Making a post about this cause I’m replacing the little wavy guy on my welcome post because I’m revamping my welcome post!
Just wanted to have a post other than the main one with my old animated gif, just cause it feels weird to just essentially delete its presence from my blog, especially since it’s one of the first things on here. So in short say goodbye to old Bepo wave gif and hello to new Bepo wave gif!!! It’s the face you’ll be seeing until I inevitably decide to redo it again!
╰── summary;
𝄞 𝙔𝙤𝙪 are waiting on Michael to come home from the studio, riled up and impatient after a heated goodbye kiss, so you have to make do with what you've got. You get a little lost in the heat of the moment and Michael walks in on you... he's curious as to what you're hiding!
wc: 3.5k
pairing: thriller era x established gf! reader
tags: smut, use of sex toys, michael finds your vibrator lmao, michael being a tease, edging, masturbation, fluffy dialogue, established relationship, 70s era, fingering, curiosity killed the cat, dialogue driven sex, pwp, humour,
A/N: this was a draft i finally finished earlier today !! i have so many sitting there unfinished and i loved this concept. i have no notes for this other than i was kicking my feet whilst writing it. i need someone to explain why he isn't my boyfriend.....?
Playlist; listen here. i listened to love rollercoaster like 12 times during the writing of this, and i added some more of the songs i was also vibing to..
proof read but not very well probs
18+ minors dnu!! (srsly tho)
The bedroom was warm with late afternoon light, gold pouring through the gauzy curtains, and you'd had the house to yourself for hours. It wasn't often that all of the Jackson's were out at once.
Michael was working on something with Tito at a studio in the city, and he'd left you that morning with a slow, promisin’, sexually driven kiss against the doorframe; the heat of it had trailed you around all day like a hand, possessive, at the small of your back. It was infuriatingly annoying and it was riling you up.
By mid-afternoon you'd given up pretending to read your books. There was no patience for dense college textbooks. You'd read all you could take, but they were no longer serving as a distraction to your impending horniness.
You'd crept up to Michael's bedroom and fished the little pink vibrator out of your bag; a gift from your girlfriend weeks ago, after a conversation centered around 'spicing' it up in the bedroom. she pressed into your hands with a wicked grin and a:
trust me, you'll thank me.
Now you were sprawled across his pillows with your sweatshirt rucked up, chasing the ache he'd left you with, the low buzz of it lost under the record still spinning lazily on his turntable; Love Rollercoaster, loud and woozy in the glimmering afternoon light.
Thank god for new technology.
You were close. So close to it. You were almost sprinting after it deliciously, the music a backdrop of how you were feeling, building with intensity.
The song had warped into something dizzy and psychedelic, swelling in time with the heat low in your belly, and you pressed the buzzing toy harder against yourself, sprinting for the finishline.
Your head was full to the brim of him; his veiny hands, his wet, hot mouth, the weight of him on top of you, the way his rounded innocent eyes peered up over your pubic bone whilst he ate you out, the feeling of your hips rolling up into the line of his cock in his slacks on the couch, the sound of his breath coming fast and ragged whilst he neared his—
You didn't hear the car. You didn't hear the front door either.
You heard nothing until the bedroom door swung open and Michael walked in blazenly, peeling off his jacket, mid-sentence, totally distracted.
"—and Tito kept sayin' the bassline was fine but it was draggin', I could feel it draggin' the whole—"
You scrambled.
In one frantic, graceless motion you jammed the vibrator under the nearest pillow—that ridiculous Alice in Wonderland caterpillar cushion Michael adored—yanked your sweatshirt down to something less incriminating, and sat bolt upright against the headboard covering your naked bottom half with the duvet, heart slamming, face on fire.
"Hi!" you said, far too brightly.
Michael stopped. Blinked. He looked wrung out, curls sort of flat on top where the headphones had pressed against, dark smudges under his eyes where he'd messily drawn on his eyeliner; but something in him clicked the second he really looked at you.
"...Hi," he said slowly.
"How's the track?"
"A bit nonsensical, I guess." His eyes hadn't left your face, and you knew exactly what he was clocking: the flush down your throat, the sheen on your lip, your chest still going too fast.
He saw everything. He always did. "You okay? You're all—" He gestured at the entirety of you. "Red and sweaty."
"Well, uh, it's hot in here."
"It's really not that hot in here, Mother has the heat off because of the weather." He stared at you for a moment longer and then sighed dramatically.
He was clearly too tired to chase the reasoning as to why you seemed to be lying. He crossed to the bed with a low groan, toeing off his loafers.
"God, I'm wrecked. Eight hours arguin' with my brother about one silly line of sheet music." He flopped face-first across the mattress beside you, sighing into the duvet like he was lowering himself into his grave.
"Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Tito has wiped me out. He really did it this time."
You bit down on a slightly hysterical laugh, painfully aware of the small hard shape buried in the bedding inches from his hands. "Poor baby."
"Mm." He stretched then, luxuriously, the way he always did—arms flung up over his head, hands sliding up under the pillows, his whole long body arching out with a contented little sound—
And his fingers closed around something.
He went still.
You stopped breathing.
"...What's this," he mumbled into the duvet, eyes still shut, his hand pawing at it. He dragged it out from under the pillow and lifted his head to squint; small, pink, smooth, faintly ridiculous in his long fingers. He turned it over and frowned. "What is this? Is this one of those gadgets—"
His thumb found the button.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.
The thing roared to life in his hand and he startled so hard he nearly flung it across the room, jerking up onto one elbow.
"Oh."
The single syllable hung there. You watched the realisation land on his face; the buzzing toy, your scarlet face, the rucked-up sweatshirt, the way you'd been sitting up bright-eyed and breathless when he walked in… every piece clicking into place at once behind his eyes.
His gaze lifted to yours. Very, very slowly.
"...Oh," he said again. Completely different. Low. Almost delighted??
A grin breaking across his exhausted face, the studio forgotten, all that quiet knowing focus kindling. He let it keep buzzing in his hand just to watch you squirm.
"You were busy," he said, "while I was gone."
"Michael—give it back—"
"What even is this?" He held it up out of your reach, examining it like he'd unearthed an ancient relic, fascinated and perturbed in equal measure. "I have never ever—where'd you even get this?"
"My friend gave it to me, okay, it doesn't matter—"
"Your friend..." He turned it over, thumbing it off and back on, jumping a little each time it buzzed. And then; because he was, underneath it all, just a guy, he brought it to his nose and sniffed it.
"MICHAEL."
"What!" He reared back, blinking, like he'd done something perfectly reasonable. "I wanted to know if—"
"Why would you smell it—"
"I don't know!" He was laughing now, scandalized at his own hand. "It's instinct! You see a thing, you wanna know—I wasn't thinkin'—"
You lunged for it; but he held it up out of reach, and then you were both gone with laughter, helpless, you behind your hands and him snorting into the pillow, the awful mortified tension breaking apart into something warm and giddy, the way it always did with the two of you. You could laugh in the middle of anything.
"Okay—okay—" He wiped his eyes, still chuckling, and thumbed it off. The sudden silence was louder than the buzz had been. The record was now scratching repeatedly on the plastic label.
He set the small bullet on the nightstand, deliberately, out of your reach, and turned the full weight of that focus back on you, all the tiredness burned clean out of him. "Very chill. Very normal. Nothin' to see here."
"Don't start," you warned, fighting a grin.
"You missed me that much, hm?" His voice had dropped now, gone soft and velvet, that teasing dark thread winding through it as he started crawling toward you across the bed, slow, all liquid grace, backing you gently into the headboard. His hand came to rest high on your thigh, thumb stroking. "Couldn't even wait for me to get home."
"You left me like that this morning," you accused, breathless, your laugh going unsteady. "Kissin' me like that and then just— leaving. What was I supposed to do?"
"Mm. I did do that, didn't I?" He didn't sound remotely sorry. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm, his exhaustion transmuted entirely into something low and hungry.
"So tell me, baby. Did you finish? Before I walked in?" His teeth grazed your jaw. "Or did I get home right in time?"
You couldn't answer. Your face answered for you.
A slow, knowing smile appeared on his face. "You didn't." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the grin he gave you was pure wicked warmth.
"You got yourself all worked up with your little pink toy... and you didn't even get to finish," he said in mock horror.
"...No," you admitted, mortified and molten in equal measure.
"That's a shame, baby." He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow, his hand sliding higher, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip. "All that. And nothin' to show for it." His mouth moved to your throat, where your pulse was hammering. "Lucky for you I'm home now."
He kissed you then, and it wasn't with the claiming heat of some nights you'd shared together, but something slower, fonder, a smile still pressed into it, his tongue licking warm into your mouth as his weight settled over you and eased you back against the pillows.
You melted into it, your hands finding the hem of his t-shirt, sliding up the warm plane of his stomach—but he caught your wrists, gentle, and pressed them back to the pillows with a soft tut.
"Nuh-uh. Not yet." His grin was wicked. "You don't get to touch yet. You had your fun without me—now it's my turn."
"That's not fair—"
"Mm. Life's not fair, m'girl." He worked your sweatshirt up your body, his knuckles dragging over your ribs, baring you to the gold afternoon light, and the teasing softened into something rawer, his thumb skating the underside of your breast. "Look at you. Already all flushed up for me and I barely touched you."
"That's your fault—"
"you got yourself into this mess" He dipped his head, his mouth closing hot over your nipple, and your back arched off the bed. "Mm. I'm gonna fix it. Gonna take real good care of you. Make up for leavin' you all day." His hand slid down your stomach, down between your thighs, and the first brush of his fingers through how wet you already were drew a groan out of him, low and undone, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.
"God. Y/N. You're soaked."
"I told you—"
"I know. I know you did." His fingers slid through you, slow, finding the slick aching heart of you, circling, and your hips chased his hand helplessly.
"And you tried to hide what you'd been doing, too." He clicked his tongue, mock-scolding, his mouth curving against your skin. "We don't hide things in this house."
"Michael—" you gasped, as two of his fingers sank into you, his palm grinding against your clit, picking up right where you'd been left aching.
"I've got you, m'love," he breathed, his rhythm slow and sure and devastating, watching your face come apart with that dark, rapt focus.
"Got you now. You can finish for me this time." A soft, wicked grin. "Much better than that little pink thing, hm?"
He worked you slow, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face, his fingers curling into that spot that made your hips jump while his thumb kept a lazy, maddening circle.
You were squirming, already close again; you'd been close for hours at this point—and he knew it, the little wretch, watching you climb and deliberately not letting you get there.
"You're doin' that on purpose," you panted.
"Doin' what?" All innocence, his mouth twitching against your skin where he was trying to pepper kisses along your neck.
"You know what—"
"I'm just bein' thorough." He lowered himself and pressed a kiss to your sternum, grinning against your skin. "I had a long day. I gotta concentrate on what I'm doing." And he eased off again, right as you tipped toward the edge, until you made a sound of pure outraged frustration and smacked his shoulder, and he laughed, totally elated, that bright real laugh, catching your wrist and pinning it gently to the pillow.
"Okay, okay," he relented, eyes dancing. Then a thought visibly arrived behind them, wicked and curious, and his gaze slid over to the nightstand. "...Hold on."
"Michael—"
"No, no, I wanna—" He reached over and plucked the vibrator up again, turning it in his fingers, that concentrated frown back on his face like he was studying a piece of equipment in the studio.
"Show me how you had it. When I came in. Where were you—" he thumbed it on, the buzz filling the room, and grinned at his own daring— "puttin' this?"
You buried your face in your hands. "I'm not—oh my God—"
"C'mon. Show me what you were tryna hide from me." He was laughing now, nudging your knee wider with his own, the toy humming in his hand. "I'm nosey, remember? I gotta know what I'm competin' with."
"You are not competing with it—"
"No?" He pressed it, soft, right where you needed it, and your whole body jolted, a cry breaking out of you. His grin went molten.
"Hm. There?" He circled it, watching you arch and grab fistfuls of the duvet, his own breath catching at the sight of you. "Oh, you like that. Look at you, baby. Okay. Okay, I see. I'm learnin'."
He was good at it, the teasing... that was the infuriating thing; of course he was, he was good at everything. he set that focus on reading you, easing the vibration against you and pulling it back, his face inches from yours so he could watch, his free hand pinning your arm to the bed so you couldn't intervene.
You were a mess, gasping, hips chasing it, and he was loving every second, soft little encouragements falling out of him;
that's it, there you go, let me see, you're so pretty like this
"Michael, I'm gonna—if you don't—pull it away—" you choked.
"I know. I know, baby, I've got you—" And this time he didn't pull back. He held it steady, his mouth on your throat, and you came apart with a cry, shaking, your hand flying to grip his wrist as it crashed through you. He worked you through it, gentling, murmuring into your skin, until your body felt like jelly and you were trembling against the pillows.
He clicked it off and set it back on the nightstand. Kissed your slack mouth, smug and tender at once. "There she is. M'beautiful dirty girl."
"I hate you," you breathed, with absolutely no conviction.
