#a rather chill chapter but next comes soon
Text
Tonight you belong to me, chapter 4
Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
Christmas on a Friday means you won't be meeting Frankie this week. This break away from each other might be just what the two of you need to consider if you should carry on with whatever this is…
Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)
Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.
A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey you mean more to me than you will ever know 🧡
Word count: 14.3k
[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]
Chapter 4: Frankie
Frankie scratches the stubble on his jaw. Behind the green screen of his aviators, under his creased brow, his eyes are riveted to the red light in front of him. His grip on the steering wheel too tight for safety.
Something has to be wrong with this light because he’s been waiting at this intersection for ten minutes at least.
He takes in an angry breath. Loud, but constricted. Yet it’s enough for your scent to fill his lungs.
It might be a trick of the mind, because it’s been six days since you’ve been in here, and it’s still everywhere around him. It floats in the cab of the truck. It clings to the fabric of the seat. It’s woven into the suede leather of his jacket.
It’s probably what it is, just a trick of his brain, but he’d like to know for sure. If your presence has pervaded the whole space, or if he’s losing his goddamn sanity.
The light changes to green. His head rolls back on the headrest, eyes drifting close.
It’s a light fragrance. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green. Orange blossom, citrus, honeysuckle. It’s the very last days of spring, when the air is still chill, but the sunbeams are warm and blinding. Before summer sets everything ablaze, the southern wind, the asphalt, the concrete walls and the bodies. It’s the first sunny day on a pale winter skin.
And there’s the sweet musk you exude, mixed with his own, when he’s fucked you hard and thorough.
The car behind him honks and he jolts up in his seat, knees knocking against the wheel. He puts the pedal down to the floor in less than a millisecond, tires screeching, engine revving up.
What the fuck is wrong with him? What is happening to him?
The route to Will’s place is a familiar one. He drives absentmindedly down streets and avenues lined with palm trees, his mind wandering. To Lua’s shot, that’s due next week; to his Thursday shift he has to swap with Felix. To the gutters that need cleaning, and the front door he should repaint. To the overnight diapers he has to restock soon.
To the feel of your smaller hands cupping his face, and the coolness of your touch. To that tiny pink wound on your forehead and the weariness in your eyes. To that scar on your knee in the shape of a grid, and that other one on your inner thigh you try not to let him see. To those two dimples above your ass and your scent, fuck, your scent, it does something to him. Something he didn’t ask for. Something he wasn’t prepared to deal with.
When he turned around, back in that dive, and his eyes met yours, he didn’t feel anything. Or rather, he felt everything, all at once. The end and the beginning. The sweetness and the pain. Blood and honey. It was all there, contained in your luminous, telling eyes. He saw something in them. Something frightened, but brazen. A hunger. A madness. A longing. Something he recognized, and wanted himself.
He took in your general appearance, the expensive clothes, the even more expensive bag, and he turned back around. Tried to convince himself you were just some corporate executive, bored with your life, looking for a cheap thrill and a quick fuck.
He could sense your gaze, burning holes through his shirt into the muscles of his back, those damn eyes, wide, exhausted. And they kept boring into him. Strong, determined. They wouldn’t let go. You wouldn’t let go.
So he left. He got up and stormed out. Went home to the guest room sofa, and his sleeping baby, and tried to forget about you.
Your eyes kept haunting his nights. And his waking hours too. And since he’s been clean, his days have gotten considerably longer.
No more drugs meant sleepless nights, followed by never-ending stretches of daytime, with nothing to sustain his focus but stress and coffee. It means going to work, and flying on three hours of nonconsecutive sleep, while his thoughts swirl in his overwrought brain. Nothing to take the edge off.
He hadn’t realized the weight he was carrying until Lua was born.
As long as he was in the military, he had kept his head straight. So many guys he served with were using; all kinds of shit. A genuine feel good hit of the summer. It was disconcerting, the ease with which they could score pretty much anything, in just about any country where they were deployed. As if it were made accessible to them purposefully.
But not him. He had never needed it. His focus was sharp, his mood even and leveled, his mind clear. Every fiber of his being striven towards one goal: to watch over his brothers. To leave no one behind.
Things started going south after he’d retired. They followed him. The ones he had left behind. Those times he’d been too quick on the trigger. All of them, soldiers and civilians. Faces without eyes. Deep, bleeding cavities, and dark gaping holes where their mouths should have been. Brothers and enemies merging into one big shapeless and viscous mass of casualties.
They came to him at night, and soon, he stopped sleeping. Exhaustion exacerbated his temper. His control became tenuous. But somehow, he still kept going.
When he met Lupe, he had told her everything. Five days a week, she was the voice in his headset, steady, constant, as she dispatched him and the crew of paramedics to wherever the emergency was located. She sent him to brutal, deadly pile-ups on the highway, burning high schools or heart attacks on remote hiking trails with an even tone that aroused his curiosity and inspired his trust.
When they’d started dating, he confided in her. The nightmares, the difficulty focusing. She understood, but she also didn’t want anything to do with it. She’d answered with a blunt warning. I have my own shit to deal with, Morales, I’m not in this to save you. He didn’t want her to, anyway. He wasn’t her responsibility.
He had stayed. And so did she. Things were good enough. They were in love. She was already well into her thirties, with a job that didn’t leave much time for dating, and even less for starting a family. She wanted a kid more than anything, and he thought normalcy would do it. That it would ground him enough to fix him.
After Lua was born, he resorted to drugs to numb out and function. At the time, he had considered it to be a momentary solution. He needed the energy to care for her, not to keep it together.
The drugs helped at first. It helped with the nightmares. It helped with the realization that flying had, for most of his life, been his sole purpose, main goal and greatest talent, and that he’d used it to destroy, ravage and kill. It helped with the guilt. Even as it generated more of it.
The benzos put him to sleep for dreamless hours, and then the coke kept him awake throughout the workday. He thought he’d find some sort of footing.
It didn’t help long, though. He got caught fast. Almost as if he wanted to be. And then it was all burning shame, and disintegrating self-esteem, with no means left to escape any of his feelings.
Lupe gave him hell, rightfully so. His sister said nothing, which nearly killed him. She wired him money so he could hire a good lawyer. She’d been the one to advise him in the first place to think twice about bringing a baby into his mess. He still hated himself for not listening to her.
What hit him the hardest was the suspension of his pilot license. Who was he, if not a pilot?
After the bust, he invested everything into being a good father. Lupe found it in her to forgive him, and things were pretty good for a couple of months.
Until Pope came back with his bullshit idea. Frankie watched his friends buckle and fold, one after the other. Ben, Ironhead and Redfly. Until he had no other choice but to follow suit. Watch over his brothers. Leave no one behind.
Flashes after that: Redfly coming back in a plastic bag, to join the mass of eyeless, gaping holes that kept him awake at night.
The cruel irony of his suspension being lifted within a mere two weeks after he’d crashed that fucking Mi-8. Pope going into hiding, perhaps dead himself. The rest of them left here to slowly fragment, standing amongst all the things they broke beyond repair, with nothing to show for it.
And then that one day, you collided into him.
When he came back to the bar two weeks after your first encounter, it was with the firm intention of giving you what he thought you wanted. Scratch your itch, and his. Fuck you once, use you as an outlet, same way you probably wanted to use him.
The very moment he saw you step inside the bar, he understood how wrong he’d been.
You were not out for a cheap thrill or a quick fuck; you were not a bored, cynical executive looking to mix with the very working-class you exploited.
You were in pain. Numbed out. Withdrawn. Absent.
For some reason, that fucked him up hard. He tried running away from you, but you came after him, headstrong. You sought him out. Without hesitation, or fear. And something held him back, prevented him from running away too fast or too far. He let you catch up with him.
You wanted him. You want him still.
The sounds you make when you come, that breathless moan, full chest, empty mind, he knew he was in trouble when he pulled it out of you that very first night in the parking lot, against his truck. You clung to him, cold hands with a feverish touch. He was greedy and you thrashed before you went slack in his hold and right away he had wanted more. He risked a taste, licked his fingers, and you were heaven. You were unreal.
He wanted to know so much more: what did you feel like from the inside when you came? How much of him could you take? What your voice would sound like after he’d fuck your throat?
How much of you really existed? How much of you had he made up?
He soon found out. About the sensation of your soft skin under his rougher hands. About your patience. About your scent. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. Intoxicating.
At the beginning, he thought you were coming to him for degradation, as much as for pleasure. There wasn’t a single debasing act he could come up with that you didn’t let him do to you.
You’d take anything he gave you.
Week after week, you let him fuck you numb, fuck you rough, fuck you raw. Tie you up, fold you down. Cover you in come, choke you on his cock, spit in your mouth.
Friday after Friday, you kept looking at him like you couldn’t believe he was still here, pounding you blind into that shitty mattress. Not grateful. Surprised. Or relieved. He didn’t know what to make of it, of that dignity you forfeited when you crossed the threshold of that room that very first night. Of your surrendering.
In retrospect, you understood your dynamic much faster than he did. Back then, he was still struggling with the idea that you were real.
He grew wary, and in his head, a refrain started playing. Tonight’s the last night. There won’t be a next week.
He couldn’t stop, though. One last night, that turned into two, then three, then four. He finally started getting decent nights of sleep, a restful slumber of which he felt undeserving.
He had to put a stop to this. Just one last night, and there wouldn’t be a next week.
He knew even more when his curiosity started to drift elsewhere. To your life outside the room with the brown rug and the yellow curtains. To that inner island of yours, the contour of which he was only starting to make out through the fog of his blunt desire.
You kissed him like you knew he’d never be yours, so you’d be his instead. Like his breath was yours. Like your heart only beat under his hand. And yet, you kept eluding him, silent and slippery. The paradox drove him insane.
He grew restless in between Friday evenings, booking the room earlier each week. He forbade himself any other kinds of relief, and instead turned to books. Browsing, flipping pages impatiently, searching for words and concepts. Intellectual tools to rationalize the feeling of you, to understand your presence and describe your scent, because you wouldn’t let him name you, and probably never would.
He thought that if he didn’t come inside you, perhaps you’d keep coming back to him.
It only made him want you more. The relinquishing drop in your shoulders, every time he asked you to stop him. He became obsessed with the thought of giving you what you knew better than to want. And in his head, the refrain kept playing.
One last night. One last fuck. One last fix.
In comparison, it had been easier to quit coke.
He can’t explain your pull. The way his body gravitates towards yours. He can’t explain the visceral craving.
Aloof and soothing, with a will so hard and unbending it scares him, you take, everything that festers ugly inside him, and absorb it, making it disappear. You turn it into something beautiful, something that blooms and purrs and breathes. Orange blossom and honeysuckle.
What do you do with all his rage? How do you cope with it? Where do you get this strength from?
Your strength. He’s only beginning to fathom the magnitude and depth of it.
It’s hidden beneath the surface of you, dormant, nestled in your quiet resilience, your accidental resistance. The remoteness of your gaze. It’s in your plea for him to take, until he knows he’ll stop breathing if he stops giving in.
That place within yourself, where you retreat not to get hurt. That’s where he wants to find you. That’s where he wants to live.
When you didn’t show up two weeks ago, he should have been relieved. He’d got out easy. You’d taken the decision for him. Inside his chest, however, anxiety chewed up his heart and set his nerves on fucking fire. The possibility that your absence was unwilling. That something might have prevented you from coming. Something, or someone.
He had your plates written down in the little spiral notebook he kept in the glove compartment of his truck. He could’ve pull some strings, found out your address. Fuck, he could’ve found out your name. But it felt like a violation even thinking about it, no matter how sickly worried he was. Like a step too far into madness. Something he wouldn’t come back from.
And then, you did show up. Exhausted, wounded. Twice as determined. He felt the overwhelming urge to get you into his truck and drive away with you, and never come back.
He felt the familiar grip of wrath, a blinding surge of hatred for this man who’s not quite your husband.
Pulling in front of Will’s building, Frankie puts the truck in park. He grazes a palm over his face, eyes falling on the ugly condo to his left. The teal-colored, budget paint peeling off the sunburned walls in large flecks.
He sighs, remembering Will’s former house. The one he shared with his fiancée before she left him. Two stories, bow windows on the top floor, a white porch with a swing. Lilac trees in the front lawn. Conversations about having kids.
He readjusts his hat, fingers deftly combing through his hair, takes the six-pack next to him on the seat bench, and exits his truck, dark eyes quickly scanning the block for Ben’s car. The beat-up Camaro is nowhere in sight. He didn’t expect Ben to be on time anyway, but he’s hoping he won’t take too long to join them.
In the narrow corridor leading to Will’s apartment, a neon lamp goes off and on in a spasmodic, irritating blink. The damp stench of molded wood cloaks his tense frame. He knows that if he tilts his head down to his shoulder and inhales deeply enough, he’ll find you there.
He doesn’t.
Before he brings down his knuckles to the door, Frankie exhales long and slow. With closed eyes, pursed lips. It’s useless. His shoulders won’t relax.
When Will opens the door, Frankie’s taken aback by how good he looks. How normal. Thick blond hair kept short, with a carefully trimmed beard. Brawny shoulders, creaseless shirt, alert gaze. Seemingly unchanged, incomprehensibly constant.
Frankie leans a little longer than necessary into his friend’s full-body hug. When he lets go, the tall man briefly narrows his eyes at him, a steel-blue, surgical stare from behind long blond lashes.
“How are you doing, man?” Will asks in his lazy drawl.
The dim hallway feels too small for the two of them. Frankie’s skin is pulled taut under Will’s unblinking scrutiny. He lowers his head, tucking his face into the protective shadow of his hat.
“Good. Same,” he mumbles.
Benny’s buoyant entrance saves him, and it’s more hugs, bulky shoulders colliding, hands clasping and eruptive greetings as they slowly make their way inside the apartment.
“How’s my goddaughter?” Benny asks.
Frankie smiles at the question. A genuine smile, crinkled eyes and dimpled cheeks. The warmth of the younger man’s baritone spreads in his chest. It’s the care in his words.
“She’s good. Growing up fast. I think it’s just a matter of days before she walks, now.”
“The minute she walks, I’m gonna teach her how to throw a punch,” Benny grins.
Every time he visits, it takes Frankie a minute to adjust to the contrast between the exterior of Will’s building and the interior of his apartment, and tonight is no exception. The small, one-bedroom’s white walls look like they’ve been freshly painted. The sofa’s cushions are puffed as if no one has ever sat on it. Every surface is spotless, not a dust particle flying. The coffee table is bare, no glass of water, not even the remote control lying on it.
Matching frames lined methodically on the living-room walls display family pictures, chronologically arranged, as well as a couple of shots from their time together in the Army. Frankie catches a glimpse of his younger self, cropped curls, sharper jaw, smoother grin. His arm is wrapped around Pope’s shoulders. He averts his gaze.
In the kitchen, the stainless-steel sink is shiny and empty, clean dishes neatly stored away in the overhead glass cabinets. The stove looks like it was just delivered.
Frankie knows himself to be tidier than most. When they started dating, Lupe would often tell him it was one of her favorite traits of his.
But Will’s ability to inhabit a seemingly unlived place is unsettling.
They take their usual seats around the small, round kitchen table. The two brothers fill up the room. Benny’s presence is bright, cheerful, in complementary contrast with his brother’s density and observing silence. Frankie lands somewhere in the middle. Like a bridge. Like a common ground.
The conversation flows between them, effortless. It would be easy to believe nothing has changed. Up until nine months ago, they used to meet at least once a week. Fight nights, bar nights, gym nights... Pope was rarely in town, Tom busy trying to make ends meet, so it was often just the three of them.
Now, Frankie seldom sees the Millers more than once a month. But after thirteen years, ten of which they’ve spent serving side by side, he knows them well enough to notice the invisible changes.
There’s a new sort of gravity to Benny’s demeanor. His laughter isn’t as loud, not as immediate. A loss in spontaneity. There’s Will's unusual patience and leniency toward the young man. The nervous glances at his watch whenever his brother’s late.
Lately, Frankie has caught himself envying the two men’s bond. The many quiet ways in which they look out for one another. A tightly packed unit. Blood tied.
He could call his sister. Hell, he could even hop on a plane with Lua and fly across the country to visit her, Lupe could probably use the break. His sister would listen. She already has. And she never judged.
Will places three more cans of beer on the table. Frankie hesitates. He doesn’t need a DIU in his Christmas stocking.
“What are you guys doing for Christmas? Going back to Colorado?” he asks, stalling.
“Yeah, we’re flying tomorrow,” Benny answers with a slow nod. “Can’t leave mom alone.”
Frankie finds himself trapped under Will’s gaze again. It’s charged, with what, he cannot tell yet, but he’s ready to bet he’ll find out before the evening ends. That fourth beer is really tempting. Instead, his thumb finds the target tattooed on his left hand, blunt nail worrying at it.
“Say, Fish,” Will starts.
Here it comes.
“I met Lupe the other day at the grocery store.”
Frankie nods, steeling himself. Chin up, to meet his friend’s eyes. There’s the metallic crunch of a tall boy cracked open, followed by the bubbly, high-pitched hiss of the beer.
“Wanna tell me why she’s under the impression that we see each other every Friday evening?”
A second pair of storm-blue eyes dart to his face. If he wasn’t caught in the middle of it, Frankie could find the scene almost comical.
“Wait,” Benny cuts in, “you guys are back together?”
Frankie shakes his head. “No. No, we’re not.”
“But you still live together,” Will states, impassive, carrying on with his interrogation.
“For Lua,” Frankie says flatly.
Those two words have come out of his mouth for what feels like a thousand times in the past nine months, to family, close friends, colleagues, and acquaintances alike. Today, for the first time, he realizes how incomprehensible, how irrational it might have sounded to all of them.
“Why are you lying to her, then?” Will leans in closer, his face contrasted in harsh shadows under the overhead suspension.
“Look Will,” Frankie starts, his tone a notch too defensive, “I appreciate your concern, I know this comes from a good place, but I’m not on anything, ok? So you can– you can drop it.”
The request is rhetorical. Desperate, really. Ironhead is not known for letting go, once he has latched onto something. Across from Frankie, Benny drinks up in silence, eyes flickering between the two men and the growing tension that hangs like smoke between them.
An ugly apprehension creeps up along Frankie’s nape.
“I know you’re not using. I can tell. You look better than I’ve seen you looking in a while, aside from the fact that you’re wound up pretty tight. But we’re in this fucking aftermath together, Fish, so I gotta ask: what the fuck is it that you do every Friday evening?”
Frankie sits up straight, folding his arms over his chest, blood simmering.
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” he asks, keeping his voice even.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Will cocks his chin toward Benny as he adds, “I trust you with mine and my brother’s life.”
“But not with mine,” Frankie whispers, comprehension finally dawning on him, and somehow, his friend’s concern hits him harder than an unlikely lack of trust. Something snaps and goes slack between his shoulders.
Benny moves suddenly, his massive frame leaning forward. Propping his forearms on the table, he lets out a long, low whistle.
“Holy shit, man,” he says, “Fish got himself a new girl.”
Will frowns. His eyes do a quick back and forth between his brother and Frankie, who hangs his head, hiding under the brim of his hat, hissing an angered fuck.
Benny erupts in thundering laughter. Around them, the tension bursts open, the entire atmosphere dripping with it, the air moving again.
“No. No, I don’t,” Frankie mutters, shaking his head.
His denial is drowned under Benny’s booming voice.
“Come on! Look at yourself, old man, you’re fucking blushing! You got yourself some pussy!”
“Do you? Did you meet someone?” Will presses, trying to lock eyes with him.
Frankie gives it to him. Raises his head and looks him dead in the eyes, shaking his head still, a vein ready to pop in his corded neck.
“I didn’t meet anyone. She’s not a girl. I’m not talking about her here,” he grits.
Will leans back in his chair. It creaks loud and tired under his weight. He lets out a heavy sigh, of relief perhaps, or deepened worry.
“Come on, Fish! Give us something. At least tell us what she looks like,” Benny teases.
He opens another beer and slides it over to Frankie across the table.
Will’s eyes have yet to leave his face.
“Why don’t you tell Lupe about it? She’s the one who broke up with you,” he remarks.
“Less than nine months ago. After I fucked up, yet again. She’s the mother of my kid, Will, she’s been through enough on my account.”
Will nods in silence, apparently satisfied with this explanation.
“Anyway, it’s nothing. There’s nothing to tell,” Frankie adds, swallowing the bitter taste that sits at the back of his tongue.
Silence settles over the three of them. Frankie grabs the can and brings it to his lips, downing half of its content in long gulps.
Your scent is there, right there, meshed into the fabric of his jacket. It takes all of his willpower not to turn his head and breathe you in.
“She’s married, is she?” Benny asks with a shit-eating grin.
Will’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in sheer horror.
“Is she?” he asks, plunging forward to look at him.
Frankie grinds his teeth, jaw flexing, eyes clenching shut.
“Fish, is she married?” Will repeats, a shrill undertone in his usual low drawl.
“Well, I, for one, am not judging you,” Benny declares, giving his brother a pointed look and raising his can as if to toast Frankie.
Frankie sighs.
He’s never going back to that motel.
—
You don’t like champagne, but that’s all Adrian’s parents ever serve you. It’s fine. For once, you don’t mind. You’ll be driving later today, so you need your mind clear and your reflexes sharp.
You cradle the tall glass in your hand. The taste has long gone stale, the liquid lukewarm in the warmth of your palm. The bubbles are flat. On your lap, your phone buzzes quietly with a new message. Across the table, Adrian’s eyes dart in your direction, annoyance darkening them.
You swipe your thumb across the screen, and a smile plays on your lips at the sight of Ava and Polly grinning for the camera. They’re sitting in the middle of a large group of women, you quickly count twelve of them, wearing a rainbow of paper crowns.
They’re gathered in front of a festive table. A small living-room, brightly lit, cluttered with art, lamps, and plants. A Christmas tree stands in the left corner. In front of them, the plates are loaded with what looks like turkey and roasted vegetables. Napkins, cutlery, candles, and decorative pine tree branches scattered on the table. There’s a large cake dish at the center, on top of which sits the highest lemon meringue cake you’ve ever seen, the topping at least three inches high, clearly homemade.
Some of the women are holding wine glasses, white or red, half full, lipstick smeared on the rim. The photograph has captured them mid-cheers, their lips pursed around a word that’s not yet a smile. The picture is all crinkling eyes, ringing laughter, colorful clothes and flushed cheeks.
You tap your thumb on the screen in fast motions.
Gorgeous! All of you!
Wait, is that turkey vegan?
You add a winking emoji to clarify your tone before pressing send.
The three dots blink briefly and the dark-haired, shrugging emoji pops up on the screen.
You chuckle.
It’s Xmas!!!!! Lexi’s filling is fkg delicious!!!!!
What abt u? U holding up????
The little round yellow face, with its mouth turned downward, stirs guilt in your gut.
Ava was tearing up again, when you dropped her at the airport two days ago, despite your many reassurances that you would be perfectly alright. It’s not your first Christmas apart, but it’s the first one with over a thousand miles between you. You want to put her mind at ease. For her to remain carefree as long as life allows her to be.
I’m good, pup ♥ But I’d be even better if I was about to eat that meringue cake, OMG!
It’s not a lie, not exactly. Of course, it’s the first time in decades you’re completely sober to face the ordeal that is Christmas diner at Adrian’s parents. It’s almost an outer body experience. But strangely, not the nerve-racking one you feared. You anticipated worse. For every sensation to be impossibly loud, blinding, sharp. For your mind to spiral downward at the first uncomfortable interaction.
It hasn’t. You’re nervous, but also focused. And that grip provides you with just enough balance. This year, you’ve got a clear course of action. At least for the upcoming couple of days. One step at a time.
Pinching the screen, you zoom in on Ava’s face, before your eyes flicker up to the dining table you’re sitting at and the people around it.
Everything’s beige. From the tablecloth linen to the leftovers growing cold on the plates. From the Christmas tree and the guests’ clothing to Adrian’s mother’s hair.
Beige, bland, boring. Ashen.
The only touch of color is on Adrian’s face. Those ruby-colored specks spreading to his cheeks from the neck, standing out in his pale carnation. A reaction you only seem to arouse when he’s furious with you.
His mother announces dessert will be served in the jardin d’hiver, which is how Beatrice insists on calling the back porch.
Your phone vibrates, signaling another text from Ava. You slide it in the pocket of your jumpsuit without opening it. Adrian glowers at you a second longer before walking over to the end of the table to assist his grandmother.
His brother nearly races him to it. You watch the grown-up man in his bespoke Armani suit get up so fast he nearly trips over the legs of his chair.
Their motivation is not honorable. Affection doesn’t play into their eagerness. There isn’t a member of the Mountcastle family who harbors love or respect for the 92 year old, acrimonious matriarch. In their defense, she’s a dried-up, nasty piece of bigotry, built on pure, solid hatred, even by their conservative standards and values.
But she owns the estate and she holds the money. And so the two Mountcastle spawns scramble to their feet to make a show of their devotion.
The whole clan gets up to form a procession behind the old woman’s frail, hunched silhouette. Parents, aunts and uncles, in-laws and cousins, children in ruffled dresses and short dress pants flittering around them. Your so-called family. You can barely tell them apart.
Detached, you stride slowly behind, toward the back of the house. You haven't worn heels in two weeks. It’s quite surprising how fast you got unused to them. Your slick, black pumps press uncomfortably on your little toes, rubbing your skin raw. But you won’t be wearing them much longer. So you suck in the pain. You let it ground you.
Your choice of outfit elicited a stern glance from Adrian when you slipped it on this morning. He hovered behind you, disapproving and silent, still riled up from your earlier confrontation when you had announced you’d be driving your car to his parents’ house, so you could leave early.
You stood in front of the mirror, rigid and hesitant, sliding up the side zipper. A sleeveless black jumpsuit with a V-cut cleavage in the front, and a deeper one exposing your back, bought in a thrift store ages ago, when you were still in college. You exhumed it from the depth of your closet, in hopes it would convoke the boldness you had briefly experienced during this short period of your life. You’re done dressing to please anyone but yourself.
The help walks briskly past you through the double, ornate-glass doors leading to the porch. She lays a porcelain tray on the console near the railing.
“La bûche de Noël!” Beatrice declares triumphantly, opening her arms to gesture theatrically at the brown mass on the tray.
A wave of blond heads undulates toward the console, blue eyes in every nuance darting at the dish where a log-shaped lump of a cake sits.
“What is this monstrosity?” her mother-in-law croaks.
The entire family falls silent. Your eyes grow wide and you bite down on your grin.
Beatrice instantly loses her carefully crafted composure. It’s never been obvious to you until now, how vacant her gaze turns whenever something upsets her. You briefly wonder what’s her drug of choice to escape. You sure hope she has one.
“Oh but it’s French, Abigail,” she murmurs. “It’s a delicacy. I bought it from Sucré Table, on Kennedy Boulevard.”
“What’s wrong with an American pecan pie?” the matriarch spits out without so much as a look for her daughter-in-law.
Beatrice smiles her empty smile, sharp yellowed teeth, hardened gray eyes. You can’t bear to look at her any longer. You turn your head, and your gaze meets Agatha’s.
The young girl instantly lightens up, straightening her back in her baby-blue seersucker dress, smiling at you with something you can only describe as relief. She raises a little hand and wriggles her thin fingers. The ten year old is your favorite. You love her dearly. Her bubbly personality and burgeoning sense of humor have seen you through many family gatherings.
Today, it hurts you to admit, you’ve kept her at arm’s length, selfishly preserving yourself from Beatrice’s favorite question: when will you have a child of your own?
With a slight wince, you blink away the vision of Frankie holding his little girl in the photo booth picture. Their full heads of curls. Their dimpled grins.
Charles, Adrian’s father, is the first to break the uneasy silence, with a playful albeit daring remark on his mother’s failing sense of adventure. The assembly lets out a collective breath. Beatrice takes a seat on one of the cushioned wicker chairs, curtly signaling the help to cut the bûche and serve it.
You exhale slowly through parted lips. If you wait any longer, courage will fail you.
Smoothing your palms over your belly, you make your way to Adrian, where he’s leaning against the railing at the rear end of the porch.
“I’ll be going, now,” you whisper, eyes not quite meeting his.
He sighs, something constrained and hostile, facing away toward the sprawling, lush garden, hydrangeas, willow trees. Tension rolls off his lanky frame. Your stomach turns, your mind swivels, grasping for words of reassurance.
Incomprehensibly, you want him to talk to you, even though you’re terrified of what he might say. The poisoned words he’s capable of, somehow preferable to his irate silence.
“I’ll excuse myself to your mother before leaving. I’ll be discreet. I promise. I won’t do anything to jeopardize your–”
He turns to face you so fast it startles you.
“You could at least tell me where you’re going.”
You look up at him, taken aback by his pained expression. Under his pinched brow, his features are twisted in an unfamiliar expression. He slithers a hand around your waist, drawing you close, and it strikes you: he’s pleading.
A breath hitches inside your chest. From this close, you can see the flecks of green in his pale blue irises. You had forgotten their complexity. Their refined beauty. He tightens his grip on you, fingers curling into your tender flesh. The lie tumbles out of you before you can hold it.
“I’m just going to check in on Ava. It’s her first Christmas on her own.”
You catch a glimpse of his mother in your peripheral, handing out Bone China dessert plates. The heady perfume of the hydrangea bushes is going to your head. The day is swirling inside your brain, around you, jardin d’hiver, French dessert, delicacy. Agatha’s desperate little wave, her loneliness, your cowardice. Adrian’s eyes of green and their angry plea.
Your lungs constrict, not letting you breathe.
Adrian tilts down his face, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath skates your skin when he speaks.
“What happened to us, babe?”
His lips brush against the edge of your jaw. Static scrambles your brain; your hand motions upward of its own volition to rest on his back. The pain, the remorse in his voice sits like a razor blade inside your throat. You have to talk around the taste of your blood, voice unrecognizable.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”
It’s not a lie. You will be back tomorrow. Facing a blank page, the rest of your life to figure out, to navigate with what you’ve learned about yourself.
His hand moves, sliding down to rest in the small of your back, the muscles of his back flexing under your light touch, and your palm, your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth.
“I miss you,” he whispers against your lips.
—
The car stereo plays a classical rendition of Let it snow. Ten minutes into driving, you gave up trying to find a station that would broadcast something other than Christmas tunes.
The traffic is fluid, the roads eerily deserted. The windows on both sides are cracked open, and the warm, late afternoon air that wafts in soothes your sore rib cage.
Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth.
You stop it.
The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one.
You’re disappointed to find a lanky young man sitting in Raul’s place behind the counter of the motel’s office. His blond hair is tied in a bun on top of his head, and his phone blasts pop tunes in audio slices of fifteen seconds through revolving TikTok videos. You want to cover your ears. Or smash up his phone.
He hands you the key, and you all but rush out of the office, only slowing once you’ve reached the front door of your room.
Before stepping inside, you halt under the porch.
Beyond the parking lot, beyond the road, over the horizon, dusk descends in dark tangerine over the canopy of trees. Slowly, the sky turns saffron in seamless gradations. The air feels textured, grainy like an old photograph, like long-gone, sunny vacations, like faded memories. The evening breeze is pleasant. The night envelops you, violet-blue, regrets and losses.
Inside room number 2, you draw the yellow curtains. You stand still for a few moments, confused, your routine disrupted, since you’re not expecting him.
It’s too early to sleep, but the tension that has run through you throughout the week, culminating with Adrian’s kiss, is now flowing out of your body, leaving you limp.
Adrian hadn’t held you like that in years. With passion and intent. Perhaps even sincerity. He’d never done that, attempted to use your nostalgic heart to his benefit. Intimidation had usually sufficed.
Toeing off your shoes, you slowly undress. You fold your clothes in a neat little pile, similar to the one you found on the desk last Saturday. Military-like.
The questions you never asked Frankie flood your brain. All the things about him you will never have the time to learn. They form a lump in the dip of your collarbone. They prickle under your eyelids.
You clench your eyes shut, and invoke the image of his daughter’s face, trying to picture their Christmas celebration to strengthen your resolve. Pecan pies and half-nibbled, minute portions of roasted turkey. Red boxes wrapped in white ribbons under the blinking tree. A teddy bear. Jigsaw puzzles with large pieces. Plastic toys with pushing buttons and synthetic lullabies. A rocking horse, maybe.
The image of him with that little girl has plagued you, continuously, throughout the week. Pain cloaking you like mist, seeping inside you, breaching the molecular structure of your flesh. Redefining it. Until you woke up one night, drenched in cold sweat, with a certitude ringing out inside your head: you had to give him up. Give him back, back to his wife and daughter.
You’d go to the motel one last time, one last indulgence, to say goodbye to the idea of him, and you’d give him back to his family.
When your heart rate has slowed down, you walk over to the bathroom to wash your face clean. You’ll miss your reflection in that black-edged mirror. You don’t smile and say, “Stop me.”
The bedspread is gross. The polyester fabric, once a peach shade of orange, is darkened in multiple places by stains of various shapes and consistencies. You’re probably responsible for most of it.
Grabbing a corner of the heavy quilt, you slide it off the bed entirely. The white linen underneath seems clean enough.
You climb into bed, and repress a shiver. You switch off the lights and pull up the sheet to your chin. The fabric is threadbare, starchy.
How can you be so cold, in the mild evening?
Lying curled up on your side, eyes strained on the curtains, you don’t feel yourself falling asleep.
Soon, you’re miles away from the motel, your naked body drifting into the Pacific Ocean. You’re half-immersed, but afloat. The undercurrent is strong underneath the white crests of the violent waves, but you’re not scared. As long as you lie in the water, as long as you don’t try to resist, you’ll be fine. Ears beneath the surface, you’re isolated by the silence of the dark abyss, eyes staring up into the immensity above you.
It’s a different kind of sunset. Flamboyant, carmine, and the whole sky is ablaze with it. The horizon is on fire, but you’re safe in the water.
A vague intuition roils your peace. You’re supposed to look for something. How, you don’t know, because you cannot shift from your position, or you’ll sink.
Suddenly, something tailspins across the sky in a fast downward fall. Too small to be a bird, too slow for a shooting star. Thick streaks of ominous gray fumes trail behind it in its descent.
Should you be scared? Should you try to get away from it? It’s so far in the distance, it can’t be much of a threat. It’s too late, now, anyway, you tilt your head to the side in time to watch it collide with the surface of the ocean.
You feel the impact in the undertow. Something too big stirs between your lungs, and you gasp as the muted sound of the collision reaches you in a vibrating shockwave.
The ripples of the impact are crawling fast over the surface, in your direction. A sense of dread, of impending doom, scrambles your brain. You jolt upward to a vertical position, legs and hands beating against the current, pushing against the water.
The balance is fractured. You’re pulled under.
You’re sinking fast, as fast as that thing fell into the ocean, and above the surface, the crimson sky is turning dim.
Instinctually, you rebel against it, screaming for help but it’s water, not air, that fills your lungs. Salty, cold, abrading your throat when you choke on it.
You’re dying, or you’re dead already, because something firm and soft radiates heat against your back.
“Shhh, it’s ok.”
A strong arm bands firmly around your chest, warm palm, splayed fingers, pulling you flush against warm skin.
“I got you, baby.”
Your eyes shoot open. The dark bedroom materializes in your blurred vision, the silhouette of the bedside table and the lamp, the pale square of the window. Its shape detached from the wall, dancing in the darkness.
“Frankie?”
Frankie presses you into him, a short, strong squeeze of an answer.
But your dream is clinging to the edges of your consciousness, salty water sloshing at the bottom of your lungs.
“‘S that really you?” you ask again, words slurred through sleep, panic in the inflection of your question.
His hand wraps around your breast. He slots his face into the curve of your neck, the scruff of his jaw a tickle against your bare skin.
“Why, you were expecting someone else?”
You close your eyes, tears rising, sudden, like the tide of the Pacific Ocean.
“I’m not still dreaming?” you breathe out.
His response is immediate. His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder. The bite is shallow, but firm, and you let out a little sound, between a surprised gasp and a relieved exhale.
“See? Not dreaming. Go back to sleep, I’ll take care of you in the morning,” he mouths against your skin before kissing it better. A pointed kiss, plush, parted lips. A promise.
The impact of that thing on the surface of the ocean is still pulsating through you. Ricocheting around your rib cage. You wiggle into his hold to turn around and face him, your palms finding the plane of his broad chest.
Your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth.
In the semidarkness, you can only make out the outline of his sharp features. You scoot closer, tucking your face into his neck, taming the vibration with his scent.
“Will you still be here in the morning?”
You feel the thick swallow in his throat against your temple. It’s a beat before he moves, tilting his head to rest his chin on the crown of your head, both arms circling your waist. Engulfing you in his hold.
“I will.”
—
Frankie knew you’d be at the motel. Instinctually so. A gut feeling, unnerving in its clarity.
He hadn’t planned on going when he headed out. He had decided never to set a foot there ever again, and he was going to stand by his decision. After he’d put his daughter to bed, he just needed to get out of the house. Escape the charged atmosphere.
It was Lua’s second Christmas, and he hadn't even managed to keep his family together that long.
Lupe was watching a movie in the living-room. He’d leaned against the door frame, already in his hat and jacket. She hated his hat. She had forbidden him to wear it inside the house when they started dating, and he still abided by that rule. A belated mark of respect.
“I’m heading out,” he announced, as neutral as possible. “Not sure when I’ll be back, don’t worry, ok?”
She was done being worried about him. He knew this much. He understood. He accepted.
They still shared a roof, however. Bills, deadlines, and most importantly, responsibilities regarding the child they had brought into this world. He owed her basic information on his whereabouts. He may have lied about where he went, but he had always been back home before Lua woke up, as agreed between them.
“Yeah, ok,” she answered, without lifting her eyes from the TV screen.
As he pushed away from the lintel, she turned to face him, as if remembering something.
“Wait, Francisco?”
She hadn’t called him Frankie since she’d broken up with him.
“Yea?” he said, backtracking to stand on the threshold.
Her dark eyes glimmered, lit up by the TV screen’s flickering light. She was beautiful. A superior kind of beauty. Like gilded age Hollywood nobility. Dolores Del Rio, Linda Darnell. Even when tired, even with a bare face, and sitting in her pajamas with a bowl of chips between her crossed legs. Frankie hoped Lua would grow up to look like her. To be like her. And not take from him and his rough features. And his fucked up brain.
“Could you stay in to take care of Lua next weekend? I know Friday’s your night, but I— I’ve got an opportunity to get away for the weekend. I might not be back until the 2nd.”
He recognized it in her demeanor. In the way she tried facing him without being able to look straight at him. The discreet, unconscious fiddling of the hem of her t-shirt. The concealment. Handing out a part, but not all the truth. Only what’s convenient.
He briefly wondered if he’d been this obvious when he was running around on drugs. Probably even more so. How she didn’t kick him in the jaw was still a mystery to him. He owed her so much for her patience alone.
“No problem, I’ll be here. Happy to do it for you,” he said in earnest, hoping it didn’t sound too awkward. Hoping she’d get the meaning behind it: she deserved someone else. Someone better.
“Ok. Cool.” She paused before she added, “Appreciate it.”
He nodded in silence and turned around, walking toward the front door.
Originally, the plan had been to drive without a goal. Pop an old Jefferson Airplane album into the truck’s stereo and listen to the music, drifting into the night. Slowly ease down from the day’s tensions.
Your scent had eventually dissipated from the cab. It’d been eight days. He was never going back to that motel, and with her request, Lupe had just made his resolution easier to translate into action.
The words formed inside his mind. He pronounced them out loud.
I’m never going back to that motel.
And he knew. You were there, at this very moment. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew. You’d said you couldn’t come, but it was Christmas evening, not Christmas Eve. Most families were done with the celebrations, heading home, cleaning up, storing away the china until next Thanksgiving.
He pictured you sitting on the edge of the bed, a lonely silhouette peering out into the twilight beyond the yellow curtains, and a violent pain shot through his chest. He thought he was having a heart attack, the way his heart squeezed and sank.
It hadn’t been more than a split second between his vision and his decision. He hit the brakes, ignoring the white SUV honking and swerving behind him, and U-turned on Ocean to head toward the 589 northbound.
