When you two had decided to keep things casual and lowkey, he thought he had it handled.
Easy, right? No labels. No fuss. No reason to tweak out.
Until about 2 days later when Hinata’s casually asking you out to lunch.
Bright grin, sparkling eyes, sunshine practically pouring out of him. You smile sweetly and glance at Atsumu for just a second before accepting.
Something twists in his stomach, something hot and ugly.
Later that night, he's got you pinned beneath his heavy body as you cuddle on the couch.
“Yer not goin' out with him," he grumbles, stubborn frown firmly in place.
"It's just lunch," you laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair gently, “It's friendly”
“Don’t care. Yer my girl, I ain’t lettin Mr. Sunshine steal ya away”
You can’t help the laugh at escapes you, goofy little grin on your lips that cools his head a little, “I thought we were keeping things casual?” you tease lightly.
He puffs out his cheeks, frowning, “I only said yeah cause ya suggested it! If it were up to me, we’d be at the courthouse gettin married right now!”
He immediately freezes, the tips of his ears turning pink, his face morphing into pure horror as he blinks at you.
Like even he can’t believe he just said that.
Lucky for him, you laugh it away, the sound filling the room easily.
He huffs out a little laugh of his own, shyly glancing away from your face, nervous knots in his stomach.
It's almost hard to watch him squirm, his usual confidence nowhere to be found, replaced by something so unbearably sweet and flustered.
You gently pull his face back toward yours, amused smile tugging at your lips, “You wanna marry me already?”
Atsumu groans, immediately burying his face in your shoulder, “Yer makin' fun of me”
"I'm just asking!”
He peeks up at you, ears still burning red, heart beating way too hard.
“I don't think I'm cut out for casual," he suddenly blurts.
The confession hangs in the air for just a moment.
His arms tighten around your waist, “I tried. Really. But every time somebody looks at ya for longer than two seconds, I start tweakin out”
“You’re such a loser”, you tease, scrunching your nose at him, pretending the confession didn’t make your stomach flip.
“I’d bark if ya asked me” he says real serious, pulling a laugh from you.
“Hopeless,” you mumble, cupping his cheeks to leave little kisses all over.
“Eh,” Atsumu shrugs easily, leaning into your touch, “I’m a loverboy, so what?”
————————————————————————
A/N: I’ve got way more time to write now, prepare to be sick of me
loveboy atsumu is so canon to me u can’t tell me that man isn’t obnoxiously in love with his partner
cw/tags: established relationship, reader has a vagina, shower sex, pet names, praise, thigh fucking, oral (f recieving), soft dom/sub dynamics, anal fingering, pegging, sucking the strap (an essential part of the pegging experience), overstimulation, edging
a/n: this started out as me just wanting to write about pegging atsumu and then it spiraled and got so lovey dovey ooey gooey mushy...what is this blonde man doing to my brain
The pattern begins on an unassuming Saturday night.
You're in the shower, one that started in a mildly drunk attempt to hasten your journey into bed after a night out with some of Atsumu's teammates. You're both standing under the steamy spray--it's just easier that way, and it gives you the opportunity to see the way he gets a little dimple on his cheek each time he giggles at how sing-songy your voice gets when you've got a little alcohol in your system.
It starts out innocent enough, just a shower before bed, but quickly spirals into wandering hands and spit slick lips. You're reaching between your bodies, sucking at his skin, picking up clear crystal drops of water as you go. Atsumu laughs, happy and warm, ducking his head to press his nose to your neck, "Yer so good to me." You hum in response, taking him in your hand, movements a little sloppy but no less effective. He moans softly against your lips, turning so you're pressed up against shiny ceramic tiles.
He's never quiet during sex, especially not when he's drunk--you can barely make out what he's saying over the sound of the water running, just little snippets of your name mixed in with breathy sounds of pleasure. His hands are firm on your waist before one of them dips between your legs, deft fingers part glistening folds to press softly inside. Your own hand stills, your mind distracted by the way Atsumu curls his fingers as he presses his tongue against your own.
Atsumu knows your body so well, letting his thumb hover over your clit teasingly until you're bucking up into the soft circles he's drawing around it. Your chest feels tight, the sound of his fingers moving against and inside of you bouncing off the tile walls. "Can feel ya squeezin' round me," he breathes, "gonna come all over my fingers darlin'?" You nod the best you can with the way his forehead is pressed against your own, your body going tight as the heat between your legs builds and builds with every curl of his fingers. "So pretty for me like this."
It's nearly too much, the way your head swims with the combination of a night at the bar and the sensation of pleasure seeping from between your legs into the furthest corners of your body, fingers going tingly. When you finally tip over, Atsumu makes a low, needy sound that mingles with the sweet little whines falling from your own lips.
You gasp softly when he pulls away, but you're not left wanting for long. "Turn around for me, sweetheart," he murmurs between presses of lips. Letting him shuffle you around, you end up with your palms on the wall, chest brushing the cold tile, and your back pressed into an arch by a hand on the small of your back. Atsumu pats your thigh, bending to press his lips to the freckled skin on your shoulder, "Squeeze em for me."
A needy moan escapes you as you press your thighs together, his own hips pressing forward until his cock is nestled between them. He's breathing hard as he pulls back, only to press forward again, coating himself in the slick slide of you as he sets a middling pace. Every flex of his hips has his flushed tip brushing against your clit, puffy and oversensitive from his fingers. The wet slap of his hips meeting yours only seems to spur him on, a shuddering sound leaving him when the tip catches briefly on your entrance.
His pace slows a little, like he's distracted, and then he just…stops. "Tsumu," you whine, rubbing your thighs together around him in an attempt to get him to move again. "Baby," he pulls out from between your legs and manhandles you until you're chest to chest again, words uncharacteristically soft against your lips, "can ya bend me over while ya jerk me off?"
It's not an unreasonable ask, just a little surprising.
So you agree with a low hum, easily turning him around with hands that never settle too long in one place, skirting over broad shoulders and a trim waist, pulling at him until his hips are pressed back into you.
Having him like this, trusting and more than a little vulnerable, arched in front of you, asking for your touch, is sending you on a little bit of a power trip. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your right hand makes its way from his waist to his bulky thigh, moving to wrap your fingers around his cock, hanging heavy between his legs. The sound that leaves him with the first squeeze of your fist is addictive, and you press your left hand a little more firmly against the small of his back, pushing the arch of his spine deeper.
As you tighten your fist around him, stroking slowly, you move your other hand to the cleft of his ass, noting the way he tenses just a little before fully relaxing back against you. "Tsumu," you purr. He makes a questioning noise that tapers off into a groan when you focus your movements just on the tip of his cock. "Do you want something?" you ask him, careful to keep your tone neutral though your thumb is rubbing circles that are getting progressively closer to the tight ring of muscle between his cheeks.
He's really breathing hard now, and you feel his cock jump in your hand. Atsumu nods, and you can tell he's biting at his lip when he answers your question with, "Need ya." You make a satisfied noise, continuing the motion of your right hand as you suck on your finger, spit mixing with water as it drips down your palm. "Stop me if it hurts," you tell him gently, though all you get in response is a desperate, "Please."
A soft press of your finger and you watch his shoulders tense. "Relax baby," you coax, pressing just a little further, the tip of your finger disappearing into the tight space before you're pulling back again. "Oh fuck," he moans and you feel him get tight around you as you fuck into him, slowly dragging your finger out just to push it back in a little deeper each time.
He doesn't last long after you settle into a steady rhythm--slow thrusts into his ass while you keep your fist tight around his cock. When he comes it's with a low, drawn out sound followed by a string of curses wrapped in the familiar lilt of his alcohol intensified drawl. You pull out slowly, running your hands soothingly across his back as he comes down from his high. When he's fully standing again, he's quick to take your face in his hands, pressing a kiss to your forehead before placing another at the corner of your mouth. "Love ya," he says as he pulls away, reaching to turn off the water before opening the curtain and reaching for a towel.
Soft cotton is wrapped around you and you step out together, giggling as Atsumu drapes himself over you, sleep making his eyes heavy. You stumble out of the bathroom, wet hair and all, and into the bedroom, flipping off the lights before falling into a tangle of limbs beneath the covers. Atsumu's already snoring when you lean over to place a single kiss to his flushed cheek.
It doesn't happen every time, but from that night in the shower on, Atsumu's started—hinting isn't the right word because you're pretty sure he doesn't even realize he's doing it, but he keeps drawing you in. A subtle shift of his legs as you leave bruises and bite marks along his inner thighs, a particularly breathy sound when your hand moves just a little lower after gently squeezing his balls. All of it ending with your finger, or fingers as of late, fucking into him until he's keening and throwing his head back in pleasure.
You don't really bring it up outside of the bedroom, it's more of a slow confirmation of what you'd already put together over days and weeks. You're more than prepared for him to say no, but you're also nearly certain he won't when you plop a discrete rectangular box down in front of him one evening. He looks up from his phone, setting it on the coffee table to lean forward. "You get me a present?" he asks jokingly, as if he's sure it's not actually for him--you've gotten a little carried away with purchasing blind boxes as of late, so you don't blame him for being incredulous.
Kneeling next to him on the couch, you move the box from the table to his lap, keeping your hands on top so he can't rip into yet. "It actually is for you," you're uncharacteristically earnest, "but you can absolutely say no, you won't hurt my feelings." He looks between you and the box, the furrow in his brow only gets deeper. "Well now m'nervous," he tells you, smirking even though you can feel the way he's started bouncing his leg next to you on the couch. "Just open it and then we'll talk," you urge, removing your hands from the box to rest on his thigh instead, halting his nervous movements.
Inside the box there are two smaller boxes. He pulls the first one out, flipping the little cardboard latch and pulling the top open. The harness is unboxed first, and he turns the tangle of baby blue leather and polished metal rings around in his hand. You watch recognition light his eyes as he finally orients it correctly.
You're holding your breath, teeth digging into your bottom lip when you hear his own breath catch softly. Neither of you say anything yet, letting the quiet drone of the tv in the background fill the otherwise silent room. Setting the harness aside, he pulls out the second box, a little heavier than the first, flipping it open with the same efficiency as before. His eyes widen as he pulls the object out, semi-transparent silicone, the same baby blue as the harness--you've got a thing for matching sets--firm, but still flexible with a little notch at the base so it'll fit snugly into the o-ring at the front of the harness. The way he freezes in place, mouth open as if in shock…
Yeah you're pretty sure you fucked up.
"Sorry," you blurt when he still doesn't say anything, "I just thought that you might-" His hushed voice interrupts you, "Holy fuck, baby." The tips of his ears are red and you're sure that if you could see his chest it'd be just as flushed. "Are ya inside my head or somethin'?" he asks. You release the breath you'd been holding, feeling a little flustered now too. "Well I know we've been," you gesture to where the objects sit in his lap, "so I thought maybe you'd like it if I-" the noise that cuts you off sounds like he couldn't have held it back even if he'd tried.
"I didn't even realize til right now," he finally turns to look at you, honeyed gaze lit with smoldering intensity, "how bad I want you to fuck me." He sets the boxes aside so he can pull you into his lap instead, your arms automatically draping over his shoulders as you settle with your knees planted on either side of his thighs. "So you like it?" you ask, a little uncertain. He laughs softly then, low and throaty, "Yeah, baby, I like it. Makin' me hard just thinkin' about it." As if to prove his point he pulls you down so you're fully seated on his lap, right on top of where you can feel him already filling out beneath the material of his sweats.
He's looking up at you like you're made of starlight, eyes hot with want but also swimming with a tenderness that has your heart squeezing in your chest. "M'glad you like it," you say, leaning in until your lips are barely brushing. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, gently pulling you the rest of the way in so he can feel the way your plush bottom lip slides against his own. Even though you feel like you may burn up from the inside out, Atsumu sets a slow, reverent pace, making soft little sounds of pleasure every time you part for breath.
