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godslino · 2 months

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PIECE BY PIECE | minho first date series. friends to lovers.

pairing: minho x fem!reader word count: 6.2k genre: college au, mutual pining, fluff, angst warnings: drinking, referenced injury (very minor) summary: minho, on a drunken whim, asks you out on a date.

a/n: finally!! the minho part!! i’ve been sooo excited about this one since i first got the idea. i hope you guys enjoy! once again any and all feedback is appreciated, happy reading <3

“Dude, I think it’s clean.”

Minho looks up from where he’s scrubbing the counter, eyes narrowed. So what if it’s his third time going over every surface in the kitchen?

“Are you going to help me or are you just gonna sit there and make more crumbs?”

Jeongin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. He holds up his hands in surrender, the bag of chips in his lap crinkling. “I’m just saying. You’re acting like she’s never seen the place before.”

That’s the problem. You’ve seen his place. Minho has to stop the shudder that threatens to overtake his body at the thought.

“So you’re not helping? Great. Get out.”

“I live here!” Jeongin whines. “Why do I have to get out? You can’t banish me like this.”

“I can and I will. Now leave. I have two hours to make sure everything is ready and I am not going to vacuum for a fourth time.”

“Yes mom,” Jeongin rolls his eyes as he unfolds his legs from underneath him.

He stops just short of the kitchen counter, points an accusatory finger at Minho’s disheveled figure still hunched over an imaginary stain.

“For the record, Chan hyung would never do this to me. He loves my crumbs.”

Minho throws the scrub daddy at him.

🏠

The night it happens, all it takes is approximately three shots and a pep talk from Hyunjin for Minho to finally find the nerve to ask you out.

“You’ve got this,” the younger boy says, words slurred, his hands steady on both Minho’s shoulders. The bass thumps loud in the other room, drowned out by the walls of the kitchen until it’s nothing but garbled nonsense going in one of his ears and out the other, vibrations low in his chest.

“I’ve got this.” Minho repeats, the thrum of alcohol already spreading to his fingertips. He feels warm, light on his feet. His limbs are starting to loosen up and his insides are turning to jelly. He might even be floating.

“You look hot.”

“I look hot.”

“She’s gonna say yes.”

“You’re gonna venmo me twenty dollars.”

“I’m gonna venmo you twenty dollars.” Minho parrots before he can even process what he’s saying. Changbin, who’d been watching the entire thing unfold from where he stands with his back pressed against the sink, snorts.

“Wait, what the f—”

“Go get her!” Hyunjin screams, pushing him through the door of the kitchen with one last pat on the back, “And send me my money!”

Minho stumbles over himself, just barely able to stop in time before he goes crashing into a group of people. The living room is crowded: there’s furniture pushed up against the walls, bodies pressed front to back in the middle of the floor, a makeshift DJ stand in the corner where Chan is controlling the music from his laptop, drink in hand. Minho catches his eye from across the room, the glow of the LEDs reflecting off the toothy grin he shoots his way, dimples on full display.

“Hey!” Minho feels someone grab his arm, and he turns to find you staring up at him. “Where’d you go? You said you were gonna get a drink.”

Minho follows your eyes down to where you’re staring at his empty hands. “I—uh, well. I ran into Hyunjin and we took a few shots.”

The pout you give him does nothing but spur on the fluttering of his chest, his brain still hyper aware of the way your hand was resting on his elbow. “Shots? I want shots!” you whine, and Minho has to avert his gaze from staring at your lips when your pout only worsens.

“How much have you had?” he tries to ask over the music. There’s a shitty pop song playing, high pitched and wonky. If he remembers in the morning, he’ll make sure he berates Chan about his DJ-ing abilities.

“What?” you scream back, tiptoeing to bring your mouth closer to his ear.

Minho is only a man. A man who's been in love with you since the moment you accidentally spilled your coffee all over Hyunjin in the quad during freshman year. He remembers that day well, remembers the way your eyes went wide and your lips parted. He also remembers the way he wished it was him with the large wet stain on his shirt, that way it was him that was offered to have his lunch bought as an apology.

He’d never admit it, but sometimes really late at night, when the moon is high in the sky and he’s feeling oddly sentimental, he counts his lucky stars that Hyunjin had been in a relationship at the time. Minho doesn’t know what he would’ve done had he been forced to watch the two of you hit it off—some form of arson, presumably. Anything to take the edge off. But because of the fact that Hyunjin was not trying to have his head cut off by said girlfriend at the time, he invited Minho along as some sort of collateral damage. That’s when the two of you became friends. Kind of perfect if you ask him.

With the jumbled mess of butterflies in his stomach that he gets whenever you’re near him, and the threat of the alcohol slowly seeping through his skin, his brain short circuits the minute your breath grazes the shell of his ear. When your hand follows not long after, fingers gripping the nape of his neck to hold him in place, he almost passes out.

“Min? What’d you say?”

Minho is rendered completely useless by you. Absolutely ruined. Your existence has thrown his entire plan to woo you off course and now his mouth is opening and closing like a badly programmed robot. Pathetic. Nuts and bolts for brains.

By the grace of God (or some other higher being that Minho’s never bothered to believe in until this very moment) he finds his voice, but not before you’re pulling back with a confused look on your face.

“I asked how much you’ve had to drink,” he says, straining against the music.

A saccharine sweet grin that has him seeing stars spreads across your face, “Not enough!”

Minho is not an enabler. Never has been, never will be. There was one time, back in that fateful freshman year that also introduced the two of you, that he let Hyunjin get blackout drunk. A terrible decision on his end, if the earful he got from Chan the next morning was anything to go by. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was finding remnants of the resulting hacking session for the following week. So yeah, never again.

But while Minho isn’t an enabler, he is smitten, and the way your hand feels wrapped around his wrist as you drag him into the kitchen has his soul threatening to leave his body. He thinks that maybe he could do anything as long as you asked. He also hopes you can’t feel the way his pulse is rabbiting beneath his skin, right under the press of your thumb.

“There’s, like, nothing here.” you say as you rummage through the cupboard near the window, nose scrunched and a frown on your face.

Minho laughs, rounds the kitchen island to crouch down and open the cabinet under the sink. “That’s because you don’t know where to look,” he smirks, pulling out a fresh bottle of tequila. “Also, Chan hyung is greedy. He knows people like you will go scavenging his supply if he isn’t careful.”

“I resent that.” you frown, taking the bottle from him. “Besides, people like me deserve to have fun too.”

“Mhm, sure.” Minho says, grabbing a solo cup. He holds his hand out for the bottle, pours just the right amount before sliding it over and following it up with a can of coke.

“A man after my heart.” you joke, holding your cup up to him in a mock toast before downing it in one go. Minho watches with so much focus, fighting against the way his head spins. He doesn’t even know if it’s the alcohol anymore, it might just be the effect you have on him. Dizzying—you flip his entire world on its axis in the best way possible.

Minho’s gonna be seeing your exposed neck in his dreams later, he’s sure of it—it’s branded into his memory.

“That…is so fucking bad.” you giggle, holding your cup out. “Another one.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “I don’t know…”

“Pleaseeee Min,” the lilt in your voice sounds oddly familiar. Minho holds his breath just in case you—yup. There it is. There goes that pout again.

It’d be so easy for him to lean down and kiss it right off your lips. He could blame it on the alcohol, maybe, but then that takes away from how he actually means it.

He sighs instead. “It’s gonna cost you.”

“An arm and a leg?”

“What? No—I meant some water.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Three shots and a full bottle of water later, Minho knows you’ve hit your limit. Cheeks flushed pink, a dopey grin on your face, pupils blown wide. Even in this state, Minho is certain that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Anotherrrr,” you slur, waving your cup in his face.

Minho shakes his head. “No can do. You’re cut off.”

“Please,” you whine, placing both hands on his shoulders, “I’ll do anything.”

Minho, completely taken back by the sudden closeness of your body to his, freezes.

“Anything?” he asks before he can stop himself.

This is stupid. You’re drunk. There’s no way you’re going to remember anything in the morning, much less within the next thirty minutes. He’s pretty sure that you’ll lose control of all your senses soon, which is why he’s already texted your roommate Jiwoo to unlock the door so he can carry you inside. Nothing he hasn’t done before.

“Anything,” you repeat, eyes going cross-eyed where they’re fixing on the mole he has at the tip of his nose.

This is stupid. But then again, so is Minho. A big, stupid fool that blames everything on the fact that he’s so in love with you it hurts. This might be the only chance he gets to shoot his shot.

Minho takes a deep breath, says something similar to a little prayer that’s more like Hey, if anyone’s listening, help a guy out, and hopes that the twenty bucks he sent Hyunjin works.

“Go on a date with me.” he says slowly, wincing when your eyes snap up to meet his gaze.

Well, there’s really no going back from that. The only thing that could possibly grant him redemption now is banking on the fact that you don’t remember anything in the morning.

Minho waits with bated breaths, watches as your eyes search his for a long while. He waits for the anger, the disgust, the visible repulsion that he starts to think might happen the longer the silence continues.

He’s about to backtrack, quickly conjuring up an excuse about how Oh, haha, gotcha! when your hands suddenly drop from his shoulders. You grab the cup, your chin tipped upwards, and hold it out for him to fill.

“Okay.”

“O…kay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Pour me another one.”

The next morning, when Minho all but drags himself into the kitchen in search of water and something to soothe the throbbing in his head, he nearly spits a mouthful at Jeongin, the poor guy too busy eating his cereal to realize he’s gotten a front row seat in the splash zone.

Y/N [10:34am]

when do you want to do that date?

🏠

Are candles too much?

Minho has options: clean linen, lavender breeze, ocean mist, warm vanilla. He really just needs something to get rid of the smell of cleaning spray.

He thought that having a night in for a first date would be ideal—less pressure, no unwanted attention, a bathroom that he can run into when he starts to hyperventilate if you smile at him for too long. But now that it’s happening, he’s convinced that every surface of his and Jeongin’s shared apartment will scare you away if anything so much as looks off-putting.

Minho is, to put it simply, freaking out. All the other times you’ve been over to his place were on a completely platonic level. Movie nights with all the other guys in tow, dropping off food that you felt generous enough to buy every once in a while, one time because you’d accidentally worn Minho’s jacket home from a party and needed to return it to him.

But this is different. This is a date. Minho’s not dreaming—he already pinched himself a dozen times in the bathroom mirror, tiny red marks on the inside of his forearm to prove it. He’s going to open the door, invite you in, cook for you, and then proceed to resist the urge to tell you how beautiful you are for however long the night continues on after that. He can practically hear Jeongin’s laugh in the back of his head, sneering at how pathetic his inner monologue sounds right now.

He needs to find another stain to scrub.

By the time you’re knocking on his door, Minho has changed his outfit seven times. Sweats were too casual, a button up was too fancy. Should he not have done his hair? No, that’s just lazy, the way his fringe is swept up and out of his forehead adds a nice touch that doesn’t scream Hey! I’m trying to woo you! You’ve never been the type to be impressed by grand gestures and shows of confidence anyways, he knows that well.

One time, when a guy from one of the frat houses hired the campus quartet to sing a song for you in the quad as he stood there with big beady eyes and a bouquet of roses in his hand, you’d all but ran from the scene, Minho following close behind as you called out to him over your shoulder. It’s one of his fondest memories. As soon as the two of you made it around the back of the science building, you’d doubled over in laughter, the both of you in disbelief at what had happened. Minho has had that information tucked into the deepest parts of his brain ever since, saved just in case he needed it.

(Later that night, in the safety of his own bed, he’d laughed maniacally at the situation. Something about watching you reject another guy filled him with a sense of joy he couldn’t explain. He just hoped he was never going to be on the receiving end of it.)

He does a quick once over of the kitchen: double checks that all the ingredients are out, blows a speck of dust off the glass stovetop, spins the tiny floral arrangement he bought so that it’s sitting at just the right angle. When the doorbell rings, the chime bouncing off the walls of the apartment, he visibly pales.

He has to reel it in, to remember that it’s just you. You might not even be here with any intentions other than to fulfill your end of the deal; one date in exchange for the extra three shots he poured you the other night. Minho takes a deep breath, grips the doorknob with conviction, and decides that he’s determined to show you the way you deserve to be treated. The opportunity is there, and he’s gonna take it.

As soon as the door swings open, every nerve that had somehow crept its way into his brain disappears, the sight of you standing on the other side immediately sending the anxiety scrambling and replacing it with fondness instead.

“Hi,” you smile, and Minho sees images of you coming home to his apartment flash across his mind. After class, after work, in the winter when it’s cold and your nose is tinted pink, on rainy days where the ends of your hair are damp and you have a wet umbrella in tow. He could get used to it. He’s so in love that it hurts.

“Hey,” he breathes out, stepping aside to make way for you, “Come in. Are you hungry?”

“Starving, actually. Been saving myself all day since I don’t always get to have your cooking.” You hop on to one of the stools, your attention momentarily stolen by the flower arrangement. One point for Minho.

I’d cook for you every day, he wants to say. But that’s weird, right? So instead, “Well then I guess today is your lucky day.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” You say softly.

Minho can’t see you with the way his back is turned, hands moving to grab out the knife and cutting board, but if he could he’d see the way your eyes are staring softly at his back, the ghost of a smile on your lips.

Conversation flows easily after that, despite Minho’s original worries about it being awkward. You’re not necessarily treating it as a date, and he isn’t really either. It feels more like a glorified hangout, just the two of you spending time together with the added glances and smiles that normally wouldn’t be there.

Minho finds it easy to get lost in you. He finds himself craving to know more about your day, about the things that’ve been on your mind lately and the hobbies you’ve picked up. Most of the conversation is a continuation of stuff that’s fallen through the cracks during the times you see each other, but he doesn’t miss the way you ask about him too, your eyes shining with genuine interest. It makes his heart slam against his ribcage.

“How are your cats doing?”

Minho looks up from the cutting board, follows your gaze to where it’s fixed on the scattered pictures that litter his fridge. “They’re good,” he says, smiling down at a head of garlic, “My mom sends pictures all the time. She says they claw at the door to my room when they miss me.” He smashes the garlic under the knife’s blade by hitting it with the heel of his palm. “It’s cute.”

“You’re cute.”

Minho, in a very flashy demonstration of what it means to be cool, calm, and collected, slices his thumb mid-chop.

“Shit.” he mutters, dropping the knife.

It’s not that bad, just a little nick, the surprise was mostly what scared him. He probably doesn’t even need a bandaid. But despite how small it is, nothing stops you from hurriedly walking up to him and taking his hand in yours, his thumb held closely to your face for inspection.

“Are you okay?” You turn his hand over between your fingers, the soft pads of them against his calloused ones. Minho is dumbfounded, struggling to find the words to say.

“Yeah—um, it’s fine. My fault. I was distracted.” He stammers out, pulling his hand back and holding it up. He wiggles his fingers, making a show of bending and twisting his thumb that, at most, has just a small cut on the side. “See? Perfect.”

Your face relaxes, and then you’re laughing. Why are you laughing? Either Minho looks like a complete idiot or he’s suddenly the funniest person in the world for being clumsy and reckless and almost ruining the night by losing a finger. Whichever one it is, he doesn’t care, as long as he gets to hear that sound again.

“Let me help cook, please? I know you said you would do it all but clearly you’re a threat to the integrity of this meal.” You say, bumping your hip against his to move him away from the cutting board.

Minho scoffs. “I wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t catch me off guard.”

“So what? You admit that I make you flustered?”

Oh.

Minho wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for the—the flirting that’s clearly happening. You’re flirting with him, right? Why else would you have called him cute or given him that suspicious side eye after you asked that question?

You and Minho have joked around like this before, but it was always empty with no real feelings attached—as far as he could tell. You’re a naturally friendly person, getting along with others comes easy to you. He’s seen the way you talk to the other guys and has always just assumed he was no different in your eyes than they were. Sure, there were moments where maybe your hand lingered on his arm for a little while after he made you laugh, or the two of you would steal glances across the room. Sometimes when Hyunjin said something stupid you’d both catch the other’s eye and make a face, just another funny way of proving that you were both on the same wavelength most of the time. It’s kind of why Minho is so taken with you—he’s never met anyone that gets him the same way.

Reluctantly, Minho puts his pride aside and allows you to help. And as it turns out, you’re actually really good at cooking. Minho doesn’t have to instruct you much, and before he knows it you’re both working like a well-oiled machine, scooting past one another as you switch places between the stove and the sink, reading each other’s minds without even having to ask.

“Taste this.” You say, holding the spoon up to his mouth. Minho leans forward, front teeth poking out, and brings the spoon into his mouth. You cup your hand under his chin to catch any droppings, watching in anticipation as he smacks his lips together.

His eyes light up, big and brown and twinkling under the light of the kitchen. “Perfect.” He smiles.

“Oh you have—uh,” you stop him with a hand on his forearm just as he’s about to turn back to the sink, your other hand hovering next to his face hesitantly, “It’s just, um, your—here.”

Minho’s eyes go wide when your thumb swipes against the corner of his mouth, your touch feather light. It’s so intimate, the only sound being the music playing low from the speaker on the counter. He’s half convinced that you’re able to hear his heartbeat, blood pumping loud in his ears.

“You had some sauce…on your face.” You say shyly, your palm still pressed to his cheek.

“…Oh.”

Minho’s never really looked into your eyes from this close up before. He’s always known they were beautiful, the shape of them soft, full of nothing but the world. He can see himself in them from here, and, selfishly, he hopes you can see yourself in his, too.

He might be imagining it when your gaze flicks down to his lips for just a fraction of a second, but there’s no time to unpack any of that when the sauce starts bubbling over the edge of the pot, spilling on to the burner as loud sizzling and smoke fills the kitchen.

It’s chaos. The bottom of the pot is burnt and there’s only so much of it that’s salvageable. He only bought the exact amount of ingredients too, because this is a self-proclaimed no-food-waste household (as explicitly stated in the napkin contract he has with Jeongin, much to his dismay). So, hooray for conscious consumption of goods!

At the end of it all, there’s no one to blame. You’re both guilty of…whatever that was.

Minho tries to reassure you that it’s okay as he dials the number for the pizza place just down the street, simultaneously shutting down all your attempts to pay as an apology. It doesn’t matter to him, he’d do anything as long as it means he gets to spend time with you. At the end of the day, it’s another memory that he’ll hold close to his heart.

“Listen,” you say, swallowing down a mouthful of pizza, the both of you seated on his couch with a half-eaten box of pizza open on the coffee table, “I know you wanted to cook and all—which, by the way, I’m still sorry—but this is so good. However I’m sure whatever you made would’ve been better.”

Minho chuckles. “Stop lying,” he wipes his hands on a napkin, “I can guarantee you that whatever I cooked wouldn’t be as good as this anyways.”

“Stop selling yourself short, Min. You’re good at everything you do.”

The words fall from your lips so easily, like it’s something you’ve convinced yourself of long ago. Minho’s never been the type to bounce around from one thing to another, always choosing to stick with it until he has it down to a science. Cooking is one of them. Jeongin can attest to all the times Minho has berated him with tasting his latest dishes, chasing him around the apartment with a spoon. The words tighten themselves around his heart.

“I’m not,” he rolls his eyes, “But nine times out of ten, grease and mozzarella cheese are gonna win. I know that for a fact.”

You laugh, and the conversation gradually diverts into a debate about the top ten best greasy foods in existence. You’re heated, half kneeling on the couch with a finger pointed at him as you plead your case for onion rings, when your eyes go past Minho’s head and settle on the shelf of games in the hallway.

“You have games?” you ask, suddenly giddy with excitement as you hurry over to inspect the selection.

Minho watches with fond eyes, collects the plates and napkins to throw away. “Yeah, most of them are Innie’s. We don’t really use them. Sometimes when we’re drunk, other times when we’re bored and decide to wager money for fun.”

You hum, not really paying attention. Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, some decks of cards, Uno—you scan the shelf until your eyes light up at what you find hidden at the bottom.

“Min! Can we play Jenga?”

“Jenga?” Minho asks, re-entering the living room. The coffee table is clear now, and he sits between it and the couch, his back against the cushion. “Isn’t that kind of boring? We have other stuff there.”

“It’s only boring if you play it the way it’s supposed to be played.” You roll your eyes. Minho turns to you when you situate yourself on the floor beside him and only momentarily contemplates running to the bathroom when your knee knocks against his. He’s been holding it together pretty well so far, however The Sauce Incident had him ready to book it if anything had gone further.

“Well how else are we supposed to play it?” He frowns.

“We make up our own rules.”

The pieces scatter across the wood of the coffee table, clacking as you diligently begin putting them together. “This is a date, right?” You ask, stopping for a moment to turn and assess his response.

Minho stills. He genuinely forgot the grounds on which tonight had even happened in the first place. Spending time with you makes him forget everything else. And, despite his fears in the beginning, being on a date with you has felt so natural that it almost seems like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Your eyes meet. For a moment, Minho lets himself wonder what it’d be like if he went for it right then and there. “Yeah,” he says slowly, unblinking, hoping you can see the sincerity on his face, “A date. One of the best ones I’ve ever been on, actually.”

He almost cries out in victory when your face flushes pink. “Now who’s a liar?” You ask quietly, going back to piecing together the game.

Minho has learned something new tonight: he really likes seeing you flustered.

“Why do you ask?” he decides to cut you the slack, “Or what does this being a date have to do with Jenga rules?”

He waits as you finish the stack, your tongue sticking out in concentration. You’re so cute. Minho mentally pockets that image for safe keeping.

“Sorry, okay, it’s done. But basically, if we pull out a block, we get to ask the other person a question.”

“And if the tower falls…?”

“Hmm,” you think for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip, “Oh! I know. If you lose you have to tell me why you asked me on a date.”

Minho’s stomach flips. “Okay. If you lose you have to tell me why you accepted the date.”

Something unreadable passes over your face, but it’s gone in an instant. You hold your hand out for a shake, and Minho wraps his fingers around it gently.

“Deal.”

“Why are you taking all of the middle pieces?” Minho pouts.

The two of you have gone through a couple turns by now, throwing out random questions for the better half of fifteen minutes. Favorite colors, childhood foods you wouldn’t eat, the best memory you have from high school. Minho’s learned a lot, has fallen for you a lot more. But that was always a given. It’s impossible not to when he can feel the warmth from your body where you’re seated next to him, your presence overtaking all of his senses.

“Because I’m trying to win,” you laugh, putting your freshly pulled piece at the top. Just a little crooked, too. To piss him off. “Favorite movie?”

“Ponyo. Easy. My turn.”

“Seriously? Why Ponyo?”

“One question at a time, princess.”

He means it as a joke, really. He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until after the fact, the nickname making your heart skip a beat. Minho notices, the corners of his lips tugging downwards as he suppresses a smile. He manages to flick one of the side pieces until it gives way.

“What’s one thing you regret?”

“Ooh, getting deep I see.” You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. There’s a long pause, and then, “I regret spilling my coffee on Hyunjin that day.”

Minho’s brow furrows. You…regret it? He runs through all the possible reasons in his head. Surely it can’t be because you regret becoming friends with them, friends with him, right?

“Why?” He chances.

“One question at a time, princess.” You echo, laughing at his shocked expression.

You remove the last middle piece. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate our first date?”

Minho’s brain is going a thousand miles a minute. “A ten. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” He says it fast, wastes no time in moving forward to remove his own piece. He doesn’t even notice that your cheeks have gone pink again, too busy itching to ask his next question.

“Why do you regret spilling your coffee on Hyunjin?”

Minho watches you, lets his mind wander to the worst possible thing you could say in this situation, and mentally prepares to book it to the bathroom.

You take a deep breath, “I regret it because I wasn’t supposed to spill it on him. I was supposed to spill it on you.”

Wait, what?

Minho blinks. “What are you talking about?”

This is humiliating for you. A terrible thing to have to admit. Up until this moment, you’d thought that this information would follow you to your grave. You press the heel of your palms to your eyes, “This is so embarrassing,” you groan.

Minho pulls one hand away. He’s not really sure what to say, mostly because he’s confused, but, “You can tell me.”

“I had…” you start, looking up at him slowly, “A plan. With Jiwoo.” Minho nods for you to continue. “I’d seen you and Hyunjin walking through the quad a few times, and I thought that you were cute, but I didn't know how to approach you. So I did something stupid and decided that I would literally just crash into you. But I fucked it up.”

I thought that you were cute. The words echo in Minho’s ears like a bell. All this time, all those stolen glances and lingering touches, all the ways you would make hope spike in his chest that maybe you felt the same—they were real.

“So you, wait—” Minho shakes his head, “So you’re telling me that all this time…”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Min, really. All this time.”

Minho’s never been skydiving, but he imagines that this is what it feels like. Free falling—his soul hurtling towards earth at a horrifying speed, slamming back into his body right here in his living room with a force so strong it would knock him off his feet if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. You were interested in him first.

Wordlessly, you lean forward, pulling out a piece with practiced ease. Minho waits with bated breaths.

“Can I kiss you?”

Minho feels like he might pass out. “Am I dreaming right now?”

“You didn’t pull out a piece.”

He scrambles forward, clumsily nudging a piece on the side that ends up sending the entire tower toppling over. You smile at him, soft and sweet. “Looks like you have to pay up with an answer. You know, since you lost.”

Minho doesn’t care. “Because I like you,” he breathes out, “I asked you on a date because I like you. I like you so much, ever since I saw you that day. And, funnily enough, I’ve always wished you’d spilled that coffee on me instead, too.”

The confession feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He’s spent so long pining after you, laying awake at night thinking about how this would go down if he ever got the chance. He never expected for it to happen like this, much less for you to possibly feel the same.

Panic slowly starts to rise in his chest when you don’t respond. He watches as you reach an arm over, build a small tower out of a few pieces, and then knock it over. You turn to him with a small smile, “Oops, I lost too.”

Minho is so in love with you that it hurts.

“I accepted the date because I like you, Minho. I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”

He doesn’t think twice before he’s surging forward, cupping your face with one hand and kissing you with a tenderness that has you melting into his touch.

There’s no fireworks behind his eyes, no big bang or grand display of whatever it is that happens in the movies. But there’s a warmth, it starts out small in the center of his chest and spreads throughout his entire body, lights his skin aflame and travels all the way to his fingertips. You’re like that. A gentle presence, someone who worms their way into the very essence of his being and burrows into the deepest parts of him, like it was never his to begin with. Kissing you is slow, and deep, and right. He wouldn’t want it any other way. Minho doesn’t ever want to stop.

He lets his other hand fall to your waist, pulls you closer until you’re practically straddling him with his back against the couch, your knees on either side of his hips. Minho lets out a long, drawn out groan when you tilt his head back farther, his lips parting and allowing you to lick inside of his mouth. It’s so good. So good. He can’t believe he ever lived without knowing what this felt like; lived without ever having you this close before.

After a while, Minho reluctantly pulls back, holding you by the shoulders. When he looks up, your eyes are half-lidded. You look utterly debauched, cheeks pink and lips swollen from how hard they’d been pressed against his own. “We should probably slow down.” He tries hard to convince himself, too. “Talk about it all, you know? I don’t—this isn’t a one time thing for me. I don’t want it to be. I like you. I want you to know that.” He says softly, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

You lean into his hand, smiling when he flattens his palm to let your head rest there. “You’re like, so perfect that I want to kiss you until you forget your own name.”

Minho’s ears go red, his head falling forward until it rests against your collarbone. The feeling of his breath against your skin makes you laugh and run a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck fondly.