When he pulled into the parking lot, the night was pitch dark. Your gray sedan appeared in his headlights. He let out a sigh of relief as he parked behind it. The pain inside his chest was only starting to ebb.
He got out fast and climbed onto the porch in front of room number 2. You hadn’t even locked the door.
—
Dawn wakes you. The light gently tugging at your consciousness, little by little. Pale but insistent, nudging your eyes open.
The room looks so different in the daylight. A miracle you have yet to tire of. Dust particles dancing in the grazing sunbeams of an early winter morning. Quiet and peace.
It’s been a long while since you last slept this well. You sigh at the cliché. A good-hearted, full-chested sigh.
Frankie’s heat behind you is nearly too much. His chest pressed against your back, his left arm, limp and heavy, resting across your waist.
His breathing is deep. Slow, and steady. With each rise and fall of his chest, a thin sheen of sweat glides between your two bodies. His breath ruffles the thin hair on your nape in a gentle tickle.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, you try peeling his arm off you. You’ve almost made it when he suddenly brings it back down.
“Nope,” he mumbles with closed eyes. The word is sleep-heavy, but the corner of his lips are twitching.
You stifle a delighted giggle.
“I have to use the bathroom.”
“Mmh.”
There’s a pause as he considers it, as you vainly try to bite down on your childlike grin.
“Ok,” he finally says, with exaggerated reluctance.
He doesn’t move his arm, though. You have to wiggle yourself out of his hold.
When you exit the bathroom, he’s still in the same position. The room is flooded with light. The sun darts its rays into his sleep-mussed hair. From golden strands to darker depth, his curls are pointing in every direction.
You tiptoe in silence, doing your very best to climb back on the bed without disturbing his slumber. You want this. More than anything you’ve ever wanted. This tranquil moment to yourself, alone with his sleeping body.
Kneeled behind him on the mattress, you take in his breadth, impressive even in this position as he lies on his side. You breathe in his scent, leather, cedar wood, and the musk of his skin, warm from sleep, from the morning sun, from your own body.
There’s a larger freckle on the left side of his neck. Your fingers hover over it, curious, tempted. Drifting higher, your gaze uncovers a faded tattoo behind his ear. You can’t make out what it represents. The green ink is blurred, as if smeared underneath his skin. You doubt it was professionally done. It tugs at your heart with a sharp little pang of a pain to imagine him as a teenager. Tall and lean, smooth cheeks, smooth skin, a friend hunched over him with a needle and an ink pen.
There’s another one on his left hand. This one, you know well. You’ve kissed it. Licked it. Held on to it. It’s nestled on the muscle between his thumb and index finger. Two circles and a dot in their center. A target, you assume, but you can’t be certain. The pile of clothes folded in military fashion springs to mind.
Your eyes continue their exploration, flicking to his other wrist, with its inked arabesque, but it’s over in a second.
You let out a sharp gasp, and he moves so fast you can’t deflect. His arm seizes you by the waist, strong and unyielding. He drags you over his body, and you stumble onto the mattress in front of him.
“What are you doing, back there?” he husks, a smile in his tone, and you giggle, again.
He pulls you in close to him.
“I’m looking at my Christmas present,” you answer.
He lets out a low chuckle. You made him laugh. Pride flares up in your chest. He smiles a dimpled smile, and you suck in a shaky breath, more pain blooming inside your rib cage.
“You’re so pretty in this light,” you whisper in wonderment.
“You’re pretty in every light.”
“How would you know, you haven’t opened your eyes yet,” you tease.
You tease. Your levity makes you dizzy.
His eyebrows disappear in his soft curls. He lifts one eyelid, pursing his lips. The morning sun catches at the mahogany of his iris.
“You questioning my judgment here?”
Smiling, you move your hips closer to his, to where you want to feel him. The low rasp of his voice is dripping down inside you, slowly, surely. Swirling like honey. Thick, rich trickles of amber, sticky and sweet. Like the light playing on his freckled skin. Like his warmth under your hands. Too much and not enough, pooling down between your legs.
Reaching up, you scratch your nails in his beard, tracing the heart-shaped, bare patch on his jaw with your fingertips.
“Is it ok that you’re still here? At this hour?” you ask, focusing on the tip of your finger.
“I don’t know. I hope my truck is not gonna turn into a pumpkin,” he answers, giving your waist a little pinch.
“I hope not. I like your truck.”
Your fingers travel down along his strong neck.
“How’s your head?” he asks.
The bobbing of his throat is mesmerizing. It’s a minute before you’re able to answer.
“You still don’t believe I fell, do you?”
“I believe you. It’s him I don’t trust.”
You’re brought back, violently so, under Beatrice’s porch, into Adrian’s arms and his lips pressed to yours, prying them open. To his taste on your tongue, bitter like stale champagne. Yesterday afternoon. Forever ago.
Perhaps he sees the memory clouding your gaze, because his leg wedges between yours, his body curling around your body. Protective, possessive. He nuzzles into the curve of your shoulder, taking in a deep, full breath. His lips trail open-mouth kisses, tickling and wet, along the line of your throat. You burrow into his chest, into his hold, into his world.
The words bubble up from the depth of your chest, from where they formed between your lungs, where the creature is purring, lapping honey, warm and content.
“My name is Lee.”
Frankie pulls back immediately with a wide-eyed stare. You see, more than you hear, the name rolling around the tip of his tongue, as he tastes it on his palate.
“Lee. Lee. Lee.”
On the third occurrence, his hand circles your hip and slides down to the round of your ass, grasping your flesh as if to hold you down. Make sure you won’t vanish. There’s that perpetual crease between his brow. His heart is thrumming hard and fast against yours. You grow restless between his arms.
“I hate it,” you say.
“What?”
You swallow thickly, mouth cardboard dry.
“My name.”
He props himself up on his elbow to better face your scowling expression, eyes piercing you under his deep frown.
“Why?”
“They gave me my grandfather’s name. Lee Abbott. Lee Abbott & Son, import export,” you recite. “It’s not even mine.”
Your eyes flicker, scanning his face, trying to read the ticking of his jaw, the widening of his pupils.
“I think it’s perfect. Lee’s perfect.”
His voice is breathy, like he just took a punch to the gut, and it sends your mind reeling. Is this what he sounds like when he’s lying?
“How?” You wrestle the question out of your throat, and it’s still barely audible.
“It’s fearless. It’s fucking badass,” he answers without missing a beat, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“What?” you scoff incredulously. You shake your head on the starched pillowcase. “I’m not badass. I’m not fearless, Frankie, I can guarantee you that.”
The pink tip of his tongue darts between his lips as he narrows his gaze on you. His hand leaves your hip. He brings it up to your face, and he pauses. An inch from your skin, like he’s taming an animal, scared, wild or wounded, or all three, before brushing his knuckles to your cheek.
It’s overwhelming, his body hunched over yours. Crowding your senses. Filling your vision. His rhythmic strokes, rough hand, gentle touch. It’s something you had foreseen but weren’t quite ready to experience: his ability for tenderness.
You’re cornered. Entirely. You should probably be scared. To some extent, you are. But you know you’re safe, the feeling instinctive. You must trust the waves, trust the tide of this deep dark ocean. It’ll keep you afloat. Embrace the impact. Embrace its concentric ripples.
“Ok,” he starts. “Here’s how I see it. Marion… Marion, she’s hiding. She’s running away with something that’s not hers, right? Something she stole. Whereas Lee… Lee got out there and she took chances. She got what she wanted. She made it hers.”
Your heart beats inside your throat, blood flushing your face and rushing through your ears with a deafening roar.
“Did she?”
He nods.
“Yea. Yea, she did.”
He leans down, slowly lowering his lips to yours. His kiss is patient, reverent, slow-building. Plush lips wrapped around yours, tongue gently prodding, softly coaxing you open. Between your arms, his shoulders tremble under the force of his restraint.
When you ease into it with a quiet whimper, he draws you in closer. You arch up in his embrace, fingers threading through his curls, right leg brushing up along his.
His mouth crushes yours with a groan. He licks inside you, tongues entwined, swirling. Honey dripping down your spine, fire licking up your core, electricity tingling along your limbs.
Kisses that are more teeth than lips, when he trails the line of your jaw, the coarse hair of his beard scrapping your cheeks. Calloused hands spamming the expanse of your smooth skin, cupping your breasts, rough and needy, and you feel the hot press of his hard length against your belly as he rocks against you.
Your heart is impossibly light. Like it’s going to rip through your rib cage and fly away. Like you’ll be left without one, and the wild creature, always demanding more, will take its place. Because that’s what it’s been waiting for, since the very beginning.
Forgotten, your good will and resolutions, weak promises you made to yourself. Pushed back, pushed down, guilt and photo booth pictures of his dimpled baby girl. Drowned, intrusive memories, blue eyes, white porch, French delicacy.
He’s yours, he said so himself, didn’t he? For the first time ever, something’s yours, wholly. You got him, because of everything you surrendered.
And it matters not that you’re lying to yourself. That, really, he belongs to somebody else. It matters not when his mouth is all over you, greedy, taking. Devouring you. When his fingers are gliding through your soaked folds, breaching your entrance. When they’re buried inside you, thick and curled and pumping.
When you’re blooming sticky and wet, pretty and dazed, bursting open under his touch, moaning his name.
He’s yours now. In this room. In the gift of your name. In your heart that’s flying away from you as you clench and shatter on his hand.
He pulls up, blown out pupils, damp wild curls falling on his forehead. He drags his fingers out of you and the emptiness prickles at the corner of your eyelids. His eyes are trained on you as he licks them. As he smiles, a cocky grin stretches his gorgeous lips and dimples his pretty face, and perhaps this is as close as you’ll ever get to see him looking like his teenage self. That smug smile. All pride and confidence.
You’re sinking into that shitty mattress, weighed down by melancholy and pleasure and regrets. And something else. Something more stubborn than you, that you still cannot name.
Frankie fastens his mouth to yours, sharing your taste with you, wedging his body between your legs, spreading your hips with his waist.
Your emptiness is throbbing at the center of you.
“Frankie please, please.”
“Yes, baby. Told you I was gonna take care of you.”
Flexing his hips, he rubs his length against your scorching heat, coating himself in your slick. Anticipation tingles through the blunt edges of your previous release. You squirm under the weight of him, knees touching the mattress, cracked open, vibrating.
He lines up at your entrance, dark eyes focused on your face, and oh god, the fucking size of him. The fucking stretch. The burn as he inches in, excruciatingly slow. It has you blinking away tears of pain and gratitude, it has you whining his name.
He’s all blown-out pupils, taut muscles, and slack jaw, as he sheathes his cock inside your heat, all the way in. Round head nudging at your cervix. The sight of him, nearly wrecked, control waning, as he makes room for himself inside you rips through you.
“You feel so damn good, Lee,” he says, impossibly soft, and you feel it inside your chest, with the way he’s lying on you.
It’s a stretching glide, when he starts moving. A spreading grind. You can feel every vein, every ridge of him. He hooks an arm under your knee and folds you around him. He’s not fully pulling out, he can’t, he needs you wrapped around him, this much you understand, clearly, through the annihilation of his deep strokes.
Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, you can’t breathe and your body’s a thinning envelope between your heart and Frankie’s. It’s too much, his weight inside and over you, his breath in your mouth, his smell everywhere.
You’re overwhelmed, forced to surrender to the fire coiling inside you. With the coarse hair at his base scraping against the sensitive bud of your clit, with his cock, hot and heavy, dragging against your walls.
Your body jerks underneath him, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulder to draw him closer, your other hand pushing him away and he moves fast, strong fingers circling your wrist and sliding your hand above your head, twining your fingers. You’re pinned down. Helpless. Willing. Unmoored by the intensity of the building impact.
He feels it, feels your frantic flutter around his cock and the frenzied racing of your pulse and he drives in deeper, faster, harder. The room fills up with the sound of his sweat-damp skin slapping against yours. Louder than the creaking bed, louder than the headboard’s thud on the wall.
“Oh god!” you cry.
“Come on, baby, give it to me,” he grunts into your mouth.
—
Frankie sees the plea in your eyes, shiny with tears, too wide, too glassy. Come with me, you’re begging him, come inside. He’s never fucked you like that, not you, not anyone, he’s never bared himself so fully. He’s gonna lose himself for good, this time.
You’re breaking up under his rolling hips, bucking hard against the press of his body. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull, clenching cunt, clenched eyelids.
Something blares up in the back of his head. A signal. An alarm.
He can’t even fuck you through it. You let out a broken cry when he pulls out, spurting dense ropes of come on your mound with a tense “fuck.”
A dry little sob rattles through your chest. Muffled, apologetic.
He untangles his fingers from yours, unhooks your leg from his arm. Pushes away from you on the rumpled sheets, and it’s etched on your face, in your pinched brow, in your quivering lip. The disillusion. The void he’s failed to fill.
That fucking heart attack of a pain squeezes at his chest again.
He rolls onto his back, freeing you, and you gulp in a large breath.
In the room, the air is stifling. Charged with the coppery smell of sex. The daylight is unforgiving with the chipped furniture and the moth-eaten curtains. With that ugly painting of the Appalachian.
“Let’s go clean you up,” he says, sitting up with a cinch. Unable to bear your silence.
“No,” you whisper. “I need a minute.”
You shut your eyes close. You retreat. He watches you disappear beyond the shore of your inner island. Where he cannot follow you.
There’s noise coming through the paper thin walls from next door. Several voices, a television, maybe. Further away, the low humming of a vacuum cleaner.
How long until room-service robs you from him?
He lies back down. Stares at your profile, still and absent, cut out in amber against the light from the window.
Lee.
The most beautiful name he’s ever heard. He briefly noted the similarities: three letters, starting with an L. Lee. Lua. A perfect balance.
It tastes like honey. You said, “My name is Lee” but what you meant was, “I trust you.”
What has he done with your trust?
How could he ever imagine himself capable of living without this? Without you? Without this room, even?
His mind drifts to his early morning routine, Lua curled up on his lap, drinking her bottle with those hungry, little grunting noises. Chubby little fingers wrapped around his thumb.
He was always an early riser. Which was practical during his time in the Army. The nightmares, the drugs, they disrupted that. He could be up, without being awake. Without being there.
But lately, he’s the first to rise again, no matter how late sleep finds him.
He loves that Lua seems to know he’s awake. She never cried in the morning. When she was just a newborn baby, she would make those quiet babbling noises. Now she calls his name. Papa.
He comes into her room with her bottle ready. Most mornings, she’s up, already, holding herself upright with the bars of her crib. That smile she gives him, when she sees him. That’s his morning sun.
He picks her up with one hand, she weighs so little, and yet so much. He covers her face in tickling smooches until she stops giggling and starts pushing him away, making grabby hand gestures at her bottle.
These moments of a peace he doesn’t deserve, in the early, blue hours, he owes them to you. You’ve smothered the nightmares. You’ve quietened his mind. Patiently chipped away at the walls he had erected between himself and happiness, with your quiet, determined strength.
Fuck.
You’re getting up. He watches you climb off the bed and saunter off to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to stay alone on this bed, in this room. Without you.
So he follows you, standing on the threshold, leaning on the door frame of the windowless bathroom, looking at you as you clean yourself with a towel.
The paint is coming off on the lintel. The small neon above the sink lights up shit. The shower head is crusty with limestone. Humidity speckles the ceiling in black, hairy dots above the bathtub.
He hates himself for taking you here.
Back in September, he had chosen the place because it seemed sufficiently remote. Because he hoped it would deter you. Scare you away.
He hates that you didn’t even flinch.
He hates that he’s grown fond of this shithole.
You turn and hand him a glass of water. He steps inside with you. You watch him drink up, head tilted and your big, searching eyes on him. The resolve that sharpens them, that he witnessed emerging, Friday night after Friday night, as resignation receded. That’s what guides him now.
There’s something intrinsically soft, a new kind of intimacy, about standing together in that bathroom. Soon, you’ll have to part. The imminent separation hangs heavy and silent between you. Tangible. He wants you again, already.
You’ve sensed the storm raging inside his head. He can tell, because it’s as though you’re trying to absorb it with your calm demeanor. He resents that. Doesn’t want you to. His moods are not your burden to carry.
You take the glass from him and run the water over it to clean it. As if the cleaning service won’t do it once you vacate the place.
His eyes flicker up to that mirror, to your dim reflection. Mussed hair, relaxed shoulders. Your face, solemn, illegible. And his, darker looking. A trick of the weak lighting. Pitch-black eyes, flexing jaw. Towering over you. Threatening.
The reflection is like an old photograph, a decayed daguerreotype that reveals a ghost. A girl and her demon.
He moves forward to crowd you, until your hips knock against the sink, his own pressing against your cheeks, his cock half-hard already. The glass falls into the sink with a clatter when he grasps the hinge of your jaw, twisting your head upward and to the side.
“You like it when I spit in your mouth, Lee?”
You nod. “I do.”
He gathers it inside his mouth, and you open yours, diligent, hungry, pulling your tongue out with a soft whimper, and his cock twitches in the small of your back. His spit rolls down his tongue to yours. You raise to your tiptoes with a needy little moan. He watches your reflection as you swallow.
His mouth crashes over your lips, sloppy kiss, scraping teeth. Hands kneading rough at your tits, rubbing their hardening peaks between his fingers.
“I want to fuck you in that shower,” he growls, teeth finding the edge of your jaw.
You arch back into him with a broken moan, but to his surprise, you say, “We can’t.”
His hand skates down your front, down the slope of your belly, fingers roughly parting your folds and fuck. You’re soaked. You’re dripping for him.
“Why?” he brushes against the shell of your ear. “There’s time. I want you again, Lee.”
“I want you too, Frankie, I—” you try to move away from the sink, your strength a poor match for his. “We can’t because we literally can’t, that shower is impossible.”
Your laughter startles him. Stepping back, he gives you room, and you move immediately, sitting on the edge of the tub to demonstrate. Smeared with your arousal, his fingers circle his cock, absentmindedly, brain fogged in a lustful haze as you run the tap.
“There’s no hot water. Well, there is, a little, but look, there’s only pressure with cold water. And…” you look up at him with a cheeky grin, “that’s kind of where I draw the line.”
There’s a glimmer of pride in your eyes as you deliver your joke.
His heart fucking sinks. He’ll get that heart-attack, eventually.
“You’ve showered in there, with that broken tap, all this time?”
You nod with a bemused smile before you shrug, comfortable, easy.
“Well, at the beginning. I haven’t in a while.” You pause before you add quietly, “I like to keep you on me.”
Frankie lets out a long sigh. His cock resting thick and heavy against his thigh. You make him so fucking hard. You make him stupidly soft. You drive him out of his goddamn mind.
The words come out of him before he gets the chance to think them over.
“I’ll bring my tools next time. I can probably fix it, if I can access the boiler.”
Getting up, you close the distance between you.
“You could fix it?” you ask, wide eyes gazing at him in amazement.
He chuckles, a velvety rumble from his chest, something assertive and low, the sound of which he had forgotten. He considers telling you about his engineering degree. Enumerating all the aircraft he can fly. Fucking boast about it. Because he wants you to know.
The memory of the crashed Mi-8 in the middle of the coca field invades his mind. Twisted rotor, broken hull. Smoking motor, shattered glass. He can smell the gasoline. Feel the sting of his own sweat and blood in his left eye.
You skim your hands up along his arms. Bring him back to you, to room number 2.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he grits through a clenched jaw.
“Like what?” you ask, voice honey sweet.
You curl your fingers around his biceps.
“Like I can ask you anything.”
“Why not? You can.”
He has to tell you. Tell you he cannot come next week, but that he’ll be back the week after. And the following. As long as you’ll have him.
Only he catches it before he has a chance to speak. That shadow that plays across your face. The beginning of your retreat, behind the clouding of your eyes.
“What is it?” he asks, and he has to swallow down the taste of dirt in his mouth.
You let your hands drop to your sides. You can’t even look at him.
“Hey, what is it?” he presses, cupping your face.
“Can’t come next week.”
You’re so quiet, leaning into his palm, no more than a whisper, and it fucking breaks him.
“I’m going to that— stupid ski resort. Every year, I– I don’t even ski. I hate it. I just hate it. All I do is wait around all day.”
Eventually, you raise your eyes to his face as he flexes his jaw. He sees you police your expression for him.
“It’s not that bad. I get time to read,” you backtrack.
Like you triggered the fury his eyes are burning with, and not that piece of shit of a man who takes you to places where you don’t want to be, just to keep you around fucking waiting.
But his anger subsides abruptly. Everything falls into place. Your presence here last night, your sudden sadness. Like him, you had decided not to come here again.
“Were you going to tell me?” he asks, trying to suppress the resigned sorrow from his tone.
He doesn’t need you to answer. He knows the refrain. He’s never going back to this motel.
“I saw the picture in your wallet, Frankie. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. But I did.”
Three letters. Starting with an L. A perfect balance.
“And what does it change?”
His grip tightens, hands sliding through your hair to the back of your skull, thumbs rubbing circles into your cheeks. You’re cold to the touch. You grasp his wrists, hold on to him, like you did last week in the parking lot. Eyes glimmering, a first tear dangling from your lashes.
“Listen,” he starts, “if you want to stop… this, obviously, I won’t hold you back. But—”
He has to pause. Rake his brain for words, words that fail him, words to express the sadness and the loss and the fear.
He breathes deep, and your scent fills his lungs. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green.
“But I will miss you, Lee. I will miss you so fucking much.”
That tear breaks free. Rolls down your cheek, and he catches it on his thumb.
“I’ll miss you too,” you whisper.
“Then come back to me. Keep coming back to me, baby.”
There’s that pull. The violence of it like a blow. And you must feel it too, because you leap up to him as he leans into you, and your mouths collide. He’s crushing your lips, licking into you, cocking your head to deepen the kiss. Fingers digging into your waist, into your hips, down your thighs as they roam. A harsh, restless furrow. Looking to bruise, to leave a mark, an imprint of him.
Your arms fold around his shoulders, pulling him in, nails denting little red crescents into his skin, and he groans into it. A primal sound that rumbles around you and bounces off the dirty tiles.
His mouth drags wet and hard along your throat. Biting down, sucking in, teeth sinking into your pulse point. He follows it down to your heart. The beating thud, the flowing bloodstream. Hunched over you, lips trailing to your sternum, face burying between your breasts. He bites into the swell of it, pushing the flesh of it into his mouth, latching onto your nipple. A hard suck. Sharp. Painful.
You keen. Folding over him when he falls to his knees. Threading your fingers through his curls with a choked off moan when his teeth scrape the soft flesh of your belly, where you still taste of him. He can smell your sex, rubbed pink and raw from when he fucked you earlier, less than twenty minutes ago.
He bites into the tender skin of your inner thigh, around the long, thin scar you hide there, and you spread your legs wider.
“Good girl,” he grunts.
There’s a knock on the front door. Someone calling “room-service” from outside, and you gasp, hand flying to clasp over your mouth. He couldn’t care less.
“Don’t fucking move,” he growls into your skin.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you answer, voice high and breezy, and it shoots straight to his cock.
He lifts your leg, slides it over his shoulder, and you grip the sink for balance with a little shriek as he dives between your folds, fingers curled around the swell of your ass. It’s not soft, it’s not tender, there’s no Stop me. It’s urgent and commanding. It’s messy, desperate, demanding.
His mouth is hard, wide open, cupping your cunt, his neck pulled taut. Tongue curling around your clit, flickering, plunging into your wet, hot center. Licking your slick straight from your walls, drinking you up. You buck into it, riding his tongue, your pleasure, his face, and he groans into your heat.
His face presses up into you until you nearly topple over. You’re all ragged breaths and wanton whimpers. He wants more, wants to feel you from the inside, and it’s a need, really. Your skin melding with his. Your sex scorching him raw.
It’s your louder cry, loud enough to cover the repeating knocking, when he pulls away.
“Gotta fuck you, baby,” he rasps, getting up, grabbing you by the waist to turn you around.
His voice sounds wrecked, as wrecked as he feels. Cock throbbing angrily between his legs.
“Fuck,” you pant, “I want— I want you to— want you to fuck me.”
He watches you, transfixed, as you face away from him, bracing your hands on the slippery porcelain of the sink. Back bowed, ass perked up. Offered. Waiting. Wanting.
“Oh shit,” he pants. “Fuck.”
He catches his reflection in the dark mirror. Black eyes, hungry. Lips shining with your arousal. A carnivorous expression. It scares him. Like he’s about to eat you whole, eat you raw. A girl and her demon. No one to stop him.
Circling his cock, he spits down on it, smearing the saliva down his length with a couple of strokes, and he’s at your entrance, hot like a fever, leaking wet and sticky for him.
Hand brushing up your arched back to curl around your nape, holding you still for him, he drives into you to the hilt with all his strength.
A broken cry rips through your chest. He pauses inside you, sweat breaking on his forehead, eyes trained on where he disappears inside you, forcing you open for him. Less to let you adjust than to revel into it, the feel of you from the inside, clenching around him. Gripping him, breathing heavily with the stretch of him.
“Good girl, good fucking girl,” he husks with an obscene smirk, something akin to pride at how well you take him.
Your head dips between your shoulders and he hears your breathless laughter.
He pulls out of you, cock catching thick and stiff at your entrance, glistening with your slick, and thrusts right back in. He keeps moving. Long, thorough strokes, fast and steady, dragging along your walls, bumping against your cervix. His other hand a bruising hold on your hip, and those little grunts tearing through your throat with every slap of his hips against your ass.
You’re standing on your tiptoes, legs trembling, but pushing back into him. Meeting him thrust for thrust, with your small hands braced around the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip, and he can’t take his eyes off it. Off that line pulled taut between your shoulders, your grip, your grit.
Your greed for him. Your fucking determination.
There’s that pull again, that hunger for more of you, all of you. He bands an arm between your breasts and draws your back flush to his chest. You’re always so pliant. His hand a careful wrap around your throat to hold you upright and fuck. You’re a sight to behold. In that black-edged mirror. You’re a fucking vision. The mess he’s made of you. Fucked out, flushed skin, cock drunk. Sweat-damp hair glued to your beautiful face.
You’re gripping his arms with both hands, holding on to him, and your eyes find his in the reflection, burning a hole through his soul like they did all those months ago, back in the bar. His heart trips. It swells furious and pounding inside him, how good you look together, how right this feels, your two bodies entwined, surrendering to each other.
“I feel so good, Frankie, so good when you’re moving inside me,” you tell him, eyes fluttering. Your voice trickling like honey inside him, your sweet slick dribbling around him, soaking the hair at his base. He can hear it with every one of his thrusts. Can taste it where it lingers on his tongue. Lick it from his lips.
It’s gonna fuck him up. How much he wants to be yours. Fuck up his sanity and everything he’s got that he hasn’t yet destroyed, just how fucking much he wants you to belong to him. Only him.
He will carve you into his shape if he can’t carve you out of him.
He skates his hand down to your mound, kneading your soft flesh along the way, the bone of your hip, the small slope of your belly. He finds the hardened peak of your clit, fingers gliding around it.
Driving into you in deep harsh strokes, he presses his lips against the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning your skin.
“Gonna fucking ruin you for him, baby. Won’t let you go until you’re fucked full of me.”
“Oh god yes!”
You clench around him, cunt impossibly tight when he shoves you down on it. He sees the tears streaking your cheeks. Feels the shallow bite of your nails into the tense muscles of his forearms when he grinds against your soft cheeks.
“Watch me, Lee. Watch me fuck you full of my come. Gonna fuck it so deep inside you, you’ll be leaking me for days.”
You suck in a sharp breath. Mouth gone slack, eyes locked on him in the mirror, wild and craving. Everything else disappears, the world fades around your two bodies. There’s nothing but your weight between his arms, the feel of you around him.
Hand wrapped around your neck, he angles up his hips, reaching deeper than he’s ever been, into that spot that makes you cry. His fingers rubbing at your clit, more slick gushing out of you.
There’s a fast coiling heat in his loins. A fire, licking up his spine, balls drawing tight, cock swelling.
“I’m coming,” you whine, “Frankie please—”
The words stretch out of you as you trash into his arms, crashing hard around him. He follows with a grunt, loud, primal, possessive. Pumping his come, thick and searing, deep inside your gripping cunt. His vision darkens.
There’s blinding pleasure. Your skin. Your scent.
The knowledge that you're his.
****
#HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY#tonight you belong to me#tybtm#Francisco Catfish Morales#frankie morales#the pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales / fem!reader#frankie morales / you#frankie morales / ofc#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#frankie friday#will miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#william ironhead miller#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fic
93 notes
·
View notes
Text
It's a Match! || poly!141 x Reader
[Chapter 29] || [Chapter 31]
Pairing: 141 x gn!Reader
Words: 1.4K~
cw: injuries + recovery
Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you?
a/n: johnny is a filthy man :) but also we love him so is that a problem? no, it's not.
Chapter 30: Playing House
It took a while, but, Simon got healthy, and John and Kyle got their soreness’ settled enough to be able to go back to work.
Johnny, however, needed a little extra TLC. Being shot in the shoulder involved a longer period of medical leave, paired with a long while of physical therapy…
And that means that he decided to make himself your problem.
The rest of the lads left on a mission a few days after being cleared and, as such, left Johnny with you. Not because the lad is incapable of looking after himself, but more so because he, himself, decided he didn’t want to be away from you.
And so, whenever you leave for work, Johnny leaves for PT, then, goes to base for a bit, mostly doing work on things that he can feasibly do without straining his left shoulder/arm… Like doing paperwork and reports, going to the gym for cardio, crunches, and leg and hip workouts… Then he comes home to you.
He goes shopping for you, cooks you dinner, cleans after the two of you, despite your insistence that he rest… But, as it turns out, Johnny isn’t good at that.
Nonetheless, the flat is cleaner than ever before, Johnny’s drawing supplies are permanently stationed on the dining room table, next to your laptop, and some of his clothes have taken a permanent spot in your closet.
And, of course, he spends every night in your bed, spooning you from behind and hiding his face in your neck while you watch tiktoks, talk, or he regale you with the most ridiculous of puns.
In a way, it’s like Johnny MacTavish is your live-in boyfriend. Or, rather, that you’re playing house with him.
You wouldn’t say you hate it. In fact, it’s quite nice to have someone staying with you all night… Johnny is a good partner, he’s helpful and chill and provides wonderful cuddles…
Though you’ve jokingly started calling him ‘Johnny Price’, because, since he hasn’t been working for a month now, he’s let his beard grow out. And he looks like Price more often than he does not.
It’s on week three of your new routine with Johnny when you’re at work, that you get a text from him:
Johnny: guess what bonnie.
Johnny: [1 Video Attachment]
You definitely should’ve put on some headphones before you watched that video during work… His grunting and groaning was almost pornographic and definitely earned you a few confused/worried looks from your coworkers…
But all you could think of was how he was finally easing back into his arm/shoulder workouts, which meant he finally got cleared by his PT to do as such!
you: did you finally get cleared johnny? 🥺
Johnny: cleared at 50%.
Johnny: not there yet. but soon.
you: I’M SO PROUD OF YOU! 🫶🫶🫶
Johnny: thank ye bonnie
you: this calls for a celebration!
Johnny: i like how ye think bonnie but im not cleared yet to be able to manhandle ye 😏
you: get ur mind out of the gutter johnny price!!!!!!!!
Johnny: oof not ye still calling me that!
you: ur beard is looking like his what do u expect of me! 🙄
Johnny: yer right idk what i expected.
Johnny: so about this celebration.
you: i was thinking we go out for dinner?
Johnny: are we going to dress up nice?
you: i wasn’t thinking we’d go somewhere super fancy because i do not have money johnnyyyy
Johnny: oh good because i dont think i can button up a shirt my shoulder is sore 😖
you: okay then! nando’s!!! 🫶
you: and i’ll give you a shoulder rub when we get home
Johnny: speaking my language bonnie.
And so that’s what you did. You went home in a hurry to shower and change, and, for once, Johnny wasn’t there, having chosen to shower and change at base.
You met up in front of the Nando’s closest to your flat and you immediately chuckled at the sight of him. Sure, he had changed, but he was still very much wearing a pair of jeans, sneakers and a grey zip-up hoodie… Although you could very obviously tell he was naked beneath the hoodie.
“Mo leannan.” He murmured in an exaggeratedly polite tone as he popped the door open for you with his good arm.
“Thank you, my good sir…” You joked, which caused you both to chuckle and shake your head.
You got inside, ordered your food and, as you talked, you site adjacent to him, right on his left side, so you could gently rub his arm with your hand.
“Do you miss the lads?” You ended up asking him as you caressed his bicep and shoulder with your hand, watching him wince a bit at it, because he felt so sore from his first workout.
“A little.” Johnny admitted as he looked toward you. “Do you miss ‘em?” He returned the question. You found yourself nodding in reply.
“Having you here is wonderful though… I… quite miss you lot when you’re all gone together. Not to mention I worry sick for you.” You admitted and pressed your lips together a bit awkwardly.
“You do?” He asked you, to which you nodded. So, he continued. “Well.. I guess I understand. I imagine my mam and sisters worry about me too… As do the Kyle and the Captain’s families.” He conceded.
“That’s actually…” You found yourself trailing off as the waiter brought you your orders and you thanked him, unboxing your food so you could dig in.
“As I was saying…” You trailed off. “That’s actually an interesting point… I feel like I know very little about you and the guys’ when it comes to your personal lives… Outside of hobbies and what you do with me.” You mused as you glanced at him as he dug into his double chicken burger one-handed.
“I don’t know much about the others myself to be honest with you.” Johnny admitted as he stole one of your chips off your plate.
“Really?” You asked softly as you ate your own sandwich yourself, nodding along as he continued speaking.
“We try to keep our… ‘outside’ lives under wraps. Even being a team… what we talk about is always very superficial.” He trailed off.
“So you don’t know anything about the rest of them, nor them about you?” You cocked a brow in confusion.
“Oh, no, bonnie, I talk about myself a whole lot, I’m a blabber mouth, me.” He joked and winked at you. “But family is one of those topics that’s best kept under wraps in our line of work.” He told you as he leaned in, rubbing his thumb on the corner of your mouth to wipe it clean of peri-peri sauce. Then, he sucked his own thumb clean.
“What about me? Do I get to know about you?” You asked him playfully as you leaned forward, setting your elbow on the table as you lean in to him, eyebrows raised in intrigue.
“Tell ye what, bonnie.” Johnny leaned toward you too, licking his fingers clean and then wiping them on a napkin before he set a hand on your thigh under the table. “Anything I tell ye about my family is not going to do them justice… So how about I take ye up to meet my family over the summer… And ye meet them directly? Could even take the Captain, Simon and Kyle with us.” He offered.
Your eyes widened a bit and you blinked away the surprise, staring at him like he had grown a second head.
“Meeting your family? Really? Isn’t it a bit early for that…?” You chuckled a bit sheepishly.
“Aye, maybe it is…” He trailed off. “But at this point, I’m basically livin’ wit ye and ye’ve looked after me in sickness, haven’t ye?” He joked. “And I’ve fended off yer ex… so I’ve looked after ye in health, haven’t I?”
Rolling your eyes in amusement, you shook your head. You knew he was just joking, the look in his eyes showed it… “Are you implying that we’re married, Johnny?” You teased him playfully.
“I’m just saying…” He trailed off playfully, a playful smirk on his lips. “And, if we were married, not saying that we are,… I’d make sure to take ye home tonight and rearrange yer guts if ye let me, mo leannan.”
Looking away and biting your lip, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “Shut it…” You trailed off. “You need to rest, your shoulder’s bad still.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t use my mouth on ye… and that you can’t be on top.” He added before he grabbed another one of your chips and popped it in his mouth.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
If the video doesn't work: TUMBLR LINK
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!):
@daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling ,
@tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva ,
@emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes ,
@irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @cod-z , @frescoisnotinthemilitary ,
@leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark , @xxshadowbabexx , @severenswife , @enarien ,
@agoodmoviekiss , @l0lziez , @whos-fran , @greatstormcat , @openup-yourmind ,
@neoarchipelago , @sodavrr , @cutiecusp , @lilliumrorum , @c-nstantine ,
@kneelforloki , @comeonatmebruh , @codsunshine , @waiting-so-long , @captainquake42 ,
@gazspookiebear , @mynameismisty , @reap3erslov3 , @reaper-chan666 , @poohkie90 ,
@kitwithnokat , @stick-the-dumbass , @mothsdrabbles , @justanerd1 , @thesinsoflust ,
@thriving-n-jiving , @blckbrrybasket
#ikea writes 💚#it's a match! fic#cod modern warfare#cod fanfic#captain john price#john soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#simon ghost riley#text story#cod x reader#call of duty x reader#141 x reader
694 notes
·
View notes
Text
Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15
Summary: You and Eddie finally get some much-needed alone time, and a confrontation at the Hawkins Preschool talent show tests your commitment to each other.
Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), protected p in v, fingering, oral (m! receiving), lil bit of edging, broken condom, breeding kink, mentions of Eddie's past, bullying, fighting, Jason Carver's mere existence, mostly fluff and smut before the angst of the next two chapters
WC: 9.2k
Chapter 15/20
Divider credit to @saradika
Cutie pie Eddie pic credit to @/sunceddie
--
You wake up to an alarm set a full hour later than it typically is on a Friday morning, and the extra rest has you walking on air. Or maybe this newfound floatiness comes from knowing Eddie will be arriving soon, the two of you playing hooky from work to spend the day together. Your insides ignite with a rebellious fire, like you’re skipping class to smoke cigarettes underneath the bleachers, rather than taking a paid sick day that you’ve rightfully accrued.
Sunlight streams through the window, just a bit brighter than the usual smears of pink and orange that you normally see when you awaken. And while you still have to drag your yet-to-be-caffeinated body out of bed, the walk to the bathroom seems slightly less daunting.
You can’t let Eddie in fast enough when the intercom buzzes thirty minutes later. You were never naïve to the fact that dating a parent would mean having less privacy; what you didn’t know was how strongly you’d crave him.
Your hands are all over him the moment he steps through the door, simultaneously too much and not enough. Fingers lazily drape across the nape of his neck, and you can feel that his hair is already frizzy from the early April rain. Your breath hitches when you catch a glimpse of the burgeoning outline along the seam of his gray sweatpants.
His lips find yours easily, aiming to meet in the middle, but you press on your toes and bring your core to his. Your pajama top is thin; not sheer, but flimsy enough that he can feel the way you react to the chill of his leather jacket.
“Hello to you, too,” he murmurs with a laugh, muffled by a kiss that catches him off-guard. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to grab breakfast first, but—”
You shake your head, grabbing his wrist and pulling him towards the bedroom. “Sex first, food later.”
“Yes ma’am.” He uses his free hand to apply a quick smack to your ass, mesmerized at the way the supple flesh ripples underneath the flannel pants. Jesus, you’ve got him half-hard and you’re still in your pajamas.
He sits on the side of the bed, and you climb to straddle him, your inner thighs nudging his outer. “Been thinking about you,” you say, tugging his earlobe between your teeth.
Eddie pulls you even closer, one hand snaking up your shirt to cup your breast. He’s still cold from the rain and early morning frost, and his touch has your nipple pebbling. “What about me?”
“Well,” you trill, starting to slowly grind against the tented fabric of his pants. He exhales, a shiver of anticipation coursing through his veins. “I believe I promised my rockstar a reward for his amazing gig.” Your thoughts flit back to the night of Will’s party, when you’d snuck backstage and gotten a glimpse of him, his body pulsating with nerves that had almost immediately quelled at your touch. Another sensation had swept over him then, but that was an entirely different type of flutter.
Eddie nudges his nose against yours, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Your rockstar?” He adores the phrasing. Yours. Belonging to you. And you belong to him; he won’t ever allow you to forget it. “What kind of reward did my favorite groupie have in mind?”
You slide off of him, giggling at the pout he gives you as your body loses contact with his. “Patience, Rockstar,” you warn him, though it’s difficult to contain yourself when you’re salivating just being eye-level with his erection. Your fingers dig into his waistband, and for the second time today, you’re glad for his choice of clothing. You don’t think you could handle buttons and zippers and belt buckles. Not today.
