eddie munson#omega steve harrington#thirsty thursday#stranger things fic
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𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬
𝗠𝗶𝘇𝘂 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝗶𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗶𝘇𝘂, 𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝗗:
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟮.𝟭𝗸
𝐀/𝐍: 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀
"I pray for the day you’d finally choose someone else to treat you. "
The man's eyes lingered on you for a while, he let out a sigh and took a seat on a rock by the river’s shore facing you. A grunt came out of his pale lips from the sting of his wound, breath wavering "Shouldn’t you be doing the opposite? You would go out of business without me."
You stood there, contemplating. Whether to help this man or not, he seemed capable enough but the wound seemed to look like it needed stitches. Without a word, you neared the swordsman with careful steps. Pulling out your handkerchief from your kimono, dipping it in the warm waters of the lake, squeezing out excess water as you kneeled beside him.
"May I?" head tilting up to look at him to which you noticed more details about the samurais' appearance. An angular yet soft face, straight brows, and heart-shaped lips. The swordsman hummed turning his head away from you and his wounded shoulder. Slender yet calloused fingers grasped the hem of his yukata and slid it off of one side.
The air around you felt heavy with unspoken words, and as you worked on his injury, you couldn't help but wonder about the man in front of you. How did he end up like this? What battles had he fought, and what demons was he running from? But those questions lingered in the back of your mind, overshadowed by the more immediate task at hand.
“We’ve been crossing paths quite too coincidently, and I must ask, where you are headed?”
Silently grimacing at the sight. With hesitation, you carefully tried to dab the cloth around the wound. The swordsman flinched instantly and went to constrict your frail hand from disinfecting the gash, the other squeezing the side of your hip in an attempt to push you back "Aghh!" he seethed, licking his chapped lips, glaring at you.
"I'm sorry that was not meant to hurt."
You pulled your hand away, maintaining a composed expression despite the sharp pain in your hand. His grip loosened on your hip, and you resumed cleaning the wound, this time with even more caution. The tension in the air lingered as you worked, the only sound being the soft lapping of the river against the rocks.
"Your apology doesn't mend my wound," he muttered through gritted teeth. "But I appreciate the effort."
You continued your task, skillfully cleaning the wound and examining it closely. The gash was deep, and stitches were indeed necessary. You glanced at the swordsman who had been observing the entire scene with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
Their gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his eyes clouded with a distant intensity. "I'm headed to fill a vow," he finally replied, his voice carrying a weight that mirrored the burdens etched into his features. "A man that I’ve sworn to kill."
Your hands paused in their ministrations, the gravity of his words settling over the scene like a sudden storm. The air grew thicker, and the gentle rustle of leaves seemed to hold its breath. You met his gaze once more, the flicker of the river reflecting the turmoil within his eyes.
"A vow to kill?" you echoed, the words hanging in the air, heavy and pregnant with the weight of untold stories. The swordsman's jaw tightened, a subtle nod confirming the gravity of his quest. "He's taken everything from me," he continued, his voice low, a storm of emotions hidden beneath the calm facade.
The river's current seemed to echo the turbulence within his soul, a silent witness to the pain that fueled his journey. In that moment, understanding evolved into a dance with the shadows of his past.
"Vows can be shackles," you mused, breaking the silence that stretched between you. "But they can also be the flame that guides you through the darkest nights." The swordsman's gaze flickered, a subtle acknowledgement of the truth embedded in your words. The river murmured in agreement, its rhythmic flow a backdrop to the shared understanding that wove its threads through the night.
The revelation hung in the air like the heavy mist rising from the river, a revelation that shifted the atmosphere between you. The weight of your words settled over the landscape, casting a shadow that stretched across the rocks and water, intertwining with the encroaching darkness of the night.
"What drives a person to such extremes?" Eyes met his, searching for the story etched in the lines of his face.
The wielder's gaze held yours, a mixture of determination and a weariness that seemed to transcend time. "Betrayal," he spoke, voice a low murmur, as if revealing a secret that had long been guarded. "A betrayal that carved scars into my soul. I made a promise."
The revelation echoed in the quiet night, the river's soft lapping against the shore forming a backdrop to the swordsman's tale. His wounds, physical and otherwise, became more apparent in the dimming light. As you absorbed his story, a realization dawned - his journey was not merely one of aimless wandering, but a quest fueled by a profound purpose.
The silence that followed was pregnant with unspoken empathy. You contemplated the weight of his words, the burden he carried, and the path he had chosen. The makeshift bandage you had prepped seemed insufficient, not just for the gash on his shoulder, but for the wounds that lay hidden beneath the surface.
"Why carry this burden alone?" you questioned, your words soft but earnest. "There's strength in shared struggles, in the companionship of those who understand."
The swordsman's brows furrowed, as their eyes flickered a vulnerability surfacing once again. For a moment, it seemed as though the walls he had built around himself wavered, allowing a glimpse of the person beneath the stoic exterior. "I've walked this path for so long," he admitted, "that it became easier to carry the weight alone."
You listened in silence, the stillness of the night amplifying the weight of his story. You gently placed a hand on his uninjured shoulder, offering a wordless gesture of understanding. The swordsman's gaze shifted from the horizon to you.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked, a note of vulnerability cutting through the layers of his stoic demeanour. "I've walked this path on my own accord, but tonight, you chose to ease my burden. Why?"
Eyes holding a quiet resolve. "Because vengeance can consume the soul, and sometimes, a moment of respite is needed," you replied, words carrying wisdom that transcended the simplicity of their arrangement.
Your gaze met his briefly before returning to your work. "I may pray for you to find someone else to treat you, but that doesn't mean I'd leave a man to bleed out."
The swordsman chuckled, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured shoulder. "Quite the contradiction, aren't you?"
"I prefer to think of it as balance," you replied, finally satisfied with the wound's cleanliness. "Now, let's get those stitches in place, and wrap it up."
Without a word, you resumed your task, the man watched as you skillfully threaded the needle, your hands steady despite the tension in the air. While you worked, the swordsman winced occasionally, but he didn't protest. His wound now carries a weighty significance. Once the last stitch was in place, you leaned back, wiping your hands on the damp handkerchief.
The swordsman flexed his shoulder experimentally, a hint of relief crossing his face. After wrapping the makeshift bandage on his injury. Each fold of the fabric became a silent promise, a pledge to stand beside him in the face of the darkness that clung to his every step. The night deepened, and the stars overhead bore witness to the quiet exchange unfolding between you.
"Balance," the swordsman mused, his gaze drifting towards the stars as if seeking answers in their distant glimmer. "A rare concept in a world that often feels tipped towards chaos."
You nodded, your eyes following his to the celestial tapestry above. "Sometimes, balance is found in unexpected alliances and moments of kindness," you remarked, the rustling leaves and the distant hoot of an owl providing a natural backdrop to your words.