"Mm. You love me." He was still hard against your thigh through the blue denim, his own breath uneven despite all his composure. He pushed himself up off you and rose to stand beside the bed, looking down at the wreck of you; sweatshirt rucked up under your arms, skin flushed and gleaming, completely bare from the waist down, while he stood over you still dressed, disheveled, curls wild, eyeliner smudged. The contrast made you squirm.
"All day," he murmured, his fingers going to buttons of his white shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion to bare the lean plane of his stomach, the dark trail of hair below his navel and the little patches of white skin at his hip bones.
"I been thinkin' about you all day. Arguin' with Tito over one stupid line and the whole time I'm picturin' gettin' home to you." The belt came next, the metallic clink of it coming loose, then the button of his jeans. "And I walk in and find you already started without me."
"You left me like that—"
"I know I did." He shoved his jeans and briefs down and stepped out of them, unhurried, without a trace of self-consciousness, fully bare now and achingly hard while you were still half-tangled in your sweatshirt. He was magnificent, all long lines and elegant tension, the tip of him flushed dark pink.
"Lucky for you I'm home now. No more waitin'."
He leaned over the bed, his hands sliding under your hips, and dragged you bodily to the edge of the mattress until your ass was just off the side. He stepped between your splayed thighs, his hands rough and warm on the insides of your knees, pushing them wider.
"No more toys," he muttered, his eyes locked on where you were open and wet for him.
He grabbed his dick firmly and guided himself to your entrance and pushed in, slowly, so slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as your heat enveloped him. It was a deep, stretching, filling sensation that had you arching off the bed, a low moan dragged from your chest.
"That's what you needed," he breathed, sinking to the hilt and holding there, his head dropping forward.
He began to move then, with a rhythm all his own, not too eager, but devastatingly deliberate. Long, deep, rolling thrusts that struck something deep inside you on every stroke. His hands were on your hips, controlling the pace, holding you open for him. Deep, thundering thrusts.
"You feel that?" he grunted, his breath hot. "That's real. That's me."
You could only nod, your fingers scrambling against his sweat-slick back, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him deeper. He was everywhere, his scent, his weight, the sound of his skin against yours, the ragged puff of his breath.
But Michael's curiosity was a retched thing at times. It never switched off.
Halfway through a deep, grinding stroke, he stopped. His eyes, squeezed shut in concentration a second ago, snapped open; dark, hazy with pleasure, but a familiar glittering curiosity cutting clean through the fog.
His gaze darted sideways, landing on the pink vibrator where it still lay on the nightstand.
A slow, almost reluctant grin touched his swollen lips.
"Hold on," he rasped.
He pulled out of you abruptly, the sudden emptiness a shock. Before you could protest, he'd reached over and snatched the toy up. He stared at it in his hand, then at you, then at his own painfully hard cock, glistening with your wetness.
"I gotta know," he said, as if apologizing to himself. "Just… once. To see what all the fuss is about."
He thumbed the button.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.
He didn't hesitate. He pressed the buzzing head directly against the sensitive spot just under the swollen head of his cock.
The reaction was immediate and violent.
His whole body jerked as if electrocuted. A shocked, strangled sound—half-gasp, half-yelp—ripped from his throat. His knees buckled, and he had to throw a hand out to catch himself on the nightstand, knocking the lamp sideways. His head dropped forward, a shudder wracking his spine.
"Oh—Jesus—" he choked out.
He tried to drag it down the shaft, but his hand was trembling violently. The vibration was clearly too intense, too direct, overwhelming a body already wound past its limit from being inside you.
His hips began to stutter in tiny, frantic circles, completely involuntary. His breath came in ragged, punched-out pants.
"Too—GOD—it's too much—" he gasped, but he didn't let go. His curiosity was warring with sensory overload, and curiosity was losing.
His movements became jerky, uncoordinated. you witnessed a fine tremor run through his thighs. He was biting his lip so hard you thought he might draw blood, his eyes squeezed shut, his face a mask of agonized, over-the-edge pleasure. You'd seen him feel good so many times before, but this was borderline painfully pleasurable.
He was hovering on the brink, his body taut as a bowstring, controlled solely by the relentless, alien buzz of the vibrator. You could see the exact moment his control shattered.
His hand spasmed around the toy, holding it tight against him as his hips gave three sharp, abortive thrusts into the empty air above you.
"uhmhh—" The warning was a breathless, desperate unintelligible plea, but it was too late, he couldn't come back from it.
With a gut-deep groan that sounded pained, his body convulsed. \
He spilled in thick, hot pulses across your stomach and the rucked-up fabric of your sweatshirt, completely undone by it. His eyes had opened at that point, watching the ordeal happen in front of him, watching you and the shock at his premature release..
The vibrator fell from his limp hand, vibrating pointlessly against the carpet as he collapsed forward, catching himself on his forearms beside resting arms, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks.
He was panting, wrecked, his forehead pressed to the duvet beside you. A long moment of stunned silence hung in the room, broken only by the record scratching and the distant hum of the fallen toy.
You looked down at the mess cooling on your skin, then back at his bowed head. A slow, triumphant smile spread across your face.
"You," you said, your voice dripping with smug satisfaction, "are dead meat for that, Jackson."
He groaned, the sound muffled by the bedding. He didn't lift his head. "Shut up," he mumbled, utterly defeated. "It was a.... curious... inquiry."
"You inquired yourself right into an accidental finish," you teased, poking his heaving shoulder.
He finally lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes dazed and more than a little embarrassed, but a reluctant grin was tugging at his mouth. He glanced at the mess on you, then back at your face, his grin turning wicked. "Yeah, well." He glanced down again. "Looks like my curiosity made a mess of you, too."
He leaned in, his intent clear, and you laughed, kissing him lovingly on the mouth.
Summary: You get paired with Stiles to write a paper for Coach's class. But when had Stilinski grown into his awkward features? When had he grown out his buzzcut? Why was he suddenly so insanely fuckable?
Contents: NO Y/N, afab!Reader, smut, Stiles is a bit cocky lmao, fucking in the jeep, reader is related to Coach (wether adopted or not doesn't matter), vaginal fingering, p in v sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, clumsy sex, playful banter, oral sex (v receiving), casual sex, coming inside, mentions of birth control, making out if I missed any warnings please let me know!
3.5K words
Had to get Stiles out of (pls into plEASE) my system SOMEHOW, so here you go. This one is dedicated to @uglypastels for indulging my obsession and continuously sending me Dylan O'Brien thirst edits <3 <3
“Just so you’re aware, this paper is as high on my list of priorities as the Pope is in Amsterdam,” Stiles dropped his binder on the table, startling you out of your daydream. He was exactly 4 minutes late, not that you were counting. It was still impressive, seeing as he just came from practice.
“Believe me, I, too, would rather be hanging around with Isaac Lahey, yet we’re both here. Let’s just get it over with.” Stiles snorted a laugh, but didn’t comment.
You didn’t not get along with Stilinski. You weren’t sure if you could be called friends, exactly. You’d known each other pretty much all your lives, just like the majority of your school. Beacon Hills wasn’t exactly a metropolis.
You sighed and laid out your notes, Stiles following your example. You raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Those are your notes?”
There were only doodles, random calculations and sporadic keywords scribbled on the loose piece of crumpled paper he straightened out next to your notebook.
“I’m surprised, too. There’s actual words. I don’t usually get that far.” The smirk on his face could only be described as smug. You groaned. This was going to take forever. You divided the topics for the paper amongst yourselves and silently got to work. The ‘silently’ part didn't last long, however. It never did with Stiles.
“Are you still living with your uncle?” He questioned suddenly. You frowned at the question, confused, but nodded either way.
“So can’t you just, I don’t know, cook him dinner and have him give us a good grade?” The gleam in his eyes nearly made you laugh. Nearly. Instead, you flicked him on the side of the head. He whined something about unnecessary violence, but it fell on deaf ears.
“I’m not bribing my uncle just so you can slack off, Stiles. Besides, I’m never really sure if he even likes me,” you wondered out loud.
“You and me, both…” Stiles grumbled.
You glanced at Stiles as he scribbled furiously, seeming to finally get some of his research done. His knees wiggled excessively as he wrote about the economic effects of pandemics. You wrote down a few key parts of the paragraphs in your book before turning to your laptop and beginning the outline of the paper. Stiles hummed quietly as he read the entry he’d just written, tapping his pen furiously against the table.
“Can you stop that?” You requested, his incessant movement distracting you more than his general being already did. He glanced up, an amused expression on his face.
“What,” he tapped his pencil faster. “This?” You contained the urge to roll your eyes and stared at him blankly. He stopped the movement for perhaps one whole minute before picking it back up again.
You only glanced up pointedly this time. He added a jiggle of his knees in challenge. You rose from your chair, leaned over and snatched the pen out of his hand, throwing it across the library. “Fetch.”
Stiles gaped up at you in surprise. The timing of it was very unfortunate, but you’d never really noticed how Stilinski had grown into his awkward features. Something must’ve shown on your face, because Stiles now looked just as confused, perhaps intrigued, as you felt. While you’d been confident in throwing his pen across the room in annoyance, having him look up at you like that made it so you weren’t sure if you wanted him to get up. You cleared your throat and sat back in your chair.
“Unbelievable…” Stiles muttered under his breath as he got up to get the pen. It gave you time to recompose. You didn’t look at him as he sat back down, but felt his eyes burn a hole through the side of your head.
An unfamiliar tension hung in the air while you worked in silence. You snuck glances at Stiles, who was finally focussed on his writing once more. His hair was longer, still messy and unstyled from practice. The grey workout gear perfectly accentuated his broadened shoulders. He bit his lip after reading a complex entry, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they’d feel like on your own, or on your neck while your hands tugged on his now perfectly tuggable locks.
A few times his eyes met yours. You’d quickly dart them back to your notebook, pretending you hadn’t been looking, knowing damn well he’d seen.
Oh my god. Get. it. together.
“Did you finish?” You dared ask after a while, having completed your own part. All you had to do was put your parts together, wrap it up and finish.
“I’ll give it to you, but you have to give something to me first,” Stiles spoke in a challenging tone. For a split second back there you’d wondered how he was still single after all this time, but now you were reminded. He was insufferable.
“What could you possibly want from me, Stiles? Just give me your damn part.”
“A kiss.”
“What? No!” You sputtered. Stiles’ tongue poked the inside of his cheek cockily as he raised an eyebrow, pointing to his lips.
“Guess you’ll have some explaining to do to your uncle why you’re only handing in half an assignment, then.”
“This is coercion, Stilinski! Should I call your dad?” You crossed your arms, refusing to look him in the eye. The librarian shushed you loudly. You could feel heat rush to your face, but didn’t relent. Asshole.
Stiles leaned closer, running a finger over the side of your face. Your heartbeat increased what seemed about tenfold.
“It’s not coercion if you want me to.” His breath hit your neck as he spoke, sending goosebumps down your arms. “And I’m getting the feeling you really want me to.”
You jerked away from his reach, coming to your senses. You gathered your things into your bag, mumbling something about your GPA being fine, anyway. You stomped away from the table, heart racing. You were mad, not because he was suggesting something you didn’t want, rather that he’d clocked exactly what you wanted so easily.
Concerned Stiles would follow you out of the library, you hid behind a few bookshelves in a section nobody usually visited. You caught your breath, placing your palm on your chest. You dropped your bag on the floor, turning to peek around the bookshelf to see if Stiles was still stationed at the table. Relieved, you saw he’d indeed decided to follow you out of the library.
You turned back to grab your bag and head out, but were met with Stiles’ face mere inches from your own. You were startled, but he grabbed your waist before you could fall over. His hold was strong. Your hands instinctively went up to his chest, steadying yourself. Had he always been this tall?
One of his hands wandered slightly lower, rubbing small circles on your lower back. Your eyes met his, which were just shining with mischief and an underlying sense of self-satisfaction. His tongue darted out, licking his lower lip.
“Can I be frank? You’re incredibly annoying,” you stated, slinging your arms around his neck, finally giving in.
“You can be whoever you want as long as I get to kiss you, Frank,” Stiles laughed. You groaned but pulled him close either way.
“Shut up.”
Stiles obliged and put his mouth to yours aggressively, tugging your body against his. One of his hands wandered up, cupping the back of your head to bring it closer. You tugged at the small locks at the back of his neck, eliciting a sighed moan from Stiles.
“You’re so hot,” he confessed when you broke apart for a second. He turned you so you were pushed with your back against the bookcase, a few books falling to the floor. Neither of you cared as your kiss continued, deepening by the second. His hands held your hips as he started grinding against you, sweats low on his hips. His mouth made its way down your jaw, moving to suck hasty kisses on your neck.
“Stiles…” you sighed blissfully. Heat gathered in your stomach at the soft, breathy noises coming from his lips combined with the sound of them against your skin. He put his knee between your thighs.
“Knew you wanted this as much as I did, fuck,” Stiles groaned. The pressure from his knee was delicious, but not enough. It was almost as if he could read your mind as he slid his hand into your bottoms, working your underwear out of the way somewhat clumsily.