“This is gonna be so bad now that you say stuff like that.”

“Bad? No, I think it’s cute. You’re cute.”

“Shut up,” he whines, but there’s no bite to it. Not when he can look up and press a kiss to your lips. A dream come true. The entire world in his hands, exactly where it was always meant to be.

🏠

In the morning, when Jeongin comes back home, one hand covering his eyes just in case, he calls out,

“Everyone better be dressed! Or else I’m ripping up that napkin and making a new one with No fornicating on the furniture added into the fine print.”

When he doesn’t get a response, he rounds the corner, and finds the two of you nestled into the couch. Minho’s back is pressed into the cushions, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you nuzzle your face into his neck.

Jeongin huffs out a laugh, sends a quick text to Hyunjin that reads: Negative. Clothes are still on. But they’re so cute it’s almost sickening.

He snaps a picture to send to the group chat, grabs a piece of cold pizza, and retreats to his room.

Yang Jeongin Fanclub

jeongin: [Attachment: 1 image]

chan: AWWWWWWW

jiwoo: i’m gonna cry

changbin: dude is that the good pizza from down the street?

hyunjin: FINALLY

hyunjin: wait

hyunjin: does this mean i have to send back his $20?

[tags: @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @strwbrrychannie ]

#lee know x reader #first date series : minho #lee know fluff #lee know angst #skz x reader #lee know fanfic #skz fanfic #lee know fic #skz fic #lee know fanfiction #skz fanfiction #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fic #stray kids fanfiction #lee know #godslino #first date series

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woso-dreamzzz · 1 month

Text

Finally

Natalia Guijarro (OC) x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: The pining is finally over

There's a hand on your waist.

You've been in Spain for nearly two months now. You've completed preseason and played your first two matches for Barcelona.

You've gotten used to Natalia and her touchiness. In her home country, she's more touchy than she ever was out of it. It's natural to have her skin against yours, holding you tightly.

You're used to her hand on your waist.

But it's not her hand on your waist right now.

The game earlier was a good one. A clean sheet for you and a seven goal win for the rest of the team. You don't know who it was but someone had floated the idea of going to the club.

You'd tried to wiggle out of it. You avoided clubs like the plague when you could. The music, the drinks, the too little space had you feeling boxed in and nervous but somehow you had been convinced.

Which was why you were sulking at the bar all night, trying to make yourself look as small as possible, which was quite a difficult task.

Natalia had been by your side all night, hyperaware of how this was absolutely not your scene. She'd held you like you love to be held and whispered straight in your ear so you could hear her over the music.

Every shift of her body had goose bumps erupting down your body and you wish for her presence now as someone else reaches to touch your waist.

"I recognise you," This newcomer says," You play for Barcelona, right?"

There's an edge to her voice that you can't place and she looks up at you from under her lashes. Her fingers gently dance up and down your waist.

You don't like it.

It doesn't feel like how Natalia touches you and you don't like it at all.

Talia disappeared off to the toilet a few minutes ago, promising that it would only take a second.

A second was all it took for this new girl to come up to you.

"Er...yes..."

She giggles like you've said something funny but you don't think you have. She steps further into your space and you wonder if it's impolite to back up a few paces.

It's different in Spain to Sweden. You wonder if everyone is as touchy as Natalia is, even if it's toward a complete stranger.

"I'm a big fan," The girl is practically purring, her voice dropping low and you have to crane your head down closer to hear her over the heavy bass of the music.

Her hand skates up to your bicep, squeezing the muscle there.

"You're so strong," She says, trailing her finger up and down your arm," What are you drinking? Can I buy you a drink?"

People in Spain are very friendly, you think and you look down at your glass.

"I've just got a coke."

She pouts, batting her eyes at you as she somehow steps even closer. "Just a coke? You've just come out of a big win. Don't you want to let loose a little?"

You let out a few awkward chuckles, eyes darting around desperately in search of Natalia. "I don't drink during the season."

"That's so disciplined. You're so disciplined, so in control of yourself. Are you always so in control of yourself?"

Somehow, she's pressed herself against you. Your chests are pushed together as she looks at you, a half-smirk present on your face. You don't like this at all but she's Spanish so you assume it's another one of those cultural things that confuse you.

You don't want to shove her away and be impolite but you don't want her touching you anymore, skin crawling.

A hand lands on your waist again but you recognise it this time.

Natalia hooks her chin over your shoulder and stares down at this new girl.

"Can we help you?"

The girl moves to speak, to say what you don't know but it's clear that Natalia doesn't care because she gently nudges you to move.

You relocate closer to the doors and Talia keeps glancing over at the other girl, face set firmly into a frown.

"Why did you let her do that?" She asks, her eyes not straying away from the girl at the bar," Touch you like that? Touch you like how I touch you?"

"She was just being friendly," You say. Your brow furrows and you're sure that your little crinkle has appeared.

Natalia scoffs, swirling her drink around angrily in her glass. "She wasn't being friendly. She was flirting." She spits out the last word like it personally offends her.

"She was?"

Finally, Talia cuts her gaze to you. Her features soften slightly as she looks at you. She downs her drink in one go. "You're so oblivious," She says. The words are soft and low and barely audible over the loud music but you still hear them perfectly.

"What?"

Talia's looking at you in disbelief, shaking her head before she's got your waist in her hands and she's pulling you closer until her lips ghost your ear.

"You're so oblivious. I couldn't believe it at first but it's true. There's so many girls trying to throw themselves at you. That girl from earlier, girls at matches. They touch you in ways that aren't friendly and you jump through hoops trying to convince yourself it's platonic. You're so oblivious."

Ever so slightly, her hands tighten on your waist and she pulls back to look at you.

She isn't that much taller than you so you're practically at eye level as she stares.

Her eyes flick from your gaze down to your lips and then back up at your eyes again.

That's when everything comes crashing into you.

All those hugs, those private 'friend' dates to coffee shops and restaurants, those naps you took on her sofa together.

"You don't even know," Talia continues, like she doesn't even care about the bomb she's just dropped on you," I think that's even worse. You can't even let them down easy but you just don't know. It's infuriating."

Your heart's in your throat or, maybe, it's in Natalia's hands because you can't tear your eyes away from her.

She's still holding your waist, her hands familiar and welcome. Her gaze is hypnotic and your chests rise and fall in sync with each other.

"Natalia-" You say before breaking off. Your eyes dip down to her lips, barely even a glance but you know she catches you looking. "Talia...I...I think I'm in-"

"I know."

She kisses you like you're the only two people in the room. It's different to the kiss you shared as teenagers when you were scared and unsure.

Her lips mould against yours easily and everything else blends away until it's just you and her.

"Natalia," You breathe out when she pulls away," Do you...Do you want to go on a date with me?"

Talia laughs, pecking your lips. "Ask what you actually want to ask, mi vida. You will like the answer."

"Do you want to be my girlfriend?"

"Yes."

You go home with Talia in that moment, completely forgetting that you had told your mothers you would call tonight.

#hardersson x reader #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso #The Big Adventures Universe

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kneelingshadowsalome · 9 months

Text

I Never Missed You 3/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. Angst and smut and fluff (the holy trinity!) in this last part.

Part 1 Part 2

Juice spills all over the table from the oranges you press, but you don't mind. There has been a soft smile on your face all morning.

Simon's still sleeping, and you want to surprise him with a special breakfast today: scrambled eggs, freshly pressed orange juice, berries, and…

"You took my shirt."

You flinch when you hear his familiar rumble not a few feet away. The staircase wailed like a widow last night, but obviously, this man has learned to avoid the creaky spots when he wants. A goddamn heavyweight ninja...

"I'm sorry." You lick your fingers from the juice and try to feign innocence. The sleeves of his black tee reach your elbows, but you're not sorry. Nor do you feel bad about seeing him in your kitchen without a shirt.

"It was not an accusation," he says, the corner of his mouth curving a little, the dark eyes that made love to you last night giving you an approving once-over.

You approach him with a glass full of sun, but it's you he grabs in his hold. Your fingers find the scars on his back as you two embrace, and you feel an odd churn in your stomach.

"What's this…?"

Your hand floats across the embossed, white ridges that crisscross his back. The collection forms an entire mountain range, and it's chilling because you've only brushed the space between his shoulder blades.

"A reminder. To trust no one."

"No one…?"

"No one."

You remain a coward and refrain from asking for more details. You doubt he would even share them.

"I made you breakfast," you lower your gaze to the colorful palette you've gathered on the plates. Is it some sort of an instinct to want to feed a man after they've fucked you so good?

"So I see," he says, ever more approvingly. Then you're lifted on the table, next to the plates, like you're the breakfast.

Soon you're only wearing his shirt and your tiny socks, which Simon decides to leave on, too busy with getting his face between your legs.

No one has done anything like that before… No one has chosen you over breakfast; an entire abundance of delicacies laid out.

He licks you until your legs are trembling on that tortured back. You're pure, you're untouched by evil, and he carries your naivety on his shoulders like it weighs nothing. He flattens his tongue on you, sucks your flesh, tortures you on that table and doesn't even mind his teeth all too much. The peak stubble he hasn't yet shaved stings and burns as he moves across your folds.

Saying that the coarse chin on your silk feels good would be an understatement. You come undone next to the breakfast, clad in golden light shining through the small window left uncovered.

You feel alive, and raw, and stellar. A shooting star, a comet high above the sky, although the space through which you ignite consists of golden rays of sunlight and the scent of orange juice.

He takes the shirt back after he's done. After you're done and try your best to return back to earth with shaking legs. The only thing you're wearing is your socks, but you feel completely naked before him, dopey and dumb before the day has even started. Simon only licks his lips, throws that shirt on, and grabs his plate.

He dares to comment that there's no hot water. You put the kettle on with a wobble, feeling hotness on your cheeks while he sits down to eat his second breakfast like it's the most natural thing in the world: to wreck you first thing in the morning.

…............................

Simon.

He fixes the door on your fridge. He helps you clean your garage and fucks you on the table. Oily, dusty, filthy table. You go to shower after, together. You're giggling; he's smiling. Fully, now.

You want to ask him, Is this free of charge too…? Not just his cock... But his smiles. His assistance and support. The looks he grants you when you come out of the shower, ready to be licked to ruin.

He calls you his Princess to tease you just right. To get you in a state where your eyes flash with half-rage, half-lust, just before he slips inside you. He knows exactly which strings to pull – and then calls you love just when you're about to give him a piece of your mind.

You end up on the table, on the counter, on the floor. He takes you while your jaw slowly falls open from his audacity and his cock, splitting you apart with slow love. The first time he takes you in a missionary, you squirt. It's like his cock was made for you. And he dares to tease you about that, too.

"Did ya just squirt all over my cock?"

You have tears in your eyes, shame on your cheeks, and he's wetter than a wet dog down there… then he makes you squirt again, high on the lewd, obscene praise you just gave him with your pussy.

Your cunt can't lie; he knows it by now. So it's futile to keep your lips sealed either.

Kiss me.

That's what you would've usually ordered. But after an exceptionally quiet and passionate and desperate fuck that leaves you both catching your breath, leaves him hovering only inches from your sweaty upper lip, you whisper…

"I want to kiss you."

You expect him to laugh or mock you, at least crack a stupid joke or two. But he doesn't. Instead, his eyes drop to your lips, and he swallows with a heavy roll, then closes the gap between you two. Covers your mouth with his, uses that strong jaw to open you for devouring.

The kiss lasts long enough for you to begin breathing through your nose. Your inner walls grip him, still buried deep inside, and the gusts of exhales passing through his nostrils hit your face with pure bliss. He’s a little breathless when he parts – withdraws just enough to look into your eyes.

“Will that do...?”

There is a drunken vigor in his eyes of crushed amber, but to your shock, you hear your own question laid out before you. The one you asked when you were going to that party.

Will I do…?

Your hands find his jaw and cup his face from both sides, drawing him back to your lips.

“Yes."

You will more than just do.

And then you say…

"I want more.”

He chuckles a soft scoff on your face.

"Greedy little thing."

Then he swallows you again. You kiss for a good few minutes while he grows half-hard inside you. It's the most romantic kiss you have shared with anyone, ever. He tells you how spoiled you are between the breaths you both catch, then spoils you some more with his mouth and tongue and cock.

You start to curl together in the evening. Just to watch a comedy. He massages your feet and smiles more every day. It's kind of domestic, how he wrinkles his nose at your fine white wine and asks what it is in that decanter you have in your study. When you say it's just some old bourbon, he goes and gets himself a glass like he's finally made himself at home.

It makes your heart grow thick from love. You almost forget why he's here in the first place.

When you ask him about the plan, he explains it to you in detail while kissing his way down your ribs and navel. He takes his sweet time while doing it, kissing the inside of your thigh, the hollow place below the knee, the tender skin under the knee. He kisses your calf and the ankle bone while holding your leg up for his lips with just one hand. Then he does the same to your other leg, but this time, kisses his way from ankle to thigh until he reaches…

You.

You've forgotten half the plan by then because you realize Simon hasn't looked at you like you're a steak or garbage in a long, long time.

He looks at you like you're a queen. You could say he worships you, but the thought alone makes your heart flutter with the anxiety of a fragile hummingbird.

Simon gets you your groceries and gets himself only a beer as a reward. You would happily offer him a case if you knew it would make him happy.

But you don't really know what would make him happy. You don't know anything about this man. You know he likes it when you're dolled up and angry. He likes you when you're sleepy, without makeup, wearing only his shirt. He likes to fuck you from behind and hold you close after. He likes to give you a wash, likes it when you wash him. He likes to watch the two tall trees outside the window sway when there's a strong wind.

"What makes you happy?" You ask one night after you've had him in your mouth.

"Blowjobs," he answers with a straight face, and you shove him in the shoulder. Nicely. Softly.

"No, for real."

"I dunno." He sighs and turns to stare at your ceiling with a bothered look. It's a tricky question, perhaps. Or weapons, not willingly gifted.

"Dogs," he shrugs after a while. "A day of silence. Good whiskey."

He doesn't grant you weapons. You get some rope, but not enough to choke him with it. He trusts no one.

"Why don't you like missionary…?" You continue roasting him while curling your fingers around the pale hair on his chest.

"I never said I didn't like it."

"Don't avoid the question, Mr. Doggystyle."

You prop yourself up on your elbow and place your palm flat over his heart. His stare slowly drifts from the ceiling back to you.

"Simon. Why do you always fuck me from behind?"

He raises his eyebrows like he's innocent of the crime he's being accused of. "Not always."

"Seriously, Simon."

The smug look returns; it gives his eyes a delightful little spark and tugs at the corner of that kissable mouth.

"I like your ass."

"But not my eyes?"

The smile dies, and he gulps down a short surprise, caught between truth and dare. But then his eyes settle like the calming sea under a full moon. Stern, but not remorseless. Bold, but not heartless. If anything, he's naked and bare.

"Darlin'. Love your eyes the most."

Your heart does a backflip. You've been a fool because what else has he done but search for your eyes first thing in the morning? Given you flashes of mischief over breakfast, made love to you with those eyes as you cum around his cock? That liquid fire and smoke hasn't left you since he stepped inside this house.

You breathe together; you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. There was a time when you thought this man was incapable of love, but now you fear he has never been allowed to love enough.

"We never talked, you know," you whisper. His heart swells underneath your palm like a sail.

"What'ya wanna talk about?"

"Us."

"So talk."

Walls are raised so quickly you feel them knocking the warmth out of your body. It's cold, it's Antarctic, the technique he uses to withdraw. Your room turns into a kingdom of ice from the cruel, emotionless indifference he emits.

You've been a fool, yes... And a child.

"You're making it hard," you say, noticing how the man starts to tense up under your fingertips. This is not the way, but you're not smart enough to stop your rampage.

"What happens when you've done your job?"

He doesn't sigh. He doesn't even think twice before giving his answer.

"I go back to the base."

You know now why he's called a ghost. You wonder if he was ever even here. Simon becomes a reminder for you, a reminder to trust no one.

"...Right." You pull your hand away slowly. As if it somehow helps with the pain to pretend you haven't just touched a hot stove and ended up getting your fingers burned.

He notices how you tense up far more than he. The arm around your waist goes tight, and you wonder if you've always been a bloodied steak to this brute, a stupid little princess with your wines, sighs, and wet eyes. He just doesn't want to let go of the last bites of his fine, delicious meat.

"I never thought you wanted a relationship," he says with a hollow voice, and the red rage nearly blinds your sight. You're too riled up to even yell at him.

"Love…" he tries for the last time.

"Get out of my bed."

…............................

His musk still clings to you as you descend the stairs the next morning.

He's sitting at the end of the steps with hunched shoulders and a tense back, exiled into the man he was the first day you met him. Your heart bleeds from the sight, wondering whether Simon has waited there the whole night after you kicked him out of your bedroom. But the boiling bile in your stomach forces you to lift your chin and draw your shoulders back as you walk down those steps with an audible clatter as your heels clack across the parquet.

He must've heard you before you make a racket fitting for an angered queen, but rises only after you've made it halfway through the staircase. You won't allow yourself to even look his way as he draws a deep breath.

"Love. Sweetheart."

But with that, you flash the man a stare full of despise as you walk past him.

"Don't."

"Let me–"

"Don't say a word," you take a sharp turn and raise a hand to shield you from whatever brutality he would like to stain you with. "You don't talk to me. You just do your job. Ok?"

His chest swells with another deep breath, but otherwise, this man is still as a statue again.

"Ma'am."

It takes you a while to notice he has regressed back to that term again, and you tilt your head. The movement is that of a warrior who swings her sword to a guard before a fight. He crosses his hands over his crotch as if to shield the most vulnerable parts from a low blow, but his eyes are full of hateful hurt as he gives you his most pretentious, mocking tone.

"Miss."

Your heart skips a beat – Simon becomes the thing you miss.

A hit and run.

You have to resist the urge to grimace at the pure venom in his voice - it doesn't matter what he calls you because that tone seeps straight through your skin like lye. It hurts; it burns to see him even more withdrawn to his shell than when you first met. He retreats far beyond the front line, he goes further than the rear, and it's a bitter defeat for both of you.

This man has rubbed your feet while you've laughed at a stupid joke in a sitcom. The same man has been inside you – night after night after night. It rips your heart to see a distant, perfectly blank expression on his face after you've seen him give you a plentitude of relaxed and wicked little smiles.

You share the breakfast in funeral-like silence. You wish you could pay him to stay home so that you can go through your day filled with terror and longing without Simon Riley following you around.

"I've been meaning to update you on new intel about the target," he breaks the silence, and your heart feels like it's being put through a wringer. Simon hasn't even touched his breakfast. "Turns out he received training in a sniper unit."

"So?"

"There's a high chance he might prefer to use long-range weapons."

He's professional, curt, clinical. Even more so than when you first shook hands with him. And all the while, those eyes burn you; they examine you like you're the most challenging puzzle he's ever tried to solve. He's cold as ice with his words and hot as hell with that stare. Those eyes seem to pierce your clothes, they even reach under your skin.

"Right," you say without giving him a single look back.

"We have to update our protocol asap."

Our…

We.

"The protocol…" you whisper and finally look up at him. His lips draw into a thin line as he sees how your walls crumble; they didn't last even half a day.

"Simon, I can't do this," you say, your voice breaking. The tears are only seconds away. They blur your sight, but as he rises from the table slowly and takes a hesitant step towards you, you turn your head back to your toast with a snap.

"I want to change bodyguards."

From the corner of your blurred vision, you see how he raises a hand. If you didn't know any better, you could say that he's at his weakest. But the hand falls straight back and gives a twitch by his side. You wonder why he even bothers to disguise the spasm so lousily as a stretch. It's as if he wants you to see that he's in tumult too.

"I'll stay until–"

"No. Get out."

"Miss. I'll just get my things," he says, and you nod briefly. No exchange of gazes is probably the best policy after informing him you no longer need his services. It's better to rip the band-aid off with one yank than try to pretend that this relationship was something more than sexual.

You know he came to your house with minimal belongings, a duffel bag full of spare clothes and a large case which you supposed was a container for different weapons. That is why you notice he takes a surprisingly long time to get those things and leave your house.

When he finally emerges from his room – no, not his room, but the guest room, you remind yourself – he places the luggage in the hallway and comes back to you, probably to say his polite farewells.

"You won't let me speak to you, so I wrote you a fuckin' letter."

You turn to solid stone as he places an envelope between your water glass and cup of coffee. You sit with your heart thumping in your chest as he picks up his things, walks to the door, walks out of it and out of your life.

It's one of those moments you wish you could freeze and rewind. Do everything differently so that it wouldn't have to come to this. Instead, you listen how the front door clunks shut.

Then you send your trembling fingers up from your lap and onto the pure white thing that holds his secrets. You pry it open and find yourself reading the lines, scribbled with surprisingly sophisticated handwriting, through a round of hot tears.

They cloud your vision, but they don't cloud his words.

You skim through the letter in a frenzied hurry once, then again with more control, and try to remember how to breathe.

He shares shrivels from his past, ugly, horrid things which make your breakfast nearly push up your throat. He tells you he stopped dating eleven years ago for a reason. He writes that he would rather be tortured again than make you suffer from his past and incapacities.

There are certain lines that enter your heart like a thief with the most delicate crowbar. Lines like I'm not good with words and You must know by now that I'm a broken man.

Lines like I'm not a fucking poet but I'll miss your warmth even under the desert sun.

Some lines make you want to tear the letter to pieces. Lines such as Don't throw your diamonds in the dust and I can't give you what you deserve.

He thinks you can't take his darkness, so he shelters you from it. He says he would come back to you if he could. You don't know what the hell he means by that.

If he could?

What the fuck prevents him?

You sit inside your empty, lonely house, confident of the fact that it is not you who prevents it. It was not you who just sent him out that door. Who commanded him to leave because you didn't need his services anymore.

The letter makes you cry, and then it makes you boil.

Such sweet words, and so many empty sentences. If only, if I wasn't, if I could.

You get the feeling that he's mocking you again. If only you weren't a princess and a spoiled brat, then perhaps he could reconsider this relationship.

You leave the letter there; you leave your coffee and your breakfast. You almost wish someone would shoot you and put you out of your misery as you call a taxi and go to the heart of the city.

You're completely numb as your fingertips brush silk and linen and all the newest designs. They curl around tiny bottles of bright nail polish and touch the perfumes made from the last free wildflowers of a burning world, but you feel nothing stir inside.

You're emptier than the echo that rings through the malls and corridors of stone; you feel poorer than all the beggars on the street. Shopping always makes you feel better. But now you want to burn all your money, throw your jewels out the window, torch all the fucking stores like some bloody anarchist. You leave every store without buying a thing and try to remember what it was to have lunch without drowning in tears that can't be cried in public.

"I can't give you what you deserve."

That's the line that scalds you most. You know what he meant when he wrote those words, seemingly humble. But your bleeding heart twists that sentence until his words are a testimony of pure rejection.

You have money, so you don't deserve love, is that it?

You want to find him and shake him. It's not about what you deserve or what he deserves. It's not about what anyone deserves. And if the bloody man thinks he doesn't deserve love only because he's made his home in suffering, then he's the last person who should be allowed to decide who deserves what.

You walk through the crowds and streets like a small whirlwind, on the verge of yelling your heart and loneliness out in the air until your vocal cords are raw. You're so riled your mind doesn't even register the gunshot.

The only thing you hear is a glass shattering next to you just before an entire boulder hits you.

His scent envelops you like a safe, warm blanket, even if that blanket weighs a ton and causes your jeans to grate and tear as you two hit the asphalt. Simon gives you bruises, scrapes and burns all across your left side as your body grinds through the dirt.

Another shot is fired; this time, a car's glass is shattered above you, and the body surrounding you tenses until you worry your bodyguard has been hit. The bodyguard you fired this morning, who's still doing his job, who never even left you…

People are screaming and running in different directions all around and above you, but time comes to a halt as Simon rises only an inch or two.

"Stay down," he gruffs in your ear. "Don't move. Don't you fucking move, ok?"

The whole world could've gone silent from the way you only hear his voice. His words. His distress. You remain still as a stone and look up at him – your lips part because he's looking at you with impatience that's not just pressing; it's demanding.

"Yes," you stutter, "yes, of course."

Someone's pissed because a third shot sends him right back over you, and only then do you notice you're clinging to him, to his jacket and his shirt, like he's a human shield. Then the human shield speaks again, and the words that come out only make you grip him tighter.

"He has to change the magazine soon. You stay right here, ok? I'm going in."

"No, don't," your fingers curl around his clothes and try to keep him on top of you. "Don't go. I'm afraid."

I'll get you a dog.

A day of silence.

I'll buy you some good whiskey. I promise…

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, more softly now. "I promise."

Then he rips himself off you. Your body misses his heat like the desert sand must miss the sun, and you realize you've ruined everything as you finally get to watch him in his element. He's agile and beautiful as he reaches for his gun, takes it out, and prepares it in a few seconds to fire death upon your faceless enemy. You've ruined everything because if Simon goes in, he might get killed – he's a human, not a shield, he's not even a weapon – and all the things you never said will haunt you for the rest of your life.

"Don't leave me," you want to reach for him, but don't dare disobey his orders. It should send you laughing: that you're finally doing precisely as he says. You finally trust your life with him, just before he leaves you, leaves you, leaves you.

"Simon–"

"Sweetheart. I never left you."

He looks straight into your eyes. You gulp the tears now.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, and someone is screaming; everythings a buzz, cars whir by as you tell him all the things you meant to say weeks ago. "I never wanted you to go. I always liked you. I– I think I love–"

"Shh. Don't you do this to me now."

The words are so soft you have to struggle to hear what he's saying under his breath. It's like he's talking to himself, and you realize you're an asshole, saying things like that to him when he's trying to concentrate on his mission and his job. But you just can't help yourself sometimes. No one in your life compares to him. No one has caused such a ruckus, such turmoil, such devastation and such love.

"Do what?" you whimper there, motionless on the ground as he gives you a last, painful look before his stare fixes on the piece of glass still unshattered, the dim, transient mirror of a store window he uses to locate movement in one of the buildings.

Then he takes a peek over the car, and you hold your breath – he's the bait now, and ducks his head immediately as two more shots are fired. You don't even have the strength to scream; your whole body simply shudders from the echoing sound of pure fear – how can he play tag with death like that?

And then he leaves.

He rounds the car and darts for the building and the sniper; he disappears from your vision so quickly you wonder if these past weeks have been but a dream.

A hit and run.

"Do what…" you repeat on the ground and curl into yourself even though he said you shouldn't move. You figure it's not that big of a crime to go into a fetal position when you don't know if he's ever coming back to scold you for breaking the rules.

You want to close your ears from the sounds that follow – you fear you'll jinx something if you listen too closely to what happens in that building. You try to concentrate on your breaths, slowly bringing you back to your body. You haven't even noticed that there's blood running down your arm.

It's funny how you only notice the pain after seeing the flowing crimson that makes small rivers around your fingers. You don't want to look at your burning shoulder because the shock is already here.

The searing pulse gets worse as you hear another shot, then another shot. Those sounds pound inside your shoulder and send more fire down your arm. Minutes or hours pass and you think how strange it is that everything's completely still, how bizarre it is that there are no sirens, no cars, no screaming. They've finally closed off the roads.

You only start to cry when you see that he's alive.