The swordsman's gaze lingered, contemplating the truth in your words. It was a truth he had seldom encountered on his solitary journey of vengeance—a journey marked by blood, betrayal, and a relentless pursuit of satisfaction.
"You're not like most people I've met," he confessed, his eyes returning to you, seeking a glimpse into the enigma you presented. "Most would either turn away or try to exploit my vulnerabilities."
A small smile touched your lips, the moonlight catching the subtle curve. "Perhaps, I see something beyond the surface. We all carry wounds, visible or not. Sometimes, a shared burden makes the journey a little less lonely."
The swordsman's gaze held yours, a silent acknowledgement passing between you. The night, now draped in a velvety darkness, seemed to hold its breath as the unspoken connection deepened.
"Thank you," the swordsman said, gratitude layered in his voice like the petals of a blooming flower. "I didn't expect to find this on my path."
With a hum and quiet understanding. "Paths have a way of converging when least expected. Perhaps, this encounter is a reminder that even in the pursuit of vengeance, there's room for compassion and shared moments of relief."
The night pressed on, and the river's gentle murmur accompanied the shared silence between you two. Companionship, ignited by a chance encounter by the river, continued to glow, casting a comforting light on the uncertain road ahead. The swordsman, his wound tended to and burdens shared, found himself tethered to a presence that promised more than mere stitches—it promised a companion on the winding journey that lay ahead.
You looked up at Mizu with a playful glint in your eyes. "Well, now that I've saved your life and mended your wounds, I suppose you owe me a favour or two."
Mizu raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips despite the lingering soreness in his shoulder. "Oh, is that how it works? I didn't realize healing came with a price." The sword wielder chuckled, a hint of warmth softening his stoic features. "I suppose I do. A debt of gratitude, and a pair of nimble hands with a needle."
"Ah, yes, the nimble hands that saved you from bleeding out. Quite the valuable asset, wouldn't you say?" you retorted, a playful smirk gracing your lips. Mizu's gaze met yours, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
"A healer with such a sharp tongue. It's a rare combination."
"Well, one must keep things interesting, especially when dealing with brooding swordsmen on a quest for vengeance," you replied, feigning an air of nonchalance.
The tension from earlier dissipated like morning mist. "I suppose I should be grateful for the unexpected twists on this journey."
"Gratitude suits you. Perhaps it will become a regular companion on your quest," you quipped, a playful glimmer in your eyes.
Mizu raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "So you say? I'll have to get used to it, then."
You chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "Consider it a down payment for future rescues. Who knows when you'll need another skilled healer by your side?" Leaning back on the rock, his gaze meeting yours. “Fair enough. But I hope your future rescues involve less blood and more pleasant conversations.”
You grinned, the moonlight catching the mischievous glint in your eyes. "I cannot promise that maybe just some casual chatter and tea." Mizu scoffed, the tension of the night dissipating in the warmth of the moment. "Tea sounds good. I could use a break from the constant clash of swords and the sting of wounds."
As the night embraced its darkest hours, a playful smirk graced your lips. "Trouble seems to have a way of finding you. Maybe it's time you start offering it some tea instead of drawing your sword."
"Tea might perhaps be the key to resolving conflicts. A cup of tea and a good conversation."
"Who knows," you replied, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Maybe you'll find your sworn enemy sipping tea at a local tea house, and you can settle your differences over a matcha ceremony instead of a duel."
The swordsman shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "A novel approach, but I doubt my sworn enemy has a taste for tea."
"Well, then," you said, rising from your spot by the river. "We'll just have to introduce him to the finer things in life. A well-brewed tea might just be the key to unlocking a truce."
Mizu followed suit, the night now alive with the shared promise of an unexpected encounter. The moonlit path ahead seemed less daunting, and the weight of vows and vendettas felt momentarily lifted.
And maybe that tea ceremony would come sooner than expected.
#blue eye samurai#mizu brainrot#blue eye samurai x reader#fanfic#mizu blue eye samurai#mizu x reader#mizu x you#bes#fic#series#slow burn#banter#thirsty for some action in this economy#fluff#comfort#writing#bes mizu#bes x reader#blue eye samurai fanart#bes x you#mizu bes#medic reader#mizu blue eye samurai x reader#i want this#i need#let me free from my confines#balling my eyes out#look at her#she is so pretty#shaking crying throwing up
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whipped | lee jihoon
yo yo yo whassup i wrote this cute lil woozi fic bc hes so adorable and i'm in love with him
ceo!jihoon x fem!reader
warnings: mingyu literally gets hit by a car (he's fine lmao), jihoon is the cutest cutie known to man, reader is high-key whipped for him AS THEY SHOULD BE, idk if there's anything else pls lmk
You knew him first as the businessman who sat by the outside gate of the busy coffee shop on the corner of the street, sipping a hot cocoa while reading the paper. You got off the bus one ordinary day to see him looking at you -- dark eyes bright with curiosity, soft black hair blown back by the slight breeze, a broad hand on the handle of the mug. His cheeks turned red with embarrassment at being caught — and you were surprised at how endearing a man wearing a serious black suit could look.
And then a biker and a driver ran smack into each other in front of you, disrupting your eye contact.
You gasped and dashed across the street, kneeling beside the crumpled biker. He was a handsome young man, and you were relieved to see his eyes open, though dazed, and that he wasn’t bleeding anywhere.
You heard running footsteps, and then a curse under someone’s breath. Looking up, you saw him — small in stature, but large in presence, looking torn between hysterical laughter and worry. “Ah, Mingyu,” he groaned, the humor in his voice evident. “Again?”
“Sorry,” the biker said, rolling gingerly to a sitting position. “I’m not hurt.”
“You’re lucky,” you told him, helping him to his feet.
“Thanks,” said the biker, dusting himself off. He stood a head and shoulders above his friend, and was dressed a lot more casually, but he had a contagious smile and eyes that had an air of puppy-like excitement as they looked down at you and the businessman, who pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
“Were you looking where you were going?” the shorter man asked, looking up at his friend as though determined to be stern, fighting a laugh.
“I got distracted by something pretty,” he admits, looking down at you.
That was the last straw. The shorter man burst into laughter — an unbelievably adorable giggle that made your heart thump in your throat. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said through laughter.
“Thanks for being worried about me,” Mingyu said easily, patting your shoulder. “I’ll be okay now. Let’s go, Jihoon.”
And that was the next thing you knew him as — Lee Jihoon. It was a bit awkward when you followed them into the coffee shop, which had been your plan before Mingyu had been hit by a car. “Oh, you’re ordering?” Mingyu said to you. “Why don’t you sit with us?”
Involuntarily, you glanced at Jihoon. His dark eyes were still starry with curiosity, and you felt a rush of blood to your cheeks. “I don’t want to impose,” you said to them.