“God… so wet for me,” he moaned. You could only reply with breathy whimpers, trying to make as little noise as possible. Stiles shushed you, placing his unoccupied hand over your mouth as the other started rubbing small circles over your clit. You closed your eyes and let your head fall against the bookcase. Your knees went weak at the sensation, not much holding you up besides Stiles.
He slipped his hand out of your underwear, bringing a finger up to his mouth. He casually licked it clean. He hooked his thumbs into your bottoms, seeking eye contact and asking for non-verbal permission to tug them down. You bit your lip and nodded enthusiastically. When your underwear hit the floor, so did Stiles’ knees. Your eyes darted around your environment, but the school was nearly empty at this time, especially the library.
You had to slap your hand over your mouth when Stiles made contact with your clit, his tongue tentatively licking between your folds. Your breathing was laboured, chest heaving as Stiles took his time exploring. Your bottom lip found itself between your teeth, holding in your moans. Your hands shot to Stiles’ hair. Perfectly tuggable, indeed.
He groaned when you gave an exceptionally sharp tug, taking the time to look you in the eyes. The vibrations of his lowered voice felt good. You had seemingly no control over your hands, fingers tightening their grip the closer you got to the edge.
“Shit, baby… So good for me. Gotta stay quiet…” Stiles mumbled. A small, high pitched keen left your lips. You weren’t sure how long you’d be able to keep the silence up. You looked down once more and saw Stiles palming himself over his sweats as he continued eating you out, rhythmically grinding his hips in time with his mouth.
The sound of a bag zipper closing got your attention. You smacked Stiles’ shoulder to stop, wanting to whine in frustration at just how close you’d been. Stiles paid you no mind, lost in giving you pleasure. You put both your hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, careful not to tip him over. It was only then Stiles noticed the noise of someone packing up to leave. He scrambled to stand up, trying to help you get redressed.
“I got it, I got it,” you hissed quietly.
“Who’s there? You can’t be here anymore! Library’s about to close!” It was the librarian who’d shushed you earlier. You grabbed your bag in a hurry.
“Would you still rather be hanging out with Isaac?” Stiles asked jokingly, wiping his chin. You whacked his arm, storming past him to the doors. He followed quickly, arm wandering over your shoulders as you walked out of the now deserted school. You didn’t speak as Stiles led you over to the Jeep, insisting on driving you home, at least.
You sat in the passenger seat as Stiles ran around to the drivers’ side. You wiped your hands on your thighs, huffing a frustrated breath. You hadn’t even finished the paper, and now you got cock-blocked on top of it. So not worth it. You turned to Stiles as he put the keys in the ignition. He’d never looked hotter than that very second, lips bruised, hair tousled and still pent up, besides maybe when he looked up at you with his face buried between your legs. Okay so maybe a little worth it.
“If you keep looking at me like that I’m gonna pull over and we’re gonna have sex in the back seat like right now,” Stiles joked. Or at least, you assumed it was a joke.
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, threat or invitation?”
“Option D? All of the above? I mean, D is definitely an option.”
“Pull over and we’ll see how much of an option it is.”
Stiles didn’t need to be told twice, pulling over in a small clearing as soon as he saw the opportunity. He took off his seatbelt, scrambling to get out of the car. He opened the door for you, closing it and letting you in the back seat. You laid back across the seats and manoeuvred your top off, throwing it at Stiles. He caught it, quickly discarding it somewhere in the car. He shimmied his pants down his legs, not bothering to take off his shoes. You did the same, leaving you in your underwear. Stiles stopped to take a proper look.
“You’re gonna kill me. You’ve already killed me and this is my pre-hell Heaven trailer of what could’ve been. God iwantyousobad.” You pulled him on top of you as you laughed.
“Less talking, more fucking, yes?”
“Yes, I agree. Wholeheartedly,” Stiles nodded furiously, tugging his shirt over his head with only one hand. Hot. He finally closed the car door behind him before he could forget.
“I’m going to assume you don’t just casually keep condoms in your car?” You questioned. Stiles closed his eyes and tightened his lips in frustration, mentally scolding himself. He finally had you in his Jeep, half-naked, ready to fuck, and he didn’t have a freaking condom??? He finally shook his head no, sighing and pulling away from you slowly.
You leaned up on your elbows and whispered in his ear. “Hmmm… Guess you’re just gonna have to come inside of me… Wouldn’t want to make a mess of the car…”
Stiles pounced at that, kissing you like his life depended on it. He tugged your underwear back down your legs, now very familiar with your pelvic region. He struggled to undo your bra, cursing under his breath. You laughed and lended a hand, undoing it and slipping it off your shoulders.
“Holy shit,” Stiles groaned. “Promise me to thank Coach for pairing us up.”
“You did not just mention my uncle as a reaction to seeing me naked,” you complained.
“I did. Not sorry. He did me a favour.”
You ignored the comment and decided to kiss him to shut him back up. Him and his mouth… God his mouth. You were still pent up from the library, and if he didn’t fuck you soon you were pretty sure you’d go crazy.
“Stiles, want you,” you whined impatiently. He was too busy paying attention to your nipples, taking one between his teeth as he made eye contact. “Shit,” you gasped.
Your hands wandered down his torso, stopping at the hem of his boxers. You tugged them down, setting his very hard cock free from its confinement. The tip was red, dribbling with pre-cum. He was obviously just as pent up as you felt. You gave him a few experimental tugs with your hand before lining him up with your entrance.
Stiles took over, taking his time to slowly push inside you. You put your hands on his shoulders, holding your breath at the stretch. He was so much bigger than you’d expected. You both moaned when he bottomed out. You felt so full, it was insane. You dug your nails into his shoulders and gave him a nod, indicating he could move.
He set a slow pace, testing the waters. He was enthralled by the jiggle of your tits with every movement. Typical. His hands moved up to hold them, almost as leverage, as he picked up his pace.
“Fuck, so good,” Stiles moaned. You were about to move a hand down to touch yourself, but Stiles stopped you.
“Let me make you feel good, let me make you come.” He put one hand on your shoulder to steady himself and brought the other down to where you were joined. He continued to thrust, putting his fingers on your clit. It took him a second, but he found a rhythm where he could thrust and stroke at the same time.
“Oh my god, Stiles!” You moaned, the added sensation feeling amazing. The sound of his hips slapping against yours was filthy to say the least. You moved to hold onto something above your head as Stiles sped up. Your hands soon found the little ledge, and you gripped it to the best of your ability.
Stiles bent down to kiss you, pace still unrelenting. The new angle of him bent forward sent his cock exactly where you needed it.
“Shit, oh my god.” It was all the confirmation Stiles needed to keep it up.
“So pretty, so tight around my cock. Such pretty tits. You feel so good,” he mumbled against your lips.
The pace of his hips became more erratic, both of you nearing the edge. Your knuckles turned white with how tight you were gripping the car door.
“Gonna come inside you,” Stiles moaned. “Fill you up so nice.”
“Yes, Stiles, please!”
“Fuck, so good, so good for me,” Stiles was becoming more talkative and less coherent as he lost himself in the pleasure. He was mouthing at your jawline, sucking another hickey where there were already plenty.
“Fuck, Stiles, gonna come,” you whined. You could feel his smile against your neck. Smug idiot. He then started rubbing your clit exactly the way you liked it. Combined with him hitting that spot inside you over and over and over again, you were seeing stars.
“Don’t stop, please,” another moan left your lips.
“Come for me. Come on my cock. So pretty, so good,” Stiles blabbered.
“Fuck! Stiles!” You keened, tightening around his dick as you came. He kissed you again as his hips stuttered, thrusting a few more times before painting your walls with his cum. His head fell on your chest as you both caught your breath.
When his breathing had slowed, he groaned before lifting himself off you, chuckling as he pecked both your nipples, then your lips before looking for something to clean you with. He settled on the shirt of his lacrosse uniform.
“Ugh, gross,” you mumbled as he wiped you clean. Stiles shrugged. “It was going into the wash, anyway.”
Stiles put his underwear and sweats back on, opening the door and getting out so you could have the space to redress yourself. When you reached under the seat for your bra, you pulled out a baseball bat. “Why do you have a baseball bat in your car?”
“No… Particular reason. Safety. Lots of dangerous animals… out there.”
“So you settled on a bat?” You wondered, holding the object. Stiles nodded, not meeting your eyes, his locked on your still naked chest. You threw the bat at him and laughed, reaching under the seat again and this time pulling out your bra.
When you were finally dressed, you got back in the passenger seat so Stiles could drive you home. It wasn’t a long drive, as you’d already been halfway there before pulling over. He drove up the driveway, and you cringed on the inside, hoping your uncle wouldn’t see who dropped you off. You took your bag and got out of the car, walking around to the drivers’ side where Stiles was already leaning out the window.
You looked at him and gave him a small smile. You leaned forward to give him a kiss goodbye. “You better email me your part of the paper tonight, Stilinski.”
“You bet, babe,” he winked and gave you a salute, watching as you laughed and turned to walk inside the house.
You closed the door and took off your shoes, hanging your coat and leaving your bag by the door. “I’m home!”
Coach took one look at your appearance and frowned. Right… maybe you should’ve straightened yourself out before walking into the living room. Disheveled hair, hickeys on your neck, it wasn’t exactly rocket science as to why you were home later than usual.
“If you’re gonna be having boys over, do it when I’m not around, please? I have enough of them to deal with at practice and in class. And at least have the decency to tell an uncle who he’s dealing with.”
You cringed as the Jeep’s headlights very obviously flashed through the window at that very second, Stiles driving home. It was anything but unrecognizable.
“Stilinski!? You’re sleeping with STILINSKI?! God, kill me now. If I’m now expected to have him over for Christmas dinner you better throw me off a bridge. And you BETTER use protection because I’m NOT gonna have Mini-linski’s running around.”
synopsis: Adrian has spent his entire life thinking he's a Beta. Then one traumatic mission turns his life upside-down, and he realizes he might finally get to have the one thing he's always wanted: you.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, omegaverse dynamics (talk about mates, heats/ruts, etc), alpha!Adrian, omega!reader, medic!reader, 11th street kids is a pack, mission gone wrong, reader injury (bullet wounds), desperate and needy and protective Adrian just the way I like him, (I have never written omegaverse fic before be nice to me lmao)
word count: 5k
notes: It is finally here thank you so much for your patience I know I have been teasing this for weeks lmao I am anticipating around seven parts to this one!! MAJOR thank you to @embeanwrites and @snowyathena for the beta read and all their help brainstorming and editing <3
Masterlist | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen | fourteen | fifteen | sixteen | seventeen
The 11th Street Kids are not your typical pack.
Chris and Emilia, two bonded Alphas that butt heads as much as they care about one another. Ads, John, and Adrian, three Betas who gladly follow their lead, even when things get messy. And you.
Black ops work tends to attract a particular type—Alphas and Betas. You’re a bit of an odd one out as an Omega, but you’ve determinedly proven yourself capable of the work time and time again. Still, you’ve never actually been out in the field. You’re a medic, and you stay behind at headquarters, ready to help when the team gets back from missions, fixing Emilia’s shoddy emergency-med work that keeps them alive en-route to you.
“That is not how you pack a fucking bullet wound, Emilia,” you have said countless times. Or “Jesus Christ, how many times, Adrian, have I told you to leave the knife in after you get stabbed?” Or “What kind of drug did you accidentally inhale? If I was in the field with you, maybe I would have seen it and been able to tell—”
And you are itching to get out there and help. You’ve been begging for months. Even if all you do is stay in the van with John, you can do more, be there for the team more effectively, if you are out there in the field with them instead of waiting at the Checkmate office or whatever temporary HQ has been set up for long-distance missions.
Still, Chris and Emilia have been reluctant to let you—as the only Omega of the group, they tend to baby you, maybe a bit too much. But you’ve been there through it all—the butterflies, the alternate universes, standing on the sidelines as quiet, caring support for the others.
Being a good friend to Chris when he desperately needed one, after he got out of prison. Reminding John of his value when he’s feeling unimportant. Helping nurse Em back to health after Coverdale Ranch. Standing by Ads when her relationship with Keeya was falling to pieces. Comforting Adrian when Chris made the dumbass decision to fuck off to Nazi land. Welcoming Fleury, Bordeaux, and Judomaster into the pack with open arms and managing everyone’s emotions as the group adjusted to the three new Betas added into the mix.
But you’re more than a caretaker, and you’re ready to prove it.
“I am not a child,” you insist when Chris tries to bench you, yet again. “I have just as much training as the rest of you. I can handle a gun. I can handle myself. I am a professional, and I am qualified.”
“We need you here.”
“John gets to go with you all the time!” you cry. “He might be a Beta, but he’s a bigger pussy than I am!”
“Hey!” John protests.
“Sorry,” you mutter, not sounding at all sorry.
“She deserves to go,” Adrian cuts in, from a few desks away. “She’s worked just as hard on this as the rest of us. You can’t keep treating her like glass because she’s an Omega. I know you have this weird Alpha need to like, take care of her or whatever, but she’s also more than capable of taking care of herself. She takes care of the rest of us all the time.”