He hisses when your palm brushes along his hardened length, stiffening even while covered by his boxer briefs. A small wet patch marks his tip, leaking precum, and you press a chaste kiss to it. Almost instantly, you feel the tendrils of his thigh hair against your bare arms as his legs reflexively snap shut like a Venus flytrap catching its prey.
“Too much?” you mumble against his happy trail. While you relish in the thought of overstimulating him, you want to keep him on edge as long as you can.
Eddie shakes his head, curls scratching against his shoulders. “Jus’ wasn’t expecting it. ‘Cause you were using your hands, but then I felt your…never mind, I’m gonna shut up now.” He settles back into the mattress and eagerly awaits your next move.
You don’t make him wait long, lips drawn to his shaft with a magnetic force. You only stop to shimmy his underwear down his legs, tossing them to the corner of the room. His cock is flush against his tummy; you catch yourself staring at the dusting of wispy curls that trail from his upper groin down to his heavy sack.
Your dominant hand wraps around the base while the other leans on his thigh for balance. You lean in and spit, letting your saliva dribble down his length before flattening your tongue to lick up the pearly bead forming at the tip. Eddie’s abdominal muscles contract and his fists clench, never taking his eyes off of the beautiful woman on her knees for him.
He lets out a soft moan as you hollow out your cheeks to take more of him into your mouth. A string of syllables that barely resemble words escapes him. “Mmm, yes, oh, sh–fucking hell–thas’ it…” He twists the bedsheets between his fingers, inhaling sharply as your tongue glides up and down his cock. “S’pretty, fuck, gorgeous girl.” He watches intently, staving off blinks so he doesn’t miss a moment of him disappearing between your lips.
He’d once thought that he could never want more than sloppy post-gig hook-ups in dive bar bathrooms with girls whose names he’d never learned, though he wouldn’t have made an effort to remember them anyway. Girls who had only offered their mouths so they could lay claim to his body; the opportunity to brag that they’d blown Eddie Munson before he got famous.
That was before you, before you’d shown him the intoxicating mixture of longing and belonging, of lust and…
You continue drawing him closer and closer to his orgasm, nose grazing his thatch of pubic hair. His hips buck slightly, but your mouth is so full of him that it threatens to evoke your gag reflex.
“Shit, ‘m sorry,” Eddie blurts out, unfurling a hand from the sheets to cup your cheek. He pulls out, allowing you to take a deep breath.
You shake your head. “I liked it,” you tease with a wicked grin, wasting no time assuming your previous position.
“Oh, fuck,” Eddie throws his head back. “You like gagging on my dick? Fucking hell, babe.”
“Mhm.” The gentle vibration has him twitching, and you know he can’t last much longer. You bring your attention to his tip, sucking and giving soft kitten licks while your hand takes care of the rest of his length. He’s so painfully hard that you wouldn’t be surprised if he stayed that way long after finishing.
“Jus’…just like that. Oh, fuuuuuck,” he groans, silently calling upon every ounce of willpower in his body to keep his pelvis still so he doesn’t disturb the beautiful rhythm you’ve found. “Gonna cum…shit, baby, if you don’t want it in your mouth, you gotta stop now.”
But you do want it in your mouth, so you don’t stop, feeling warm ropes adorning your tongue just seconds later. He’s panting, chest heaving as though he was the one putting in the effort, but he still notices the way you swallow his thick load without missing a beat.
“Did you just…oh, my God. You’re perfect.” He throws his hands up in mock defeat. “I can’t…nothing I do will ever compare to you, I swear.” He motions for you to lay down next to him, and immediately climbs on top of you, the sweat from his chest transferring to your shirt. “Off,” he mumbles, pulling it over your head before you get the chance to do it yourself.
His lips swoop down to your left breast, tongue flickering over the nipple, and his dominant hand travels into your panties and expertly finds your clit. You let out a tiny whimper, barely audible over Eddie’s own grunts, finding pleasure in making you feel good.
“This body,” he mumbles, mouth still attached to your chest, “has me in a goddamn chokehold. It’s all I think about.” That isn’t quite true; he certainly spends plenty of time daydreaming of you, though it isn’t always in such compromising positions. Sometimes, you’re sleeping next to him in bed as he presses gentle kisses to the nape of your neck. Other times, he’ll be cooking dinner and picture you passing him the salt or handing him a serving spoon to dish out whatever noodle-based concoction he’s conjured up. Whatever he’s doing, he imagines you by his side.
“Can you kiss me?” Your request is timid but dripping with need.
Eddie nods, bringing himself to eye level with you and closing the gap between your faces. You taste of minty toothpaste and of him, and he curses himself for diving in headfirst without remembering to kiss you. “M sorry,” he apologizes for the second time that morning, and you forgive him with a soft bite to his lower lip.
Your arms rest on his shoulders and your legs wrap around his calf muscles, desperate to remain as close as possible at all times. No, you can’t stay like this forever, so you’ve got to make it count. “Need you inside me, Eddie.” Your voice nearly cracks, tears pricking at your lash line as the craving for him grows stronger. “Please.”
Eddie musters up a terse laugh. “Sweetheart, I just came, like, five minutes ago. You gotta give me a second to bounce back.” He lowers himself so he can whisper in your ear, “let me take care of you while we wait, hm?”
As soon as you nod, he’s yanking down your pajama pants and panties in one fluid motion. You can’t miss the way his eyes light up once you’re fully on display for him, taking in every centimeter of your body like his existence depends upon it. He starts to shimmy his way down, but your murmured “mm-mm” captures his attention.
“Still want you kissing me,” you say, gazing adoringly into his deep brown eyes. “Maybe you could just use your fingers?”
His instinct is to protest; he’s been desperate to taste you again ever since his tongue last touched the most intimate part of you, but he can’t deny you what you want. He’ll do just about anything to keep a smile on your face.
Without further hesitation, Eddie’s lips are on yours. He braces himself on his elbows as his hands cradle your cheeks. You can feel the heat of his cock, still spent and flaccid, against the top of your thigh. He shifts slightly so he can press one thick finger into your pussy, dragging in and out so deliciously that you barely notice his tongue slipping into your mouth, deepening the kiss as you moan.
“Y’like that?” It’s a gratuitous question; he can feel how much you like it in the way you’re clenching around him. “Gonna make my girl feel s’good.”
“Call me your girl again,” you whine, punctuating the plea with a gentle buck of your hips.
Eddie grins, ducking his head where your neck meets your collarbone and sucking lightly. It takes every ounce of strength he possesses not to mark you. He studies the moisture left behind by his lips and wishes it was the exquisite shades of blue and indigo that form when someone’s been claimed.
He slides a second finger inside you. “My sweet girl,” he coos, just a hint of patronization laced within his deep voice, “you like being mine? Belonging to me?”
Your stomach flips at his words; a gnawing hunger for Eddie Munson. “Love it. I…I love being your girl.” You allow your mind to clear, absorbing his gaze, his touch, his skin. The graceful arch of your back beckons him to move faster, tongue peeking from between his plush lips as he concentrates on your orgasm.
Each stroke within you inches you closer to euphoria. Eddie’s thumb is pressed to your clit, cementing his determination to tip you over the edge. He hits all the right spots, committing them to memory; his own personal pathway to the heavens.
It’s your turn to grab onto the bed sheets like a lifeline as pleasure surges through you. Your lips coat his in a warm layer of “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” the praise a victory chant to him. He waits until your eyelids flutter back open and your breathing steadies before taking his fingers from your center and into his mouth, licking your release off of his skin like a delicacy.
Your body may be splayed out on the bed, but your mind is adrift; its only focus is the float down from the high Eddie’s brought you to. If it weren’t for the throbbing reminder pressed to your leg, you might float right into the atmosphere.
You summon the willpower to prop yourself up on your elbows, watching intently as he fists himself to temporarily ease the ache.
“Why’re you doing that when ‘m right here?” you mumble, wetting your lower lip with a swipe of your tongue. You can only hope that there’s some semblance of a smile in your intoxicated expression. “Unless you…prefer your hand?”
“Fuck, no,” he grumbles, curls dancing along his shoulder blades as he loosens his grasp to dig through your top drawer. He shoves aside stray prescription bottles and various knickknacks that you’ve been meaning to go through until he finds what he’s been looking for.
He snatches up the teal box and practically tears the cardboard in half trying to open it. The snake of foil packets tumbles out and he scrambles for them, but you’re faster.
Wordlessly, you rip off one packet and carefully tear off the top. Eddie hisses as you roll the condom down his hardened length, more than ready to be inside you.
“Wanna ride you,” you tell him, pressing your palms to his soft pecs. “‘S that okay?”
“Is that—baby, if I ever say no to that offer, there’s something seriously wrong with me,” he laughs, already laying back on the bed. His hair splays across the pillow, brown curls swirling atop the cotton pillowcase like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Eddie inhales sharply as you sit above him, sheathed cock pressed to your heat in anticipation. He reaches out and grabs your breasts, one in each hand, kneading them in his palms. His thumbs brush over your nipples, gauging your reaction before giving them a small pinch.
Your moan, coupled with the way you grind against him, confirms your satisfaction, but he still asks, “Y’like when I do that?”
You offer him a little smirk, cocking your brow as you cheekily reply, “You tell me.”
He doesn’t have time to respond before you lift yourself and gradually sink down onto him, soaking in every moment of the delectable stretch. Bracing yourself on his chest, you feel him bottom out so he’s filling you entirely.
“Fuck, Sweetheart.” His hands move from your chest to your hips as he helps you adjust to the newfound fullness. “So tight. Feels‘mazing.”
“Just wanna take care of you, Eds. You’re so good to me; I wanna be good to you.” You bounce up and down, moving your hips so no part of your walls remains untouched by him.
He’s mesmerized at the jiggle of your flesh as it connects with his, momentarily rendering him speechless before he regains some composure. “You are. You’re so, so good for me. Can never get enough of my girl.”
You clench around him at the title ‘my girl’, earning you a smack to your ass. The sting makes you whimper, and he swiftly delivers another.
“You’re gonna make me cum too soon,” he huffs, blown-out pupils drifting from your eyes to where your bodies are joined.
You pause your movements to lean down, allowing him impossibly deep within you. “If it’s too much,” you murmur into his ear, hoping your edge-teetering tremble is hidden enough to effectively tease him, “maybe I should just…stop.” You slide your hips forward until only his tip breaches your hole.
Eddie’s jaw drops in complete disbelief. “You…you can’t fuckin’ do that to me.” You expect him to push the rest of his cock inside you and thrust until he’s completely spent, so you’re caught off-guard when he pulls out entirely. “All fours. Now.” He emphasizes his request with another spank, this one harder than the rest.
You oblige, palms pressed into the mattress and toes curled as you await him. He taps his shaft against your bottom once, twice, three times, and then plunges into your warmth.
“Ah—fuck—Eddie!” you cry, feeling the telltale twitch that informs you he’s close. Really fucking close. And then another sensation—a soft pop.
He realizes what it is before you do. “Fuckin’ condom broke!” he grumbles, pulling out again—even more begrudgingly than before—and tossing the split rubber to the floor. He opens a new one and rolls it on with lightning speed, eager to be enveloped in you once again.
“Wish we didn’t have to use those,” you mumble, willing yourself to stay steady despite the push from his pistoning hips. “Be so much easier without them.”
Picturing you taking him raw—you wanting to take him raw—is the last straw. “Yeah? You wanna feel all of me, baby?” he growls, nearly inaudible over the sound of his pelvis colliding with your ass. “Want me blowing my load so fuckin’ deep inside you?”
“Y-Yes,” you stammer, feeling that delicate wave approaching the shoreline, desperate to crest. “That’s exactly what I want, Eddie.”
“Keep saying my name,” he orders, wrapping one arm around you so his middle finger lays on your clit. Every part he touches makes you weaker for him, scavenging for the relief of release.
“Eddie, feels s’good,” you moan, legs threatening to crumple beneath you. “No one makes me feel like this ‘cept you, fuck, Eddie!”
You finish around him, squeezing him until he’s spilling into the condom with a primal groan of your name. He stays draped over you for a beat before flopping back onto the bed.
“You are…” he turns to you and grins as he searches for the right word, “spectacular.” He gingerly removes the barrier from his dick, tying it in a knot and tossing it into the trash can next to your nightstand. “C’mere.”
You lay on his chest, the sweat cooling as it hits your cheek. “Did you work up an appetite?” you tease, kissing just below his tattoo of a demonic head, “I can grab us some cereal, or we might have some frozen Eggos I could throw in the toaster.”
Eddie smiles so wide it threatens to escape the confines of his cheeks. “Sex and breakfast? You spoil me, Sweetheart.”
“Yeah, well; we need energy to power us through round two.” You scoot upwards to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, the salt of his perspiration tangy on your lips. “Give me a few minutes, okay? Do you like syrup on your waffles?”
“And butter?” he asks with a hopeful smile, peering at you through long eyelashes that would have had you darting to Bradley’s Big Buy if you didn’t already have a stick of Land O’ Lakes in the fridge.
You roll your eyes playfully. “Yes, Your Majesty,” you say, giving his bare thigh a small tap. “Would you also care for some freshly-squeezed orange juice? I can have the chef whip some up right away.”
Eddie throws his head back and laughs, slowly pushing himself up so he can help you in the kitchen. It dawns on him that he hasn’t felt this kind of peace after sex before; his mind has always been clouded with fears of getting too attached, of saying the wrong thing, of deluding someone into thinking he’s enough.
“God, I love you.” The words tumble out before he can stop them, and he freezes in place, one leg through his underwear. “Fuck, I mean–”
“It’s okay,” you rush to reassure him, noting the red tinge forming on the tips of his ears. “I’d say that to anyone who offered me breakfast foods, too.” You give him room to accept the out, to brush off his confession as a slip of the tongue. There’s no use in awarding merit to an accidental comment, regardless of what your skipped heartbeat tells you.
He considers it, every synapse and neuron firing at warpspeed. Maybe he could convince himself that it was an accident if it was the first time he’d felt this, the way your sunshine radiates through him and warms him from within. But that was far from the truth.
“No,” he finds himself saying, grasping onto every morsel of confidence he can find, “it’s not because of the food. I love you.”
Your voice catches in your throat. You want to believe that he’s reciprocating your feelings, but something nags at you. “Are you sure it’s not because we just had sex? Because sometimes that—”
“No,” Eddie repeats himself, unfolding the waistband of his boxer briefs and walking to you. “Because it wasn’t about sex when you calmed me down after the parent-teacher conference. It wasn’t about sex when you taught Harris how to read and bowl and be a better person than I’ll ever be. It wasn’t about sex when you cheered me on during our last gig, and it wasn’t about sex when I saw you holding Ettie.” He takes a deep breath and holds your hands as he gazes into your eyes. “And even after having sex, it isn’t about sex. It’s about you being the one for me. I love you, I love you, I love you.” He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips.
“I love you, too, Eddie.”
Just five words, six syllables, and he’s a goner. Seriousness melts into a sappy smile as he cradles your cheeks and presses the tip of his nose to yours. “Holy shit, we’re in love.”
You kiss him, tongue nudging his as your torsos meld together. If your stomach wasn’t gnawing for something to eat, you’d start round two right then and there.
Throwing on just a shirt and panties, you lead him into the kitchen before either of you can crawl back into bed. His hands never leave your body, snaking around your waist as you rifle through the freezer for the familiar yellow box. His head rests on your shoulder as you drop the waffles into the toaster and press the lever down.
“Eds?”
“Yes, my love?” he murmurs, pecking a soft kiss behind your ear. You both could have sworn that there was nothing better than him calling you ‘my girl,’ but you’re unashamed to stand corrected.
“Could you make yourself useful and grab some plates? Maybe get the syrup or butter?” you tease, noting the dramatic pout developing on his face. “What?”
“I’m keepin’ you warm,” he protests, sliding his hands over the cotton fabric of your faded t-shirt and grabbing your breasts. “And you’re not wearing a bra, so I gotta hold ‘em for you.”
He eventually obliges, setting two Chinette plates on the countertop and padding over to the refrigerator. He plucks the condiments from the side door and places them in the center of the table.
“Cups, too,” you remind him with a cheeky grin, pointing to a cabinet to your right. “No drinking out of the carton in my house.”
“Bossy this morning, aren’t we?”
The toaster chimes a charismatic ding! as the waffles jump out of their slots, and you carefully drop both onto one plate. “Here ya go,” you chirp, extending your arm so he can take his breakfast.
“Where’s yours?” His brows pinch together in confusion, a sly smile stretching his lips. “Don’t tell me I didn’t make you work up more of an appetite back there. Shit, shoulda had you ride me longer–”
Your hip collides with his in a purposeful shove. “I’m getting mine ready now. Go sit and eat, you horndog.”
Eddie drops the plate on the counter so quickly that the Eggos nearly fly off, pulling you from behind for a hug that squeezes all the air from your lungs. You squeal as he bites your neck and barks into it, solidifying that he has indeed earned the new nickname you’ve bestowed upon him.
He takes one of his waffles and places it on your empty plate. “We can eat together.”
You grab the orange juice from the fridge, giving the carton a shake before pouring the contents between the two glasses. It’s not until you sit down that you remember: “Oh, shit—utensils.” You start to get back up, but Eddie puts a hand out in a silent bid for you to stay seated, shuffling back to the kitchen. The drawer rattles as he pulls with just a bit too much strength, and he comes back with two knives and a single fork.
“You only got one—” you start, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t need it.” With that, he cuts off a hunk of butter and slathers it on top of his waffle, knife scraping against the little squares. He slathers every square inch in syrup, folds the waffle in half, and takes an exaggeratedly large bite.
“Eddie Munson!” you lightly chastise, still in shock at what you’ve witnessed. “Did you just eat that like a taco?”
“Sí, señorita.”
You shake your head in disbelief. “Oh, my God, I’m in love with a barbarian.” You reach for the bottle of Aunt Jemima and drizzle the sticky-sweetness onto your waffle. “What else is going on with you?” you ask, cutting the food into strips and spearing it with your fork. “Work’s good?”
“Work’s great, actually.” He starts to bring the waffle to his mouth but pauses just before taking a bite. Syrup drops onto the plate with a plop. “I almost forgot to tell you! The regional manager asked me to go to this thrift market in Indianapolis in a few weeks—all on the company’s dime—and try to snag some vintage records.”
“Eds, that’s amazing!” You leap up from your chair and lean in to kiss his syrupy lips.
He licks a smudge of butter from the side of his thumb. “Oh, but that’s not even the best part,” Eddie grins triumphantly. “The market just so happens to fall during spring break, and I was hoping you could join us?” His bare foot nudges yours under the table. “That is, if you think you can survive an entire weekend running after Harris?”
Your jaw drops in mock-offense. “One of us chases after children–plural–every day. Besides,” you add, taking a swig of juice, “Harris isn’t the one I’m worried about.” You gesture at his partially-demolished breakfast. “At least when he eats like this, he has the excuse of being a child.”
His reply is a flick of his left middle finger, his right hand busy jamming the remaining waffle-taco into his mouth. “And yet,” he retorts with his mouth full, “you can’t seem to get enough.”
He’s got you there: all you’ve ever wanted is sitting in front of you now, the corners of his chocolate-brown eyes crinkling as he stands. You allow your eyes to roam his body; not with lust, but adoration. Love.
Your cheek yearns to be pressed to his chest, your hand resting where the soft pudge of his tummy barely rolls over the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs. Your legs crave the connection of intertwining with his. You need his arms, biceps strong from lugging around music equipment and holding his son, wrapped around your torso and keeping you impossibly close. Keeping you safe.
You want to spend hours asking about the stories behind the tattoos that adorn his chest, whether meaningful or the result of sheer boredom. You want to curl up on the sofa and put on a movie, absorbing none of it as you spend the entire duration lost in his lips.
The brush of his thumb against your knuckles stirs you from your roaming thoughts.
“Can I ask you something?”
Eddie sits up a bit straighter, hand never leaving yours. “Shoot.”
“Is it…” you fumble for the right words, “why are you like this now?”
“I’m sorry?” His brows knit together in obvious confusion. “Why am I like…what?”
“This,” you repeat, gesticulating at the man before you, warm and tender and completely unlike the stranger you’d hooked up with nearly eight months ago. “Why is the guy who once kicked me out of his apartment currently having breakfast with me half-naked and inviting me on a trip with his son?” Your tone is inquisitive, curious, and Eddie heaves a silent sigh of relief when he doesn’t detect a hint of judgment.
He doesn’t answer your question outright; instead, he poses his own: “Do you not believe that I love you?” He bites his lower lip, mind churning with the early memories you’d made together, the ones he wishes he could lock away and never remember.
Your heart lurches at your accidental implication. “I do! Shit, Eddie, I know you love me. And I love you, too.” You pause to lift his hand to your mouth, leaving the gentlest of kisses along his fuzzy knuckles. “I guess I just wanna know why you even let yourself love me. Why you didn’t stick to the Cat-and-Mouse. Why…why you chose me.”
He exhales, an incredulous huff of laughter passing through his lips. “You wanna know why I started only having one-night stands? Or why I stopped?”
“Both?” you try.
“So, um,” his eyes look everywhere but at you, “I never really got attention until I moved to Chicago and started playing with that band. All of a sudden, women wanna sleep with me, and I don’t have to, like, beg them.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “But they didn’t really want to fuck Eddie Munson; they just wanted to fuck the lead singer and guitarist of Hard Knox. Didn’t matter if it was me or some other random guy.
“One night, I’m…y’know…with this one girl, and I asked her to say my name.” His cheeks tinge red and he swallows hard. “And she looks at me with these wide eyes, and I realized she didn’t even fucking know it.”
“Did you know hers?” The question comes out before you can stop it, but you already know the answer.
He rubs his eyes with his whole palm. “After that, I realized that the only difference between the Eddie who got laid and the Eddie who didn’t was that no one I slept with really knew me. And if they ever figured out that I’m just this big ol’ nerd who spent high school playing Dungeons & Dragons, they’d…” He flexes his hands to make a poof! motion. “So I decided not to let them get to know me.”
“But then…”
“But then,” he acquiesces, “you show up at the bar, looking like a goddamn dream, and I put up that cocky lead singer persona on instinct. Because that’s the only version of me that women ever wanted to be with.” He sighs. “And then I let my guard down, ask you to spend the night, and I’m thinking, ‘I gotta get her outta here before she sees who I really am. Before she sees that I’m not a rockstar; I’m just a mediocre dad who sells weed to scrape by.’”
You move so quickly that you practically knock over your chair, standing behind him and wrapping your arms around the top of his chest. Your chin rests on his scalp, and he can feel the vibration in your throat as you murmur, “nothing about you is mediocre, Eddie Munson.”
He lays his head on your forearm, kissing it softly before lacing his fingers with yours. “Sometimes, I think I’m just buying time until you get sick of me.”
You shift your position so your lips can brush the side of his neck. “I didn’t fall for the guy on stage that night. I mean, yeah, you looked incredibly hot,” you tease and nip at his collarbone, “but I’m in love with Eddie Munson: the man who gets excited when his son reads a new word, who teases me for liking olives on my pizza, who knows the lyrics to every song ever made–including the ones he claims to hate.”
“Well, Eddie Munson–the real Eddie Munson–is so goddamn lucky to be loved by you.” He turns so he’s facing you, strong hands on your hips as he gazes up with starry eyes.
You cradle his cheeks, stooping down so your noses touch. “You deserve to be loved.”
“Yeah.” The word is more breath than sound. “Yeah, I think I’m finally starting to believe that.”
The remainder of your day is spent having copious amounts of sex; Eddie had insisted on ‘making up for lost time,’ taking breaks only for a quick lunch and a shower.
“Come with me to pick up Harris,” Eddie says as he wraps the bath towel around his waist. Water drips from the ends of his curls down to the dimples on his lower back. “We’re going to Jeff and Viv’s after so he can meet Baby Ettie.”
You raise your eyebrows in amusement, bending over to dry your legs. “I took a sick day today,” you remind him. “I can’t just show up there in your car, like, ‘nothing to see here!’”
“I’ll park far away,” he says with a shrug. “No biggie.” There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “I mean, I could tell Harris that Ms. Sweetheart was supposed to be with us, but she said no—”
You swat at his chest and he pulls back, feigning pain. “You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
That’s how you ended up hunched over in the passenger seat of Eddie’s sedan, hiding from any passersby who could potentially recognize you. It only takes a few minutes before you hear the sound of Harris’s little voice, chewing his dad’s ear off about his day at school.
“...and then me an’ Charlie traded me snacks, an’ no one even sawed us!” He’s cackling like it’s the funniest joke. “He had my pretzels and I had his gummies, and it was so silly!”
“Gummies, huh?” Eddie clicks his tongue, “well, that explains the sugar rush.” Their voices get louder as they approach the car. “By the way, Har Bear, I have a surprise for you.”
As he says it, Harris opens the back door and hops into the car, eyes widening when he sees you sitting up front. “Ms. Sweetheart!” he exclaims, bouncing into his booster seat with pure exhilaration. “What are you doing in Daddy’s car?”
“I figured I could see Baby Ettie with you guys,” you say as nonchalantly as possible, a stark contrast to the little boy practically vibrating from excitement, “if that’s okay with you.”
“Yes, yes, YES!” Harris shouts, his words aimed directly in Eddie’s ear as he tries buckling his son’s seatbelt.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he mutters, wincing as he massages the opening of his ear canal with his forefinger. “Take it down a notch, little man.” He fumbles with the belt until he hears the familiar click. He dons a deep voice to announce, “Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times,” and Harris draws his limbs inwards with a giggle while Eddie closes his door.
“Daddy? Can we listen to music?”
“Mhm.” Eddie reaches for the radio dial, then stops. “Should we let Ms. Sweetheart choose the tape? Since she’s our special guest?” He shoots you a grin that sends a flip-flopping sensation behind your ribs.
Harris taps his finger to his chin in contemplation. “Hmm…okay! Can she pick Metallica?”
“Not quite sure that’s how it works…” Eddie scrunches up his face and scratches at his jawline.
You turn around to face the boy, whose curly hair is now identically frizzy to his father’s. “Actually, Metallica sounds great to me,” you say, adding a thumbs-up for good measure.
“Metallica it is!” Eddie pops in the cassette, the mechanical wheels whirring for a moment before Fight Fire with Fire blares through the speakers. He rests his palm on the back of your seat as he backs out of the spot, tongue poking from his lips in concentration.
Harris alternates between headbanging to the music and babbling about school throughout the drive to Jeff and Viv’s. His energy seems endless as he hops out of the car and races to their front door.
“Har, remember,” Eddie calls out, “we have to be calm and gentle around the baby. Don’t wanna scare her.”
Harris nods as Jeff opens the door. “Mini Munson!” He gives a tired smile, stifling a yawn. “Ready to meet your new cousin?” He chuckles when Harris jumps up and down and squeals. “I’ll take that as a yes. Go ‘head and sit on the couch, kiddo.”
Harris follows Jeff’s instructions, and you and Eddie trail close behind him. Jess and Robin are also there; the latter woman is currently holding Ettie, lightly rocking the newborn in her arms.
“Do you wanna hold her?” she asks Harris, who looks to you and his dad in a silent plea for permission.
“Up to you, Har,” Eddie says with an encouraging smile. “We’ll help you, if you want.”
Harris nods, shuffling so his back is pressed up against the sofa. He squirms anxiously, kicking his feet as he waits for you and his dad to join him.
Eddie sits on his right side, and you take the empty space to his left. “I’ll help you hold her head,” you promise him. “You can hold your arms out like this,” you demonstrate, resting your forearms on your lap with your palms facing the ceiling, and Harris mimics your actions. “There ya go.”
Robin carefully walks over and places Ettie in Harris’s outstretched arms, ensuring that you’re supporting the baby’s head before she fully lets go. For a few moments, Harris just stares at the little girl, seemingly unsure how to react. Finally, he softly murmurs, “she’s so little!”
“Sure is,” Eddie laughs, poking at one of her tiny toes in amazement. “Would you believe that you were even more little when you were a baby?” His grin deepens when Harris’s jaw drops in disbelief. “It’s true! You were the tiniest little thing I’ve ever seen.” As he says it, a lump forms in his throat, and he swallows it before anyone notices the catch in his voice. You don’t need to hear it, though, and you use your free hand to discreetly rub his back in silent reassurance.
Harris purses his lips as he stares at his new cousin, clearly unaffected by the anecdote. “Does she do any tricks?”
His question has the entire group stifling laughter, and Eddie turns pink with embarrassment as he quickly explains, “she’s not a dog, buddy. And she was only born a few weeks ago, so she pretty much just eats, sleeps, and poops.”
“Ew,” Harris’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the last activity, though you’re willing to bet a large sum of money that he’s made at least one poop-related joke today. “So when can I teach her how to play Legos?”
“Not for a while,” Viv admits with a kind chuckle, “but when she’s ready, I promise that we’ll let her big cousin Harris show her how it’s done.”
Her answer placates him, at least temporarily, and he cautiously brushes his forefinger against Ettie’s scalp, smoothing down her wisps of hair. You take the moment to glance over at Eddie, only to find him looking right at you.
Hi, he mouths, though there’s so much more he wishes to say. When Harris was Ettie’s age, Eddie was exhausted, overwhelmed, constantly on the brink of breaking down. He’d sworn to himself and anyone else who would listen that he’d never go through the newborn stage again, but he’s mesmerized by the sight of you and Harris cuddling a baby. He wants this, he wants this with you, sleepless nights and spit-up stained clothes no longer strong enough deterrents.
Hi, you mouth back, suppressing words that ache to spill from your lips. Your pulse quickens at the way Eddie watches his son, not with scrutiny, but with admiration and awe, as though he can’t believe he’d created such a wonderful little human. Teaching children never translated over to a desire for motherhood, but you can suddenly picture yourself helping Harris hold your baby, a baby that symbolizes the love between you and Eddie.
“They look like a little family.” Robin’s attempted whisper grabs your attention; a brief scan of the room shows that everyone else is looking at her, too. Her cheeks flush a deep red and she mutters, “sorry,” swooping in to scoop Ettie into her arms.
An awkward silence hangs in the air until Jess clears her throat. “How was work today?” she asks you, and though you don’t have an actual answer to the question, you’re grateful for the subject change.
“I took the day off,” you reply nonchalantly. “Wanted to catch up on rest, y’know…” You trail off, hoping your non-answer suffices.
“What about you, Ed?” Jeff tries.
“Oh, uh,” Eddie stammers, nervously running a hand through his hair, “I also took the day off.”
Jeff’s gaze flits between the two of you until he finally manages an elongated, “…cool.”
Luckily, Harris is oblivious to the adults’ conversation. “Uncle Jeff, are you coming to my talent show next week?”
“Talent show?” Jeff glances at Eddie with an amused smirk.
“Uh, yeah, ‘s this parent-kid thing at his school,” Eddie hurriedly explains, trying not to trip over his words. He’s still stuck on what he’s implied by admitting that he’d also called out of work. “I didn’t know how busy you’d be with Ettie—”
Viv smiles. “I think he can sneak out for an hour to see his favorite nephew.”
“Robs and I can help out here if you need,” Jess offers to her sister, “as long as Jeff brings the camcorder so we have video evidence of this performance.”
“Absolutely not.” Eddie shuts the idea down immediately, but his protest is drowned out by the sound of Harris cheering.
“Daddy and I are gonna—”
Eddie claps a ringed hand over his son’s mouth. “It’s a surprise.” He looks at you for a moment, bashfulness infiltrating his expression with a timid smile and downcast eyes, and you realize that the surprise is for you.
Harris wriggles out of Eddie’s grasp with a discontented sigh, sliding off the couch and onto thr floor. “I didn’t tell Ms. Sweetheart,” he protests, and Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose as he gathers any remaining patience.
Ettie puckers up her face and lets out a wail that seems far too big for her teeny body, but it serves as the perfect reason to leave. You hug everyone goodbye and give the cranky baby’s feet a gentle tickle before you head out the door. Harris gallops ahead, giving Eddie the opportunity to guide you with a soft press of his hand to the small of your back. Before he's fully outside, he leans in to Jeff, whispering “I told her,” ending the statement with a grin.
“My man!” Jeff grabs Eddie’s shoulder and gives it a small shake. “Let me know when to buy my tux for the wedding.”
“Jesus, you sound like Harris.”
Spending time at Hawkins Preschool outside of contracted work hours would normally be a scenario straight out of a nightmare. This afternoon; however, you’re here to see the most adorable little boy and his handsome dad perform some sort of mystery talent, which makes it all worthwhile.
The cafeteria has been transformed into an auditorium of sorts, with neat lines of metal folding chairs replacing the long tables that typically fill the space. An area at the front of the room has been sectioned off for the performances, and the entire place is abuzz with excitement about the adorableness that is about to ensue.
You spot Jeff and Wayne sitting in the third row from the back and you give them a little wave, bounding over to take the empty seat to Jeff’s left. The smile on your lips quickly transforms into a frown when you see him shake his head, placing his palm on the chair.
“I’m under strict orders to make sure you sit in the front row,” he says with a knowing smirk. He shoos you away, and you begrudgingly turn from their familiar faces, but not before catching a twinkle in Wayne’s eyes.
Soon after you find a seat close to the makeshift stage, Principal Sinclair steps up to the microphone.
“Welcome, friends and family, to our annual talent show fundraiser!” There’s a polite smattering of applause before she speaks again. “Our students—and their parents—have quite a show for you all. First up is Miss Abigail Carver and her mom, Chrissy, who will be performing a cheer routine!”
You clap as Abby and Chrissy step out, green and yellow pom-poms in hand. Your student recognizes you immediately, running over to give you a quick hug that elicits a resounding aww from the audience members. She rushes back to her spot as she and her mother cheer on the Hawkins Tigers in unison.
Next is another student of yours, Joshua Harrington. His dad hoists a Fisher Price basketball hoop and places it on the ground so the two of them can show off their “slam dunks.”
After a few more students from other classes, it’s finally the moment you’ve been waiting for.
“Please welcome Harris Munson and his dad, Eddie, who will be singing a song!”
No sooner do you call out, “Yay, Harris!” do you hear it:
“Freak.”
It’s low enough that no one else catches it; you probably wouldn’t have, either, if the culprit wasn’t sitting directly behind you. You turn around to see Jason Carver, camcorder by his side, poorly stifling a snicker.
Your hands clench, balled into fists, so tight that you feel your fingernails digging into your palms. It’s too tempting to smash his camera—no, smash his stupid face—but you inhale and then exhale for three seconds apiece. Today is about Harris and Eddie, and no overgrown bully is going to ruin that.
Still, you have to bite back a smile at the thought of Jason sporting a black eye, courtesy of the Freak’s girlfriend herself.
When Harris and Eddie take to the performance space, your anger evaporates and your heart becomes heavy with emotion. Harris is front and center, body slightly turned as he watches his dad get settled on a wooden stool and gives his acoustic guitar a tune. The boy dons a black suit that’s a size too big for him, his hands barely peeking out of the sleeves. He’s got on a tie that has to have been borrowed from an adult; you can’t imagine Eddie or Wayne wearing one, so maybe Jeff loaned it. The best part is the fedora that rests atop his messy mop of curls.
“Hi, Ms. Sweetheart!” he says with a grin so wide it likely hurts his cheeks, letting out a shriek of delight when you wave. “This song is for you!”
Eddie murmurs a soft, “two, three, four,” and strums a melody that immediately has your eyes welling with tears.
“You make me feel so young,” Harris croons, mouth right up to the mic, “you make me feel so spring has sprung!”
To anyone else, it seems like a silly play on the fact that he is, in fact, young. You know it’s so much more.
“And every time I see you grin, I’m such a happy individual!”
He’s singing Frank Sinatra. He’s dressed as Frank Sinatra. And you know it had to be Eddie’s idea, considering Harris’s musical repertoire teeters between Raffi and Metallica.
He skips a few verses, and when he does, Eddie locks eyes with you and offers a tiny close-mouthed smile.
“And even when I’m old and gray
I’m gonna feel the way I do today
‘Cause you make me feel so young!”
You choke down the sob that threatens to escape as they circle back to the chorus. The memory of Grandma’s final Thanksgiving, consisting of singing along to Fly Me to the Moon and sharing store-brand Oreos, soars around your mind. The way she had so easily slipped back into her old self, if only for a moment. The way Eddie had held you and kissed your scalp, protecting you from a force no one could see but everyone could feel.
“You make me feel so young You make me feel so young Ooh, you make me feel so young!”
The song ends and you leap to your feet, cheering just as loudly as you did the other night at the Hideout for Corroded Coffin. You swipe at a stray tear and force yourself to look at your boyfriend, so effortlessly beautiful in a black t-shirt and jeans.
Thank you, you mouth.
I love you, comes his silent reply.
You gaze into each other’s eyes for another beat before you feel a thud against your legs. Harris stands right before you, ignoring the way all of the other kids proceeded out the door after their performances.
“Are those happy tears?” he asks, brows furrowing in concern as he notices your stained cheeks. When you nod, still too overcome with emotion to speak aloud, his face splits into a grin. “Good.” His arms wrap around your waist in a hug that nearly has you toppling over, and you rest your hand on his upper back to steady yourself.
“Easy, Har Bear,” Eddie’s voice is strong but tender, and your entire body relaxes in his presence. You want to pull him in by his belt loops and kiss him, running your fingers through his curls until you’re both smiling too hard to continue. If only you weren’t at your place of work, if only all eyes weren’t on you, if only–
“Looks like the Freak’s got a crush.”
A smattering of the audience members laugh at this, no one more so than the instigator himself. You whirl around reflexively, eyes narrowing at the smug blonde man behind you. Eddie takes a small step forward, quietly telling Harris to go back with his friends as he zeroes in on his longtime nemesis.
He’s going to hit him, you realize, noting the subtle clench of his jaw and twitch of his flexing bicep. I have to stop him before he does something he regrets.
Eddie’s hand shoots out, grabbing Jason’s collar and pulling him in with a jolt. There’s a soft gasp from the crowd followed by silence as everyone waits for Eddie’s next move. You can hear the scraping of metal chairs on the ground as Wayne and Jeff scramble to mitigate the situation before it can escalate further.
To your surprise–and relief–Eddie doesn’t throw any punches; instead, he grits his teeth and hisses, low enough so only you and Jason can hear:
“Don’t ever talk about her again.”
He lets go with a small shove, and Jason stumbles back just as Principal Sinclair arrives to break it up. While time came to a screeching halt, the whole interaction spanned fewer than ten seconds.
Wayne and Jeff reach him first, guiding him out of the cafeteria. The older man keeps his eyes on his nephew, but Jeff shoots Jason a steely glare, insinuating that Jason had better heed Eddie’s warning if he wants to live to see his daughter go to kindergarten. You follow behind and attempt to keep your composure.
“I’m so sorry,” Eddie breathes as soon as the four of you are alone. “I shouldn’t have…I just fuckin’ hate that guy.” His eyes dance with anxiety, not sure whether to look at you, his friend, his uncle, or the ground.
You take his hands in yours, imploring him to focus on you as you reach up to brush his curls off of his face. “It’s okay–”
Eddie shakes his head. “I ruined everything. This was supposed to be about Harris, and about making you happy…” He takes a step back, rubbing his eyes with a low, exasperated, “fuck!”
“Baby–”
“I’m gonna get Harris,” Eddie starts to walk away, speaking to himself as though you hadn’t said a word, but he stops in his tracks when Wayne puts his hand on his shoulder.
“Listen to your girl,” he says simply, motioning for Jeff to come fetch Harris with him.
Eddie doesn’t dare protest, trudging back to face you. He’d fucked up royally, and he knew it. What was he thinking, putting his hands on Jason Carver in the middle of a goddamn preschool talent show?
“Eddie,” you take his hand in yours and give it a squeeze, “it’s okay. I’m not mad; I just wish he didn’t get under your skin like that.” You rub your thumb along his forefinger. “He’s not worth it, I promise.”
“I just…” Eddie mumbles, thoughts too scrambled to find the words he needs. He heaves a long sigh. “I shouldn’t have done it here.”