You try to rise from the ground to meet him – a bleeding princess, waking from her beauty sleep and realizing everything's just been a bad dream, greeting her knight in a black pair of fitted tactical pants and a pistol on his waist. Diamonds and darkness…

He rushes to you in what seems like desperation. You find it oddly beautiful that he's not only relieved to see his client is still alive and well, he's also relieved to know you're still there. That his princess has waited for him.

He falls on his knees and prevents you from rising. You're quickly wrapped in his arms, feeling so happy and safe that you don't even bother to tell him you're injured. It's just a scratch anyway. Even if your leg was blown off, you wouldn't complain about being picked up in his lap like this.

"Shh. I got you. I got you."

He's cradling you like a child while tears stream down your face, but there's no audible sounds of crying. You weep a whole river of tears and your nose is clogged, forcing you to breathe through your mouth, but there's no wailing, no screaming, no bawling. The first words that roll off your tongue are a child's moody complaint.

"You left me," you mope as he caresses your head.

"Only for a little while."

"You came back."

"I said I would."

More tears flow, and this time you sniffle and sob. He rocks you gently back and forth as you cry in his embrace. Simon would make a good father.

"Is he…?" You whisper, then look up at him. He just nods and gives you a quick scan, drawing a sharp breath when he notices the wound on your arm.

You're placed back on the ground as he inspects your shoulder and tells you the bullet managed to scrape some skin but has mostly just ruined your jacket. You're almost sorry that the wound is not as severe as it feels. You thought the burning sensation meant shattered bones and scarred flesh, but the scratch is no deeper than if you had accidentally cut yourself with a kitchen knife.

"No, I don't want… No hospital," you beg as he offers to take you to ER. You're not spending the rest of the day in a frigid treatment room where tired medical personnel only clean the wound and put a big plaster on it.

"Just take me home," you plead like you're his daughter who doesn't want to go to school today. "Please?"

"Sure. Whatever ya want."

He makes a few phone calls, arranges things with the local police or something. You don't want to know anything about it. You don't want to know who got shot in that building and how.

It's not a taxi that drives you back this time. You don't know where he got a car and a driver, but the vehicle is big and black, and your head is in Simon's lap when you lie in the backseat. There's a panel between the driver's seat and the rear, so you don't even know who's driving, but you're only grateful for the privacy after the crazy morning followed by a murder attempt. You look up at Simon, who looks back at you for the first time while you're in a car together.

"Why did you become a soldier?" You ask, not knowing why you're whispering. He's holding your hand – a simple, wholesome thing to do, but his grip on you is solid and warm and feels equally as intimate as the times this man has been inside you.

"I wanted to help people."

"By killing them?"

"By saving those I can."

He keeps a hand on your cheek too. Simon has spoken softly ever since you were fired at, has been humane and caring and tender, and you realize… This man is naked before you; he's stripped bare from all pretenses.

And he's not darkness. He's not a skeleton or a dead man or even a soldier.

He's a beacon in the night.

"You did a good job," you squeeze his hand softly.

The last glass-like veil in his eyes shatters, but far more softly than those windows shot at with a rifle.

"I live to serve, Ma'am...–Miss."

"Don’t… Simon, please don’t call me a–"

He descends. He doesn't need that hand to lift your chin up to meet him in a kiss. It's not a hungry devouring this time, but a soft promise, a lover's seal. You feel the rest of the shock leave your body in his embrace. There's no more coldness, only a fragile burning.

"You never look me in the eyes," you whisper as a tear escapes from the corner of your eye. It's a silly thing to say when he looks at you with all the love in the world.

"Yes I do," he gives you a soft brush of a thumb across your cheek. His lips are right there, an inch away from yours. "How could you have missed that?"

He's right, as always. The dark love almost swallows the brown of his eyes as he looks at you, shining light on you as he has shined for days, for weeks now. How could you have missed that, indeed? You raise a hand to cup his cheek, not caring about the pain, not even mourning that your blood stains his chin. He doesn't seem to mind at all, so why would you?

When you arrive at your house, he drives away the loneliness, sorrow, everything a rich girl can fear by carrying you in his arms, stepping over the threshold with you like you two are married now.

He peels your jacket off with affection and tenderness, tends to your wound and wipes away the blood that has caked dry all over your arm. The gash has bled a lot for such a small wound, and you purse your lips from how accurately it reflects your feelings for him.

He ties the wound, checks at least two times he's not tying it too tight. His care breaks your heart, because you don't know whether he will leave you after this. There's nothing that keeps him here anymore – there's no way you can keep Simon Riley to yourself. So you abandon him first for the second time, ascend the stairs to your lonely domain while he cleans up the small mess in the bathroom.

It's a small miracle that he follows you. He opens the door to your room without knocking – not because he's entitled to your privacy, but because there are no more barriers between you two. You're gathered in a stout embrace for the second time this afternoon, and you wrap your arms around him to hold him closer.

"You'll leave me soon," you speak to the wall before you, to the man behind you, holding you so gently against his chest. "I'll miss you."

"Love," he murmurs behind you, you feel the words against your back as a warm rumble. "I'll come back. If you want me, I'll come back to you."

"You will…?"

"I promise."

You have no more tears to cry, so you settle for examining the stab inside your heart, the wound that will bleed you dry if no one ties it tightly enough.

"I don't believe you."

"It's not a matter of whether you believe me."

He turns you around and lets you bathe in his warmth again, the same golden light that came through the window when he placed his mouth on you in the kitchen. It's almost frightening to know that there's nothing that can keep him from you. Nothing, except you. The only thing that has stood between you was only and ever pride.

"Simon," you breathe, a soft attempt to introduce him to mercy. "It's not a matter of what we deserve."

He blinks a few times, the chest against your side collapses a little. It's a hard reset. The corner of his mouth tugs, a beautiful betrayal of his surrender, a sign of being hit by a boulder – your boulder, finally bringing the rest of those walls down.

"You think so...?"

"Yes. I think so."

He brushes his knuckles across your sternum – a familiar motion that always manages to lift your heart. You used to think it was foreplay when it was in truth, an attempt to touch the organ said to be the house of love.

You think about the times his harsh breaths have hit you just before he cums, the urgent praise he's peppered you with merely seconds before you've cried from pleasure. Can't get enough of you pet, you’re fucking perfect, 'm gonna make you cum, sing for me, just like that...

You always thought it was a catalogue of shallow lust when it was an offering of naked devotion.

He was as vulnerable as you when you drifted through space together, when you drowned in his stunning midnight sea. He was catching fire and burning too, again and again until you were both satisfied and sweaty. He always held you close after, panted desperate love on your skin, planted kisses on your collarbones and neck before resting his head on your heart. Settling there, over your pulse, like he had finally found his way home…

The hand glides between your breasts and molds itself over your waist. It fits there like a second skin. You're relatively sure his hands were made for holding you.

"You asked what makes me happy," he says, completely naked and bare. The heavy love surrounds you with warm safety; your breath flows freely as you await his confession, the last secret revealed. "I think you know, love."

You know. It has finally dawned on you. What you didn't know was that tears of hope could feel like fire too. You've never been more eager to burn.

"Now keep those pretty eyes on me."

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley imagine #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #cod fanfic #mw2 fanfic #simon riley fanfic #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x female reader #bodyguard au #bodyguard!Ghost

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hornedqueenofhell · 6 months

Text

#thebardsbodyguard

“Hello and welcome back, we just got to hear a sample of the new single 'We Don’t Have to Dance' from Grammy winning group Corroded Coffin and we have here the lead singer and guitarist, Edward Munson.”

Eddie waves from his spot on the couch with a shy smile, he’s still getting used to all the interviews and stuff that come with the rockstar gig.

“Thank you for joining us, we are so excited to have you here.”

“That’s sweet, thank you. I’m not used to hearing my full name, made me think I was in trouble for a second.” Eddie chuckles and so do the others on the couch as well as the audience.

“I know right, everytime I hear my full name I just-” Chris Pine straightens and looks around like he’s waiting for a parent or teacher to jump out and Eddie laughs because it’s true. The couch also has Stephanie Hsu who Eddie met briefly during the break when she asked what kind of music he did. Overall it feels less stressful than other interviews, he just has to remember that even if a joke doesn’t sit well with him to just smile and nod or Jeff will strangle him.

“So Eddie, you and your band just wrapped your second tour a few months ago and you’re already putting out a new album soon. How do you find the time to just churn out music like that?”

“Well, every member of the band pitches in to write our songs. So everytime we’re home with our friends or families we always have stuff going on, things to experience or draw on to make music. And we’re very close so we’re always meeting up to bounce ideas off each other.”

“That’s right I hear you guys all play Dungeons & Dragons togethers and you have since-”

“Since high school, yeah. I had to repeat my senior twice before I found out I had ADHD and there were days where those games were the only things that kept me going.”

Graham turns to Chris and Eddie is grateful for a moment to take a sip of his drink and fix his sleeve which is just a smidge too tight. “Chris I know you didn’t play before but have you started since being in the Dungeons & Dragons movies.”

“We did a one shot…,” he trails off and glances at Eddie who nods in confirmation, “One shot to promote the second one with John running it and it was fun but there’s just so much to memorize.”

“And you Stephanie, did you do anything like that?”

She shakes her head with a beautiful smile, “No, I heard about D&D growing up and it’s become so popular now. I tend to be outdoors- I’m still outdoors a lot, handling the farm and the gardens and such.”

“More power to you,” Eddie offers her a cheers with his glass, “I grew up in farm country but I’m terrible at keeping plants alive.” No, that honor goes to Steve who loves growing things in their apartment.

“Before we go, Eddie I have one more question for you. I know you’re not on social media much but the internet is just dying to know about that gorgeous bodyguard of yours-”

“Bodyguard? What bodyguard?” Eddie interrupts as Graham pulls out his tablet and presses a button to pull up several images from social media. In them is Eddie and a very handsome brunette man holding open the door of a cafe and walking with him into a venue with a hand on Eddie’s back. The same brunette is pictured picking up Eddie after a speaker tipped over and caused Eddie to twist an ankle during a show. All of the images are tagged #thebardsbodyguard or some similar iteration. Eddie frowns and points at the screen, at the gorgeous man he knows like the back of his hand,

“Wait, you mean my husband?”

Twitter goes down for three hours after. Eddie and Steve are trending on Tumblr for days. People scrounge up photos of them from high school, pictures of Steve from the swim team and Eddie from Hellfire club surface and float around the internet. The length of their romance is speculated on as well as when they got married. Some clever fan notes the ring Eddie wears on the same chain as his guitar pick around his neck and the bat wing tattoo on his ring finger that appeared around the same time. The only thing no one finds is the wedding. It had been a close friends and family only event and none of their people would ever share Steve and Eddie’s personal lives like that.

Eddie does eventually give a single interview about his relationship with Steve but after that refuses any others with a request for privacy. He does however post a single photo of he and Steve in their wedding tuxes on Halloween that year. The two of them smiling side by side, foreheads tipped together, eyes closed. Steve is laying on Eddie’s chest when he posts it, having given final approval on the selected photo, while they share a slice of cheesecake for their anniversary.

“Love you Stevie.”

“Love you too, my bard.”

#stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #modern au #rockstar eddie munson #people think Steve is Eddies bodyguard #secret relationship #married steddie #steddiefic chronicles

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satoruxx · 10 months

Note

hey bestie <333

congratulations on 200 followers !! you deserve it and more !! 🫶

im thinking some Gojo fluff inspired by After Last Night by Silk Sonic? I love that whole album and I always get gojo vibes from it 🥹

love you and congrats again ‼️🥰

pairing: gojo satoru x reader | 1.1k words summary: fluff, lots of pining, slightly suggestive due to implied 18+ content, satoru is whipped as he should be, he's just a lil guy pls give him a hug he has sm love he wants to share !! a/n: RAHHH casey this request was sm fun i love this song and it absolutely gives satoru vibes !! anyways ty for being my number one supporter babes. i hope you enjoy this @novasatoru mwah ily <33

satoru considers himself to be rational. even though he can be loud, excessive, dramatic, he has always been rational. most people don’t know or understand all the detailed thought he puts behind every decision he makes. all because of his rationality.

sure, sometimes he can be a little reckless, but not in a way that is irrational. he’s reckless in childish ways, ways that make him seem obnoxious and yet frustratingly endearing.

but he’s not reckless like this. not irrational like this.

satoru’s not reckless so he knows it can’t be possible that you’re here, in his bed, naked skin just barely covered by his sheets. he knows it can’t be possible that you’re here first thing in the morning because there’s no way you went to bed with him the previous night. he knows, for sure, that he couldn’t have crossed all the lines he set with you for years in just a matter of minutes.

but the purpled bruises littering your skin, the scattered clothing across his bedroom floor, and the warmth of your bare body pressing against him tells him enough.

he’s speechless for a second, mind going haywire as he tries to remember what exactly happened and how he could’ve been so careless. years and years of friendship with you, all changed in a matter of one night.

you were always supposed to be one of his closest friends. sure, he would pay any price to see you smile and sure, he’d gladly take your side over anyone else’s.

and obviously, satoru would destroy the whole world if you so much as batted your eyes at him and said please.

but that’s normal because he is your best friend.

but no where in his plans did he ever think to cross this line. after so many moons of pushing back his less than appropriate thoughts. after wondering how good your lips would taste as you sweetly whispered his name. after all of that, he didn’t think his self control would dissipate like this.

there’s a brief memory of the previous night, tipsy words of confession and sloppy passionate kisses, that sends his mind reeling.

he’s pulling himself out of bed in an instant, slipping his clothes on and hoping they somehow manage to ground him because god, it feels like his head is floating.

he’s choosing to ignore how fantastic his heart feels to see you curled up in his bed like that, hair splayed across his pillows like you’ve always belonged there.

instead satoru steps into his kitchen, snowy bangs resting across his forehead as he tries to figure out what he’s going to say to you when you wake up. honestly he’s a little worried himself. how would you react? would you tell him you made a mistake or would you be angry at him for letting it happen?

truthfully he’s never cared much about other people’s feelings, but yours somehow have the power to impact his whole day.

he figures that he can live with it, if you think it was a mistake. he’d be pathetically heartbroken, he realizes, but your comfort matters most to him. and if all he was destined for in this life was your friendship, he’d never do anything to jeopardize it. it’d be enough for him.

satoru doesn’t even realize he’s made two cups of coffee instead of one.

he steels himself, watching his murky reflection ripple in the mugs, and knowing that he would respect your wishes no matter how much it bothers him. he won’t say anything, because he'd rather silently live with his own idiotic feelings than risk losing you for good.

“morning.”

he almost jumps, unusually startled because only you could catch the man who saw the world through the Six Eyes off guard. any plans he’s made on what to say or how to say it fly straight out the door when he turns to look at you, his throat going dry as he takes you in.

you hair is mussed and your expression is still dazed, a sleepy pout on your face as you rub at your eyes. you blink at him slowly, an inquisitive little expression on your face as you pad over to him and peer at the stove. “you making food?”

he nods wordlessly, still a little breathless because gods above you’re wearing his shirt like it’s yours and his brain is in overdrive. it’s so hard to think, to even breathe, because satoru has wanted this for so long and it’s finally here like it had always been here in the first place. like it’s normal, regular.

“can i have some too, ‘toru? i’m really hungry.”

he has to take a minute to bask in the intimacy of this moment because it’s honestly making his thoughts stutter. “u-uh yeah, ‘course you can.” he’s handing you one of the mugs before he can even comprehend it, and you take it from him gratefully.

he feels oddly parched as he watches you take a sip, looking at him with dewy eyes over the rim, and he waits with bated breath as you open your mouth to speak. “did you sleep okay last night?”

it’s such an innocent question and he’s almost completely sure he shouldn’t be overthinking it like a fool but he knows it in his soul that he’s nothing if not a fool for you. you make every rational thought evaporate from his normally over calculating brain, make his body react without a touch, make his mouth move faster than his thoughts can.

and this time is no different.

“fuck i’m so in love with you.”

you blink up at him, and he’s cursing himself for even opening his mouth, but then you’re grinning up at him like he’s said the most endearing thing ever. “well i should hope so. i’d be pretty bummed if you told me you loved me last night and then woke up and changed your mind.”

satoru’s breath hitches, and he briefly wonders when and how he managed to confess his love for you the previous night, but then he realizes he doesn’t care all that much because you’re smiling at him like he puts the stars in your sky.

which for you, he absolutely would do.

so he does the only thing he feels is right for the moment. he bends down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, heartbeat unusually erratic as he feels you melt into him, before pulling back and giving you a cheeky smile. “i’m not even close to done loving you.”

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astrid-sorensen · 1 year

Text

If wanting was enough | Joel Miller x f!reader

Genre: Smut, Angst

Warnings: general smut, unrequited love, abandonment, no use of y/n

Word count: 1,653

MASTERLIST

Waking up to find Joel’s cock pressed into your leg, will he finally stop pushing down his aching desires?

･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ⋆｡°✩･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･

Something hardened nudged the back of your cold thigh, you felt it twitch slightly. You mind foggy with sleep as you came back to your senses.

You tugged the itchy fabric covering your body higher, shielding you from the frosty winter air. Boston was never too kind in the winter. The flattened pillow beneath your head became firmer, pulling you out of your somnolent haze.

You'd been sleeping here for a few months now, your ex partner using you as collateral for a trade of Joel's best firearm. What he didn't know was your lover would not be returning.

Your heartbreak had all but fully healed over now, Joel allowing you to stay with him as long as you helped him trade outside the QZ. Convincing himself a couple extra hands wouldn’t hurt.

A itchy hot feeling festered in his bones that someone could betray you like that. Leaving you to a man like Joel, a man people knew had very little mercy. Joel's cruelty knew no bounds.

You remembered Joel's presence behind you before you realised —that must be Joel's cock.

You spread careful fingertips to his crotch, stroking ever so softly at where you could feel him pressing against you. Like magic his hips slightly jerked, his erection crowding against you from behind. Yours hips melted like putty in his hand, rolling back against him, pleading for friction.

His breathing quickened.

His name slipped from your tongue with a breath.

Joel body freezes, clearly awakened from the spell he was under.

"M' sorry." His deep voice blurts out in a hushed tone. His scent of pine wood and whiskey floating over you. You want to drag him to you by the head pull him onto your body, tell him over and over he never needs to apologise to you. But you don't. Instead, you carry on rolling your pelvis back into his, your inhales becoming stronger. He's straining against the fabric of his threadbare jeans. Your body is riling up with warmth and thrill. It's been so long you think you might even be close, but like that, he's gone. You feel the blanket tug as he turns over, the flesh of his bum grazing yours.

Your heart falls into the deep well of your stomach. You twist til his green flannel clad back is facing you. Your body sandwiches the back of his, cold palms twisting around his middle and rubbing stripes up his front with a light hand. The feeling tickles him. Inching your cheeks almost into the crook of his neck you whisper. "Joel, Lemme take care of you."

"I don't need taking care of." He grumbles sleepily.

"I know, but I need it too." Intimacy you mean, though you would never elaborate. Your not sure Joel is capable of intimacy. Sometimes you get jealous thinking about Sarah's mom. She must've had him in a way no other woman has. You watch as his dark eyes fall shut, you hand trailing down. Rubbing small circles into his lower abdomen where the hair begins to darken and thicken.

Joel wants to fuck you senseless, bury his cock into you from behind. Your pleas and cries for him to slow down, falling on deaf ears.

But he couldn't.

Not to you.

Not to the only person who's stayed by his side for this long, whose seen him all. Not in a sexual way but something else. Tending to his wounds, showering with your backs together to save what was left of your water, fighting anything that came your way.

Instead, he lets you palm him softly through his jeans, working him up until he couldn't deny you anymore. Joel felt his pink swollen tip leak into his underwear. He bid his dirty thoughts away, pleading for sleep to overcome him so he didn't give into his desire for you.

A large hand swallowed your wrist, freezing your hand from moving any further. Joel moved onto his back. His large hand was heavy on your thigh, dragging you over onto his lap. Your legs were strained over his big hips, his thickened length pushing against your wetted seam. You held in an anguished moan.

Your body rocked on him, desperation crawling in your depths. Hunger scraping at your insides, begging for a release. Your sweaty hands feel onto his shoulders for balance, his hips bucking and pulling out a moan from your chest.

"Joel, it's been so long. I need you now."

His frown was etched onto his face, looking at your through heavy lashes. Joel's lower lip pulled between his teeth as conflict-ion crossed his features. Your lips pressed to his shoulder blade.

The coil tightening as your hole clenched around nothing, begging to be filled by the Texan.

His skin was hit beneath your mouth, his hands grazed onto your thighs, holding you in place.

"Ar'ya sure 'bout this?" He grumbled lowly.

You nodded feverishly into his hot skin. "Please Joel, I need you." The elder let out a deep huff, leaning forward to pull his shirt off from behind his head and tossing it off to the side. You followed suit, pulling off your top and bra til you were bare before him. You nipples hardened in the cool Boston apartment, the only thing covering your top half was a thin silver pendant necklace.

Joel's hands clutched at the blanket, watching as you sat back between his knees and struggled to pull of your pants and underwear. Before the outbreak, you would've been coy. Cheeks rosy and eyes alert even looking at the man before you. Let alone being completely bare on top of him. I guess that's what the end of the world does to you.

You clambered back onto his strong thighs, this time his fingers dipping into the flesh of your bare hips. The feeling was orgasmic, sending electric shocks through the pads of his fingers and straight to your feverish core.

You tried ignoring his stares as you worked yourself on him, growing more conscious of the fact you had a lot more scars than he did. You hoped he didn't mind.

Before long, Joel had freed himself from the confines of his clothes.

"Don't come in me, I'm not on anything."

"Yeah, yeah. I know." He replied hastily, his voice thick with arousal. He eased his weeping head to your hole. You heaved as you tried relaxing, tried to let him in. Let him have all of you. He thrust shallowly, opening you up for him.

It was hard to have him fully inside, although you were practically coming undone, it had still be a very long time since you had had something close to this. It was harder than anticipated. Your breath quickened as Joel stilled, his right hand bracing on your hip tighter. "Breathe for me." He said, followed by your name. You emptied your lungs, eyes squeezing shut before Joel slipped in. Forcing his hips till he was at the hilt. His small whimper met your moan in the air.

It was like nothing you'd ever felt before. Was it because it was Joel? Or because his cock was just that good. He hit every place inside you perfectly. His foreskin sliding against your walls and creating the most toe curling friction. His tip plunged against your cervix, deeply massaging into your core.

He wasn't slow, nor fast. But purposeful, giving you exactly what you wanted but drawing out the pleasure for as long as possible.

"There you go." He muttered, his hips quickening to an unbearable rythm. Your body pulling him in tighter and tighter. You gazed down onto him. Pressing your lips to his jaw, cheek and then ghosting near his pink lips. His thick moustache tickling your top lip.

He took a sharp breath, his form stilling. You pulled back before you could kiss him properly. Studying his blissed out face, his brows tightly knitted together. Hair slightly damp and sticking to his forehead. And a flush across the tops of his cheeks. He must be close too. He watched you, his jaw slightly going slack as he pondered what was running through your head.

"I-I'm sorry." You stuttered. Joel shook his head dismissing you. He breathed once before pushing his head between your breasts and fucking you into both of your orgasms.

"Joel— ahhhhh! Oh my god, fuck. I'm coming." He fucked you through it, only being able to pull out at the very last minute till he was spurting white hot cum onto your front. You watched his milky seed as it pooled across your stomach and down your thighs, you mind spun with the thought of him blessing you with it at the back of your mouth. You'd swallow every thick load. If it were his that is.

He turned his back to you, pulling the blanket tight to his broad, moistened chest. He could feel your eyes still open. Blissfully fucked out.

"Go to sleep." The male murmured.

"I can't. Talk to me." You whispered meekly. Joel tried ignoring you, but he knew it would only come up later.

"I can't give you want you want." He said, tagging your name on the end. Sorrow was laced across his tone, something only you would pick up.

"How do you know what I want?" Your words don't earn a response. His silence was enough. You didn't realise your longing for him was so noticeable. The silence was unbearable, you lay down back into your original position.

"And anyway, like this-" You started, staring at the back of his messy dark hair. "Is enough." You finished with. You curled up in the blanket, your bodies still tucked like sardines in the small bed. Lashes hit cheeks as you calmed yourself down from your high, wishing you wouldn't be too tired working tomorrow.

"It is?" His words cutting through the air, interested.

"Yeah, for now."

3K notes · View notes

trashmouth-richie · 11 months

Text

Eddie x Fem! Reader

master list

w/c: 7k

A/N: this chapter is a little bit shorter than the last few but I hope you enjoy it regardless! huge s/o to @blueywrites + @jo-harrington for beta reading and helping me with parts ♥️

tw: 18+ no minors, depression, acts of depression, drinking excessively etc

Granules of brown sugar melt against heaping creamed rolled oats, nestled into the crisp white second hand vitrelle made Corelle brand bowls. The pattern of dainty brown flowers skim around the outer surface, one that Eddie is now rubbing softly with the pad of his thumb.

He had never noticed them before this very moment. The guitar string callouses skid along the cool surface of the bowl. The familiar feel reminded him of the soft skin on your back as he held you while you slept, strumming along your body to the tired tunes of your breathing.

A song he’d listen to forever if he could.

Eddie found himself noticing many new things he hadn't noticed before in the early daylight hours of the morning. He didn’t want to stir you, didn’t want to disrupt the beautiful sleepy angel next to him. Wrapping you tighter against him, pressing light kisses to your hairline, he soaked up the warmth of your skin against him. Drinking in your smooth breathing and matching it to his own.

Fluttering heart beating wildly in his own chest, he can’t believe you are here with him. Last night felt too good to be true. All these months of lonely pining, unsure if you felt the same, only for it to be true that you wanted him as much as he had wanted you.

He was elated, heart overflowing and spewing candy hearts from his eyes and mouth at the weight of your body tucked into him, fitting like a glove against the bend in his arm.

He was head over heels for you.

A wave of assurance washed over him when he woke this morning and found you curled in on yourself, the cotton sheets wrapped tight up under your chin, slack lips open and your eyelashes laid sweetly against your cheeks. A breath of relief leaves his muscles— you’re still here.

The rise and fall of your naked form when he pulled ypu into his side had him breathless upon first opening his eyes this morning. The sunlight basking through peaks in his bedroom curtains and providing enough light for the dust mites to dance their daylight waltz amongst the stuffy air and crowded surfaces in Eddie’s room.

Cotton sheets dipped into your curves. The smooth skin of your cheek pressed into his own chest. The steady whirring noise of your breathing in and out of your nose with your lips closed delicately.

Beautiful. Radiant. A thousand other adjectives he could use to describe you but there was only one he wanted to call you: his.

The toaster erupts with a metallic clunk, bringing him back from his day dreaming and focusing again at the task at hand.

Grabbing a knife from the silverware drawer, he smears cold butter against the warm toast, the knife scraping gently as the warm crusted pockets flood with butter and sweet grape jelly.

He finds himself daydreaming again. He pictures the corner of your lips coated in jelly, he’d reach forward and brush his finger against it, maybe his lips would kiss the crumbs away. You’d giggle at his stupidity and he’d melt like the butter into this toast at your warm smile.

You were perfect. Everything he had wanted and more. And years of being friends, then enemies, then roommates and now lovers. He was giddy, stomach filled with snowflake flurries resembling a winter storm.

He balanced the bowls of oatmeal in large hands, the toast cut in diagonals and stuffed like rabbit ears into the cooked oats. A pep in his step, he practically floated to his room, back to you, snug in his sheets, his pillows. He’s carried by the wings of the butterflies in his stomach.