Sliding your tongue past his lips when he eagerly parts them, you tighten your hold on him, wrapping your arms more tightly across his shoulders, as if it's impossible to get as close as you want to be, canting your hips down so that your clothed heat drags against where he sits already achingly hard in his pants. His hands find their way under your loose fitting t-shirt, grabbing at warm skin before fully wrapping his arms around you so he can pull you down into every little jump of his hips.
At some point you both lose your shirts, skin pressed together as each press of hands and lips gets increasingly desperate. The damp spot on his sweats goes unmentioned when you reluctantly pull away from him to stand on shaky legs, reaching out to take his hand, already turning towards your shared bedroom.
It's kind of cute, the way Atsumu excitedly shoves the harness and its matching accessory under one arm before scooping you up with his other arm around the backs of your thighs, throwing you over his shoulder with ease. He doesn't say anything, just walks the rest of the way down the hall before giving your ass a good smack and plopping you down on the bed, tossing the strap down next to you on the sheets.
He doesn't go far, just takes the time to yank your shorts off before settling on top of you, wasting no time pressing his lips to yours. Your hands in his hair, he moves to mouth at the soft skin of your neck, leaving behind impressions of teeth and blooming rosy bruises in a trail from just below your chin to your chest. Fingers digging in where they've settled on your hips, his tongue swirls around your nipple, peaked in the cool bedroom air.
"Tsumu," you murmur with a huffed laugh that's cut off by a choked sound when his teeth graze skin, "this is supposed to be about you." He hums low and you feel the vibration of it against your skin as he continues to trail kisses down, down, down, "W'nna make ya come first." Heat flares in your chest and you make a satisfied sound. Atsumu pauses to look up at you, flashing you a cheeky grin that still makes your heart rate spike after all this time.
He pushes your thigh until you bend at the knee, propping your leg up so he can spread you wide. Thick fingers prod at your skin, parting your folds so he can just sit there and look at you until you get embarrassed and start to squirm. Atsumu honest to god licks his lips before finally leaning in to prod at you with his tongue, licking upwards, collecting the slick that's already soaking you before he reaches your clit and begins to suck softly.
You draw your knee up a little more, deepening the arch of your back so that he's right where you want him, tongue and lips and teeth consumed by the need to please you while you run your hands through his hair. "Fuck, Atsumu," you breathe, fingers grasping at strands of silvery blonde as warmth radiates through you. It builds and builds as Atsumu moves with precision, his hand leaving your thigh so that he can drag his fingers through the mixture of his spit and your wetness before pressing two of them into you, slow and unhurried.
The stretch feels so good, the tiny pinch of discomfort remedied immediately by the way his tongue moves in consistent circles around your clit. He curls his fingers, just slightly, every time he pulls them back, brushing against that spongy spot inside you that makes your head spin. The heat builds, and you can feel your muscles going more and more taut with every passing moment. Your teeth are digging into the flesh of your bottom lip, head tipped back, fingers locked in his hair.
You moan as the pressure finally reaches it's peak, splaying out into waves of warm euphoria that rush through your limbs. Atsumu makes a low, drawn out sound, the vibrations of his voice extending your orgasm by just a few seconds before your heavy breaths level out and his fingers still.
With noticeable effort, Atsumu pulls himself from between your legs--though his hands never leave you, rubbing lightly at your thighs, your hips. A kiss is placed on your temple, then your cheek, before one more lands at the corner of the small smile gracing your face. "M'gonna shower," he tells you. You open your mouth to protest, he didn't--
He must read your thoughts through the expressions on your face because his lips pull into a smug grin. "Ya don't gotta worry about me," he teases, "so why don't ya get comfortable until I get back." His eyes flit to the harness sitting a few feet away from you on the bed, his request clear though his words are coy. "I hate you," you sigh fondly as he turns towards the en suite, winking at you over his shoulder before pulling the door shut behind him.
You take a few minutes to lay there, letting your muscles fully relax before you sit up and prep the space. Glass of water on the nightstand, bottle of lube tossed near your pillow, a towel just in case, and you; clad in one of Atsumu's t-shirts, holding it loosely under your chin as you flip the last buckle into place at your waist. Dropping the shirt from where it was bunched, you're content with the way it's just long enough to brush across the top of the harness, letting it peek out beneath the burgundy cotton. Atsumu's timing is perfect, he emerges from the bathroom right as you're settling in with your back against the headboard.
He pauses halfway to you, eyes lasered in on the baby blue leather around your thighs, criss-crossed at the front to meet at the o-ring where the hilt of the matching dildo is secured. Your face heats a little despite the way you can see the want burning softly in his honey-colored eyes. You scoot to the edge of the bed, pulling him to stand between your legs so you can untuck the towel he's got around his waist. His cock is, unsurprisingly, already beginning to fill out, hands eager to find their place against your face, pulling you in for a breathless kiss as he lowers himself to his knees, cushioned by the plush bedroom rug.
You hum, warm satisfaction blooming in your chest at the way he's so willing to kneel before you. His lips move lower, nipping at bruises he's placed along your neck and chest earlier, thumbs brushing over the cool metal rings at the front of your hips. "Tsumu," you call gently, fingers pressing softly into the firm muscle of his shoulders, "lemme prep you." He makes a soft sound, syrupy sweet, and joins you on the bed, back flat against the sheets, knees bent--relaxed despite the vulnerability he's showing you right now.
"Love you," you murmur against his cheek, placing a tender kiss there when you lean over him to grab the bottle of lube, unable to resist how soft he makes you, even now. You're on your knees between his legs, your left hand resting against his thigh, thumb making comforting circular motions on his skin. With your finger sufficiently lubed, you lean forward, mouthing at the toned planes of his stomach as you spread the lube between his cheeks.
Just as you begin to press in, you drag your tongue along the underside of his cock. Atsumu makes a sound that's somewhere between choking on his own spit and a moan. "Sorry," you apologize, light and teasing, to which he just cards his fingers through your hair. He slowly relaxes around you as the thrusting of your finger has his skin growing hotter. "More," he pleads, liquid amber eyes burning where they look down at you. He takes the stretch of your second and third fingers with ease, and you're careful to keep the touches of your other hand light as he gets more and more worked up.
"Tsum," it takes a minute for him look up at you, but he eventually does, "you wanna come before or do you want to wait?" You don't slow the motion of your fingers inside him, continuing your languid pace as he struggles to ponder your question. "I--haah, I w'nna wait," he pants. Despite his answer, he still whines when you take your hand off his cock, beads of precome pearling at its tip.
"Be good," you warn gently, continuing to scissor your fingers, feeling the way he stretches around your digits. There's a part of you that wants to push, wants to see how far he'll let you go--wants to hear all of the little gasping sounds you can draw from his lips; but ultimately you decide to err on the side of mercy, for today at least.
A little gasp of surprise leaves him when you withdraw your fingers, soothed by your murmured apology as you move to stand. You watch Atsumu take a ragged inhale before he sits up, confusion painting his features. "Wha-" he doesn't get to finish before your own words cut him off.
"Atsumu," you purr, it's quiet but charged with heat, "you wanna get on your knees for me?" Watching realization light his eyes makes you want to clench your thighs together. He moves slowly, almost reverent as kneels before you, his back turned towards the bed. Featherlight, you drag the tips of the fingers on your clean hand across his cheek, tracing the strong lines of his features before you gently tilt his chin up. "You're being so good to me, baby."
The soft praise has him nuzzling into your palm, a love drunk moan crawling it's way up his chest. "Now get me wet for you," a gentle command punctuated by the guidance of your hand in his hair.
He leans forward, taking the baby blue silicone between his lips. Obviously you can't feel it, but you watch the way he swirls his tongue around the tip before pressing further forward, taking more of it's length into his mouth. The toy you'd chosen isn't much compared to his own cock--that would have been mean, but it's definitely not small, so your soft moan is tinged with surprise when he takes it to the hilt, nose pressed to the patch of hair at its base. You feel your cunt flutter around nothing when he pauses there and looks up at you, moisture pooling at the corners of his eyes.
"Fuck," you breathe sweetly, watching him pull back to take a breath before pushing forward again, not taking it as deep this time, but instead setting a languid pace. At one point he pulls back just to say your name, his hand moving from where it's been resting against your thigh to press between your legs, dipping into the tight heat there. You bite your lip and let your head fall back, a pleasured gasp on your lips when he curls his fingers just right.
It's a substantial effort to look back down at him, but when you do, the scene you find is what actually tips you over. Blonde hair wrapped around your fingers, controlled bobs of his head accented by soft, needy sounds every time he manages to get a good breath in. Your hips flex forward as you come, your grip on his hair bordering on harsh when you pull him into the little thrusts of your hips as you ride out the waves of pleasure.
You're suddenly empty, little aftershocks still have you clenching around nothing before your brain returns to its normal functions. The dildo isn't rigid, but you're sure it's still solid enough to do damage. "Oh fuck," you pant, releasing your hold on his hair so he can pull off of you. The second he's sat back you're on your knees in front of him, palms on his cheeks so you can tilt his head to look at him. "Sorry was that too rough I didn--" you're cut off by a sharp intake of air and the hissing sound of it being released through clenched teeth.
"Atsumu," you worry, voice strained. He takes another big breath, this one sounding much less pained. "Sorry," he rasps finally, "ya didn't hurt me, sweetheart." You search his face for any sign that he's just trying to spare your feelings. "Didn't want to come yet," he glances down and you follow his gaze to find his hand, fingers still glistening with your slick, wrapped around the base of his cock, the tip flushed an angry color.
"Oh," you huff out the breath you'd been holding with a soft laugh.
"So don't stop on my account," he breathes, leaning in with a glance at your lips before capturing them with his own. It's like he's passing his own longing, his own heat right to you with each press of lips. Your mouth parts for his tongue, meeting it with your own. "Tsumu, get on the bed," you murmur between kisses. He hums low, dragging you with him as he settles back on the sheets. You finally muster the strength to pull away from the kiss, sitting back on your heels and tapping the outside of his thigh.
"Flip over," you tell him gently. Atsumu pouts up at you, a protest on his tongue that you seek to remedy with another kiss and a hushed reassurance, "I think it'll be easier this way, Tsum--but next time, kay?" He melts at the tenderness laced in your words, nodding up at you before flipping over so that his weight is resting on his knees and his forearms, back bowed in a soft arch. "Thank you, baby," you tell him sweetly, kissing your way down his spine and dipping your fingers past it's base to press in where he's still wet and warm.
"You say stop, I stop, okay?" voice soft but no less serious. Atsumu shifts his hips, pressing back against you until you stop him with a firm grip on his hips. "Baby, if ya don't hurry up m'gonna die," he pants, and you can tell he's nearing the end of his rope in terms of staving off his own orgasm. You placate him as you coat silicone with a generous amount of lube, smearing the extra over his ass with your thumb--pressing, just a little, to push past the rim, soft and still slick as Atsumu moans beneath you.
One hand planted firmly on his hip, the other wrapped around the base of the dildo as a guide, you cant your hips forward until the tip is just barely pressed against his ass. He tries to press back into you, but you stop him with a pointed squeeze of your hand and a chiding remark, "I know you're ready baby, but I don't wanna hurt you."
With Atsumu holding still again, you press a little further, baby blue tip dipping into the tight ring of muscle with surprising ease--but still you pause as you notice the way his back tenses a little and his shoulders heave with shaky inhales. "Breath, Atsumu," you soothe. A deep breath and another press forward. This time his hands fist in the sheets as he makes a keening noise that sounds like your name, "Ah-oh my godfuck."
You start to pull out, just a tiny flex of your hips, but Atsumu doesn't let you get far--his hand struggles to get free from where it's tangled in the sheets, flying back to grip the outside of your thigh as he pleads with you, "No, no, no" another warbled cry of your name, "please, I need'ya please."