You can’t really argue with that; out of all of the places Eddie could fight Jason, your job wasn’t your favorite option.
“Can I tell you a secret?” You press onto your toes to whisper in his ear. “I almost did the same thing earlier today.”
“Really?”
“Mhm,” you confirm, nudging the toe of your shoe against his scuffed sneaker. “And I have a feeling most people in this town would agree with me.” The notion makes Eddie smile, and you continue. “Let me take you and Ol’ Brown Eyes out for ice cream to celebrate your amazing performance. Please?” You throw a puppy-dog look his way, though he needs little convincing.
Still, a nagging thought tugs at him that he has to resolve before can allow himself to relax. “There might be people there. People we know.” People like Jason Carver and Carol Perkins, he silently adds. “It’s okay if you don’t want to…we can just grab a half-gallon from Bradley’s and bring it home.”
You shake your head, effectively turning down his offer. “I’m taking my boyfriend and his adorable son to Scoops Ahoy, and the three of us are gonna split a fudge sundae,” you say matter-of-factly.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Are you sure you’re okay with people knowing about us? Being branded ‘The Freak’s Girlfriend’? Hearing people gossip about whatever the Hawkins rumor mill has churned out?
The sensation of your lips on his tempers the overworked gear shifts in his brain. When you pull back, you’re smiling at him.
“Positive.”
--
tag list (now closed):
@kelsiegrin @lma1986 @stuckontheceiling @avobabe87 @eddapwinchester @peachysink @browneyes8288 @jeremyspoke-inclasstoday
@breezybeesposts @wednesdaymunson @feltonswifesworld87 @take-everything-you-can @bebe07011 @81rain @dylanmunson @oscarisaacwhore @eddiesguitarskills @everheart12 @etherealglimmer @hollster88 @wh0re4life @siriuslysmoking
@bibieddiesgf @winchester-angel @starlitlakes @avalon-wolf @hazydespair @josephquinncore @daydreaminglisa @sidthedollface2 @eddiebaemunson @mandyjo8719 @daydreaming-mood @aol19 @corkadymu @starcourtnights
@rockstarmunsons @metalhead-succubus @boinkybarness @oohworldofpisces @costellation-hunter @toobsessedsstuff @meadow20 @lost-in-the-stars03 @aysheashea @josephquinnsfreckles @eddiemunsonslittlemetalhead
@chamomileh0ney @dream-a-little-nightmare @emma77645 @kurdtbean @sheneedsrocknroll92 @tlclick73 @lolly-in-a-strange-land @bakugouswh0r3
@strangerthingsstories5255 @adaydreamaway08 @itsalltaken @harmfulb1tch @mimischaos @averagemisfit03 @steddiegarbage @vigilanteshit @ellendemeyer152 @sierrahhh @hiscrimsonangel @mrsjellymunson @idkatee
@quentinswife @eddiesguitarskills @momowhoo @jasminelafleur @mmunson86 @mcueveryday @augustsgetawaycar @let-love-bleeds-red @inesven @tanyaherondale @theintimatewriter
#eddie munson#eddie stranger things#eddie x reader#eddie x you#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson x f!reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson smut#eddie munson angst#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things fanfic#fanfic#eddie munson stranger things#stranger things#tui
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐢 ; 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader
summary: It was a normal night, till he had to look for you. And then, the storm began.
rating: 18+ (MDNI)
word count: 8k
warnings: pregnancy, talks of abusive parents, mentions of abortion.
a/n: as Jesus is reborn, so am I! Happy Easter to everybody that waited so long for this chapter to come out. I'm sorry it took me so long, but I got so busy this past month that if I hear anyone say 'illicit trade' or 'online trafficking' I might kill somebody lol. I hope this chapter compensates for the time, though. It is mostly Jason's pov, with references to the reader as she/her rather than you because I thought it might sound better. Idk, lmk if it's weird lol.
a/n 2: also, I can't begin to thank everyone for the incredible support in this series. I've got so many messages that had me on the verge of tears with happiness and how sweet they were. I trully hope I'm capable of continuing to bring you guys joy through this series and other stories. I love you all, and thank you so much for allowing me to finally let my ideas become words, and my words to have meaning
reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! ♡
links: previous ; next ; series masterlist ; general masterlist
A cold shiver ran up Jason’s spine. The soft breeze coming off the opened fridge climbed up his shirtless torso, drying the sweat on his skin and leaving it cold and sticky. The nearly freezing water slid down his throat, giving him the refreshment he craved for after a long session of training, and an even longer day of work.
It was finally over. His session, his day, his week. Saturday couldn't have come sooner. Sighing in relief, he refilled the water bottle, shoved it back into it’s previous place and turned on his heel heading for a much needed shower. He was tired. Drained. And all he wanted to do was drop down in his bed and sleep for a whole entire night.
Picking out his phone from his joggers’ pocket, he took one last peek at the screen. Almost 10:00pm, and a weather report of an incoming rainstorm soon. Perfect, he thought. He loved to sleep to the sound of rain. So, he locked his phone, threw it on the sofa, and rushed to the bathroom, hoping to get a shower before it got too cold, leaving fast enough to get to bed before the raindrops started to fall.
He stripped down his pants in front of his mirror, a quick stop to admire his progress. Chest, arms, and back. All proof of his hardwork and commitment. And yet, a reddish mark by his neck was what really caught his attention. Roy had poked fun at it earlier, but his joke couldn’t be farther from the truth. A bug bite, as simple as that. An allergic reaction to a stupid bug. But that stupid reaction, that stupid mark, brought him back to the last time something like that was left on his skin.
Yn had left with countless marks after that brief session in a stranger’s office. Enough to last him a while. But not more than the first time he had you, right under the same roof he was at now. Marks on his neck, on his chest, arms, and back. If he thought too long of it, he could feel her lips warming his skin, making his mind go crazy, and his blood to boil.
Shaking his head, he tried to keep those thoughts away. It wasn’t time. It wasn’t appropriate. Yn was now the mother of his child. Nothing more than that. He couldn’t keep the thought lingering. So, sliding the glass door open, he entered the shower, hoping to wash away all the thoughts off his mind.
As the cold water hit his shoulders, relief spread to his entire body, even if the chilling weather of the start of fall was not the most adequate for such water temperature. Sinking his head under the cascade, he closed his eyes, mind emptying, and peace reaching him after a long and rough week.
It was silent in his head. But it wasn’t enough.
He couldn’t wash his mind off of Yn. It was first the night he had you over, and under him, moaning his name repeatedly in his ear. He remembered how soft her skin felt, how light was her touch, and yet he couldn’t forget the burning pain her nails had left on his back.
He drowned in the memory of her intoxicating smell, and how the skin under her ear tasted sweet. For a moment, even through the freezing water, he swore he could feel her blood catching fire running through her body, warming him along the way through their skins, glued to one another, tangled in each other, in a night he would never forget.
And then came the memories of the second time. How annoyed she was, and how easily she gave in to him. It was like her body responded to his, knowing it was only him that could give him the pleasure she craved. He missed the feral, animalistic, feelings of that afternoon, and how she fit perfectly around him.
Stop, he thought to himself, opening his eyes to the bright room. This isn’t okay. But again, it was already too late. His throbbing cock rested against his lower abdomen, hard and leaking. He smelled his arousal mixed between the smell of his soap, and his hand reached for his tip, light touches already driving him insane. Resting his hand on the cold porcelain tile, he allowed his eyes to close again.
And then, he remembered the picture. Sent to him just a few hours earlier. It wasn't dirty. On the contrary, it was as innocent as one could be. It was her, playing along with a baby toy, those usually overpriced, but that could distract even a grown adult. And thus she was, distractedly playing with the toy as a picture was snapped without her acknowledgment, and probably sent to him without her knowing either. Her barely visible smile caught his eyes immediately.
For the almost six months he had known her, it wasn’t a sight he got to see often, but that had been gracing his presence much more frequently now. It was beautiful. To him, it was art. Pure and soft. Bright and warm. He could watch it all day. He remembered the first time she smiled at him, in his kitchen, over snacks and laughter. Just before he had her pinned under him in the most intense lovemaking session he’d ever had.
He cursed himself. How could he turn an innocent picture into fire for his wet dreams? But how could he stop thinking of the soft skin of her neck, almost the focus of that picture, when it was exposed right there just for him to see? How could he stop his mind from wandering when it had been so long he had been with anyone? When he had been with her.
Only a few touches brought him his high, spilling all over his wall like a firetruck. Gosh, he hasn’t fucked anyone in so long it was almost pittyful. Feeling himself grow soft, he sunk himself in the water again, washing his face ferociously to wash the shame away. He wasn’t religious, but he prayed he could keep you out of his mind. He couldn’t keep doing it. Things had changed. It wasn’t appropriate. Fuck.
He walked to his bedroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Straight to his closet where, after a few minutes of searching, he found the new pair of sweatpants he had gotten. Gray like all others he owned. Putting it on, he returned to the kitchen, threw himself on the sofa, and prayed, while watching the darkened ceiling, that he could keep her out of his mind.
Soon closing his eyes, the darkness and the tiredness sank him into sleep. Letting go of lights and noises coming from the outside, he allowed the quietness to embrace him. However, his peace didn’t last long.
Underneath him, he felt the incessant vibrations of his phone, even if he couldn’t seem to find the device anywhere. It was just as the phone had stopped that he found it hidden between the pillows, and he unlocked the screen to a scary surprise.
Yn
6 Missed Calls
“What the fuck!” he screamed out loud, worry slowly creeping up his chest, weighing it down and making it hard to breathe.
She didn’t call him. Never. Not one single time. He was the one to always call and message to check if she was okay, or to start any conversation. Something must have happened, and going by the sheer number of times she had tried to contact him, it wasn’t good. Quickly unlocking his phone, he typed on the notification, calling Yn back straight away. She didn’t take long to pick up.
“Yn, what happened?” he questioned as soon as she picked up.
“Oh, thank god!” He heard from the other line, but the voice wasn’t hers. “Jason, It’s Vanessa here. Nessie. Yn’s friend.”
“H-hi, Vanessa,” he greeted through his wavering voice. “What happened? Where’s Yn?” he inquired. He wasn’t only met with silence from the other line, although Vanessa’s tense breathing indicated she was still on the call. With a demanding voice, he asked one more time, “Vanessa?”
“Jason…” She took a deep breath. “Yn is gone.”
It felt as if a heavy weight pulled his heart down, as it dropped lower than it ever had. Yet, his mind was empty, none of Vanessa’s words making sense to him. Yn was gone. Gone where? Why? Where was gone? He had so many questions, yet only once made it out of his lips.
“What?!” his voice faltered.
“She’s gone. I don’t know where to.” Vanessa’s voice too was shaky, and seemed to be holding back tears from falling down. “I heard everything through the walls but I was too afraid to go out and find him, because he scares the shit out of me. He’s really huge, you know, he could easily knock me down if I tried to help her,” Vanessa was rambling, and he could hear her incessant steps, as if she couldn’t keep herself still. “And they were fast too, by the time I got the courage to come out they were already gone, and…”
“Vanessa, calm down,” he requested, already fishing for a t-shirt and shoes from his bedroom. Whatever it was she was trying to tell him, it was worrying. Had someone taken her? Why?
“ ’m sorry. I-I just… I got her phone by accident. She accidentally left me with it when she handed me her shopping bags. So I’ve tried calling you ever since.”
“Are you at home?” he asked and got a hum in responde. “I’m coming over, okay? I’ll be there in a second. But who took her, Nessie, please. Who was it?”
“No one took her,” she started to explain, pausing for what sounded to be a glass of water. Jason too prepared a glass before he left. “Her dad kicked her out. He found out she was pregnant.”
“He did what?!” he nearly screamed on the line, blood beginning to boil. He hadn’t heard much about her parents, but taking by how shaken about the pregnancy at first, he had no doubts they were partially responsible for her nervousness.
“He found out she was pregnant and kicked her out of her apartment,” she repeated. “Well, technically it’s his apartment, he pays for ever- But it doesn’t matter now. She’s gone and we have to find her! She was crying, a lot, and she left with only a backpack and a small suitcase. She can’t have taken much…”
“And it’s going to rain,” Jason added, already sitting in his car after flying down his building’s stairs. It wasn’t just rain, but a storm. She can’t be out in a weather like that, I have to find her. “Wait for me downstairs. I’ll be in front of your apartment in just a minute. I promise we’ll find her.”
“Vanessa!” he screamed at the girl standing on the sidewalk, looking left and right before turning to face the voice that had just called her. Jason had parked by the entrance of the building, fancy enough to have its own doorman and a beautifully decorated lobby behind its glass front doors. “How are you? Have you got any news?”
“I’m fine. At least trying to. And no news of her yet. I tried looking up and down the street, but she’s not around here anymore.” She looked at him apologetic, eyes now evidently holding back a pool of tears.
“She can’t have gone far. She was walking, right?” he asked, looking around at the still fast moving traffic on that grim Saturday night. The sky was starless, and heavy clouds filled it instead.
“I’m so sorry, Jason,” Vanessa apologized, making him turn. Her chin trembled as her tears fell from her brown eyes. “I heard it all and couldn’t do anything. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Hey, Nessie,” he tried to soothe her, calling her by the familiar nickname he so often heard coming off Yn’s lips, and wrapping her in a friendly hug. “It’s not your fault. There wasn’t much you could do. But, please, tell me everything that happened. I’m still trying to understand it.”
Breaking off from his hug, Nessie ran her hands up and down her arms in search of warmth before looking up to meet Jason’s eyes. “Her dad is an asshole.” Oh really?, he thought. “We were coming back from the mall, you know. I sent you the picture while we were there.” He nodded. “When we arrived back her door was open, and it usually means that her parents are around. So she shoved me all of her bags before her mother could snoop in and claimed they were for my cousin’s baby shower. Before I knew it, there was screaming outside and when I went to look, her mother was weirdly pacing around and Yn and her dad were nowhere to be found.
“I thought of running down the stairs, but the elevator was already on the ground floor and I knew I couldn’t make it on time. So I just looked down the window and saw him pushing her into the streets. Her bags as well. I couldn’t understand what he said, but he was still screaming at her. Jason,” she called him, but his attention hadn’t gone anywhere. “She looked so scared, even from that far. I could see her crying, on the floor, and walking down the street. I heard movement, so I hid back in my apartment. I even heard a knock on my door, but I was too scared to open and just started calling you.”
Jason’s rage slowly grew as Vanessa continued her story. How could anyone treat family like that? He couldn’t picture treating his mother, father, or any of his siblings like that. And he specially could never imagine doing something similar to his own daughter. Whoever that man was, he wasn’t a father. He was a fucking monster he wanted to beat up so bad…
“Since she moved here for college he keeps trying to take her back to their hometown, because he says Gotham is a corrupt city and that it will “corrupt” his “baby” daughter,” Vanessa continued her story. “From what she told me, they frequent this church, and he’s seen as this “model citizen”. A joke, let me tell you. He was always controlling of her and her sisters, and they couldn’t ever walk out of line or it would ruin it for him, whatever he meant.
“I’m not sure if it’s up to me to tell you this, but it's not the first time he kicked a daughter out of home. He found out her sister kissed another girl at a party and threw her out. I guess having an unmarried pregnant daughter does the same to him and he kicked Yn too.
“I swear,” Jason ran a hand on his face. “I can kill this man.”
“Get in line. Although I do think you have more chances than me,” she tried to joke and Jason let out a dry laugh. He really could kill that man. With every single word from Vanessa, he only got worse.
A few drops of water hit his head, announcing the rain he eagerly waited for earlier was about to start. “We have to go before the rain gets heavier. She can’t be on the streets in a fucking storm.”
“I called a friend to help us look for her. He’s just by the corner. We can split up and find her quicker,” Nessie informed, waving her hand at a car that parked just before the two of them. She fixed her belt in the passenger seat while Jason rested his forearms on the window.
“You go down the street and look for her south. I’ll go north and look for her there. Nessie, please call me if you…” he instructed the guy when exalted voices caught his attention. Coming out of the glass doors of the modern apartment complex, a large man and his wife walked out of the building in a loud exchange, aiming for the taxi that had parked just behind Nessie’s friend black SUV. “Is that him?”
The sudden change in his tone frightened Vanessa, and she stood quiet for a while until she responded with quite uncertainty, “Y-yeah.”
In that moment, Jason’s knuckles turned white from how hard he gripped on the car’s window, and his face turned a bright shade of red. Letting go of the car, Vanessa’s scream wasn’t enough to stop him from stomping in the pair’s direction, not even her repeated attempts to hold at his wrist. He shook her hold easily, legs moving fast as he eyes were set on the man responsible for all of this.
Jason exhaled a trembling breath through his nose, and he could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. His arms hung as hard as stone to his sides, and his nails dug deep into the skin of his palms. There were a few blurry sports in his sight, and his eyes burned with anger. He was seeing red, both figuratively and literally, as the neon lights of a store close by shone brightly in shades of scarlet, painting the man’s frame in its bright colors.
The large frame of the man was closer. The bald spot in his head, now much more visible. He didn’t know the man’s name, nor how looked. They never shared a word, or even a glimpse at each other. But Jason knew, oh he knew, that he would never, ever again, let him step a foot close to his girl. He would never treat you like he did, and he would pay for it even if it came little by little.
That man would never get close to his child and its mother, and he would make sure he remembered his name. Or the feel of his punch.
“Hey!” Jason called him with a loud growl. The old man turned in his direction immediately, unaware of the fist flying into his face.
The man all but fell to the ground with a loud thud, as his wife screamed in despair. His rage not vanishing after he knocked the man down, Jason climbed on top of him, throwing punches left and right to the man’s face and stomach, until he felt his hands aching and he was pulled away from him by two pairs of strong arms.
“Stop! Jason, let go!” Vanessa screamed as he squirmed in the two men’s arms, wanting to go back to the man who failed to sit up while his wife cleared his bloody lips.
“Get over it, mate. Let’s find her,” said Vanessa’s friend, and just then he let it go.
His hand shook as he held the steering wheel. Knuckles bloodied and in throbbing pain. He still drowned in adrenaline from the well beat up he gave Yn’s excuse of a father. Vanessa’s friend, Dale, had followed him to the car to make sure he was alright to drive, but Jason assured him he was fine. The man got what he deserved, and Jason was glad he was the one to deliver it.
Alone in his car, however, he could finally allow his emotions to come out. As he drove up the opposite direction of Dale’s car, a loud scream left his lungs. Pure rage evaded his body, as his eyes burned with tears he hardly fought against.
Why is it that when it comes to us it is always so messy? Why can’t we catch a break?, he thought. From day one, everything with you was confusing, borderline stressful most of the time. He wanted better, quieter and more peaceful days. If he was having a hard time with all that is happening, he couldn't fathom how she’d be doing right now. And the baby. It certainly wasn’t healthy for the baby.
The lights became blurry as he tried to wipe the tears away, and he had to slow down his car to not cause any unwanted accidents. With the lower speed, he could more carefully watch the sidewalks, the remaining open stores, and street corners, all looking for any sign of her. At a traffic light, red made him stop, and his eyes roamed his surroundings.
However, the blinking lights of a ‘C’ were what trapped his attention. It was a clinic. An abortion clinic. He had to swallow dry as he tried to watch its inside through the glass door. The mere idea of Yn going by it making his heart drop. If that idea ever crossed her mind, he didn’t know, but he prayed it never did. He grew attached to it too quickly. To the baby, and to her. He’d been planning, purchasing, painting and drawing a future in his head, where the two of them would be a part of. He wasn’t sure he could let it go.
When the lights turned green, his foot pressed hard on the throttle, speeding out of there before he got even more nauseous. One street turned into another, and another, and another. Still not a sign that you were around. He was growing more and more desperate as the rain got heavier and heavier. If his hands weren’t hard glued to the steering wheel, they’d be trembling tremendously. It had been long since he’d felt like this. Alone, lost and desperate. A sense there wasn’t much else he could do, and that all he did didn’t seem to work. And as every single second passed without you there by his side, his anxiety multiplied by millions.
The rain now poured, as if the sky was about to fall down. People rushed around, their umbrellas doing nothing to shield them from the water, and coats and jackets getting drenched as they looked for shelter. He was driving desperately, looking for anything, any sign, any indication that you were safe. He checked his phone for messages from Vanessa, or a call from his brothers he had begged for help.
Dick had called his colleagues, giving them Yn’s description, asking them to keep an eye out. Tim and Stephanie were looking for you in every camera they would hack in the city, and Damian was probably begging rats and insects to lead him Yn’s way.
A lighting strike hit the ground and illuminated the sky. And then he saw it.
Hidden in the darkened entrance of a now closed store, sat on the floor, curled down in a corner, was a girl. A bright orange suitcase laying beside her, a blue backpack resting on her side, as she had her face shoved between her knees. Shaking, from cold and tears. A girl that couldn’t be anyone but you.
He stopped the car without thinking. Without caring if there was anyone behind him on the road. He just wanted to get to you. Stepping out, he felt the rain soak his head and his shirt, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was that he’d found you. Shouting into Gotham’s dark and gloomy night, he called her name and rushed to your side.
Her head bobbed up as quickly as he ran, and it searched around for the voice was coming from. When she realized it was him, she pulled herself up from the floor swiftly and into Jason’s arms, tangling her own around his waist and letting her face fall into his chest. Her tears soaked his shirt quicker than rain had done, and she shook in his hold and her loud sobs filled Jason’s ears.
His heart broke in one million pieces. The sight of her crying once again, too much for him to handle. He couldn’t even care for the harsh way in which she had slammed against his body, he was just glad you were there. Safe and in his arms. Thus, he held closer and tight, one hand caressing her nape and he left soft kisses at her temples.
“Hey, hey,” he cooed. “I’m here, okay? I’m here. You don’t need to cry anymore.”
Vanessa and Dale didn’t take long to arrive, but Yn didn’t stop crying even after they arrived there. The two girls, tangled in a tight embrace, cried on each other’s shoulders and the rain dropped as heavy as their tears did. Jason, on the other hand, tried to dry his eyes without anyone noticing, wiping the sleeve of his shirt on his face and turning away.
“You gave that man a good punch out there,” Dale’s raspy voice began by his side, bringing his attention away from the walls. “I would’ve done just about the same if it was my girl who was kicked out like that. Your girl should be happy she has you.” He tapped Jason’s shoulder, that way boys always do, and Jason let out a chuckle.
His girl. Yn was as much his girl as he owned the moon, and yet, he couldn’t make himself correct him.
“I just hope she will be fine.”
“I’ve heard she’s a strong one,” she chimed.
“Yeah!” he agreed with a smile. “My girl really is.”
Watching the two girls, he noticed Vanessa wipe Yn’s tears away, pushing her away then bringing her back into another hug that made Yn give out a teary laugh. She seemed to have calmed down, as no more tears ran down frenetically down her cheeks and her breathing seemed to have eased. Jason, then, decided to walk closer, with the other man trailing just behind. Yn soon took notice, as she gave him a smile as he approached.
“Are you gonna be fine?” Vanessa asked, rubbing a hand over her arm.
“I don’t know,” Yn answered. Her voice was weak, hoarse and fragile. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Jason noticed her chin restart to tremble, and he was about to hug her again if Vanessa wasn’t closer and quicker. Over her friend’s shoulder, Yn’s teary eyes caught his, staring at him sadly. Pulling away from the hug, Vanessa made an offer.
“I can make some space in my apartment for you. It isn’t big but I guess I make it fit, right?”
Giving her friend a soft smile, Yn appeared to agree.
“No!” Jason protested, louder than he had hoped. “I have a spare room. I was planning on fixing it for our baby, but you can stay there. It’s yours. Besides, it would be more practical,” he explained. “I can easily take you to appointments, or even for work. I wouldn’t mind. And when the baby arrives, I can help you with taking care of it.”
He eyed Yn hopefully. “C’mon. I’m the baby’s dad. I wouldn’t be right if I didn’t help you out.”
“I just don’t wanna be a bother,” Yn said.
“Yn, you could never bother me,” he stated.
Staring at her, Jason waited expectantly. He knew she was weighing every option and considering every mild detail. But he just wanted her to say yes. He wanted to have her near. It wasn’t just convenient, it was necessary. To him it was. To have her close meant to always know if her and the baby were alright, safe and taken care of. He wouldn’t worry if she had arrived home, or if she had gotten sick at work. He would know. Because he would be there.
Yn took her time thinking, while Jason agonized in his spot. He had built too much hope in such a short amount of time, he was scared of how he would be if she didn’t accept his proposal. After all, he was just the stranger she was having a baby with, not her best friend. But a response came out, eventually. Nodding shortly, Yn offered him a smile and a watery stare. A stare that said everything she didn’t need to voice, but that he caught anyway. Thank you.
“I’ll miss my neighbor,” Vanessa cried out, and hugged Yn tightly by her side.
“I’ll miss you too, nugget,” Yn returned. “But I’m sure Jason won’t forbid you from visiting me.”
“Would I even have the chance to?” Jason asked playfully.
“No!” they replied in unison, bringing out laughter out of the four of them. Even though the rain progressively got worse, finally, the mood had lightened.
Vanessa offered her jacket so Yn could get in the car without getting wet, and Jason was about to take her bags when Dale stopped him before he moved. “Take care of your girl, I’ll take the bags.”
Nodding in gratitude, Jason instead moved to your side. “Did you manage to get a lot? I mean, out of your apartment. Into your bags?”
Yn only shook her head.
“I can ask Mr. Emmons for the spare key and pick up some of your stuff,” Vanessa said, walking beside her. “He loved you, I’m sure he’d make that exception for you.”
“Are you sure?” Yn asked. “I really don’t wanna bother anyo…”
“Yn!” Jason and Vanessa scolded in unison.
“I’m sorry,” Yn let out a soft laugh. “If you want to, I won’t complain.”
It was past midnight when both Vanessa and Dale left Jason’s apartment. With them, four trash bags full of Yn’s stuff were brought in, and thus started Yn’s moving process. The girls worked on taking notes of everything that had come in the bags, and of everything there was missing. Vanessa was going to play dealer for a few days, and weirdly, she was very excited for it.
While they worked on the bags, Jason and Dale took a look at the spare bedroom. It was nearly empty, except from a few gym items and boxes laying around. With the other’s help, Jason cleared out the room, sweeping the floors and the spider webs off the walls. Also, he made a promise to find her a bed, somewhere. No one cared enough for dinner that night, and the pair left as nonchalantly as they had arrived.
“You can stay in my bedroom tonight. I’ll take the sofa,” Jason explained, once the two of them were alone. “At least until I can get you a bed.”
“It’s okay,” Yn reassured, and left him alone to take a shower.
While she readied to go to bed, Jason made sure he picked up everything he would need to sleep in the living room out of his bedroom. He didn’t want to bother her by coming in and out of it while she was there. He knew she was going to be uncomfortable enough for today, this new arrangement requiring time to get used to. So, he changed into comfortable clothes, prepped his makeshift bed with pillows and blankets, and waited for her to come out of her shower.
The faint water noises coming from the bathroom mixed with the storm sound coming from outside, creating a relaxing atmosphere he was grateful for after all the stress he’d gone through. He could only hope Yn felt as calm as he did now, that she wasn’t hiding any tears from him in her shower. But he knew it was asking for too much, she was not going to get over it this easily. She had cried a lot in the car ride to his apartment, and when he passed by the bathroom door he could hear her sniffles.
It killed him to see her like that. He’d do just about anything to make her stop hurting. Sat on the sofa, he thought about everything in his reach he could possibly attempt to do to ease her pain, but none of them were possible this late at night. However, as soon as the door opened and Yn came out, her hair wet and fresh smell spreading through the whole apartment, his thoughts emptied out to just her.
“I guess I’m going to bed now,” she shyly stated. Jason simply nodded, too stunned with how she looked in just a plain t-shirt and pajama shorts to form any coherent sentence. “Goodnight, Jay.”
“Good night, Ynie,” was all he said as he watched her close his bedroom door behind her.
“And Jay,” she suddenly reopened the door calling out for him. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”
Her soft smile was genuine, adorable, and made his stomach spin. In normal circumstances, he’d have told her she didn’t need to thank him for anything. Tonight, though, he didn’t want to argue.
“You’re welcome,” he offered her a gentle grin. But I’d make this your home even if you had yours.
Upon his return to solitude, he hoped the sounds of the night would lull him to sleep. He was tired, and on any other night he’d have dozed off easily. However, tonight wasn’t the case. Even if he closed his eyes, even if he was curled up comfortably, he couldn’t seem to fall asleep. He continuously rolled and rolled until he got tired of trying. So he fished for the remote in the total darkness of the room, and turned on the TV, the volume on the lowest, to see if anything in there could make him sleepy.
He had found a cartoon. One of those late night, highly inappropriate ones, and actually found it to be mildly entertaining. But the creaking sound of the door was more interesting. Lifting his head slowly to look over the back of the sofa, he found Yn peeking out of his bedroom.
“Can’t fall asleep?” he asked, and she just nodded. “Come here.”
Sitting up, he made some space for her to sit beside him, making sure he left her with the softest pillows. Adorably, she sat down and immediately pulled her legs up to her chest, hugging it protectively, and resting her chin on her own knees.
“What are you watching?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. However, his attention was now far gone from the TV. “I just put it on to distract me. See if I could fall asleep to it.”
Moments of silence followed. Yn’s focus on the cartoon, while Jason was fixed watching her. She looked so serene, it didn’t even look like she had just been kicked out by her own father. He wanted to ask her if she was alright, but he feared she would get mad with how much he had asked it since they’d arrived home. He also wanted to hug her, feel the comfort of her warmth and maybe fall asleep to it, but he knew it would be too much for one single day. So, he was content with the light brushes he’d get on her skin.
“Nessie told me what you did to my dad,” she said suddenly, and Jason got nervous about what she thought of it. It was still her dad, even with all the pain he had caused. He was afraid she’d be mad at him for it. So, he had to explain himself.
“He deserved it,” he quickly added. His throat was dry, but he still insisted. “He deserved it for what he did to you. I could not…”
“I get it,” she broke him off. “It just… feels weird. I’m glad you did, but also not.”
He understood.
“I was mad at him at some point, and thought of doing it myself. But he is my dad. I don’t think I could do it if it ever came to it. Even if I collected all the anger I harvested throughout my entire life, I couldn’t lift a finger against him.”
Her head moved, now facing him with her cheek laid on her legs. Her eyes were intense, but sad. Glowing, but it wasn’t happiness.
“I get it,” he told her. “I really do.” And he continued to look at her till it gave him courage to finally ask. “Was he this bad your whole life?”
She shook her head. “He had his good moments. Few, but they were there. We just had to be doing something he’d actually be happy about.”
“He’d always make us take the classes he wanted. Go to places where he liked to go, and where his ‘friend’ could see him, you know, boast about how great his family was. Even our friends he got to pick. They had to be from church, and from rich families. People we could fawn over, grow attached to like vines. I guess he thought if we were friends with them, he would become friends with the parents, and what better than rich friends for you to parasite, right?
“I don’t even know how he let me come to Gotham in the first place. He made my sister marry young so she wouldn’t go away for college, so I don’t know how he didn’t try that on me too. I mean, he did try, but none of the guys were actually interested in pursuing me for him to insist on it… What?” he questioned when she heard him scoff.
“Why wouldn’t they be interested in you?” he let out before he knew it. Yn shyly hid her face from him before continuing.
“I kinda looked mad all the time.”
“Oh, really,” Jason mused, earning a slap on his bicep.
“I was just… an angry teenager,” he gave her a look. “And young adult too, okay?” she let out a brief laugh. “I don’t know why, I just was. Am. I don’t know. They were just always up my ass, and I guess it got me riled up. I could talk back to them, he might have killed me if I did. So I just… I just…”
“Stocked up with anger?” he finished for her.
“Yeah, I stocked up with anger. And didn’t know where to let it out,” she said, and went quiet for a while. “Was your family as insane as mine?”
“Sorta,” he scoffed. “They are wild, but not bad.”
He didn’t want to talk much, but she looked at him curiously. Almost begging him to talk.
“I was adopted when I was nine. My father had already adopted my older brother, and after me he got Tim, Steph and Cass, and then he found out he had a biological son that is just like him and annoying as shit. I’ll tell you, Damian is a lot. He adopted a cow and just told Bruce to deal with it. Kid is insane. ”
The girl looked at him baffled. A cow? Where would a middle class kid raise a cow in Gotham?
“That sounds… fun,” she gave him a big smile.
“Really?” he wondered.
“My family never did anything out of the ordinary,” she stated.
“My family doesn’t know what ordinary means,” he joked. The two of them laughed, TV show long ignored. Jason never forgot how, when she wanted it, her company could be so pleasant. He felt like she really listened to him, that she didn’t think his takes or stories were just a joke or meaningless. He actually enjoyed having her around, and hoped moments like this would become more frequent with her habiting the same place as him.
“You know,” he found the confidence to start speaking again. “I lied to you… That day at the doctor.”
Yn eyebrows frowned in a questioning look, and so, Jason continued. “I… My birth parents. I know who they are.”
He felt guilty that day. For lying so blatantly. But it was something too personal for him, something he hadn’t shared with many. It was a part of his life that still hurt him, even if years had passed, and he had finally gotten a new family. He wasn’t ready to share it then, not in front of a doctor, a total stranger. And he knew the risks of his lie. He was omitting important information for his baby’s health and future, but he wasn’t ready. In fact, he didn’t even know he was ready now. But Yn had been so honest, so open about that part of her life, one he knew now caused her much pain, that he felt the need to offer something back.
It was Yn’s soft hum that broke him from his thoughts and made him continue. “They were addicts. Very poor. I know they did the best the could to raise me, but their addiction was unstoppable. My dad started working with bad people to put food on the table. Last time I checked on him he was in jail. Might as well be dead by now, I haven’t cared to look him up.” His voice came out low, timid. A lump tightened his throat, making it hard for him to speak, but he still insisted. “My mom… She passed away. I’m not sure if it was the drugs, or if she got sick. I just remember her looking really bad.
“I was on the streets for a while, stealing tires and other things, when my father found me. He took me home, gave me food, and I haven’t left there ever since. I mean, I have my own home now, and life wasn’t easy there either, but they still are everything I have. I guess that’s why I grew attached to you so fast… I-I mean, the baby. The idea of the baby. I think I just wanted to have something that is really mine, that I can say I was the one to build and care for. My own family. I just got excited, you know. Let me show you something.”
Avoiding the tears by a millisecond, Jason stood up from his place and went to his closet. There, in the same place he had left it ever since he had bought it, he took the deep brown romper, with cute little ears and an even cuter fluffy tail. He saw it just a few days after Yn came to his apartment with the news he was going to be a dad, just as the idea started to settle in. He hadn’t told his brother, nor his father. The idea just lingering in his head, and once he found it on-line, he had to get it. He proudly got his baby’s first outfit on a whim. But it was too perfect to let it pass, and it was on sale too. It must have been a sign.
Walking fast back to the living room, he dropped at her side on the bouncy cushion. “I got this on-line I think two weeks ago. I thought it was adorable and I just needed to have it. I saw so many babies wearing those on the internet that I couldn’t stop picturing my own baby in one of them. Strolling around, you know. Stumbling on his, or hers, steps, or crawling around in it. Like an actual bear,” he let out a laugh, admiring the garment in his hand.
When he turned to look at Yn, though, he found her eyes watery. Her chin trembled as she bit her bottom lip, an attempt at making it stop. Jason wondered if he had said something wrong. If he had hurt her unknowingly. His own heart started to beat like crazy, bleeding pain upon her painful expression. “Yn? Did I say something wrong?”
“No!”, she cut him before he could finish. She dried her eyes with her hand and continued, “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day, Jay. I’m gonna head to bed.”
Placing a quick peck on his cheek, she might as well have run back to the bedroom. Her sniffles, barely audible. She left him alone, to his own torturing thoughts of what he might’ve just done to make her react like this. Or was it just the hormones? Did pregnant women just act like this?
No matter the answer, he stood in the darkness of the night and in the coldness of the rain. But the lingering burn of her kiss on his skin kept him warm, and could finally sleep soundly.
Sunday was quiet, and Nessie had spent the whole day by your side. Not much talking happened between you, her, or Jason. You just hung around, in silent company.
Jason, somehow, had gotten you a bed, and he and Dale, who had stopped by per Nessie’s request, built it in an instant. The room that was now to be yours wasn’t large, but it was enough. You had to learn to leave with enough now. Jason told you he would help you decorate as you wished, even though he had just painted the walls white in expectation of the baby’s gender. He sounded like he was full of ideas for a nursery, excitedly talking about items he had seen on-line or at stores. Nessie joked he might be the one nesting, and not you.
She left early this time, and your dinner with Jason was shared in silence. The two of them had tried to convince you to call in sick at work on Monday, to try to relax a bit more. Let your new reality sink in. But you knew you couldn’t. Sandra needed you, and you needed the distraction.
When morning came, the sun rays hit you straight in the face, the lack of curtains allowing the room to be bright and warm even if it was still early. You came out still in your pajamas, and immediately the smell of food filled your nose. The past few weeks of your pregnancy made you slightly wary of the smell’s potential to make you sick, but it was impossible to deny it smelled good and tasty.
“Good morning,” Jason greeted with a beaming smile. He seemed to be ready to head out to work. “I made you some breakfast. I’ve already eaten.”
“You got me feeling like a baby with all this food and stuff,” you commented. But it was true, he had been doing just about everything to make you feel comfortable and at home in his apartment.
“Hey! You are a baby,” he stated, and you scoffed. “At least while you don’t deliver my baby, you’re baby.”
You rolled your eyes at him, unable to hold back a smile. “Anyway, I have to go now. Are you really going to work today?” he asked. You just nodded. “Okay…” he breathed out. “If you need anything. And I mean, anything, don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll be ready to answer you whenever.”
“You don’t have to worry, Jay,” you started, but one notification from your phone stole your attention briefly. “I’ll be alright. I promise.”
Jason looked at you as if he didn’t believe your words. His deep blue eyes boring into yours as if he tried to catch your lie in them. With a deep and long exhale, he accepted, or at least he pretended, that you would be fine without him. “Still, call me, okay?”
“I will,” you promised. “But I don’t think I’ll need to.”
Sitting on the island stool, you took a look at the meal he had prepared you. It really did look as delicious as it smelled. But you suddenly weren’t hungry.
You watched him pick up his bags, put on his shoes and leave. The guilt eating at your chest the entire time. He waved you goodbye with a large grin, happy to be starting his week it seemed. Yet, this morning, you struggled. You couldn’t bring yourself to eat with the notification staring right at you. A memory of your darkest hour.
Picking up your phone, you read it one more time.
Clinic girl
Are you still going to schedule your abortion appointment?
It still stung as strong as it did minutes ago, when you first saw it on your screen. Your mind battled with the idea, even though you knew your answer very well. The smell of the food suddenly was making you sick, and your appetite, by this point, had completely vanished. Rubbing at your temples, you decided on putting an end to it.
You
It won’t be necessary.
Putting your phone away, you got up to change. And you changed quickly, just like your life had done. Quick and sharp like an arrow, or an assassin’s blade. Changing everything in its course. Soon, you were closing the apartment’s door behind you, taking one last glimpse of what your life had become. Of what your future was going to be. You and him. Your baby soon to come in.
.
.
tag list: @igotanidea ; @acornacreacure ; @amberpanda99 ; @capswife ; @erochuu ; @fairyeoll ; @gone-batty-fics ; @ichi-matsu-san ; @jasontoddslover ; @jaysgirlx ; @jkvolgs ; @just-lost-inbetween-worlds ; @killxz ; @kysrion ; @lacunaanonymoused ; @loonymoonystuff ; @lothiriel9 ; @marsbars09 ; @munimunni ; @novs9011 ; @spideytingley ; @starcrossedtrek ; @strawberryforks ; @sttrawberries ; @vanillaattack ; @veryfabday ; @vissavin ; @xxsweetnlowxx ; @willieoo ; @wordsfromshona ;
#jason todd au#jason todd x reader#jason todd imagine#jason todd#jason todd x you#jason todd fluff#jason todd x yn#jason todd x y/n#jason todd imagines#jason todd blurb#jason todd x fem!reader#jason todd x female!reader
313 notes
·
View notes
Text
twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
HOUR NINE
when you and eddie can't sleep, he has a bright idea. but only after he's lit a fire in your mind through a bathroom door. also, steve finally finds out what he said that night.