You’re grateful to have someone on your side. Adrian is your best friend, and he never lets anyone give you shit for your designation. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d said something vague about his shitty Alpha brother and not wanting to be like him.
If he was an Alpha, he’d be the perfect one, in your eyes. He never gave a shit about social convention, he understood you better than maybe anyone else in the world. You catch yourself wishing some days that things were different.
Emilia sighs. “It’s not that. You know we respect you. You also know that your designation makes you a target.”
“So we’ll keep an eye on her,” Adrian says. “She’s not going to go out there alone. If we’re watching her back, and you know we will be—”
“Fine!” Chris says, giving in. “You can come on the mission tomorrow. But Adrian stays with you the whole time.”
“Gladly,” Adrian agrees.
“Thank you,” you say delightedly. You hug Adrian, and he laughs.
He hates it when anyone else touches him, but—he’s never minded it from you. You smell nice. He takes the opportunity as you wrap your arms around him to quietly tuck his head into your neck and inhale, right where your comforting scent is the strongest. He hopes it lingers, for the rest of the day. On his clothes, on his skin, in his hair.
Adrian might be a little bit in love with you. A lot a bit in love with you, actually. But that doesn’t matter. He’s never had a shot with you anyway. He’s not an Alpha, he can’t give you what you need.
But he can give you this. He can watch your back so you have the chance to go out in the field with the rest of the pack, like you’ve always wanted.
“No problem,” he says, trying his best to pretend that everything is okay. That it doesn’t kill him a little bit inside when you let go, step back, move back to your desk.
He watches you and swallows hard, and tries really, really hard not to be consumed with irrational jealousy.
Jealous of whatever Alpha, one day, will get to keep you to himself.
Jealous of his alternate self, who he spends every day trying not to think about. Who you will never meet, thank god, because—he was an Alpha. And he would have been able to be with you, in a way Adrian never can be. Maybe—maybe he was. He had a mark. Right there, high on his neck. Adrian hadn’t been able to stop looking at it, couldn’t help but wonder. The question had been on the tip of his tongue the entire night, but he kept deflecting—talking about Pokemon and cloud-men and shag carpeting, skirting around the question he really wanted to ask, because he was too afraid. Because if it was you—if the only thing keeping him from you is his fucking designation—
He snaps himself out of the thought. It’s never happening, not for him. All he can do is take advantage of the time he has with you now, before some asshole Alpha steals you away to another pack. So he pastes on a smile, saunters up behind you, and taps you playfully on the shoulder.
“Better go practice your aim,” he teases. “Make sure you’re 100% field ready—”
“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, but you start walking in the direction of the weapons room anyway. “Come with me?”
He follows you with a smile on his face. He always will.
Everything goes sideways fast. Your informant fucked you all over. It’s an ambush.
Adrian has heard pained or panicked shouts from everyone—Chris, Harcourt, Ads, Economos. He ignores them all, because he was given a prerogative from his Alphas. To protect you.
“Stay here,” he tells you, hands on your shoulders, pushing you behind him, away from the danger. “Stay here, stay low, stay behind me. Do you hear me?” You nod, eyes wide as you look up into his visor.
“Okay,” you agree, cocking your gun. “I’ll do what I can from a distance—”
“No, don’t waste your ammo,” Adrian says. He hands you his guns, instead, and draws his machete. “In case—if they get closer, you need to defen—”
“I got it,” you assure him, accepting the weapons. “Go, Ade, I’ll be okay.”
So he stays focused, takes out as many attackers as he can, slashes out with his machete, chopping off limbs, sending blood spraying through the air while you shoot from higher ground, just behind him. He doesn’t stray far, keeping you in earshot, no more than a quick sprint out of reach.
There’s some part of him that feels sickly satisfied, like he always does, as the bodies hit the ground. There are dozens of them. Far too many. Whoever sent them here is going to die, he decides. Whoever put his pack at risk like this, whoever put you at risk like this.
Even still, this is what he’s good at. The killing. It’s what he enjoys. He’s smiling under his Vigilante mask as he looks at one of the last assholes in his vicinity and slashes out. The guy gets off a couple shots, but they fly wide, missing him. Adrian laughs as he shoves his blade through the guy’s neck.
Adrian looks back at you to check in, to crack a joke about how of course your first field mission goes right off the rails, and—you’re not where you’re supposed to be. You’re not where he left you. His eyes dart around frantically until they land on you, and he breathes a sigh of relief, but the feeling only lasts a moment. You look at him, in that split second, frozen with shock.
Then he sees the blood soaking through your uniform. He watches you go pale, a hand pressed a wound he’s too far away to see clearly, and you hit the ground. His blood runs cold. He can smell your blood on the air—your scent, familiar, but also wrong. Tinged salty and metallic, thick, like he can taste it on his tongue.
The transformation happens in an instant.
Adrian goes fucking ballistic.
Something takes over him. Something vicious, and aggressive, and panicked, and he yells your name, but you don’t answer him. Two more people try to corner Adrian, and he doesn’t even bother with a weapon. He just snaps their necks. Then he races to you, bolts as fast as he can, his heart pounding harder than it ever has.
His vision is already tinged red by the Vigilante visor, but it goes even redder with rage when he sees you slumped on the ground, lifeless. His knees hit the ground beside you, and he rips his mask off. It feels hard to breathe in it, suddenly, as he looks down at you, strangled by the strongest fear he’s ever felt. His hands reach frantically for your face, and he says your name over and over again, interspersed with pleas, as he tugs you into his lap.
No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be moving you. He needs a medic, he needs you, but—he curses. Goddamnit, fuck, what would you tell him to do, what have you trained him to do when the others get shot—
“Put pressure on it,” he tells himself out loud, but even as he does it, his voice is shaking, his hands are shaking, because he never, ever, thought he would have to use this knowledge on you. “God, please, wake up, look at me, please—”
“Adrian,” says a voice behind him, and he turns and bares his teeth, brandishing his machete defensively.
“It’s me!” Emilia says, holding her hands up. “It’s me!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian logically knows—it’s Harcourt. Harcourt isn’t going to hurt you. But even as he lowers his weapon, something feels bad. Wrong. And when she reaches for you, to assess your injuries—
“Don’t fucking touch her,” Adrian snarls, gloved fingers digging into your skin, shielding you from the threat that his body is telling him is right there.
“What?” Emilia says, completely caught off guard.
Adrian turns back to you, tense with fear and worry. His hands press harder against the places you’re bleeding from—your shoulder, your side near your ribs, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood even as it soaks into his gloves. “Come on, wake up, look at me—”
You blink awake only briefly, your eyes unfocused, but you say his name, very softly, and your weak fingers clutch at the buckles on the front of his uniform. The possessive feeling roars back up Adrian’s throat times a thousand, drowning out everything else. All he knows is protect and need and mine.
“They’re all dead,” Chris says behind him, breathless, and Adrian tenses up again without knowing why. “I think John’s arm is fucked up, we need her to set it—” Then Chris’s eyes land on you. “Oh, fuck—she doesn’t look good, we gotta get her out of here—”
Adrian sees Chris’s arms reach for you, and he growls, something deep and primal and uncontrollable. A sound he has never made. A sound he shouldn’t be able to make. Chris freezes, bristles, looks at Adrian.
“What the fuck was that?” Chris says, more confused than angered by the intensity emanating off of Adrian in waves.
Then Chris takes in the whole scene. The way Adrian’s clutch on you is so tight it might leave bruises. The way he hunches over you protectively. The way he snarls when Chris looks at you for a moment too long.
Chris pauses. He inhales. His eyes go wide, and he takes a giant step back.
“Holy fucking shit,” he says. “Adrian—”
“Whoa, what the fuck is going on?” Ads says, confused as hell. John stumbles up behind her, also looking confused, nursing a wound of his own on his arm. They both look worried when they see you unconscious on the ground.
“You smell it?” Chris asks Emilia, and her brow furrows. She sniffs the air, and her mouth falls open.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Oh my god. Is he—”
“Ads, I need you to run to the van and get me a tranq dart,” Chris says, voice low. “Now.” She does as he asks without asking any questions.
“Adrian,” Emilia says softly, trying again to approach, even slower, calmer. “I need you to let me look at her injuries. I’m not going to hurt her.” She pauses and thinks, tries to rephrase into the particular words he needs to hear right now. “I’m not going to take her from you.”
But it’s no use. He’s too far gone for logic. When Emilia reaches forward, he panics.
“No,” Adrian says desperately. “No, no—she’s mine—”
His eyes are wild, unfocused, filled with such animal fear and rage and need that it’s clouding every other feeling. He’s vibrating, shaking, breathing hot and heavy, on the verge of falling over entirely into animal instinct, of going completely feral.
“Please, let me help—” Emilia says, trying to gentle her voice and approach again slowly, and Adrian snaps.
“Get the fuck away from her!” he shouts. “Don’t—”
As soon as Ads returns and hands Chris the tranquilizer gun, he shoots. The dart hits Adrian right in the neck, and everything goes dark.
When you wake up, blinking blearily, Adebayo’s face comes into your field of vision. When you turn your head to the side, Emilia is sitting at your bedside, holding your hand.
“Hey,” she says, sounding a little relieved. “We were worried about you.”
“What—”
“You got shot. Like, three times,” Emilia says. You look around. You’re in the Checkmate infirmary, hooked up to a couple IVs. Blood, some other fluids. There are a few dull aches in your side, your shoulder, but they don’t hurt nearly as bad as they should. They must have given you the good painkillers.
Your brain still feels a little foggy, though. You try to remember what happened, and it comes back in snapshots. The ambush. The pain. Adrian shouting for you.
Clarity washes over you in an instant, and you sit up in bed, wincing as the movement irritates your injuries in a way even the painkillers can’t mask. “Fuck—”
“What is it, what do you need?” Emilia asks. “Stay down, I’ll get it—”
“Adrian,” you say. You don’t know why, but something inside you wants him, right now, more than anything or anyone else. “Where is Adrian? He was—”
Emilia and Adebayo exchange a look. You glance between them worriedly.
“Is he okay?” you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, your heart sinking. You got hurt, you weren’t there to take care of him if he got hurt.
“He’s going to be,” Emilia says. “He’s…sick.”
You frown, unimpressed. “Bullshit. Stop fucking lying to my face, please. Adrian has a healing factor. He doesn’t get sick.”
Adebayo sighs. “She’s gonna find out eventually, Em. There’s no point.”
“Find out what?” you demand, starting to get panicky. “If there’s something wrong with Adrian, I want to know, and I want to know now. He’s my best friend, if something happened to him—it’s my fucking job to take care of the pack, and he—”
“While you were unconscious,” Emilia says, “something…unexpected happened.”
“Stop being cryptic and just fucking tell me.”
“Adrian presented,” Ads interrupts, ripping the bandaid off. You jerk back from her like you’ve been slapped.
“Adrian…presented?” you say slowly, your heart pounding against your chest, a pit of dread forming in your stomach. “What do you—”
“He’s spent his entire life thinking he’s a Beta,” Emilia says. “Hell. We all thought he was a Beta.”
“What do you mean? He’s not?”
“Not anymore,” Ads says. “He’s an Alpha.”
You look between the two women in front of you again and let the information sink in. You lay back against the pillows slowly, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet nervously. Because this is the kind of thing that could change everything. And the fact that they’re so reluctant to tell you the whole story tells you that it already has.
“Adrian is an Alpha,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper.
“John and I looked into it. Delayed presentation affects less than 1% of the population,” Adebayo continues. “It’s incredibly rare. Usually triggered by the presence of a compatible genetic mate, or a traumatic circumstance.”
Compatible genetic mate. Traumatic circumstance.
“Traumatic circumstance,” you say, a little frantic. “Did he—is he hurt—”
“He’s not hurt,” Emilia says. “All of us got a little banged up. You got the worst of it. When it was over, by the time we got to you, he was freaking the fuck out, radiating Alpha pheromones in waves like I have never seen.”
“You’re telling me Adrian’s life changed overnight because I got shot? Not because of his own traumatic injury, but because of mine?”
The girls are quiet.
“It’s probably more complicated than that,” Ads says softly. “It might be…a little bit of the other thing, too. That’s what me and John are theorizing, anyway. He said—while you were unconscious, he said—you were his.”
A compatible genetic mate. You swallow as you absorb the implication of her words.
“Is he?” you ask, afraid to raise your voice. Afraid to hope. To make it real. “Is he mine, Em?”
“Listen—” Emilia starts.
“Is he mine, Em?” you repeat, your throat tight. “Is Adrian my Alpha?”
Emilia stares at you.
“I think so,” she says softly. “That’s what triggered it. You were hurt, and you’re his, and something inside him recognized that you needed him. He was—he was a mess. He probably still is. When you got hurt, if Chris wasn’t there to keep him in check, bring him back from the brink, he might have gone feral. As it is, we had to tranquilize him so I could treat your injuries. He wouldn’t let either of us get anywhere near you.”