“Nonsense,” Jihoon said gently, addressing you for the first time. “Of course you should sit by us. Have whatever you like. I’ll pay.”
“No -“ you began to protest, but Jihoon shot you a look.
“I’ll pay,” he restated firmly, pulling a wallet out of his pocket.
The next hour had been surprisingly enjoyable. Mingyu was an eager, interested, engaging kind of person — but his companion intrigued you infinitely more. While Mingyu asked you questions about your background and family, Jihoon kept his eyes on you, listening and smiling but rarely interjecting.
You remembered how shocked he was when you had asked him questions about himself. At first, his answers were short and simple, but you found yourself asking follow up question after follow up question — perhaps to try and discover what it was about him that had captivated you so — and he slowly became more open. He shared about his family, his childhood, even his career as the owner of a successful music label. With every word, you became more endeared. Thoughtful, grounded, mature, but with a playful side hidden sometimes just in the corner of his grin or the light in his eyes, Jihoon was both incredibly easy to be around and a total surprise.
“He likes you,” Mingyu said when Jihoon had left to go to the restroom. “He’d never talk this much if he didn’t.”
You felt yourself blushing then. “He seems sweet,” you allowed, a smile stealing onto your face.
“He is,” Mingyu said, stretching his hands over his head. "And he's single."
You stupidly felt relieved at this. Mingyu could, evidently, see it in your face, because his grin only got wider. “Don’t worry,” he said conspiratorially. “I won’t tell him I told you.”
That meeting had ended with you three exchanging numbers, and that had turned in to you meeting up with him (and sometimes Mingyu) every day in that same coffee shop for breakfast. You got the sense somewhere in the many meals you shared that when he did speak, it was usually to coworkers and usually about business, but sharing about his life, his goals, his feelings was not something he got the opportunity to do often. And so you were absolutely fascinated by him -- his daily life experiences were enthralling when they came out of his mouth. He lit up around you in a way that made you feel special, and you loved listening to him talk. Before long, you'd fallen for him in a desperate way. You knew there was no way you'd ever recover.
You'd been trying to find the right way to tell him, but you always got so lost in him that it was difficult to squeeze a confession in. The amount of times you had typed out a text asking him on a proper date and then deleted it was embarrassing. You were so scared of losing what you had with him that you'd never hit send on a single one. Instead, you continued to meet him every day for breakfast, hoping your opportunity would smack you in the forehead (because knowing you, you'd probably miss it if it didn't).
Today when you arrive at the coffee shop, Jihoon is off his routine. His paper is folded on the table, and he is bouncing his leg and looking at the office buildings across the street like they have an important message emblazoned on their fronts. You try to keep your heart from turning over as he meets your gaze and an absolutely irresistible smile spreads over his face, realizing he isn't nervous -- he's excited. He motions to the seat next to him, and you jog over to sit by him.
“So,” he says as you sit. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh,” you say, trying not to sound too eager. “Explain, then.”
He takes a deep breath. “Can you come to an event tonight?”
“Oh!” You exclaim, taken aback. “Um, sure.”
He looks at you seriously. “It’s very important to me that you come,” he says, his eyes glowing with intensity. “You will, won’t you?”
“Of course,” you assure him, while simultaneously wondering how anyone ever says no to him. Those eyes, that smile, those lips -- the way his jacket strains across his compact frame in that way that makes it impossible for you not to wonder what it would feel like to bury your face in his chest...
By the time you've realized you're zoning out, he's writing something down on a piece of paper -- an address. "You could just text it to me," you point out, laughing.
He grins. "I know, but this is more fun and mysterious. Please don't look up the address before you come -- I kind of want it to be a surprise. Promise?"
"I promise." Because honestly, you think to yourself, you'd do anything he asked.
<3 <3 <3
You show up to the address on the paper ten minutes earlier than he asked you to come, waiting outside of what looks like a luxurious club in your nicest red dress. A man in glasses and a suit steps out from the club, asking your name. You tell him, and he nods, ushering you to a stairwell in the alley that leads down to the basement of the club.
Your jaw drops upon entry. There’s a spacious room with a high ceiling from which hangs an intricately designed chandelier. The glittering jewels hanging from the fixture cast rainbows all over the room. The whole room is very Gatsby-ish, and you look around nervously for Jihoon in the crowd of people already thronging the medium-sized stage.
You find him almost immediately — as he strides out on the stage in a suit, with a bright red electric guitar slung over his shoulder. He begins to play, and you watch from the side of the stage, your eyes wide and enthralled. You are shocked. He is amazing. His nimble fingers play dizzying strokes that send goosebumps up your arms. Where is the sweet, shy, endearing man from the coffeeshop? This new Jihoon commands a stage like a general commands an army. He is powerful and confident and perfectly in his element.
And you've never been more attracted to anyone in your whole life.
After he finishes his first song, he steps up to the mic. “I’m not usually the one who performs,” he says, and you almost yell why not, “but in honor of five years of our company, I wanted to do something special to pay respect to our artists. I’ll be playing a new release, which will eventually be given to one of our groups, called ‘Maybe I'm Falling for You.'”
He begins to pluck out a gentle, beautiful melody on his guitar. Before you know it, your eyes are filling with tears as Jihoon makes a detailed confession to you through his song — speaking of how you helped him feel seen and special and how beautiful he thinks you are.
For a moment, your lungs stop working. It seems like they’re taking in the music instead of the air, and you feel a sweet kind of dizziness as you watch him bare his soul in front of this crowd of people.
As the song wraps to a close, Jihoon’s eyes are scanning the audience. He finally sees you. Giving you a half smile, he gives a small point in your direction.
You rush through the door he exits through, catching him just as he puts down his guitar and throwing your arms around him. “Did you like it?” he asks nervously, and you laugh, your eyes blurring with tears.
You take his face in your hands. “I loved it,” you say. “It was perfect. You are perfect.”
His hands rise up to your wrists, and he beams at you. "No, you are," he says. Then suddenly, he looks nervous. Looking around as though worried you’re being watched, he only stays still once you grab his tie. He looks down at you and gulps nervously. You laugh before standing on your tiptoes and kissing him softly on the lips.
You try to turn to leave, but he catches your arm. Spinning you around, he pulls you in by the waist and kisses you back, deeper and more soulfully than you kissed him. His arms at your back feel strong and comforting, and his lips begin to travel -- from your mouth to your cheek to your forehead and temples, even sneaking a neck kiss in here and there. You start to hear music in your head again as he stops, breathless, to press his forehead against yours. “Sorry,” he says quietly, his chest heaving against your own. “I got a bit carried away.”
You kiss him square on the lips. “Do it again,” you say. He giggles before obeying.