A tickle on your cheek has your eyelids fluttering slow, the cool feel of unfamiliar sheets twisted by your chin have you jumping in your skin, but the warm velvet voice in your ear whispering good morning greetings and a peck against your ear tames your heart and softens the goosebumps on your skin.

The same calloused palms that held you in a protective manner last night now gently stroke the underside of your chin in a lazy pattern. Up the rounds of your cheeks, and circling the plump of your lips. Eddie’s hands are unusually warm against your skin, the heat from the bowls hot on his palms.

The mattress bends beneath his weight as he sits with one leg on the bed and leans on a hip over you. The bourbon colored ends of his curls sweep feather-like against your bare chest, like the white tufty pappus of a dandelion head.

You titter softly when his lips slide down your neck and blow a softened raspberry against your skin.

“Good morning, baby,” he sighs beneath your ear. The pearls of his teeth graze your neck because he can’t stop smiling. The silk of your hands wrap around his arms, fingers gliding over the carve of his muscles. And your eyes finally flutter open.

A halo of sunlight breaches his frizzy curls and pull every bit of amber from them, his smile cozy and familiar the warmth seeping through you as his blackened honey eyes drink you in.

His eyes trail your sleepy features, caressing your skin with each slow drag across your face. Taking in every inch of you he can.

“Sleep okay?” he purrs gently, planting a rose petal kiss on your lips.

Last night was perfect, everything you had hoped for and more.

You didn’t know sex could be so intimate, so passionate. Feeling how much he cared about you with every kiss, every touch of his molten fingers on your skin. He gave you the love and adoration you had yearned for. And it felt good.

So, so good.

Something that delicious should be enjoyed again and again. An indulgence, a finger swiping into the edge of a frosted cake for temptation deemed too strong. But unlike the taste of frosting melting away on your tongue, craving more and wanting another taste, you couldn’t.

Peering into his eyes, you can see how much he loved you. But the feeling sat sour on your tongue, and burned your belly in a lonely way.

But why?

You could push through this right?

Didn’t you want this?

Want him?

Heart hammering for Eddie, all green flags and sticky love, kicking feet and giddy heated cheeks, but your brain was screaming another sound, ringing bells of unworthiness loud in your ears.

You don’t deserve him.

His love won’t last.

A quick smile that doesn’t reach your eyes implants on your lips. Insecurity is evident among them when the twinkle of love is replaced by dark brooding agony. And if Eddie sees it he is blinded to it. So wrapped up in bubbly love for you he thought you hung the stars.

The way his brown eyes are gazing at you hurts your heart. Before hot tears can fall down your cheeks you blink rapidly. Wells of salt stinging in your eyes as you swallow them down.

Answering his question in a hushed almost whisper, you push yourself up on his mattress, clutching the sheet around your chest, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Bare beneath the sheets a once welcomed coziness now feels like shards of glass embedded into your skin.

Your knees tuck up beneath your chest, in a small attempt to shield yourself more from the man you wanted to love but couldn’t.

Eddie is all adoring dimples and pinked cheeks. His voice is laced with flowing sweet words of pleasantries. He places a pillow behind your back, so you can be comfy,.

The act cracking your heart deeper waiting to be split like the thin shell on a peanut m&m.

“I didn’t ask, but do you like oatmeal?”

You’ve never known a single smile burrowing into your soul deeper than his does. But it aches and burns. Nose tingling bringing up another wave of tears, you simply nod, you wipe your eyes hastily with the back of your hand as Eddie turns and grabs the bowls. Oblivious to your turmoil.

He brings the warm bowl of oatmeal to the bed and places it in your hands. Jelly having slid down the toast and snuggling with the brown sugar and oatmeal. Joining you on the bed Eddie sits beside you, his long legs stretched out in front of him as you sit shoulder to shoulder.

You don’t deserve him.

His love won’t last.

Lead filled arms hold the metal spoon to your lips, a warmth in your mouth that has no taste. For you are not hungry. The beast inside spreading its ferocious wings and sucking any amount of joy from you.

But he said he loved me.

He doesn’t. Don’t fool yourself.

Staring ahead you are trapped in your mind. A hostage to your demons. The sunshine of happiness is replaced with heavy thunderstorm clouds of acidic rain, eating away your insides like maggots on a carcass.

Eddie is talking between mouthfuls of his breakfast but you don’t hear him. The words unable to make sense against your ears as you stir your spoon around and around the bowl. A hypnotizing motion.

Unaware of the state you are in, Eddie is floating high on cloud nine. A pinky cheeked cherub shooting arrows of lust below him. He’s giddy and cheerful, a light of beckoning hope next to your brooding steel trapped mind.

He’s too good for you.

The voices shout louder in your ears and you fight tears away.

Just another notch on his belt, silly Tooty.

Run, before he does.

“Sweetheart?” your breathing is erratic and complacent. Sweat is trickling down your hairline. Wet beads in the space behind your ears and forming on your upper lip.

Run.

Choking down the bile of panic cradled in your throat, you croak a smile. “Sorry, what?”

The rest of breakfast is void of noise besides the ominous clinking of spoons against bowls and the gulping slide of oatmeal down Eddie’s throat. Chewing your toast to humor him you still taste nothing, barely registering your teeth are grinding together against themselves until Eddie asks if you’re alright.

Fine, you lie, easy on your tongue, the forced smile is harder, painful. Settling an unease in your bones that creaks and groans like a worn porch door batting against the frame in a windstorm.

Pulling hard to untuck the sheet from the one corner of Eddie’s bed that didn’t manage to come undone during the passion of last night, you wrap it around you fully, and scoot down the length of his mattress. The walk of shame gown held tight in your grip. Doubling as a shield of comfort around you, a flannel sheet of armor.

Not announcing where you are going in fear of breaking, you scamper from the room, quick feet on the carpet and shivering in the cool air on your shoulders. Eddie’s hot desperate eyes burrowing into your back as you lock the bathroom door.

He’s everywhere in this house, and your mind is suffocating. Lungs punched of any oxygen as you struggle to stand using the knob as a crutch.

What makes you think you’re deserving of his kindness?

The daunting demonic voice laughs mercilessly in your head, bouncing off the pinked brain matter and echoing lol against the hollow marble of your skull, scribbling along it in permanent marker.

Unworthy

Undeserving

Hot tears stream down your cheeks and you shed the cloak of flannel armor, reaching for the silver knob of the shower and turning it to the hottest temperature the small water heater will allow.

The stream of the scalding water sears your back like steak in a skillet, you welcome the burn with open arms.

Thinking of Eddie’s doting and how sweet he was to you made your stomach splinter. All he was doing was exactly what you had hoped for, wished for, stayed up long nights aching for.

But it wasn’t simple.

You were terrified. Scared shitless of his love for you. But you knew Eddie and you knew he loved big, and cared in ways that most people couldn't fathom.

Hot water rolls down the front of your shoulders and flows over your softened nipples, mixed with salty tears.

The tears only stop when there’s a soft knuckled bang on the door.

His endearing voice is small against the closed door, “hey babe?”

You don’t answer. Unable to free your mind from the double hell of feeling inadequate and petrifying anxiety of being loved by someone you can’t love back.

But you do love him.

You always have in one way or another.. even when you shouldn’t have. You did.

But the overwhelming feeling of his affection is too much, you don’t know how to feel, or act. Not as if Chad ever made you feel loved. Somehow the feeling of being loved is almost the same crushing feeling of being choked out.

Because you’re not good enough.

You don’t deserve him.

The bathroom door opens and Eddie’s calm voice breaks through the void. Makes its way through the silent sobs that are causing your body to shake violently.

His shadow is blurred against the shower curtain. Coy hands peel the cream plastic and blue fabric away slightly, opening the threshold to the shower and the steam rolling out, thick in his vision.

“Tooty?”

Back to first names.

Back to the basics.

Eddie wasn’t an idiot. He knew something was wrong. And he had spent the last ten minutes walking back and forth along the carpet, wracking his brain. Pulling his hair in frustration when tears stung his eyes and collected like puddles in his lashes.

Trying to figure out the solution to a problem he didn’t have the equation for.

No one did.

This was a fight within yourself, solving for x when Eddie barely passed basic algebra. Nobody could fix this.

Broken goods, sold at a discount and marked down.

Trash.

When you don’t answer he says your name a smidge louder. Reaching his fingers out to touch your shoulder and almost breaking on the spot when you coil away from him.

His touch once so protective and undeniably reassuring in your blood now threatens to make you react with bared teeth and steel eyes.

But you refrain, pushing yourself further away from him. Deeper into your sorrows of a life of despair, a valley of dread.

Relentless, Eddie won’t give up easy. His voice is meek and breaking with each cold shoulder of avoidance you offer.

You’re nothing.

“Baby,” he pleads, a tear running down his cheek, collecting in the column of his throat. “Talk to me.”

His cheeks return to normal color, his eyes don’t dance with twinkles, the corners of his mouth turn flat. He's beside himself.

The voices deepens now, roaring loudly like a river. A familiar tone. One that has terrified you for almost a decade, Chad.

You think someone could love you like me? Better than me?

Take it, fucking whore.

Yeah, cry for me.

“No.”

Eddie’s brows turn inward. Concern painting his face. “Tooty?”

Who would want you?

You’re nothing.

A hand on your shoulder makes your spine twinge with icy cold resentment causing you to flinch unexpectedly, shivering away from him. A wounded animal, protecting yourself.

“I said, no!”

When you turn to face him you are met with wet eyes, and the saddest expression you’d ever had the displeasure of seeing.

One that would bury itself in your mind and haunt you at night. More horrifying than a scary movie because it was real, right before your eyes.

Eddie doesn’t give you time to think before he twists his mouth into a question, “what’s going on? What did I do?”

This is not a conversation you want to have. You can’t.

Plain and simple.

“Leave me alone,” you beg, salt in the skinned wound. You turn the water off and shove past him, your warm wet skin sliding against his dry bare chest.

Unlovable

Undeserving Tooty.

The terry fibers of your robe cocoon you in a hug. And you’re reminded of the memories this fabric holds. The first night Eddie had moved in, and him wearing it with pride.

The night he defended you against the twins, when you were piss drink and he wrapped you up tightly to cover you up.

He was a good man.

And you were a bitch.

An unlovable shrewd, forcing someone to open up and then cutting them off because you couldn’t handle the thought of someone loving you when you couldn’t love yourself.

You deserved what Chad did to you.

Eddie is talking a million miles an hour trying to explain himself as you leave him in the bathroom. His throat aches from swallowing back tears and his heart is breaking.

Turning in a swift jerk of your head you face him when he begs you to look at him.

“Please, goddamnit please just talk to me. Help me understand what I did wrong!”

“There’s nothing to understand Eddie! We fucked! So what? No big deal.” It was the biggest lie you’d told yourself. It was a big deal. It meant everything to you, but you couldn’t do this.

He’s stunned, mouth hung open and his pink bottom lip starts to quiver. The same lips that kissed you so delicately and made you cum so hard it was like the Fourth of July behind your eyelids.

Not having any of it, his sadness turns to anger on the drop of a dime, his shaky lip flipped to a snarl, “Don’t you dare do this, don’t you dare turn this around as just some one night stand bullshit.” His eyes search your face for any tell on a sick joke. But he knows you better than that.

He can’t contain the fueling rage inside of him and he almost shouts in your face. “I know what it meant to you!”

“Really?” you voice in a shaky tone, crossing your arms across your chest in a manner that suggests you couldn’t give a single fuck about his feelings, but barely below the surface you were screaming for help. “If you got all the answers then enlighten me.”

His voice is softer, gentler. He timidly reaches out to hold your clothed shoulders, the tips of his fingertips grip them softly, thumbs rubbing small circles. Hoping his touch could bring you back to him, bring back the angel from his dreams and coax you out from this hellish nightmare he had fallen into.

“Don’t act like this baby, please.”

Your head hangs in defeat and you’re ready to give up. A sigh escapes you and he lifts your chin with a ringed finger. He licks his lips and he says the three words you couldn’t hear.

The three small words that confirmed the anxiety in your chest and made your heart crumble. And it kills you.

It kills you to hear the words come from the man you’ve been yearning for.

It kills you to know you won’t ever be able to say them back to him. Even though you’re dying to.

And it kills you to know you don’t deserve to hear those words from him.

His fingers feel like talons against your shoulders and you're caught in his grasp. A hawk swooping to catch a field mouse. You can practically feel the blood pouring from your skin by his nails through the robe. The sharpness squeezing your lungs and attacking your mind.

And like a bullet from a gun, you fire back. With hateful words and a dead tone, fire lit behind your pupils and your caged self inside of them begging to be let out. Begging to be let free and loved by Eddie. Slapping his hands away from you, you pull away from him, your back hitting the wall with a thud, the same wall you leaned on last night when he kissed you for the first time.

The word is final. And so full of venom it feels like poison on your lips.

“Don’t.”

Wounded like an animal he defends himself. His slapped hands are red and stinging as he hangs them limply at his side. He shakes his head and his lips glow with how hard he’s pressing them together.

“Tell me I don’t mean anything to you,” he yells, hurt and unable to contain his building desperate pleas to win you back, “Go ahead! Use your words Tooty. Tell me last night meant nothing to you.”

He’s a fiend for your poisoned drug and you are his dealer, giving him what he wants, directly to his vein of choice. The veil of hatred falling in your vision and coating your stone still features. A single tear welled into your eyes. Falling the exact time you tell him words you knew weren’t at all true.

“It meant nothing to me.”

He chuckles in a hurt tone trying desperately to hide his own tears, a sick smirk of dismay is displayed on his quivering lips. And he’s fighting like hell to stay standing on two feet.

“So now what? Huh?” His voice breaks and he clears his throat, hands on his hips and looking towards the popcorn ceiling, desperately blinking tears back, and once they’re hiding again he nods his head forward, one last attempt to have you break with him. To admit you were lying to yourself.

Crossing his arms he’s trying not to shake with fury and grief. Through gritted teeth he misters up enough courage to ask you something he doesn’t wanna hear the answer to.

“Tell me what you want since you’re so big and brave. Don’t be a coward now sweetheart, tell me what you want.”

You almost vomit on the spot. But choke it down long enough to spill the last lie from your pretty lips.

The nail in the coffin. The big finale.

“I want… you to leave.”

—

JANUARY

It took three hours and all the boys from Corroded Coffin to help Eddie move his things out. He took a few days off from work to get his affairs in order. Filling out the proper paperwork to change his address back to the light blue trailer in Forest Hills for the time being.

You weren’t home when it happened. He had made sure of it.

When you closed your eyes at night you could still hear slam of metal connecting to metal when he slammed his van door and the crunch of ice and snow beneath his van tires as he sped away.

You didn’t cry anymore when Metallica played on the radio. And nobody but you knew that every glass you had owned had been shattered against the front door when you came home to his empty room.

A reality that had your eyes swollen for days.

It took you two weeks to see the envelope on the table. A scrawl of shitty handwriting with your name on it.

Tucked inside the pristine white envelope was more than twenty $100 bills, fresh from the bank. And a small note:

“If you need more let me know,

take care of yourself - Eddie

That night you wept. Clutching onto the handmade shirt Eddie had given you, the night before the concert. The only thing remnant of him living in the house. Not counting the newer jar of pickles in the fridge, like the last— the lid was missing.

Hot tears slid out of your eyes faster than a tub draining. A call to Robin is broken with blubbering hysterics and honking noises of your nose being blown into a wadded Kleenex, and in ten minutes time—she manages to drop everything to come and look after you.

Countless hours slip by of her rubbing your back and even crying along with you, she swore Eddie and you were meant to be. Her words were blankets of comfort on you as she tried her best not to bring him up.

She had promised both Steve and Eddie to not tell you where he was staying, for your own good.

And like the kind hearted friend she was, Robin stayed for a few days. Taking off work and cooking meals for you even though you refused to eat.

On the third day of not eating and refusing to leave your bed, she put a call in to Steve. He was hands on his hips disappointed in you. Lecturing you about how your actions hurt people and how you couldn’t be a brat forever. He threatened to dial the Wheeler’s to have Karen step in.

But you wouldn’t budge.

When Nancy had shown up on a Wednesday morning, she immediately went to work. Making a schedule for you to follow, and taking absolutely no bullshit when you told her you were a grown woman and could deal with things on your own.

When she blacked out Eddie’s name from the calendar, silent tears fell down your cheeks.

Seeing his name brought you both solace and pain. A reminder that you had done this yourself. That he wasn’t coming back. And it was because of you.

You moved with the motions of each day.

Shower

Brushing your teeth

Eating breakfast

Getting ready for work

Going to work

Eating lunch

Working

Driving home

Eating supper

Brush teeth

Bedtime

You sat in silence when you weren’t at work. Finding little to no enjoyment in anything anymore. Avoiding everyone’s calls. Staring at the 4 walls in your bedroom like a prison cell. Eddie’s stupid jar of pickles tucked snuggly between your crossed legs, your supper for weeks now.

The only thing on your mind was him. He stuck with you in everything you did. He was everywhere. You even started drinking orange juice from the jug just like he did.

His laugh. The small giggly one he’d had since boyhood and the deep belly laugh he’d generate when you would roll your eyes at him, all of his teeth showing.

His smile seemed to stretch across the Milky Way. Wide and pearly, ear to ear. His cheeks prickled with deep dimples. Somehow getting cuter with age.

The darkest eyes full of mischief and wonderment. You could get lost in the Wonka chocolate river pooling in his eyes. Changing with his emotions like a mood ring, they gave him away.

—

Corroded Coffin hadn’t played a gig since A Merry Corroded Christmas. Hard to play a show when the lead singer couldn’t pull it together during practices or remember to show up to them.

Steve had stayed up with Eddie the first few nights, talking him off the edge of a violent end he didn’t see a way out of.

He wouldn’t allow himself to forget that night. The passion was cosmic. And he knew you felt it too. Whether or not you would admit you were lying to yourself didn’t interest him.

He was used to rejection.

Used to feeling like he was nothing.

What was breaking him was the ghost of you in his arms. Your sleeping body haunted his dreams, made the demons escape from hell and flood his vision.

When he woke and you weren’t there the pain surfaced tenfold. And no amount of whiskey or Rick’s finest trees would fix it.

The cycle never ending

He cared about you more than he cared about himself.

The day you asked him to leave was a blur. He woke up at Gareth’s apartment a day later, no recollection of how he had gotten there.

Your words etched into his skin like a tattoo.

I want you to leave.

FEBRUARY

Still Loving You by Scorpions is playing on repeat between Nothing Else Matters by Metallica again in the guest house behind the lavish empty pool of Steve Harrington’s new home on Cornwalis St.

Thirty some odd days had passed and Eddie Munson was nowhere near the man he used to be.

Where his skin was once smooth shaven was now replaced by a prickly sparse beard. His once sparkling chocolate eyes were now dull and almost ashen. Dark circles rim his eyes from lack of sleep and poor nutrition, a diet of Marlboros, whiskey and pretzels giving him enough energy to work and come back to the same space he had called home for a few months.

Throwing himself into working long hours at Boom’s he slept very little at night. When he did close his eyes he’d be jarred awake by a nightmare, one he hasn’t had since he was a kid. And he’d lay awake for hours replaying the same day over and over again in his mind.

Each time ending the same way.

Shreds of notebook papers cluttered the floor, each littered with blue and black ink, all different but entirely the same subject: you.

Poems, songs, haikus and even a poorly written sonnet he had attempted while drunk at 2 AM sitting in a lounge chair he had drug out from the pool shed to sit along the edge of the frozen pool cover.

His hair hadn’t been brushed in weeks. Leighanne offered to help comb out the tangles and mats but the burden was too much for him to handle. He denied her kindness, brushing it off with mumbled ‘m fine ’s and don’t worry ‘bout me ’s.

But in reality the thought of another woman’s hands in his hair only made the tears fall harder.

When Eddie first moved in, Steve and Robin were still in the apartment, and Eddie’s things were moved to a storage unit across town.

When the lease was up at the end of January, Robin moved into Vicky’s apartment over Surfer Boy Pizza and Steve purchased a house, along with an expensive diamond ring he would be anticipating on giving to an eager Leighanne, holding off until her birthday for the right time to pop the question.

The Harrington/Buckley apartment was then subleased to Eddie. A sublease that didn’t last more than a week before he was booted out by the landlord for destruction of property when he accidentally started a fire in the kitchen.

He was only trying to replicate your lasagna.

Steve graciously invited Eddie to move in. and Eddie kept to himself for the most part. And on nights when sad music was blaring from the small guest house, Steve knew better than to ask if his friend wanted to play cards or kick back with a few beers.

-T-

January came and went and close to the end of February Josie told you she was cutting everyone’s hours, the salon would no longer be open on the weekends. The envelope Eddie had left for you was thrown into your night stand and you refused to use any of it.

No one in town was hiring for another hairdresser so you opted to driving fifteen miles out of town to find another job.

The job you had gotten was bartending at a rundown shithole bar worse than the Hideout. But the tips were good and your boss was sweet. A pot belly old farmer who only played country classics and served warm beer and peanuts, the shells making curved mountains on the filthy splintered wood floor.

It was refreshing to get out of Hawkins, but most importantly, it was the best chance you had at not running into someone who looked like him.

Your body started to ache at all times, tender in places that never hurt before. Exhaustion thick on your features

Months had passed and you hadn’t seen your friends. Nancy would call every now and then and check in. Jonathan and her were seeing a couples therapist for intimacy issues. She said Mike was hinting at proposing soon to El.

Eddie’s shadow lingered on your skin and you swore you could feel his breath in your ear. Whispering how he loved you.

Some days were better than others, but most days you would get so worked up you would vomit from the pain. Betrayal splayed in your guts. Your mind was working against you.

His teary eyes and hurt expression were all you saw when you closed your eyes. And every night you cried yourself to sleep, cocooned into a pile of too many blankets, dreaming that Eddie was holding you tight against his chest, never leaving…never letting you go.

MARCH

Eddie worked more than twelve hours a day, acting as two full time mechanics with how hard he was throwing himself into projects. Boom, although grateful for Eddie’s help and go-getter attitude, worried about him. Especially when he noticed the other two knot head mechanics he couldn’t afford to fire, helping themselves into his office flipping through personnel files.

“Sean told me he makes more money than me! I was just checking to see how much more you think he’s worth!

Aaron chuckled when Boom tossed him out of the office by his collar.

A secret motive snug on his Copenhagen smile. The Information he was seeking: found and a reward would be granted for his loyalty to a long time friend.

…

“… alright fine, I guess pineapple is pretty good on pizza.”

“Told ya, Harrington, ” licking his lips, Eddie reached into the cardboard box and grabs another slice, the melting cheese stretching for what seemed like miles, “I know good pizza.”

Steve rolls his eyes, taking it easy on his friend who finally is looking like his normal self again after two months of becoming almost unrecognizable.

The sad music didn’t play anymore. And his fingers didn’t bleed from writing songs about you.

He was accepting what happened. Still sad, a little depressed but moving forward with his life.

The date was approaching, Steve knew it and so did Eddie, neither wanted to talk about what he was going to do yet but Steve held his tongue for far too long.

“so.. that Metallica concert is coming up… you still g—”

Before Steve could finish muttering, Eddie was already finishing his sentence, chewing along with his explanation. His fingers twirl the rings on his other hand. A nervous fit settling in his stomach.

“—already sold ‘em. Gonna drop the money I got for them in her mailbox tonight.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his chair, threading fingers through his coiffed hair. “So that’s it huh?”

“So what’s it?” Eddie questioned, nonchalantly standing suddenly from the table with a scratch of the chair's legs against the tiled floor. Throwing his paper plate and napkin away, he stops at the trash can. Doubling back he almost cracks under the scrutiny of Steve’s eyes.

“Steve, she doesn’t wanna be with me, we’ve been over this. I fucked up, came on too strong.”

“I’m sorry man,” Steve apologizes, a drag of his large hands down his face. “I really thought she felt the same way—,” he huffs out a breath, “fuck, we all did!”

A shake of Eddie’s curls silences Steve’s words, the whirring noise in his ears, “I’m fine man, really. I’m gonna keep doing what we said we would all those years ago.”

Walking towards the front door and stomping louder than he should have, Eddie thrusts his arms into his leather jacket, the silk inside cozy along his faded cotton shirt.

His keys are hanging on the little hook by the door, Steve’s decorator thinking of every detail, he lets the brass teeth dig into his palm.

“Even if she hates me Steve,” one hand on the silver doorknob, rings clicking against it in his tight grip, he turns his head and looks into pitiful moss colored eyes, as he delivers the only truth he’s ever known, “I still love her.”

Slamming home the driver’s door to the van and turning his key into the ignition, Skid Row’s I Remember You plays gently through the speakers. Eddie hums along and pats his thumbs against the steering wheel.

It was true he was doing better.

His hair was combed through after using copious amounts of the cheapest conditioner Melvald’s had to offer. And he didn’t need the whiskey anymore to make it through the day.

He yearned to see your face.

Even if it was a glare his way or a raised eyebrow at something stupid he had to say, he’d do just about anything to see it.

Would you be smiling?

Were you happy without him?

He hoped you were doing well, and maybe would want to be friends again.

Turning onto Cherry Lane is pure nostalgia. It had only been a few months but everything looked the same. He felt different and maybe expected everything else to change along with him.

And there it was. Your house.

The house he had lived in, learned life skills he should have learned years ago, and most importantly shared the deepest love he’d ever felt with someone in his life.

The windows were dark, except for a small light in the kitchen, a candle he assumed. The smell of vanilla warmed his nose as he thought of the familiar scent you had kept burning.

The driveway held your car and another he didn’t recognize. By first glance he thought maybe it could be Nancy. But she had just brought her old station wagon into Boom’s last week for a tire rotation.

The license plates on the fancy BMW were not from Hawkins, housing the wrong number for the county on the Indiana plates.

His ears heated with jealousy. Throat closing tight trying to hide a choked sob.

How could you have moved on from him so quickly? The thought of you hooking up with someone while he was practically a dead man walking made him weak in the knees.

A punch to the gut. He had never felt so low in all of his life.

He couldn’t help himself when he jumped out of the van. Foregoing slamming the door. Stomping on cold concrete with shaky legs all the way to the front door. He fumed as he blinked back tears.

He was prepared to make an ass out of himself. He’d announce himself the same way he had when he opened the door the day he has moved in all those months ago.

A loud boisterous, HONEY, I’M HOME

With knuckles raised and his heart hammering in his chest like a bee trapped in a tin can, he was ready to knock.

Ready to see your shocked face with some faceless guy probably with a better job and stupid suits when Eddie’s wild hair and goofy grin was on the other side of the door.

But he is stopped short when a muffled shrill scream vibrates off the walls and finds his ears.

see you in volume 12

🐑 (sacrificial for readmore)

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst

937 notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

READ BETWEEN THE LINES — eren jaeger x male reader

w.c: 5.6k

warning: semi-public sex (library), college! au, jock!reader, nerd!eren, bottom reader, exhibitionism, praise/degradation, fingering, riding, mild jealousy, pining, creampie, panty (boxer?)stuffing, mention of ahegao from eren, overstim, edging, oral, dumbification, **feminization,** cum play, unprotected sex, teasing, dirty talk.

a/n: really recommend reading the prequel before this one!

You’re running late. Actually— that’s a major understatement.