Heat pools in your belly at the wrecked sound of his voice, and you continue pressing forward at his request. Another couple minutes of pressing in, pausing, and then pressing in some more until you're fully seated, hips flush to the swell of his ass. He hasn't stopped talking, fingers digging in where they're gripping your thigh and the knuckles on his other hand pale as he grips the sheets.
You're both breathing hard, your own hands shaky where they're still firm on his hips. "Sweetheart," he takes a shuddering gasp, "baby ya gotta mov-ah fuck please!"
Now that you know how desperate he is for it, you don't hesitate to pull back so only the tip is still seated inside of him before immediately fucking back in. He moans, loud and unabashed. "Yeah?" you urge him on, "That feel good, Tsum?" You shift the angle just a little on the next stroke until you hear that breathy little sound that you've learned means you're in the right spot.
Leaning further forward, you press against his lower back, deepening the arch of his spine and putting yourself close enough to him that you can suck and bite at the tan skin of his shoulders. "Fuck," he cries, "ah-there, please right there." You can't feel it, but you can see it, the way his hole flutters around the strap, how his whole body has gone tense, nothing but filthy sounds and pleading whines leaving his lips--he's close.
"Atsumu," you coo, slowing the rhythm of your thrusts. You have to say his name twice before you get a response, a desperate sound muffled by the way his cheek is pressed into the pillow. "Think you can come untouched for me?" you ask. Maybe he's thinking about it, or maybe his brain just takes a second to process the question, but he pauses as you slowly continue fucking him, then nods his head. Another raspy moan when you seat yourself fully and grind deeper instead of pulling right back out, "ohmygod-mmh, yes, yeah I can fr'you."
Flames of arousal flicker across your skin and you hum low, "Good boy." All of your senses are trained on the little reactions each thrust is drawing from him, you feel the way his back tenses beneath your hand when you pull out, hesitate for just a breath, then thrust back in with a sharp snap of your hips. "You're doing so good, Atsumu," you praise, shaping your words around your ragged breaths.
"Come for me."
You slow down as he unravels around you, coming so hard you hear it hit the sheets beneath him. It's easy to talk him through it, still pressing your hips against his ass before pulling back and doing it again, fingers dancing across his back as you let him know how good he's doing, how pretty he looks like this. He basks in it until his breathing slows a bit, changing from an overwhelming need to draw oxygen, to little panting breathes born from the beginnings of overstimulation.
He's squeezing so tight that it takes slow, steady strokes to press back in--but he doesn't ask you to stop. Beneath you his exhales form words and you think he's asking for something, but you can't understand him with the way his face is buried in the pillow. "Tell me what you need, Atsumu" you press gently. He shifts where his knees are settled on the mattress and you pull back, only for him to roll so he's laying flat on his back, rosy cheeks and watery eyes on full display for you now.
God he's so beautiful like this.
Hands pull you in until he's breathing gratitudes into you between every impassioned kiss. You're about to relax fully against him when his leg hooks around the back of your thigh and his 'thank yous' turn to pleas for more. Pulling back to look down at him, you're met with eyes still shining with need, like flames flickering in endless pools of liquid honey. "Jus' one more, please," he whispers.
You hold his face in both of your hands, taking his bottom lip between both of yours in a kiss that's languid and burning with tenderness. He moans against you, kissing back like his fire can't help but want to be joined with yours. "Of course, my love," you murmur when you eventually pull back, settling between his legs so that the strap is pressed to the cleft of his ass once again.
Despite the slick, easy slide in, you don't return to your original speed, instead keeping the same deep, measured roll of your hips as Atsumu holds you close. The sting of overstimulation quickly melts into liquid heat that burns hotter and hotter with each movement of your body against his. You reach between your bodies and wrap your fingers around him, matching the movement of your hand to that of your hips. He makes a keening noise and on a hushed breath you tell him, "I've got you, baby. Let go." His head tilts back, eyes brimming with moisture before they're squeezed shut in ecstasy. He comes with a cry of your name, immediately reaching to pull your lips back to his, kissing you until the shudders of pleasure slowly subside.
Soft apologies spill from your mouth when you carefully pull out, quickly unbuckling the harness to be tossed aside, moving hastily on shaky, sore legs to dampen a towel with warm water before returning to gently wipe clean the golden expanse of his skin. Atsumu watches you quietly the whole time, only drawing an unsteady breath when you push his thighs apart to erase the traces of sweat and lube from between his legs.
Once you're both fairly clean, you crawl back into bed next to him, immediately wrapping your limbs around his own. It's serene, with the soft sounds of crickets coming from outside mixing with the steady inhales from within. His fingers move comfortingly along your spine, and you feel him press an occasional kiss to your hair. "Was that okay?" you ask into the stillness. Atsumu shifts so he's laying on his side, tilting your face up so you're looking at him.
His thumb strokes softly against your cheek, the corners of his eyes scrunching a little as he smiles and replies, "Is yer post nut clarity kickin' in?" You huff at his teasing, "So it was an okay gift then?" He hums a laugh, "Yeah, it was a good gift, baby. Ten out of ten would get fucked again." You snort and roll your eyes playfully as he leaves smacking kisses on both of your cheeks.
When he pulls away the mirthful twist of his features warms to something a little more serious. "I love ya," he murmurs, your face cradled in his palms. Your cheeks heat at the undeniable devotion that shines in his eyes and the way it's so apparently laced in his words.
When you lean forward to kiss him it's chaste but glowing with comforting warmth, a declaration of fondness passed on a soft breath.
☾SUMMARY You finally cave and give the boy you've been sexting what he's been begging for. You expected this little situation of yours to be over after...but Atsumu's better than that.
☾WARNINGS Gender Neutral Reader x Miya Atsumu, college au!, NFSW, smut, oral (character receiving), cowgirl, reader rides tsumu, light dom/sub undertones, tsumu's so cocky until shit gets real, praise, degradation, bickering, and flirting,
☾A/N ah yes the part you all have been waiting for ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). Sorry this came out a bit late, wanted to post it last night but I was busy drowning in class work. (╥﹏╥)
wc. 2.6k
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| | part one | part two
Most college students spend their Friday nights going out, getting drunk, and making bad decisions they'll probably regret later. You? Nope, instead you're in the bleachers of your gym waiting for the volleyball game Atsumu begged you to come to, to start.
What made you say yes? You had no obligation to. It's not like he's your friend. Just some guy who accidently sent you a picture of his dick....and who's in the same class as you...and has been lowkey obsessed with you since then...
And you're obsessed with him too. It's hard not to be. Even though you sometimes find his cockiness annoying, he can be oddly charming. But you'll never let him know any of that, his ego is already big enough.
It's not long until the entire bleachers are full of people. And by full, you see no empty seats. You got a good spot though, right in the middle. Atsumu can't miss you, all he has to do is look over. But he's not. No, he's laser focused. Smug grin still on his lips but his eyes the most determined you've ever seen them.
He's usually so unserious, laid back and casual around you. Yet as you watch the game play out you see a completely new side of him. One that's demanding, composed and so care-free at the same time. You've been staring at only him, the entire time.
Not the score. Or the other team. Hell the only time you notice the damn ball is when it's in his hands. The very same hands that you've fantasized about for a week.
The very same hands twenty other people in the crowd probably think about too.
One thing has been bugging you since the game started. The amount of people yelling and screaming his name. Of course he has fans. You know how well known he is.
Doesn't make it any less annoying.
But it shouldn't be annoying...it's not like you two are a thing.
It's not like you want to be a thing...and if that was the case...
Then why are you here?
Why did you call him last night? Why continue to text him? To put up with his antics in class? To shake your head and smile at every stupid joke he tells you? To blush and get butterflies after every compliment he says to you?
You like him. That's why.
And when you see his eyes scan the crowd after the first set ends, the second they find you and he smiles so genuine. You have a feeling maybe he likes you a little bit too.
After the game ends and they win, because of course they do, you sit in the bleachers waiting. Your face in your phone, pretending to be occupied while everyone else is leaving. When the gym is almost empty you hear...
"I don't even have to ask, I know you're totally impressed." Atsumu says to you, his voice making your head snap up.
"Maybe I am...or maybe not." You say. Obviously you're not gonna feed his ego trip, even if he is right. You let yourself stare at him, his sweaty blonde hair sticking to his forehead, the prominent veins in his arms, how his jersey fits around his body.
"There's no maybe, I know you're impressed."
"You know nothing."
The walk to his car feels so long but shot at the same time. The two of you bickering back and forth like you've known each other for ages. When in reality it's been about a week.
"Okay well, I guess I should say good job for winning even if you did ok." You say teasing him.
"Ok?! I did so much better than okay. You saw how many service aces I had." He huffs, it's almost cute how easy he is to rile up.
"Hmm did I?" You put a finger to your lip, acting oblivious.
"You sure did. You never took your eyes off me." He says with a smirk on his face. "You thought I wouldn't notice sweetheart?"
Of course he noticed.
"Whatever, go ahead and make up whatever lies you tell yourself." You roll your eyes, dramatic and posing as if he isn't right. When the two of you get to his car you try to say you'll just walk back to your dorm and Atsumu isn't gonna allow that.
"Hell no. It's pitch black outside and I don't mind giving you a ride. We literally live in the same building." He opens the door for you.
You should say no. But you don't, you don't even try to argue. You just step inside and sit down. His car is nicer than nice, it still has that new car smell you like.
"Is that why you have such nice legs? You walk everywhere?" Atsumu says as he reverses out of the spot.
"Just shut up and drive." You blush. It's a habit of his to make a compliment out of everything you do.
The drive isn't far at all, so much quicker than walking. When he parks, it's silent for a couple of seconds. You're thinking about what to do next.
Do you tell him goodnight and go to your room like you would usually do? Or give into the voice in the back of your head telling you to do what you truly want?
"Anyways thanks for comin', I know you're probably tired-" He starts but then...
"Says who? I'm not tired." You say, eyes dark and flirty.
The face Atsumu makes is one of surprise, like he can't believe what he's hearing. You always say no. You always let it get to a point and then stop. As if there's some force holding you back, but not tonight.
"Why don't you take me to your room? I remember you saying you lost your tv remote right?"
"Yeah....sure." He says so softly, such a stark contrast to his demeanor a few minutes ago. It's your first time seeing him like this in person, and damn does it make your want for him swirl inside of you.
The walk inside and to his room is quiet. Which is odd since Atsumu is rarely ever quiet. He always makes his presence known, especially to you. But right now he's kind of sheepish, avoiding your gaze and glancing at you only when he thinks you're not looking.
And when you finally step inside.
"I uh...have to shower..." Atsumu says staring at the floor.
"Okay, I can wait." You say so gently. Atsumu fidgets, he can't decide what he likes more. You when you're mean or you when you're so sweet. "Can I sit on your bed."
"Yes! Er- I mean...yeah sure." He tries to hide how excited his is.
When sit down on his bed it takes everything to not jump your bones right then and there. He walks away to his bathroom stiff as ever like he didn't just playa whole game.
It's funny and you can't help but feel enamored by him. While he's in the shower you glance around, it's neater than what you thought it'd be. There's a picture frame on his desk of him and someone that looks damn near just like him...
When gets out of the shower, in only a towel mind you, you ask "Why did you never tell me you have a twin?"
"Ugh don't remind me." He scoffs.
"Ya know you probably just broke the world record for fastest shower ever." You tease and stand up, eyes raking down his half naked body. He freezes like a deer caught in headlights.
"I-I onl-"
"Is there something you're in a rush for?" Your gaze catches his. He's staring at you like he's scared you'll disappear, scared that this isn't real and he's dreaming. But you're palm against his cheek makes the reality settle in.