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, allusions to male masturbation, minors dni
→ wc: 6.9k+
→ a/n: oops my bad. this chapter is dedicated to @jo-harrington i know it's not exactly what you'd joked about but... i did it. solo eddie for the win.
masterlist.
spotify playlist.
◁ previous part, next part▷
9:00 ─────ㅇ──────────── 24:00
DINGUS received a message from BIRDIE.
BIRDIE: i found out what you said.
-
HOUR NINE - 12:00 AM
When Eddie gets out of the bed, it wakes you up.
In all fairness, you were sleeping lightly to begin with. It had only been about twenty minutes since his quiet confession, an apology that hovered in the air between you two, lingering and plastering itself to the ceiling. He was sorry for everything. And the optimist in you couldn’t help but count what exactly everything entailed rather than sheeps. You were certain it included the events of the night so far, but did it include Steve’s party? Did it include the cruelty exchanged the night this bet was made? Did it encompass the passing in time in which he’d tucked himself away from you after first meetings, letting a sheet of ice separate you?
You’d fallen asleep halfway through the swirlings of ‘Did it…?’s, hardly realizing you’d left Eddie hanging after he’d whispered goodnight to you. You both knew you’d be waking up soon enough to send updates, or possibly receive a call from one of your friends. You both needed to utilize the time for rest – you were utilizing this time to rest.
Until Eddie got up. Until you realized Eddie wasn’t sleeping, and now suddenly, you couldn’t even keep your eyes closed for more than ten seconds at a time.
You listened to his footsteps as he left the room, as he crossed the hall and he shut the bathroom door behind him. When you did open your eyes, you focused intensely on the light pouring out beneath the small crack at the bottom of the door, waiting with bated breath for any sign of a shadow without luck.
Five minutes. You’re awake enough to count the five minutes without any further noise or sign of him returning to the bed.
You really shouldn’t be so nosey. He’s just using the bathroom in his own apartment. He’s probably just taking a piss, or more, and you hold no right to time him. But without him in the bed, there’s a cold you hadn’t expected. You hadn’t even been pressed up against him, the pillow wall still intact, and yet, his warmth had clearly reached you and kept you comfortable.
Maybe it wasn’t just his warmth. Maybe it was just his presence that made the room light up, swirling with something to wrap yourself up in rather than the chill of loneliness.
The decision is made by your body first, brain second. By the time your thoughts have caught up to the choice that yes, you need to check on Eddie, your bare feet are already meeting his carpet. It takes mere seconds for you to cross the room, cross the hall. You raise your fist to knock and then–
You stop.
A sound completely stops you, freezes you mid-action.
A whimper.
Your stomach clenches. It wasn’t a whimper of pain.
You’ve managed to cross countless lines with Eddie, both tonight and the entirety of knowing each other. You’d blatantly ignored boundaries he set in stone just as he did to you. The two of you had never functioned off of respect.
It’s what you remind yourself when you take a step closer to the door, when you lean to press your ear against the wood.
You nearly jump back when you catch onto the sounds coming from within the bathroom.
Oh, yeah. He’s fucking jacking off.
You’re familiar with that sound, hearing it both mocked in school and in pornos. The unmistakable sound of a fist gliding over flesh. Just as suspected, the whimper Eddie had let out on the other side of the door was by no means a sign of pain or distress – it was out of pleasure.
You tell yourself that you’re only keeping your ear pressed to the door to fully load yourself with artillery to tease him with once the time comes. You tell yourself it’s a necessary evil, that you don’t enjoy it. You completely ignore the way your own thighs are beginning to press together when the sound speeds up.
“Oh my- fuckin’ Jesus Chri- my God.”
Let it be known that you’ve never tried to picture what Eddie’s voice sounds like during sex. You’ve never fantasized about how many octaves his tone might drop, how breathy he might get from desperation, how his words might curl upwards with whines on the tailends. No, you’ve never thought about those things late at night. when you’re alone and have a hand between your thighs. You don’t have those thoughts about the guy you claim to hate. You don’t have the best goddamn orgasms of your life by picturing your hand replaced with his, the way the metal of his rings would nudge against your entrance.
You don’t. You don’t.
But something about the way he’s stuttering, sounding like a stereotypical porno in the way his voice is breaking, clearly close to finishing, has you pressing your thighs together tightly. It has your necks and cheeks flushing brilliant red as your chest heaves, recklessly trying to expand against the door you have pressed yourself against entirely now.
“Fuck.”
It’s muffled, led into by a heavy panting you can hear, even through the door, before being broken off by a long moan.
Maybe you would give yourself the best goddamn orgasm you’d ever had again once this was over. And maybe that would be the soundtrack.
You have to stumble back from the door, your entire body tight with frustration now as you back up away from the invasion of privacy you had taken part in. You don’t even have a chance to tell yourself it’s fine, because somewhere in your fumble to get away, your knuckles meet the door in an eerie resemblance of a knock, on accident.
You can’t play it off. If you heard it, he heard it.
“Uh, Eddie?” you nervously call out, cursing the way the words came out more like squeaks than tired syllables, “Everything okay in there?”
You can hear his panic, between sudden shuffling, the slamming of the faucet turning on, the curses beneath his breath before he suddenly calls out, “Y-Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine! Just stubbed my toe!”
“Okay…” you trail off, still breathing heavily, trying to return your heart rate to normal, “I, uh- okay. Just checking. Sorry.”
You scurry, quite literally scurry, back into his bedroom.
You shouldn’t have listened. You shouldn’t have eavesdropped, because now, this was all so, so much worse. Every fleeting detail of his living space passed by you, and all you could hear was a repeat of his harsh fuck he’d clearly let out on accident. When you’d found his playboys, it was all fun and games. He was a guy, and you knew what he did with those magazines, but you’d never been a door away from him doing that.
You’re not a very imaginative person, but you’re still trying to picture how his hand wrapped around his dick might look, what his dick in general looks like, when he exits the bathroom and finds you sitting there.
He looks even more embarrassed than you.
Your apology is on the tip of your tongue, an impulsive I’m sorry is stuck between your teeth. But saying those words is admitting to knowing he didn’t really stub his toe. It would be admitting to eavesdropping.
You’d be taking this night to the grave to you.
“How’s your toe?” you question instead, curling your hands into fists and forcing a weak smile.
You’re a shit pretender.
“Fine,” he breathes out, the edges of his bangs wet, probably with sweat, and his eyes wide in fear, “It’s, uh, fine. Sore.”
It’s okay, though, because he’s a shit pretender, too.
He makes no move to sit down, and you almost laugh at the palpable tension and awkwardness in the room. Both of your chests are still heaving, both of your cheeks are still burning, and both of you are flooded with distrust by your words.
“I can’t sleep,” you break the silence with the worst possible conversation starter. If the roles were reversed, if Eddie said this to you, you’d just shrug in response.
Eddie isn’t you, though, thankfully, “You just were.”
“And now I’m not.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t.”
Some habits die hard. Even in the new waves of Eddie’s apology, even as you two entered uncharted territory of unspoken civility, there was still bickering to be had.
“This argument is just waking me up more,” you sigh, leaning back on your palms behind you, “I’m definitely not getting any more rest.”
Eddie’s eyes trail over you, head to toe, and your breathing stops completely, “Well, yeah, not wearing jeans. Did you bring anything comfortable to wear?”
Did he just check me out?
That starts a fire within your brain. The blush isn’t even a product of him making you flustered anymore, it’s the physical billboard to alert everyone of the flames that will surely consume you within the hour. A warning to Eddie, that if he doesn’t stop, you’ll be nothing more than a pile of ash caught between his carpet’s fibers.
You’ve gotten lost in your thoughts until he’s snapping his fingers in front of your face, not too close but near enough to get your attention.
Which hand did he use?
You choke at the smokey thought, making him worry before you cough out a, “Sorry?”
“Clothes. Did you bring any?” he questions as he looks down at you in concern, “Maybe some pajamas, or just something comfortable?”
You don’t understand how it got to this point. How you’re the one so flustered, so embarrassed, when he was the one touching himself in the bathroom. Why are you the one with a fire blazing behind your skull, and why are you the one having to admit that no, you didn’t bring any clothes?
Your silence is all he needs before he turns to walk to his dresser.
“Eddie, wait, no-” you start to protest but he’s already holding out a black pair of sweats, a similar style to the ones he’s wearing.
“Here. I don’t know how well they’ll fit but…” he shrugs, almost shyly, before thrusting the clothing towards you with more intense purpose, “They’ve gotta be more comfortable than jeans.”
“I-I-” I can’t. I can’t wear your clothes because I’m already thinking about your dick, and which hand you masturbate with, and how you’d sound hovering over me as you grind your hips into mine, and- “Thank you.”
You take the damn pair of sweatpants, you swallow your pride, you continue to wade in his ocean. Maybe it’s all a game to him and he’s trying to break you (it’s working).
He continues to stand there awkwardly until you finally narrow your eyes, and take a single finger, waving it in circles to motion for him to turn around.
“What?” he asks, looking at your finger with wide eyes, still watching the circles it draws in the air.
“Turn around, idiot,” you try to laugh lightheartedly, but it comes out strained.
You’re still thinking about him inappropriately. You’re still intoxicated by the idea of the sounds you can pull from him with the right moves, the right kisses. But you can’t, you know you can’t.
You know he doesn’t think of you in that way. This feeling, unfortunately, is not mutual.
He’s clumsy in the way he turns, even covering his eyes with his wide palm despite it being unnecessary. You notice the way he almost raises his left hand before he hesitates and chooses the right one instead.
And now you’re convinced you have an answer to one of your burning questions. He uses his left hand, and instead of putting out some of the damaging flames within your mind, it fans them. You’ll definitely be nothing but a charred mess by the end of this night.
You try not to take long, quickly yanking off your jeans and tossing them beside you before you work the sweats on quickly. Eddie has them a few sizes too big for himself, and it works out in your favor.
You hate to admit it, but he was right – they’re comfier than your jeans by far.
“Okay, you can look again,” you mumble as you bend down to grab your discarded jeans, working on turning them back outside right and folding them neatly.
The turn to face you once more is even clumsier than his turn away from you, his hand dropping and slapping his thigh unceremoniously as he takes you in, “They… You… They, uh, fit. Good.”
What was once cute tension and easily dismissed uneasiness is becoming too much. He’s still nervous, you’re still burning, and the room is too stifling when filled with both awkward emotions and swirling wisps of smoke that are thickening.
So you do something about it. You choose to be the brave one and say something, “You’re being awkward.”
He immediately scoffs, still stiff in his actions, “Excuse me?”
“You’re. Being. Awkward,” you enunciate each word with heavy emphasis, keeping up a faux mask of indifference as you turn for the bed, setting your jeans down on the floor by the nightstand before you climb back into the side you’d previously occupied.
“I’m being awkward?” he’s following, taking the path from the end of the bed as he already has several times, leaving the wall of pillows intact, “You’re being awkward.”
“That is such a childish response,” you tease him as you see him begin to warm up once again. The bathroom incident is forgotten, stomachs unclenched and jaws slacking as the two of you rearrange beneath the comforter. Both of you are careful not to disturb the pillows that weigh down the center of it. You convince yourself for a second his returning warmth comes from being closer to you, from being close enough to feel the heat of your flames. Or perhaps he has a forest fire of his own transcending his own neurons, and maybe the feeling is more mutual than you’d believed.
If you never mention it out loud, he can never deny it, and you can continue to live in this newfound delusion and comforting fantasy.
You both still lie on your backs, mirroring each other with hands folded politely atop your stomachs and eyes glued to the popcorn pattern of his ceiling. It’s quiet. It’s nice. The only thing you can hear is his crashing waves and your crackling frames. You’re wading with your head above water still, not quite fully submerging yet, terrified that once you take the final plunge into him, the flames will be drowned out. Once he drags you under, he’ll settle the heat and the fever that has begun to haunt you, and you don’t know if what will be left in its place will be better or worse. You don’t know if you’re equipped to handle that unknown yet.
“You remember how you asked about my motorcycle earlier?”
His soft tone cuts through the white noise of it all. Every wave, every flame, every metaphor falls quiet for him. It’s suddenly just you, and just him.
“Yeah?” you roll your head to the side, daring to look at him. He’s already staring at you.
In the dark, you can make out a ghost of a smile as he says, “Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I like to take it out for drives.”
“Oh?” You’re tempted to twist your body to fully face him, to prop yourself up on your elbow and give him your undivided attention. You don’t.
“Yeah. I guess it’s why I prefer it over a normal car, or even a van like I had in high school,” his eyes are clouding over with thoughtfulness, with nostalgia. You can picture it fairly clearly; he seems like the type that would drive around an ominous van just to scare a town shitless. “It’s a pain in the ass because now I can’t lug around my own equipment for gigs, but there’s this parking garage that the bike can fit through the closed gates of-”
“Hold on, I’m sorry – gigs?” you take an extra second to process it, but you’re sure he just insinuated he’s in a band.
He’s giddy, those eyes lighting up in the darkness. You can see the dimples, you can see constellations exposing themself amongst his pupils, “Oh, yeah. I’m… I’m in a band.”
“How did I never know this?”
You both know the answer. Because before tonight, there was a clear division between you and Eddie for your friends. Before tonight, you two had never really gotten to know each other, save for the first night. You don’t know if your supposed enemy is in a band.
He doesn’t say that, though. And neither do you. Instead, he just whispers, “I don’t know.”
You can’t let the obvious go unsaid. You’d defeated the awkwardness, and you could handle your own brain being on fire from his match strikes, but this?
You couldn’t handle the heaviness of the past year in the room with you two.
“I’m sorry, too, by the way,” you should look away, look to the ceiling as he had when he said those words to you, but you don’t. You finally do as you wanted; you turn onto your side, fully facing him, bringing your hands to be folding between the pillow and your cheek, “I’m sorry for… everything.”
Everything. You wonder if it punches a hole in his chest, too. You wonder if you move like an ocean in his eyes, if your waves are beckoning him within those four syllables.
Now that the constellations in his eyes have been exposed, they refuse to vanish from your sight. He mimics your position, his hand tucked beneath his pillow.
When he doesn’t say anything, you have to fill the silence, just as you always do, “It doesn’t mean we have to be, like, friends or anything. I just… We were both jerks in the past. And you said sorry first, but- I’m not just saying it because you said it! I swear. You just deserve to hear that I’m sorry too. I regret it all, too.”
He nods subtly, licking his lips, “I mean, I don’t regret it all.”
Oh God, is he about to fuck it all up again?
“What do you mean?” your voice is impossibly small, a phantom of a whisper, clutched in fear and anticipation.
Please don’t fuck it all up again. I don’t think I can handle losing you twice.
“I mean… I… It was fun sometimes, wasn’t it?” he looks nervous now, blinking rapidly as if he’s fighting looking away from you, “You’re the only person who’s ever really given me a taste of my own medicine. Everyone else teases me, yeah, maybe banters from time to time, but you? I like the ‘no-bullshit’ policy you apply to me. Keeps me in line.”
A sigh of relief. A weight off both your shoulders, a heaviness that vacates the room.
“Fun?” your tone is confident, teasing even, once more, “What about me throwing a glass at your head was fun?”
“I said sometimes, not all the time,” he laughs, as if the memory of one of the worst nights between the two of you was just a fond tale between friends. Maybe that’s what you two were becoming – friends.
A brain on fire. Two lungs twisted in vines rejuvenating. He’s beginning to consume all of you, effortlessly, and you question if that’s what friendship is.
His laughter dies down, and you sigh, breathing despite the greenery and the smoke, “I get what you mean. There was a month there that just sort of felt like it was our thing. Just banter, or whatever.”
“Is it not our thing, still?” he raises an eyebrow, “I mean, clearly, we still argue. I think the day you don’t argue with me will be the day pigs fuckin’ fly, or whatever they say.”
“Whatever you say,” you banter back with ease, putting on a face of complete agreement. “Do you need me to check the news for you? See if little Porky grew wings?”
“Oh, shut up.”
You’re both cackling as he reaches down to the wall of pillows, grabbing one at random, leaving a gap as he flings it softly in your direction. It hits your chest and you fall dramatically onto your back, wrapping your arms around the fluff of it while still giggling.
The giggles linger as you pinch the corner of the pillow between your fingertips, rubbing as you glance down at the gap now in the wall.
You can see his torso now. The sliver of skin that is his exposed hips, the waistband of his boxers.
“You know, I’ve never met a guy with this many pillows,” you murmur, trying to steer your mind of his hips, his boxers, what’s beneath his boxers-
“I used to only have two. Then one time I brought a girl home, and she left because I only had two pillows.”
You can’t help but let out a snort of your own this time, “What? A one night stand left you high and dry because you didn’t have enough pillows for her fancy?”
“Yep. That’s exactly what happened,” he’s chuckling along with you at the ridiculousness of it all, “The next day I went to the store and bought all of these out of spite. Never saw the girl again, though. I like to think she’d be impressed.”
“Oh,” you’re still laughing, with your entire chest as you subconsciously crush the pillow tighter to your body, “So impressed. You know you’re going to have to tell me all about it now, right? You can’t leave me hanging like that.”
“I’ll tell you another time,”
Another time. It almost goes over your head – the first time either of you have even entertained the thought of hanging out after the twenty four hours have ended. You don’t show him that you notice, and just continue on laughing.
Somewhere amongst your delight, your head falls to the side and catches Eddie in the act.
An act of total, utter softness. His features are melted butter as he stares down at you, seemingly entranced by your laughter and joy in his tale of a failed one night stand. It’s not the kind of look produced from forest fires, or turbulent oceans, or a garden of vines. It’s the kind of look that is a natural disaster all on its own. It’s devastating – something in the two of you immediately breaks, quietly, desperately. There’s no repairing the damage being done; there’s no want for reparations.
The first bloom after a long winter finally sprouts on your vines. It’s bright and brilliant red – like scarlet blood, like hot and flickering flames. It’s watered by salt water, slow and warm and enticing.
You start to believe that even if you plunge beneath his waves, the fire Eddie has lit within you will always remain.
“We should go to sleep,” you whisper, eyes never leaving his. Trying to find the deep blue hidden within honey brown, to find seafoam green amidst wide, black pupils.
“We should,” he agrees.
“Goodnight, Eddie.”
“Goodnight,” he pauses, and then he adds your name, as if he’s testing the taste on his tongue, as if he’s saying it for the first time.
It feels like he’s saying it for the first time.
You look back up at the ceiling but still feel his eyes on you. A couple minutes pass, and neither of your eyes close. Just because you should go to sleep doesn’t mean you will.
“You’re not even trying to sleep, are you?”
You only hum in response, still clutching that pillow, still counting cracks in the ceiling.
“Alright, fuck it.”
Your eyes break to him as he suddenly is leaping off the bed, void of grace as he finally settles on his feet and races to his dresser.
“Um, Eddie?”
He doesn’t look up as he digs into a drawer, pulling out a long sleeved shirt, “Yes, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart. A nickname that once filled you with venom now makes your insides twist in the agony of want. You want him to say it again.
“What are you doing?”
The long sleeved shirt flies your way, and he’s walking to grab a set of keys off the top of his dresser, “Getting you something warmer to wear.”
“And… why…” you’re still lost, looking down at the shirt in confusion. It’s black and fairly thick, the neck hole stretched and a haunting white font sketching out the words Corroded Coffin, “Why do I need something warmer to wear? Your apartment isn’t that cold.”
“Because it’s barely March, and it’s cold outside still,” he pauses and grins childishly, practically beaming at you as you continue to wearily eye the article of clothing. Once he realizes you’re still not getting it, he sighs dramatically and makes his way to your side of the bed, holding a hand out to you, “Neither of us can sleep. Let’s go for a drive.”
His palm stares you in the face, an offer of something that should be considered a plain bad idea. There’s a million and one reasons to not go for a drive. And so you tell him exactly that, ready to list them off in rapid fire.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Perfect. Means no one else is on the street.”
“We have to send a photo to the group soon.”
“The place is five minutes away. We can take a photo when we get there.”
“Place? Oh my God, are you actually going to murder me? You’re taking me to a secondary location and that is in stranger danger 101-”
Eddie stresses each syllable of your name as he says it, waving his hand that’s still stuck out for you to grab, “C’mon. There’s always a hundred reasons to not do something. Just… live a little. I promise it’s better than laying in my gross ass bed.”
You narrow his eyes and challenge him, remembering his words about the way you two still argue. He was right – there may never come a day you don’t feel compelled to go toe to toe with him, whether it’s of ill-intent or not, “Why is your bed gross? Jesus Christ, Eddie-”
He moves suddenly. One moment, he’s just standing there, charming as ever with a daring palm that calls to you like his ocean. The next, he’s impossibly close, placing a hand on either side of you as he leans in dangerously close.
“Change your shirt and meet me in the kitchen in the next five minutes, or I’ll come back in here and take your shirt off myself.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
If he had said those words to you nine hours ago, you would have castrated him. But the low tone of his voice, the brush of his breath over your cheeks, against your ears – you’re putty in his hands now as you nod dumbly.
When he leans back, he even looks shocked in his actions and words. But then he catches that look on your face – the blank stare and wide eyes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest – and a shimmer of cockiness returns.
“Five minutes,” he reminds you, tilting his head as he takes slow steps back and exits the room.
It takes you less than one.
The moment the shirt is on you, you’re encased with a new Eddie smell. The scents of the bed, of the apartment, of him still cling to the fabric, but it now mixes with something of fresh linen, lemon and clean laundry.
As promised, he’s in the kitchen, leather jacket on as he grabs his phone off a charger plugged in at the end of the breakfast bar lined with stools.
“You charge your phone outside of your room?” you ask as you carefully pad in, immediately heading to grab your shoes and slip them on. He’s already got his boots on, laced tightly. They should look comical against the grey sweatpants, but he’s making the entire look work.
“Saw some science magazine say it would help me sleep better,” he mutters as he flips the phone open, probably checking for missed calls or texts.
“That really only applies to smartphones. When did you even plug it in?”
You’re bursting with questions, nervous and eager to avoid what’s to come.
Being on Eddie’s motorcycle. With Eddie. Probably pressed up against Eddie’s back. Probably wrapping your arms around Eddie’s waist.
“When I came to wake you up on the couch,” he nods towards where you’re sitting, snapping the phone shut and shoving it into his pocket, “You ready?”
You wonder for a moment how he’d respond to you snapping back something bratty. How far would you have to push him for him to threaten you like he did in the bedroom again?
You’re not quite recovered enough from the first time, so you don’t press your luck, nodding in response to him.
—
Apparently, by the time you two reach his motorcycle parked on the street, you have recovered enough to press your luck.
He’d grabbed a helmet on the way out the door, and you’d just assumed it was for him. It made sense, considering the one time you’d seen him ride, he’d worn it.
But then, he was suddenly thrusting it in your hand. And the argument ensued.
“I’m not wearing this,” you try to shove it back into his hands, “You’re driving, you wear it.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve taken a dozen hits to the head in my lifetime. I can handle being banged up if something happens, but I’m not risking it with you. Put it the fuck on.”
You almost spit for him to not call you sweetheart, but it soothes something in you. Something made of your flames, something drowning in his ocean. A conundrum, whatever it is, because he’s just irritating you now.
“You could not survive a motorcycle crash without a helmet,” you snap.
“And neither could you.”
“Why don’t you have two helmets then?” you nearly toss the damn thing to the ground and declare that neither of you will wear a helmet.
He finally breaks and takes the helmet back roughly, “Because I don’t normally have a passenger,” he’s rotating the bulky, black shell in his hand, the glass visor for the eyes shining under the street lamps, “Consider yourself lucky. Most aren’t tall enough for this ride.”
You’re about to make an immature sex joke when he takes you off guard, smoothly bringing the helmet up over your head, not even giving you a chance to protest or fight him.
“I hate you.”
The words come out muffled to him, crystal clear to you in the helmet. But he still grins, and you can see it through the tinted glass.
You don’t think you’ll ever be able to miss another appearance of those fucking dimples for the rest of your days.
“Good. Glad to hear nothing’s changed,” he playfully jokes, rounding the motorcycle before he swings a leg over the seat and straddles it. You try not to watch and check your phone instead.
You’re getting kind of sick of imagining Eddie Munson naked. Something you’d never thought you’d have to think about.
12:35 AM. Your phone clearly displays the time, just as a text comes in from Argyle.
ARGYLE 😎: picture time, my dudes! say cheese (and send it our way) 📸
“Argyle just texted the chat, asking very politely for the photo,” you announce to Eddie, already holding your phone out so he could read the screen.
He’s kicked up the stand on the bike, balancing it with both feet on the ground, the entire thing leaning with him when he gets closer to read the text before simply saying, “Okay.”
“Okay? We have to take a photo-”
He snatches the phone from you, a terrible habit you needed to start scolding him for. “Well? Don’t just stand there, sweetheart. Get on the bike and smile pretty for the camera.”
It’s impressive how quickly the man who still has a flip phone has learned to navigate your smartphone. He’s already got the camera open, flipped to be front-facing as he waits for you to climb on behind him. But you haven’t moved.
He turns and looks at you over his shoulder, “Something wrong?”
“Nothing,” you squeak from beneath the helmet.
Just the thought of being pressed up against you after I’ve suddenly started fantasizing about you without shame is madly overwhelming. And if I have to wrap my arms around your waist, I might burst into flames outwardly.
“Okay,” he draws out, twisting further to watch you, “Need help, then?”
You don’t honor him with an answer, instead roughly grabbing his shoulders as you swing your own leg over the bike. You try to sit with distance between the two of you, but the curve of the seat won’t allow it, sliding you down until your hips are flush against Eddie.
It’s at this moment it dawns on you that if you are fantasizing about him, if you are indulging in the memory of the bathroom incident, he’ll feel it. You can hide or brush off a blush, you can avert gazes, you can pine just about every way physically without him knowing – you can’t stop him from feeling the heat between your legs as it’s digging into his lower back.
You swallow hard, and you pray that Eddie isn’t in a teasing mood.
“Good?” he asks when you don’t remove your hands from his shoulders.
Even through the fucking helmet you smell his cologne. If you had your phone, you’d be googling images of grandmas like a teenage boy, warding off your unsavory thoughts about the man in front of you.
“Good.”
You have to tilt to the side before you both come into view of the camera. Eddie realizes at the last moment that they can’t see it’s you, and he doesn’t even react as he casually reaches up to flip the window visor up, exposing your wide eyes and rosy cheeks. The photo is taken, your blush evident and his smirk not even close to being hidden.
He doesn’t even consult you before he sends it and passes your phone back, taking to tying back his hair as you fumble to secure the device in your pocket.
You still haven’t dared to wrap your arms around him as you know is proper protocol as a motorcycle passenger. Instead, one hand is still shoved in your pocket, and the other continues to rest on his shoulders.
“Alright,” he says, producing his eyes and putting them in the engine, not yet turning it, “Just put your feet up here,” he takes a hand to each of your calves and lifts, situating your feet on the small pedals designated for a passenger. Your skin burns through the layer of sweats – the flames aren’t just in your head. They’re everywhere now, licking and nipping and leaving your breathless. “And then hold onto me.”
You return your hand to his other shoulder, giving a squeeze on each for emphasis to say you’re ready. He makes no move to start the bike.
“What?” you complain, “I’m holding onto you!”
“If we hit a bump, you’ll go flying.”
When you don’t comply, he’s rolling his shoulders, shrugging off your touch before both hands fly back behind his back and capture your hands on their fall to your lap. His fingers are tight, warm, secure around your wrists as he pulls your arms to wrap around him in the exact way you’ve been avoiding.
It pulls you impossibly close to him. If it weren’t for the helmet, your cheek and nose would be painfully smashed into his shoulder. The heat of him radiates off his back, seeping through the sweatshirt he’d given you.
“There. Now is that really so bad?” His tone is cocky and confident, getting under your skin in a new tactic neither of you had ever broached.
Flirting. He’s flirting. He can feel the tremble in your palms, and he has the nerve to fucking flirt with you.
“Awful,” you quip, having to focus an insane amount to not allow your voice to shake, “I might vomit, it’s so bad.”
“Aw,” he tuts mockingly, hands finally letting go of your arms, clearly pleased when they stay in place as he turns his face to look you in your eyes, “Just aim for the street and not me, okay?”
Fire and flames dance in his eyes, easily reflected from the flush of your cheeks and the falsification of your glare. He’s going to be the death of you.
“I’ll try,” your voice does shake this time. You’re not as brave when he’s making eye contact.
The two of you are playing a dangerous game now. The venom of hatred has leaked out of your words, and what’s replacing it has the capability of breaking both of you far easier. This is no longer a game of who can make the other bleed – it’s no longer a game of you versus him. It’s a game of the two of you versus fate. The world’s worst game of chicken to date.
A natural disaster. A forest fire that eviscerates all common sense. A rowdy ocean that drowns every version of every possibility ever known. Nature taking back what was once hers, an abandoned haunt of a chest that is now back in full bloom against better judgment.
You, him, and fate. You always knew he would be your inevitable downfall. You’d always just assumed it would be a lot more screaming, a lot more fighting, and a lot less fantasizing what his lips would feel like against yours.
He reaches out, and you think for a second, his knuckle will brush your cheek and he’ll whisper that it’s okay for you to just give in, to let Fate have her way.
He doesn’t. He flips down the visor over your eyes, he twists the keys in the ignition, and he calls out loudly over the roar of the engine, “Hold tight, baby!”
Your arms tighten around his waist and you hope the flames that encase you char him all the same.
—
DINGUS: what did i say?
BIRDIE: it’s not bad.
BIRDIE: i promise.
BIRDIE: it’s just not great either.
DINGUS: robin. tell me what i said before i come across the hall to your room and break every the smiths record you own.
BIRDIE: jesus okay! hop off the violent train.
BIRDIE: i’m going to call you and explain because… context. just trust me and answer, okay?
DINGUS: jesus christ. okay.
—
The moment the girls have all left for the bathroom, each guy exchanges a look. Argyle nudges Jonthan, who then kicks Steve under the table, who takes his turn in facing his entire body in Eddie’s direction before tapping the boy on his shoulder.
He looks up immediately, only to be caught in the spotlight of his friends, “Uh… yeah? What’s up?”
“You like her,” Steve deadpans.
“You like her, my dude,” Argyle sing-songs from across the table, “I’m about to start planning a bitching wedding, I swear.”
Eddie freezes up, face scrunching up before he shakes his head violently, “What? No, I just met her-”
“Subtlety isn’t your specialty, Munson,” Jonathan adds in his two cents, “Lost puppy dog eyes are, though. Which you’ve been making at her all night.”
“I have not-”
“You guys think they’re more of a summer wedding couple, or fall? No, no, actually, scratch that – they’re clearly a winter wedding couple, man,” Argyle is teasing, but the warmth of his personality is genuine as he wiggles his brows at Eddie.
A smile finally cracks on the boy’s face.
Fine, maybe he did like her. Maybe he had been plotting subtle ways to get her number before the night ended. Maybe he had already been trying to silently catch Robin’s eyes to get her blessing without words.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve suddenly interrupts, “Tone down the teasing, alright, fellas?”
Eddie curiously turns his head to him, hiding a smirk behind the lip of his glass, “Why? You’ve already got eyes on her, Harrington?”
It was a joke. A stupid, stupid joke. A joke that never should have been made, because Steve was drunk and wasn’t in the business of using a filter once he was this many shots deep.
Eddie knows deep down he didn’t mean harm by the words. He knows that they were the words of a drunk man. But don’t all drunk thoughts have truth to them?
“What? Nah, man. Not anymore, at least. She was never interested. And I just don’t want us getting ahead of ourselves, because if she wouldn’t go for me, why would she go for you? I think we just-”
Eddie stops listening. Steve continues a drunken rant, and if Eddie had been listening closer, he’d hear about Steve’s grand plan to better feel out how she felt about him. He’d hear about how Steve would get Robin involved, maybe Nancy, how they could talk to her.
He’d hear that Steve meant more than those awful words that immediately take up residency in Eddie’s mind. But the damage is done. And just like that, a fate between Eddie and this new girl has been decided. There will be no asking for her number. There will be no giddy late night phone calls or terrible nerves when planning a first date. There won’t be anything – Fate clicks with reluctance as Eddie Munson begrudgingly closes the gates to his heart once more.
“If she wouldn’t go for me, why would she go for you?”
Steve was right. Eddie shouldn’t have gotten ahead of himself.
taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @tlclick73 @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777
taglist is now closed.
#twenty four hours#eddie munson#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson fic#eddie munson smut#finally able to use that one we've been very brave haven't we#i wrote solo eddie from his pov too lol
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
don't go insane
~ choso kamo x fem!reader (tattoo artist choso au)
~tags/cw: mature content, lil smut, explicit language, talking about the pains of being a woman (iud, pap smear etc), aged up yuji.
~ mixed/third pov
~ wc: 2.5k
~ part of need to know fic: chptr one
~a/n: very small chapter because believe it or not, this took so much mental effort to get out, I could not figure out how to progress it past the initial meeting but the next part is coming soon, this is a lil taster
Saturo was no help. A constant barrage of jokes flooded your phone screen in every form possible, with an encouraging text from Suguru slipping into the stacking text notifications, the former however was no help. The little goblin made of nightmares named Anxiety settled into the walls of your stomach, poking at the fleshy, spongey insides and giggling each time you clenched your fist. The repetitive motion usually calmed the nervousness, a habit developed in early childhood that had so far in life been a great distraction from the impending doom that seemed to encompass you each time you stepped a foot outside your front door, but today it was no help at all. Afraid of looking silly in front of two rather attractive men you find yourself abandoning the action in favour of a more discrete tactic, one you had vowed to give up in response to the scar tissue that had built along the inside of your bottom lip.
Getting out of the house these days was a little tougher and required more effort and energy to step out into the world and socialise, and that was okay; at least, that’s what your therapist tells you each time you fork over two hundred and thirty dollars for a sixty-minute session. It is all right to be a little uneasy when going out into the world because everyone else is just as unconfident in their footing, and you can only control your actions; the decisions made by others are uncontrollable and unplanned, and that’s okay. It’s all okay, it’s all fine. Fine. You feel your lips pull down into a frown.
“Hey, you all right?” a voice asks from your left.
You turn to face the voice and are greeted by the smiling boy who had greeted you.
“Yeah, I’m okay, thanks,” a sigh whooshes from your body. “Just a little nervous about being alone is all.” You feel your mouth mirror the smile he gives you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Yuji!” the boy beams and leans further over the counter. “And don’t worry, Choso is very chill; he’ll even let you pick the music if you ask!”
You genuinely smile at his childlike demeanour, and your stomach knots loosen a tad. Yuji is warm, his energy comforting and familiar as if you had met him once before, and come to think of it, he did look rather familiar to someone you had met when you were younger.
“Have we met be-“
“Did you want to – ohh, sorry. You first,” Yuji stumbles over his words, pausing and gesturing you to finish your thought.
“I was just going to ask if we’ve met before, You’re familiar.”
Yuji beams at your question but shakes his head, pink hair falling over his forehead. “I don’t think so, I would have remembered such a pretty face.”
Warmth blooms in your cheeks at the blatant flirting, and you’re flattered and maybe a little too old for him.
“Can you stop flirting with my client?” Choso walks into the foyer, holding stencils, ID, and consent forms in one hand, and a pair of grey slippers in the other. The shoes looked a little too small for someone of his size but they could just be normal size and look tiny in his gigantic hand.
Locking eyes with your artist, you finally get a good look at him and he is unnervingly beautiful in a way that you never thought anyone could be. Deep shadows cradle tired mulberry-hued eyes that are framed with thick lashes that fill you with no end of envy, and his face is exhausted and gaunt, yet the fullness of his cheeks and lips suggest that he is healthy and not malnourished in any way apart from sleep maybe. A raised but old scar ran over his nose, tinted a slightly darker shade than his porcelain complexion, but it was the imperfection, the rip in what is undeniably a beautiful artwork of a human, that made him all the more gorgeous and the hair, oh god, his hair. Raven-coloured locks fell to just above his shoulders in messy layers and pushed back from his face with a zig-zag headband that had your chest heating in both envy and desire.
More heat spreads across your face, tinting your ears in a soft blush at the heavy emphasis on possessive adjectives, and you know he doesn’t mean it that way, but you can’t help your heart's racing.
Yuji frowns, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout.
“She could be my client,” he turns back to you, eyes wide in asking “and Cho can supervise, I need the training.”
You frown, dramatic apology written across your features as you look towards Choso. In any other instance, you would be willing to sit for an apprentice but you had been wanting something done by Kamo for months now and as much as you didn’t want to disappoint Yuji, you wanted Choso’s work more.
“Not today, bro. I’m sorry.,” Choso beats you to the punch, slashing through his apprentice’s hopes to tattoo and score a date with one clean strike. “Ask Yuki when she comes in; she’ll let you.”
Yuji’s pout deepens, and you can’t deny he is cute, but maybe next time, when you need a little filler or you have some cash to spare. You share a frown with the pink-haired boy and turn to Choso, careful to avoid eye contact as he holds out your identification card and the pair of slippers.
“These are for you if you want to change out of the boots.” His eyes flick down to the heavy Doc Martens that adorn your feet. “You can go into the room, I’ve just gotta grab a few things from the storeroom.”
Oh, that’s why they were so small. You accept the shoes and card with a shy smile, thanking him quietly for the unnecessary kindness with the borrowed slippers and follow him down the small hallway. You want to say something, a small joke to fill the silence, but nothing comes to mind, your brain suddenly devoid of any thoughts other than how much you wanted him to pin you against a wall. Fire twists in your gut at that image. Strong tattooed hands pinning yours above your head as his mouth trails down your neck, nipping at the delicate skin of your throat, then collarbones, then chest. How easily he could rip the front of your dress open, hands groping and mouth biting.
“I’m just gonna duck out to grab some more ink cups but make yourself comfy. You can sit wherever until we put the stencil on.” Choso stops in the doorway of his space, gesturing into the room with an open palm. “Bathroom is down the hall” he jabs behind him with his thumb.
With a shaky breath in, you nod and step into the room, carefully avoiding any contact you might have with him in fear of possibly melting into nothing but a puddle of blood and bones. He gives you a tight smile before disappearing down the hall. How were you meant to have him tattoo you if you could barely hold it together when there was space between you both? Your skin is burning, tingling with whatever it was he made you feel and there was an ache so deep in your chest it hurt, but all those things could be anxiety, could be caused by the fact you were out of your element and not by the fact you were about to be tattooed by the most gorgeous human you had ever seen. Or maybe it was your body telling you that you needed to get dicked down by Choso Kamo. But anxiety and horny go hand in hand, right?
--
“Can you relax for me?” Choso’s request is soft and accompanied by small taps along your spine as he readies your skin for the stencil.
A shaky breath leaves your lungs as you whisper a sorry and roll your shoulders forward in an attempt to shed the stiffness that had taken over your entire body the instance Choso’s fingers brushed across your skin.
Your poor body has not known relaxation since stepping into the small studio. Between the constant heat coursing through your veins, your heart racing to the point of panic and your stomach twisting so uncomfortably good, you couldn’t focus on anything apart from the man before you, well behind you. Initially, you had wanted the tattoo running along your forearm, having just enough space for the small dagger and wings but after Choso had suggested moving the piece to run down your spine, your mind had been changed. It was perfect! You had been wanting to get something along your vertebrae for months now but hadn’t found anything you loved enough to commit, until now.
What you hadn’t accounted for was how it would be tattooed. You had very well thought you would be lying face down on the bed, Choso hovering over you as he inked your skin but that would have surely been murder on his back and judging by the looks of him, he was not ready to make that sacrifice, so now you sit comfortably on a small cushioned stool, hunched over the bed to allow Choso access to your bare back.
Oh my god, you weren’t going to make it through the appointment.