You’re quiet for a minute, feeling strangely guilty. That you’re the cause of all this trouble, throwing the pack dynamics out of whack. But there’s no going back, now, and there’s some part of you that hopes—maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is the best thing. Because haven’t you thought a million times that you’d wished Adrian was an Alpha? That he could be yours?
If Adrian is yours, though—why isn’t he here? Does he not want you in return? But then you think—if Adrian just presented, for the first time—
“He’s in rut, isn’t he?” you whisper worriedly.
“He is,” Emilia says hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to admit it.
It hurts you, a terrible pang in your stomach, to think about Adrian suffering, confused, alone.
“I want to see him.”
“You are in no condition,” Emilia says, “to be near an Alpha going through his first ever rut. Adrian needs time to adjust to his new reality. Introducing an Omega into the equation when he’s already volatile is not a good idea. And you are hurt. You need to heal.”
“He needs me,” you say, your throat tight. You think you might cry. “If it’s true, if he’s mine. I need to be there for him.”
“Chris is with him,” Ads says, reaching for your hand and squeezing. “Adrian will be okay, but—he’s wild and unpredictable right now. You got shot. Multiple times. If you went over there, and he ended up hurting you worse, imagine how guilty he would feel.”
“He would never hurt me,” you say, and you know, in your heart, that it’s true.
“You can believe that all you want. I’m not willing to risk it. After he’s…over the hill,” Emilia says, “then you can see him.”
It’s firm. It’s final. And—she is your pack Alpha. What she says goes.
“Can I at least talk to him?” you ask, quiet and nervous. “Please?”
“Let me talk to Chris,” Emilia says. “See how he’s doing. And then maybe we can arrange that. For now, you focus on getting better. You scared the shit out of us. All of us. So let us take care of you, okay?”
You nod, and she squeezes your hand. But you bite your lip and think about how the one person who you really wish was here to take care of you is the one you’re not allowed to see right now.
When Adrian wakes up, he’s sweating buckets, half-naked, strapped down to a mattress in…he looks around. Chris’s old trailer? There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut, and his head is pounding, and god, why is everything so bright and loud?
“What the fuck,” he pants.
“You’re awake,” Chris says. “Good. Sorry I had to tranq you, bro, but you were acting a little crazy.”
“You—what?” Adrian says, bewildered, still a little out of it, trying to blink away the haze of whatever Chris apparently drugged him with.
Then, in a flash of clarity, he remembers what happened. He remembers you, bleeding out in his arms, and the pain in his gut intensifies tenfold, and just the thought of you makes him crazy with want. He needs you. He doesn’t know why, but he does. Instantly, he starts pulling at the restraints.
“Where is she Chris get me the fuck out of here I am not fucking around I will fucking kill you I need her is she hurt—”
“Calm down,” Chris says in his Alpha command voice. Then he remembers it won’t work now. He softens his voice and tries again. “Hey, calm down, Adrian. She’s okay. I promise you, she’s okay.”
Adrian looks at him, still squirming, but present enough to be puzzled, because Chris’s command did not do a damn thing. And a little bit pissed, because he hates it when his best friend uses his Alpha voice on him, like he’s a fucking kindergartender.
“Where is she?” Adrian repeats, low and growling, a command of his own, fueled by the extra power of his recent presentation, the lingering feral energy he can’t contain, and—it works. It shouldn’t, but it works.
“She’s with Emilia and Ads, at her apartment,” Chris says, the words spilling out of him like he can’t stop them. His eyes are wide, his mouth dangling open. “Did you just fucking—use your Alpha voice on me?”
Adrian pauses tugging at his restraints to look at Chris like he’s insane. Because he is. “Use my what? I—dude, why the fuck am I tied to the bed? Why did you bring me here?”
“Because you’re in rut,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t trust you not to go chasing after her. You are out of control right now. And I brought you here because I figured you wouldn’t want your mom around for this.”
Adrian flushes a furious red color. “I am not in rut. I’m a Beta. You know I am.”
“I thought I did,” Chris says. “I believe you thought that too. And then yesterday happened. And you are in rut, and you are an Alpha.”
“I’m not a fucking Alpha!”
“It happens,” Chris says. “People present late in life.”
“I am thirty-four! I would know—”
But even as he says it, he cuts himself off. Because he remembers—his alternate self was an Alpha. So maybe, just maybe, he is too. He just didn’t know.
And selfishly, he thinks…maybe, just maybe, this is his chance. To have you. To love you, the way he’s always wanted.
“You’ve always been a late bloomer, Thimble.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Adrian says, but he swallows roughly. At least, he tries to. His mouth is too dry. “Can you fucking untie me please? God, I’m so fucking thirsty. And itchy, and uncomfortable, and horny, Jesus Christ—”
“Yeah,” Chris says. “Because you’re in rut, Adrian. Your first one. Historically, the worst one you will ever experience. So if I untie you, you have to promise me that you will not run after her. I will tranquilize you again. I know you want her. Hell, she probably wants you. But she’s hurt. She’s in no shape to help you through this.”
“You said she was okay,” Adrian says, panicky. “How—how bad is it?” His breath feels short, his hands are shaking. A terrible, awful guilt sinks in his stomach, adding to the pile of a dozen other terrible sensations he’s feeling right now. “It’s—it’s my fault, I was supposed to protect her. I convinced you to let her go on the mission in the first place. Fuck, Chris, is she okay I need her please—”
“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “I wanted you to be in better shape before—but—goddamnit.” He pulls out his phone and dials while Adrian practically hyperventilates in front of him, trying desperately to yank himself out of the ties holding him down. He tries to bite at the ropes with his teeth, the muscles in his neck straining, but he can’t reach them.
“Emilia,” Chris says. “Put her on the phone.” A pause. “Yeah. I know we said we were gonna wait. But he’s freaking the fuck out. He needs to talk to her.”
“Please,” Adrian says. He tries to get up, but he’s still tied down. “Please, please, I need—”
Chris puts the phone on speaker.
“Adrian?” Your voice rings through the room, and Adrian whimpers audibly at the sound. He closes his eyes and throws his head back roughly against the pillows, trying to take a few settling breaths. You’re alive. You’re well enough to talk to him, at least.
It should make him feel better, but it sends another bolt of agony through him. God, he’s so fucking hard. He wants you so bad. He wants to scent you, he wants to fuck you, he wants, he wants, he wants.
“If I untie you, are you gonna flip?” Chris asks him. Adrian takes a deep breath.
“No,” he says, chest heaving. “Please, just let me talk to her, Chris. Please.”
“You have him tied up?” you cry. “He’s not a fucking animal, Chris!”
“He was borderline,” Chris says seriously. “You were unconscious. You didn’t see how close to feral he got.”
“Untie him,” you demand, and Adrian’s heart skips a beat, hearing you so fiercely defending him.
Chris cuts the ropes, and Adrian instantly reaches for the phone.
“No funny business,” Chris orders, holding it just out of reach, and Adrian starts begging.
“Please give me the phone please let me talk to her please Chris I promise I won’t do anything I just need to talk to her—”
Chris tosses him the phone. Adrian snatches it out of the air, takes the call off speaker, and brings it right up to his ear. When he says your name, it’s shaky, nervous, but also a little bit relieved.
“Adrian,” you say, and half the tension leaves his body, just hearing you say his name, all soft and concerned. Then it roars back as another bolt of pain shoots through him, because—god, he wants you so bad, and he can’t have you right now. A pained noise escapes him, and you must hear it, because you ask worriedly, “Talk to me, Adrian, are you okay?”
“Am I—” He cuts himself off and laughs humorlessly, hissing through the pain. “Am I okay? You—you got shot. I saw you go down, you were—you were bleeding out in my arms. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” you assure him. “All patched up, at least. It hurts like a bitch. But I can take painkillers for that. You…you can’t. If what they’re saying is true. Are you really…”
Adrian rubs a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. God, he’s so hot, but even as he thinks it, he shivers.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and he feels like he might cry, he’s so overwhelmed. “It hurts.”
“What’s happening is your body wants you to find something to knot and breed,” Chris says bluntly. “So your sex drive is through the roof. For the next four days, at least, you’re going to be an irritable, horny asshole, and probably feel generally like shit. It’s gonna suck ass, because you don’t have an Omega or a bonded partner to help you through it. Headaches, feverish, dehydrated, oversensitive. This is basic high school sex ed, dude, you should know this.”
“I never paid attention to any of that Alpha shit, because I thought it didn’t apply to me,” Adrian says hoarsely. “How—why is this happening?”
“It’s my fault,” you say, your voice soft and regretful.
“No,” Adrian says, because he hates the thought that you’re blaming yourself for this. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” you say, sniffling, and Adrian thinks you might be crying. It breaks his heart. “I’m so sorry. Ads said—she said that late presentation can be triggered by compatible genetic mates and traumatic events, and I got hurt, and it was just—both, at the same time—”
“Mates?” Adrian croaks. “Are you saying—”
But before he even asks, he knows. He remembers the way he felt, holding you in his arms. He feels it again now, his lungs constricting, knuckles going white, pupils dilating as a wave of it washes over him. Possession. Want. Need.
Summary: Frank’s… a little too obsessed with your manicures.
masterlist | tag list open. Comment or DM a 💀 to be added, 18+ only, age must be in bio.
Warnings: explicit smut - freak? matched. lots of dirty talk, fingering (self), oral (m receiving), handy, softdom!Frank but reader lowkey slightly dom too, praise, use of the word “little” (again, Frank’s a massive guy, ain’t about reader), Frank a simp here, idk why but this one spoke to me as Frank being vocal asf lmao, size difference, established relationship. 18+ only, MDNI. reader is always a consenting adult.
W/C: 4.4k
Song rec: Physical by Nine Inch Nails (trust me, listen)
A/N: im so fuckin scared rn guys first time posting smut… thought about this after i got my nails done yesterday and i wish its how my s/o would react but alas i dream. here we go, fam…
please check out a beautiful, not depraved fic by @little-miss-dilf-lover about Frank lovin’ your pedicures (hers came first!) Man Sized Wallet
You and Frank both know what it means when you get a manicure.
It happened on accident, really, months ago. Just a small observation on your end (or just blatantly obvious on his end). The first time you came home with fresh polish and ridiculously soft hands after having naked nails for so long. His eyes followed them everywhere, a faint crease in his brow, finding every excuse to touch them or watch them or see them put to light work.
“Sweetheart, you hold this f’me?” he’d ask—the man that’d die before making you hold his shit—and pass off his coffee mug to you.
“Oh, sure,” you’d happily oblige, but tilt your head with both hands cradling the mug when he brewed more coffee, looking back at your hold on it every other second.
It was like his eyes were magnetized to your hands. Comically so. You’d wipe the counter and his head would ping-pong back-and-forth while he watched.
One night, lying in bed under the soft glow of the lamp, he picked your hand up from the soft circles you traced on his bare chest. He turned your fingers over gently in his, that line present in his brow, manipulating your smaller fingers to see how the gleam of polish caught the light.
“You keep staring, you know that, right?” you ask, a soft grin curling your lips up.
“Hm? Mm.” Frank shrugs a shoulder, neither confirming nor denying. Keeps doing his thing, thumb smoothing over your joints to straighten your fingers. “Looks nice,” he finally mumbled, voice graveled with lack of sleep. “Like seein’ you do things f’you.”
You prop up on an elbow beside him, both of you watching your hand in his. Warmth rushed through you, settling deep in your stomach at the attentiveness of his examination. Your throat slinks a tight swallow. “It’s just polish, Frank…”
“Helluva thing. Make you feel good, yeah?”
It’s your turn to shrug. “Yeah, but it’s a luxury, not a necessity.”
Frank brought your fingers to his mouth, pressed a kiss to every one while looking you in the eye. “Looks real nice. Like when you feel good. Really, uh… like it. The, uh… stuff on ‘em.”
And then you had the bright idea of making him feel good. It ended with your hands around his cock and Frank’s gritted groan as he spilled his load and watched in awe as he coated those nice lookin’ nails.
After that? Oh my god. Every month. Like clockwork.
“Almost that time, yeah?”
“Put money in your purse, sweetheart. Dunno how much that shit costs. You tell me if it ain’t enough, hear me?”
“Those?” he’d ask as you show him a picture and bite back a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, those’re real nice, sweetheart. Like those.”
And after he marvels over the artistry of your nails, you fuck like you’re crazed. Your hands everywhere, your nails where he can see them. Like. Fucking. Clockwork.
So like clockwork, you come home from your appointment, smell coffee, and beeline for the kitchen.
And there he is. Dressed in all black, looking every bit of Frank, mug lifted to his mouth. The second he sees you? He perks up, eyes dart in a wordless question for the hands you keep buried in your pockets. Just to tease him.
“Hey, sweetheart. Go all good, huh?” he asks, head shifting to get a glance you don’t allow.
Purse slung over your shoulder, relishing in the theatrics of the reveal, you tip your chin up and grin the brightest grin known to this man. “Went more than good.”
“More than good? Alright.” He sets the coffee aside, both hands flat on the countertop to tent the broad line of his shoulders. An intense expectancy to his stare, his head canted. “Gonna show me or what?”