#jihoon#lee jihoon#i need everyone to be more thirsty over my man#svt#svt fluff#svt imagines#svt x reader#seventeen#jihoon x reader#jihoon fluff#jihoon scenarios#woozi#woozi x reader#svt woozi#svt reactions#svt fanfic#svt fic
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just a pinch
summer ends way too fast; you and Eddie surprise each other.
includes smut, as in 18+
6k words somehow lmao? most of it fluff
best friends to lovers, and it gets a little gross in an arguably unsexy but very intimate way. you're not supposed to put anyone's mouth on your new piercing until at least two weeks out don't be dumb listen to your piercer
content: boob fondling, dry humping, jean nutting, some mild threats of violence, mentions of piercings but not piercing play to my understanding
reader is described as fat, dark skinned, and referred to gender neutrally, mostly (tough guy, man, angel, sweetheart).
comments (yes, even short ones,) reblogs all v much appreciated, take care :*
So, the heatwave had been a fake-out.
You had both expected more swim-days. Just a few more sweaty, sticky nights— sat too close and tangled together sharing a bowl of Moose Tracks by moonlight, in as little fabric as you could manage and with as much ice as one freezer bucket could hold.
But alas, the fall sneaks in one cloudy morning and makes you regret ever even thinking the word “winter.”
You’re shivering as you shock awake and roll clumsily to the nightstand. Reaching blind for the blaring landline, your hand cringes away from too-cold plastic, and you groan long and low in mourning— it's definitely over. While you were asleep, Summer had packed up her bag and ducked off in the dark before you could send her off properly. Goodbye, dog days.
Hello, caller. You know it’s Eddie before you pick up; he knows it's you before you speak.
“Can you believe this? Shit fuckin’ sucks,” he croaks, right off the bat and into the receiver.
“And blows—“ you sigh back, punching one satin-covered pillow and your headscarf off the bed. “We couldn’t even get, a like, temperate couple of days? It had to go straight to freeze-my-dick-off immediately?”
“ha! Please. The end is nigh, sweetheart. You know it better than I,” he almost sings. His sleepy lilt catches on the pet name, and that gravelly morning timbre gees up your morning wood like nothing else can. You kiss your teeth, honestly annoyed at how he affects you this early, and when Ed’s answering chuckle rumbles through your ears and down your jaw, it's like you can feel his breath through the phone.
God, he sounds good. You hum into a long sigh as he talks. It warms you, everywhere, hearing his voice first thing, and if your non-phone hand drags down your chest and reaches lower to rearrange the pillow between your legs, he doesn’t need to know.
You hear Eddie fidget, as he does, and he switches the phone to his other ear. Then, there’s the rattle of the earrings against plastic– a few chunky hoops he got at your suggestion, and one with your first initial that he definitely plucked off of your desk, though he had lazily denied it. You feel a smile fight its way to your face, suddenly giddy about him, about his call.
A snapshot of him talking himself awake is as clear in your head as the grey in the sky: a grumpy Munson, emerging from the mess of gifted homemade blankets and ancient, flat pillows. Just a pair of doe eyes, framed by a cluster of chocolate curls and a scowl. Picture-perfect.
You’ve been nursing this damn crush forever, and with the effort of punching it off the bed and out of sight with that headscarf, you’re long past exhaustion. But, in the safety of your chilly room, and with the comfort of his voice in your ear, maybe you’ve enough strength for now to entertain a butterfly, or ten.
You had worn his ring to bed— a little bat hugging your ring finger the way it had been hugging his before you’d snatched it off as payment for a dare gone unfulfilled–and you’re twirling it now, like some lovesick sap. You’re written all over each other, and you’ve been itching to do something about it. But, that’s not the issue right now.
Right now,
“I know, life is over, the globe is warming, there are only a few summers left, et cetera. We’ll still have fun.”
(the dare? you had challenged him to snatch some Hawkins PD pig or another’s goofy little ranger hat as he had passed the two of you on the street. Eddie had suggested maybe he couldn’t float past an arrest on boyish charm this deep into his twenties, and acquiesced without a word when you had held out your hand for his own.
You’d pretended not to notice the blush creeping up his neck; he had let you hold his hand a bit longer than necessary. It had been an even trade, as always.)
Across the line, Eddie’s still snickering at you, voice fathoms deep– all crackly– when he speaks again.
“Hold on to your dick, angel, I'm pretty sure there’s options. Like, uh, maybe clothes? Clothes usually work for me.”
“Don’t get cute! I'm fat, you clown, I sweat-- I don’t need clothes. And, I belong in the water, Munson. Its beyond fun, its—“
He cuts you off completely, ignores your scoff, and finishes for you.
“—fulfilling, healing, its what and where you were in every past life, the brain sludge is already building back up as we speak, and ‘I’ll die, I'll just about fuckin’ die, Munson,’ once it drops below 40, I know, stop bitching,” he laughs. His tone? Pure fond; your stomach somersaults.
You hear the smile widen when he goes on to remind you, “but I guess it's fall now. IE, your favourite.”
“Say ‘bitch’ to me again, I’ll shave your peanut head.”
He takes it back, giggling something about his favourite tough guy, but you know he’s got you there. You definitely are bitching, and—
Halloween month, cider season, big soft sweater weather, rain? It is the best, but it's never too early to argue.
“You’ll love it, angel.”
You give up, melting again at his affection verbalized. You’re humming assent as he keeps the ball rolling, asking what you’d like to do today instead of going for a swim. Come over and take turns reading the new discount novel he found? Start that mead recipe you made last year? Drive over to Stobin’s—see who can sneak in and scare the shit out of them first?
All great ideas, you assure him, but you decided long ago that the End of Swim also marked the beginning of piercing season. Your safety moratorium on body mods of all kinds has been lifted, now that you can’t dip your fresh wounds into scummy lake water.
You've been planning a particular pair for some time. You also decided that it would be a surprise. Your Eddie is observant, dialed in, and sure, maybe you like to play the odd game here and there. He notices you, and you notice right back. How long, do you think, will it take for him to note a new set of nipple piercings if you don’t warn him first? You figure it’s time to test it.
So, you break his heart a little, and decline to hang out today after all. You’ll see him on your next day off, you promise, and make plans for “four days hence, Munson, quit bitching. I just remembered something else I need to do,” before hanging up on his protests and pulling on your first pair of sweats in 4 months.
ID, water bottle, and a sweet breakfast in tow, you head for the best (note: only) tat shop you know, braced and ready for a world of pain, going boldly into the cold.
—---------
And there had been almost no pain, at first. You had yelped girlishly before the first needle went in, then felt embarrassed about how easy and quick it had been. Before you had even realized, it was over, and you grinned big at the unique beads framing each pert, dark nipple. You loved them. You loved the piercings, and more than ever, loved your tits. Couldn’t wait to go home and check them out from every angle, actually.