"Yeah..." He whispers so quietly you almost miss it. His gaze moving down to your lips. He nuzzles into the palm of your hand, still in shock that you're really here touching him like this.
"And what would that be?" You say, other hand undoing the knot in the towel around his waist, letting it fall to the floor. Your mouth waters at the sight of him already hard. A picture of his hard cock is what started all of this and gosh you're grateful.
"To do all the things we said we would." Atsumu's eyes dark with lust and hands itching to finally touch you the way he's been craving.
"There's something I want to do first." You say, somehow stepping even closer. Personal space no longer existent.
"Yeah?" Atsumu says. "Do it." He says like a desire wrapped in a dare.
In that instant your lips found his in a tooth-rotting sweet kiss that has him week in the knees. It deepens when you wrap your arms around his neck, one hand in his wet hair and his hands on your hips pulling you close like close ain't close enough. Your tongue glides against his and he groans.
You break the kiss to kiss the column of his neck, a bite and lick here and there. Your lips warm against his skin, his neck, his collarbone, his chest. When you sink to your knees Atsumu swears he died and this is heaven.
"You don't have to-"
"Shhh I want to." You whisper, hands on his hips, face resting against his strong thighs. "Is this what you want?"
"Fuck yes." He says immediately it's almost pathetic.
No more talking, your lips kiss his thigh, hand wrapping around the base of his cock and then kissing the tip like you own it. He whimpers just from the sight, the amount of times he's fantasized this exact moment while staring at pictures of your lips is insanity.
When your lips finally wrap around the shaft he moans your name, gently grabbing the back of your head. Not to force you no, only to ground himself from the immense pleasure he feels. It's almost too much, the wet and warm cavern of your mouth feels too damn good. It only takes a few bobs of your head down his cock for him to whine.
"Shit-feels so good! I-I can't...you're so good..." He's just blabbering away while you suck the life out of him. You pull off with a pop and stroke him a couple of times, saliva making it easy.
"You were so cocky on the way here, what happened? My mouth that good huh?" You say, not breaking eye contact once.
"Not just your mouth..." He says, a familiar blush you've seen before trickling onto his skin.
When you take him into your mouth again, deeper this time his grip tightens in your hair. He's already so close and you've barely done anything.
"I'm so close...ohh fuck- I can't-" Before you push him over the edge you stop. "W-why'd you-"
"Because we're just getting started." You say, rising up from your knees to kiss him again. "I remember saying I wanted to do more than just suck you off."
"Yeah..." He whispers and then presses his lips against yours, kissing you while bringing you down on the bed.
"Undress me." You whisper against his lips and his calloused hands shed every piece of clothing off your body. His touch is everything and more than what you imagined it'd be. He caresses every valley and gropes every curve.
"You're so hot. Hotter than the pictures." His eyes full of lust and maybe even love. He lets you push him down to his bed with a finger to his chest.
Your legs straddle his hips, his cock almost trapped between his body and where you need him most. "Ya know...so many girls, and guys even, were cheering your name at your game." You trace a pattern on his chest. "You tell them to come too?"
"No, only you." He answers immediately.
"Oh yeah? So no one else gets to see you like this? I find that hard to believe." You grind down and moans, his voice so needy.
"Only you I promise. No one else could make me feel like this."
"Really? It's our first time and I haven't even fucked you yet. And here you are, talking like you're mine." You say, voice dark and seductive. "Is that what you want? To be mine?"
"Yes! Fucking hell yes." His thick brows knit together and deep blush painting his cheeks. "Please fuck me, ride my cock till I can't take it. It's yours and no one else's."
"Okay then pretty boy, I'll give you what you want." You take his cock in your hand, leading him inside of you and then sinking down slowly. The stretch is painfully good, thick girthy cock stretching you like elastic. When you bottom out a heavy pleasure filled sigh escapes your lips.
"You're so..so tight...feels so good." Atsumu says, already drunk on pleasure. His hands grasping hard at your hips as you lift yourself up and back down on his cock.
"mmm you're so big Tsumu, thought about riding your cock ever since you sent me that damn dick pic." His cock hits all the right spots deep within you, the tip kissing that spot that sends pleasure up your spine. You chase your own orgasm, using him like he asked, bouncing on his dick with speed and and vigor as you get closer and closer to coming undone. "fuck...cock feels so damn good Tsumu I'm gonna cum."
"Please cum...please..." He whines, the sounds of his name coming from your mouth goes straight to his cock.
You lean down and capture his lips in a sloppy open mouth kiss, swallowing some of his sweet sounds. "Fuck me." You say and he listens cause why wouldn't he? He pistons his hips up into you, fucking that fat cock inside of your gummy and warm walls so good and whimpering moaning the whole damn time. "Yeah just like that, ohh-fuck me Tsumu."
It takes a few more thrusts inside until he's whining in your ear about how close he is.
"Cum for me Tsumu, cum inside." That's all it takes and he's erupting inside of you with a deep moan of your name. The feeling of his cum painting your insides pushes you over the edge, best orgasm of your life washing over you.
When you both come down, you lift yourself off of him, your legs weak and shaky. The clarity hits you then of what you've done. Possibilities of what happens next run through your head. But an arm around your waist makes everything in your mind go quiet.
"Stay?" Atsumu whispers. "Please."
And you don't find yourself wanting to say no. So, you lay down and he pulls the covers over you both. The arm around your waist pulls you closer, his breath against the back of your neck.
"That...was amazing..." He whispers.
"Yeah?" You chuckle at his amazement.
"Yeah. Your roommate punking me is the best thing that ever happened to me."
"They definitely expected me to tell you to fuck off."
"Why didn't you? I wouldn't have blamed you if you did." He asks, thumb drawing circles on your skin.
And for once you don't have a answer. "I...I don't know actually."
"I know why." You can feel his cocky grin on the back of your neck.
"Why?" You sense a bullshit reason incoming.
"Cause my dick is just that pretty, even you couldn't resist it."
"How are you so damn cocky?"
"I have one of the hottest people on campus in my bed right now. How else am I supposed to be?"
To that you just laugh, and he laughs with you. This isn't what you expected for post sex with him. You expected him to be nonchalant, distant, maybe even kick you out. But no, he's making you laugh, the air feels lighthearted.
And for once you're not questioning the answer when he asks.
"Wanna go out tomorrow?" Atsumu asks, almost expecting you to say no. And yet to his surprise you say...
Atsumu loved smelling things. It probably seemed weird to other people, so he never really told anyone. But smell was what linked him to his past, to all his memories. He even read a scientifuc study once about how smell was the sense with the strongest link to human memories. He coukd have told them that any day.
Every smell seemed to remind him of something. The smell of bread reminded him of mornings at home with his family, joking at eating, play-fighting with his brother. The smell of sweat reminded him of all of the hours he spent training volleyball. Even the smell of car fumes reminded him of his drive from home to school with his brother.
This could be a good or a bad thing. Sometimes he would walk down the street and smell a dog and it would remind him of that one time he had been over to Kita's place and played with his grandmother's dog in their beautiful backyard that they tended to themselves. His whole day would be brighter and better because of that one fleeting smell.
Other times, he would be giving interviews before an upcoming game and the interviewer had a perfume that smelled just like the one his horrible history teacher used to wear and his brain would be flooded with memories of having to recite years, dates, of being yelled at, of failing. Memories clouding his mind without anything he could do about it. Just because of one little smell.
It could be extreme, he knew that. So no, he did not tell anyone about it. He especially did not tell anyone that once he met you, he apparentlt began to turn into Edward fucking Cullen.
He met you, dated you, fell in love with you and without even realizing when it happened - all of a sudden - a guy describing his girlfriend's smell as his "own, personal brand of heroin" didn't seem that corny to him anymore. Now, he would bury his face in your hair or you neck every time you two hugged, inhaling your scent as much as he could without you catching on.
When he had a bad day, all he had to do was see you, smell you, and all of his worries would be immediately overridden by memories of you laughing at his horrible, terrible jokes. Images of you sleeping on his chest, the feeling of your warmth against his, the sound of your voice all overlapping in his brain, soothing his over-stressed nerves.
Your scent was what he craved, needed after a grueling day of dealing with press shenanigans. He found himself laying awake at night, reaching for the pillow you had slept on the night before to bury his head in, pretending it was your tummy, searching for any remains of your perfume on it.
Still, he tried to be chill about it. He tried to not inhale the air around you too obviously, he didn't ask your what perfume you used, he subtly got you to wear his sweaters and not of course you didn't have to wash them before giving them back! Silly you, he'll take care of that, of course!
But then, one day, he saw you spritz your perfume onto your wrists. You two were going out that night and Atsumu was picking you up. You just needed a few finishing touches, then you were done. And Atsumu didn't mean to pry into your privacy, but the flask was just sitting there and it was pretty much impossible for him not to look, not to read the label, not to go home and order the very same perfume for himself.
It arrived and sat on his counter for days. He couldn't bring himself to unpack it, to use it. The itch was there, right under his skin. Something deep inside him wanted to rip open the packaging and inhale every last bit right then and there but he knew it was weird. He knew his whole behavior was weird but what the hell! He loved you, was that really so weird? But the mere thought of your reaction were you ever to find out kept him from unpacking it.
It wasn't until he had to go on a trip for an away game and promotions - weeks away from home, with people yapping into his ear 24/7, asking him questions, proving him about his private live, his professional life, his skills, his teams skills, training seemingly day and night.. what man could keep his composure at a time like this?
Atsumu had tried to fall asleep, he really did! But when sleep just would overcome him, he silently stood up and slowly, carefully moved through his suitcase.
The perfume sat at the bottom of his suitcase like a dirty secret, like a sex toy you don't want the airport security to see when the open it up. He knew he shouldn't have packed it, but just the knowledge of having it there calmed him down, albeit just a bit.
Now, he finally tore open the plastic wrapping, unfolded the paper box and pulled out the small flask. It was impossible for him to fathom that such a small thing could keep the essence of your smell within itself, something so overwhelming and all-encompassing to him.
But it did. And when he sprayed it onto the expensive hotel pillow and laid his head down to rest, it felt just like your arms wrapping themselves around him, keeping him safe and loved. It felt like a kiss being pressed to the crown of his head as he relaxed after a long day. It felt like a whispered "I love you" as he drifted off to sleep.
Atsumu knew that he wasn't the only one who liked to keep a reminder of his partner with him. His other teammates had pictures of their partners, matching tattoos with their husbands, trinkets made by their girlfriends. Atsumu wasn't so unlike them. He just liked something he could smell better than something he could touch.
rick riordan was on some other shit while writing magnus chase. pansexual healer protagonist who DIES FOR REAL in the first chapter. genderfluid he/she latino love interest. hijabi muslim valkryie. most of the main cast gets slaughtered on the regular and wake up like nothing happened. absolutely inspired interpretation of valhalla. sparing some empathy for loki somehow? all in a satisfying trilogy that lives in your brain years after the fact??? just straight gas. i need a three season tv adaptation STAT
Would you be willing to write a little something something about Jason and feminization (ʃƪ＾3＾）I loved your headcanons ❤️❤️❤️
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ I'm Every Woman ⋆˚࿔♫⋆˚࿔
Warning: Sub/Bottom character, AMAB reader, but no pronouns are used, spanking, hair pulling, feminization (Duhhh) established relationship. No use of (y/n).
Note: The people love Jason Todd. Dare I say the new people's princess? Thank you for your request and your support! (>ᴗ•) !
!!————————————!!
As mentioned in my Jason kink hcs, I characterize him to be very lowkey in his self-feminization. Again, not out of shame for being feminine in itself, but the vulnerability it paints across his back. If Jason were to be more obvious about the fact, it would leave easy digs for other people to prod at. He can’t risk killing his bad boy aura!!