--
Warm hands are laid flat against your shoulder blades and you flinch, unaware you were going to feel the full weight of his hands on you.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean-“Choso rushes to apologise, removing his hands as if having them on you was a great offence.
“It’s okay. You just scared me, I didn’t know you were going to touch me.”
“Oh, uhh is it- am I going to “he struggles with the sentence, unsure as to how to word his question without sounding like a misogynistic asshole. “Are you going to be okay with me touching you? For the tattoo!” Choso all but shouts the end of his question, the clarification sending heat to both your cheeks.
“You can touch me, it’s okay.” You nod, perhaps a little too feverishly than you wanted to but you needed to ease his worries that you might be that kind of client.
The kind of client that flinches at every pass of the gun and begs for breaks every ten minutes. You know first-hand how embarrassing it is to watch someone cry and whine because of a tattoo as if the pain was unbearable and unavoidable. You had suffered through years of period pains, laser hair removal, IUD insertions, pap smears, getting smacked in the boob right before your period, eyebrow threading and so much more and even then, you refused to make a sound. Almost passing out on the gynaecologist’s table when she rammed the measuring rod right up into the top of your uterus, and even then the only sound that came out of you was a small ouch. You refuse to be seen as someone who would flinch at a tattoo.
Choso smiles back, restrained and small and you worry that maybe your over-enthusiastic consent may have contributed to that less genuine more annoyed retail worker smile and you find yourself starting to spiral into thoughts of needing to apologise and make up for the weird tension that now filled the room but that would be three steps backwards according to your therapist.
‘It is not your responsibility to figure out other people’s emotions before they have them and even then, it is not your responsibility to fix or change it’
Each week you are reminded of that in that small corner office and you’ve heard those words so many times, you might as well get it tattooed on your arm to remind you of that fact.
So instead of opening your mouth and spewing word vomit everywhere, you smile back and take in a deep breath, nodding at your artist to continue prepping your skin for the stencil.
--
Choso sits behind you, gently laying the paper atop your skin, lining up the tip of the dagger with vertebrae, and he has to concentrate extra hard to stop his hands from shaking because he cannot place this stencil on you for the fourth fucking time. It had taken him three attempts already and not because of the size of the drawing or the curve of your spine, but the fact his mind wandered away each time his skin touched yours. Wandered to a place where no client should ever be found, a place reserved only for fictional characters and the occasional crush but here you were, front and centre in Choso’s mind. Bent over the tattoo table, dress pushed up just far enough for him to watch his cock sliding in and out of you, slick and precum dripping down your thighs and pooling on the sanitized floor below. Your hands grip the edge of the foam mattress, the other held behind your back fingers entwined with his as you whined and moaned, crying out Choso’s name as you barely held it together before coming all over his cock with a whimper.
The image has Choso’s cock hardening in his sweats and he curses the fact he decided to change into comfy clothes instead of the jeans he wore this morning. His attention needs to shift away from the thought of you and to the present reality of you. Looking up, he catches you already staring at him and for a split second, he freaks out and looks down at his crotch. Had he said something out loud? Or accidentally made it super obvious he was insanely horny for you? The anxiety seems to do the job as he feels his dick softening, heart racing for another reason entirely.
“Do you need me to move or help you out with anything?” you timidly ask, brows furrowing in worry at the fact he had not been able to line the stencil up yet. Would he be okay to tattoo you? His hand did seem to shake a lot.
Choso shakes his head, puts down the stencil and reaches for the roll of paper towels on his station. “I think I've just had too much caffeine and it’s giving me a bit of a headache.” His gloved fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. “My hands don’t shake this much, I promise. This has never happened before.”
Yeah, he’s never had a client so insanely hot he has been unable to do this job. Choso was not going to make it through his appointment alive.
#http tokki#₊˚⊹♡ tattoo artist choso#choso kamo x reader#kamo choso x reader#choso x y/n#choso x you#choso x reader#kamo choso x you#kamo choso x y/n#choso kamo multi chapter#choso fluff#choso smut#choso kamo fanfic#choso kamo x y/n#choso kamo x you#choso kamo x female reader#choso multi chapter#choso kamo fanfiction#choso fanfic#choso fanfiction#choso tattoo au#choso tatto au fanfic
209 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Lost Queen - XIII
— summary: You woke up near a military camp without remembering how and why you got there, you didn’t understand why they were dressed like ancient Greeks, all you knew was that you weren’t safe and you needed to get out of that place as soon as possible. Too bad for you that you found yourself attracting unwanted attention from the Macedonian King and he won’t let you go so easily.
— genre: yandere, dark!au.
— warnings: time travel, obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, mention of torture, kidnapping, angst, fluffy (very rarely), dub-con, possibly smut.
— pairing: yandere!alexander the great x female!reader, yandere!generals x female!reader.
— word count: 3,325.
— tag list: @devils-blackrose, @faerykingdom, @hadesnewpersephone, @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 , @kadu-5607, @zoleea-exultant, @borntoexplore11-blog, @silmawensgarden.
— the lost queen series masterlist.
Chapter 13
Time turned into an indistinct blur, while your breath seemed to freeze in the air. Before you, the man emanated an intimidating aura, his presence filling the small space of the tent with palpable tension. Every detail of his face, sculpted by shadow and dancing light, seemed like a macabre work of art, a mixture of mystery and imminent danger. His dark eyes, deep and penetrating, held yours as if they had the power to probe your soul. And you, paralyzed in front of this spectrum of strength and mystery, could barely utter a single word.
"You look like you've seen a ghost." He chuckled, watching you with interest shining in his dark eyes. Those words, tinged with a touch of humor, echoed in your ears like a distant echo of a distorted reality. Was he mocking you?
"It's because I'm seeing one." You scoffed, your tone laced with disdain as you stared at him firmly, barely able to contain the fear from spreading through your body. He clicked his tongue in disgust at your tone.
The man looked inside the tent, his interest piqued by the surrounding environment. "You look good." He commented, his voice carrying a casual tone, but his expression still enigmatic and impenetrable.
"Why did you bring me here?" You finally asked, your fists clenching as you stared at the man with disgust and a slight fear shining in your gaze.
"All in good time, my dear." He hummed in response, his relaxed tone contrasting with the tension that hovered between you. He approached you, his imposing presence filling the space between you as you struggled to maintain your composure in the face of the uncertainty of what would come next.
"Do not play with me." You spat, your voice filled with suspicion and a hint of suppressed anger.
He arched an eyebrow, a subtle smile dancing on his lips.
"I'm not." He replied seriously, his dark eyes boring into yours with piercing intensity, "I'm not messing with you, sweet girl. Everything I've done has a purpose." His voice echoed in the tent, filled with a conviction you struggled to understand, as the mystery around you seemed to deepen even further.
You felt even more suspicious and uncomfortable with the man's words.
Who was he? Or rather, what was he?
"Who are you?" You finally asked, your jaw clenched in a mix of nervousness and defiance.
"I have several names." He purred in response, a chilling sensation running down your spine as he circled around you like a wary predator, "But you can call me Aslan for now."
Aslan? For now? The name echoed in your mind, loaded with a meaning that you could barely begin to understand.
"What do you want with me?" You frowned, your voice thick with tension and distrust.
“What I want doesn't matter, but what you want does.” He replied calmly, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made you uncomfortable.
What do you want?
"Are you mocking me?" You rolled your eyes, frustrated with his evasive answers, "I'm not in the mood for jokes, Aslan." Your words were spoken firmly, a mixture of irritation and determination evident in your voice. You were going to get answers one way or another.
He laughed darkly, and involuntarily, a chill ran down your spine at the laugh that escaped the man's lips.
"Be patient, my dear. I'll explain everything to you, but for now..." He stopped talking when he heard a commotion outside your tent.
''Finish speaking.'' You ordered, your voice firm and determined, demanding answers in the face of the growing intrigue and urgency of the situation.
He smiled, a mysterious gleam dancing in his eyes, "You're learning to act like a Queen."
You looked him straight into his dark eyes, ''I am one.'' Your statement was delivered with unwavering confidence, your identity and position clearly defined, even amidst the confusion and uncertainty that surrounded you.
You were a Queen. You were the Queen of Macedonia, and as strange as that title still sounded in your ears, it felt right when it left your lips.
Aslan smiled widely, his features softening with the confidence of your words, ''You are.'' He confirmed, his voice filled with respect and recognition, as he slowly headed towards the flap of the tent.
''Where are you going? We're not done talking!'' Your words came out in a rush, your gaze narrowing with each step he took towards the exit.
''Duty calls me.'' He sang, his voice filled with mystery and promise, ''But I'll be back soon. We have plenty of time to talk, (Y/N).'' Aslan bowed slightly and left before you could utter another word.
''Aslan...'' You uttered his name, or one of his names in this case, and was strangely pleased with the sweet way it fell from your lips. Why did he look so familiar? Your fingers gripped the hem of your traditional Persian dress, your nails digging into the soft fabric.
You would have the answers soon, you were sure of that. But for now, there was something more pressing to deal with. You needed to meet Darius in person, a meeting that promised to be crucial to your future.
Darius's tent was exactly as you expected it to be: extravagant. Even in the middle of a war camp, the Persian King did not give up his luxuries and comforts.
As you observed the opulence around him, you couldn't help but reflect on how that very extravagance may have been one of the reasons for Darius' downfall. His excessive indulgence and disconnection from the reality of the challenges he faced as a leader may have weakened his rule and undermined his authority among his people and his armies. Vanity and ostentation can be double-edged weapons, especially in times of conflict and political instability.
As you carefully observed Darius and a man who resembled him, your eyes wandered to the king, whose luxurious attire made it clear that he was Darius. You took in every feature of his features: his dark skin glowing in the golden light of the fire, his long black beard that complemented his face firmly. A faint smile curved his lips as you bowed respectfully before him, and his dark eyes softened slightly.
The similarity between Darius' imposing presence and Alexander's was remarkable, and you couldn't help but find it intriguing. Both possessed an enviable charisma, capable of attracting loyal followers and soldiers, even in the face of defeat and adversity. It was as if an aura of authority and leadership surrounded them, inspiring admiration and respect wherever they went. They were similar in that way.
Perhaps it was this magnetic charisma that allowed Darius to maintain a large number of loyal followers and soldiers, even after suffering defeats in battle. His commanding presence and ability to inspire confidence may have been crucial factors in maintaining his power and influence despite the challenges he faced. That was something admirable, and even though he was technically your enemy, you couldn't help but admire those traits.
''It's a pleasure to meet you in person.'' Darius's deep, calming voice sounded in your ears and you nodded slowly, hiding any possible nervousness. He seemed to know how to speak greek and that made you calmer.
"I say the same," You replied calmly, following Darius' lead and settling into a chair reserved for you, "Though it was unpleasant circumstances we found ourselves in." You couldn't help but poke him lightly, after all, he had kidnapped you. The tension between you was palpable, but you were determined to maintain diplomatic composure. You needed to ensure your safety above all else, especially now that you were pregnant.
Instinctively, your hand found its way to your belly, as if trying to protect the baby growing inside you. Darius's gaze followed the movement and rested on your belly, understanding the source of your apprehension.
"Nothing will happen to you or your child." He assured you calmly, his words filled with sincerity and empathy. A feeling of relief spread through you at his assurance, even though tension still permeated the air around you.
The presence of the man who resembled Darius, with malice shining in his eyes, further heightened your sense of unease. As Darius cleared his throat and called a name in Persian that you vaguely recognized as Bagoas, you knew you were looking at an intriguing historical character.
You knew Bagoas's name from contemporary records, which described him as a eunuch who had been the lover of both Darius and Alexander after the conquest of Persia. Your frown at this information was inevitable, and you stared at him as he entered the tent, carrying a jug of wine. Your eyes followed his every movement as he poured the liquid into three cups, and you couldn't help but notice the subtle glance he threw your way before disappearing with silent steps.
Darius took a sip of his wine and the other man did the same. Meanwhile, the wine in front of you remained untouched, as you knew that drinking alcohol during pregnancy was not recommended at all.
The other man finally decided to speak, his rough voice echoing in the tent. The greek that came from his lips was a little difficult to understand, but his words were clear, "We brought you here to negotiate."
Darius stared at the man disapprovingly and sighed, ''That's Bessus.''
Bessus. Uh-huh. This was bad. You knew this man and didn't trust him at all and it seemed like even Darius didn't trust him.
''To negotiate what?'' You raised your eyebrows.
''In exchange for your safety and life, Alexander must abandon the war and return home.'' Bessus replied, drinking his wine with great enthusiasm. You looked at him with disdain evident in your eyes. Did they really think Alexander would give up so easily? They will be fools then.
The idea that Alexander would give up so easily was absurd, and those who believed it were mistaken. Alexander was a formidable leader, determined to pursue his goals with fierce determination, and you knew he would never abandon the war without fighting until his last breath. He would rather die fighting than return as a coward.
"Alexander won't give up." You replied firmly, your voice thick with conviction, "He never will."
Bessus's expression was disdainful as he arched his eyebrow, "Not even for his beloved pregnant wife?"
You fought the urge to punch Bessus at his taunts and replied dryly, "Alexander will destroy the world for me, and you made a huge mistake by bringing me here."
There was a certain arrogance in your voice, but it was the truth. You knew the destructive power Alexander was capable of inflicting when provoked, and those who dared to defy him were playing with fire.
You remembered the stories about what he did to his enemies, to those who dared to cross his path or take what was his. His revenge was swift and merciless, sending a clear message to all those who dared defy him: there was no mercy for traitors and invaders. Darius and Bessus were in hot water when they decided to kidnap you.
''Let's talk, shall we?'' Darius interrupted the conversation between you and Bessus, sensing the animosity between you.
You nodded, even though you knew this conversation wouldn't get you anywhere. Their situation was complicated, and it seemed like they were about to face the consequences of their actions.
Every action has a reaction, right?
"My wife is not here?" Alexander's voice was low, but his fury resonated clearly in every word, his clenched fists denoting his intense emotion.
The generals present, Hephaestion and Ptolemy, seemed worried and fearful of the king's wrath. Finally, Hephaestion decided to take the lead, his expression carefully controlled to avoid further provoking Alexander's explosive reaction.
"She is not here." He said with the greatest caution he could have at that moment, his words chosen precisely to convey the truth without triggering an even more violent reaction from the King. The tension in the air was palpable, as everyone awaited Alexander's next response and the consequences that could follow.
"She's not here.'' Alexander repeated, his voice sounding louder, reverberating through the room. Ptolemy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of responsibility in deciding to speak,
"(Y/N)'s guards said they didn't find her in her tent when they woke up.'' He stated, holding Alexander's menacing gaze as long as he could, his expression showing both concern and determination.
Finally, the King snapped. His fists hit the poor makeshift table hard, causing it to fall with a deafening crash. Hephaestion fought the urge to shudder at Alexander's display of fury.
"So where is she?" Alexander asked, his voice filled with anger and despair, staring intensely at his two friends, "WHERE IS SHE?" The last question was shouted, echoing off the walls of the room and reverberating in the minds of everyone present. The tension reached its peak, as everyone awaited the answer with a mixture of apprehension and fear for what could happen next.
"W-We don't know!" Ptolemy was quick to say, fearing for his life, his words flowing in a torrent of fear. "We've done a thorough search of the entire camp and surrounding area, but there's no trace of her. It's as if she's disappeared."
"People don't disappear out of thin air." Alexander sneered, his penetrating and suspicious gaze scanning every detail of his generals' faces. His blue eye narrowed, emanating an intensity that made it clear he would not accept evasive answers or excuses.
Hephaestion decided to speak to try to help calm his friend, aware of the urgency of providing any information that could help or worsen the situation.
"According to the guards stationed at her tent, they were knocked out and the Queen was gone." He reported, his voice firm but filled with concern.
Alexander looked his friend in the eyes, his expression a mixture of anger and grim determination, "Who took her?" His question was uttered with increasing urgency, indicating that he would not rest until he found answers and brought his wife back safely.
Ptolemy and Hephaestion exchanged a heavy look of mutual significance. They knew Alexander wouldn't take this information very well. Betrayal was never something he dealt with easily, especially when it came from such a dear friend.
Taking a deep breath and mentally preparing himself for the coming storm, Hephaestion took the lead once again.
"Perdiccas." He said, his voice heavy with the weight of revelation as he faced Alexander's furious gaze. The words hung in the air, loaded with inevitable consequences, while everyone awaited the King's explosive reaction to the betrayal of one of his closest confidants.
"Perdiccas.'' Alexander repeated the name carefully, feeling a bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth.
Perdiccas.
His childhood friend, his trusted general, now revealed himself as the traitor who had kidnapped his wife. The reality of the situation hit Alexander with devastating force, a mixture of disbelief and fury boiling inside him. How could someone he trusted so deeply betray like this?
The feeling of betrayal pierced his heart like a sharp blade, leaving him furious and determined to carry out the worst punishment, torture known to man.
The fury building inside Alexander was like an uncontrolled hurricane, a primal force that threatened to devour everything in its path. His vision turned red, his mind flooded with images of violence and revenge. All he could see was a pool of blood and a cruelly mutilated body in the middle of it. Perdiccas' body.
He wanted revenge, revenge as brutal and painful as the betrayal he had experienced. The pain of being betrayed like that tore him apart, consuming him with an overwhelming rage that threatened to swallow him whole.
The idea of killing Perdiccas slowly and painfully took root in his mind like an obsession. He imagined every macabre detail, every torment he would inflict on the traitor, fueled by the relentless thirst to recover what belonged to him and the unbearable pain of betrayal.
With a herculean effort to contain his burning fury, Alexander finally managed to muster the strength to ask, "Where did he take her?"
"We don't know yet." Ptolemy replied, his eyes fixed on Alexander as he carefully assessed the King's reaction.
The answer seemed to echo in the room, filled with tension and uncertainty. Alexander was strangely restrained, his expression too controlled for the tastes of those present. This was worrying. Ptolemy and Hephaestion exchanged a quick glance, sharing their silent apprehension at what might come next. The approaching storm was invisible, but the tension in the air was palpable, foreshadowing a series of events that could change the course of history.
With palpable determination, Alexander finally made a decision. He stared at the broken table, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and resolve.
"Send all available men to search for any possible information." He ordered firmly, "Spread the news and whoever brings me information about my wife's whereabouts will receive a generous reward."
Ptolemy nodded in understanding and hurriedly left the tent, leaving Hephaestion and Alexander alone in the silent wreckage. The tension in the air was almost palpable, but beneath this layer of anger and worry, there was an unwavering determination that guided Alexander's every action. He was determined to find his wife, no matter the cost.
Hephaestion carefully approached Alexander, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Alexander did not react immediately, his mind still absorbed in turbulent and bloody thoughts.
"Alexander?" Hephaestion's voice sounded gentle and calming, seeking to draw his friend's attention to the present.
"Hephaestion," Alexander replied carefully, his voice filled with determination and a focused intensity, "I want Perdiccas to be brought to me alive."
Hephaestion nodded silently, even though he knew Alexander wasn't looking directly at him. He perfectly understood the implicit meaning behind the order to bring Perdiccas alive.
Even without being asked, Alexander continued, his voice filled with determination and a calculated coldness, "I want to interrogate him personally, ask him why he betrayed me and stole my wife. And then, personally, I will torture him and kill him." The words were delivered with icy calm, but there was no doubt that each one carried a deadly weight.
Alexander's determination was unwavering, his mind focused on just one goal: getting his wife back, no matter the cost. He was willing to throw all of his power and destructive force against any obstacle that he dared to stand in his way.
Cities would fall, armies would be torn to pieces, and populations would be subjugated. Men would be killed, while women and children would be taken into slavery, all in the name of desperately searching for his beloved Queen. Alexander did not care about the human or moral cost of his actions; his fiery fury eclipsed any consideration of compassion or mercy.
The entire world would tremble at Alexander's wrath, for he was determined to leave a trail of destruction in his wake towards those who dared to defy him and take away what was most precious to him. His journey would be marked by blood, pain and suffering, but he would not rest until his wife was safe in his arms again, no matter what the cost.
He would recover his Lost Queen.
— lady l: And things get more and more complicated for the Persians, don't they? Poor things, they thought it was a good idea to steal a yandere's wife. There wasn't one to warn you, right?
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I changed my writing style a little and I hope this pleases you. Feel free to send your feedback and I'll see you in the next chapter! Love you all!! ❤️
#the lost queen#tq#yandere history#history#alexander the great x reader#yandere alexander the great#yandere alexander the great x reader#fanfic#long fic#yandere au#yandere historical characters
157 notes
·
View notes
Text
❝ 𝐂𝐎𝐙𝐘 ❞
𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 — 𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒
˖ ࣪⭑ - pairing: lewis hamilton x fem!oc
˖ ࣪⭑ - summary: imagine you go for dinner at your neighbours house and you’re told you’re getting married? you better get cozy for this one!
˖ ࣪⭑ - warnings for this chapter: none
˖ ࣪⭑ - saint’s team radio: hey y’all…. i told you guys i don’t have a planned schedule for this series and i’m really starting to think i should 😭. i hope you guys enjoy this and lemme know if you wanna be tagged 🤭
masterlist
previous chapter • next chapter
"Renaissance yachtin' in capri!" Nadia sang as she entered the driveway of the Hamiltons only a week after the first dinner. Knowing her mother's dramatics, Thembi had once again requested her presence at the home except she had to drive straight to the Hamiltons house. Finding the situation weird but not giving it a second thought, she parked next to the all black G63, one of her many dream cars and one she hadn't seen the last time she was here. Thinking it was just a simple visit (and Thembi hadn't given her a chance to dress up after the phone call), Nadia fixed the Nike tee and adjusted the biker shorts she had worn throughout her chill Saturday morning.
Knocking on the wooden door felt weird, given that she was welcomed into the house before but she felt like something quite suspicious was going on but she couldn't even figure it out. Rubbing her eye whilst waiting for someone to answer the door, she wrote a few reminders on her phone to not forget to complete the work she had to take home from the previous day.
"Well aren't you a ray of sunshine?" Nadia had recognised the voice to be Nicola, adding a little laugh after her sentence. "I woke up late so this is valid." Nadia replied, giving a smile as she entered the house with Nicola making room for her to walk in. After the first dinner, the two women had kept in touch because of the growing friendship and Willow, who would send a voice message every day to say hi. But this time, Nadia couldn't hear the kids laughing or playing around the house.
Oh, this was serious.
"Is that Nadia, darling?" Linda's voice chimed through the entrance hallway leading to the living room. "Hello Mrs Hamilton." The young woman greeted, giving Linda a side eye as she held a glass of water in her hand. "Please Nadia, rather call me Linda. Do come through, my dear!"
"We're out by the patio, need the bathroom before we start?" Nicola asked, making Nadia way more confused the more footsteps she took. "Start with what?" She trailed off, seeing Nicola just smile and head into the direction of the patio with her following. This was officially starting to get weird but Nadia chose to push her thoughts aside for this lunch.
"Oh she's here! How was the drive, Nads?" Her mom spoke up as soon as Nadia's foot hit the wooden floor of the large patio. Different types of charcuterie boards were placed with juices and waters to accommodate everyone but the atmosphere seemed so different from the dinner last week, it rather felt like a meeting.
"Helloooo." Nadia dragged out the greeting as she eventually found an empty seat, once again, next to Lewis. The man was genuinely a sight to see as the sun shined on him as he sat comfortably on the patio bench chair. Wearing a black NY cap, a graphic tee once again with a pair of jeans this time and his jewellery on display, Lewis smiled up at her with a toothy grin.
After personally greeting everyone around the table and answering their fast questions, she plopped down onto the chair with a few of her bracelets clanging together. The familiar scents of each other from the last time they met fused together as they both studied each other once again.
Nadia's tattoos were finally on display, each dainty artwork fluttered around her skin with a few being inked in red. The most noticeable thing being her hair as she changed the colour to black and it reached past her back. The makeup was very simple and she only carried her phone and lipgloss in her hand as she placed the overly cracked device onto the table right next to Lewis'. When she smiled, he noticed a small gem on one of her front teeth and he definitely admired her style, not one he would regularly picture on a high school teacher.
"You know Nadia, we were just talking about how odd it would be to suddenly become famous within a matter of hours." Linda started, grabbing the large jug of grape juice to give the girl a glass. Helping the older woman, Nadia lifted herself off the chair and gave Lewis a look, non verbally asking if it was true and his eyebrows furrowed whilst pursing his lip upwards, making Nadia smile a little.
"Really? In what aspects?" She sat back down, lifting the glass to her gloss covered lips and only taking little sips. "Oh just how you'd maybe have to close off social media for a while and suddenly having people around you to help with everything." Linda said, taking her glass of water and eyeing Nadia's mom after her sentence. Tilting her head in confusion, she made sure to sit comfortably as this was definitely an interesting conversation.
"I never really thought about it like that actually. The way teams assemble within a matter of hours is something else but I always hear my students say that they're one hundred percent ready for fame." Nadia watched the two older women constantly look at each other with the older men being suspiciously quiet. "Oh and don't even get me started on the scandals you're put through." Nicola submerged from the house, holding a fresh pizza on a wooden board with an extra plate.
"Lewis, you'd know a thing or two about these things right?" Nicola smirked as she placed the plate on the opposite side of the table. Snapping her head towards Lewis, he sighed then nodded before straightening up his posture as it was before. Now Nadia was incredibly confused. Although she spent at least two hours in conversation with Lewis, she never really found out what exactly he does for a living even though he knew what she did as she went on a whole rant about her day with the teenagers. The way he had carried himself whilst speaking with everyone and just how he listened made it seem like he could be a businessman of some sort that clearly made his money and he made it well as he wore jewellery pieces that she could only dream of seeing.
A beat of silence passed and a knock on the door was heard. "Oh, that must be Gerald." Anthony got up in quite a hurry, with the table falling into conversation to detour the previous topic. After the man was welcomed onto the patio, he placed his small briefcase next to him on the chair with Nadia's suspicions growing more and more.
But what if he was really just there for lunch?
The word 'deactivate' kept being thrown around between Nicola, Thembi and Linda for several minutes, snapping Nadia and Lewis out of their conversation on her tattoos. "Nads, come here really quickly and bring your phone." Her mom ordered as the young girl walked to their side of the table. Standing over all three women, she held her phone in front of her mom's face. "How do you deactivate your Instagram? Nicola here made one for me but i don't want it anymore." Thembi asked, once again eyeing Linda.
Showing the directions on her own phone, Nadia then became distracted by her stepdad's question. "Nads, do you know when Rea's flight lands? Will you be okay to go?" He asked, slightly jumping at something. "Yes, I'll be fine. Her flight lands at like two in the morning so after here I'll just finish up some work then go to the airport early." Nadia responded, feeling her hand move a little as she spoke to James.
Thembi tapped her daughter's hand as Nadia focused back on her phone. Seeing her instagram page now logged out, she groaned at the thought of her completely forgetting her password to it. Plopping back into her seat defeated, Lewis eyed her then her phone that she placed on the table. "You good?" He asked, turning his body to look at her. "I think I accidentally logged myself out of insta and i forgot where i wrote down the password." Nadia frowned a little as she clasped her hands together. Even though he didn't want to seem like he was smiling at her misery but the little pout she had on her face was adorable and obviously he wasn't going to admit that anytime soon.
"Okay, I cannot do this anymore." Anthony announced out as he sighed which caught everyone's attention. "Dad, what's going on?" Lewis asked worried, he had noticed his father was quiet most of the time but he brushed it off knowing that his father was usually like this.
"Son, listen. I know what I'm about to say will sound insane but I need you to listen very carefully. Along with you too, Nadia." Anthony stated. Linda then stood next to her husband in terror. "Wait, Anthony. Are you sure you want to do this right now?" She muttered.
And now the uneasy feeling came right back.
"Lewis, you know I care for you deeply however these past few weeks have been tough for you... and pr." His dad started off, earning a sigh from Lewis and a pinch on the bridge of his nose. Seeing Lewis stress like this was weird for Nadia and what exactly did his father mean by PR? Anyone could tell that he wanted to say something but chose to keep quiet.
Now sitting up properly, Nadia was intrigued with the entire situation and wondered how famous Lewis actually was.
"Linda and I, along with Nadia's parents and Nicola have decided that we wanted to help you to clean up your image a little more even though you are a private person. And for that, we've come up with the concept of a fake marriage between you and Nadia." Anthony concluded and took his seat.
It was as if the blood from Nadia completely left her face after that very last sentence however her face stayed extremely neutral. Her face rather snapped towards her parents who were avoiding eye contact with her.
The silence was so loud, the birds chirping ever so slightly as if they were part of the plan as well. Looking at everyone's face, anyone could tell that this had probably been discussed many times before. "What?" Nadia being the first one to say something, spoke in a monotone voice.
"Look we wanted to see how you two would get along when you first met and it had seemed to work very well. We're only really looking out for you, Lewis. These rumours have kinda taken a toll on you." Nicola voiced, seeing that their faces were stoic yet burning daggers into everyone's skulls.
Finally looking at each other, Lewis and Nadia's eyes met with no source of attraction to each other in that present moment. "This is crazy." Lewis muttered to himself as he shook his head whilst looking down at his shoes.
"Okay." Nadia said, crossing her arms and looked at her mom directly. "Okay?" Lewis grumbled with slightly narrowed eyes to the girl. "Yeah. Clearly this is important and stuff so I'll do it." Nadia responded with a calm facade but she was truly screaming on the inside, her leg shaking underneath the table. Shocked as he was at her nonchalant response to the situation, he slumped back and chose to not speak up in front of guests. Lewis wasn't frustrated in the slightest but he was just extremely confused.
"What about the details?" Lewis sighed, feeling through his beard and accepting his fate.
"Wait, you're actually doing this?" Thembi expressed. If anything, Thembi felt embarrassed to even coming up with this suggestion thinking that it was going to help the driver and his many social problems. "Ma, please tell us the details before we rethink doing this for you guys." Nadia deadpanned, grabbing a grape from one of the charcuterie boards displayed.
"Well. You would have to tell the world that you've been married for at least a year or two and I've already told your PR team, Lewis, to get everything ready before you announce. For now, you're only allowed to tell your closest friends and coworkers about this so that it doesn't seem suspicious that your friends didn't know of your marriage." Nicola started.
"Nadia, because you're now affiliated with Lewis, security and a team will have to assembled to be at your beck and call. Marie from Lewis' team will come over to help you choose potential candidates for your everyday team. Now the difficult part. You two have to be married legally because you know how people get, Lewis. They'll want evidence. And that's Gerald is here for." She concluded, gesturing to the guest to open his briefcase but god, did he feel awkward.
"Uh, hello. Here's the marriage certificate you two are meant to sign for the court to recognise it as an actual marriage." The poor man was red in the face as he shakily placed the certificate between Nadia and Lewis with a pen. With her freshly manicured hand, the girl picked the pen and signed underneath her name officially as a Mrs. She took a quick glance at Lewis' name and it seemed so familiar but the thing that intrigued her the most was the 'Sir' before anything.
Lewis had a good look at Nadia's side profile as he watched her sign the official papers. She didn't seem bothered with anything that was said, it was as if everything just defeated her and she just accepted it. If there's one thing he noticed was that it looked like she didn't have a clue about who he was at all and that was so fascinating to him.
She handed the pen to him, their hands touching a little with the warmest touch as they made eye contact. They both couldn't read each other's eyes, only dark brown pupils staring into each other's souls. Lewis then also signed with a bit of hesitation, the reality falling on him as he dragged the pen to the very last of his signature.
"Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Hamilton." Gerald broke the silence as he uttered his words. He quickly packed his briefcase and walked away from the table with a small wave to everyone to escape from the awkwardness of the lunch table.
"You only have to do this for a year or so then you can either divorce publicly or privately. And the living situation has to be changed. Nadia, you will have to be almost everywhere with Lewis now that you've signed that certificate so I am not sure how you will handle this at your workplace. Do you have an active passport?" Anthony ended with his question to which the quiet girl just nodded.
"Wait, where am I going to live?" Nadia asked, eventually snapping out of the quiet demeanour she had. "Well you'll have to speak to your husband about that." Linda smiled at the two, the smile slowly falling when seeing their deadpanned faces.
Sighing out for the final time, Lewis sighed and lightly tapped Nadia on the arm signaling for her attention. He held his car keys in his hand and she knew that she had to go because being there any longer would've suffocated her. The newly married couple simultaneously stood up and gathered their belongings, making everyone's faces grow into confusion.
"Where are you guys going?" Thembi asked, standing up as well with a worried expression. All Lewis did was shrug as he fixed his shirt and move out of the way so that Nadia could walk before him. "Bye everyone! Your charcuterie boards looked amazing by the way, Linda." It was as if someone completely different had greeted the group goodbye because her mood changed in a matter of seconds as if nothing happened.
"What the hell did we just do?" Nicola asked, rubbing her forehead as she watched the two walk away and out of the house.
-
"You've arrived at your destination." The automated voice rang through the large car as it approached a large black gate behind an elegant building.
The drive to the unknown destination was not as quiet as they thought it would be. When entering the car, all Nadia could do was to laugh as soon as Lewis entered the car so much so that a few tears of laughter came out. It was a sound that he appreciated to hear and he joined her in her laughter. They couldn't believe that they even went through that, mainly laughing at the fact they went into the house for lunch and left as a married couple.
It was quite the lengthy drive but it seemed much quicker as they spent the time speaking about what happened at lunch yet they never got to the topic of his job and also because they decided to play music to get rid of the negative mood they both had.
“I thought you were going to kidnap for a second. I still do.” Nadia joked as he playfully rolled his eyes at her. “Where are we even?” She looked out of the window to see the back of the large building, eventually spotting a small yet visible sign on the wall reading ‘Harrods VIP parking’.
Letting the smallest gasp escape her mouth, she gazed at Lewis once again who was typing on his phone and wondered what he did for a living for him to be able to decide to park his car here. The rumours from this department store were unbelievable so to see them bloom in real life felt surreal to Nadia.
Lewis definitely saw Nadia to be a good friend to him and could keep her around his circle and vice versa. It was a sign that a friendship was brewing between each other and they’re somewhat grateful for that although it happened so quickly.
“Seriously bruv, where are you taking me? I have to get home to watch catfish.” She asked, flicking her hair back and he laughed once more. “Bruv?” He said in between his giggles. “Okay my pookie wookie buddy bear, where are you taking me?” She said, fluttering her eyelashes at him which made him burst into so much more laughter.
“Since you want to know so badly, we’re going to Cartier to get our wedding rings.” He smiled a toothy grin, turning off the ignition of the car while looking at her stunned expression.
“…what?”
taglist: @non-stop-imagines @folkloresthings @tispys-blog @userlando @lorarri @thisismeracing @thatsdemko @myescapefromthislife @slytherinjimin3nthusiast @jamie2305 @like-fire-love-blog @sugardontbesweet @simpfortoomanymen @mauvecherie-writes @queenshikongo3 @eugene-emt-roe @deepgothfiremuffin @18754389 @cherry2stems @anubisnoir @goldsainz
dividers by: @cafekitsune
faceclaim for nadia: @/unclewaffles_ on ig!
all pictures from pinterest and ig!
#☆ ‧₊˚ saint’s media pen#lewis hamilton#formula one x black reader#x black fem reader#f1 x reader#x black reader#formula one x reader#f1 x you#lewis hamilton x black reader#lewis hamilton fanfic#lewis hamilton fic#lewis hamilton x reader#lewis hamilton x oc#f1 x black!reader#x black oc#lewis hamilton imagine
355 notes
·
View notes
Text
“He looks at her like he just realized what love is.”
————
(jacob black x reader)
-chapter one- series-masterlist
summary: skipbo is a beautiful way to bring people together
Word count: 2.5k
warnings: swearing, ?awkward introductions? (Sorry if shit seems wack in some spots its 1 am rn and I feel like my eyes are burning from how bright my screen is BUT IT CANT GO DOWN ANY GODDANM LOWER)
————
When you first moved to Forks you never would’ve guessed it would come with a six foot three man that seemed to be smitten by you the moment you walked into his life.
It seemed like something out of a movie… However the love at first sight trope was rather one sided at first.
The late afternoon breeze caused a chill to roll up your spine as you walked along a dirt road. It had been about a month since you have moved to the small town in Washington.
The weeks following the last u-haul truck dropping off your family’s belongings had been rather uneventful.
School was an easy transfer. You were able to find all of your classes with the help of a student named Edward Cullen. He was the first face that became familiar to you when wandering the halls filled with unknown identities. However you and Edward didn’t seem to really click but he was nice enough to introduce you to his friend Bella, as he decided you too would be the perfect match.
You learned that they were indeed not just friends soon after meeting the quiet girl.
Walking around a corner while aimlessly searching for a bathroom caused you catch the sight of them making out rather feverishly towards the end of the hall. With a smooth 180 you decided that pissing your pants would be a better option than a hypothetical extremely awkward conversation. You also scolded yourself for not realizing sooner that they were a pair as the love struck gazes the two shared should’ve been more evident.
It took a few days to let the shock wash off and something told you that Edward knew exactly why you sputtered every time Bella offered to walk you to your next class, his eyes twinkling in amusement as you fumbled over your words.
Bella and you did click just like Edwards expected. You often became a third wheel when you hung out with the girl as the couple seemed almost inseparable. But you didn’t really mind for the fact they were never very big on PDA. Small actions were shared quietly between them every so often instead. You picked that up by eyeing the gentle touches and gestures the two exchanged throughout the day.
However, even though they were glued at the hip you were still able to get Bella to yourself. One of those times included you walking down a said dirt road, the fresh autumn air being taken in through your nose.
Bella wanted to introduce you to a few people from a nearby reservation; stating you’d hit it off great with a couple individuals in particular. She had insisted on parking her rickety old truck on the side of the road and the two of you walking the next mile or so to your desination.
You still haven’t fully understood the girl beside you. She’s extremely introverted but at the same time very expressive in a way. You never would have expected Bella Swan to be a sucker for listening to leaves crunching. That’s the only reason she wanted to hike the rest of the way in the first place.
“It’s just so satisfying,” she stated, walking in a rather funky way, attempting to land on a leaf with every step she took. Your face scrunched up as you watched her strange movements.
Bella Swan was definitely someone you will never stop learning new things about.
There was an intersection along your path that Swan girl directed you down. The sight of, what you assumed was, your landing place came into view. Many driveways broke off, trailing to different houses.
It took almost another 10 minutes of weaving down roads and passing hundreds of evergreen trees for Bella to finally point towards a red house accompanied by a shed.
Voices sounded as you approached the front steps. Light nervousness bubbled in your stomach but there was no time to over think as Bella swung the screen door wide open, holding it long enough for you to catch it from hitting you.
The smell of cedar, pine, and musk doubled as you stepped into the household.
You were met with the sight of a kitchen. Dated appliances and a wood table taking up most of the space. The ceiling light casted a yellow glow across the room. The wooden floor looked recently swept and a quiet sizzling was heard. On top of the stove was a pan with a lid; steam emitted through the sides.
The door behind you shut with a quiet click. As soon as it did the voices speaking from people you couldn’t see stopped.
Bella crouched down to untie her laces. Casting your gaze to the floor you took notice of the multiple pairs of shoes piled up on the rug you were currently standing on. Many of them were scattered away from their matches. Seemingly kicked off without a care in the world.
“There's a coat rack over there,” Bella's voice broke you from your thoughts. Glancing at her you looked over your shoulder to look at the mostly bare metal bar. A single large jacket was hanging from it.
Your brows furrowed, taking in the fact that with the end of fall approaching, more and more people were talking out their winter jackets; and you’d suspect with the amount of shoes there'd be coats to match the amount. The question didn’t deter too much in your mind however as footsteps approached.
Just as you pulled your parka off of your shoulders and hung it a large looming shadow casted from the bare doorway.
“You brought the goods right?” A deep voice rumble, almost shaking your soul.
Bella huffed out a quiet laugh.
“Why does no one even say hi anymore?” She asked in faux annoyance. Maneuvering to look at the owner of the baritone wavelanks you were met with the sight of a man leaning onto a wooden frame. His jawline was sculpted and his figure was rather muscular.