Then, a malicious towel snag, a careless door-jamb bump, and a hateful sweater-thread later, you were fearing for your life. Over the last few days, you had taken to crouching around them a bit, arms wrapped loose around your stomach as a reminder and for protection. Your nipples were insanely sensitive, now more than ever, and you had never understood ‘til now how often you simply walked through and into things instead of just around.
But, they were calming down, and with each prescribed saltwater soak you breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of visible irritation. The standard piercing boogers notwithstanding, they looked hot, you felt hot, but found yourself nervous for the big reveal. You thought you would hide them well, your mission made easier by the cool weather and baggier shirts it allowed.
You’re in his room now. Eddie’s ideas had been good, but you had both decided on the usual– you, rocking up to his trailer and spending the day with him throwing food and trading theories, hours whiled away in artistic pursuits and cat-naps, never too far from one another. It’s been a good day– you’re doing such a good job with the piercings, you forget to hide how entranced you are by Eddie's hands.
“Aren’t you hot?”
You count the veins and tendons as they flip pencils and drum against whatever surface they encounter, try to guess how long he can go before he bites that right pinky nail too short again, wonder if he’s running hot today. He’s tactile, your Eddie, but you’re sitting on the floor, legs sprawled, and yeah, a little too warm in the hoodie you came in as he lounges on the bed– too far for his idle touches to distract you into admitting anything.
You love those hands. You want to taste them one day. He’s looking at you.
Fuck, wait, he’s looking, and you haven’t answered him. You cut your eyes away, to the floor, to your nails, like an idiot. That wasn’t at all suspicious, sure. You’re reasonably sure Eddie hadn’t noticed the piercings themselves yet until, as you snack and he chats again about his sketch, he suddenly drops the pink eraser you’ve been watching his square fingers systematically tear apart.
“N...Noooooo.” He takes in your belated answer and eyes you for a second, then starts talking again. You tug your hands gingerly into the hoodie you’re in and slide the thing over your unwrapped cloud of hair without snagging anything, then toss it away, wiping the light sheen of sweat you realize is cooling on your nose.
Fuck, here we go. You hadn’t considered you’d have to hide in conversation, just that you had to keep him from seeing. You try to keep your cool, but answer too quickly. This wouldn’t last long.
“Have you been eating weird shit again?” Eddie asks, cutting himself off from explaining the lore of his latest campaign villain. He’s sitting up more since you last looked at him– leaning back on one elbow as the other arm drapes comfy across his belly– and watching you fidget in that weird posture you’ve adopted since the piercings.
“Eat– We–, me? Weird? What’s– What?” Nailed it. Smooth, like butter. Too player. You thank God or Dolly or whoever’s watching that your blush isn’t visible, because you can already feel your face heating up.
He stares, eyes squinted. You watch your plate, then look back at his lovely hands, fingers pale and impatient, thr-r-r-rumming in sequence against his now-closed notebook.
“What’s with the air-head act? And why are you clutching your tummy and moving like you fell down the stairs?” Okay, that one’s easy.
“Cramps.” Your reply is stiff, but reflexive. The pink in his fingertips as he drums is entrancing. Maybe you’ve saved it– you think you sound sure. He’s silent for beat, and you pick up a cracker and look out the window.
Maybe you’re a genius. The fuck’s he gonna do? Argue?
“Hm. Bullshit?” You look up to challenge that, and catch him peering behind you to the stuffed possum you had gifted him when his favourite, real, live, wild possum friend stopped her brief shuffle through the fire pit behind his trailer one drizzly day.
(Eddie had called it the best week of his life, then declared that he’d never love again.)
After another beat, as if the scruffy thing has read the room and confirmed its answer, Eddie nods once, curls bouncing, then swings his neck dramatically back to you to assert, “bullshit.”
It's panic creeping up your throat now, because he’s going to see you, see them, this isn’t– well– it is– but you didn’t think it through, and you aren’t a good enough liar to dodge the impending question. You hem for another moment, hands hovering over your torso, and he looks between them and your face before snapping his bulk upright so fast that the bits of pink littering his lap and thin muscle shirt fly up in the flurry.
“What’re you hiding?”
A frown tugs your lips down before you can stop it. You watch Eddie toss the notebook and, with a loud thump, collapse off the bed boneless into your nest of blankets and towards you like a mad slinky before you can finish saying, “nothing! I’m not– hiding–, wait a second!”
In that second, Eddie has slithered the 4 feet between him and you, kind of flinging himself on top, landing more gently than you expected in a straddle and pinning your now-closed thighs under his seat before you can wiggle back and away in time.
“Did you get a tattoo without me? You fucking did, didn’t you?” He might be verging on genuinely hurt, by the sound of it. You’d promised after he’d started his stick-n-poke journey that he’d be your first, (tattooer, that is), once he got some training together. Had swore to him–
“Le’me see– what, is it that shitty? Who the hell did you go to? You can’t be–”
“Ow, Eddie, stop!” Your screeching protest belies real pain this time, curling in on yourself and to the side as much as possible. He bumped a piercing in the shuffle, the pain expected but still shocking, and he backs off a bit and coos in sympathy, all his next words coming out in a frantic rush.
“Fuck, oh no, I’m sorry. I’msosorry, Sweetheart? Are you okay?”
You’ve crossed your arms in front of you, breathing deep through the stinging. As it subsides, he ducks his head to meet your eyeline, his paint-stained palms up, promising no contact. He’s still straddling you, most of his weight on his heels. Still locking you under him, where its very warm.
If you looked down and saw your heart itself beating its way out of your chest, you wouldn’t be shocked. You’re almost choking on it, and plotting how to get him off you without knocking the new piercings again. Its enough to spin your head, to think you’ve been found out this soon, that the bravado in your spirit has fled so quickly at the reality, not just the idea, the real life prospect of showing Munson your tits.
But it's thrilling, him on top of you. It's always thrilling, a dream fulfilling itself, isn't it? Even if the context is off. This isn't the first time a bout of “weird” from one of you or the other has ended up in a fact-finding mission– sometimes wrestling match, or pillow fight, or wild, short chase through the woods.
But every time he gets this close, it's like the path between your head brain to the other brain is cleared– heat is flooding the thin cotton that separates you from his well-worn denim faster than ever. He has to get up, right now. You have to keep him there forever.
You relax as the sting subsides, uncurling and groaning a bit as those strong, clever hands fall to bracket your head on either side. Eddie leans down, sounding the creak of floor beneath you, and scowls, bathing you in his radiating heat. Studying you, taking in your full lips pressed into a thin, nervous line, your brows turned up where they’d meet, betraying distress.
“What is going on in there, man?" He's really worried now. When did you start keeping secrets?