I also see it as a coping mechanism for Jason to relate back to his lack of childhood. Both out of passing at a young age and the hard life he lived before that in the slums. For Jason, it’s more about barrets with bows and princess memorabilia than fishnets and red lipstick (though that’s great too). So it’s a bit of age regression thrown in there.
You know the saying that women generally look better than men because men don’t take care of themselves properly? The little time Jason spent around Bruce before he died taught him the importance of putting yourself together. Daily eyeliner, mascara, and tinted lip balm is what Jason ought to wear before leaving the house if he wants to be presentable. No makeup makeup, you know?
Jason is also a really big guy. Most women's clothing isn’t suited for his body type (tragically). He’ll wear a pink shirt under a black hoodie, the same colored socks with dark, beat-up sneakers. Pin a portion of his bangs back with a sleek and simple bobby pin. Don a silver ring on his pinky with a tiny butterfly on it. Douse a spray of a flowery perfume on before layering a more hardy cologne. To Jason, it’s enough. A simple indulgence.
If we’re talking sexually, however…
Okay!! Bring the makeup kit back out. This is where Jason likes to go full face. Nothing's hotter than taking in the state of him post fuck. Black tears streamed down his chiselled cheeks and neck. Glittery eyeshadow carelessly smeared, and his own natural flush breaking through the powdery one. Around his lips, the foundation breaks for drool and irritated red splitting from kisses and fingers alike. If you’re really lucky, his lipstick coats your cock in rings from the base up to your pretty tip.
Lingerie is hard to find in his size. You’ll have to order 3XL for panties and scrape the bottom of the barrel for a matching bra. (Anyone with big boobies knows it’s impossible to find a fitted bra that’s also pretty). He can’t fit the really dainty classic sexy slips, even though you might spot a couple in the back of his closet as a collection, but he can wear the more simple creme basic ones. For all intents and purposes, it achieves the same thing.
Jason answers to ‘Princess’ around the clock. Pretty thing, sweetheart, angel. But only when he’s dressed up as one will he respond to ‘pretty girl’, ‘baby girl’, etc.
I think Jason also prefers a rougher treatment when he’s in this mood. Call him a whore, but not a slut. Pull the short strands of his hair like there's more to hold onto. For the love of good spank that ass of his!! The way it’s halves pudge outside the lace is to die for. Nose between it. Bite him while you’re down there for me.
This is one of those things you can’t request of Jason; he has to bring it up to you for him to indulge. Remember, if you don’t make it a big thing, he’ll revel in it.
warning ladies !! do not spit in gojo’s mouth unless you’re ready for him to nut instantly!
“c’mon baby,” he whines, voice all breathy and cocky, his blue eyes sparkling looking greedy. “i’ve been good. spit in my mouth, please?”
you laugh, because this six-foot-whatever menace who can literally warp reality is pouting like a brat because he wants your spit.
“you’re so fucking weird, toru.”
“you are weird,” he corrects instantly, tongue already poking out a little. “now c’mon.... i’m dying here. my dick’s so hard it’s bout to file a complaint.”
you roll your eyes but lean in anyway, gripping his jaw with one hand, thumb pressing into the soft skin just under his bottom lip. he opens wider, eyes half-lidded, that signature gojo smirk twitching at the corners because he knows exactly how nasty this is.
you gather it slow on purpose, letting him watch, then spit directly onto his waiting tongue. thick, warm, right in the center.
the sound he makes is downright criminal. a broken little moan-groan that vibrates straight through his chest and into yours.
“fuck— again,” he gasps, “do it again. spit like you mean it.”
you do it again, messier this time, letting some of it miss and drip down his chin. he doesn’t even wipe it. just lets it slide while his eyes roll back.
“you’re actually getting off on this, huh?” you tease, grinding down slow on the massive bulge straining against the fabric. “big bad strongest and all it takes is a little spit to make you stupid?”
“shut up and degrade me properly,” he whines, but he’s grinning like an idiot, tongue still out. “call me a nasty little slut or sum. i’m literally leaking for you right now.”
you laugh again, i mean you can’t help it. before you do the request, you reach down and shove his sweats just low enough to free him. he’s flushed dark at the tip, already dripping down the shaft.
“open wider, pretty boy.”
he obeys instantly, loving every second of being absolutely humiliated by you.
you spit again, then lean down and lick into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue while you sink down onto his cock.
satoru’s whole body shudders. he moans into your mouth, hands scrambling on your hips, already babbling.
“more!! fuck— spit on me while you ride me. please baby i’ll do anything. i’ll buy you a country. i’ll cancel infinity for the rest of the night. just keep spitting in my fucking mouth—”
Some mornings, it’s soft and filled with cuddles. Simons warm hand splayed over Johnny’s hip with gentleness that rarely shows. Johnnys fingers curled in blonde locks as hazel eyes trace features, staring back at the Scotsman. Before two pairs of eyes dip down to your sleeping form between them.
Johnny loves staying in bed with you, voice raspy and cracking with morning dryness as he mutters to you, planting kisses all over your face. Simon peels himself away, the throb of a caffeine headache urging him to be the first to get up and make a pot of coffee. But he returns after a few sips and crawls back into bed.
They take turns, spoiling their sweet bird.
Johnny slipping away for his morning jog as Simon keeps you warm under the blankets.
“C’mon, luv… almost nine, need ta’ wake up.” He rumbles beside you, digits trailing up and down your spine as if memorizing each vertebrae.
Other mornings, you wake before them. You squirm your way out from between them, bare feet padding along the wooden floor boards until you’re in the kitchen. Coffee brews as eggs crackle and pop in a greased pan. Simon is first to wake, calling out to you with a twinge of worry lacing his voice.
It’s not until you appear in the bedroom doorway with two mugs that he relaxes, Johnny smiling big and lazy.
“There’s our wee bird… so pretty this mornin’.” Johnny snorts when you grin and plant a wet kiss on his cheek before handing him his coffee. Simon draws in a breath of contentment when he too gets his morning kiss and a sip of his coffee.
Either way, the three of you have soft mornings. One way or another.
i feel like cause soap is a freak he would get turned on by the most random shit like reader telling him she matched her lip liner shade to her nipples (feel free to ignore if you think this is weird it’s just a random thought)
oh no he absolutely would. that man is a freak through and through and he stands by it. matching anything with your body parts? instant boner, obviously. seeing even a hint of your underwear peeking out of your jeans? seeing your stomach when you stretch and your shirt slides up? fuck, the man gets hard from seeing your razor clean and untouched after a shower because Bush Nation survives another day.
but you know that trend where someone will get their partners tip colour on their nails? yea. that. Just imagine telling soap you're getting your nails done and he requests a pic (after sending you some money for them, he knows his place) when youre done. he tells you how pretty they are but doesnt catch on, not until you're on your knees, hands wrapped around his cock and slowly pumping it, thumb sliding over his sensitive tip. he immediately cums when he realises and you best believe he'll be eating you out until the sheets are fucking soaked.
he also proudly shows off your nails to everyone. which also gets him hard.
Summary: You make Johnny’s head spin with everything you do, so it’s no surprise that he wants your teeth sliding against his throat.
[WARNINGS: hickeys + lovebites, not full on smut but heavily suggestive, dirty thoughts, sub!soap. he’s also so in love.]
Johnny found himself in awe of you. He has never met anyone who has made him feel so.. good. He’s never met anyone who has made him feel so needy. Every touch of yours lingers on his skin, burning into his memory whenever your fingertips brush against his arm, just to past by him in a tight space. You always capture one hundred percent of his attention whenever you part your lips to talk, and he hopes that his staring at the curve of your lips isn’t too noticeable. Johnny went for a long time with no distractions, with no one to think about late at night, until you came along.
The first time he thought about you in a less than platonic way, he felt dirty—and wrong. He was laying on his bed with his hands covering his face, feeling the heat on his cheeks increase by the second as his mind is running miles per second, pointing out details about you. Your smile, your facial features, your body, everything. But he began to feel worse—and aroused—when he imagined your hand around his throat with your lips to his jaw, sucking a visible and dark hickey into his skin. He got so hard in his boxer briefs that it fucking hurt.
Johnny knows it’s a bad idea, he knows it is, but that exact thought has been coming back to him every time he thinks about you. Your lips on his neck, claiming him in the form of marks and bites. He can’t help but imagine the faint feeling of you sucking on his skin, pulling it between your teeth and sending shivers down his spine. It’s got him dizzy when he thinks about it, and it’s absolutely down right horrendous when he thinks about you muttering possessive phrases in his ear. Johnny wants to be yours, wants you to show him that he’s yours. He later sits there and quietly curses himself out because nothing has ever happened between you two; he’s getting so attached to this.. idea, an idea that’ll never happen because you haven’t even kissed..
So imagine his surprise when you have him against a wall a week later. Your hand is wrapped around the base of his throat with your lips against his jaw. Johnny’s lips are parted and a soft noise leaves him, his heart jumping out of his chest as his own hands immediately grab onto the back your shirt, his arms wrapped around you in an attempt to pull you closer. You drag your tongue against his skin before sucking on the skin right below his jawline—it’s a horrible idea, a way too obvious spot, but it’s clear that Johnny doesn’t care when he lets out a breathy and drawn out, “FuuuuUck—“
His hands grasp at your shirt again, unable to keep still as you chuckle against his neck, slowly trailing to a different spot on his neck while dragging your tongue. You teasingly give the spot a sloppy kiss and slightly suck on the skin before letting go, murmuring, “You want people to see, don’t you? That’s why you aren’t stopping me.” Johnny nearly whines when you don’t follow through with giving him another hickey, barely hearing you. He swallows spit as he processes your words, head fuzzy already and he nods quickly. “Don’care if they see, wan’em to.”
He’s slurring his words as one of his hands moves from the back of your shirt to the back of your head and he doesn’t necessarily push you against his neck, but he doesn’t know where to keep his hands. Johnny can’t help it, either; he never thought this would happen, he never thought you’d give him what he wanted—no, what he needed. The thing is, receiving a hickey or a lovebite isn’t exactly pleasurable. It’s arousing and even a bit painful at times, but Johnny is chasing that pain—he’s chasing the feeling of your lips on his skin everytime.
Johnny’s body melts when you suck his skin between your lips again, the hand around the base of his neck tightening. He subconsciously pushes his hips against yours as he begins to babble from something so simple. “Mh, need this, I need this—need ya t’mark me. Want ta’belong to ya—“
You bite down on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, sinking your teeth into his muscle; not enough to break skin, but enough to hurt and leave a mark, and that’s enough for him. Johnny lets out a moan from the bite, the pain radiating up his neck and down his arm, but it only makes his cock twitch in his pants. He’s probably leaking and staining his boxers again, but he doesn’t mind. Not when you borderline laugh at his reaction. You pull away from his neck to look at him. “You like that? Like when I bite you, Johnny?”
Johnny immediately nods as he makes eye contact with you and boy does he look as wrecked as he feels. His mohawk is out of sorts, his clothing is jostled around and his eyelids are lidded while his cheeks remain flushed. His lips are parted to complete the look, and the just want to swallow him whole like this, especially when he looks at you with such adoration, want, and attraction. Your hands move to under his shirt, slowly trailing up his torso, causing him to press into your touch. “Please..” He sputters, begging—and he’s not even sure what he’s begging for completely.
You tilt your head to the side wordlessly as your hands press into his hips, his waist, right below his pecs, groping him until you hear Johnny whine. “Please, Bonnie.” His voice is more insistent and you have a good guess of what he wants when he tilts his head to the side, baring the side of his neck that doesn’t have any hickeys or bites. “I don’t know what you’re asking for, Johnny.” You murmur. your fingers go to his waist band of his pants and you tease him by pulling his pants down just enough for air to brush against his v-line, causing him to shiver. Johnny pushes his hips against yours again as he looks at you with a increasingly reddening face. “Please bite me, mh? Want everyone to see it, feels good when ya do it..” He’s breathless and grunts out when you grab his hips and hold him against your own hips firmly, and Johnny nearly starts rutting against you—but you quickly dig your fingers into the skin of the top part of his exposed hips.