“Hi Bella,” he replied with fake enthusiasm. His cheery expression dropped to an almost emotionless one. “Did you bring it or not.”
“Yes Paul, I brought it,” Bella admitted, taking off her gloves, placing them next her jacket. “Why are you all so obsessed with SkipBo?”
“Because it’s one of the best inventions of all time,” someone stated over ‘Paul’s’ shoulder. He was taller with more of a baby face.
“You would think that.”
Jesus Christ they just kept leveling up. Another boy appeared, somehow taller than the second.
“Bella’s here?”
When will it end?? Where the hell were they pulling up from???The fourth was in similar height with the third, having a lanky build.
“Embry you literally can’t even talk,” number two stated, turning to number three.
“I’m not the one who flips tables when he loses.”
“It was one time-“
Apparently you were invisible. ‘Embry’ and number two broke into a bicker as number four watched in amusement. Paul was too busy snatching the card deck from Bella’s grasp with a mumbled thanks as he turned it over, inspecting.
“This is Y/n by the way,” she suddenly announced. Paul’s eyes glanced up to you briefly before unwrapping the rubber band holding the game together.
“Hey,” he greeted, dismissing you with a turn, his back facing you as he sat the game on the table.
Your face was scrunched in utter confusion as you took in your surroundings. Arguments still bustled and Paul just peacefully shuffled the cards. Parting the deck and making a bridge before repeating.
You looked at Bella in questioning, asking ‘what the hell’ with your eyes while you toed off your shoes. She simply smiled gently in response and looking over at the group of boys.
“Where’s Jake?” She asked crossing her arms and shifting her weight on to one foot.
“Doing some shit with Sam. Said he’d be back by 4:00 though,” number four pushed between Embry and number two. Who shoved him rather harshly but number four didn’t even acknowledge it.
“Y/n you said?” He asked, holding out a hand in greeting. Looking at it dumbly, it took a second for you to shake it.
“Um… yes?”
“Was that a question?” He quirked a brow, lip curving slightly at the corner.
“…No?” Number four chuckled lightly.
“Jared,” he introduced, placing his hand back down by his side. You smiled politely, lips tight. “Over there is Embry and Quill. I’d say they usually aren’t like this but I’d be lying,” Jared winced as the two boys behind him continued to climb in volume.
“Can you guys just shut the fuck up,” Paul finally snapped glaring with an annoyed expression.
“Well tell him to stop calling me an antisocial little bitch,” Quill stated, pointing a finger in an accusatory manner at Embry.
“They’re like children,” you mumbled.
“Aren’t all teenage boys?” Bella remarked. She swiftly brushed past you and took a seat next to Paul who began dealing out different piles.
“Y/n, you want in, right?” He asked, not taking his eyes away from the cards.
Twiddling your thumbs you hesitantly took a spot across from Bella.
“I may be rusty,” you warned.
“Can't be worse than Bella,” he mumbled, earning a light slap to his arm. A small smirk played on his lips but he paid the action no mind.
Slowly but surely the spots around the table began to fill. Jared sat next to you while Quill went to Bella’s side and Embry went to Paul. A single chair next to you remained empty.
Quill rubbed his hands together.
“Who’s ready to get shit on?”
“Shit like the time you shit your pants when you’re dad-“
“Bro I thought we established that it’d be peace and love from now on?”
“Sorry, your aura is just asking me to insult you,” Embry defended.
“What does that even mea-“ Quills question was cut off by a harsh slam of the card deck making contact with the middle of the table.
Paul gave both boys a pointed look.
“Usually by now he’d have pumbled them,” Jared murmured. You looked over at him. “Think he’s playing nice to not scare you off,” he stated his eyes glancing over to meet yours. You chuckled lightly.
“Should I thank him later?” You questioned jokingly.
“Nah, you’d inflate his ego.” A snort slipped past you.
“If Jacob doesn’t show in the next five minutes he’s getting dawn duty,” Embry stated.
“Dawn duty?” Looking across the table you furrowed your brows at Bella. She shook her head, a quiet message for you to not question it.
Minutes ticked by as useless banter continued to flow around the table. Your lips had stayed shut for the duration of it. The group of people you were surrounded with were rather… interesting.
But what else would you expect from a bunch of teenage boys just like Bella had said.
The topic of if pickles wrapped in ham was a food crime rose just as the sound of hinges creaking faintly sounded as Jared explained how the appetizer must have been crafted by Edward Einstein himself.
The door was pushed open and a figure pushed into the crazed house.
First thing you noticed about him was his well built stature. The guy had the shoulders of a fucking body builder. The wideness of them made his shirt hang loose on his frame. From what you could see of his face, his jaw was sharp, nose sloped, and his eyelashes were so long you could see them from your seat. Overall he was extremely attractive (might you even say a certified hottie).
As soon as, who you assumed was ‘Jacob’, stepped into the house he seemed to visually relax. The familiar environment calming him in and externally.
“Sorry I'm late,” he mumbled, hunching down to untie his shoes.
“Embry said you get dawn duty,” Quil blurted out. Brows furrowing Jacob looked up, annoyed expression taking over his features. Even looking like he had to sneeze he looked hella fine.
“The fuck I do,” he scoffed. “Who was the one who just made 20 laps.”
Nobody protested while he continued to unlace. He greeted Bella with a light smile and a brush of her shoulder. She beamed back at him.
Jacob had yet to acknowledge your presence. You brought your finger nails to your teeth; biting on them in a force of habit. He was rather intimidating. Leg bouncing, you looked down at the wooden table top. It wasn’t until Jacob sat down next to you did he finally note your existence.
“Y/n, right?” He asked with a light grunt as he plopped down. You glanced at him, not meeting his eyes as you gave a tight lip smiled and nodded.
“And you’re Jacob?” You questioned, already knowing the answer.
“Mhm, nice to finally get to put a face to a name. Bella’s been talking about you not stop.”
“I have not,” the girl weakly defended. Her cheeks blushed lightly at the accusation. “Only like 3 out of 5 conversations is she mentioned.” she stated.
“Yeah, that's more than you talk about your own lover. Got something you gotta declare to your new friend, Bella?” A small grin washed over your face as she stuttered.
“Well, you don’t like my lover Jacob and you don’t like me talking about him either so that’s why.” Shrugging, the boy placed his hands palm down on to his thighs, not denying her statement. His legs spread, making his knee nudge yours. Instinctively you pulled away. Mumbling a sorry Jake adjusted in his seat.
“Can we just start?” Paul asked, an impatient edge in his tone.
Words of agreement were shared amongst the group.
“How’ve you been liking Forks?” Jacob asked casually, attempting to start conversation.
“It’s been good,” your answer was short and simple.
“Not sick of the wet yet hopefully. Cause if you are, there’s a lot more where that comes from.”
“Tell me about it,” Bella murmured, examining her hand.
Breathing out a laugh you picked up a card and added it to your others as your turn came. Biting your lip once more the memories of how to play began to grow foggy.
“You can lay down the one,” a voice whispered to you. Instantly you retracted your hands to your chest to hide your valuables.
“Are you looking a my-“
And that was the moment where Forks did become intresting.
The moment where Jacob Black’s eyes met yours, the distance between you a mere four or five inches as he was previously peering over your shoulder. The world shifted under your grasp and just by the way his gaze held your own you knew he felt the change as well.
However the closer you looked the more it seemed he was feeling your emotions ten fold. A star struck gleam sparked across his irises. His body froze as his breath became stuck in his throat.
The way Jacob looked at you made it seemed as him he’s known you forever and a minute as admiration casted over him.
Your own frame felt stiff and stuck. Not knowning if you should look away or even if you could. The grasp on your cards grew tight as the table around you was now silent.
What had just happened…?
————
Like and reblogs are appreciated:))
#jacob black x reader#jacob black x y/n#jacob black x yn#jacob black x female reader#jacob black x you#twilight x reader#twilight
844 notes
·
View notes
Text
Apothecary Chapter Eight
joel miller x witchy!reader
series masterlist
Samhain is here, and for the first time in a while, she has people to share it with.
word count: 5.2K
warnings | 18+ smut, angst, discussions of grief, spooky-ooky action
a/n | it's here! hands down this has been my favorite chapter to write so far. i would love to hear what you think as always, my inbox is open <3
..............................
Summer has been laid to rest under the whispered chill of fall. The mountains are burned up all orange and yellow, leaves fit to fall in the soon-to-come snap of frost. But for now, as October comes to an end, the days are still tinged with warmth while the nights shiver in the suggestion of the oncoming winter, and Halloween is just around the corner.
Joel had thought it silly, if not downright stupid, when he and Ellie first came to Jackson, all the holidays upheld and celebrated in town. But this year, as the annual fall dance comes closer, he’s hard pressed to be bothered by it with his woman flitting around him, obvious in her excited anticipation.
“Oh, Joel, before you go I have something to give you.”
“This– this is a rusty nail.” She just smiles, curling her fingers under his palm to close his hand over the, quite literally, rusty nail she just gave him.
“Just, humor me, alright? It’s a tradition, for protection. I gave one to Ellie too. Just keep it in your pocket for the next few days.” By now, he’s realized that sometimes it’s easier to just go along with what she tells him, no questions asked, so he nods, pocketing the nail with a smile that he hopes looks grateful. He can also tell that she’s nervous, and he’d bet that it’s because he’s started picking up patrol shifts again, leaving early this morning to meet Tommy at the gate. So if him having an old nail in his pocket is going to make her feel even a little better, he’s happy to oblige her request.
“Thank you, darlin. I’ll see you tonight, ok?” One kiss, a second, and a third, before he finally tears himself away from her, slipping out the front door and into the cool morning air.
“Morning, trouble.”
Mrrp
Stevie is quick to fall into stride alongside him, something he’s still getting used to on the mornings he has patrol, her watchful eyes seeing him out of the gate.
“I see you’ve still got a second shadow following you.” Tommy grins at him as he approaches, eyes glancing down to Stevie who lets out another meow, sitting down rather primly and looking between the two brothers.
“She ain’t–”
“Coming, yeah, you say that everytime, Joel. I’m pretty sure I could figure out that a cat ain’t coming on patrol by myself though.”
Mrrrrp
Tommy gives the cat in question a disbelieving look, eyebrows raised as he looks back up at Joel who can’t help the smug grin tugging at his lips. Tommy lets out a huff, shaking his head.
“Y’all are so fucking weird. Let’s go before the cat starts talking, goddamn.”
…
For the first time in a while, things feel simple, maybe even good. She’s hesitant to let her mind settle on good for fear of jinxing it all, but at the very least, things are really, really not bad. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that Samhain is only a few days away.
It’s the busiest time of year for her, in more ways than one. With the impending chill, more and more people around town are coming down with head colds and whatever else they might pick up in close quarters, a neverending rotation of sniffles and coughs that she’s been tending to while also trying to get ready for the sabbat. While she’s always kept the traditions alive for herself, this year is different, this year she gets to share it with people for the first time in ages, and she might be going just a bit overboard because of it.
Truly, she’s been pulling out all the stops this week. Rosemary and wild rose wreaths for protection through the transition from light to dark, soul cakes for breakfast studded with dried fruit just like her mom would make, and a fresh batch of candles ready to light her altar through the three nights of the pagan new year.
While Joel seems content to let her whirl around him in preparation, Ellie has enthusiastically taken part, listening intently to her explanations of all the rituals and traditions and helping out in the kitchen and in the shop when she can. She can’t help but be reminded of herself as a kid, her mom sharing with her all these things she now gets to share with Ellie.
“So, no bonfire?”
“Sorry, kid, not in this world. It’s just not safe anymore. But we can get the fireplace going and that’ll work just as well.” Though there’s still a slight disappointed slump to her shoulders, Ellie nods, her fingers continuing deft work on another wreath, perched on a stool at the butcher block in the back of the shop.
“You’re getting better at that than me, Ellie. Could I take that one to Maura? I was gonna check in on her this afternoon and I’d like to bring her something.”
“Yeah, for sure. Is she, like, doing ok?” Her own hands still where she had been pruning back some errant leaves, turning to fully look at Ellie with a sigh.
“I think so, yeah. I know Matthew hasn’t given her any more trouble, probably too embarrassed to try. And I think she’s settling in well to her new place.”
“What about Mason?” She swallows the thick heat in her throat at Ellie’s question, schooling her face in something she hopes looks like indifference.
“What about him?”
“I don’t know. For a guy who seems to enjoy causing a lot of fucking problems it’s kinda weird how quiet he is all of a sudden.” She knows the truth that Ellie’s words hold all too well, and had been thinking about this herself for a while now. She hadn’t seen or heard from Mason since what happened at the town hall, and to her knowledge, no one else had either, keeping to himself and his shifts. And while she’d like to just forget about him, his bitter words and blatant violence toward her are hard to shake from her mind.
“Let’s just take a win where we can get one, huh, kid? I don’t– don’t even wanna think about that man so long as I don’t have to.” Ellie seems to accept her reply with a slightly distracted hum, holding up the wreath she just finished with a satisfied smirk.
“Fuck yeah. Am I good, or am I good? I mean, c’mon.” It might be silly, but she feels pride unfurling in her chest watching Ellie. No one else has ever been so interested in what she does, and it feels like a relief she didn’t know she was craving to get to share this all with her.
“Pretty damn good, kid. Thanks for helping me out.”
…
He gets back to town spooked, just a little. It isn’t like anything absolutely dire had happened, though it could have turned rotten real quick. He and Tommy had split off early in the day to circle the dam and meet back up somewhere in the middle. It had been a quiet morning, the woods wrapped in a faint mist, leaves falling like rain, when he heard a low, warbling groan from deeper in the trees. It was obvious to him that it wasn’t an infected, the sound had been so different from anything he’d heard before, and he couldn’t help but dismount and inch into the underbrush, trying to catch sight of what had made a noise like that.
A grizzly, that’s what had made the sound, brown fur matted over a hulking body that rose all of eight feet in the air when it stood up on its haunches and snarled at Joel. He was stunned still where he stood by the sight, gun uselessly cocked against an animal that could have killed him in one powerful swipe. And for a moment, it had seemed like that’s exactly what was about to happen, the bear letting out a rumbling roar, jowls warbling with the sound. But then, and it’s going to sound strange, the animal had paused, and had tilted its head at Joel like it was considering him, before slumping back down onto all fours, letting out a snuff that sounded like a conclusion, and trundling right past him further into the thickening forest.
The whole ride back to town, he can’t help but thumb the corroded nail sitting in his jacket pocket, a jilted energy running circuits in his veins. But the hitch in his chest is smoothed out when he does get home, opening the front door to warmth and the smell of food, something savory mingling with the scent of apples cooking. And the sight of her, comfortably moving around the kitchen, something in the oven and a large pot bubbling on the stove, has his heart kicking up in an entirely different way.
“I can feel you staring, Miller.” She glances at him over her shoulder, a crooked smile as she gives the pot a few stirs before turning and padding over to him where he’s leaning against the doorframe, her palm sliding from his chest to curl behind his neck as she leans in for a kiss. He reckons that this won’t ever get old for him, the apparent ease they move with together, how he can reach out and she’ll reach right back. She gives him a quirked look when she pulls away, brows furrowed.
“You alright?” She can clock him like no other. Sometimes it seems like she knows what he’s feeling before he even does, and if she hadn’t insisted that she most definitely can’t read minds, he would have guessed that she could.
“Mmhmm, just tired. Glad to be home.” Though her brows stay just slightly pinched, she seems to accept his excuse, a quick rub of her palm over her chest before she pulls away to check on whatever she has cooking.
“Is Ellie around?”
“At movie night with Dina. They’re playing Hocus Pocus from what I heard.”
“Got enough of that at home, don’t we?” She scoffs, elbowing him lightly where he’s sidled up behind her.
“Rude, and to think I was making you dinner.” She cranes her neck to look at him over her shoulder, hands finding his on her waist and tangling their fingers together as she scrunches her nose at him. He opens his mouth to say something smart back to her, but his eyes catch on the spoon stirring itself in the pot, drawing her attention back to the stove as well.
“Oops, got a little distracted.” Yeah, he still hasn’t gotten used to her getting distracted.
Dinner is warm and rich and near coma-inducing, both of them sitting back with contented sighs at the dining table, the sun long set, windows going purple and hazy in the glow of the kitchen lights.
“Was Ellie supposed to be home for dinner?” Her brow furrows at his question, head tilted in confusion.
“No, I told you she’s at movie night. Why do you ask?”
“You set an extra place, I just assumed–”
“Oh, no, that’s not– it’s another tradition. You set a place for the people you love who have passed on. Most folks just do it for the three days starting on Halloween. But we always started leaving a plate out a day early, don’t ask me why, it was just the way my mom did it.” It’s clear to him that she’s being careful about what she says, and how she says it. She’s been careful about explaining the holiday, and he can understand why. She had told him that this time of year is marked most by communion with and remembrance of the dead, a subject they’ve been skirting around ever since that night when she tried to talk to him about Sarah, and he bolted like a spooked horse.
“Is that who you set the place for now? Your mom?” Her smile tempers, eyes rounding with a familiar sadness as she nods.
“Yeah, other family too. And I have to admit, I know it’s not my place, but I’ve been thinking about– about Sarah as well.” It’s a leap for her to make, he knows it, and he’s willing to make it with her, reaching his hand across the table to rest over the top of hers, puzzle pieces fitting together in a shared silence.
“Thank you for thinking of her, darlin.” Another nod and a small smile.
“Could I– can I share something with you? And maybe you could help me with it?”
…
“So that’s what all this is for?”
“What’d you think it was for?”
“Honestly, I stopped asking questions about things like this a while ago. Just assumed whatever this was, you had some sort of plan for it.” She has to let out a huff of a laugh at his clearly truthful answer, shaking her head before focusing back on the items spread over the desktop of her bureau.
“Well, I do have a plan, and it’s called an altar. It’s a space made to honor the departed, and to keep them a little closer to us.” She’s already laid out candles, dried leaves, and small wreaths of herbs on the desk, now pulling open one of the bureau’s drawers to get out a worn, weathered photo, tenderly unfolding it. Holding it out so Joel can see, a small sound of recognition rumbles in his chest.
“Is that you?” His finger just hovers over the face of the girl in the photo.
“Mmhmm, and that’s my mom, and my grandmother. I must have been twelve, maybe thirteen, when this was taken.” When she glances at him, something like wonder is laced in his expression, lips parted in a slight smile as he continues to study the picture. Clearing her throat, and her mind, she tucks the photo in amongst the altar before looking at him again.
“It’s nice to include pieces of them, if you have any. I was wondering, um– I mean I don’t know if you’d even want to– but if you have anything of Sarah’s, I was wondering if you’d like to add a piece of her to it?” The words feel thick and clunky coming out, regret an almost instant aftertaste at the way his face falls. But then he surprises her, clearing his throat and nodding before silently unfastening his watch and placing it on the altar, a tap of his fingers to the face of it before he takes a step back.
“And it’s just for the next three days, right?” Worry is pinching his brow, eyes swimming, and she doesn’t resist the urge to reach for him, a hand on his cheek and one right over his heart.
“That’s right. It just lets them know that we’re thinking about them a little more than usual, that’s all. And then we go back to carrying them with us however we can.” He gives her a short nod, tears like silver in his eyes as he rests his hand over hers on his chest, his other palm coming to cup her cheek.
“She would’ve liked you, y’know.” It’s so unexpected, her breath catches in her throat at his words.
“You think so?”
“I think you two would’ve got on like a house on fire. Probably would’ve ganged up on me too, though you and Ellie already do that I suppose.” The warbly sound of her own laugh makes her realize that she’s started crying too, the soft sweep of his thumb brushing away a few stray tears.
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but my mom would’ve hated you.” The spluttering laugh he lets out sends her into a huffed spiral of her own, quiet grins between the two of them.
“Would’ve hated me, huh?”
“Mmhmm, nothing personal though. She just believed that women should never get tied down to a man for long.” He hums at that, both of them holding back another laugh through their tears.
“And what do you believe, darlin?”
“I believe that you are the one exception to that rule, Joel Miller.”
…
Seeing as the last town dance he went to ended with him busting his knuckles open on a man’s face, Joel isn’t exactly raring to go to this one. But hers and Ellie’s shared excitement is more than making up for his own disinterest.
“Look, old man, Stevie and I match.” Ellie jumps off the last two steps of the porch, Stevie letting out a distressed mewl from her place in her arms at the sudden movement.
“Yeah, the resemblance is uncanny.” Ellie’s got on black jeans, a black sweater, and a black headband with two triangular scraps of fabric attached to look like cat ears, cradling Stevie in her arms as the finishing touch to her makeshift costume.
“What’re you supposed to be? A lumberjack with anger issues?” He huffs at her rather sharp question, glancing down at his flannel, the same flannel he wears at least twice a week these days.
“Sure, let’s go with that, kid.”
“You two ready?” Her voice pulls his attention away from Ellie’s smug grin, and when he catches sight of her, his mind goes so hazy he can’t be bothered to pick his jaw up off the ground.
“That hat is fucking wicked.” He doesn’t even have half a mind to scold Ellie for her language, too busy taking in the sight of his woman. She’s wearing the same mismatched sneakers she’s always got on, her bare shins peeking out beneath the hem of her black dress. A very nicely-fitting black dress at that, long-sleeved, with a deep neckline he can’t seem to take his eyes away from. It’s too good, the hat sitting atop her head, the pointed top and the wide brim an almost cartoonish calling-card, and the grin on her face as she stands before him tells him that she knows it too.
“Well?” She holds out her arms, a little flare in her wrists as she looks at him, and all he can do is let out a disbelieving laugh.
“Where the hell did you get a hat like that?” She pinches the brim between her fingers, giving him a wink.
“Found it in the attic of my old house when I first moved in. Been saving it for a special occasion. You like?” He pulls her in for a kiss, all crooked from their mirrored grins.
“Ugh, c’mon, Stevie. Let’s go before they inflict any more damage to our eyeballs.” She pulls away with a laugh at Ellie’s very vocal dismay, taking Joel’s hand in hers with a light squeeze.
“Sorry, kid. No more eyeball damage, I promise. Let’s get a move on.”
Once again, the dining hall has been fitted out for the dance, tables pushed aside to clear the floor and a ragtag band putting out half-decent music. But this time is different too. This time, he’s got an easy arm wrapped around his woman’s waist, holding onto her in a crowd that no longer stares and whispers, but welcomes with easy smiles and talk. Everyone is in some sort of attempted costume, and he catches sight of Tommy making his way toward them through the crowd, an old cowboy hat on his head and a bandana tied around his neck.
“What’re you supposed to be, brother? A slightly less pissed off version of yourself?” While he grunts at his brother’s teasing, she laughs easily, happy to pick up the social slack where Joel refuses to engage.
“Happy Halloween, Tommy. I saw Maria and your boy out front. I can’t believe how big he’s gotten, gonna be quite the little heartbreaker in a few years.” The clear pride in Tommy’s smile sets warmth spreading in Joel’s chest. It’s been a surprising bright spot for him, watching his brother step into fatherhood. Not that he’d ever tell Tommy, but it’s a good look on him.
“He’s something else, ain’t he? Not gonna be able to keep up with him at the rate he’s growing. But anyways, just wanted to come say howdy. Y’all enjoy yourselves, alright?” With a brisk clap to Joel’s shoulder, Tommy is moving back through the crowd, lobbing easy greetings to folks left and right.
“Alright, my angry lumberjack, are you gonna ask me to dance or what?”
“You heard that, huh? Don’t even know how the kid knows what a lumberjack is.” Her smile is easy, humor crinkling her eyes as she looks at him.
“Mmhmm, but for the record, you make a very cute, angry lumberjack.” What he does next surprises even him, taking her hand and leading her into the throng of swaying couples on the dance floor with a confidence he hasn’t felt in decades. The band is playing a slower song, light threadings of a guitar and the old piano, a sweet suggestion to pull her close, one arm hooked around her waist, his other tucked between their chests where their hands are tangled together. Judging by the widening of her eyes, lips parted in a crooked smile, she hadn’t been expecting that at all.
“You’ve been holding out on me if you’ve been able to dance this nicely this whole time, Miller.” He can feel himself going a bit sheepish under her praise, eyes turned down as he leads them in a simple string of steps.
“Haven’t danced in a long time, darlin.” They fall into an easy silence, the music and din of the hall lulling them into the movement. Though everything comes crashing to a jilted stop, music fizzling out under the sudden scuffle in the crowd. It’s instinct, the way his arm tightens around her, keeping her close as he cranes his neck to see where the raised voices are coming from, his stomach dropping when he lays eyes on who it is.
He can’t hear what’s being said, but judging by the steely look on Tommy’s face and the hazy sneer on Mason’s, it’s nothing friendly. And through the crowd, Mason’s bloodshot eyes land on him first, before sliding over to her, a grin smearing across his face that Joel would like nothing more than to smack clean off him. But Tommy is quick to take Mason out of the hall with a harsh grip on his shoulder, gone as soon as he appeared, though the damage has already been done judging by the slack frown on her face.
“Joel, can we go, please?” His chest tightens at the way her voice has flattened, the quiet question slipped from her downturned mouth, eyes stuck where Mason had been standing.
“Yeah, darlin, we’ll go home. Lemme find Ellie and let her know, alright?”
He keeps her hand in his the whole walk home, not letting go until they’re in their bedroom and she’s sitting down on the edge of the bed, a deep furrow between her brows.
“God, I feel so stupid for letting that affect me like I did. I’m sorry, Joel. We were having a good time and I– I ruined it.” He sits down as close to her as he can, tucking her under his arm and dropping a kiss to the top of her head, her hat discarded on the floor.
“Didn’t ruin a thing, darlin. I’m just sorry that pathetic bastard came around at all.” He can tell that she’s working through it in her mind, somewhere between the past and the present, lips slightly pursed and eyes focused on her hands in her lap, but she doesn’t get stuck on it, a long exhale bringing her back to him, tilting her head to look at him with a suggestion of a smile. She doesn’t say anything, slipping out of his hold like liquid and padding quietly over to her bureau where the altar is set up. It’s grace embodied, the way she leans over one of the unlit candles, pursing her lips and exhaling like you would to extinguish a flame, though instead the wick smokes and crackles into a bright blaze.
“Well now you’re just showing off.” A shrug and a laugh from her as she lights the other candles with the one she just lit, the altar being cast in a warm and pulsing glow.
…
Maybe she had been showing off, just a little, drinking in the way his eyes widen and don’t pull away from her for even a second as she turns back to him and extends her hand.
“Would you mind finishing that dance with me?” The light in the bedroom is dim, just a lamp and the candles casting a haze of warmth across the room, but she can still see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stands up and slides his hand into hers.
There’s no music, but they don’t need it, finding an easy sway in their close tangle. She rests her cheek at his shoulder, nose brushing along the juncture of his neck, breathing him in, feeling his hands splayed across her back, the insistent pump of his heart, stronger than anything she’s ever heard before.
“Think you mentioned something a while ago about dancing naked.” She can hear the smug crook of his smile in his words, making her laugh as she pulls back to look at him.
“Hmm, yeah, I just said that to seduce you.” He chuckles at the smarmy waggle of her eyebrows, pulling her tighter against him.
“Didn’t have to do that, darlin. Reckon I was gone for you from day one.” The kiss they slip into is more like a shared sigh, swallowing each other’s relief, muscles slackening under wandering hands. They move with patience, like time has stopped with the slow trails of fingers, the languid press of lips. A shiver runs through her when he tugs the zipper of her dress down, sliding the fabric down her arms, letting it pool around her still socked feet. She wants skin against skin, stepping closer to him as she slips her fingers through the buttons of his shirt, tugging it off his shoulders as soon as she can, leaving his torso warm and bare for her to press against, mouths open and receiving whatever the other is willing to give.
And all of a sudden that tender patience snaps into a snarling desperation, Joel’s hands a searing grip on her hips, keeping her close as he ducks his head down to mouth at the tops of her breasts, only giving her enough space to slip out of her bra before he’s dipping back down and taking one of her nipples into the heat of his mouth, teeth a dizzying graze. They’ve had slow and sweet, and this isn’t that, her back pressing up against one of the bedroom walls as he cages her in, warm and trembling breaths fanning over her skin as she tugs open his belt and rucks his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his flushed cock, resting heavy and heated against her thigh.
When they first came together, it had been all questions, all Can I? Like this? Is that good? Are you? But they no longer need words now, communicating in the hungry sweep of palms and the flicker of darkened eyes. He hitches her knee against his hip, opening her up to him, his cock an aching drag through her cunt before he presses into her, pleasure tinged with the throbbing stretch of him.
Her back slides up the wall with each thrust of his hips, his hand cradling the back of her head to keep her from thumping her skull. It’s all harsh breaths and broken grunts, her eyes scrunching shut only for Joel to coax her gaze back with a gentle let me see you, darlin– look at me, baby, eyes on me, that’s it. He presses his forehead to hers, holding her steady through every hard press of his hips, his cock grazing so deep it’s all she can do to let out a quiet whimper of his name.
“I know, darlin– fuck, I know– always so good, huh? Lemme have it, honey, just like this.” He knows her almost too well by now, when to pull back, to slow down, to draw it out, and when to give her more, to press her over the edge, to twist up her pleasure only to unravel it. His hips still against hers when she comes, a deep grind inside of her that draws out her high, spasming around him as she digs her nails into his shoulders. Slackening in his arms, her mind cuts through the haze, confusion settling in when she realizes he still hasn’t moved, his forehead pressed to her sternum.
“Are you– did you–”
“Fuck, darlin, I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking and I– Jesus christ.” He pulls out with a shuddering breath, and that’s when she notices it, the warm trickle of him making her knees go weak. Joel, meanwhile, seems to be in perfect remorse, muttering a string of apologies, his hands hovering at her waist like he’s afraid to touch her. Finally, she cuts off his rambling, her palm cupping his jaw to get him to focus on her.
“Hey, hey, it’s ok. You seriously think I don’t know how to take care of something like this? Honestly, I’m a little offended.” His face goes completely slack at her words, a disbelieving laugh coming out on a long exhale.
“I– you– goddamn. God fucking damn, think I almost had a heart attack.” His words come out on another laugh, hands framing her face as he lands a hard kiss to her forehead, making her chuckle at his reaction.
“No heart attacks on my watch, Miller. I love you too much to let that happen.” This kiss lands a bit lower, a smacking press of his lips to hers before he pulls away with a sheepish smile.
“Love you, darlin. Let’s, uh, let’s get you cleaned up.”
…
It’s much later in the night when she untangles herself from his embrace, successfully slipping out of bed without waking him. Grabbing the blanket Joel had kicked off in his sleep and wrapping herself up in it, she quietly pads downstairs and out onto the back porch.
“Hey, little miss, did you and Ellie have fun?” Stevie is happy to jump into her lap where she has sat down on the porch steps, a content purr thrumming as she nuzzles against her palm. A moment, that’s all she wanted, to think about the people she’s lost in the cool closeness of the night. But she and Stevie aren’t alone, not anymore. Something like family, something a little magic.
...............................
taglist: @boofy1998 @misspascaliverse @jasminedragoon @beskarandblasters @daddy-din @subconsciouscollapse @avidreader73 @pedgeitopascal @littlelou22 @wannab-urs @hannahlupinblack @whoiscaroline @leeeesahhh @str84pedro @mumma-moonchild @disregardedplant @mxtokko @igloo71 @secretdazeobservation @eddie-munson-dungeon-master @cressida-clearwood @mydailyhyperfixations @mingeniee @the-ginger-hedge-witch @delicious-collection @gab-thelamb-onthemoon @thereaperisabitch @lunxramour @jupiter-sky @parrotpeggy @abbiesxox @nerdreader @ssa-raye @vermillionwinter @jksprincess10 @jordycat-2018 @lavenderkee @hungryforbatboys @casa-boiardi
#joel miller#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x reader#tlou#tlou fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel miller angst#the last of us#joel miller fluff#joel miller smut#apothecary#joel miller au#joel miller imagine#joel miller fic
343 notes
·
View notes
Text
Crush Confessions
❝⁺ ₊ ✦⋆ ｡ ˚chapter 1❝⁺ ₊ ✦⋆ ｡ ˚
Anthony Vaughn x Reader
“Well, shit.” I stare at the map while everyone crowds around it. Heaps for keeping my body count a secret. “Well damn (name), I didn’t know you got down like that ay?” Dusty nudges my side. I frown, I don't think my count is that high in my opinion, but I’d rather keep it on the low you know?
This happened during holiday, me and Ant I mean. Didn't mean much to me because we were shit-faced.
But he’s been avoiding eye contact with me since I walked in. I think it's because he’s into Jesus and all that.
“Says here you went at it wiiiiithhhh, Ant and Missy huh? You enjoy getting a gobby?” I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off, cunt...” I shove Spider out of the way. Adjusting my jeans on the way down, they’re seriously starting to ride up my ass. When me and Missy went at it, I didn’t do anything with her. She did go down on me though.
To the gym, we all traveled for an assembly. I sat down near the back, like 2 rows from. Which placed me behind Dusty, I messed with the charms on my acrylics, stoically staring at my feet when the gym silenced. I look up and see, Harper, with a full buzz. “Pack it up Eleven” Missy shouts. I hold in a chuckle. While Amerie frantically calls out her name. “Sit down Amerie,” Woodsy commands. Shortly after, she begins.
“I am a woke woman.” I sit up a bit straighter, curious on what’s about to come out of her mouth next. Woodsy is known to be a tight stuck-up bitch of a principle, I don't think she's that bad.
She just… “I enjoy sex as much as the next person.” …has a way with her words is all.
“But reputation is everything and this map..has jeopardized your reputations” No fucking kidding woods. “And the reputation of our school. On the first day back, we are currently in the process of contacting all the parents of everyone on this map”
Shit…shit shit shit shit shit- I am so fucked. Woodsy’s voice begins to lessen throughout my brain. “-and have strongly suggested that there are to be no more parties, shindigs, or gathos-” my mouth begins to dry up. What will my parents say? They’ve had the ‘talk’ with me but they're not really understating you know. “Oooi central link is losing her shit” Spider comments. “Shut up Spider..” Ant whispers. “Hey! Hey!-” There's Woodsy’s voice coming in again. My legs begin shaking “-Unsupervised parties equals alcohol. Alcohol equals poor choices. The risk-taking behaviors outlined on this map are unacceptable.” I sigh, lightly pulling at the end of my hair. Trying to calm myself down, I'm so gonna get my ass beat when I get home later. Woodsy ends her speech a bit later and we’re finally dismissed. Well, except Amerie. It must have been her. What a dog.
Maths passes by excruciatingly slower than usual. I check my phone, no notifications. My legs begin to shake again, and the under of my boobs are sweating, how fun. I put my head on the table, I feel a headache coming up. I look at the clock. Thank GOD. I get up to use the bathroom as soon as the bell rings.
I breathe in and out slowly. “You’re good man You're good, chill out” I attempt to calm myself down. When it finally works I walk out of the bathroom. Turn a corner and there in the gym, is Harper beating the shit out of Amerie.
“worldstar material?” I question, weaving myself into the crowd pulling out my phone to record. “Well shit, beat her ass then” I instigate. A small chuckle slips from my mouth when Amerie falls to the ground, Harper leaves, and Ameries nose is bleeding.
“Yikes..” I turn away. My ass is already grass when I get home. Let us not deepen the grave by being late to class.
“Oi (nickname), can we talk?” It’s Ant. I feel just as bad for him as me. I’ve met his mom, she's scary. “About? It seems to me you've talked a bunch” “Listen I’m sorry about it. I know you told me not to spill but Spider kept on prying because he saw us walk out of the bathroom.” During holiday I had snuck out and went to a party that Sasha So invited me to. Now I don't drink, but I do occasionally take a hit. The last time I had gotten high I almost died of laughter, like so deadass. I'm a giggler, but this time I was dissociating.
—“Oi (nickname) you good? Ant looks at me. He’s a bit high, you can tell because usually when he’s hella high he acts like he doesn’t have a brain. “Yeah bruh, heaps”. We stare at each other for a moment and I begin giggling, he begins giggling too. “You know… you’re real cute when you’re not trying to be like spider and your group leader dusty” I turn my body towards him and get closer. I was wearing this cute skirt, it was pretty tight on me but it made my legs look quite nice. I had paired it with this cute black tube top as well. “Am I? I always thought I was a bit of a ripper” I giggle at his remark. My arms begin to wrap themselves around the base of his neck. “Wanna show me how much damage a ripper like you can cause?” He smirks, “sure mate” he puts his hands down my waist, dropping his arm to grab my hand as he leads me to the bathroom.—
I shake off the memory. “Listen, Um Anthony..” I think to try and find the right words to say. He lifts his head to reveal his puppy-like eyes. Ugh, what an asshole that boy is. “I don't really care anymore. But I think it would just be best if we forgot about it yeah?” His face seems to melt a bit with sadness. “Yeah Yeah, Of course. No biggie”
“Cool, Catch you later I guess” I begin to walk away from the sulking Ant. “Will the following students please meet at classroom 5D”
I continued walking, trying to get away from Ant, who was currently burning holes into my backside. “Amerie Wadia, Harer McLean, Sasha So, Missy Bekett, Dustin Reid, Spencer White, Anthony Vaughn—“ I whip my head around, and his face looks confused. “Well Shiiiit” I smirk his way, he rolls his eyes and adjusts his backpack straps beginning to walk the opposite way from me.
“(name) (lastname), Darren Rivers, Quinni Callegar-Jones, Douglas Piggott—“ He turns around. “HA!” I roll my eyes and follow him out the doors.
#heartbreak high x reader#heartbreak high#anthony vaughn x reader#anthony vaughn imagine#heartbreak high 2022#amerie wadia#spider white#ant vaughn#heartbreak high season 2
81 notes
·
View notes
Text
EYES DON'T LIE — choso kamo [chapter six]
description: in which a girl unwittingly becomes involved with a handsome stranger in a club, oblivious to his true identity of being in a famous boyband… OR in which you and Choso must conceal your secret meetings from your friends and his bandmates, especially from his younger brother and your best friend, Yuji.
warnings: mature language. fem! reader.
note: long chapter! might get busy within the next few weeks so updates will vary!
Tonight was movie night and Yuji invited you, Megumi, and Nobara to chill at his house since most of you didn't have any classes until tomorrow evening. You were all huddled in the living room, the TV displaying the horror film that Nobara suggested (mostly because she wanted Yuji to get scared).
You and Megumi were sitting on the couch as Nobara occupied the loveseat while Yuji sat on the floor, closest to the screen, which wasn't the smartest move for him.
"Tell me why'd you pick this one again?" Megumi complained, eyeing the ginger-haired girl with narrow eyes.
She snickered, a smirk rising on her pink lips. "You'll see soon enough."
"I wanted to re-watch Human Earthworm, this one looks lameee," Your best friend complains, lying down on the floor with his hand holding up his head.
"If you don't wanna watch it then get out!"
"Hey, this is my house if you didn't realize."
"Uh, I believe it belongs to your brother, smartass!"
You giggled at their bickering, realizing that Nobara was somewhat right since the house was in his brother's name. Choso Kamo. You felt odd even thinking about him due to the small secret that you're keeping from everyone.
Megumi rolled his eyes, leaning back against the couch with an arm lying behind your head as he waited for someone to play the damn movie. You grabbed the remote, stepping in between your two friends who continued to jab insults at one another.
"Alright, you two. Let's just watch this one and maybe another day, we can watch Human Earthworm, okay?" You looked between the pair, hands on your waist like a mother scolding her children as you tried to compromise the situation.
Yuji and Nobara crossed their arms, looking away from one another, huffing.
"Fine by me."
"I don't agree, but sure."
You smiled. Such children.
Pressing the play button, you sat back down and watched the movie begin, keeping your eyes on the screen while moving closer to your dark-haired friend, who was still bored.
You leaned over to whisper, "If I get scared, I'm jumping on you to cover me."
Megumi turned his head, brows raised as he looked at you like you were crazy. "I rather you didn't."
"Too bad, you sat down beside me today. Yuji usually keeps me company for these types of movies," You shrugged, not caring for his approval as he knew you get jumpy from scary things.