“It’s…not a tattoo?” You purse your lips and scrunch your nose, and the sweet smile that flows like syrup across his face seems involuntary.
“Then what else– huh?” Eddie is trying to keep eye contact, but the wheels are turning, and his lovely smile drops. He glances at your arms crossed over your chest, and his jaw falls open, eyes narrowed in disbelief.
“Not a tattoo. Not ‘a’ anything, actually. Two things.”
“No, you didn’t. No way, not a chance.” Eddie seizes your wrists and ignores your protests, pinning each arm by your ears where his once were, and tries to x-ray inspect you through your shirt. It's dark, but not thick enough to weather this kind of scrutiny. Those telltale bumps are right there in front of him, the middle of each trio hardening as he inspects. So, you give up trying to argue, and shrug, suppressing a smile.
“With— wha?” Eddie’s looney-tunes double-take makes you hoot a laugh as he swings his head and bouncy curls up and down, looking at you, glancing back at your chest, and up again as he processes what he’s hearing. What the fuck is he hearing?
Your eyes stay low but your brows arch together as you scoff at him, dork. “You’re really telling me you hadn’t seen them?”
“I’ve– not–wha– I’m sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean–”
But, you had been talking shit. He couldn’t have seen anything in the dark shirt you had been wearing all day unless he’d been staring when you weren’t looking– had he been staring at your tits anyway?
Did he do that often? Your jaw doesn’t drop so much as glide mischievously open. Surprise dawns and Eddie realizes he has, in fact, given himself away too quickly. Coolest dudes in Hawkins, you two.
He changes tack, slapping the floor by your head, still a little shocked.
“You got your nipples pierced? I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you! You’re full of shit.” His voice is almost petulant in its disbelief, high and tinny.
Your eyeroll is audible, “I mean. I can prove it, Munson.”
“When?” He gasps, indignant, and slaps the floor with the other hand.
“You barely have your ears pierced-“ he exaggerates. “Who the hell did ‘em? Was it a guy? You let some guy–”
“Please, some professional? Can you be serious?”
“You can’t take the pain, angel, not without my moral support, there’s no way. You’d have been whining about them being sore all fuckin’ week if you’d gotten your—“
He looks at your tits again, jaw slack, but in his shifting sends them undulating with the movement. His whole body goes still, except to inhale very slowly.
You’ve maybe never been this self conscious in your life, but his distraction emboldens you.
“The idea was ‘surprise’, not ‘ambush’. But,” you drawl, smirking as you twist a wrist easily out of his now slack grip and push yourself up onto your elbows.
“Do you—well.” Your eyes falter when your voice does. You want to offer proof. You’re not that bold yet, but you’re working up to it.
He gives you room to sit up completely, hovering over your calves, back almost on his haunches. His heat leeches into your legs, swells in your chest and behind your eyes.
You want to touch him, like you always do. Eddie's deep brown eyes are wider, his mouth slack. His breathing is a little harder too, and you wonder for a second— do you want to un-ring this bell while there’s time?
“No,” he answers. “I mean, yeah, I—“ He rolls his plush lips into his mouth and then parts them, trying to work out how to ask. It’s not a dare anymore, and you feel a shyness completely unfamiliar, laid out in front of your best friend in the world.
You wilt a little; Eddie finds his courage.
He swallows, and you watch his throat work while he figures out what to say, maybe as nervous as you are.
“Can I see?” He sounds hopeful, gentle, but to soothe you or himself, you can’t tell.
You dont quite answer with, “I’ll have you know, they didn’t hurt. At all, actually. It was...cold. Uncomfy, totally, but not painful— just a bit of a pinch? The last week has been worse than the actual needles were.”
Eddie seems to realize he’s really staring, and cuts his eyes to the left, almost shy, and he seems to wipe sweat from his palms down the length of his strong thighs.
Your own hands pick at the hem of your shirt, and his gaze is split between your mouth and chest. Then, he shifts his weight, leans back like he’s about to give you space, when you reach for his warm, toned tricep, his skin shifting over muscle as he fidgets, and you’re ready to tell him the rest of the story. You can’t bear to miss his warmth on top of you, you realize. Now or never, you think.
“I…” you croak, “I thought of you.”
You hear him choke, like actually choke on his spit, then watch him shake his head like he’s rattling himself out of a haze. Eddie’s locked in on your eyes, searching for even the hint of a joke as you lift the shirt up just your stomach, exposing all the graceful cresting hills of your soft middle to his hungry gaze.
“When I picked them out, I mean.”
“Youf, you– fuc– You did this for me?” He sounds so absolutely incredulous, and breathless, all bravado bled out, or rushing to his reddening cheeks. It's like Eddie opened the next Discworld and found a dedication in his name, like the heavens have opened above him. For him? For him?
“Not for you, you clown, of course not. But like, maybe I wondered which ones you’d say I should get. And maybe... I thought you’d appreciate my pick.” Your crooked smile feels small, and you feel like offering something more substantial.
So, you do.
“Appreciate..? I. Oh, god, Jesus, I.” You had been lifting your shirt so casually as you spoke, palms sliding up across your skin and dragging cotton with them, a caress so careless it seemed incidental. But you avoid hitting the new bars through each hardening nip, chills putting a mild tremble in your hands that he first catches, and is then distracted from. You watch Eddie’s short-circuit for a bit, feel his thighs tense around yours. You decide then that boldness is the only path forward.
At the last rounding, you let them hem of the shirt catch on the underside of your bust, and just before its dangerous, lift them up by the hem and then drop them a bit, so they bounce for him, putting on a little show, posture straighter than before in presentation.
You’ve killed him. His plush lips try and fail to form a word, any word, as he lets out another shakey breath and leans back in to you by centimeters.
“Eddie?” you prompt at his silence, voice quieter now. He’s still a little wide-eyed when he gasps out,
“What. Appreciate? Fuck, you’re beautiful. So, so beautiful. Jesus Christ, I never thought— Are those bats?” He’s moon-eyed and gaping like a dry fish, and you’re too keyed up to even tease him about it. You didn't just think of him, you conspired to match with him, to carry a little bit of him with you.
You know he wants to see you, more than just the piercings, and that teasing smirk is a distant memory, much like your patience.
“So you hate them, huh?” He’s shocked into laughing before you can finish the question, restoring the quiet to something like normal as he raises his ringed hands to frame the low curve of your breasts. But he takes them in only with his eyes, flitting back and forth between them.
“They look, so so good, so good, god. The color you picked, even,” a warm gold that picks up the warmth in the soft creamy brown of your skin, “it glows, like, perfect. Gold’s your color, Sweetheart. It's all your color.”
Bravado is fickle. You order him through barely parted lips, like you didn’t mean to say it out loud, then almost slur the hasty backtrack, “touch them. If-you-want, I-mean, if-you—.”