You’ve got a soft spot for parties. A close second to the football field and its goals, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. They may leave you disoriented and thick tongued, but they’re special. Especially when they’re yours. The two places you get to truly dominate, to run down an opponent and crush their dreams of ever making it further than this. So why you’re dreading them now. . . it’s hard to say why. It’s complicated.

But you’ve got a few guesses.

You woke up late, fatigue pulling at your limbs as you sank into your mattress and nuzzled your face deeper and deeper into your pillow. If you’re being honest, the previous night was full of bass boosted music, alcohol, and tabs of something that absolutely should not have been mixed with liquor. Foxy, was it? Whatever the concoction, it was built specifically to knock you straight out, face to pillow and body to mattress until the following morning and then some.

And through it all, the hallucinogens and warped vision, you couldn’t help but think of those green eyes— blazing emeralds covered by a sheen layer of glass and plastic. It’s been a week, yet that chocolate brown hair that stops just short of the base of a fair neck and falls just below the end of round spectacles is haunting you. It’s him who left you disoriented and wobbly on your feet. Him, who you’d imagined the soft lips of as they traced the skin of your throat and downward. Eren, that stupid nerd with a stupidly big dick who fucked you stupid and left you to pick up the pieces of your broken. . . situationship.

Okay— maybe it wasn’t him who left. The second you woke up with the realization of what happened (he fucked you and recorded it, had the gall to send it to your girlfriend, for fuck’s sake!) you fled, ran straight out the building and through campus until your lungs were on fire and your heart in your throat. You ran until you couldn’t, until your calves ached and your thighs had just as much throbbing to match. Until sweat dripped down your nose and stained your jersey. Until you couldn’t hear over the sound of your heart pounding against your eardrums. Fuck, you’d left the place stained in your own cum.

With a groan you bury your face into the pillow, growing warmer by the second as your hands curl into fists that slam down into the air mattress. If anyone saw anything that day they certainly haven't mentioned it, but you’re sure with the popularity you hold it wouldn’t be brought up unless you bring it up.

So you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, really.

Joints crackling as you stand, a yawn rips through your throat and floats along behind you until your legs have carried you to the bathroom. Jean left the dorm before the sun could fully rise, probably to get in a few morning reps in and, if you’re being honest, it’s fucked up your time perception. That’s right, not the foxy or hennessy or even the beer. It was Jean. And worst of all it was Eren.

“Fuck you.” You grunt into your toothpaste, squinting at your reflection in the mirror as the bathroom’s fluorescent lights shoot straight through your retinas. You spit it out as if he can hear it, angry and venomous and not at all hesitant.

Walking through campus doesn’t lighten your mood. Your clothes cling uncomfortably— they’re Jean’s, after all— much too tight around your thighs and pressing against your chest with every sharp intake of breath. Your backpack is much too heavy, weighing down your shoulders until you walk with an uncomfortable hunch. Though you suppose it’s an exact physical representation of how you feel.

And if that’s not enough to test your limits, you end up bumping into someone who doesn’t know how to watch where they’re going. With an irritated growl you push them to the side with the help of your sports bag, nearly knocking them straight off their feet. Flashes of blond swim through your vision, bouncing off sunlight as it sways to and fro.

As an act of retaliation, nimble hands press into the plush flesh of your bicep, pushing you back just enough to open the gap between the two of you.

“Watch where you—”

“Armin!” You know that voice. It’s nasally and thick, even gains a husky tone to it when it’s whispered. It’s warm in your ears when it’s laced with praise, and cold when it’s spiked with the exact opposite. You know that voice.

So you run.

You’ve never considered yourself a coward. There’s a lot of things you are, but cowardly isn’t one of them. You’re one of the best, if not the best star players on your team, after all. Your hands ball into fists, clenched tightly as you walk into the occupied classroom, the only space you’d never really claimed as your domain.

It’s stupid, really, the hold he has on you. You’ve heard his voice and now you can’t think. As if you’re drunk all over again, you’re locked in a room with him while music blares through the crack beneath the door. Like you’re on your knees again, your face buried in his skin as you breathe in his scent. Woodsy and sweaty, almost as overpowering as his pulsing cock throbbing against the tightness of your throat. The fuzzy feeling has followed you for weeks, in the back of your mind as you complete mindless tasks and conversations.

You can’t help but let your mind wander, reverting back to that same fogginess that had the questions of last week’s pop quiz distorting before your very eyes.

(“Open,” It’s more of a command than anything, Eren’s very hands on, his fingers slipping into your mouth to pull at the corners of your mouth. Your tongue covers your teeth, your mouth watering as his salty fingertips graze your tongue. His other hand is busy working at the head of his cock, twisting smooth circles over the slit until it crashes down against your tongue. Again, and again, and again. “Good boy.”)

It’s hard to care, even when you’re handed back the test with disappointing results. A shiver racks through your body when a hand is placed on your shoulder, and your nostrils are overloaded with the smell of aftershave and old spice. Connie.

“I don’t know how you expect to stay on the team with grades like that, if you need a tutor. . .” He mumbles, light, golden eyes flickering past your shoulder to avoid head on eye-contact. Tests have never been your forté. It’s exactly why you’re in college solely based on a football scholarship. “I know I’m not one to talk, but—”

“Man, shut up,” You grumble, humiliation spreading through your body as you shift your weight from one foot to another. Crisp sheets of paper crumple between your fingers, balled up until the vermilions fifty percent is tossed into a nearby trash bin. “No one asked you.”

“Look, Jean knows. . . a guy. Says he’s kinda an asshole but,” He makes a motion with his hand in your general direction, chopping through the air. “So are you, so. You should get along just fine.”

The library is peaceful. A calm, comforting silence that’s paired with the company of only three people (you, your tutor, and the librarian— who, if you’re being honest, is sleeping more than she’s working). It’s nice like this. The air is still with tranquility, the only sound tiptoeing around your ears belonging to the sardined books adorning an array of shelves. It’s a stark contrast to the field— usually accompanied by excited screams, whistles, and running feet— but you don’t entirely mind it. It’s a pleasant change in scenery.

That, and it’s curing your hangover headache.

Venturing further into the library, you peek over the arrangements of bookshelves and desks. . . past the rows of computers and technology stations sits your tutor. Sat cozy in the corner of the room, he truly chose the most secluded area of the library. Good. His hair is a warm shade of brown, reaching barely above his neck, and with his back turned to you it’s hard to make out his features, but you swear that shirt he’s wearing looks familiar.

Oh, what the—

“Fuck.” His head snaps back, confirming it is that stupid fucking shirt, and he is that stupid fucking nerd. Devoid of any bodily fluids at that, four eyes had the audacity to wear it out again. As if it wasn’t recognizable, as if he hadn’t used it to clean his own cum off your body. You’re ready to turn on your heels, completely ignore the gnawing in your stomach that grows with every passing second you spend looking at him, ready to run and never look back.

“You look good,” His forest green eyes rake up and down your body, back straightening as he adjusts his glasses. You hate how quick his voice sends shivers up your spine, how it turns your legs to jelly and keeps you frozen in place. His gaze is intense, heated as he pats the seat next to him, fingertips brushing against the glossy cover of his hentai. You clear your throat, loud in comparison to the silence, but the brunette seems unphased. “Sit.”

You do, but not without collecting the manga and placing them on the farest end of the table. He seems to get a kick out of that, huffing hair out his nose as you push the books away like a picky child. Eren’s arm covers his scribbling, but you don’t care enough to press the secrecy. Instead, you unzip your backpack and pull out your laptop. He makes a sound high in his throat, something like a question, as he takes hold of the leg of your chair and pulls you closer.

Right. You forgot about his unprecedented amount of strength.

“Eren—” You start, but the sound of his name on your lips already has him groaning. Heat blooms in your stomach, tingling down to your crotch at the sound, and it’s almost like he’s fucking you all over again. So deep, something you’ve never had before. His cock kissed your insides, left you sloppy and open and empty.

“Eren,” You repeat, much whinier than intended, the name crackling as the man’s big palm squeezes your thigh. “Focus,” his response is noncommittal, a half hum that melts into a breathy laugh and quirk of his thick brow. “Studying. Tutoring. That shit.”

“Missed these tits,” He completely ignores you, instead opting to run his hands beneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. His hands snake up your tummy and shoot straight toward your chest, squeezing the flesh until your nipples harden against his palms. “Wanted to slide my cock between them the second I saw you.”

“They’re not tits.” You rasp, warmth rising in your face as your legs instinctively spread apart. He was right, you are a whore for his cock, and even the thought of getting it makes you braindead. You have the urge to get on your knees, to strip yourself of your clothing and present all your holes to him, spreading yourself wide open with your fingers.

“Aren’t they, though?” He lifts your shirt over your chest, the fabric bunching under your armpits, and you have no other choice but to watch the mounds of flesh spill from between his fingers— he’s got you in a tight grip, pushing your pecs together as he runs his pink tongue over his lips. It's humiliating, the lack of a fight you put up. There’s a weak tug at his wrists, but you’re barely making the effort to actually move him, whines heavy on your tongue. It’s hard, hard, to form the words you want, so you opt for open-mouthed whines.

Eren pushes you to your knees, watching you fall with glassy eyes.

You watch the brunette squeeze at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around his shiny slit, then slowly back down to the thick, veiny shaft. You want his cock inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open, you want his cock sliding inside until he fills you up with his sticky, hot cum. He spits down onto it, catching strays that land in your chin. His saliva is thick and runny, beading at the tip until it’s smeared down to the base. Your mouth waters.

Pulling yourself forward, you press your chest together until a small, pathetic excuse of a crease is formed between them. Eren coos, his thick eyebrows pinched together as his glasses nearly fall off his face, “What'd your girlfriend say? Now that she knows you get your pussy fucked just like hers.”

He guides his cock between the plush skin, taptaptap-ing the head of his cock along your nipples so his precum smears across the sensitive skin. It’s shiny now, smeared across your chest and downright filthy. Mixed with his cum, you’re sure you look like a cheap whore, one who’s been tied down and written on for free-use. If Eren had a marker you’re sure he’d write something on your chest, something vulgar enough to have your cock jumping.

“Oh,” He moans, slick squelching erupting from his cock as he slides it between your pecs— your tits, he’d call them, and you can’t help but open your mouth to catch the tip whenever it slides just above your chin. “Oh, fuck. That’s it.”

Eren’s cock is curved, with a dusted pink tip that throbs against your tongue with every forward motion. You can’t help but drool on it a little, thoughts leaving your brain the more he takes the opportunity to fuck his cock between your tits and into your hot, tight mouth.

“She said—” You’re cut off by your own gagging, his thick cock being jammed down the tightness of your throat. You can feel his dick throb, slow and heavy as a bulge appears in your throat with every slow slide in, and every slow slide out. He’s fucking your throat, burying your teary face into his deep pubes as your tongue runs along the thickest vein pulsing on his shaft. Eren’s so fucking big, you can’t breathe. Though you’re not sure you want to.

“Always talkin’ about your stupid ‘girlfriend’, what if I just made you my girlfriend instead? Huh?”You stare up at him with wet eyelashes, batting your eyes as he stares down at you. You can’t exactly make eye contact, not with the fog clouding his glasses, but the feeling of his cock weighing down your tongue along with his bitter pre filling your mouth, you don’t mind all too much.

“M’npph amphh grrmph.” You huff around a mouthful of cock, pants heavy on your drooling tongue. You can’t help but gag, bubbles of saliva pooling around his balls and your chin— it’s messy, it’s nasty, but it feels fucking good. Your dick aches, tingly and sticky and all too needy for your liking.

“Yeah, you’re not,” It’s like he knows exactly what you said, growling as vibrations are sent straight to his cock. It pops between your lips, then sinks back down onto the warmth of your pecs. Not nearly as good as fucking your hole, but it’s still slick and soft. It’s still fucking good. “Got a real warm pussy on you, though.”

“Don’t—”

“You wanna know how I know?” Eren cups your face with both his hands, bobbing your pretty head up and down around the head of his cock. Like you’re nodding on it, he savors the sight of his precum being smeared along your lips. “Cause I’ve fucked it.”

“Rennie!” You gasp, reverting back to that sweet, softheaded boy he’d turned you into a few weeks ago. A spark lights in his eyes, and before you know it he’s pulling you up by your throat, and stripping you naked. A thin trail of precum connects itself to the tip of your cock, sticky and wet enough for Eren’s hand to wrap around.

You see stars.

“Waitwaitwait,” You gurgle, moans caught in your throat as your knees buckle and fall straight into Eren’s lap. He’s wrapped up in your thighs, the thickness resting at his sides as you buck your hips into his tight fist. His hand is slick with spit, only moistening as he drools out another layer. The brunette lets it fall from his tongue, slow and thick, then rubs it into the head of your cock with quick, rapid motions. It’s too much, tears well in your eyes as you babble, “Slow, slow, I can’t—”

“Shh,” Eren’s free hand clasps over your mouth, warm against your sweaty skin. You can’t help but pant into it, your eyebrows pinched as you look down at the man with wobbly eyes. His smile is lopsided, eyes all too wide through the fog of his glasses as he speeds up his hand, twisting and curling and squeezing until your thighs violently tremble and your drooling mouth goes dry. “Don’t want anyone to hear you. What’ll they think then? The school’s best boy’s a slut?”

There’s a quick shake to your head, fast and delirious as you grind against his hand, his cockhead bobbing against your own through the fly of his pants. The silky, stickiness is driving you over the edge, and your eyes begin to roll back. Your moans are muffled and garbled against Eren’s big hand, but the way your cock twitches and leaks tells the nerd everything he needs to know.

The high is right there, you’re at the very edge, with Eren’s slick hand sliding his cock along yours, the thick head towering over your own, and the wet sloshing sounds so fucking loud when you bounce along his thighs, chasing after it. Sparks fly straight down to your dick, tingling along the shaft and pooling all the way down to your hole— it’s sticky now, wet with the mixture of precum that’s pooling between your bodies. He strokes whiny, desperate sounds out of you, precum pooling around his fist and— holy shit, you’re gonna cum.

“Rennie,” You drool, your head falling forward into his shoulder. It’s almost embarrassing how fast. How hard you’re twitching, how your little hole is spasming around nothing. You’re so close. “M’gonna cum, gonna cum, ‘Ren. S’your hand, s’cause—”

So. Fucking. Clo—

“No.” His hand leaves just as you’re ready to burst, cutting off a stream of sticky ropes before they can shoot, and your balls tighten with need. It’s not fair, you’ve been such a good boy! You sat there and took it, maybe you whined and cried a little, but you were good. You feel yourself shaking your head, desperate. “Did I tell you you could cum?”

“But. . . But I deserve it, ‘Ren. M’such a good boy, was such a good boy!” Tears stream down your face, collecting in Eren’s shirt as he rubs smooth circles into your back. He shushes you in a sweet voice, but you can feel his thick cock throbbing at the sight of your tears.

“Good boys don’t make messes,” He tuts, feigning irritation as he pushes you back so he can show off the messiness of his fingers. The long digits are covered in spit and pre, slowly running down his shiny hands and dripping down his wrists. “They clean them.”

His fingers are plunged into your mouth, bitter and sticky, but you can’t help but lap it up, eyes fluttering closed as you moan around the digits. They don’t reach as deep as his cock, don’t leave your throat bulging around the shape or curve of them, and they’re nowhere near as thick of a mouthful, but it’s just as good. Just as warm, just as heavy, just as strong and salty.

“Just like that,” You’re gagging for it now, Eren’s lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he struggles to watch your pretty, pouty mouth wrap around his knuckles. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into your mouth every so often so your body jerks back as your throat tightens and constricts. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut. “You look fuckin’ stupid. It’s a good thing you were made to take dick, no wonder you need a tutor.”

Eren’s hand slips out your mouth, a breathy laugh escaping his pink lips when you absentmindedly follow after it despite the drool starting to run down your chin. He’s scouring his bag for something, and only when he finds it do you notice how much his cock is weeping, achy as it smears pre along his t-shirt. Lube, sticky and stringy as he pours it into his hand and warms it up with smooth circles against his fingers. He’s pushing you up like it’s nothing, your knees by his sides until his fingers are poking and prodding at your sensitive, puckered rim.

Your squeals sound like heaven. High in your throat and dragged out as your pretty hole eagerly takes in his ring finger, clamping around it and sucking him deeper into your velvety walls. So fucking good, you can’t help but rock back against it, shameless and devoid of any other thoughts. It’s a chant of cockcockcock going off in your head, the faster you take his fingers the faster you get to his dick. The lube leaves behind thick strands, when Eren’s knuckle deep you can hear them froth between the globes of your ass, and as he pulls the finger out sloooow it gushes right out.

“Wanna fuck this pussy full,” Your breath catches in your throat, and the thought of him referring to your hole as a pussy has your brain completely and utterly empty. “Wanna fuck it till you’re shaking. Missed this cute little cunt, missed fucking you stupid.”

You can’t take it.

“Did it miss me, baby?” You can’t take it but you’re nodding, bouncing on his lap and doing all the work to fuck your self full of his fingers. You like it when he takes what he wants, fucks you stupid and uses his unsuspecting strength to take it from you. Like he fucking owns it. “Hm? Did your slutty boy cunt miss me?”

“Yeah, yeah. . .” It’s hard to stay quiet, not when his fingers are pistoning into that special, sweet bundle of nerves that keep you stupid and cockdrunk.

“Missed you, Rennie.”

“What missed me?” There’s an edge to his voice, darker and deeper.

“My. . .” You pout, shaking your head despite the shock of pleasure running up your spine when his free hand presses you down into his fingers. Your vision goes white for a moment, completely blinded as you sniffle out, “My boy cunt, Rennie.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s what you think with, isn’t it?” He flicks your forehead, a boyish grin spreading across his handsome face. It’s annoying how endearing his sad excuse of a mustache is, how it has your heart racing. “You let your pussy do all the thinking, that’s why you always end up taking my cock.”

Yeah. . . Yeah. It’s true, probably, because when you’re around Eren none of your thoughts are coherent. You barely even notice the slick palms rubbing smooth circles into the globes of your ass, the emptiness of your winking hole that clenches around nothing but air. You’re sure you look like a mess, skin slick with sweat, drool and precum and tears covering your face. . . dripping down onto your chest. He’s made a real mess out of you.

“Sit still,” He moans, hushed and close to your ear. His cock slides dangerously close to your entrance, sticky lube sliding along with it and connecting his tip to your boy pussy. He feels so big, so long and thick when he taps it against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your rim. “Let me deeper inside that cunt. Please, baby? Wanna get it all creamy and sloppy with my cum, wanna feel it clamp down just like it did that first time.”

“Uh-huh!” You hiccup, uncontrollable tears streaming down your face as you reach back to spread yourself wide, presenting yourself to his dick. You don’t miss the groan you earn in return, deep and shaky as the nerd takes the opportunity to slip right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering ‘cunt’ that sucks him deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Wan’ it. . . Wan’ it deeper, ‘Ren.”

Just as warm and wet as he remembers is, lube gushes and trickles out with every deliberate, deep thrust forward. The slurp of his cock goes straight to your balls, tightening as you whine like a bitch for it. Eren’s grip goes tight in your ass, keeping it spread as he spears you on his cock again, and again, and again. It’s more menuevering than bouncing, through your braindead haze you start to think, maybe he’s just too big to bounce on, it’s easier if he fucks into like a fleshlight. It’s easier if you don’t think about it, you’re not meant to, after all. It’s easier if you melt on his cock and take it.

“C’mere,” Your fingers are enveloped with the warmth of his own, the digits molding each of your hands into peace signs. Your mouth opens and closes, akin to a fish, but just as you’re about to form the words he cuts you off. “So cute. . . Could you stick out your tongue for me too?”

You should know by now, it’s not a genuine question. The saltiness of Eren’s fingers pressing into your tongue has you drooling, wet and sloppy as he forces your tongue out over your bottom lip. Watching the movement— eyes crossed with the pink of your tongue out on display— you look like a character straight out his favorite hentai.

“Like a real-life ahegao!” Eren pulls out his own phone this time, the camera in your fucked out face as he gives an experimental bounce to his hips. With a tiny ‘uh!’ you follow suit, your sweet boy pussy clenching and fluttering around his thick, heavy cock. You’d be thankful for the hand holding onto your hips had it not been there to keep you from squirming off his dick.

“That’s it,” he purrs, just as unashamed as you remember him to be. “Go on, tell the camera what you are.”

Your eyebrows knit in delayed confusion, Eren’s hips jolting up to send shockwaves up your spine. You’re pushed forward, wet clapping of your ass crashing down onto his thighs snapping you back into a dazed, foggy state. Cut off by a few breathy moans, you whine, “M’your fucktoy, your bitch.”

“That’s right. You’re my bitch. My hole to fuck, my hole to use. Tell me you love it, say ‘I love your cock, Rennie.’ ”

He forces your tongue back out, pinching the muscle between two fingers so you sound as fucked up as you look, gurgling and stuttering a sad excuse of, ‘love it s’much, wan’ feel it f’weeks, s’good t’my holes, Rennie!’ and it’s cruel how his mocking laughter nearly makes you cum on the spot.

“Armin’s part of the photography club, did you know that?” The name rings a bell, but there’s not much to say when you're drooling all over your own chest and panting like a puppy. “That blond you bumped into earlier? Yeah, him.” Your mouth forms a small ‘o’ around your tongue, pretty eyes widening. “Funny thing is, right after that he told me all the angles of you he wanted.”

You can’t contain the squeals and squeaks that leave your mouth when the brunette starts pistoning his hips upward, a bruising grip on your hips that only gets harder as he grinds you down against his cock. He’s filling you up so good, his balls slapping against your ass with each rushed, rough thrust that has your mind scrambled just as much as your guts. The camera is right in your face, zoomed in and focused on the mess on your handsome face.

“Go a—hmmff—head, baby,” Eren moans, and it’s his turn to drool. “Keep fucking yourself stupid on my, haah, cock.”

“M’sorry, Armin,” Your body bounces and convulses, eyes crossed as the shaky camera remains in your face. So cute, Eren had no intentions to share the video. Not with anyone, and certainly not with Armin, but your extra effort to apologize and take his cock as some sort of atonement really spurs him on. “Please… don’t stop, I’ll be good, m’a good boy, promise!”

“God, yeah, you are. A good, dumb slut. So much sweeter when all you can think about is cock.” He tries to ignore the fluttering in his stomach when you giggle around your tongue, sweet and ditzy. He tries to ignore it, but it’s hard when you’re absentmindedly bouncing back on his dick with no hands, both raised to your chest in peace signs. You’re a walking wet dream.

“Please lemme cum, pleasepleaseplease,” Your babbling falls on deaf ears, Eren’s hands are focused on stroking your cock raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re surrounded by sparks. When you lean away you fall onto his cock, but buck your hips forward and you’re being teased by his skilled fingers. His palm presses into your slit, rubbing circles into it until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. “Wanna cum on your cock, wanna get it sticky, wanna—ohh, feel it throb inside.”

“Cum with me,” He growls, glasses slipping off his face and onto the floor as his eyes briefly shut. You can feel it, the tightening of his balls, the way his dick aches and pulses inside you, the way his cum is starting to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move. “That’s it, wanna feel this pussy cum on my dick, give it t’me. Give it to Rennie.”

A searing spiral of pressure grows in your stomach, filling with light as you bear down on his cock and choke on your moans. For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you spurt all over both yourself and Eren, globs of cum spraying hard onto your chest and splashing back on the brunette’s chin. He lets you ride it out, offering tiny thrusts upward to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, and places a few chaste kisses to your messy jaw.

“Shh, not done yet,” It’s cute how whiny you get, pliant in his hands as he lifts your trembling body off his cock with a hiss. He’s careful to replace his cock with his fingers though, twisting and thrusting them forward to collect his cum. You keep him so warm, he misses the feeling of your mushy hole around him already. “Need to make sure you get it.”

You barely put up a fight, letting him place you on the table. You’re on top of his manga— that and his notebooks, your laptop, and cheat sheets. That’s right, you came here to go over questions for your next test, but. . .

Eren’s busy picking up your boxers, not even bothering to wipe off his glasses (they’ve fallen into the wet patch of pre, and it’s obvious it’s coating the lense of the right side of his glasses) as he puts them on. His hair is disheveled, he looks thoroughly fucked, but you’re sure you look worse.

“Fuck,” He groans, breathless as he watches your fingers absentmindedly circle your entrance, globs of cum sticking to your fingertips. That explains it, the sharp shocks shooting straight up to your stomach. He takes a deep breath, tucking himself back into his pants. Part of you is glad he stayed clothed, if anyone walked in they’d see him first. “Maybe you already do.”

The questions die on your tongue when he’s removing your fingers, cum gushing from your puffy hole and spilling onto the table. You don’t miss the way Eren curses, somewhat frustrated, as he bunches up the fabric and slips it past your rim. It feels. . . good, pressed right against your prostate and suddenly you’re wailing again, kicking your feet with overstimulation.

“No, no, no,” You sob, clenching around the soft fabric. It’s too soft, like silk is sliding around your entrance, rubbing the area raw and sensitive. “Too much!”

“Shh.”

The shaking of your head ceases with Eren’s strong hand on your jaw, and you stop yourself when his lips press against your own. Warm and soft, somewhat chapped— but plush nonetheless. He tastes different than last time, he’s sweeter now. Like an energy drink, or a saccharine sour candy. He’s much more gentle with his kisses than his hands, which shift you around until he’s half-assedly got you clothed, just barely enough fabric pulled on your skin to cover your chest and legs.

“Sit on my lap, we’ll read a couple questions and then do some peer revision, yeah?”

Something tells you he doesn’t plan to get much reading done.

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redamancyys · 1 year

Text

All Around Me - Kaz Brekker

WARNING(S) ◆ smut, piv sex, oral (fem recieving), cursing, unedited.

WORDS ◆ 3.7k

REQUEST(S) ◆ based off of this request, though i did stray a little. basically kaz and the reader have sex for the first time!

AUTHOR'S NOTE ◆ sooooo this ended up being a lot steamy-er than i intended, but i hope that you enjoy it, because i definitely liked writing this one!

To say that the desire was eating you both up from the inside was an understatement.

Kaz had never wanted a person the way that he wanted you. It was a raw, carnal desire that came from deep within him. He had never been a person who ached for touch until he met you, he wished that he was able to be the man that could grab you by your hips without spiraling into a panic, or could kiss you for as long as you wanted without having to take a break because his internal thoughts were becoming too much to handle.

You would always explain to him that it wasn’t his fault.

Hushed whispers, your hands placed ever so carefully on his clothed body, trying to keep him grounded whenever the aversion got too bad. You had seen him at his worst, where he had to put his head in between his knees in order to stop the flashbacks from coming back to him. Though sometimes no matter how hard you tried, Kaz would morph back into that little boy again, feeling his brother's dead motionless flesh against his own as he floated back ashore. He would feel alone, no matter how much you tried to explain that you were here, he didn’t have to worry, he wasn’t there, he was safe.

And what was even worse, he felt like he was somehow disappointing you. He was with you, but you couldn’t even touch his bare skin without him spiraling into a mess. No matter how many times you explained that you were there for him, that you were always going to make sure that he was okay, there was still a piece of him that wished he was different. But Kaz’s wishes never came true, it would never magically go away. He had to face this head on if he was ever going to be able to properly love you, and for you, he was willing to try anything.