Acting sheepish, you roll forward on your toes. Shrug. Look anywhere but him to get a rouse, busying yourself with setting your purse down, cherry charms clinking.
Baited to the chase, he quirks a brow. Thinks about being an ass about it, but can’t. Not when you’re standing there with a smile so big your face hurts, looking refreshed, adding to the shared energy of anticipation that follows your appointment. Frank submits. Sighs. Gives you a thorough once over—thinking of pouncing or demanding, who knows. Pushes off the counter, corner of his mouth twitching. He waves you on, lumbering closer. “Alright, sweetheart, put ‘em up, yeah, yeah.”
You raise two fists in front of your face. Your eyes crinkle. You try to look like you’ll fight him, but your grin null and voids that attempt.
“Yeah, look at that,” Frank eggs, stopping in front of you. His nose twitches, eyes flicking down to your fist before landing back on your eyes. His narrow. Jerks his chin. “Whatchu gonna do with that, huh, mean streak? Punch me with those soft hands?”
“Pft, I can think of a much better way to use these hands…” but before he can reply, you flash your hands open.
Stops him cold, getting every bit of attention as you waggle your nails in front of his starved eyes. You bend your fingers, light shimmering the holographic velvet of the cat’s eye effect.
“How the…?” Micro-movements of his head, hypnotized by the plush three-dimensional polish. A scarred hand slowly lifts, as if you’re fragile, big fingers enveloping your palm to keep your fingers presented. Never a cage; a hold of pure delicacy.
Your nose crinkles with your grin. “Cool, right? It’s magnetic.”
“S’… somethin’, alright.” Heat lines his neck, throat tense around a swallow like the sight’s devastating.
You falter at the lack of enthusiasm. “What…? Don’t you like it?”
Frank breaks from his trance in two blinks, eyes meeting yours between your fingers. “You like ‘em?”
“I do…” you dip one slow, uncertain nod—uncertain at his behavior.
“Looks like glass,” he says, lifting your hand above his head, fingers draped over his thumb, definitely confirming it is, in fact, not glass. “This shit safe t’go on your fingers, sweetheart?”
You roll your eyes, grin softening to a smile. “Is any of it?” You open your mouth to ask—again—what he actually thinks. Because honestly? It does matter to you (never because he made it that way). But he pays for it. He makes it a reoccurring expense like any other bill. Because he wants to. Because he’s giving and kind and generous in quiet ways most people overlook.
The repetitive question never leaves your tongue and the worry diminishes when Frank presses his thumb in your middle of your hand to manually close your fingers. He draws your hand in. Kisses your knuckles until your shoulders relax. “Real pretty, sweetheart,” he says, a rumble in his chest. “Looks real nice. I give you enough money for alla that?” he asks, brows up to deter any dishonesty.
“Yup. Even enough for a coffee after,” you’re happy to report, bouncing again on your toes, smile so big it stretches the tendons in your neck. “Thanks, Frankie… really. You don’t have to keep doing this,” you murmur, manicured hands lifting to hold his face.
“Mm… think I do,” he says, clearly enjoying it as much as you. Both of his hands plant on your hips, fingertips testing the feel of your body.
A simultaneous draw, you shuffle in closer as Frank guides you in.
“Have a good day?” gruff when he tries to quiet his voice.
“Thanks to you,” you murmur, slotting a leg between his to mold your smaller body against the towering brawn of his, take from the warmth radiating off his skin. One hand trickles down his cheek, nails a faint, rasped drag over his stubble, landing the pad of your pointer finger on his lips. “Thank you.”
His eyes strain for focus, lips parting fractionally to inhale a slow, controlled breath. Trying to mitigate the rush of blood to his dick, subdue the indecent thoughts of your little hands roaming his war-torn body, your nails cutting into his back.
You slide the other hand to his cock, yet you’re the one hitching a gasp when you feel how heavy it is already, taut against his jeans. His face cements. No play. No teasing. Just that familiar intensity of want, clamping his jaw shut like that’ll save his composure. Shoulders tighten, eyes darken.
You press harder, shuffling in to lean up on your toes and graze a warm, open-mouthed kiss—if it can be called that—to his jaw, finger pulling his bottom lip down to show teeth. “I said thank you…” you murmur, voice thickening.
“Heard you the first time,” he mutters, eyes dropping to the hand you grind over his throbbing cock. Instead of rutting against you, he hooks the pad of your finger with his bottom teeth. Scrapes them over the soft skin; an intentional, prolonged rake of teeth to skin, his eyes drinking in the subtle widening of yours. “Sweetheart… don’t gotta. Never gotta. Ain’t why I do that f’you.”
“I know,” you muse, mesmerized by the glimmer of your nail dragging open the fleshy pink inside of his lower lip. “But I like to. You like it, don’t you, Frankie? Like when I take care of you?”
His breath stutters on the way out of his nose; a man at the end of his rope and you’re sawing it the rest of the way off. “Ain’t complainin’.”
“Let me… I want to,” you whisper, kneading at the twitching bulge in his pants. “I wanna taste you. I thought about this the entire time I sat there,” a syrupy confession, one that you feel spasms his dick. “Couldn’t wait to get home to wrap my hands around you like this.”
Restraint collapsing, Frank yanks you flush to him with a sharp grunt. Hands cinched to your hips, he rolls his into yours. You gasp, Jesus— the zipper of his pants ready to tear under the aggravated pressure of his erection. “See what you fuckin’ do t’me? You feel that? Spent the whole goddamn time sittin’ here tryna be decent.”
Instinct to climb, to give him a place to bury himself, your leg slides up his hip.
Instinct to catch, to take the warm slit given to bury himself, he hooks a hand under your knee.
“And?” you prod, fingernails raking red lines down the sides of his neck. “Did you sit here and be decent?”
“Got me fuckin’ leakin’,” he growls, head tipping to give you more to claw. “More than fuckin’ decent f’you.”
Your eyes brighten with his confession, delighted and impish and downright empowered knowing Frank Castle’s at your mercy. You circle your hips against his again, reveling in the trembling, surrendering snarl of diminishing self-control he wears. It’s your goddamn trophy.
“Let me taste how good you’ve been, hm?” you hum, unraveling your leg to tug his belt free with a fumbling hand. “I wanna see how these nails look on your dick, Frank, right now.”
“Fuck, sweetheart. Needy, huh? Ain’t even sayin’ please.”
Cheeks hot, skin an inferno of need, you use both hands, both sets of pretty nails, and rip at his belt so aggressively it actually sways him.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” he curses, peeling his shirt off one-handed. Throws it aside, belt buckle jingling the preamble to a meticulously reckless fucking, only to grab yours by the hem and free you from it. “Lemme see you, huh? See my pretty girl.”
Your tits bounce free, cupped by black lace, hair mussed volume around your head and he’s not even started in on you yet. That’s the power of Frank.
“Get them off,” you demand through the shake of anticipation in your voice. “Pants off—please.”
He’s on you. And you’re on him. Two feverish bodies clashing in a clink of teeth and moaned lap of tongue. Big hands work your breasts with unapologetic greed. Hours of imagining this very moment. Days of counting down to this animalistic version of him. Weeks of waiting for the next feral post-manicure round (though you definitely fuck between then—plenty). And it never disappoints. Frank never disappoints.
Lips nipped and sucked swollen, heart vibrating in your throat, you pull back in a breathless recalibration to the mission. “Pants.”
“Yeah,” through the heaving of his chest. “Pants.” But yours come off. One swift haul and a squeal and you’re left in your bra and panties.
Clothes strewn over the kitchen. The coffee pot gurgles its misery.
Frank catches you by the wrists. Slaps your hands flat against his chest so he can stare down at that glittering polish, the feminine shape, your lotioned hands while he pops the button of his pants.
You dig into the dense masses of muscle; your personal scratching post made six-feet tall and over two-hundred pounds of vengeful muscle.
The zipper screeches down in one motion. The rasp of denim falling, his boxers with it.
And there—
Here he is, all of him. Bare and exposed, dick out, and it stupefies you for a moment.
Both of you stand together, you almost naked, Frank completely naked, in your kitchen. Coffee hot on the burner, your hands fragrant of sweet lotion and rejuvenation, and the heady sweat of snapped tension buzzing between you. It’s funny in the best way, because it’s real. It’s imperfectly perfect and you couldn’t be happier.
Through the haze of lust, you’re… grateful. For Frank. Not the paid manicures or the vicious sex after them, but… him.
He softens, too. A short break in the urgency. A hand lifts, brushing rough knuckles over the velvet of your cheek… being grateful for you, too, admiring your very existence. “…Love you, sweetheart,” he says, deep in his chest. “Don’t you ever forget that, yeah?”
Yours swells. “I love you so much, Frank,” whispered honesty.
Frank Castle’s a good man.
You’re going to remind him of that.
And it’s on.
Your mouth latches to his neck, mashing hot kisses over the fading claw marks, over the hard mound of his throat. Lower, over the leathered scars on his chest. Lower, down the divot of his stomach. You drop to your knees before him—all godly muscularity that’s never asked for your devotion, but you’ve given it willingly. And you’re giving it again, right now, in a position of worship under his cock. Hands—nails—gripping your own thighs as you look up at him.
It took him a long time to agree to head. He said it didn’t feel fair, didn’t want your mouth or throat hurting, said you don’t gotta do all that, but when you begged for it… fuck, who’s he to say no?
Thick inches roped up in swollen veins above your spit-glossed lips. The head violently engorged. A smear of pre-cum wetting the slit.
“See what you do t’me?” he says, reaching down to thumb over the empty pocket of your cheek… a reverent apology for the stretch to come. “Ain’t ever been this fucked f’someone.”
That…? That says everything.
It says you’re it.
Lashes flush to your brows, you look up at him, open your mouth—see his mouth part in mirrored anticipation—and lap a slow, fat lick along the full underside of his dick, flicking the tip of your tongue over the head.
“Fuck yeah, there you go, baby,” Frank coos, scooping your hair into one fist to hold, bind himself to you. “Spit on it ‘fore you try’n take it, yeah? Don’t hurt yourself.”
He isn’t even being arrogant. It’s true. A genuine reminder that even on your knees—especially then—he’s looking out for you. Always.
You roll your tongue over him, both sides, glossing the cords of veins on his shaft.
He grunts above you, gaze torn between the hands idle on your thighs, your mouth working to fit his size.
You know what he wants. So you give. Both hands lift, enveloping him from the base, and pump while you swallow his tip in your mouth. The tip is easy, but you’re already full. Big, pleading eyes stare up at him, your jaw dropping to invite more of him, one inch at a time. Each inch splits the corners of your mouth until it stings, hinge of your jaw pried to capacity. He’s clean with a delicious musk, the taste of him eliciting a soft whine on his cock.
“Easy, baby,” he says, the hand with hair following the exploratory pace. “Atta girl, s’my girl, takin’ all that.” Pupils blown black, Frank watches the inches disappear—in the hot saturation of your mouth, under the soft skin of your hands. “Nails look so fuckin’ pretty ‘round my cock, sweetheart. Look fuckin’ beautiful f’me like this.”
He reaches his free hand down. Strokes his thumb over the bulge in your cheek, a craving praise laden in his touch, feeling himself in you through the thin skin.
The lace between your legs is soaked. Painfully so. You know you’re swollen, muscles opening to welcome what’s buried in your mouth.
There’s nothing you can do—no extra room—except choke his cock down until your eyes water and your jaw burns.
“Fuck, princess, yeah,” Frank grits between his teeth, eyes wild as he devours the sight of your pretty hands wrapped around what you can’t swallow to pump him into your mouth. A groan—the ragged sound of defeat—tears from his throat as he watches a thick strip of spit spill down your chin. “Yeah, fuck, keep goin’ baby. So fuckin’ good f’me, huh? Puttin’ those pretty little hands t’work. That pretty little mouth sore yet?”
You hum adamant protest on his cock, eyes pleading innocence despite the veined rod you drive against the back of your throat.
That jerks his shoulders, reactionary restraint so he doesn’t slam himself down your esophagus.
“Use those pretty fingers I paid f’,” he pants, nostrils flaring as his balls tighten. “‘N make yourself feel good ‘til I can, baby. C’mon. Lemme see it. Lemme see you feel good ‘til I can take care ‘a you.”
You whine on his dick at the promise and feel the twitch of it in your mouth. You’re unraveling him. Frank Castle—any man’s executioner and you’re on your knees for him. And you obey. You slide one hand up your thigh and push just one teasing finger into your panties between your swollen folds. Slick coats it, so fucking sensitive your pace shudders. “Mmmm,” you moan, drawing back on his length to smear sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on his tip you never let leave your mouth while you skim circles on your hyperactive clit, your legs jolting.
One hand jerking him, one teasing your cunt, mouth red as you suck.
“Lemme see,” he demands, thighs knotted. “Need t’ see how wet you are, sweetheart.”
In a shiver of loss, you withdraw your hand. Lift it up to show him the creamy strings hanging between your fingers.