Light pain pricks at his nerves when you do so, and you speak in a low voice. “Keep your hips still or I won’t bite you ever again.” Johnny’s eyes widen when you say that and he nods quickly, putting all of his brat-ish antics to rest. You hum in approval and you lean near his jaw, tracing your lips against his skin. You whisper, “Good boy. Keep yourself still and I’ll leave marks places that you’ll feel for days, hm? Maybe I’ll make you cum, too.”
Johnny’s eyes roll back in his head for a moment at your near-promise, a soft noise leaving his lips as you suck a hickey into the side of his neck, nodding once again—but to be fair, anything you say is something he would nod about. You could promise him that you’ll give him a treat if he’s good and he’ll sink to his knees in front of you, or you could slap him across the face and Johnny would whine for more.
It’s safe to say that he often asks for you to renew your marks on him, getting addicted to the feeling of your touch.
summary; you’re a hockey player, but you’re also johnny’s girlfriend. johnny comes to a realization after watching you get into a fight. 1.2k words!
authors note; this is not exactly what i envisioned, but it’s what i wrote. enjoy :-)
[WARNINGS: reader is implied to be a buff woman, violence, light blood and gore, suggestive content at the end.]
You and Johnny first met at a pub whilst he was on leave. He saw you from across the bar counter, looking up at a TV mounted above the bartender and sipping on something he doesn’t care to remember. What he does remember is you.
God, Johnny never believed falling in love at first sight and he still doesn’t, but holy hell did you stir something within him. Sitting there, back straight with your eyes glued to the TV, fidgeting with something circular, perhaps a coin, between your fingers. The way your bicep is bulging from the tight circumference of the short t-shirt sleeve…
Johnny wasn’t sure what exactly prompted him to talk to you, he definitely already came to the conclusion that you were likely going to just turn him away but holy shit, he’s damned if he left without trying to strike a conversation. Johnny ends up tilting his head, downing the rest of his drink for confidence before slipping into the seat next to you.
That day, Johnny learned that you were a pro hockey player for the professional women’s hockey team back in North America. Honestly, Johnny was surprised but more so by the sport and not the fact that you played one. You told him you were visiting someone here in Scotland, a friend—helping them move while your contract was being figured out. The more you talked, the more Johnny assured himself that it was absolutely a requirement to know you on some level.
Your voice captured his attention, your smile made his stomach tighten and bloom with warmth—even if he couldn’t convince you to go on a date with him, Johnny honestly would be just fine with being only friends. As long as he has a female hockey player in his contacts list, he’d be alright. You find out Johnny likes a bit of hockey himself, mostly paying attention to the international ice hockey federation. After learning that, to Johnny, he could see the way your eyes lit up.
Yes, you did agree to a date with this grinning man. Maybe quite a few dates.
Johnny found himself on his phone way more often whilst waiting with his team to be deployed. Constantly texting you, calling you, the whole nine yards. It earned him some glances and teasing from Ghost and Gaz, even his Captain—but he could tell his boys were happy for him. Johnny seemed more relaxed, laid back instead of his pent up self.
A couple months into the relationship, Johnny was finally able to file for vacation related leave. He was excited—secretly so was Price, as Johnny doesn’t really file for leave often—and you were ecstatic. It took a second to figure out arrangements, at the end of the day you insisted for Johnny to stay with you. Why stay in a hotel room when your spare bedroom is free? He was so reluctant, but you were so insistent with it.
“I have a practice game in a few hours,” You informed Johnny as you opened your refrigerator, taking out two cold water bottles stuffed somewhere in the door. You let the refrigerator door close by itself, and you tossed one of the bottles to Johnny. “Was thinkin’ you could come and watch?”
Johnny grinned, his lip curling ever so slightly where it exposes his top gum near his canine. “I would love to watch ye practice!” Johnny was enthusiastic with it; he’s being truthful, he’s been wanting to watch you in person. Johnny spent a couple nights binge watching the recorded games you played in on YouTube, which honestly was a slight mistake. You are a good player, great actually—but it always stirs something deep in his gut. Something about you bodying another player, even if it warrants a penalty… Gets him hot and sweaty, honestly.
That’s how Johnny found himself sitting in a seat right by the glass, a few feet away from your team’s bench. Tension filled his veins, making his shoulders rise to ears watching you, your team, and the practice enemy team skate around on the ice. The sounds of shouts, sticks slamming against each other as well as the ice, the collisions are harsh. Johnny’s been watching you for a while, keeping his eyes on that jersey of yours and he’s been noticing you’ve been slamming into this other woman.
Before bringing him to practice, you gave him a rundown of your team's roster, as well as the opposite teams. You overall had good things to say about nearly everyone, a smile on your face as you point to different people’s faces on the league’s website. Johnny watched the way your face contorted when you got to this one woman, though. He understands most beef stays on the ice, but the way you spoke about her? Johnny could tell there was something that remained on and off ice. You told him she’s “female Tom Wilson” which made him wince a bit.
So, when he witnessed you collide with that woman for the third time in one practice match, he wasn’t too shocked to see your gloves fly off. “Holy–” Johnny swears, standing up from his seat. His hands shoot to his head, holding it as he hears shouts and whistles blowing. Your hand is crumpled in the woman’s jersey, both your helmet and hers missing. Johnny’s heart is pounding in his chest, his arms feeling heavy as both you and the woman slam into the glass right in front of him.
He reaches forward and bangs on the glass, his eyes widening as he watches your fist make contact with her face square in the middle. Johnny winces as he nearly swears that he could hear her nose crunching under the weight of your fist through the glass. He’s not surprised when drops of blood splatter against the glass, but he still yells your name nonetheless. Part of Johnny is worried, knowing you’re against the woman who usually starts and wins fights, but.. You seem to be holding your own just fine.
Your fist pulls back and makes contact with her face over and over, blood smearing and snarls until a couple of your teammates pull you away from her by your arms. Johnny’s eyes are glued to you as your teammates skate you backwards from the woman, following the curve of the arena. The woman is on her hands and knees on the ice, a couple of her own teammates checking on her. Johnny just barely glanced at how there’s a dripping puddle of blood forming underneath her face because he can’t stop looking at you.
A feral snarky look on your face, your nose bleeding and bashed, blood dripping from your nose to your teeth, from your lower lip onto your jersey. Your left eyebrow is torn open and so is your upper lip. There’s blood splattered across your knuckles, which are surely broken open and bruised themselves.
Johnny hits the glass, his heart pounding but it skips an entire beat when you make eye contact. His breath stutters in his chest and Johnny’s cursing himself under his breath because his job must have caused wires to cross in his brain.
You look so.. Fucking hell. Johnny feels himself chubbing up in his jeans, a hot shot of arousal shooting down his spine. Your ferality is making his head spin and he shouldn’t be as turned on as he is from the way you spit a mixture of blood and spit onto the ice, being skated away and into the locker room, followed by your team’s medic and an angry coach.
Johnny presses his forehead against his palms, trying to calm his racing heart, his lewd mind, and his cock.
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Can I request just some comfort Fluff with soap? Maybe him just being at home with the reader and finally being about to fully relax
— love your writing 🤍
MINE, OH MINE (Soap x GN!Reader)
soap masterlist — 808 words
a/n: I had actually gotten two of this request, so 🐤 anon, this is for you, too!!! i apologize for my slowness lol this is also short </3
[WARNINGS: None, domestic fluff!]
Johnny has always loved the mornings after he arrives home to you. Of course, he loves that first near rib breaking hug you give each other—he loves the slow and thankful unsteady kiss you share at the front door with his duffel bag at your feet. Johnny loves the way you run your fingers through his messy mohawk during the sweet kiss, the way you lean and melt into him so naturally.
He loves the way you tremble; like you can’t believe he’s with you and he isn’t looking at you through a facetime call. Johnny adores the way you basically refuse to leave his side the rest of the night, barely giving him enough space for him to use the restroom by himself. He doesn’t mind though, because he knows he’s the exact same way. You are clingy the first two days whilst he is clingy all the way up until he has to leave again; neither of you mind.
Johnny loves the way you wear his clothes while he’s away, the way he sees more of his own laundry than yours in the laundry basket by the washing machine down the hall in the laundry room. Johnny loves the way it’s clear when he steps into the bedroom to put his bag away, you hog his side of the bed. He appreciates your insistence on helping him take a bath, his pajamas already in your arms. You know how to massage the knots out of his shoulders and back, you know the exact pattern on how to stroke his hair and tickle his neck to make him incredibly still. Johnny loves the way you’re concerned about his eyes when washing your hair, cupping right about his forehead to prevent any possible droplets of soap to drip down into his tear ducts. Johnny loves that you care enough to squeeze his hair at his hairline to keep it from dripping down his face.
Johnny loves the way you allow him to rub your back once he’s out of the bath and properly dressed; you’re sitting on the bed with the Scot sitting behind you, his legs crossed as his big and rough hands press against the tense muscles of your back through your his shirt. He loves the way you sigh with your lips closed from being content, the way you instinctually lean back into his touch, the way his thumbs press into your shoulder muscles and rub them in circles to relieve the tension that has most certainly built up, deep in your bones and tissue. He loves the way you tilt your head when he peppers soft kisses to your shoulder, leading up to your neck.
What Johnny loves the most, though, is waking up next to you after these nights together, after returning from deployment and missions. He loves waking up with his nose buried into your shoulder with an arm wrapped around you, the other under his own head for comfort. Johnny loves waking up with his head buried in your chest, or maybe your head is buried in his. He loves waking up to see you still sleeping, your lips parted ever so slightly in your sleep, your face devoid of stress and anxiety. If you snore, the man very much treasures every noise coming from you; it’s a sign of life, and he would fall asleep to the sound of it every night if he could.
Johnny likes to run his fingers against your brow ridge and then down your temple to your jaw, his fingertips sliding against your pulse for a moment, just feel your heart go ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. Sometimes on a rare occasion, you’ll wake before him; which is how he found out you watch him sleep. Of course Johnny isn’t upset when his eyes flutter open and the first thing they do is lock onto yours. He finds out you wait for him to wake up like he waits for you, admiring his face, his chin scar, his hair. You look at him like there’s nothing else in the world and that makes his chest so tight and gooey.
He likes it when you mumble “I can’t understand you” in the mornings, the grogginess thickening his accent. Johnny likes your little smile when his voice rumbles in the morning, the sound penetrating deep into your chest and staying there. Johnny likes it when you kiss him in the morning, despite the fact that his morning breath has always been worse than yours. He likes it when you cup the back of his head in these morning kisses—all he can think about is you, you, you. Johnny likes it when you insist on staying in bed for a bit longer, despite your alarm for work having already gone and past.
part two in my soft moments mini series! i already did price—after this is gaz and ghost, and maybe graves or valeria. this fic contains a dom/sub dynamic, but it’s nonsexual in this fic. :-)
Johnny has no idea what time it is, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. Not when his cheek is pressed up against your thigh, your hand combing through his already messy mohawk, and not when your fingers scratch him under his jaw, sending goosebumps up his spine. Every second of your touch feels like he’s standing under a warm shower on a cold night, the warmth biting at his skin and rippling down to form a puddle beneath his feet—the puddle being any energy to think or do anything himself. He’s kneeling, but you put down a couple of blankets to protect his bare knees and shins. Johnny’s half sitting between your legs—it’s a bit hard for him to do so due to his size—and leaning against your leg, his head against your thigh, and his arms loosely wrapped around your leg. The warmth of your hand spills down his spine and settles deep in his gut in a comforting way.