That had been a few months ago, and since then the two of you had worked very hard to overcome his aversion. You went slow, placing bare hands against each other, small kisses, anything that you could think of that would be enough to help but also just enough to not make Kaz feel uncomfortable. It had gotten to the point where you two were able to cuddle with one another, his hands could go up and down your spine and paint small drawings on the skin of your arm and legs. And you could do the same towards him. After a while, you both were able to take your tops off, explore those parts of your bodies, and every time you went farther, the desire began to creep its way into both of your chests. Both of you were aware what the next step was, you both weren’t dumb, but neither of you had the inclination to talk about it. It was like the two of you were dancing around the conversation, doing everything that you could to not bring it up.

Wylan and Jesper were always talking about it. Well, that was a lie, Jesper was usually the one that would talk about it with you. He always talked about the pining, the excitement of getting to explore your lover's body . . . it was something that you wanted but had never experienced before and before you knew it, you were sitting on your shared bed with Kaz, trying to concentrate on a book while he did his paperwork at his desk. You took a moment to stare at him, watching as his hands pressed against the paper, quill etching sounds into the silence between the both of you. You took your bottom lip into your teeth, sucking in a harsh breath. You could do this.

“Kaz, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You could’ve gone about it a different way, because the moment Kaz stopped what he was doing and turned to face you, there was a hint of worry in his expression. Most of the time when a person told another that they had to talk to them about something, it was bad news, and you were quick to assure him that it was nothing of the sort. “Nothing bad, I promise. I just wanted to bring an idea up to you.” His face immediately softened, one that you knew he didn’t share with many. You took a moment to study his expressive eyes, your own going from them to his lips, the ones that you wished were kissing the delicate skin on your body. Giving him a tiny smile, you said, “I wanted to see what you . . . thought about having sex with me? We’ve been getting to that point for a while now and I just thought that it wouldn’t hurt to ask if you wanted to go all the way?”

This was definitely something that he wasn’t expecting to come out of his mouth, especially because of the unspoken barrier between the both of you when it came to talking about these types of things. Of course he wanted to, saints, if he could he would take you right then and there but you and him knew that it would take a lot more mental preparation on his end for this to happen. And perhaps for a moment you thought that you had struck a nerve with him, that he would dismiss the idea and you would leave to compose yourself, but that was far from the truth. Instead he set down the quill and turned to face you completely, his gloved hands playing with one another as an attempt to ground. You didn’t move, eyes attentively staring, waiting for him to say something. Kaz eventually opened his mouth to say, “Of course I want to have sex with you.” He said it as though you were dumb thinking that he wasn’t, but you knew that this was his way of trying to guard himself from the actual thoughts that came into his head. “I think I just need a little time to prepare first-” “Yes! I know, I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable first,” You cut him off, not wanting him to think that you were going to pressure him.

Soon enough you two were discussing the logistics, almost as if you were scheduling a business meeting of a sort. It made you chuckle at first, but as the days went by, closer to the date that the two of you planned to finally go the final step, your nerves began to jumble up.

You sat down at the edge of his bed, very reminiscent of a few days ago when you popped the question, but instead of Kaz sitting at his desk, he was sitting beside you. His breathing was slightly rigid, he was nervous which you completely understood. In order to comfort him, you placed your hand on his gloved one, looking at him with a look of kindness in an attempt to show him that you were nervous too.

“I love you,” You said to him.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

One finger at a time, you began to pull his gloves off of his hand, and then the other one, setting the pair onto the bedside table. You held one of his hands with yours while the other one made its way to the back of his neck, pressing soft kisses to his lips. Kaz responded by putting his hand on your waist, eagerly kissing you back. He pulled you closer to him, until you got the idea of straddling his waist, legs on either side of him as you sat on his lap. This kissing went on for a while, semi for comfort but also for pleasure, as you knew that you would never get tired of kissing Kaz Brekker. His lips tasted like honeyed tea and you relished in the notion that you would be the only one who ever got to taste such a sweet thing.

You were still sitting on his thighs and you needed him more than ever now. That familiar feeling that bubbled up inside of you whenever you two got this far began to resurface, causing the kissing to become even more fast paced, filled with want and need. Though the most enjoyable part was that the two of you were having fun, taking moments to stop and admire one another. For a moment a sly smile came across his lips and you wiped it away with a kiss, going back to the fast pace that had been set before. Your hands came and tentatively went under his shirt, feeling the taut skin of his chest with calm and courteous fingers, not wanting to upset him, though clearly beginning to fog up the idea of being gentle. The thought of him above you with a body like that? It made you falter in your movements. He was beautiful, and you were sure that you would never allow him to forget it.

Using the break in your concentration to his advantage, Kaz began mouthing along your skin, knowing that your neck was sensitive in a multitude of places and skimming your skin with his teeth ever so gently, hands pulling up your shirt above your head. His eyes scanned your body, raising an eyebrow. “No bra?” He asked, making you shy away and look anywhere but at his face. You didn’t reply, but he seemed to not like that. His hand came and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. You gave a small smile, “I wanted to be comfy.” He hummed, somewhat disappointed in your answer but not disappointed at how compliant you seemed to be with him. Kaz went back to kissing your neck, teeth grazing along your soft skin, making you jump whenever he bit down on a particular spot.

You were beginning to grow impatient. Perhaps it was with the way that he was worshiping you, wanting to kiss every single inch of you and make you keel into his touch over and over again. Or maybe it was because no one had ever made you feel this way before. You hadn’t been with others before, never trying to get this far with the men of Ketterdam for fear of ruin or awkwardness in the morning. You had only longed for Kaz before.

His hands found your breasts, squeezing them and kneading them together, fingers coming to pinch your nipples. Your back arched into him and you almost fell over on top of him, using your hands on his muscles to stop you. You reached and decided you wanted to please him, to show him how much you wanted him. You trailed your hands under his shirt and came to the band of his pants, pushing your fingers past it and making your way down. Before you could hit his obvious hard on, one of his own hands came and grasped your wrists, pulling your hand away. You looked up, thinking that you did something wrong. Tilting your head, you gave him a silent what? Maybe you had made him uncomfortable, and he was trying to come up with a way to tell you off.

Though that didn’t seem to be the case when Kaz’s lips offered a smirk.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Kaz explained. In one movement he put his hands to your back and flipped you two over, him now on top of you. Your head hit the mattress with a small humph and wondered what he had in store for you.

You worked with him to shimmy your pants and panties off, throwing them to some side of the room. His hands splayed against your thighs and you watched with an open mouth to see what he was going to do. He gave you a look, a familiar one that reminded you that you were actually here with him, no one else, the two of you were doing this amazing thing together. Your heart swelled with adoration as you thought that this was the man that you loved, the one that you trusted more than anyone else in the entire world. You were also well aware of the slick that was beginning to coat your thighs, body betraying you and showing him how much you wanted him, how you ached for him. Kaz seemed to like it though, bringing his flesh hand to your slit and scooping some of it up. When he brought his hand back up, you could see the way that it glistened on his skin, popping a finger into his mouth and humming sinfully at the taste. He did it again and again, humming every single time your arousal hit his tongue. You looked down with heated cheeks, feeling a little embarrassed that you were getting so worked up over something so small. “You taste . . .” He trailed off, bringing his tongue to your folds and swiping up from your hole to your clit. “Amazing.”

“It’s all for you,” You said, wiggling your hips and urging him to pleasure you again. Kaz smirked, feeling a sense of pride wash over him at your words. He brought a finger to you and pushed it in, watching your mouth open into a wide ‘O’ at the feeling. He curled it up, making your muscles tighten around him. Kaz built a steady pace and he came back up to your face, pressing a kiss to your cheek sweetly as if he couldn’t hear the lewd sounds that were being created when he added a second finger in.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” He said, towering over you. His thumb rubbed against your clit while his fingers fucked into you. “To see you under me like this.” The both of you seemed to have this desire for each other for the longest time.

You moaned out at his words, thighs clenching around his hand to keep him there. You couldn’t respond, too busy thinking about the steady fire that was building in you. You reached to climb higher, hoping he would grant you some kind of release. He didn’t give it to you though. Instead, whenever you were getting to that tipping point, he would stop all of his movements altogether until you stopped shaking, then repeat the process over and over again. It was making you go crazy, how he had the power to push you towards release but he just wouldn’t do it.

You opened your mouth to speak but you couldn’t. As if to test you further, he pushed a third finger into you, making you moan out his name loud and roll your eyes to the back of your skull. His thumb kept rubbing languid circles on your clit. You thought if you stayed quiet you could sneak an orgasm, cut him off guard. But as if he heard your thoughts, his movements stalled and he put his other hand firmly on your hips so you couldn’t even move against his statue-like hand. His dark eyes bore into your own and you squeezed around his fingers. “You make me feel so good, Kaz.” The praise fell from your lips with ease, lava pooling in your stomach as if threatening to burst at any moment. If only he would just rub a little bit more . . .

He pulled his hand away from you. Kaz didn’t even respond to your statement and you wondered if you said something wrong, if he had enough. And he had enough all right, but not enough of you. He wanted to see you cum, just around his cock and not his fingers. But you couldn’t hear what he was thinking, which made you whimper when he pulled himself away fully, standing at the edge of the bed. You opened your legs up to him, the farthest that you could go without hurting yourself and hoping that it would make him come back to you quickly. Your clit was aching from several denied orgasms, almost thinking about pulling your hand down to finish yourself off, though deciding against it when knowing Kaz would never allow something like that. He liked seeing you writhing like this.

Kaz’s hands shed all his clothing. He wasn’t exactly putting on a show for you but you marveled anyways, watching the way that his muscles flexed when his shirt came off and how you wanted to lick all around his abdominal region and make your way all down to his cock, which was pressed against his stomach and slightly glistening with precum. It was big and felt your insides clench just thinking about it sliding into you. Once he was satisfied with his clothing off, he came back down to the bed and kneeled between your spread legs.

“Kaz,” You whispered. “Please.”

There was a hint of mischief in his eyes and it took all of your strength to not roll your eyes. “What do you want me to do to you?” Of course he wanted to hear you say it, to announce what he was inevitably going to do. You couldn’t ignore the way you loved how controlling he was with you, how he ordered you to do some things. And as much as you hated that he didn’t let you cum, you also loved how he would make you cum when he wanted you to, not you. He took his cock into his hands and rubbed the tip against your glistening folds, teasing you in the most sinful way possible.

“Please . . . Fuck me Kaz. Make me cum, I can’t take it anymore.” You just wanted him inside of you so badly, you were going to scream if this went on for any longer. He was right there, denying you both the pleasure. With a nod of his head, he pushed into you in one fluid motion. The feeling of him bottoming out inside of you made you grip onto his bicep, pulling him close so his warm chest was against your own again. He wasted no time moving, the sound of it deliciously sweet in your ears. Kaz took your legs and pushed them upwards, your feet hanging off of his shoulders and pressing your thighs further up until they were almost hitting the mattress. The change in position had you crying out, feeling him hit deeper inside of you.

You could feel every single scrape of his cock against your walls, increasing that fire in your stomach until you were sure you were about to cum. He kept at it with such loyalty and vigor, his motivation to make you feel the best you ever had fuelling him to a tenfold. He was such a devoted man to begin with, so you should’ve known that he would handle things the same way in bed.

You squeezed around him. “Please,” You whimpered.

“Go ahead.” Those two words were all you needed, allowing yourself to scream out as your orgasm ripped through you, built up again and again and now it was finally here and it was amazing. It rippled through you like shockwaves, and made you go limp under him, legs completely boneless. Kaz didn’t let up as he rode through your orgasm, keeping the same pace with you. He was unforgiving, not giving you time to adjust and instantly making you feel the feeling of overstimulation. You were so sensitive to his cock ramming in and out of you that you could feel a second orgasm already building up. The tip of him hit a particularly nice spot in you and you yelled, curling your toes and your hands came to tangle and grip in his hair. You almost stopped for a moment thinking that you were hurting him, but when you looked at his face, you saw only fucked out bliss, white incisors showing in a ravenous grin. His eyes opened and they were almost fully dark, making you shiver.

“You feel so good,” He mumbled, as though he was talking to himself. He was completely thrown into the pleasure that you were giving him, hot and warm and just perfect , like you were made for his cock to be rammed into over and over again. “Made for me, all for me.” He used your past words, them never losing their meaning no matter how many times he muttered under his breath.

Time seemed to slow and grow faster at the same time, the whole room disappearing as both of you focused on only each other. You weren’t sure how many times he had made you cum at this point, you took whatever he gave you and took it well. When you got enough strength to crane your neck down, you watched as your hole enveloped his cock, it coming back out slicked with the remnants of your past orgasms. Kaz saw where your eyesight was and a sense of pride washed over him again. “Do you like watching that? Seeing how well you take me?” He asked, egging you on. His hand went to grab your own and placed it on your lower abdomen, and you could feel the skin slightly raising up every time he went into you. You could see it too, sliding in and out. Though, even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself, his movements were beginning to falter. He was becoming more sloppy with his hips and you knew he was about to cum. So, to give him what he had worked for, you wiggled your hips up, matching his hips. Your oversensitive clit rubbed against the base of his cock and you were clenching around him, and as if on cue, you were cumming again, feeling weak under him. Kaz wrapped his arms around you and pulled you up, his cock splitting you open until he was spilling inside of you.

The moans that left his mouth were probably the hottest things you had ever felt in your life. You could feel his cum dripping down his cock, coating your thighs and dripping onto the soiled sheets. He put you down on the bed and followed you, eyes watching your own and kissing your sweaty forehead. He finally stopped moving and stilled inside, not wanting to leave you. He didn’t want to leave this moment and neither did you.

#kaz brekker smut #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker fanfiction #kaz brekker #six of crows fanfiction #six of crows fanfic #six of crows #netflix shadow and bone #shadow and bone fanfiction #shadow and bone #kaz brekker angst #grishaverse fanfiction #grishaverse

1K notes · View notes

just-a-torn-up-masterpiece · 7 months

Text

captured

kinktober 2023 masterlist

wandanat x reader

18+: alcohol use, smut; kidnap fantasy, cnc, threesome, intox play, drunk sex, restraints, blindfolds, mommy!wanda, daddy!natasha, strap use, fingering, face sitting, dom/sub, degradation, slight dollification, voyeurism, very slight spit kink

wc: 2k

Natasha and Wanda watched you drunkenly amble towards the bar’s bathroom, making your way through the crowds of people with stumbled steps. They smirked at the sight of your retreating body, your head blurred and hazy - perfect for the evening they’d planned.

When they’d taken the three of you to the bar you were unaware of their plan; you took the numerous drinks they passed to you throughout the evening, swallowing them down with your demeanour growing less coordinated with each passing minute. They adored the sight. The way you grew ever closer to them, using Wanda’s shoulder to keep your head upright with slurred murmurings in reply to their conversations.

You were their perfect little doll, a toy so easily pliable and desperate to go along with their each and every want.

“Ready?” Natasha asked Wanda, taking her hand to lead the way outside.

“More than ready,” she returned, smiling at the thought. Just the knowing of what was to come had her thighs clenching together beneath the table.

When you eventually made your way back out to them you found the table you’d once occupied to be empty. The glasses you’d been drinking from were left discarded with the only reminder of their presence shown in the lipstick print on Wanda's tumbler.

Making your way outside was tricky with the groups of people getting in your way and with the drunken tiredness sinking in it was hard not to begin to panic at the loss of your girlfriends. You thought that, perhaps, they were waiting outside but once you’d pushed through the doorway into the cold night air they were nowhere to be seen.

The screen of your phone was bleary when you scrolled through to their contacts, unable to form a text message before a body was pressed to your back.

You stumbled into their harsh hold, the strong arm that wrapped around your waist.

“Keep quiet,” the voice rasped against your cheek. You could feel the heat of their breath against you through the baring of their teeth and you whimpered against the hand that forced you into silence, covering your mouth with their palm.

You had no control over the tears that glossed over your eyes; in fact, you had no control at all. You were at their mercy, their strength withstood any fight you mustered up as you were led towards a car that seemed familiar. But with the fear and the liquor it was hard to make much sense of anything.

You were pushed into the back seat and immediately pulled down until your head was resting in a lap you recognised. Though not much was making sense within your drunken daze, the scent was a source of comfort. Floral perfume and coconut lotion, the car air freshener that smelled of cinnamon and pine as well as a distinct musk of cologne from the leather jacket that lay near.

You let your eyes close, listening to the low-volume radio music while slender fingers stroked through your hair and words were spoken that didn’t float into your consciousness.

Once the engine began to dim into silence, you let hands wrap material around your face; your vision blacked out and hands useless with the rope that tied around your wrists. Those strong hands graced you again with a tug that pulled you to stand on a cobbled driveway before they took a possessive hold of your waist to guide you forward.

“C’mon, sweet girl,” Wanda spoke as she twisted her keys into the lock of the front door, accompanying Natasha’s hands with a touch to your lower back. You hummed at the feeling of her soft lips that pressed to your neck whilst you were ushered toward the bedroom, leaning your head away to provide her access which she accepted gratefully with the sharpness of her teeth digging into you.

By the time your head was against familiar pillows, you were achingly ready for anything that was to come next. You didn't see her approach but you soon felt Wanda’s body positioning itself above yours, her knees planted on either side of your hips.

Her lips claimed yours eagerly and she laughed against you when you uselessly tried to hold onto her, struggling with your bound hands and obstructed sight. You thought she might offer a little reprieve but, instead, her hand on your wrist only lifted them above your head, pushing them firmly into the pillows to keep them still.

Your lips moved together with fervour, her tongue pushed against yours while her free hand groped along any part of your body she could reach. You let the second pair of hands pull your trousers away from you exposing you to the air around you and the hungry eyes that took in the sight.

“Such a perfect little slut,” Natasha breathed as she approached, keeping her gaze on the heated kiss whilst she took a swig from the bottle of vodka in her grasp.

“Mm, she is,” Wanda nodded, pulling away for you both to catch your breath. “And so well behaved.”

When you were allowed to see again you were rewarded with the sight of Wanda above you, her upper body bare and her fingers wrapped around the neck of the glass bottle. Natasha held onto your jaw and took in the sight of your pleading eyes when you watched Wanda take a drink, wiping her lips that glistened afterwards.

“Open up,” the redhead rasped, forcing your jaw to slacken with a rough digging of her nails into your skin before taking the bottle for herself to hold it above you. The harshness of the alcohol burned your throat when you swallowed it down, choking on the liquid she forced into your throat. You drank as best you could from where you lay and the women laughed at the way it made your eyes water as it dribbled from your lips, wetting your chin and your neck where it trickled down.

“Messy girl,” Natasha laughed before claiming your lips with a dominant kiss, licking the excess with a hum; the way her tongue glided over the thin skin of your throat to clean you up and her teeth sucked marks into your flesh made you shudder. You were so consumed by her actions that you were hardly aware of Wanda moving to your side, taking her new place with a hand cupping your bare cunt.

You moaned into her mouth at the finger that slid through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance and flicking over your clit.

“She’s soaked,” Wanda muttered, easing a finger into you as Natasha pulled away to rid herself of her clothing. “Mommy and daddy got you wet, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, lifting your hips into the hand that toyed with your throbbing clit. “Fuck, mommy, please,” you whined, craving a firmer touch than what she was giving. Your hands grasped the pillow in your fists, desperate for more and itching to touch her - to pull her into you.

“So needy,” Natasha spoke from across the room. You craned your neck to catch a glimpse of her, her naked body situating a strap-on around her hips. “We caught you, sweetheart. So take what we give you.”

“Yes, daddy,” you all but whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Wanda was feeling generous, especially considering your obedient behaviour, so pushed two svelte digits into your wanting hole, rubbing your bud with the pad of her thumb perfectly. You sighed at the way her rhythm never faltered, how the curling of her fingers felt so sublime. The other woman watched intently, made ravenous by the scene playing out in front of her; your pussy taking fast-moving fingers hungrily, covering them with the glistening slick between your legs.

Both of the older women listened to the sounds pulled from you, the ramblings of their titles uttered into the room, and the lewd, wet sound of your cunt getting filled with Wanda’s fingers. Your pathetic body that squirmed at the pleasurable touch made them ache for you, their own wetness pooling. Natasha kneeled between your legs, creeping her hands under your shirt to palm at your tits, pulling your pert nipples with the fast-paced beating of your heart beneath her hands.

“Cum all over your mommy’s fingers,” she uttered, scraping her teeth over the soft skin of your belly. “Bet you’re so desperate to get your pretty cunt fucked by your daddy, hm?” she asked, huffing a laugh at your feeble whimper and the nod you gave her. “Pathetic little fucktoy.”

The words washed over you with your orgasm closely following before Wanda finally came into sight again with her tongue licking her fingers clean and her naked, sopping cunt against you where she straddled your waist.

Natasha soon directed her attention to the other woman, putting on a show that you enjoyed. Her hands grabbed at her breasts and her lips trailed over her neck with Wanda moaning out at the suck to her pulsepoint. Blunt nails trailed down her sides before a musing fingertip made its way to her slit to find the wetness you’d created - she knew that she was the same.

Wanda yearned for your mouth but the way you stared up at them was too entertaining to pass up the opportunity to prolong it a little further; they let their moans fall onto your ears and Wanda leaned over you teasingly to grab the bottle from the bedside table beside your head. She offered a drink to the woman behind her who took a sip before she did the same, taking another before hovering her face above yours.

She prised your mouth open forcefully before releasing the harsh liquid past your lips; vodka pooled on your tongue in a possessive mix with her saliva.

“Put your filthy mouth to use, little doll,” she murmured before making her way further up your body to position her cunt above your lips. Whilst she sunk down onto your face, Natasha nudged her cock against your hole, easily inching into you with how dripping you were. She was relentless with the immediate thrusts she fucked you with, rough snapping of her hips burying her dick into you as she played with her own clit. Both women were desperate for their release - their perfect little prey had them aching and wanting.

Your tongue lapped at her pussy with her sweet taste filling your mouth, lips latched around her swollen bud with a suck that made her moan out your name. One hand held her body upright with a white-knuckled grasp on the headboard, whilst the other gave the same treatment to your wrists, pushing them down with the weight of her body. She kept the antsy moving of your fingers still, loving the way you so desperately wanted to touch her.

The walls of your pussy pulled Natasha’s cock into you and she reveled in the feeling, the wanton rutting of your bucking hips that searched for your climax. The way she held onto you was guaranteed to leave fingertip-sized bruises in its wake; she’d kiss the forming marks later on before diving in to taste you and she’d watch Wanda do the same.

“You’re taking me so well,” she grunted out, biting into her bottom lip at the nearness of her release. “Your greedy pussy belongs to us,” she added, making you moan against Wanda’s pussy. The vibrations elicited a high-pitched moan above you and a quickening of the grinding of her cunt into your lips.

“God, you’re doing so good, honey,” she stuttered. “So close. Fuck, make your mommy cum.”

You could hear Natasha’s grunts of pleasure and you knew she was close; the heat of it all urged on the tongue that played with Wanda’s clit, that swallowed every drop of her as your own release soaked your daddy’s cock.

You basked in the loud moan you pulled from the woman atop you, riding her through her orgasm as she filled your mouth with her distinctly sweet taste; you drank it down like honey, gifted to you by the perfect woman who mumbled your name. It wasn’t much longer until Natasha’s grip grew even harsher as she came, riding herself through her high with no regard to the sensitive cunt she fucked into.

You were just their little toy for the night and you’d take anything they threw your way no matter how painful. Even when, hours later, you were a whimpering and incoherent mess you’d just bathe in their attention.

#natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff

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lalacliffthorne · 7 months

Text

when Azriel has a bad day and the library floor suddenly looks very comfy.

(urgh, the cuteness. these modern!batboy drabbles are really only purely self-indulgent at this point.)

Frowning at the pages of the book in my hand, I looked down at the notes on my laptop that was sitting on the floor next to me.

Well, this didn't sound right.

There was a soft chuckle, and when I raised my head, Rhys sent me a light grin.

"You good?"

I grimaced softly and looked down onto my notes. "Ask me again later."

Snorting lightly under his breath, Rhys turned back towards his laptop.

The library was quiet as usual, the golden autumn sun flooding through the windows above. I had stumbled upon the quiet corner in the archeology section about a year ago. Hidden between shelves, it was a place no one rarely ever came. It's where Rhys had found me about two hours ago, sitting crosslegged on the ground and chewing on a pen as I stared at my laptop, books open next to me. Now, he was leaning against the shelves opposite of me, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he typed away on his laptop, the quiet rapid noises of his fingers hitting the keys the only sounds floating around us beside soft whispers coming from the work places on the other side of the aisles.

Shifting a little as I turned a page, I saw a tall, dark figure turn the corner from the corner of my eye, their footsteps nearly silent on the carpeted floors as they approached. Rhys stretched his shoulders and looked up from his laptop, and I furrowed my brows, slowly placing my finger on a sentence to mark my spot.

I was just about to raise my head when a backpack was dropped to the ground right next to me, followed by a wave of a familiar scent washing over me that smelled of pine and cedar, both comforting and addicting, and my heart missed a beat.

I looked up, and with a soft groan, Azriel plopped onto the ground, stretching out on the carpeted floor and dropping his head onto my thigh before closing his eyes.

My heart skipped and stilled as I stared down at his face.

Suddenly, my breath was hitching a little as I felt the warmth of him seep through the material of my pants, and my lips parted softly as something began to flutter quickly against my ribs.

Azriel's dark hair was tousled like he'd ran his hands through it, his brows crunched together even with his eyes closed, a hard set to his jaw.

Rhys huffed a chuckle, and I blinked, somehow managing to quickly rip my gaze away from Azriel's face.

"What's with you?" Closing his laptop a little, Rhys leaned back against the side of the shelves, considering Azriel with a barely there smirk that made his eyes twinkle strangely.

Az gave a soft grunt, but his scowl smoothed over a little, the hint of a soft crease forming in his cheek.

Gently nudging his head by moving my leg a little, I felt my lips curve into a soft, crooked smile.

"You okay?"

Azriel breathed out, his shoulders pressing against my thigh when he shifted a little to get more comfortable. Then he arched a brow without opening his eyes, and his deep voice caused something in my chest to tip over when he mumbled: "Shit day."

Something shifted a little in my chest, and I felt my lips twitch softly as I squinted down at him.

"You sure the library is the place to change that?"

Azriel cracked open an eye to send me a glare, but there was the softest trace of a twinkle in his amber iris when he mumbled, his low voice slow and quiet: "Maybe it is for me, smart-ass."

"Maybe it's the library, maybe it's something else..." Rhys trailed off, a shit-eating smirk tugging at his lips, and Azriel turned his head to the side to stare at him, this time a lot less gentle. The look in his eyes would have probably sent quite a few people staggering, but Rhys' smirk just widened. He sent Azriel a light wink, then he threw a look at his watch and sighed.

"I'm gonna go, I need to get some stuff for dinner." Closing his laptop, he slid it into his backpack, getting to his feet and dusting off his jeans as he raised his brows. "I'm making pasta, so you two better be on time for dinner."

Azriel grunted lightly, I saluted sarcastically, and Rhys huffed, nudging my foot gently before making his way past us, kicking Azriel's boot a little less soft. Without opening his eyes, Az flipped him off, and Rhys snickered softly, then he raised a hand in goodbye and disappeared around the corner.

"Shithead,", Azriel mumbled under his breath, and I giggled, shifting to lean back a little more comfortably.

For a second, I hesitated, then I looked down at him.

"Sure you okay?"

Azriel breathed out slowly at my soft question, but one corner of his lips curved just gently enough for me to see it.