In Eddie’s mind’s eye, gold falls from the sky; from his mouth tumbles a bewildered, “'If i want?' Are you insane?”
As he reaches, you nod and sit up a bit straighter, feel heat rise in your cheeks, and take his confession with a crooked smile.
“I dreamt this.”
Here’s you, insufferably coy through a giggle: “Yeah? How’d it go?”
His own knowing smirk is back, and you shiver, wanting fathoms deep as Eddie's hot hands envelope the heavy mounds of your breasts from below, cupped in the way he had threatened before you granted permission. Eddie seems to weigh them as he holds you, committing to memory how the plush fat of them sits in his palms, how they pebble across with gooseflesh at his very gentle fondling.
You’re so soft, and warm, and he’s touching you; his mind splits in two. Some of him prays to any god for escalation, the rest could die happy right here.
On contact, you sigh together. Heavy, whispering things— you were both holding your breath— and inhale together, too. Your eyes flutter closed at the the drag of each body-warm ring as they poke into you. His calluses are almost sharp against you where they glide, some of the time ghosting over your skin, but mostly kneading you warmer.
It's your soft little hum of pleasure, how you arch, helpless, into his touch— the indiscreet rub of your knees together, and your thighs into his seat, the way you fight the smile back— these bring him back to himself, and he checks your face again, watching the small smile grow as your eyes flick up to his.
“Different,” Eddie intones, low and slow. “We’re out of order.”
You’re watching his pretty mouth again while he feigns serious, but as he moves just one hand to the floor behind you and leans in close, warm Cheez-It-breath tickling your face, setting alight every nerve that wasn’t already screaming for deeper contact. You meet his penetrating gaze and gasp at the pleasure-pain of that ringed thumb finally, finally, swiping up along one pert nipple.
It's a shocked moan, not a gasp, that opens your mouth as he collides with it, timed perfectly with the upward jolt of your hips into his hardening cock. It's Eddie’s turn to gasp— his rushes out hot and quick, as if from a gut-punch.
He's fighting for his life trying to steady his voice, act casual. “Usually, I get my mouth on your first.”
With that, he closes the gap again, but this time pulls away with a wet smack, a kiss so brief you’re compelled to chase him and get your licks in.
“Then, my hands,” he says, as he closes his fingers around as much of you as he can grasp with each hand to squeeze. Its at once electrifying and comforting, leaning into him and running from the cold. You want him pressed against you completely, but he's focused on the pillows of supple skin and heat in his hands.
“Promise,” he chokes, “ahhh, promise to tell me if it hurts, angel?”
“Eddie, touch me— I promise— touch me,” you positively beg, and your Eddie, egged on by your fingers now pulling deliciously at the hair on his sensitive nape, recovers fast. He’s on you before he can take his next breath in, and bites down around your bottom lip, pushing you with him gently as he leans forward, mashing your noses together.
And you kiss Eddie back, hard, sucking his trembling lip between yours and earning yourself a groan that sends a lovely buzz through your jaw where you meet. That fucking noise, and his hand still on you, now not as gentle, sending little shocks of pleasure as he swipes gently along the outer dark ring crowning your nipple. The skin there is tightening, growing impossibly sensitive, and each brush and nudge shocks you between your clamped thighs, makes your body rock a little, sending kinetic energy across you that has him enthralled. So much evidence of his effect on you, the movement anchors him to reality.
"Good?"
"Really good, Eddie, yeah." You squirm under him as he massages one side, then both, then rests his forehead against yours to gaze down, intent on his project.
“You feel good too, angel,” Eddie groans again, enjoying himself in earnest, crowding you gently together, then letting each breast roll in his hands, rough digits brushing in tandem against beads so taut it almost hurts, so intense its almost too much, but you need more.
“You know what’ll feel even better?” You ask him in a pant, breathless and focused– you need him between your legs too, and desperately, so you nudge one of his, asking to widen so you can rearrange. Eddie obliges, planting one solid knee right against your aching core and letting you fall back, propped up on both elbows.
Neither of you wastes a second. This kiss is a hot, wet collision of sighs and spit, grinding sloppily into each other through just too many layers of sweet, stiff friction, whining into each other’s open mouths.
While you nearly lift your hips off the floor, chasing the worn denim between your legs, tension in your lower gut building faster than it ever has alone, Eddie rides your linen-covered thigh just above your bent knee, murmuring between love-bites to your chin, the chubby apple of your grinning cheek, then the crook of your neck, where he finds and then latches onto a spot that makes you seize under his weight, clamping your thighs around the one at the very center of your focus.
You clasp a hand at the back of his head again, scratching a bit at his neck and forcing a long shaky sigh out of his mouth as the rhythm of his swirling hips grows rough, devolves into a stuttering staccatto race to the finish, and he’s talking himself through it into your shoulder as you barrel him down.
Ed's heaving whines are gorgeous, ragged, as he sighs into your neck about how good you feel under him. He can’t finish a sentence as he groans into your shoulder, all about how good you smell, how he can’t believe you did this for him, how badly he wants to taste them.
“Taste? I,” you cut yourself off with a near-panicked whine when his leg slinks heavily down, the relief of his wet but still straining crotch-tent another brief sliding kiss against your now soaking cunt, and you resist seizing him by the scalp, to keep him up with you, but only just. You’re both so close; he’s stalling?
No, tasting.
Through your horny fog, your mind starts to process his goal. Eddie works his body down yours urgently, never really breaking contact, and as he slips away all you can do is watch him watch you.
In a thrall, as he draws a scalding trail of open-mouth kisses down the heaving swell of your exposed breasts. The wet kisses cool fast in the chilly air of his room, and it feels so good you don’t care how needy your sighs sound, how obscene and high your breaths echo in your own ears. Then he pauses in his descent to admire you again, breaking eye contact for a few awe-struck moments, dropping a chaste peck just left of the left nip, then resting his forehead on your sternum. When he fully squishes your tits into his cheeks it makes you laugh out loud, and you feel his smile and then chuckle against your stomach.
He seems to paise there for a few moments, content to nuzzle, and your high whine-sigh takes even you off guard. Eddie looks up at the sound but stops himself saying whatevers on his mind. Instead, he double-takes between your mouth and chest once, and again, then and finally asks, “sweetheart?”
He’s got that look like he’s up to something, and you can’t say you mind it.
Eddie drags his lovely nose across the wide valley between your bust, your shoulders cave a bit with the shiver, and he continues, “can I?”
Taste. Yes, “please, Eddie, yeah,” and he closes his hot mouth over one hard bead, swirling that devilish tongue around and over, knocking it roughly enough to pull a harsh hiss from between your clamped teeth. Your hands are both in his hair again, and in a little pain you pull at his sensitive scalp and feel the buzz of his moaning around you, closing the little pleasure circuit between you.