You smile as you continue to scratch at his jaw and scalp, watching the way his body twitches and then relaxes once he realizes you aren’t pulling away from him, you’re just readjusting. This is one of the rare moments you get to see Johnny so relaxed—his job always has him so hyped up and of course he’s a naturally loud person, but he also just needs a space to.. calm down. And that’s how this developed. Evidence of your previous endeavors are all over Soap’s collarbones, his chest, stomach and thighs—but that’s just the beginning of what he needs. What he needs, is this. Someone to shut his brain up, to cradle his jaw like he’ll slip away, needs someone to keep him safe. Even when he’s naked like he is, no gear, no weapons—he knows you’ll be there to keep him safe. Your fingertips gently scratch from right below his ear to his upper arm, allowing him to sink deeper.
Johnny ignores the low hum of the TV program, he ignores every little creak coming from the house settling because the only thing that matters is right here—you and him. His job doesn’t matter, the mission doesn’t matter, he can’t smell the blood or the gunpowder like this—he smells the sweat, sure, but it isn’t the field. It’s you. He buries his head against your thigh harder than before, and when you him in approval, he melts even further. Any praise, anything positive that comes from you comforts him. You always take care of him when he needs it most, so he allows himself to sink deeper into his brainless headspace, because he knows you’ll bring him back to the surface if it’s required. Like always.
needy, and soon to be pussy-drunk ghost (fem!reader)
connected to this — nsfw below the cut. mdni!!
“please, sweetheart..”
ghost is convinced you want him to die, the way you’re withholding yourself from him. he’s on the bed on knees with you in front of him—laying back on the pillows, your legs spread to give him a view of your wet cunt, how you’re slowly pumping a finger inside of yourself and occasionally slipping it out to rub your clit. it’s pleasant, but you’re doing for the purpose of teasing ghost.
his pupils are wide and dilated, focused on how your finger runs through your wet folds, how nearly creamy strings connect and snap from your finger and your pussy; you always get so horny teasing him, the ghost who hasn’t been able to bury his face between your thighs in weeks. his mask is abandoned somewhere in the room, his face still smudged with eyeblack. “fuckin’ hell—“ ghost groans, watching you spread yourself open to him, a whine leaving you as the cold air touches your hole.
ghost’s jaw aches. his fingers twitch where they remain on his thighs, sprawled out and nearly gripping the fabric of his pants. his gut is hot with need, and his mouth nearly waters every time it seems like you’re contemplating giving him what he wants. “please.” ghost begs—he fucking begs as you slide two fingers inside of yourself this time. “don’t even need t’fuck you, jus’.. just need my mouth on ya, yeah? please, bloody hell—“
A/N: Ugh, I don't feel 27. As a little May 13th birthday treat, I'm releasing some birthday-themed one-shots (All gn x reader in case anyone is confused and decides to give me death threats again LMAO)
Full series out so far:
Birthday Bat(Batfam x Platonic!GN!Reader)
Tactical Cake (Leon Kennedy x GN!Reader)
You got the idea at exactly two in the morning, which should have been everyone’s first warning.
By breakfast, you had already printed the reservation confirmation, highlighted the time in radioactive yellow, and marched into the mess hall with the kind of bright-eyed determination that made trained soldiers instinctively look for exits. Price noticed first, because Price noticed everything, even the emotional weather of a room before the storm had fully put its boots on. He was standing by the coffee urn with a mug in hand, cap pulled low, beard still slightly damp from the shower, and when his eyes landed on the paper in your hand, his expression shifted by a fraction. Not fear. Captain John Price did not fear many things. But there was a definite calculation there, a small internal ledger opening in his head and immediately trying to determine how expensive, dangerous, or humiliating this was about to become. Gaz sat at the nearest table with one hand around his tea and the other scrolling through his phone, while Soap was halfway through building an architectural disaster out of toast, eggs, and whatever sauce he had found in the kitchen. Ghost stood by the wall because, of course, he did, black hoodie pulled over broad shoulders, mask in place, watching the room with the calm menace of a gargoyle assigned to breakfast duty.
You slapped the paper down on the table.
Soap’s toast collapsed.
Gaz looked up. “That sounded official.”
“It is,” you said. “Birthday orders.”
Price took one slow sip of coffee. “Birthday orders?”
“Yes.”
“We’re doing those now?”
“We are today.”
Soap leaned over the paper, eyes lighting up before he had even read all of it. “Resident Evil escape room?”
Ghost’s head turned.
Gaz’s eyebrows climbed. “You booked us an escape room?”
“I booked us a Resident Evil themed escape room,” you corrected, tapping the confirmation with one finger. “For my birthday. Two hours. Full immersion. Puzzle-based. Horror elements. Actors. Fog. Lab sets. Raccoon City vibes. Leon Kennedy. Love of my life. There may be zombies.”
Price closed his eyes briefly in the way a man might when informed that a goat had been elected to Parliament. “There may be zombies.”
“It says infected personnel on the website, but we all know what that means.”
Soap grinned at you, bright and dangerous. “You wee menace.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It felt like one.”
Gaz picked up the paper and scanned it, his mouth twitching. “It says here no weapons, no excessive force against actors, no breaking props, and no tackling the infected.”
You looked pointedly around the table. “Which is why we’re having this briefing now.”
Ghost said, “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“No.”
“You have to come.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s my birthday.”
Silence settled with the sudden weight of a trapdoor opening under all of them.
Soap made a soft, delighted noise. “That’s dirty.”
Gaz looked between you and Ghost like he was watching someone prod a bear with a party horn. Price’s gaze dipped to his coffee, but not fast enough to hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. Ghost stared at you from across the room, unreadable except for the long, glacial pause that followed. Somewhere in that hush, you remembered the last time you tried to mark an occasion, your infamous attempt to make cupcakes on base, the fire alarm going off, Gaz laughing so hard he nearly dropped his tea, and Ghost silently handing you a fire extinguisher with all the ceremony of a knighthood.
You stared back, heart giving one stupid, hopeful little kick behind your ribs. You did not ask for much, not really. You were good at pretending days were just days, at letting milestones pass quietly because it was easier than admitting you wanted anyone to notice. But this year, something in you had rebelled. Something bright, ridiculous, and maybe a little feral had looked at the calendar and said, No. This one is mine.
“It’s my birthday,” you repeated, softer this time, less triumphant and more honest. “I want to go. And I want all of you there.”
Soap’s teasing expression gentled first. Gaz followed. Price looked at you over the rim of his mug, and whatever refusal he had been preparing dissolved somewhere beneath the steady, tired warmth of his eyes. Ghost did not move for a moment. Then he looked away with a small shift of his shoulders, annoyed in a way that sounded suspiciously like surrender.
“Fine,” he said.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Soap pointed at him. “Marked down in history. Simon Riley defeated by birthday law.”
Ghost’s eyes cut to him. “Keep talking, and you’re bait.”
“You hear that?” Soap said to you. “He’s already in character.”
By late afternoon, the four of them had been dragged off base and into civilian clothes with varying degrees of cooperation. Price wore a dark jacket, jeans, and the expression of a father who had agreed to one festive activity and was already prepared to confiscate something. Gaz looked effortlessly normal, which meant he could pass for a regular person until someone noticed how he mapped every exit the second he walked into a room.
Soap wore a black T-shirt under an open flannel and looked so excited you feared he might attempt to fistfight a zombie purely for atmosphere. This time, at least, no one tried to wear their shirt inside out like last year's 'stealth mode' attempt, although Soap did check three times just to be sure, and everyone was still banned from costume hats after the infamous sombrero incident. Ghost came in a hoodie, gloves, and his skull mask, because apparently "civilian clothes" meant "same haunting, different fabric."
You had dressed comfortably, ready for crawling under fake laser grids, unlocking cabinets, and screaming for theatrical reasons, though you suspected the real entertainment would be watching the most competent men you knew struggle with a puzzle designed by someone named Trevor who probably lived on energy drinks and horror movie lore.
The escape room building sat between a vape shop and a closed bakery, its front windows plastered with biohazard symbols, fake warning tape, and a poster that read: RACCOON CITY NEEDS YOU. The lobby smelled faintly of dust, rubber masks, and popcorn from a machine in the corner. Red lights pulsed along the ceiling in slow, dramatic beats. Somewhere behind the walls, a distant alarm looped, low and mechanical, like a building dreaming of disaster.
Soap breathed in deeply. “This is brilliant.”
Price glanced at the waiver on the counter. “This is a lawsuit in fancy lighting.”
Gaz nudged your shoulder. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I haven’t even begun enjoying this.”
Ghost stood behind you, looming silently at the display of fake severed hands in a glass case. One of the teenage employees at the counter looked at him, looked at the skull mask, then looked at their clipboard with the weary professionalism of someone who had decided they were not paid enough to ask.
“Team name?” the employee asked.
Soap opened his mouth.
“No,” Price said immediately.
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“I know enough.”
You leaned on the counter. “Put us down as Birthday S.T.A.R.S.”
Gaz made a sound as if he were trying not to laugh.
Soap clutched his chest. “That’s awful. I love it.”
Ghost muttered, “Should’ve stayed in the car.”
“You came in my car,” you said.
“Should’ve stayed in the boot.”
The employee gave the rules in a flat, practiced voice, and you listened very carefully, mostly because you could feel the combined impatience of 141 radiating behind you like a tactical furnace. No touching actors. No climbing unless instructed. No forced entry. Clues were hidden, not buried, inside walls. If anyone needed to leave, they could say the safe word, which was “green herb.” Soap immediately lost his mind at that and had to turn away, shoulders shaking.
"Appropriate," Gaz stage-whispered, "half the team needs healing herbs on a normal day." You added, "Is there a bonus for yelling 'herb' in a Scottish accent?" Ghost looked as though every cell in his body had filed a complaint.
Then the employee opened a heavy black door and gestured into the dark.
“Welcome to the underground lab. You have ninety minutes before the infection reaches the surface.”
You stepped in first.
The door shut behind you with a final, theatrical thunk.
For a second, the room was nearly black. Then, the emergency lights flickered on overhead, bathing everything in red. You stood in what looked like a ruined security office, all cracked monitors, overturned chairs, fake blood dragged across the tiled floor in long, glossy streaks. A corpse in a lab coat slumped over the desk, one hand outstretched toward a locked metal case. Papers littered the room, covered in patient logs, chemical codes, and warnings about viral exposure. Somewhere beyond the walls, something groaned.
You felt ridiculous joy rise in your chest.
“This is so cool,” you whispered.
Price stepped past you, eyes moving automatically across the room. “Don’t touch anything yet.”
“It’s an escape room, Price. Touching things is the point.”
“Organized touching.”
Gaz laughed under his breath and picked up a clipboard from the floor. “Patient list. There are numbers circled.”
Soap crouched by the fake corpse. “Our dead friend’s got a keycard under his hand.”
“Ask permission,” you said solemnly.
Soap looked at the corpse. “Sorry, mate.” He lifted the rubber hand, took the keycard, and immediately the corpse jerked upright with a recorded scream.
Soap screamed too.
Not a little. Not politely. A full, startled, soul-ejected yelp that echoed off the walls and made Gaz double over laughing. Price turned sharply, hand half-raised before remembering the no-weapons rule. Ghost did not flinch, but his eyes snapped to Soap with such murderous dryness you nearly folded in half.
Soap pressed a hand to his chest. “That was cheap.”
“You apologized to a mannequin,” Ghost said.
“It had presence.”
You laughed so hard your eyes watered, and that more than anything loosened the room. Gaz was still grinning as he matched the circled patient numbers to a keypad on the wall. Price sorted through lab notes with a gruff efficiency that made even fake paperwork feel like part of a classified operation. Ghost found a UV flashlight taped under the desk within thirty seconds, because of course he did, and when invisible ink appeared across the wall spelling out DON’T TRUST WESKER, you gasped loudly enough for Soap to whip around.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” you said. “I’m just emotionally fulfilled.”