"Already better."

My eyes flickered over his face for another second, the sharp line of his jaw that seemed to have lost some of its tightness, the scatter of barely there freckles on the bridge of his nose and the small crunch of his brows. Then I blinked and turned back towards my book.

Furrowing my brows at the page, I nearly grumbled under my breath.

There was a soft, amused huff.

"Sure you're okay?"

Azriel's deep voice made my heart skip softly; and my gaze flickered back down towards him, but his eyes were still closed, even though the crease in his cheek had deepend a little.

Grumbling, I turned my eyes back towards my book.

"My notes aren't right. Which doesn't make any sense, because this is literally the only part I'm sure I understood."

A soft sound left Azriel that almost sounded like a snorted chuckle. Then he shifted a little in the spot, relaxing more against the side of my thigh as he mumbled: "Explain it to me, maybe then it'll make sense."

I blinked, something hopping a little in my chest when I looked down at him.

"Are you sure? I mean, it's not exactly your area of expertise."

Azriel huffed. "Ouch."

My heart dipped a little, and I was about to open my mouth hastily when I caught the way his lips curved upwards at the side.

Something skipped high against my ribs, and I quickly smacked his forehead with my book. Azriel crunched his nose and mumbled "Ow.", but the crease didn't leave his cheek.

"Shithead,", I grumbled, and a quiet chuckle left Azriel, so deep and warm, my breath hitched a little.

"I meant if you'd have to explain it, maybe you'll see where you got it twisted." Azriel's lips curved when he cracked open an eye to look up at me, and there was a twinkle in his amber iris, golden spots dancing, making something swerve under my ribs.

Slowly, my lips rose on their own accord until I had to fight a stupidly bright smile as I raised my brows.

"Fine, but if I'll bore you to death, it's on you."

Azriel closed his eyes again with an amused huff, and breathing out, I leaned back against the wall. Something rose under my ribs, and I threw him a look.

"Thanks,", I mumbled softly.

The crease in Azriel's cheek deepend.

"You're welcome." His quiet, amused voice sent a gentle tingle down my spine, and inhaling soundlessly, I turned back towards my book.

An afterthought hit me, and I blinked, raising my head. "Crap, Rhys was supposed to be my ride."

"Good thing then I got another helmet,", Azriel mumbled, and my heart skipped quick.

"Please don't tell me you're running around with double protective gear again -" I felt my lips rise into a wide beaming grin, and Az scowled lightly and reached up, my breath hitching when his warm fingers wrapped around my wrist, his scarred skin rough against mine when he gently tugged my hand with the book up from my lap.

"Just start, smart-ass."

Giggling softly under my breath, I turned my eyes towards the pages. Breathing out and feeling something flutter against my ribs, warm and quick, I started talking softly. Azriel's hand slowly slipped from my wrist, and I thought I felt him exhale, the crease between his brows softening slowly as little by little, some of the tension bled from his frame.

Stepping out into the slightly crisp air, I breathed in deeply, holding my face into the low sun.

"Any wishes for your birthday?"

Scrunching my brows, I blinked before looking over my shoulder in confusion, and my heart skipped a little.

Azriel squinted into the low sun, the light causing his eyes to glow like amber as the cool breeze brushed through his tousled hair and the doors to the library closed behind him.

"Why?" I tipped my head back to look up at him.

One corner of his lips curved into a smirk, and Azriel let the armored jacket slide off his arm, his eyes twinkling a little as he draped it over my shoulders. "Cause it's time you get one of these that fits."

My breath hitched, and the curve of Azriel's lips deepend as his eyes dragged over my face. Then he stepped past me, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he began to easily make his way towards the parking lot. The smell of his cologne slowly rose into my nose, and my heart skipped against my ribs.

"Cass says it looks cute!", I called after him, squinting into the sun, and Azriel turned around, walking backwards leisurely as he stared at me. The sun made his eyes glow like gold as slowly, a crease appeared in his cheek. Then he called back, his deep voice vibrating through me: "You don't need the jacket for that."

Something dipped in my chest, swerving and screeching to an abrupt halt, and I felt my lips part.

Azriel's eyes moved over mine, then he huffed softly, his cheek creasing a little more, and he turned back around.

My heart rose in a flutter, and feeling a ridiculously wide smile suddenly threatening to break over my face, I started to follow after him, Azriel's too big jacket heavy on my shoulders as I squinted into the warm, golden sun, feeling something thrum firm and steady against my ribs.

@azrielshadows1nger @waytoomanyteenagefeels @knmendiola @luvmoo @azriels-mate123 @bookishbroadwaybish @maybe-a-winchester @stayinglow-exploringworlds

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rae-writes · 2 years

Text

the first time—

obey me boys x reader

wc : 3.k

warnings : mild mc injuries, reference to lesson 16 (belphie)

synopsis : a collection of firsts with your pining boys + Luke cause I adore hims (and minus asmo)

a/n : why asmo isn’t included : here

Lucifer

the first time you felt his bare touch

Solomon’s new potion experiment made you sick : feverish, sluggish, barely being able to walk without stumbling. You definitely shouldn’t have tested it for him during RAD, because now you were disoriented, and leaned up against the hallway wall when you should be in class.

Lithe fingers grabbed your jaw gently, sending shivers down your body; their touch was cold and soft...comforting. It felt nice.

Without bothering to open your eyes, your own hand came up to grasp theirs. You leaned into the touch and let out a miserable noise. A deep, familiar, chuckle made you snap your eyes open.

Lucifer stood in front of you with an amused, albeit concerned, smile on his face. “Mc, it seems you’re running a fever.”

But you weren’t focused on his words, no. You were focused on his ungloved hand. You trailed your fingers across the exposed skin, running over each of his digits before you noticed his nails.

Red. His nails were red. Of course they were red. The sight alone made you smile, and against your better judgment, you pulled his hand up to place kisses on each of his fingertips.

Ruby eyes widened slightly at your action, body forcibly repressing shivers and the stupid blush that wanted to crawl up his face. “Mc.”

“Let’s just stay here for a bit, please.” You knew he could fix your sickness with a snap of his fingers, but... “Wanna feel your touch.”

And maybe Lucifer shouldn’t get in the habit of spoiling you, but you’re pouting and nuzzling into his hand, and he can’t deny the pride swelling in his chest because you’d rather be sick and miserable than have him pull away and tug his glove back on.

“Of course.”

(As he slid down the wall to sit on the floor with you, he made the fever disappear anyway. Your bright smile made missing class worth it, especially when you tugged off his other glove and rested your face in his hands.)

Mammon

the first time you kissed him

“Thank you, Mammon.”

Your soft tone had him looking up from your rather poorly bandaged wrist, eyebrows furrowed, “Y-yeah, of c-course.” His mouth was pulled into a frown as he finished up. How could he have been so careless? He should’ve been standing closer to you. He should’ve gotten up even after he slipped and protected you. He should’ve-

“Mammon?”

Blue eyes snapped up, meeting your worried e/c hues. Fuck, it made his heart lurch. “Next time I’m gonna be the one that saves you. Me. Not Lucifer, not anyone else. A-and if I can’t save you, your only other choice is to die! It’s me or no one!”

You nodded softly, gaze never straying from his. “You or no one.”

He nodded back absentmindedly, not wanting to ruin the atmosphere with his stupid fumbling. Faintly, he recognizes that Beel could be coming back at any second, but when your hand brushes against his cheek he can’t help but lean closer.

“You’re so sweet, Mammon…” you cradled his face with both hands now, gently pulling him forward, “My best first man.” your lips slotted over his hesitantly and just a bit clumsily.

His heart nearly shot out of his chest at the way you were being so soft with him— a demon. So he reciprocates the kiss just as softly, if not a little more firmly. And he could almost float back to the celestial realm with how light he feels when you press just a little closer to him.

(And yeah he’s greedy, he’s the fucking avatar of greed, so Mammon doesn’t feel bad in the slightest when your phone starts buzzing with incoming texts from Levi. He just pulls you in closer, makes you stay with him just a bit longer because now he’s addicted to the feel of your kiss.)

Levi

the first time you linked hands

When you heard there was going to be a ball during your retreat at the Demon Lord’s Castle, you were excited! You enjoyed the thought of getting to dress up and dance like the fairy tales, but the actual thing had you feeling nervous; there were so. many. people. Demons, really, but that actually made it worse.

And after being politely threatened by Lucifer (again), you and your now very much aching hand were ready to curl up and disappear. But that wasn’t an option, so you wandered around close to the walls until a gentle touch made you stop.

“M-mc?” Levi’s tail had curled around your wrist while he stood shifting his weight around. As his hand moved to brush against yours, he didn’t make a single sound, choosing instead to ask his question silently.

‘D-do you w-want to h-h-hold my h-hand?’

Even though he wasn’t speaking, you could still hear his cute, nervous stuttering clear as day in your mind; it makes you smile and step closer. Your pinky wraps around his in a ‘yes’, feeling grateful he noticed your discomfort.

Levi jolts, having been prepared to get rejected. His face burns with an alarming red but he slowly intertwines all your fingers together nonetheless. Almost instinctively, his thumb begins rubbing circles over yours, “D-do you f-feel better y-yet?”

You did. Even the ache Lucifer caused in your hand seemed to dull at his bashful smile. “Yes, Levi. Thank you.”

He nodded, pushing down the urge to curl up and hide away when you squeezed his hand, making him jolt again. The sound of your fond laughter sent him reeling and he awkwardly squeezed back just to hear it again and again.

(He can feel his palms growing sweaty as the time passes, and Levi is all but amazed you seem to not care. Your fingers stay tangled with his, palms never breaking contact, even if you have to tug one another clumsily so you can walk around another guest without letting go. It makes Levi all fuzzy and warm— and he’s pretty sure it’s not just because it’s getting hot in the ballroom.)

Satan

the first time you genuinely smiled at him

It had been nearly a week since you, Lucifer, Mammon, and Satan returned home from the fiasco in London. Things were good between you and the fourth born, much to his delight. He wasn’t expecting it since he did try to attack you before the trip, even if he already apologized for it.

A ‘I’ve actually gotten pretty used to it?’ was thrown out before you were dragging him down to dinner by his sleeve. Being in the devildom, Satan supposes he should be glad that you aren’t giving such severe reactions to these things like you were when you first arrived (the ordeal with Lucifer and the grimoire was another thing entirely), but he still feels as though he should make up for losing his cool.

He decided on asking what your favorite book is so he can get himself a copy to read and then get you a copy of his favorite book in return. As he sat reading, waiting for you to arrive, he failed to notice your presence in the doorway until you rapped your knuckles on the wood.

Placing his bookmark, Satan stood up, excited to give you his gift when he had the breath stolen from him. You hadn’t moved but now you were holding up a lanyard, a familiar chocolate lizard attached, with a beaming smile.

His fingers clutched at his identical keychain, one he’d tied to his favorite bookmark. You’d noticed. It made you happy. You were smiling at him. He’d never seen such genuineness directed at him from you and the sight itself, the feeling of being on the receiving end of it, made him beam right back as he held out the book for you.

(And when you settle down beside him on the common room couch, immersed in reading the book he’d gotten you- his favorite- Satan can’t resist peering over the top of his own book to take in your reactions. Because when you smile at the story, it almost feels like you’re still smiling at him.)

Beel

the first time you cooked for him, only him

[HoL gc; Beel] :(. :((. :(((. :((((.

[HoL gc; Lucifer] Put your D.D.D down and rest. We’ll bring you something after school.

You frowned at Beel’s obvious misery, knowing the sickness had to be bad if he couldn’t make it to school. The thought of him with a fever, bedridden and being unable to get food from the fridge- and possibly not even being able to keep it down- made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

[Mc] Stay in bed for me, bub.

Beel whined pitifully at your text, stomach rumbling and head aching. “Mc…” he rolled over, arms moving to cover his face when yours popped in his vision. “M-mc?” Despite being confused at your presence, he tugged you closer to his feverish body.

“Hi, bubs. ‘M here. Not goin’ anywhere, okay?” Rubbing a cool rag over his face, neck, and chest, you smiled down at him reassuringly, “You smell that? I brought you some food. Cooked it just for you.”

His sense of smell was severely dulled from the sickness, but at the mention of your cooking, he sniffed a couple times until he could pick up the faint aroma, “Just f-for me? You should be in school…Lucifer’s going to get mad.”

You shook your head, dismissing his worries, “Shh. I left to cook some ‘feel better’ food for my favorite red-head. Ain’t no better reason to skip than that, now here. Try and eat as much as you can- it should all be easy on your stomach.”

He sips at the soup first, eyeing the rest of the dishes he easily made out as popular human world remedies. Beel’s stomach growls in appreciation and his heart beats two times faster, “Thank you, Mc! Eat some with me?”

(The Fangol game on friday he had to get better for was forgotten as you sat by his side and shared food. Your insistence to let him eat first, and the majority, made his cheeks flush hotter than the fever. Food tastes better when he could eat it with you and it tasted even better when you made it for him…stay with him until he gets better. And all the days after, too.)

Belphie

the first time you hugged him (again)

“Stupid Lucifer and his stupid lectures and stupid face-“

You bit your lip to keep from grinning as you rounded the corner and peeked into the planetarium. “Belphie?” The sight of a tail flicking angrily made you snort.

He turned, lips pursed in a pout and eyebrows furrowed, “What?”

A smile finally tugged at your lips, hand coming up to smooth back his hair, being mindful of his horns. The shocked expression you received was amusing and you couldn’t help but laugh, “Aww.”

“D-don’t ‘aww’ at me!” Belphie’s face flushed as he shook his head, making his hair fall back into place. The loss of warmth from your touch made him frown, “What do you want?”

You sighed at his tense stature. “Lucifer can be a jerk sometimes. Don’t worry about him.” Your arms wrapped around his waist tightly in a hug; he felt…good.

Meanwhile Belphie ran stiff as a board, eyes widening comically and mouth dropping open. This feeling…he remembered it— he’s craved it ever since-

“You did it! You actually did it! I’m free now!” His chest felt weird and fuzzy when you jumped into his open arms, laughing with him, though he didn’t dwell on the feeling for long.

A quiet gasp escaped him when you began to pull back, arms instinctively curling around you, “Don’t. Stay.”

And you did.

(The warmth spreading through his body was almost too hot, but Belphie revels in it because you’re hugging him— even after what happened last time. He thinks he can get used to the burn if it means you won’t let go.)

Diavolo

the first time you treated him like a real friend

The student council hall was quiet. The demons already present were taking the time to enjoy the rare silence when the door slammed open rather obnoxiously.

“DIA!”

The Prince of Hell jumped. His head whipped around, jaw on the floor, and his sparkling eyes almost missed the way you were drenched from head to toe. Almost. “Oh dear, what happened, Mc?”

Listen to that worried tone. It’s like he wasn’t throwing a party inside his brain.

Before Lucifer could open his mouth and scold you, your arms were stretched out towards the Prince with a pout on your face. “The Little D’s threw water balloons at me…” you tilted your head, “They said you told them to!”

Uh-oh. “It seems they mistook my instructions for Lucifer for you instead…I’m terribly sorry, Mc.”

A grin graced Barbatos’ features, “Perhaps next time you should not talk about them both at the same time.”

“Yes, yes-“ Diavolo wasn’t listening. He was too busy shrugging his coat off and draping it around you, “I am truly sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”

You gave a sly smile, “Just stand still please.”

“Stand still-?!” A red water balloon hit the prince smack in the chest. Coldness spread across his chest as the liquid seeped into his shirt, but his chest had never felt warmer. No one would ever dare to do anything of the sort to him, the prince, but you…you did it with a smile.

He likes your smile.

(Diavolo couldn’t help himself when he lifted you in the air, spinning you around with a booming laugh that was reciprocated sweetly. Friendship was the stepping stone to becoming even closer with you, and if he has to endure Lucifer and Barbatos’ lectures to do that, he’ll do it a thousand times if it’s for you.)

Barbatos

the first time you helped him work

Lucifer had caught you on your way home from RAD, asking if you’d rather come with him to the Demon Lord’s Castle (Levi accidentally summoned Lotan again so he and everyone else were cleaning up and the first born thought he’d spare you the headache.)

So you arrived with Lucifer in tow (you wanted to knock), giving the prince and Barbatos quite the delight. You stayed behind with the latter, as Lucifer and Diavolo had business to discuss, and happily followed him to the kitchen.

“Been working on any new sweets, Barb?” You eye the empty icing bowls on the counter, shimmying past the demon to scoop some onto your finger.

He chuckles, “I have. The only thing left to do is pipe the designs on.” Barbatos was used to you watching him bake, so he was a bit puzzled when you began to collect the dirty dishes from around the kitchen instead.

You hummed as you danced around the demon to reach the sink. Small bubbles floated up as piled the dishes up in the water, making you giggle.

“Mc?” Barbatos places down the icing pipe and makes his way over to you, “What are you doing?”

“Washing dishes? You’ll have to go take their tea up to them in a bit and I know you wanted to get those cookies decorated, so I thought I’d help out!”

Green eyes softened, lips curling into a small smile. “How thoughtful of you.”

(Barbatos has never failed to deliver the young master’s tea in the millennia he’s been his steward, but for today, the butler hopes his master won’t mind. He’d truly hate to have to miss out on your cheerful face as you blew soap bubbles at him.)

Simeon

the first time you saw his wings

The grip you had on Simeon’s hand only got tighter as the group of demons stalked closer. Normally you wouldn’t worry- you weren’t helpless and you had an angel with you- but there were just so many of them with nowhere to go.

Lower level demons, but they were smart enough to know they needed to gang up on the devildom’s human and their angel pet. “What’s with those looks? Not gonna call for help?” One of the taller demons shifted and lashed their tail at your face, slicing your cheek open.

Simeon saw red. His hand ripped from yours as he moved to stand in front of you, eyes narrowed dangerously. “Tch.” White wings sprouted from his back, spanning out to their full length; they glowed brightly, sending every demon in the vicinity scrambling.

“Simeon…”

The angel tensed at your quiet tone, head craning around to watch you shuffle around. Were you scared? Was he too frightening? Did he accidentally hurt you? “Mc-”

“They’re beautiful.” Awe filled eyes gazed at him with adoration, “You’re beautiful.” Your hand stretched out absentmindedly, a smile stretching across your face when his wing extended toward you.

Meanwhile, Simeon was floored. Your reaction, your smile, the gentle way you caressed his wings- it was all dizzying and rejuvenating at the same time. Father help him, he seriously considered you were the angel instead.

“Oh-! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to touch them! Angel wings are probably sacred or something-” You moved to pull your hand back, but lithe fingers wrapped around your wrist, preventing yours from leaving his feathers.

“Please, touch them as much as you like.”

(Seeing an angel’s wings, much less touching them, was sacred. Simeon couldn’t bring himself to care, though. He’d kneel before you if you wanted him to- fuck he was so smitten with you. Corrupt him, do what you wish, just don’t make him go without the feel of your touch.)

Solomon

the first time you told him you missed him

You clutched the phone tighter when Mammon hung up, letting out a sigh. When it buzzed again, this time with texts, you checked half-heartedly before getting excited at the name displayed.

[Solomon] Hey. How are you doing? It’s been a while.

[Mc] It sucks. This sucks. I miss the Devildom.

[Solomon] Do you now? By the way, Mc, I can’t help wondering…

“When were you gonna mention how much you miss me?” Solomon's lips pull into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen him have, “Surprise! You didn’t expect this, did you?”

You drop your D.D.D and throw your arms around his neck, bubbly laugh echoing through the street, “Solomon! I missed you so fucking much, holy shit, you’re actually here!”

The sorcerer stood, lips parted in shock, and arms raised in the air slightly. He could feel your warmth seeping through his clothes and for just a moment, Solomon forgot all he knew about self-restraint and snaked his arms around you tightly.

Jumping up to wrap your legs around his waist, you laughed even harder when he stumbled back slightly from the added weight. You knew Solomon had to be absolutely shell-shocked; the two of you never got affectionate like this with one another before (slightly due to the brothers butting in) but you just…

“Missed me a lot, huh? I must admit, I wasn’t expecting this kind of reaction.” He leaned back to show you his smile- and the rare baby pink blush that dusted over his cheeks.

The sight made you swoon, “Well I did. I missed you. Badly.”

(When Solomon put you down, the warmth faded away too fast for his liking. His fingers twitched at his sides, lips pulling into a slight frown before he was reaching out for you, tugging you back into his arms. The Devildom could wait for a little while longer— Solomon wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.)

Luke

the first time you made him speechless

The young Angel didn’t like to admit to having nightmares. While he obviously knew it was something everyone- no matter the age- could suffer from, he still didn’t want to burden anyone with his ‘childish’ dreams. Tonight had been especially bad though, and Luke’s resolve finally cracked; he found himself seeking your reassurance without thinking.

[11:29pm] Mc, are you awake? I had a nightmare…

Luke tells himself he’s stupid- of course you’re asleep! It’s a school night and he shouldn’t be bothering you. He forces himself to lay back down, trying to shoo away the disappointment in his chest.

[11:45pm] Luke! Come open the door!!

Luke stares at his phone for a few seconds before he’s scrambling quietly to the front door, “Mc?! W-what are you doing here?!”

“You said you had a nightmare, right? I brought my clothes and stuff for school tomorrow so we could have a little sleepover! Being with someone else always helps me after I have a nightmare.”

Blue eyes stare in disbelief as you easily make your way through the halls, heading straight towards his room. He’s silent the entire time, watching you settle into his bed, piling up the covers comfortably before patting the spot beside you. And as Luke slips back under the blankets and cuddles into your side, he hears you humming a soft tune and refuses to open his mouth in fear of interrupting you after you’ve come all this way— just because he had a nightmare.

‘Mc…thank you.’

(Simeon comes to wake Luke up after not seeing him in the kitchen for breakfast and pauses, lips curling into a grin. You're wrapped around Luke like a barrier against the outside world, intent on protecting him, even in your sleep. He figures he should quickly text Lucifer though, before he has to deal with the wrath of 7 brothers when they figure out their Mc disappeared in the night.)

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luveline · 10 months

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991

The air here smells like sulphur.

After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind.

Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down.

Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell.

"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle.

You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable.

At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders.

His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket.

"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things.

You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.

The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde.

Probably.

You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight.

You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.

You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open.

You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.

Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection.

Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream.

The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout.

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin.

You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts.

"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask.

"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend."

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly.

"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–"

You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to.

"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch.

Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down.

"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls."

"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that."

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!"

"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?"

"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath.

You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour".

Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.

The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make.

Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't.

You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it.

Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders.

Or when you're with Eddie.

As you stupidly told him.

What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him.

Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady.

People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here.

You want to see him again.

What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea.

If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog…

You grip the door.

You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you?

It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest.

I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?

The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush.

Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside.

"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."

You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?"

"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet."

"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."

Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit."

Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep."

She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed."

She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat.

"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?"

"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around.

You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts.

"I'll see what I can do," she says.

Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again.

You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up.

"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?"

You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on?

"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?"

"And is he expecting your call?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who's calling?"

"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful.

"Hold please."

You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck–

"Transferring now."

You hold your breath.

The phone clicks twice.

"Hi?"

"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.

"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?"

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N."

"Hey. How's Florida?"

You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.

"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot."

"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"

You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine."

You can still save it.

"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask.

Wrong.

"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!"

"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you.

"Okay, good."

You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.

"How's Houston?"

"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here."

You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.

"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket."

You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.

"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says.

You know exactly what he means.

You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person.

Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit.

"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask."

"Yeah? That's not how I remember it."

"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?"

"I should hang up on you."

"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises.

"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time."

"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”

“Where’s the question?”

“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”

You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power.

“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”

“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark.

“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”

The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up.

“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks.

“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”

Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

“No? What was it?”

“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”

“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat.

“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks.

You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"

“Uh…”

“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”

“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”

“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.

“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”

You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”

You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?

Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought.

Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak.

“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.

“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”

You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”

“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”

“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”

Another patch of silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”

“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true.

“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”

You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.

“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says.

“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”

“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”

You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”

He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”

A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it.

He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”

And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”

Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this.

He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar.

Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter.

He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she?

He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them.

Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it.

He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.

“Hi,” you say.

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.

“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”

“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him.

“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”

“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say.

“Ditto.”

You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”

Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small.

“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”

Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed.

“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”

“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful.

Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”

You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes.

Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips.

“Will you share it with me?”

He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too.

Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough.

“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes.

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”

“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed.

He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare.

It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand.

“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”

He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better.

“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says.

Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart.

“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”

“The fans,” Eddie repeats.

He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play.

And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another.

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says.

“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”

“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before.

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.

“Can I just sit here a while?”

“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder.

Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.

Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate.

“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks.

He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.

“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”

Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes.

“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”

“I see.”

You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”

“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.

Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips.

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest.

He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart.

Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth.

“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”

“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”

“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile.

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”

Your answering hum tickles.

“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest.

“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”

“You're not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.

“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask.

“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”

You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze.

“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair.

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says.

He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier.

“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.”

You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing.

“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.

“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience."

You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips.

Eddie could get used to this.

—

Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991

There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself.

“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath.

There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance.

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”

You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge.

“Are you looking for something new?” you ask.

If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged.

“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”

You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV.

“You’re too busy,” you finish.

“I'm way too busy.”

There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing.

Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else.

You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do.

You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner.

Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry.

You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl.

"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out.

You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you.

"For what?" he asks.

"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock."

"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment."

"No, at the store."

Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you.

"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."

Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it."

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.

"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame."

"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time."

"Nerd."

"Loser."

He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty.

You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit.

"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks.

"They'll have yours."

Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine."

"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.

"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena."

You gawp at him. "You did not."

"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs.

"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it."

Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away.

"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time."

"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say.

"You don't think you would?"

"I'm not really tenured."

"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable."

"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing.

"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together.

You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU.

"What do I play?" you ask.

"Anything."

"That's not helpful."

"Something fun," he says.

Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline.

Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor.

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate.

"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard."

"I'm telling people you said that."

You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus.

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks.

"No."

"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song."

"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously."

You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest."

"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home.

You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face.

You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation.

The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part.

It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.

You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking?

His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that."

"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head.

"No, you worked hard. There's a difference."

His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should.

"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel.

Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval.

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks.

"What do you know?"

"God, I know everything. You should know that."

"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention."

He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss.

You're in awe.

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle.

"S'what I get for trying to show off."

He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that.

"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.

"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself.

You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away.

He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer.

You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks.

The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip.

"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be."

He licks his lips. "You're cool."

You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do.

"I'm worried about people finding out about us."

"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us."

It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely.

"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?"

"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer.

"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it."

He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain.

"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive."

"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded."

"Let's go back to when you didn't like me."

"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?"

"No," you mumble.

"Oh. Good."

"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask.

"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on."

"They've clocked on."

"Cruel!" he says, delighted.

"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?"

"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe."

"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh.

"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up."

The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly.

"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–"

"What am I getting into?"

"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this."

He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this."

Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl.

"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you."

"But I don't get that, we don't get along."

"What do you call this?" he asks.

You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky.

"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you."

"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness.

You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure.

"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want."

You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying.

"Okay," you breathe.

He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice."

"You're not on thin ice."

"I should be."

Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it."

"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod.

A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one.

"What's for dinner?" you ask.

Eddie smiles.

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?"

Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing.

You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love.

He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession.