“Fuck— give it here—” Bending as best he can, your lips suctioned around him, he seizes that wrist. Gently. A gentle catch, bringing your slick-covered fingers to his mouth to lick them clean on a flat tongue.
The nail polish sparkles like sin.
Salty, sweet, tasting like his fuckin’ girl, an appetizer to the feast he’s gonna have between your legs later. “Mm, yeah, baby, taste like a fuckin’ angel.”
He releases your hand back to you. Licks his tongue over his bottom lip to collect anything he can, keep the musk of you imbedded in his tastebuds. “Back in.”
Clean fingers make their way back, cunt pouring heat on your skin before you even touch. Sweat clings strands of hair to your face. The pace you set on his cock—a steady, eager dive—pops on your lips. You push a finger back in, curling a frantic swipe at your insides. Heat torches every nerve. From the fire of your cheeks, to the pool you drip onto your hand, to Frank’s husky octave, you’re getting there. So fucking close.
“Shit, baby, look so fuckin’ good like that. Dick stretchin’ those perfect lips, hand down in the mess I made without even touchin’ you.” The deep ridges of his stomach contract, jaw grinding hard. Closer. You’re sucking and stroking him closer while you put on a show. “Put another finger in, sweetheart,” but it’s a demand. A ruined, rasped demand. “Gotta work yourself open, baby—my fingers ain’t so little.”
God—you know. You know how little his fingers aren’t, how you can be split open and crying by his hands alone. Those hands have the power to convulse your legs, fuck back when you ride his fingers and press your knees to your shoulders to pound you senseless. You’re a good girl. So you listen. Pacifying yourself with his cock, you stuff it deeper as you sit down on two fingers. You moan around his dick, kneeling on the pedestal of your own hand.
Frank throws his head back with a groan, thick neck exposed, eyes soldered to yours. Can’t miss a second, can’t blink. “Atta girl,” Frank praises, beautifully broken. “That’s m’good fuckin’ girl.”
Spongey walls clamp your two pretty little fingers, pulsing a plea for something bigger. Your jaw begs to be empty. Your pussy begs to be full.
“Almost there, baby,” he wipes his thumb under your chin. Breaks the track of spit. His hand tightens in your hair, forearm swollen with reined impulse as you bob an obscene, dripping mess on his cock like it’s fuckin’ deification.
“Where you want it, huh? In that mouth?” His stomach shudders back, an instinctual pull so he doesn’t spear your throat with his cock; his body breaking under your mouth, your hands.
Jaw overstretched, hinges aching, you unlatch from his dick to beg. You pump him in one hand, fuck yourself with the other. “Fucking coat me, Frankie, please. All over. I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum soon, so fucking soon. I’m gonna cum for you.”
His face twitches—something so amazed it’s a form of pain. It’s too much. It’s fuckin’ everything. The harsh shlick shlick shlick as you plunge into your cunt. Smells like bliss: spit, sweat, sex, coffee. Your little hand squelching over his drenched cock, the head chiseled purple.
You can’t even imagine how it would feel right now, how defined the tip is, how you know it would scoop you out with each push and pull. It festers heat in your stomach, a tremble in your walls that clench to milk the cock it doesn’t have.
“I need to taste you, please. Please. Please I’m so close, Frank. Right here, Frank, right here,” and you open your mouth under his tip, tongue stuck out so he can facet his load into you.
Frank slaps his hand over yours. Pumps harder with you. Faster. Fuckin’ desperate while he watches you curl two fingers into yourself. Watches you come apart while you cry to be threaded in his load. “C’mon, baby,” he snarls out. “Cum, baby. Do it jus’ like Frankie would. Do it f’me, goddamn it, fuck yeah—”
At the tipping point of his orgasm, you combust first.
“There she is, fuck—“
“Gonna cum, sweetheart, Jesus fuckin’ Christ—”
A vulgar euphoria, your eyes convulse and roll back. Your knees—spread wide—quake under your own weight. Dizzy, hungry, tongue out as Frank spurts off and into your gaping mouth.
“Fuck yes, Frank—” you cry out as you’re riding the high, thick white ribbons of salt coating your tongue as you both fuck him off. But you close your mouth, angling your hand down as it stutters and as Frank ruts himself to deliverance, painting his cum over your tits with a guttural plea of your name.
This is what you begged for.
Coated in his load. Mouth, chin. Neck, breasts. Mouth sore, hands aching… beautifully, blissfully ruined.
You both slow. Surfacing again after drowning each other. Bodies slack in a sheen of sweat.
You almost topple back thanks to useless muscles, but Frank’s there.
Isn’t he always?
He hooks a hand under your arm so you never hit the floor. “Easy, baby, easy. You alright? You good, huh?” Already pulling you to your feet, both big hands under your arms to carry every ounce of your weight like it’s nothing.
Even though he’s spent and shaking, you’re his only priority. He gets you standing up… mostly straight.
Your head lolls, smile lopsided, goofy as hell, idyllic, you sway on your own two feet with a quiet giggle. “…Whoa.”
He huffs, near a chuckle. “Alright. Breathe now, baby, hm? You’re alright, pretty girl. Lemme look at you.”
An exaltation dedicated to you, only you, Frank inspects you. A massive hand splays across your back, that one hand acting as your spine, while he cleans you with the other. Brushes all the sweaty strands of your hair back. Snags the dish towel to clean your chin, neck, chest. “There we go,” he says, all gentle praise and hoarse admiration. “Clean you up, hm? Feelin’ okay, sweetheart?” He gathers your hands one at a time, cleaning those off, too. Tosses it aside when he’s satisfied that you’re dry.
“Mmhmmm,” you nod fervid reassurance, bubbling a laugh. “You think I can start getting my nails done twice a month instead of once?” you tease, melting forward into him, your slack arms draped over his sweat-sticky shoulders.
His chuckle rumbles from his chest into yours. He scoops you up with one arm, forearm a sitting bar under your ass. You dangle there, a mushy puddle of satiation, limp and trusting against him. “Think I could swing that,” he says, honest, but you both know it’s only a joke. “Sure you’re alright?” he tucks his chin to look down at you, your cheek smooshed to his shoulder. “Hurtin’?” he asks, touching your temple, smoothing his thumb over your cheek like he can soothe the ache he knows is there.
“Mmm, no,” you report, lacing your ankles behind his back to nestle in closer. “‘M okay, promise.”
“Alright, alright. Get you one ‘a those nasty gas-station cherry-limeade slushies you like when ‘m done with you, hm? Help soothe that mouth.”
That seems to revive you. You sit up, at his eye-level, blink all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. “Really?…………Today’s awesome.”
Frank huffs another chuckle, patting your ass. “Ain’t done with you yet, princess. Gotta sit you on this dick first, yeah?”
Frank swats your ass just enough to make you yelp, that yelp turning into a fit of laughter as he stalks towards the bedroom.
The two of you were too invested in each other to notice one crucial detail, though.
The window.
Open. Blinds, glass, the whole bit.
So when the elderly neighbor across the alley catches the last glimpse of Frank’s bare ass walking you down the hall from the window, she faints.
But hey, you got your nails done, got an insane pounding, and your diabetes-inducing slushie.
Today…?
Today was fucking awesome.
You can’t wait for the next manicure.
content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.
this is not a place for anyone under 18.
please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! comments are massively appreciated! if you’re not comfortable commenting publicly, consider sending an anon ask! Just be kind 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!
divider cred!!! @/pixopix
Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss @gingin3-blog @notimminent @yesshewrites1 @saintcastiglione
most of these are freaky 'cause chris was ovulating
who let this freak roam free
got jaw mogged 3x
wanted to focus on chris but lowk all i'm looking at is matt's hand
thank uuu @blissaus for sending me this gif holy fuck it needs to be added here even if i didn't make it
do i even have to explain these two gifs
chris explaining to matt using pen & paper gif all over again
lots of tongue action going on in this video
he's so hot but also such a meme material i love him lmao
idk something about the stance here screams big dick
he's so sexy when he's mad omfg
this sick mf. (my body had a reaction)
another reaction gif to add to my collection
i finally got around to making these gifs & i genuinely really enjoyed this week's video 😝 (also i apologize if these are low quality idk what went wrong lol)
AN: I’m baaack! Sorry I haven’t been posting as much as I used to, but I’ve still been dealing with a lot personally. But the project hail mary/iron lung hype finally got me back in the game lmao. I couldn’t let y’all have all the fun!
This is the winner from that one poll awhile back, so hope you enjoy! I’m hoping to get back into writing & posting more frequently, but that all depends on how kind life is to me. Kinda not wild about the ending, so be nice
From the moment Simon gained consciousness on the Hail Mary, he was cursing. "Fuck" was practically his favorite word, but only the other human aboard the ship could understand the expletives grumbled under his breath. Not that Simon was aware. That damn rock understood just about everything else; why would swearing be such a foreign concept?
Rocky was deeply familiar with Eridian swears and insults, but Grace hadn't been too keen on adding their translations.
"The last thing I need is for you to cuss me out. You already call me stupid on a daily basis," he teased with a chuckle, but Rocky didn't find it as funny.
"Rocky need space, statement," he said, turning around in his ball and walking away.
"C'mon Rock, don't be like that," Grace called out after him.
Rocky paused, rolling closer to his friend as he answered. "Rocky check on Simon. Will be back later."
"Oh, okay," Grace accepted the answer easily enough. He opened his mouth as if to add something, but stopped himself short. "Ah, nevermind," he waved a hand, as if in dismissal.
The movement caught Rocky's attention. "Nevermind what, question?"
Grace shook his head. "It's stupid."
"Okay!" Rocky chirped in agreement, about to head on his way, when Grace's voice stopped him once more.
"Just- make sure he knows he's allowed to go wherever he wants. He only really hangs out in the green room and observation deck, and I just want him to feel comfortable here."
"Rocky tell him!" he agreed before rolling down the hall.
~~~
Simon could hear Rocky coming a mile away. The loud thunking wasn't exactly stealthy.
"Simon!" he exclaimed, announcing his presence. Said man looked over, arching a brow quizzically.
"Rocky..." he answered, unsure what the alien wanted. They rarely interacted one on one, mostly due to Simon's own hesitance.
"Rocky need favor, statement," he said, cutting to the chase. Simon tried not to appear as tense as he felt.
"... Well, that depends. What's the favor?"
Rocky rolled his ball further into the room, moving closer to Simon, but still keeping a small distance between them.
"Need new words," Rocky admitted, carapace lowered in something akin to disappointment or frustration.
Simon snorted. "Do I look like a fuckin' dictionary? Go ask Grace," he dismissed, but Rocky wasn't having it.
"No!" he stomped to assert his point. "Grace not share human bad words! Those are words Rocky need!"
Simon was hiding a smile behind his hand, holding back amused laughter. "Is that so?"
Rocky went still, his voice monotonous. "Simon laugh at Rocky."
Great, now he felt bad.
"No I'm not!" Simon denied, but Rocky continued to stare. "I was… laughing at Grace," he insisted. Rocky took a few steps closer.
"Why, question?"
"Because he's a such a nerdy goody two shoes," he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "I mean, who gatekeeps curse words from an alien?"
"Hm. Don't understand," Rocky said, hoping for clarification.
"What, gatekeep? It's slang for withholding information," he explained.
Rocky hopped up and down, stomping his feet with excitement. "Yes! Grace gatekeep!"
"Well that's just not fair," Simon agreed, allowing his infectious energy to rub off on him. He walked over to grab the nearby laptop and translator, placing it in his lap as he sat back down. "So, how 'bout we start with the worst ones and work our way down from there."
~~~
"With insults, they're more or less interchangeable, but it depends on the situation."
"Hm. Need example."
Simon shifted, leaning his left side against Rocky's ball for support. "Okay... so say we're both walking down the street and I bump into you without saying excuse me. I'm being an asshole. But if I see you walking and go out of my way to run into you, then I'm being a dick."
"Dick worse than asshole, question?"
The phrasing was so unexpected, Simon couldn't help but burst into laughter, nodding, "Yeah, you got it bud! But really, it's a matter of what feels right in the moment."
"Rocky need more examples." He didn't really, but this was the most he'd heard the new human speak, and as it turns out, he was rather funny.
"Ohokay, okay, here's one. So if you tell me to do something and I refuse for a stupid reason, I'm being a whiny little bitch. Got that?"
"Whiny little bitch," Rocky repeated, beaming with pride at his expanded vocabulary.
"You think you got it, or you want me to keep going?"
"Rocky understands now."
"Glad I could help," Simon said, patting the glass of his ball as Rocky rolled by.
Before he left, Rocky paused in the doorway. "Simon, question?"
"Yeah?" he cocked his head, glancing over at him.
"Why Simon not leave room, question?"
Simon sighed. He figured it wouldn't be long until one of them asked that question. He rarely left the onboard greenhouse ever since he'd first laid eyes on it.
"I just really like this room," he shrugged.
"Bullshit, statement."
Simon's lips quirked into a tight smile. "Already putting those words to good use I see," he said, hoping to deflect. When Rocky didn't respond, he continued, "Where I came from, we only had one tree left. And when it finally died, that was it. So seeing so many plants- alive and in space, thriving... I don't know. It just feels comforting, I guess."