“You’re a nerd.”
“It’s my birthday. I’m a decorated nerd.”
Gaz entered the first code. A cabinet popped open with a hiss, revealing three colored vials, a laminated map of the facility, and a plastic pistol-shaped scanner that the employee had explained was used to identify infected samples. Soap grabbed it instantly.
“No shooting actors,” Price warned.
“It’s a scanner.”
“I know what I said.”
The next room was a laboratory choked with fog. Glass tubes glowed sickly green along the walls. A fake containment chamber stood cracked open in the center, its door clawed from the inside. The air smelled like machine fog and cold metal, and something about the lighting made everyone’s faces look sharper, stranger, half-human under the red emergency wash. Your hand brushed Gaz’s sleeve as you moved in, and he glanced down, not quite taking your hand but staying close enough that the offer was there. It was the kind of quiet care that never announced itself. You felt it anyway.
A speaker crackled overhead. “Attention. Viral breach detected. All personnel proceed to decontamination.”
Soap looked delighted. “Aye, see, I could work here.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Gaz said.
“I’d be great in a zombie outbreak.”
“You’d get bitten trying to pet something.”
“It might be lonely.”
Ghost moved toward a locked medical fridge. “Focus.”
“Bossy for a man who didn’t want to come,” you said.
Ghost did not look at you, but his voice came back low. “Still here.”
The words landed softer than they should have. Still here. With him, everything gentle arrived disguised as a blunt object. For a second, the realization pulsed through you: these small acts, so easily dismissed, meant everything. You smiled to yourself, a little helpless, a little grateful, and turned back to the puzzles before your heart could do anything embarrassing, holding tight to the warmth of being together.
The lab puzzle required mixing the colored vials according to a formula hidden across three different stations. Price became alarmed about it. He lined the vials up with military precision, assigned Gaz to the map, told Soap not to touch anything unless supervised, and somehow made a fake antidote puzzle feel like defusing an actual biochemical weapon. You watched him argue with a laminated instruction card and felt a warmth spread behind your ribs.
“You know we don’t actually die if we mess it up, right?” you asked.
Price gave you a look. “That’s no excuse for poor procedure.”
Soap whispered, “He’s having fun.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
Then the lights cut out.
A siren wailed. Red strobes burst through the dark. Something slammed against the glass of the cracked containment chamber. You jumped back into Gaz, who caught you by the shoulders automatically, steady and warm. A figure in torn lab scrubs lurched out of a hidden door with a guttural moan, face painted gray, contacts gleaming under the strobe.
You shrieked. Not because you were truly frightened, but because it felt right, and because joy sometimes needed a dramatic exit. Soap shouted something Scottish and delighted. Price stepped in front of you on instinct before stopping himself. Ghost moved faster than anyone, one gloved hand catching the back of Soap’s shirt before Soap could square up like the infected actor had personally insulted his mother.
“No tackling,” Ghost said.
“I wasn’t gonna.”
“You shifted your weight.”
“I shift my weight all the time.”
“You were gonna tackle the zombie,” Gaz said, still holding your shoulders and laughing.
The actor groaned magnificently and pointed toward a keypad before staggering back into the dark.
You clapped a hand over your mouth. “They gave us a clue.”
Soap stared after them. “That zombie’s a team player.”
The clue got you into decontamination, which was really a narrow hallway with flashing lights, hanging plastic strips, and a voiceover announcing that all contaminated subjects would be incinerated. You had to solve a pressure-plate sequence to cross safely. Soap kept trying to rush it. Price kept catching him by the collar. Gaz figured out the rhythm. Ghost, infuriatingly, memorized the entire sequence after watching it once and crossed with the smooth, silent confidence of a man who had never once been humbled by recreational puzzles.
You stood at the start of the plates, eyeing the flashing pattern. “I hate that he’s good at this.”
Ghost turned from the other side. “You wanted me here.”
“I wanted you mediocre here.”
“Disappointing you already.”
“No,” you said, and the word came out too honest, too quick. His eyes held yours through the red-lit haze. “Not that.”
The hallway seemed to quiet around you for half a heartbeat, though the alarms were still blaring and Soap was muttering numbers under his breath. Ghost said nothing, but something in his posture changed, a tiny easing at the edges. You crossed the plates carefully, Gaz counting for you, Price watching your feet, Soap cheering in whispers as if volume might set off the fake incinerator.
When you reached the other side, Ghost’s hand hovered near your elbow, not touching unless needed.
“You’re fine,” he said.
“I know.”
“Good.”
The final room was the director’s office, all dark wood, flickering monitors, and ominous corporate villain décor. A huge Umbrella-style logo dominated the wall, altered just enough to avoid copyright, which made it funnier. There was a locked briefcase on the desk, a chessboard with missing pieces, a bookshelf with hidden switches, and a red-glowing countdown timer above the exit door. Twenty-two minutes left.
For a while, the five of you moved like a strange little machine. Gaz cracked the monitor password using employee birthdays from a file. Soap found a chess piece inside a fake plant and crowed like he had discovered buried treasure. Price decoded a memo by holding it over a lamp, and when a hidden message appeared, he looked personally vindicated. Ghost discovered that the bookshelf switches corresponded to the order of infection stages listed in the lab notes. You found the last key taped beneath the director’s nameplate and unlocked the briefcase to reveal a final vial labeled CURE and a card that read: Only one team member can carry the cure to extraction. Choose wisely.
Soap immediately pointed at you. “Birthday immunity.”
Gaz nodded. “Birthday immunity.”
Price took the vial and placed it in your hand with ceremonial seriousness. “Don’t drop it.”
“It’s plastic.”
“Still.”
Ghost looked at the timer. “Move.”
The exit required one last code, hidden in a recorded message that played from the office phone. The message was distorted, layered with static, and accompanied by a dramatic voice speaking about betrayal, containment, and the collapse of Raccoon City. You all leaned in around the desk, trying to catch the numbers beneath the noise.
“Seven,” Gaz said.
“Two,” Price added.
“Was that a nine?” you asked.
“Five,” Ghost said.
Soap frowned. “I heard sandwich.”
“You heard sandwich?” Gaz asked.
“I’m hungry.”
“You had cake in the car.”
“That was pre-outbreak cake.”
The timer hit three minutes.
You punched in 7259. Red light. Wrong.
“Damn,” you whispered.
Price’s jaw tightened. Gaz replayed the message. Soap finally went quiet, focus sharpening beneath the humor. Ghost stood close behind you, his presence steady at your back. The voice crackled again.
“Seven,” Gaz said.
“Two,” Price said.
“Not five,” Ghost corrected. “Fight.”
You blinked. “Resident Evil puzzle logic. Boss fight. It’s not a number. It’s a word.”
Soap snapped his fingers. “Tyrant.”
You looked at the keypad, then the letters beneath the numbers. TYRANT. 897268.
Green light.
The exit door unlocked with a heavy clunk just as the timer dipped under sixty seconds. Soap whooped. Gaz grabbed your sleeve and pulled you through the door with the others behind you. Fog spilled after you into the lobby as if the room itself had exhaled defeat.
At the end, Leon Kennedy’s voice crackled from a digital frame at the end of the hallway, a spotlight shining directly on the frame.
Leon congratulated the group. Then he did a backflip.
“He’s so dreamy,” you sighed.
Gaz and Soap scoffed. “He’s fake.”
You turned to them, eyes narrowed in defense of your beautiful blonde man.
“Leon is a tactical genius. And hot. And biceps.”
The employee behind the counter clapped politely, dead-eyed from too many bachelor parties and corporate team-building groups.
“Congratulations. You saved the city.”
Soap threw both arms up. “Never doubted us.”
“You screamed at a mannequin,” Gaz said.
“It screamed first.”
Price signed the completion board with your team name while pretending not to care about your finishing time. Ghost lingered near the wall again, but when the employee offered to take a team photo in front of the biohazard backdrop, he did not leave. He stood behind you, huge and still, while Soap threw an arm around your shoulders and Gaz leaned in on your other side. Price stood close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. The paper crown Soap had bought from the lobby gift shelf sat crooked on your head, black with a little red biohazard symbol in the center, and you looked at the camera with flushed cheeks and a grin you could not seem to tame.
Outside, night had settled over the parking lot, cool and deep, the pavement shining faintly under the streetlamps. The world felt strangely soft after all that red light and fog, ordinary in a way that seemed almost magical. Soap was still arguing that he would have survived the outbreak. Gaz was listing every reason he would not. Price walked beside you with his hands in his jacket pockets, quiet but close. Ghost trailed just behind, the sound of his boots steady in the dark.
You slowed near the car, looking back at the glowing windows of the escape room. “Thank you for coming.”
You shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “I know it was ridiculous.”
“It was,” Price said.
You laughed under your breath. “Thanks.”
His eyes warmed. “Was also worth it.”
Soap bumped your shoulder gently. “Best outbreak I’ve ever been dragged into.”
“You loved it.”
“Aye. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Gaz held up the photo strip the employee had printed, the five of you caught in a ridiculous little frame of smoke and fake biohazard tape. “We’re keeping this.”
Ghost reached for it.
Gaz moved it out of reach. “No.”
“Destroy it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s evidence.”
“It’s memories.”
Soap leaned in. “Same thing, LT.”
You looked at Ghost, smiling. “You had fun.”
“No.”
“You made the zombie clue-giver nervous.”
“That was not fun.”
“You solved half the room.”
“That was efficiency.”
“You came because it was my birthday.”
Ghost went still.
The others quieted with the kind of subtle grace they sometimes had when something mattered. The parking lot lights hummed above you. Somewhere down the road, a car passed, its headlights sweeping over the curb and gone.
Ghost looked at you for a long moment, then said, “You asked.”
It was not much. It was everything. Your birthday had been fake blood, cheap fog, a plastic cure vial, Soap screaming at a corpse, Gaz laughing with his whole face, Price pretending he wasn't deeply invested in the puzzle procedure, and Ghost standing in a themed escape room because you wanted him there. It should have been silly. It was silly. But under it, threaded through every ridiculous second, was the thing you had been too afraid to ask for directly.
They showed up.
You looked down at the little photo strip in Gaz’s hand, at all of you crammed together in red light, alive and absurd and yours in the only way people like them could be.
Let me keep this, you thought. Just this. Just them.
Then Soap ruined the moment by saying, “Next year, we’re doing haunted laser tag.”
Price immediately said, “No.”
Gaz said, “Maybe.”
Ghost said, “Absolutely not.”
You grinned, birthday crown slipping lower over your forehead. “It’s my birthday next year too.”
Ghost stared at you.
Soap started laughing.
And under the cool hush of the parking lot, with fake city-saving behind you and real warmth walking beside you, you let yourself believe, just for tonight, that some wishes did not need candles to come true.
A/N: Happy Birthday to anyone celebrating their birthday and reading this!!! Hope you have a great birthday!
Johnny, even if he's a demolitions expert and damn good with his hands, cannot for the life of him paint his own nails.
Why is he painting his nails? He found a colour he really liked and thought, why not. Not like anyone would be brave enough to say anything to him, if they were he'd just bite their head off. Easy.
But for fucks sake, why isn't it drying faster, it's annoying as fuck because every time he thinks it's dry it's just- not.
He's spent almost four hours on them and he's frustrated. But he ain't a quitter, especially when he's this invested now.
So after a few more grueling hours of trying to get the hang of it, he's pretty happy with the results. They're not perfect and probably not entirely dry yet again, but he can't be assed to do them again.
And next morning, when Ghost glances at them, raises an amused eyebrow and murmurs, in that low, lovely voice of his, "Think you can do mine next?"
Well, Johnny is damn happy with his painted nails.