"I miss you," he'd said.

You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then."

So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something.

"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours.

He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.

Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank.

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer."

You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself.

Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?"

"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?"

"Is there any room?"

"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?"

He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath.

He whistles. Can't help himself.

You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur.

"Sorry. You're just pretty."

"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice."

He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–"

You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could.

He's messing with you. It's his prerogative.

Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried."

About what? he'd asked.

You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.

He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle.

It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie.

He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him.

"Don't push me away," he whines.

"Don't make fun of me."

"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that."

"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue.

"You don't like that word?"

You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do.

"You like Status Quo?" you ask.

He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?"

"Showaddywaddy?"

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes.

"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath.

"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily.

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party."

He hangs his head. "I was in a mood."

"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?"

Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember."

"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek.

"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating.

"Because you didn't know me."

You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?"

"Sweetheart, we met before."

Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more.

"We did," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."

You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.

I'll put you on the list.

"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something.

"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane."

He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–"

"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.

"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…"

"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other."

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah."

Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck.

"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you."

"You took your time," he says.

"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"

He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains.

He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip.

"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge.

"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says.

You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!"

"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?"

Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?"

You're already forgiven. "Three photos."

"Deal."

"Should've asked for five."

"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.."

Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–"

You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off."

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling.

"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them."

Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex.

"I've seen them," he disagrees.

"You have not."

"Have too."

"Have not."

"I'm seeing them right now."

You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape.

"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no."

He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks.

"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say.

Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?"

"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do."

Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated.

"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you."

"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently.

"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?"

You beam at him. "Right."

You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest.

The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears.

"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.

"It's really perfect," you say.

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss.

"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

He hadn't meant to ask like that.

You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.

—

The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features.

The camera clicks.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic

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dancingtotuyo · 4 days

Text

Part III

High Infidelity | Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: You and Joel hull the kids to the beach for a much needed vacation. Things begin to change.

Tags: Tommy x Reader, Joel x Reader, Tommy's Wife Reader, infidelity, emotional affair, slow burn (as much as you can get for 5 chapters), Tommy goes to jail, Reader has had a child

Warnings: Tommy being a shitty husband & father, Father's day celebration, cursing, consumption of alcohol, emotional affair/cheating, some physical boundaries crossed. Pining

Notes: Y'all know the drill by now, thanks to my loves @janaispunk for beta reading and @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for beta reading and providing me with some authentic prison information and inspiration, and @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

Words: 5273

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Daily Clicks for Palestine & Other resources

It’s June before you’re able to escape to the shore. You make it in just over 4 hours. It’s good timing considering the multiple bathroom stops you had to make. It’s a small house that probably hasn’t been renovated since Joel was there as a kid. It sits two blocks off the shore on stilts that make you feel secluded from the people that pass on the quiet street below, and when you stand on the porch, the salty sea breeze caresses your body as you let your eyes close. You can just make out the crash of ocean waves. You can feel the breeze carrying all your cares away.

Nate and Sarah excitedly explore the inside of the house. Their muted enthusiasm floating through the walls makes you smile. You’re thankful for this, thankful for Joel.

The sliding door opens and then shuts. You don’t move. It’s Joel. You know the sound of his footsteps, the way he moves through the world by heart. He settles against the railing, arm pressed against yours.

A smile spreads across your lips as your eyes open, landing on his. He smiles back. “Hard to enjoy the view with your eyes closed, Darlin.” His deep baritone rumbles smoothly. You see it in him too, the way the breeze carries away the wear and worry of the world.

“It’s peaceful out here.”

He nods. “Yeah, it is.”

“We should probably get back in there before the kids break something.”

Joel nudges you with his shoulder. “Don’t jinx us like that.”

“Our two? Unsupervised? That’s asking for it.”

“Our two?” A playful glint glimmers in Joel’s deep brown eyes. “My daughter is perfectly well behaved. It’s your little menace that’s the bad influence.”

“Oh my four year old is the bad influence?” You cross your arms, doing your best to keep the smile at bay.

“For sure- got his dad’s streak for mischief. My Sarah is a perfect angel.” He sticks his tongue out at you.

You roll your eyes, slapping his shoulder, but you don’t have a good response. He’s not wrong. Nathaniel knows how to get into places he shouldn’t. “I seem to recall an incident involving a ten pound bag of flour that says differently.”

Joel chuckles at the memory. Nathaniel was barely a week old when Sarah shrieked in the kitchen only for you to find her and the kitchen dusted in white powder. You had cried upon seeing it, postpartum hormones raging. Joel had cleaned your entire kitchen top to bottom.

“She felt so bad for making you cry,” Joel laughs.

“I think I scared her.”

The door opens again. Sarah and Nathaniel break out, rushing for your legs and begging to go to the beach.

You spend the next several days lazing on the sand, reading more than you have in years as you soak in the sun. The kids run around chasing seagulls and other creatures. Joel helps them catch waves on boogie boards. You both take them further out to ride the waves. Sarah’s arms clutch around Joel’s neck, and Nathaniel does the same to you. They build sandcastles and Joel digs holes big enough to bury them both.

At night, the kids are out by 8 o’clock if not earlier allowing you and Joel to sit out on the deck and drink. Your skin is warm from the constant sun. Joel’s cheeks are tinged pink on your third evening, his chest rosier. The salty air works at his hair, bringing out curls. You like this version of him a lot. You like this version of yourself too.

Your feet sit in his lap as he massages your legs and feet, calves worn out from lugging your belongings across the sand and back. He stares up at the sky, twilight bringing the first few stars with it. You sip your homemade margarita, Joel’s specialty, from a red solo cup.

“I shoulda brought my guitar. Only thing that could make this moment better,” he says.

You hum softly, shifting in your chair. “Wouldn’t be able to massage my feet if you had your guitar.”

He laughs, so easy, so relaxed. You can’t remember the last time things felt this good. “Don’t worry, you’d still get your massage.”

“Why didn’t you bring it?” You cock your head to the side.

“Wouldn’t fit in the car, miss over packer.”

You roll your eyes softly kicking at him. “We’ve used everything I packed. Speaking of which, what do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” You take another sip of your drink. Joel finds a knot in your calf, working it out as you let out a slight hiss.

Joel shrugs, carefully watching your reactions careful to inflict as little pain as possible. “Ask the kids.”

“It’s Father’s Day.”

“Kids like pancakes.” Joel sips from his own drink before returning to the knot.

“But you don’t.”

“Doesn’t matter what I like, Darlin.”

“Well, it does tomorrow.” You cross your arms.

Joel sighs rolling his eyes.

You narrow yours. “Don’t make me force it out of you. You know I will.”

He considers it a minute before deciding it’s a losing battle. “Those omelets you made for my birthday. I really liked those.”

You smile. “I can manage that.”

You sit in bed with Nathaniel the next morning to call Tommy. As early as possible is preferred, not that Tommy will care. He’s been blowing you off more, hardly talking when you call or visit, seemingly uninterested when you talk about Nate. It’s exhausting. You dread it, but you continue anyway.

It takes a while before Tommy’s voice comes through the speaker. You force an exaggerated smile to your face for Nathaniel’s sake. Daddy is an abstract being to him. “Hey babe. Happy Father’s Day!”

“Oh… that’s today?”

You push back the annoyance rising inside you. “Nate wants to say hello.” You hold the phone up to your four-year-old’s ear.

“Hello?” he says.

You can barely make Tommy’s pathetic response. He won’t even pretend for Nathaniel and that’s the unbearable part of all this.

“Happy Day!” Nathaniel says, taking hold of the receiver before he dives into updating his stranger of a father all about their beach vacation. Tommy stays quiet the whole time.

Rage begins to boil just under the surface. Before it can bubble over, Nathaniel says goodbye, shoving the phone into your chest and dashing out of the room the moment he hears Sarah moving around in the living room.

“Tommy?”

“Look, I need to go.”

You're not sure what’s worse. The hurt or the anger inside you. “I love you.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you on Friday.”

“Tommy.” It sounds like a scold. That’s exactly what it is.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Time for your wife and son?”

“You’re the one who called me.”

“Are you actually going to call on Friday? Or am I gonna end up sitting next to the phone all evening?”

You get silence.

“Tommy?”

“I’ll call.” And then the line goes dead.

You want to scream or yell or cry or all three. You settle for throwing a pillow across the room and giving yourself 5 minutes to cry. There may only be three months of this left, but you’re not sure you’ll actually be talking to your husband at the end of it, not that the two of you do any talking now.

Wiping your eyes, you make your way to the kitchen to start on Joel’s promised breakfast. Nathaniel and Sarah sit at the table comparing sea shells. “Aunt Bonnie?”

“Yes baby doll?” You smile, kissing her head.

“Which one would Daddy like on his card?” She points to a collection of about 5 shells.

“Hmmm,” you crouch down to her level, looking them over. “I think he would like any of them, but this one looks like him.” You point to a blue-grey shell.

She picks it up, inspecting it carefully. “It does look kinda grumpy like him.”

You laugh. That isn’t what you meant, but she wasn’t wrong. “I’m making omelets. What do y’all want in yours?”

The kids are digging into their breakfast when Joel walks out of his room, arms stretching above his head to reveal a little sliver of his tummy. Sarah quickly shoves her Father’s Day project under some magazines.

“Look who decided to wake up.” You smile over your shoulder. “Morning sleepy head.”

“One day of the year I get to sleep in.” He mumbles, shooting a teasing glare your way. He clocks your red eyes before you can turn away.

“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!” Sarah yells, standing on her chair to give Joel a hug. He chuckles, pulling her into his arms, spinning around, and setting her back on the chair with ease. She laughs.

“Thank you, baby girl.”

“Happy Day!” Nathaniel grins at his uncle.

“Father’s Day.” Sarah corrects. Nathaniel simply shrugs like he’d said the correct thing to begin with.

Joel chuckles, kissing his nephew’s cheek. “Thanks, Bud.”

You track his footsteps over to your side of the kitchen as you invest your full attention on the omelet in front of you. You know he caught your tear-stained eyes. “Fresh coffee in the pot,” You say, keeping your voice even.

You feel his full body heat behind you, a hand falls to your waist as he reaches into the cabinet next to the stove for a coffee mug. Something settles in your stomach.

“What did my idiot brother do now?” He keeps his voice low so the kids don’t overhear.

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Darlin.”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Your head snaps toward him. He’s right there, face so close to yours. Always nearby.

“You sure?”

You bristle a little bit. He drops his hand but stays in your space. “Not right now. We’re celebrating you this morning.” He smiles softly at you. “And I don’t want to burn your omelet, so scram.” You cock your head to the side.

He waits a second, searching for any signs he’s missing something. When he’s sure he isn’t, he gives you a soft smile and a tender kiss on the forehead, and steps over to the coffee pot, leaving you feeling warm and hazy.

The kids help clean up after breakfast. Sarah stands on a bench at the sink to wash dishes and Nathaniel waits patiently with a dish towel to dry the lighter dishes. You and Joel sit at the table, second and third cups of coffee in hand as you oversee their efforts.

“I think I’m going to enjoy this next phase of parenting,” Joel says with a long, content sigh.

You feel the easiness thrumming in your veins. Why couldn’t life always be this way? “Yeah if my anxiety about broken dishes or wet feet doesn’t get the better of me first.”

He chuckles softly, sipping from his mug as an easy silence falls between you. You watch the kids and Joel watches you. Sun pours through the many windows of the beach house. You’re not ready to leave tomorrow.

“You wanna talk about it now?”

You sigh. “Not really. We’re supposed to be celebrating you today.”

“I’ll be able to enjoy myself more if I know what’s going on in your head.”

You keep your gaze focused on the kids, rolling the words around in your head. You feel emotionally exhausted by it all and you’re not even through the morning hours yet.

“Darlin,” Joel kicks at your foot, smile on his face. “C’mon. We can talk about it.”

You set your mug down, turning toward him. “He’s just blowing us off again. I spent more time waiting for him to come to the phone than I did talking to him. He hardly interacted with Nate this morning.” You roll your eyes in an attempt to push away the tears pressing to escape.

Joel reaches across the table, taking your hand. He runs his thumb over your knuckles. It grazes past your wedding band, almost taunting you now.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t fair to either of you,” Joel says.

“You’d think I’d stop letting it affect me at some point.”

Joel bites his lip, eyes pinned to your ring finger. “He’s your husband. Needs to start acting like it,” Joel says gruffly. You catch the spark of something in his deep brown eyes, but you don’t have time to place it.

“We’re done!” Sarah exclaims with a proud smile, her shirt soaked through.

You pull your hand from Joel’s, wrapping it around your warm mug as you laugh. “Thank you for your help. Both of you.” Nathaniel puts the dish towel carefully over the oven handle, shooting you the biggest grin.

“Can we do presents now?” Sarah asks, curls bouncing with her.

“Presents?” Joel says. “Y’all didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Don’t be silly, Daddy.” Sarah says, looking to you for permission.

“I think now is a great time for gifts.”

Both kids run toward their shared room. They had been very excited at the promise of bunk beds. You ease out of your chair. “Not you too.” Joel shakes his head.

You shoot him a wink. “Suck it, Miller.”

Flashes of your delayed Mother’s Day celebration jump between you. Joel had switched up the weekends and hadn’t been prepared, but had made up for it the following weekend. You hadn’t heard from Tommy. He never even mentioned it.

You grab the small box from your suitcase, a small white bow tied around it. The four of you settle in the living room. You sit tucked into one end of the sofa while Joel sits at the other end, a bouncing kid on either side of him.

“Me first!” Sarah says, handing her card and hand-wrapped gift to her father.

Joel takes care, slowly reading the card out loud. His gift consists of a souvenir snow globe and a puca shell necklace. She picked them out with great care at the beach shop the two of you stopped in yesterday. He oos and awes over both.

“You should put on the necklace!” Sarah says, standing up on the cushions of the couch.

“Maybe I want to admire it more,” Joel says.

You bite back a smile. He’s already lost this battle and you both know it.

“Don’t be silly, Daddy.” She grabs it from his hand, determination, and concentration painted on her face as she wraps it around his neck.

“Yeah, don’t be silly, Daddy.” You tease, shooting him a wink. He pokes his tongue out at you as Sarah almost chokes him in the process of securing the necklace.

“Not so tight, baby girl.”

“Oops,” she giggles. “All done.”

She steps back to admire her handiwork, looking quite pleased. “What do you think, Aunt Bonnie?”

“Beautiful,” You smile, laughter evident in your tone of voice. “You look ready to hit the beach.”

“My turn!” Nathaniel announces, handing Joel a hand-drawn picture depicting their day at the beach yesterday. He goes into great detail describing everything he drew. Joel’s hand rests on Nate’s shoulder blades, head tucked toward him as he takes in everything the boy says with practiced patience and intentionality.

It strikes something in your heart, a deep longing. That should be Tommy. But it also sends a deep sense of gratitude toward your brother-in-law for picking up where his brother has failed. You swallow back the tears, losing track of how much you’ve had to do that today.

“Thank you, Bud. I love it.” Joel kisses Nathaniel's head.

“You’re welcome, Daddy.”

Joel freezes. Ice rushes through your bloodstream. Your eyes meet Joel’s. What do you say to that? Neither of you knows the answer.

“He’s not your daddy, Nate,” Sarah says, pulling out her older sister voice. “He’s your uncle.”

“Oh yeah,” Nathaniel shrugs, unbothered by his mishap as he swings his legs back and forth, hitting the couch with his heels as he does.

“Aunt Bonnie, do you have the other gift?” Sarah asks, determined to keep the morning on schedule.

“Yeah, right here.” You fumble around, finding the box tucked between yourself and the couch. Joel keeps his eyes on you trying to figure out what’s running through your mind, but he can’t.

Sarah plucks the box from your hands before presenting it to her father. “This is from all three of us.”

She looks very proud of herself. Joel takes it with a smile, eyes flickering back to you briefly. You give him an encouraging nod.

He loosens the bow, pulling off the top. The kids lean over either side of his body, excited for the reveal even though they’ve both seen it. He pulls it out, inspecting it carefully. A black watch face with silver accents and an olive green watch band. His eyes dart to yours. You smile at him.

“You’ve been talking about it for years.” You smirk, sipping your coffee. “You were never gonna do it yourself.”

“It’s exactly what I wanted.” He shakes his head, a stunned chuckle shaking his chest. “How’d you know?”

“Found an old picture Tommy had stored away last fall.”

“Look at the back.” Sarah bounces with excitement.

Joel flips it over. His brows knit together as he catches the inscription. Happy Father’s Day. We love you. Sarah and Nathaniel. 1997.

“Do you like it?” Sarah looks up at him with sparkling excitement.

“I love it.” He kisses her cheek, thanking both the children. He wraps it around his wrist, buckling it into place.

“Now you won’t be late anymore,” Sarah says, making you and Joel laugh.

“We can only hope,” you say.

Joel looks up at you with one of the most heartfelt smiles you’ve ever seen. His lips move silently. Thank you.

You nod in response.

You spend the final day of your vacation on the beach until the sun has disappeared. Joel ends up running back to the house to grab the car so your two very tired children don’t melt down. You hurry through bath time, trying to get all the sand from hair and bodies. You’re sure you’ll be finding sand all over your and Joel’s homes for months.

You provide goodnight hugs and kisses, but Joel takes bedtime duties. You’re cleaning up the kitchen, and packing up pantry items when the first lines of You Are My Sunshine drift out of the kid’s bedroom in Joel’s soft melodies. The kids' sleepy voices talk him into another lullaby and then another before their eyelids slip closed and their breathing evens out.

The door clicks softly and you’ve already pulled the margarita pitcher and new solo cups. “See they talked you into the whole set list tonight.” You smile, filling the cups with the last of the margaritas.

“It’s the last night of vacation.” Joel chuckles. He grabs the blanket off the back of the couch and the half-eaten bag of pretzels. “They asked so nicely.”

“And you’re a big softy.”

You grab both cups, following Joel out to your spot on the deck. It’s cooler tonight, the breeze a bit stronger. You sit across from each other, feet propped in the seat of the other’s chair with the blanket spread across your legs. Joel sets the pretzels right at your knees.

“Did you enjoy your day?” You ask, sipping on the day-old margarita. It goes down easier tonight, and your cup is filled to the brim.

“It was a good day.” Joel smiles at you, easy and relaxed. The world and your issues feel so far away here despite the day’s earlier events. “Probably the best Father’s Day yet.”

“Oh you mean it beats the raw banana bread from last year?” You’re laughing before the sentence fully leaves your mouth. Joel’s head falls back, chest vibrating with laughter.

His hair curls more from the salty air and fits him, tanned skin, curly hair, Puca shell necklace and all. You wonder if you look like a similar version of yourself, the relaxed beach version.

“Sarah trying to choke me with the necklace beats whatever it was you tried to bake last year.”

You stick out your tongue. The pretzel bag rustles as he grabs a handful. You take another drink from your cup. Joel Miller makes a mean margarita.

“What about you? Did you have a good day then?”

You take an extra second to think about it before nodding. “Yeah. I can’t complain when it comes to well-behaved kids and the beach.”

“Nathaniel calling me dad didn’t throw you off, I hope.”

Your shoulders tense a little bit. “I think I’m the one who should be asking that.”

“Kinda surprised it hasn’t happened sooner if I’m being honest.” Joel’s pointer finger slides along the lip of his cup before he brings it to his lips.

You bite your lips, staring at the house across the street. “Same.”

“Sorry, that was kinda a mood killer.” Joel’s hand rests on your calf.

“It’s fine. You’re more of a father to him than his real dad.” You try to wave it off, but the facts are reeling in your mind like a movie. “Fuck, you were in the delivery room, and coached his T-ball team, and you’ve tucked him into bed more times than Tommy ever has.” You swipe away the moisture that’s gathered in your eyes, chasing them with another gulp of your drink.

“Hey… maybe you should slow down there.” Joel leans forward, his feet dropping from your chair as he grabs the solo cup from you and the pretzels tumble to the deck.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” You reach for the cup, but Joel keeps it out of reach, setting it on the ground next to his.

“I do.” He’s firm with you, grabbing your hands and tucking them between his. You can’t meet his eyes, embarrassment flooding your body. “What's going on in your mind right now?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Darlin,” He tugs gently on your arms. Your feet greet the warm deck as you're forced to sit up straighter. The side of your knee bumps against his. “You can talk to me.”

“I just want to enjoy our last night, Joel.”

“Can’t do that if I’m worried about you.” He tips your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

The street lights flicker off his warm eyes. You feel his touch linger under your chin. Extra warmth gathers in each place he touches. The words bubbling up in you, helpless to stop the thoughts circling in your head for months.

“I’m not sure my marriage is salvageable. I don’t know if I’ll recognize my husband when he gets out. I don’t think he’s the same person-“ You can’t finish through the choked-out sobs.

Joel lets out a soft sigh and before you know it, he’s tugging your pliant body into his lap, rubbing your back. He kisses your head. Your head finds the crook of his neck, fingers digging into the back of it. He’s the steady rock he’s always been. It does little to soothe your racing mind.

You have so many questions and no answers. Tommy’s release from prison always felt like a distant finish line. Now, three months away, it feels like just the start.

“No matter what, I’ve got you,” Joel says, hand cupping your cheek. “I’m here for you.”

How much longer can you continue to find solace in your brother-in-law's arms? How much longer will Joel play the part Tommy is supposed to? Supporter, parent, partner…

You pull back, fingers still wrapped around his neck. The metal of your wedding ring presses against his skin, but he’s used to feeling it. He doesn’t even think about it anymore. Your forehead nearly touches his. The pools of his deep eyes are endless. They’re different than Tommy’s. You don’t mean to compare, but you like it, soft and inviting after sleeping on rocks for years. You think you catch the hints of desire in them. You’ve forgotten what it feels like to be desired.

There’s a fight, a push and pull between you. Who’s going to do it. His hot breath fans across your lips. Who’s going to be the one to finally cross the line you’ve been toeing for so long and drag the other one into exile with them? It’s a lush oasis in the middle of the desert you’ve been traveling. One move and you can dip your toe in.

Joel gives in first, leaning in. Your eyes flutter shut with anticipation, another touch of his breath. His nose nudges against yours. You catch a whiff of the salt on his skin, and then, nothing, a mirage all in your head leaving you stranded in the desert.

Confusion knits your brow before your eyes are open. Joel is still close, closer than a man that’s not your husband should be, but he feels further away than ever.

His thumb nudges your bottom lip. He gives a weak smile in an attempt to cover his true emotions. “We can’t…”

He’s right. You hate yourself for getting so carried away. “I know.”

Your hand drops from his neck. You might be sitting on his lap but he’s never felt farther from you.

“You should go to bed.”

You think to fight him on it, but you decide not to. You stand up. Joel doesn’t move, thumb playing with the lip of his solo cup. He can’t meet your eyes and it feels like you might be losing him too.

Before you can think better of it, you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Your fingers rake through his hair twice over. His eyes close and he lilts into you just the slightest.

“Thank you, Joel. For everything.”

His Adam’s Apple bobs as you pull away. He keeps his eyes pinned ahead, fingers curling around the red plastic. He’s barely holding on to control.

“Good night,” he says, voice gruff, never looking away from his fixed point.

“Goodnight.”

Joel finishes off yours and his margarita before he falls into bed. It’s just enough to keep him buzzed as he runs toward rest. He can’t get the feel of you out of his mind, how close he was to ripping apart his whole family.

He’s in and out of sleep when the door pops open. He assumes it’s Sarah. She probably had a bad dream, and tosses the corner of the comforter back. Except, the full size mattress dips lower than it should. He reaches out but instead of Sarah’s small frame, he gets a handful of your waist as the smell of you fills his nostrils. In the haze of sleep, Joel opens his eyes just enough to find you facing away from him.

The bed isn’t big enough for his legs not to tangle with yours, not if he wants restful sleep. Your body doesn’t tense under his touch. You don’t say anything. Neither does he, but your body melts into him until he finds his arm fully around your middle, back flush against his front.

Joel Miller considers himself a good man, but a good man doesn’t yearn for his brother’s wife. A good man doesn’t give into the temptation to have her so close, to be with her so intimately. Tonight, Joel Miller doesn’t worry about being a good man. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but tonight, Joel Miller falls asleep with you in his arms and bed. Tonight, Joel Miller’s deepest desires come true. Just for tonight, he gets to pretend you’re his.

You wake up to an empty bed like you have since Tommy went to prison, but something feels off about it. A familiar smell lingers under your nose, and unfamiliar warmth fills you even though the sheets are cold.

You let out a soft groan, eyes fluttering open. You stare up at the ceiling, convinced once again that something feels off. You turn to look at the clock on the bed stand but there’s not one there. The walls are a different color and you shoot up as it all comes flooding back.

You almost kissed Joel last night. The way you tossed and turned before giving into temptation and crawling in beside him. He hadn’t fought you, hadn’t said a word but pulled you flush against him in the bed that was just a bit too small. You’d slept like a baby for the first time in years.

Joel sits at the table with the kids as they shovel the last of the extra sugary cereal into their mouths. A special vacation treat. You expect Joel to ignore you or at least be standoffish, but he hands you a cup of steaming coffee with the same smile he always does, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes as if nothing happened.

You offer a smile in response. A silent agreement to never speak on it again.

You’ve been home for a week when it comes, a plain white envelope stuffed with something soft labeled with a return address you’re all too familiar with written in Tommy’s chicken scratch handwriting.

You wait until Nathaniel is down for the night, but it throws you the whole evening. Letters from Tommy are more rare than phone calls. You’ve received one, maybe two since he was incarcerated. Considering he’d promised to call on after Father’s day and hadn’t, the mysterious letter makes you feel unsettled. What shoes are left to drop?

You run the envelope through your hands, thumb picking at the corner of the seal, uncommitted to actually tearing it open. You’re worried whatever lies within will only hurt you more. You can’t sustain more hurt.

Finally, you dig into the corner, tearing it open. Your eyebrows knit together. White fabric is neatly folded and tucked within. You pull it out, revealing a square of white fabric, like a bandana unfurls and a note falls to the floor. As you take in the black and white drawing on the fabric, you gasp. It’s a drawing of the picture you keep on your nightstand. The moment Tommy met Nathaniel for the first time. Tommy’s arm is wrapped around you, Nathaniel in his arms with the biggest grin on his face. It’s a moment that’s seared into your memory. Seeing it portrayed like this brings tears to your eyes, the emotions from that day and the last 696 flooding your body.

Before the tear completely blur your vision, you pick up the note. You can barely make out Tommy’s handwriting when your eyes are clear, but you manage.

Baby,

You and I both know I didn’t draw this. My cellmate did based on the photo. You probably know that. They call them paños. I’ve seen a lot of the ones guys in here have sent to their girls. They’re pretty cool.

I’m sorry. I wish I could be better for you and Nathaniel. I love you, Bonnie.

Tommy.

Tears stream down your face. Just like that your heart seems to forget the heartache of the last couple years. This proves that your Tommy is still inside him somewhere, fighting to come back to you. You’ll do anything to have your Tommy back.

It doesn’t matter if you're grasping at threads. Your heart overpowers your mind. You’re determined that you can pull him back by those threads, maybe not now, but once he’s out. Once he’s out, you can bring him back. You’re his Bonnie. He’s your Clyde. You’re tied together. Your heart beats for him, but you don’t catch a piece of your heart breaking off from the rest. That part can't beat for Tommy. It’s attached to someone else.

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