You feel every wet swipe of tongue like a brand, on your sensitive chest and melting, shocks of heat driving down in your sex, chasing the pressure and pushing your body into his chest where he lays against you.
One of his hot hands mimics his mouth’s rhythm on the other tit, and the lewd sounds of his deep moans around you are only matched by the obscene slick of his hand finding the soaked core of you under his torso, his fingers tingling over the used cotton.
You nod assent before he can even ask, catching his eyes as he pulls away from your chest to check on you. He finds your open pant, you low lidded attention on only him, and smiles. Then, he grinds his own hips into your leg where he straddles it, lower than before, moaning again around your mound and sucking this time, a new kind of pressure that pulls the neediest cries from you yet. His fingers finally breach your underwear from the side, and the calloused contact jolts you to the precipice, climax just within reach now that your clit has direct, emphatic attention.
His tongue swirls faster, and Eddie matches that pace with his slick fingers between your cunt lips, circling the trigger and nudging just the top of your gasping hole, pace quickening, just what you're begging him for. Your free leg hitches around his back and pulls him into you, then you clamp up and pull hard at the hair in your grasp, gasping his name over and over as you come shaking, curling around his head, pussy drooling on his rings and wrist, hips frantic in their desperate chase for friction.
Eddie’s not far behind, rhythm incomprehensible as he’s distracted by his own big finish. He bites down almost too hard around your breast and fucks down onto your trapped leg, groans buzzing through you as he drools and sputters and comes a warm wet mess into the washed-out black.
The grey light is blinding, you can’t open your eyes at first. But you start to collect yourself when you feel him pull off, sliding his hand slowly out of your panties. You open your eyes to him watching you again, eyes half closed, to him catching his breath, and with no regard for the mess on his hand he gathers your collar in his fist and hauls you forward for another kiss, other hand tucked in the soft folds of your waist, grasping, clutching, pulling you in.
“Ouch.” You say, with no heat at all.
As he scoffs, Eddie slinks back down again to kiss it better, another gentle peck just to the side of the most sensitive bud of your breast where he sucked and nibbled hard enough to bruise. Just a pinch, indeed.
“Aw, I’m sorry, angel,” he promises, only a little sarcastic, and finally rounds his mouth around your right nipple, which he had neglected until now.
Then, you hear the slightest crunch. Like crumbs rubbing together.
Eddie smacks his lips a couple times, tasting, considering.
"Salty," he says. No way.
Oh, god, no. No fucking way. He still licking you clean but you freeze, then he does, but Eddie, knowing exactly what he just set you up for, loses it. He buries the cackle in your tummy as it dawns on you, and you do some quick math– you last showered this morning, which means you last soaked your piercing this morning, maybe 10 hours ago.
Eddie crawls back up your body as you wail, “ohhh, my God, Munson, why would you—? I cannot–” and lands eye-level, with you spent and boneless on your back, him in a table-top pose, arms propped by your shoulders.
He hadn't been neglecting your other side, he had been saving it.
10 hours. More than enough time for new “crusties” to form, so more than enough time to build your own nightmare from natural scratch. And he didn’t hesitate, or mention it at all, that your piercings were clearly crusted over as part of the usual healing process, he just sucked them off anyway like they were in the way.
“You– absolute– freak! Eddie what the fuck! Did you fucking eat it? Are you insane?”
“What? I helped! And it’s probably, like, I don’t know, nutritious somehow. Protein?” He shrugs, smirking in the face of your horror, your embarrassment. You hadn’t thought to look at your own tits when the idea of his eyes on you had been more than enough to deal with.
You punctuate every few words with sharp shoves, which barely register as nudges to him from your angle, still under him, fighting his weight and gravity itself. Little by little, he sinks against them, and you tire yourself out before his chest traps your arms between the two of you.
“You– sicko, I didn’t– give you permission– to snack on me.”
“You even said ‘please,’ sweet heart, no take backs. I believe they’re my boogers now.” His smile is just content now, mischief subsumed by all the love in his eyes. You were in his mouth; now you’re on your way through his system. He thinks its romantic.
He ate it. Like a weird pet left unattended too long, he saw something new and simply put his mouth on it. Your-- friend? hardly, you think-- Eddie Munson just ate the new piercing boogers off you, straight from the source as he came in his jeans. You don’t even know what to do, so bewildered you shove his shoulders and chest as rough as he’ll allow before he seizes your wrists and pins you again, only this time, your tits are still out.
“Without full knowledge, that’s twisted– you’re sick.” Your smile betrays you. What a weirdo, sure, but who else would full-send like that? You can’t think of anyone you’ve dated– anyone you’ve let touch you– that has ever been so close, and you haven’t even seen his cock yet.
God, what a freak– your freak, you think with a thrill.
“Yeah yeah, heard it before."
Its quiet for a bit as you stare at each other, smiles crooked and soft.
"Well. Cat’s out of the bag?”
“Seems that way.” So, there's your "what are we" convo' all sorted.
“Good. So you know— " Eddie ducks his head to tap his nose against yours, then pulls back again to hover a little closer than before, "clothes are no longer an option.”
“What. The hell are you saying.”
“I'm saying,” he whispers, suddenly against your ear, dragging out each syllable, and slides his thumb and it's cool bat ring now poking out of a soft fist across your collarbone and up your shoulder, just to see you shiver again, just to watch you shake.
“hu-.. what, Munson, spit it out!” Now, you grab him by both wrists, and the quick movement brings his eyes to your tits again, gold titanium winking in the gray light. The soft wave of your body warms his core. He's half-hard already just watching you move.
“Too late, ha.” You groan, still grossed out, and anticipating this, he groans with you, mocking. You feel it through your own chest, feel it down your pinned leg.
Then, Eddie’s voice is soft too, at once dreamy and deadly serious, when he says, “You,” drops a kiss on one shoulder, “were so, so right,” and another on the other, “you won't need clothes ever again.”
—--------------—
Its only days later, your next day off, when your favorite metalhead greets you at your front door. You don’t even have time to say hello before he’s flashing you; Eddie yanks his shirt up, fast as he can, to show off two glinting barbells, twin gold angel wings framing each nipple, still red and a little swollen from the piercing.
He beams at you, proud of the shock written all over your face, and before you can recover, cradles your face with one ringed hand and swoops in to plant one on your open mouth, grinning all the while.
#eddie munson x black reader#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson smut#mine#every thirsty nasty stupid tag ive ever posted or texted my friends that got me kicked from the GC will become a fic one day cos like what#is the point of this otherwise#this has been edited a little cos the second i post i reread it again and find bits i meant ti switch around#eddie munson x plus size reader
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He's such a babe in his Marine uniform.
Like, baby, you don't have to show your body off like that and yet here we are.
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