Rocky thought for a moment before speaking. "Is same reason Simon leak when see stars, question?"
Simon's breath hitched in his throat. He wasn't expecting the conversation to take such a turn after their crash course in Swearing 101. He nodded, voice barely above a whisper, "Yeah..."
He flinched when he felt something touch his leg, looking up to see Rocky reaching through the mesh panel to rest a comforting claw on his knee.
"Grace, Rocky save stars! Save plants!" he explained.
"Yeah, you did..." Simon trailed off, a sad smile on his face as he fought back tears.
He stood abruptly, startling Rocky as he stretched and groaned loudly. "Now if you don't mind, I think I'm gonna go look at those stars," he said, walking off towards one of the large windows.
"Okay. Rocky go share new words with Grace!"
"Go easy on him, tiger," Simon teased from over his shoulder, unsure if Rocky even knew what a tiger was.
Rocky gave a small nod and went in the opposite direction, shouting down the hall as he went, "What the fuck Grace doing, question?"
From further down the hall, another, more confused voice, "What?"
~~~
It hadn't even been an hour before Rocky came back, barreling towards Simon with Grace not far behind.
"Bad, bad bad. Rocky piss off Grace," he said, rolling around Simon to hide behind him.
"Well that was fast," Simon mused, almost impressed. He quickly schooled his features when he noticed Grace standing before him, hands on his hips. His jaw was clenched, foot tapping in annoyance as he awaited an explanation.
"Oh, hey Grace. Sooo... to what do I owe the pleas-"
"You taught him how to swear?" It sounded less like a question, and more of an accusation. Simon didn't see any reason in denying it.
"He asked," he said with a shrug, turning to look out the window to hide his growing smirk.
"Of course he did! But that doesn't mean you give him a whole arsenal!"
"He asked nicely?" Simon tried again, turning back around only to be met with an icy glare. Simon stared down at their companion, brows furrowed, "Jesus, what all did you say?"
Grace didn't give Rocky a chance to answer, "Oh he said plenty."
"Oh yeah? Like what?" he asked, biting back a chuckle.
"Like, "what the fuck are you doing Grace!" "No dumbass!" "Stop being such a whiny little bitch!" "Why Grace so fucking stupid!"" he listed them off one by one, growing more exasperated as both of their amusement became apparent. Simon's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, having to lean against the wall for support as Rocky let out a few giggly trills.
"Oh, I suppose you two think this is funny," he said, cocking his hip as he shifted his weight.
"Yes!" Rocky cheared before Simon shushed him, reigning in his own reactions. He cleared his throat, donning a serious expression.
"No, you're right. It's not funny," he admitted, waiting until Grace's tense posture slackened from the apology. "It's fuckin' hilarious."
He didn't bother holding back anymore, bursting into loud hysterics.
It was the first time he'd heard Simon really laugh, and it was an infectious, carefree sound. He just didn't like the fact that he was the butt of the joke.
Having no other options to turn to in order to make them shut up, Grace resorted to what he knew best.
"Okay, I'm gonna need you to catch a bubble," he said in his stern "teacher voice."
"What?" Simon wheezed, looking between Grace and Rocky, doubling over. "What does that even mean?"
Grace could feel the heat rising to his cheeks as they continued to mock him, but despite his growing embarrassment, he found it increasingly difficult not to smile.
"Means Simon shut the fuck up, statement," Rocky explained.
"Well that's not very nice," Simon mused, a smug grin tugging at his lips.
"That's why I said catch a freaking bubble!" He had to take a deep breath to calm himself back down. He loved Rocky, and Simon was really growing on him, but gosh darn it did they get on his nerves sometimes.
"Careful there, you almost said a bad word," Simon snickered, fist bumping Rocky through the mesh material of his ball.
"Alright, that's it!" Grace clapped loudly to grab their attention. "Apologize. Both of you," he demanded, pointing sternly at the perpetrators.
"Wha- me?" Simon sputtered, caught off guard by the unexpected request.
"Yes you!" Grace insisted, not backing down from his stance. Simon looked him up and down, relaxing with a smirk.
"Why? What're you gonna do about it?" he taunted, relishing in the way his mouth hung open in shock. "Probably nothing."
"Oh I'm gonna do... something," he threatened weakly.
"Yeah, I'm really shaking in my boots," he drawled, sitting back down on the windowsill.
Grace huffed indignantly. "You're a piece of work, you know that?"
"So I've been told."
Grace rubbed his face from under his glasses, knocking them askew. He hated that Simon was right; he probably would do nothing. It's not like there was much he could do in way of punishment- wait.
A sly smile graced his features, standing up straighter with newfound confidence.
Rocky noticed the shift in demeanor, knowing it could only spell trouble.
"Y'know what? Fine, whatever. Water under the bridge," Grace said, slowly walking closer to his target. Simon only gave a noncommittal hum in response. "Mind if I sit here?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before sitting a bit too close to Simon.
"Simon should run now, statement," Rocky tried to warn, only to be brushed off.
"Nah, don't listen to him. We're good!" As if to prove his point, Grace slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him even closer.
Simon arched a brow quizzically, leaning back to study the other man's face. Grace caught his eye, flashing an innocent smile.
"Run! Simon! Simon, run!" Rocky tapped against his ball, and maybe he should actually listen to him.
"Uh, yeah, I'm just gonna-" Simon made to stand, only for Grace to pull him back down.
"Hey, where're you goin'? Just relaaaax," he reassured, giving his shoulders a friendly shake.
"Um, okay..." Simon trailed off, trying to scoot away to put some distance between them, but Grace's grip was surprisingly strong. "Are you sure you're not still mad? 'Cause-"
"What? Nooo, no no. If I was mad, would I do this?" he asked, squeezing up and down his side.
Simon flinched beneath the touch, barking out a surprised laugh before slapping his hand over his mouth.
"Why so shy all of a sudden? I thought you wanted to laugh! Or did you only want to do it at my expense?" he teased.
"Noho, that's not- shihihit don't do thahahat!" Simon snorted as he pinched down his side, squeezing his hip.
"Do what?" Grace asked innocently, continuing to knead around his hip. "Oh, this? Or do you mean this?" As he spoke, his hand jumped up to scratch in his armpit, careful not to get too close to the remaining stump. It had fully healed over months ago, but Grace still wanted to be careful.
"GAHAHAH!" Simon let out a giggly scream, jerking away from the touch and further into Grace's embrace. "You bahahastard!"
"Well now, that's uncalled for," Grace said, tweaking his ribs in retaliation. Simon sputtered through his laughter, trying to twist and reach with his right hand to fight him off.
"Ihihit's justified!" he argued, legs kicking and scrambling against the floor for leverage. Grace adjusted his grip, trapping him in a hug from behind and pulling him into his lap.
"Agree to disagree," he said, raking over his ribs with clawed hands. Simon snorted again, louder this time, and immediately tugged his shirt up to hide his growing blush.
Unfortunately, this made his shirt hike up to expose his lower stomach. Well, unfortunate for Simon. For Grace, it was just the opportunity he was looking for.
"AUGH! MOHOHOTHERFUHUHUCKER!" he cackled as a hand slipped beneath his shirt, kneading and scratching at bare skin.
"I wouldn't dream of touching your mother like that!" Grace gasped, giggling at his own joke as Simon growled through his laughter. His face turned a shade darker, but Grace couldn't tell if it was out of embarrassment, or frustration.
"Wihihill you just shut uhuhup?"
Or both.
"No, I don't think I will," he taunted, a smile evident in his tone.
"Nohohow I know why you're a teacher," he began, and Grace paused his movements to let him catch his breath and speak, curious where he was going.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, because you're a smart AHAHAHASS!" His words were cut off by deep, frantic laughter as Grace dug into both pits.
Simon leaned on him for support, conflicted between pressing his arm down, and reaching around to protect his left side. Grace smirked, vibrating a clawed hand into his stomach while the other played his ribs like a piano. Specifically, the left side of his ribs.
Simon threw his head back, mouth open wide as the sound of his mirth echoed throughout the small ship. He twisted back and forth in Grace's arms, unable to dislodge the probing hands as they wandered his torso.
"Grace only tickling Simon's left side," Rocky noted, startling them both at the reminder of his presence.
"Yeah, and?" Grace prompted, continuing to knead and pinch around his ribs.
"Simon only have one arm! Cannot properly defend himself, statement."
How was it that the living rock was the only one looking out for him?
"Yeah, and?" Grace repeated, smug sarcasm dripping from his voice.
"Is mean!" Rocky exclaimed, stomping his foot for emphasis.
Grace barked out a laugh of his own, glasses falling askew as he cocked his head towards him.
"Nah, I'm being super nice, right Si?" he asked, rubbing his knuckles up and down his ribcage to prompt an answer. His fingers brushed against the edge of his gills, and Simon snorted loudly, desperately trying to shove him away.
"NOHOHO! Thihis ihihis cruel ahand unusual punishmehehent!" he cried out defiantly.
"I think I prefer the term funishment!" Grace quipped, tracing along the gill slits ever so gently.
"Ohoho brohohother," he groaned, trying his best to sound annoyed, despite the fact that this was the most he's laughed in years, maybe ever. Deep chuckles gave way to pitchy giggles and breathless snorts as Grace continued tracing his gills. Simon abandoned the idea of fighting him off and chose instead to bury his face in his hand, too embarrassed for Grace or Rocky to look at him directly.
C'mohohon, nohohot there!" he all but begged.
"Okay, then where?" Grace asked smugly, catching a glimpse of the blush rapidly spreading across Simon's face from behind his hand.
"Nohohowhere!"
"Sorry, but that answer's invalid."
"YOU'RE invahahalid!" he argued.
Grace can't help but chuckle, rolling his eyes as Rocky chirped in amusement. "Real mature, guys." Still, he supposed that justice had been served by now, finally deciding to grant him mercy...
Right after this.
"So, how do you feel about raspberries?" he asked casually, slowing his hands to a stop, but still trapping him in a hug.
"What, like the fruit?" Simon asked, confused and panting for breath. "Dunno, never had them. Why?"
"Then I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you've never had this kind either." He didn't give him a chance to ask any follow up questions, burying his face in the crook of Simon's neck, blowing a raspberry over the set of gills there.
The scream Simon let out was loud enough it made Rocky jump, backing away a few steps.
"Simon very loud, statement."
Maybe he was delusional from all the tickling, but Simon swore the bastard was teasing him.
"GRACE, WHAHAT THEHEHE FUCK?"
"Language!" Grace gasped, feigning shock. He pulled Simon's hair off to the side, allowing easy access to the other side of his neck. "Just for that..." he trailed off, letting the audibly large breath he took speak for itself.
"No wait- dohohon't!" anticapatory giggles fall past his lips as he tries one last time to make a break for it.
If Grace didn't know any better, he'd say he wasn't trying very hard to escape. Interesting.
His lips connected with the other side of his neck, blowing against his gills. Another shrill screech fills the air, dissolving into frantic, bubbly giggles as he tries to scrunch his neck.
"Thihihis ihihisn't FAHAHAIR!" Simon whines, finally managing to shove his face away and knocking his glasses off in the process.
Rocky scrambles to catch them, holding them out for Grace to take as his own amused chuckles die off.
"Thanks bud," he reaches for them, only for Rocky to yank them back at the last second. Grace rolls his eyes and tries again, only to fall for the same trick.
"Serves you right," Simon mutters as he catches his breath, a bright smile still lingering.
Grace still had a proud smirk plastered across his face, shrugging sheepishly. "You okay? I didn't go overboard, did I?" he asked, wanting to make sure he didn't push him too far. Simon huffed out a laugh, waving him off.
"Nah, I've dealt with worse. But you are horrible."
Grace snorted out a laugh, "Oh yeah?"
"Yes! I mean, you attacked a poor, defenseless amputee for no reason!" he said, sarcastic amusement evident in his voice.
"Well if you ask me, the amputee had it coming," he taunted. "Besides, you're hardly what I'd call defenseless."
"Whatever. That shit was excessive and you know it."
"You could've asked me to stop at any time," he noted smugly.
"I did!" Simon argued. Didn't he? Surely.
"Mmm, Simon say many things. Did not say stop," Rocky spoke up, earning a playful glare.
"Oh yeah? What do you know."
"Rocky know Simon very ticklish!" He was definitely teasing him now.
Simon let out an embarrassed groan, hiding behind his hand. "I'm never gonna live this down."
Rocky reached through the mesh on his ball to pat his leg comfortingly. "Is okay. Grace still most ticklish human."
"Okay, that's it!" Grace growled playfully. Rocky let out a string of giddy, nervous chirps before rolling down the hall.
Grace jumped up to give chase, but paused in the doorway, looking back at Simon. "So uh, we cool?"
He shook his head fondly, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, we're cool."
Grace smiled in relief, turning to chase after Rocky, but Simon's voice calling out stopped him in his tracks. "But that doesn't mean you're off the hook."