He scoffed, shaking his head before shifting a bit over to the end of the sofa in case you did fling at him to be a shield. Like that would stop you from trying. The first few minutes of the movie were rolling, introducing the characters as you watched in interest until Yuji spoke up loudly.
"Oi, Choso! Can you turn the lights off for us?"
Your body slightly tensed up, not realizing that the person you've been avoiding would be in his own home today. You glanced to the side, seeing the male come down the stairs with a black tight shirt and gray sweatpants on, his hair no longer in his usual style as it was rather down on his shoulders.
No longer paying attention to the movie, your eyes trained on the male, eyeing his movements and the way he looked so appealing to you in his outfit.
He just had to come down in that combo, you mused inwardly. Curse the gray sweatpants theory.
Choso moved towards the switch, turning the lights off as he waved to everyone in greeting before glancing at you quickly, already seeing your eyes trained on him.
You could see his lips twitch into a grin in the low lighting, probably out of amusement from catching you staring at him out in the open with your friends and his brother.
"What's playing?" He asked, directing the question to his little brother as his eyes cut contact with you, making sure nobody caught the both of you.
You shifted your head back to the screen quickly, face burning as he caught you ogling for god knows how long. You could tell that Nobara and Yuji didn't see anything since their backs were facing you but you didn't think about the other. From the corner of your eye, Megumi tilted his head with a puzzled expression as he wondered what that whole exchange was about.
You messed up.
"Ahhh, I don't even know anymore. Kugaski put it on," Yuji shrugged lazily, eyes still trained on the screen as the movie began its first act of horror.
"Wanna watch it with us?" Nobara asked, inviting the male to join.
Choso shook his head, not really interested in watching. "Nah, I'm good. I'll just be in the kitchen."
You didn't glance his way as he left the room, eyes zeroing on the screen yet your ears couldn't focus on the sound due to your heart beating fast from your little interaction. It didn't feel awkward after finding out you hooked up, rather felt like there was some unresolved tension between the both of you.
And you didn't know if you wanted to cross that bridge to find out.
You didn't understand what you were feeling, knowing that even attempting to get close to the guy would make you face more consequences, especially with your best friend. Even with that, Megumi kept burning holes in the side of your head whenever he glanced your way, causing you to fidget in your seat.
Megumi was smart... too smart for your liking right now.
"I should probably get some snacks for us," Yuji stated, moving to stand up from his position until Megumi spoke up and mentioned you.
"Didn't you want to grab a drink too? Maybe you could go get the snacks since you don't really like watching the scary parts, right?" He proclaimed, overly concerned for your well-being all of a sudden.
You narrowed your eyes at the male, knowing what he was up to. He wanted to test his theory of the interaction between you and Choso, backing you up into a corner without a say in the matter of going to the kitchen without a reasonable excuse.
"Well, actually I'm okay —"
"I don't really wanna miss too much of the movie, you know where the snacks are, right?" Yuji interrupts you from denying the request, leaving you to see his puppy dogs pleading with you to get it. "Pleaseeee?"
You sighed, not wanting to say no to his face, especially already feeling like you had a debt to repay him for hiding a big secret. "Fine."
Yuji grinned widely. "Thank you bestie, you're the best!"
"Mhm, I know."
Getting off the couch, not without flicking Megumi in the forehead a bit hard for his involvement, you walked towards the brightly lit kitchen where the person you dreaded to face directly.
As you entered quietly, you could see Choso's back facing you as he leaned against the counter while scrolling on his phone and eating a few grapes.
You cleared your throat, grabbing his attention as he jumped slightly before turning in your direction. His brows raised as he looked at you, surprised to see you come by alone, while you just opted for an awkward smile as you pointed to one of the cabinets.
"Sorry, we just wanted some snacks..." You voiced quietly, the nerves reaching up your throat causing you to become too shy in front of the male.
Choso broke his stare, clearing his throat before nodding, "Ah, yeah, go ahead."
You nodded, lips pressed in a thin line before moving towards the other side of the kitchen. You knew where the snacks were since you came to the house almost daily, basically becoming your second home.
As you took some chocolates and chips from the cupboard, you swear you could feel eyes targeting your movements, knowing Choso was watching.
The kitchen was silent, the muffled sounds of television playing in the background with Yuji whimpering quietly while Nobara giggled. That twisted girl. It was a bit funny but you wouldn't admit that to your friend.
"You know your way around here, huh?" Choso voiced, breaking your thoughts as you didn't expect him to start a conversation, let alone with you.
You turned your head, shyly nodding. Gosh, when have you ever been this shy before? "Ah, yeah. I come over a lot to chill with Yuji, hence how I know where everything will be..."
He nodded, taking note of your comment before sipping his drink as you turned back around to your task. The tension was thick in the room, the heavy secret lingering between you was dreadful as you pretended nothing ever happened.
I'm gonna kill Megumi for this.
You cleared your throat, trying to diffuse the tension. "Uh, got any plans this week?"
Back still turned, you didn't have the guts to face him directly when speaking as you knew you might become flustered or trip on something.
"Only some band stuff, nothing too important." Choso voiced as you hummed in response, not really knowing what to say. You prepared the snack bowls while the only thing left to complete was the popcorn.
You heard Nobara shout out for you from the living room. "You almost done?!"
"Give me a few minutes!"
Laying the popcorn bag in the microwave and pushing the button, you turned to the fridge to obtain a few drinks for the group before placing it in the tray with the other snacks.
"How about you, any plans?" The male asked, eyeing the way you neatly placed the items while having a small satisfied smile on your face as you organized everything.
He snickered inwardly at the sight. Cute.
You turned in his direction before shaking your head, "Uh, not really. Too busy with my program right now."
Choso hummed, leaning more forward on the counter to listen. "What's your program?"
You mentioned what it was, stating the career path that you chose for the upcoming future. While speaking, you slightly got a bit more confident as you both talked to one another normally, the previous situation not lingering in your head at the moment.
Choso looked interested in what career you wanted to pursue, looking impressed at the amount of work you were dedicating yourself to. "Sounds pretty rough, are you sure you're all good up there?" He motions to his head, referencing if you have gone crazy yet from the amount of work.
You giggled quietly. "Yeah, no need to worry."
He shrugged, yet a playful grin exposed him. "Just making sure, don't want Yuji to become a victim with one of your breakdowns."
He could see you rolling your eyes from his lame joke but there was still a grin on your face, meaning he was getting on your good side. Choso already knew a bit about yourself from that time at the club and when you both arrived at your apartment before you did... that.
The microwave beeped meaning the popcorn finished as you retrieved the bag before opening the steaming snack to pour into the bowl. You knew Yuji liked his popcorn with cheddar as you glanced around the kitchen for the powder before opening one of the cabinets to see it almost near the top shelf.
Of course, Yuji placed it there. That dumbo.
You weren't exactly too short but weren't too tall, thus causing you to lean up on your tippy toes to reach the item as you could feel your cropped shirt rising, exposing your back from the amount of stretching. Barely grazing the item, you were about to give up on the damn thing until you felt something graze your back along with a hand brushing past your own to retrieve it.
Your eyes widened, breathing still for a second as you could feel his presence with his warm chest pressed behind you before he placed the item in front of your line of vision.
"Could've asked for my help, you know," Choso mumbled, his voice sounding closer than before as his breath hit your ear, causing you to shiver slightly from the rising tension.
Fuck, what's happening?
You turned your body around slightly, no longer feeling his back but rather facing him more directly this time, the closest you have been this whole night. You felt flustered from the minor distance, meeting his mischievous eyes with your baffled ones as you slowly grabbed the item out from his hand.
"I thought I could handle it..." You whispered, the nerves returning to hit you as a burning sensation felt present upon your ears and cheeks.
You were trapped between the counter and his body, no longer aware of anything besides the man who caught your undivided attention. You stared at one another with some hidden craving that was brewing to be exposed beneath your lidded eyes.
The scene felt familiar to both of you, causing Choso to lean a bit closer to test the waters.
"Is that a bet, pretty?"
Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.
He knew what he was doing and you knew what he was instigating. Those familiar words sparked a feeling within you that had your mind shouting to stop this from going any further, yet your body betrayed you.
You saw his eyes glance at your parted lips before shifting back to your hazy eyes. You didn't know what to do in this situation, realizing that you weren't exactly alone right now to be acting like this, nonetheless, to even do something again.
Yet, you responded to the same action by looking down at his moist lips before shifting back to his lustful stare.
"Maybe —"
A scream echoed out throughout the house.
"OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!"
The trance you both were in broke immediately as you heard Yuji shout frightfully from the jump-scares in the living room. The moment you realize what you are about to do causes you to push Choso gently back before retrieving the snack tray quickly, avoiding his concerned eyes.
"I —"
Not having any more words to say, you bowed your head before rushing to the living room. Choso didn't stop you, yet you swore you heard him mumble your name as you ran off.
"Y/N, WHERE ARE THE SNACKS?!" Nobara shouted at the same time you arrived with everything, annoyance evident from the shouting.
"No need to yell, it's here!" Your voice wavered a bit as you placed the tray on the coffee table.
Yuji hummed happily, sending you a wink. "You're an angel, thank you!"
You curtly nodded your head, your thoughts and feelings were all over the place as you struggled to understand how you almost committed another situation with your best friend's older brother.
Sitting back down on the couch, your ginger-haired friend mentioned to you how Yuji almost cried from the jumpscares and how funny it was to witness it. The pink-haired male began to complain about it, stating that he just didn't expect a creature to jump out during a calm scene, making excuses for his high-pitched scream.
The cushion beside you sank a bit as Megumi moved closer, eyes full of questions. "Everything good?"
You nodded, brows furrowed. "Yeah, what's up?"
"The ceiling," You rolled your eyes at his literal answer, "but what I'm wondering is about you and Choso."
Your heart dropped, knowing Megumi was trying to figure out why you took so long in the kitchen for just a couple of snacks.
You shrugged nonchalantly. "What about him?"
He glanced towards your friend in the middle before lowering his tone as the movie continued to play loudly in the background. "Do you... have a crush on him or something?"
DING, DING, DING!
EVERYONE, WE MAY HAVE A WINNER!
NOW WHAT SHALL WE DO EVERYONE?
DENY, DENY, DENY!
You scoffed, immediately shaking your head. "No, no. You're getting the wrong idea, Gumi."
He tilted his head, green eyes narrowed at your poker face. "Am I? Then what is it? Cause I saw the way you were looking at him earlier."
You sighed. You knew your friend wouldn't drop it until you said something that satisfied his curiosity. "I was only staring 'cause he's... you know... pretty cute to look at."
Megumi scrunched up his face, wondering if that was really it and not what he originally thought. "That's it? Cause he's cute?"
You tsked, waving a finger in his face, "I said pretty cute, notice the difference?" He rolled his eyes, huffing at your tone as you slightly chuckled.
"Listen, don't tell Yuji I was thinking like that, he would just lecture about the whole thing." You mumbled, eyes shifting to your best friend with much warmth.
Megumi sighed and promised not to say a word. He agreed that Yuji would blow it out of proportion if he found out about your thoughts about his brother, just like how he did the same to Nobara a few days ago.
"Alright, I'll take that answer... for now. But why'd you take so long in the kitchen?" He pressed further again.
You shrugged, blatantly lying quickly with your tongue, "He was just asking me about school and how Yuji was doing while he was away, that's all."
"Really?"
"Yes, Gumi. Now shhh, watch the movie."
You waved him off, hoping that this would be the last time he'd be on your back about Choso. Megumi sighed before shifting back to his original spot on the couch. The tension in your shoulders loosened from the intense interrogation before focusing back on the film, even though you weren't that interested anymore.
Rather more focused on the tattooed male sitting in the next room over.
If Yuji hadn't shouted earlier, Choso would have probably kissed you from the way he was instantly staring at your lips. The way your bodies were a few inches apart from directly touching, leaning a bit further would've sealed the deal. If that interruption hadn't happened... you knew you would return the action without hesitation.
Do I have a crush on him? It feels wrong to have one, you glanced at Yuji with worry. But he just feels right for some reason.
"HOLY SHIT!"
"AHH!"
Another big jumpscare.
Nobara fell out of her seat, candy spilling on the floor while Yuji had another heart attack, a blanket suffocating his head to avoid the gore. While for you, the promise made to your gloomy friend earlier came true.
You jumped towards Megumi, hiding half your body behind his stiff back as you shook his arm to annoy him further. He gaped at your actions with annoyance, grunting at the amount of force you laid against him.
"I thought you were joking!"
"... IT'S GONE NOW, GET OFF!"
⇽ chapter five | chapter seven ⇾
© 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐯 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒
#🔮 oryluv#❥ — ❝ tojiluv ❞#❥ — ❝ tojiluv ❞ eyes don’t lie#choso kamo#choso kamo fanfiction#choso kamo x you#choso kamo x reader#choso kamo x y/n#choso kamo smut#choso x you#choso x reader#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen fanfic#jujutsu kaisen choso#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk#jjk x you#yuji itadori#nobara kugisaki#megumi fushiguro#choso smut#choso kamo x female reader#jjk choso#choso fluff#choso angst#jjk fluff#jjk au#jjk smut#jjk angst
75 notes
·
View notes
Text
It’s complicated, my darling - The Prologue
“Ada is an operative in the 1940s from Brighton in England, sent over to New York City to work with the Americans, uncovering secrets and spying on potential suspects. She meets a handsome young man, Nick Folio, on the train into the city; little does she know how that moment would change the trajectory of her life”
Parings: Nick folio X OFC
Word count: 1.4K
Chapter Warnings: brief hinting at death, explicit language
Series master list
(see masterlist for overall warnings, chapter begins below the cut)
Ada
May 19th 1941
New York City, USA
8:23 am
Dear Diary,
Spring is coming any day now, the chill has died off and flowers are beginning to bloom, but I’ll say the air here in America feels a bit thicker when you’re not by the sea. Oh, I miss the seaside, Dad says they closed the beaches back in Brighton last year after Dunkirk, it was too dangerous to keep them open. It’s a shame, our Peggy loved the beach. We used to buy her a 99 and take a walk down the pier watching the seagulls nick a chip out of an unsuspecting victim’s hand. This one time, Peggy laughed so hard she dropped her ice cream and made me and the old man march back down the pier to buy her a new one, just to do the walk up the pier all over again. I would give anything to see her smile again but for now, it’s back to business aye?
Speaking of business, my dick of a boss, John, back in England assigned me a new mission yesterday. Something about money being stolen from one of the precincts in the city? I'm not sure, I haven’t gotten all the details yet but I guess I’ll find out more in today’s briefing at the head office.
Anyway, must be off. My train into the city should be here any minute now and God knows my grumpy sod of a boss will have my head if I’m late to another meeting.
Talk soon.
__________________
“Excuse me, ma’am, would you mind if I sit here? All the other seats are taken”
You avert your eyes from the book you’ve been engrossed in for the past 10 minutes; “The So Blue Marble” by Dorothy B. Hughes, a truly riveting thriller novel. Bookmarking your page, your gaze meets the handsome young chap standing before you.
“Oh yes of course, please, sit down” He’s a rather handsome fellow, clean-shaven with his hair slicked with a side part, perfectly framing his chiselled jaw. Heat flushes across your cheeks and you can’t help but feel a little flustered as he takes a seat in front of you.
“Thank you, Ma’am” He extends his arm for a handshake.
“Please, call me Ada”
“A pleasure, Ada” You can’t help but notice his peculiar accent, it appears to be a southern accent of sorts but you can’t quite place it.
“Is that a southern accent I hear- oh sorry, I didn’t ask your name?”
“Ah no, Maryland although I do get that a lot, and no worries. The name’s Nick but everyone calls me Folio” You tilt your head ever so slightly at the nickname, wondering how that came to be. As if he already knew your next question, he smiles.
“My surname Is Folio, there’s another Nick amongst my friends so over time I just became Folio”
“Aah makes sense. Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Folio” You flash a smile, trying your best not to blush too hard.
“Judging by your accent, you’re from England I assume? What brings you to America, New York City at that?”. It’s the dreaded question you always fear to answer. Although you’re trained to lie, to be deceitful, you can’t help but feel a little guilty each time you respond to that question. It’s not easy to live your life pretending to be someone you’re not, half of the time you’re not even sure what’s real anymore; but that’s the job. Everyone is doing what they can to help the war effort, you included and if that means putting up a facade each day, then so be it.
“My family evacuated from England, we would’ve gone to Canada but my brother is deployed here in the States” You feel your heart drop to your stomach. This isn’t a complete lie; your mother and youngest sister, Mary and Agnes, did evacuate from England, but the ship carrying them to Canada took a devastating blow and ultimately sunk; the total casualties are still unknown. No one knows the whereabouts of your brother, Dennis. You received a telegram in July last year to notify that he was M.I.A when he didn’t return to base with his aircrew. So, no, it wasn’t a complete lie but you have to carry the sadness on your own.
“So, what will a gorgeous lady like you be doing in the city? ” He leans forward on the table, raising his left eyebrow. His words make your heartbeat speed up a million miles an hour. Of course, he doesn’t know the real reason you’re in the city but a little fun can’t hurt, right?
“I’m looking around for a job but most businesses are shut and I’m not first aid trained, so that’s pretty much any job out of the question” Another lie.
“Well, I can’t give you a job but If you ever want some company, please feel free to come down to the 13th precinct. I’d be happy to keep you company” His flirtatious manner doesn’t go unnoticed, nothing overly forward but enough to make your face burn up. A high-pitched whistle blows outside of the train and it isn’t until you see passengers standing up collecting their belongings from the overhead shelves that you realise you’ve reached your destination. You both walk off of the train onto the platform, pushing through the crowd of busybodies.
“Well I must be going, I’ve got some job interviews lined up today. It was lovely meeting you, Folio”
“You too, Ada. Good luck with the interviews, I’m sure you’ll find something soon”. Folio, once again, extends his arm for a handshake. Saying your goodbyes, you make your way along the path towards the north exit gate but your attention is averted as you hear that familiar, not-so-southern, voice.
“I hope you take me up on that offer, Ada!”. He bellows. Turning on your heels, you chuckle thinking about the gorgeously mysterious man you just met.
__________________
“Ah right on time Chapman, makes a change. I was beginning to wonder if that pretty face of yours knew how to tell the time” Alfred, your other male chauvinist pig of a boss, says as you walk into the meeting room.
“Morning Alfred, Sir” Oh how you’d love nothing more than to punch his disgusting, smug face, but you need this job and you need the money, especially if you want to get your dad and Peggy over here in the States.
“As John mentioned to you yesterday, he has assigned you a new mission. The higher-ups believe that someone in the 13th precinct is stealing money from their funding-”
“Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but did you say the 13th precinct?” This can’t be possible, surely not?
“For fuck sake Ada, maybe if you spent less time dressing like a whore and more time paying attention you would’ve heard me. Yes, I said the 13th precinct now shut up and listen” Anger rises through your body as he berates you in front of your team, but you take a deep breath, reminding yourself not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Sorry, sir. Please continue”
“As I was saying, you will be tracking one man. We believe he is acting alone, stealing money to put into an offshore account. You will be working at the precinct undercover as an accountant, you will need to keep track of all the money that goes in and out of their accounts. You’ll be given a written brief with more details. Make sure to read it thoroughly after the meeting ends, if that’s even possible for that empty fucking head of yours. We will go over the target’s name and description so everyone is aware of exactly who the suspect is”. Annie, Alfred’s assistant, hands out copies of the brief around the table.
Flipping over the first page, which details the goal of the mission, you see the name of the suspect.
“Fuck” Is all you can mutter out under your breath as you stare at the page, mouth agape in disbelief.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” There’s no denying the name and image that’s staring right back at you. Is this a sick joke? A punishment for leaving your family behind?
“Billy, can you please read out the suspect’s name and character description” A part of you still hopes that you’re imagining what you’re seeing in front of you.
“Nick Folio, sir”
There’s no such thing as fate, but the universe has a funny way of deciding it for you.
________
AN: i genuinely loved writing this first chapter. I hope you guys will love this story as much as me, please let me know your thoughts! also please let me know if you’d like to be tagged for each chapter :)
reminder my inbox is always open if you’d rather send your thoughts anonymously (no fic requests)
#nick folio#bad omens#bad omens band#nick folio fanfiction#nick folio fanfic#nick folio fluff#nick folio smut#nick folio x ofc#nick folio au#alternate universe#1940s#noah sebastian#nicholas ruffilo#jolly karlsson#bad omens fic#nick folio fic#fish boy#4rtificialfolio#it’s complicated my darling
60 notes
·
View notes
Note
pardon my late message i've been letting letting the current damnation chapters sink in the past couple of days after finally taking the quiz (im am still waiting with baited breath but like in a chill way for the rest) but HOLY. MOLY.
i did indeed notice that the MC's have different morality stances, and they match their crimes (granted im still trying to figure out which one did what. cuz rn i got stuck on iago coming fraud or tax evasion, even though theyre super down with murder, but like raven is WAY more down to murder somebody. im just nit paying enough attention to figure it out, really. im having too much fun vibin)
2 THE WAY THE CHARACTERS MAY NOT START OUT ENTIRELY YANDERE FOR THE MC AND INSTEAD DEVELOP THE OBSESSION FOR THEM LATER ON 🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌😭😭😭😭😭 BRILLIANTBRILLIANTBRILLIANT. ok so i got heartslabyul on my first attempt so it wasnt as like "obvious" even though trey and cater are both instantly "shocked" i was like "that could just be bc our character is weird it doesnt necessarily mean they yandere switch has been flipped pshaw! 🤭" BUT THEN eventually i got to pomfiore and epel confirmed it when he was like "ive been imagining things i never did before!" and i was like "oh snap! WAIT is *THIS* part of the punishment? like not JUST being sent to another world that is based on a story, but specifically a YANDERE DEATH TRAP? 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯"
cuz like, sure, the MC is doing what they can to survive but depending on which one theyre fine to just vibe and let the story take its course if theyve got a good chance to survive not doing anything special. but then the story always gets WEIRD, RIGHT?! stuff always goes wrong! was that part of the vision? or am i going conspiracy crazy?
anyway AMAZING WORK. also you really fed the vil simps on that one story. i thought i was over him and content to be like rook and admire from afar but that SCENE with his hands wrapped around the retainer 🥵 i darn near short-circuited. HOW DARE YOU! (please continue 😉)
its hard to choose a favorite story in this series and i dont want to speak too soon before theyre all out. but i do have favorite bits in each of them.
and i just love the endings to them all. i love the bittersweet nature of all the endings. like none, of them are really romantic in a comforting way (duh its a yandere story) but they do vary in romance level. like by far i think riddle's azul's and vil's are the most romantic while leona and jamil are quite cold and calculating or in jamil's case mostly possessive and manipulative on the surface. it's VERY interesting.
and also bc im silly and you brought up the yandere-ness of the other characters, i start to wonder what happens next in these stories (im not asking for sequels. oh heavens no! never! unless you wanted to, but im mostly just brainstorming character relationships and potential conflicts). like in the savannaclaw story, ruggie and jack are also glued to the MC but not in a really romantic way? ruggie has that "i want to be your #2/by your side forever" which could go either way, but to me initially reads as "jack was pushing his way into MY spot and i want to guarantee he cant have it" rather than a "one day i'll deserve to be by your side romantically and for now i want to ensure i'll always have that opportunity by being next to you and a priority of yours" and then comes leona's proposal at the end, and i was thinking "uhhh but mc is by your side as consort, then ruggie gets pushed out of his spot in favor of the husband taking over. even though ruggie could still be an advisor and confidant, its still like 'move over dude theres another taking priority over you" and then that gets me wondering "what would happen if MC turned down leona? what kinda havoc would he wreak if any? does that put the village in jeopardy if he gets pissed off? what if they accept and they're STILL screwed bc he stops paying attention to the village after he gets the throne? and then the chieftain is taken into the palace and away from the village and has no way back and theyre left to basically flounder without them?"
also i really like how you end your stories with pseudo-cliffhangers? i mean they are but also the plot is mostly resolved and whatever major things that needed to happen happened. and its just the character resolutions and epilogues you dont see. its entertaining. like i said, i like to imagine what happens next and you really leave some stuff open for that.
anyway! thank you so much for sharing your stories!
Oh, for the crimes, just look at one of the questions which I believe asks what you (the quiz taker/MC) committed. Those are currently five of the seven crimes I've listed before, and each MC has committed at least ONE of them. But, they could've always committed more too.
On that other topic, of characters going yandere, one thing I hate is when reading a story and for some reason the characters are already obsessed with the MC but for absolutely no apparent reason. And me personally, I enjoy a bit of build up, which is why I try to implement some in my writing. Which can be a bit hard to do within forty pages when all these other things are happening, but I manage for the most part.
42 notes
·
View notes
Text
a bit dirty - ch5
in which you hook up with osamu in a club bathroom and that's just the beginning.
prev | ch5 | next (coming soon) [masterlist]
// can't be a bad idea ~ ᴏsᴀᴍᴜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ~
6538 ᴡᴏʀᴅs
a look into this chapter: 18+ minors dni nsfw, more bathroom fucking, somewhat publicish? but when isn't it i guess, meeting friends p2 ~ ah!, names names names pet names a million pet names, some nice fruition, a lot of feelings, soft and fluffy fr, afab she/her pronouns
tori talks: ch6 will not be out next week as (to be honest) it isn't finished yet. i thought i'd have finished it by now, but my life is kinda crazy right now!! and i am very!!! ah! so! it will be coming, i promise. just not next week. thank you for being patient and sweet as always.
♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡
osamu has ‘trusted’ atsumu with working the night shift and closing the restaurant, and that’s how you know how important this night is to him. plus, atsumu kinda owes you two.
but it’s not just that he’s letting atsumu work the night shift and close the restaurant (or, rather, shove receipts into a paper bag until osamu’s back to deal with it), he made plans and arranged the schedule so that the two of you weren’t working the morning shift the following day either, and he did it all within a week.
usually osamu liked to plan ahead, organize his weeks months in advance, iron out details and double/triple check, especially when it came to his restaurant, but the second that he dropped you home that night, he was moving around shifts and trading favors for promises. he didn’t want to wait weeks and weeks and months and months to take you out on a proper date. in fact, even waiting until the end of the week was too long, but he’d survive.
particularly, he’d survive when most of his shifts leading up to your date were ones that he shared with you. some days with just you, some nights with some extra coworkers, and the night before your date spent all alone. it was slow anyways, barely enough dine-in customers all night to count on both hands.
as time ticked on, as it got later and later into the night, all osamu had were to-go orders and solo lingering customers at the bar. he was ready to close up shop early, to turn the sign to close and call it an early night in preparation of his date tomorrow, but the door chimes and along with it a loud chatter as a group of guys enter from outside. “hey guys, was just about to close up, but i’d be happy to do a to-go for ya,” osamu calls out as he delivers the last bill to the single woman in the middle of the bar.
“shit,” tsukishima says under his breath, reaching over to smack kuroo in the back of his head, “shoulda fuckin’ left an hour ago, when i said.”
“miya osamu closing early?��� you tease, and osamu instantly swivels his head to find where the voice is coming from, “what’s the rush? gotta hot date?” you ask, light as air as you enter the restaurant for the first time as just a customer.
when osamu sees you, his chill attitude is put on pause, not gone, but not at the forefront, as you walk over to greet him, to pull menus from behind the bar and set them on the corner booth, but you don’t get that far. you’re not on the clock. you’re just here with your friends as the cute girl he’s going on a date with tomorrow, so he reaches his arms out, wraps them around you and pulls you into a tight, but quick hug. it really isn’t long enough.
“what’re ya doin’ here?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, smile huge.
you nod towards the direction of the four guys bickering in the doorway. “friends were hungry, recommended the best place i knew,” you say, lightly nudging your elbow against his side, “plus i knew you were all alone tonight, figured you’d want company as you closed.”
he smiles even bigger at this, goes to nod in affirmation, but you rush on, “but if you’re really closing up early and stuff, it’s not a big deal, we can-”
“go sit down,” he says, chin pointing to the exact booth you were going to put menus on, “whadya want to drink?”
“surprise me,” you say, sly smile kissed away as he leans down and places a small peck against it and you’re ready to call off the entire date tomorrow, because you’re not sure that you need it. this casual kiss, the tight greeting hug, you could just take him back to your place tonight and spend the entire day tomorrow telling him all the reasons why you’ve fallen for him this past year.
but osamu, ever the romantic, classic, but with an exciting twist, probably wouldn’t let that happen, needs to take you out on a real date, has probably put a lot of thought into where he’s taking you and what he’s going to wear and what you’re going to wear and you don’t want to deprive him of that.
you kiss him once more because you can, and then you walk, menus in hand, over to the large booth in the corner and motion with your hand for your friends to join you. “is osamu really okay with us staying?” akaashi asks, sliding into the booth next to bokuto. you sit on the other side of bokuto, able to get up and grab things from behind the bar or the kitchen if you need to.
“definitely,” you say, smiling as you start spewing recommendations, food that isn’t really on the menu and items that are better than others because they’re osamu’s favorites and osamu makes his favorite foods with a bit more love than the rest. when osamu makes his way over to your table, everyone knows exactly what they want, rattles off a long order of hidden dishes and kitchen favorites and osamu smiles at you every single time.
“do you need help?” you ask, body already moving to join him in the kitchen.
he clicks his tongue, hand on your shoulder to keep you seated, “i’m okay, i promise.”
“i know you’re okay, but if you need something, i can-,” you start, but are cut off by osamu’s sweetly stern statement.
“you’re not working, angel, quit,” he says, waving you off as he walks backwards towards the kitchen and you know you’re not going to hear the end of it when he walks through that swinging door. “just be a bit,” he calls as he disappears into the back room.
you throw a look to your group of friends, narrowing your eyes as their smiles grow. kuroo’s the first one to talk. “well, if i knew that’s all i had to do to make you quiet, i’d’ve started calling you angel a long time ago,” he jeers.
“seriously, did you see how fast she just gave it up?” tsukishima asks, because, of course, the only time that kuroo and tsukishima get along is when they’re poking fun at you.
“oh hush,” akaashi says, defending you as he does, “maybe if you guys were as hot as osamu, somebody might listen to you.”
“kaashi’s got a point,” bokuto agrees, nodding along happily, because bokuto will always agree with akaashi.
you put your hand on bokuto’s arm, “he absolutely does, bo.” and the rest of the table is quiet, eerily quiet, and so are you, terrified that someone is going to say something else or embarrass you in some way, but the thing that breaks the silence is kuroo.
“he really is hot though,” he says, nodding, and everyone is in agreement there.
/\ /\ /\
“seriously, everything was so good,” akaashi praises for the sixth time tonight, head leaning on bokuto’s shoulder because he keeps telling everyone not to let him eat another bite and then he keeps fighting everyone and eating another bite.
“thanks, i appreciate it,” osamu says for the millionth time tonight, because it’s not just akaashi who is fawning over the food, it’s everyone at the table.
you’re sitting next to osamu who’s pulled up a chair on the edge of the table and is finishing up his own dinner with you and your friends. his hand is on your knee, just resting while the two of you eat the last bites of food on your plate, just to let you know that he’s there.
“so where are you bringing yn tomorrow?” bokuto asks, finally calling attention to the two of you dating for the first time tonight.
“oh,” osamu laughs, “kinda a surprise,” he admits, “but i guess i can show ya.” he pulls his phone out of his pocket, types something into it, glares at you when he shows your friends, makes sure that you’re not sneaking a peek. they all look confused at first, but then he types something else out on his phone and shows them again and they all understand now.
“this is totally not fair,” you say, shaking your head, “spilling the surprise, but i don’t get to know.”
“just be patient, yn, god,” tsukishima teases, residual smile from reading whatever it was on osamu’s phone. “you’ll see tomorrow.”
“you will see tomorrow, doll,” he says, last bite from his bowl gone after he finishes his sentence. “speaking of,” he stands up, “you guys are welcome to stay as long as you want, but i do have to start cleanin’ up and closin’ down.” the open sign was turned to closed about an hour ago, but the six of you were chatting and eating and osamu happily welcomed the company in the final hours of the day.
“ah, yeah, we gotta get goin’, actually,” kuroo says, reaching into his pocket to grab his wallet as he nods towards you, “yn’s got a big date tomorrow, gotta get her home early.”
“it’s funny when i make the joke,” you say, narrowing your eyes, “not you.”
“i thought it was funny,” bokuto admits.
“i’ll take the bill whenever you’ve got a second,” kuroo calls out, credit card in the air, but osamu waves his hand.
“don’t worry about it,” osamu calls out from the kitchen, walking back into the dining area as he wipes his hands on his apron.
“no way,” kuroo says, shaking his head.
“serious,” osamu replies, “on me.”
“that’s really nice of you, but we ate so much food,” akaashi reasons, gesturing to the table of plenty of empty dishes.
“just happy to meet yn’s friends,” osamu says as your friends meet him by the exit, “nice to share a meal with ya guys, thanks for the company.”
kuroo sticks his hand out of a handshake and osamu takes it despite how weirdly formal it feels for him. tsukishima offers a wave and a sincere thank you. akaashi pulls him into a half-hug and bokuto nearly tackles him. they all pour gratitude and appreciation, and you’re sure they feel special, but it’s nothing compared to how you’re feeling right now.
you feel like you could walk across the clouds, light as a feather, happy as a clam. you wrap your arms around osamu’s neck, pull him down into a soft, sweet kiss, and then pull him into a tight hug. he squeezes his arms around your waist, picks you up off the ground as he tightens his grip around you. “i’ll see ya tomorrow, sweetheart,” he says and then presses a kiss into the side of your cheek.
“can’t wait to see this mystery place,” you say, one last small peck on the lips for good measure before pushing the door open and joining your friends outside. you wave at him through the glass, and he waves right back.
“you’ve gotta cool boyfriend, yn,” tsukishima says once the doors close completely and the four of you start walking back to his car.
“not my boyfriend,” you say, smacking his arm, but you feel giddy, like you’re twirling your hair around your finger and your eyes are made of hearts as your finish, “yet.”
/\ /\ /\
there are quite a few things that you’re feeling while you lean against the arm of your couch, phone in hand, waiting for a text from osamu to tell you that he’s outside of your apartment, and it hits you very suddenly that amidst all of them, amidst the floating and the excitement and the curiosity, you can’t seem to find nervousness anywhere.
receiving osamu’s be there in 10 text, there are no jolts of anxiety or simmering bouts of apprehension that usually accompany a first date. you’re not worried about saying the wrong things or figuring out halfway through dinner that you’re incompatible or fearing that your date has the wrong idea of your level of interest.
if labels didn’t exist at all, the way that you and osamu interact would put you way past friends and casual hookups. if the circumstances of meeting for the second time weren’t as they were, tonight would feel less like a first date and more like a date night.
even the unexpected knock on the door doesn’t scare you. in fact, you’re not sure why you weren’t just expecting it, as if osamu would make you walk from your door to the car all on your own. you’ve been ready for the better half of an hour, shoes on and waiting by the door, not because osamu is late, he’s perfectly and attentively on time, but because you’ve been ecstatic about this all day. you open the door, already grinning before you can even see him, just at the presence of him on the other side.
when you see him, your beaming grin turns more into a smitten smirk, quieter and more fluttery, and despite the fact that you saw him less than 24 hours ago, you have to restrain yourself from tackling him. he looks good, great, perfect actually, and seeing him look so perfect doesn’t make you feel any less dressed up, just more excited to be here with him and to see where he’s taking you.
his eyes meet yours and they linger, helplessly and unapologetically, before skimming down your body, lips in a tight smile as he lets go a, “you look really great.” he leans in, palm resting against your jaw as he presses a sickeningly sweet kiss into your smile. you’re not exactly sure how you’re still upright, knees slightly weak as he snakes his arm around your waist, holding you tightly. “ready to go?”
you nod, follow him down the sidewalk to his closely parked car, and he helps you into the passenger seat, his hand moving with your waist to feel you against his palm for as long as he can.
the only turmoil you’re feeling is the fact that you have to behave all night when osamu looks like that and you’re both off the clock and out in a romantic environment and he keeps touching you like that and when the expectations of tonight are the same in both of your heads.
/\ /\ /\
osamu has a way of making even abandoned oceanside buildings feel romantic.
it wasn’t exactly the type of place that you were expecting osamu to take you on your first date, but for some reason, you trust him. actually, it isn’t anywhere near the images that you had in your head, but when he parks, turns off the car, a bit of underlying nerves in his demeanor, and turns to you with a look that says i know this is weird, and i don’t really know how to explain it without showing you so just trust me, you throw him one right back that says, of course i trust you.
though, it’s not adding up in your head either, where you are and how he looks. you stay in your seat until he opens your door because you know osamu enough to wait the extra few seconds. he doesn’t rush to grab something else from the backseat or trunk, doesn’t lead you down the river past the abandoned building to sparkling lights and a set up spot.
when you step out of the car, you walk with osamu, arm wrapped around his, towards the gravel path and the wooden fence separating the pathway from the cold ocean and rocky shore below. he leans against the rotting wood, hand sliding down your arm to grab yours. you can feel the breath that he takes in his grasp, see it in the rise of his chest from the corner of your eye.
and then he explains everything perfectly in a single sentence. “this is the restaurant that made me want to open my own.” he could’ve stopped there, sat in silence for the rest of the night, not have taken you anywhere else or done anything else, and you’re positive that your heart would have been full enough for ages. you hum, just a short breath of acknowledgement as you squeeze his hand, side step closer into him.
he continues on, “i used to go here after school with sumu, used to do homework in a booth in the corner, eat lunch and dinner when our parents weren’t around or were working late. it was my first job in the kitchen, brought my first girlfriend here, figured out my life inside those walls.”
“i didn’t even realize that i wanted to open up a restaurant until my senior year of high school, really. thought i’d be doin’ the same thing as sumu for the rest of my life until one day i came here on my own because sumu and i had a really bad fight and the owner made me this onigiri, something that wasn’t on the menu, and she didn’t charge me for it because i was uncharacteristically quiet.”
osamu shifts slightly, clears his throat at the memory. “and she said somethin’ like a good meal can heal the heart a little faster, and i remember that the onigiri was so good that despite the fact that my brother was,” osamu sighs and shakes his head, a tiny smile on his face given how relevant his next words are, “a fucking asshole, i still wanted to save half of it to show him how good it was.”
there are still remnants of a restaurant that you can spot now that you’re looking for them: peeks of booths behind paper-covered windows and a patio with a broken gate and places where tables used to be, faded letters on a sign that was situated long enough to cause the paint around it to dull. you can see him here when you close your eyes, through these different phases in his life, for different reasons, with different people.
“they closed down a few years ago, went out of business while mine was starting up,” he explains and you rest your head on his shoulder, “reminds me of how lucky i am that mine is still goin’, still kickin’. makes me think of the future too, of relocating or opening a new location.”
“it’s scary to think about losing it, terrifies me every day,” he says, shifting again, standing up off of the wood, his attention still on the abandoned restaurant, “but i think there’s something cool about being so scared to lose something… like when something in your life is so special that have no choice but to worry about what it would be like if it weren’t there.”
osamu turns to you, looks down into your eyes, and he doesn’t have to say it, you understand completely, but he just has to make sure, “kinda like how i feel about you.”
you already knew exactly what he meant before he said it, you were absolutely certain of the looming analogy he was making, but when it comes out of his mouth, your entire body feels warm.
you don’t know what to say, how to match the sentiment of what osamu’s just said to you, which words to choose to follow the foundations of dreams and what was essentially just a confession. really, the only words that feel right feel like they’re coming too soon.
it’s a weird dynamic that you have here, the notion that this is your first date, but in this moment, you feel like you’ve known osamu for years. and more than that, the two of you have had feelings for each other, feelings that have bubbled and grown and manifested despite the precarious situation between you two, for almost a year now.
you haven’t been dating him in the months you’ve worked at onigiri miya, but you’ve been learning about him and the people closest to him, you’ve seen him almost every single day, you spend hours with him after close just eating dinner with him and you come in on your days off to bring him a coffee from down the street. you’ve both been too busy navigating unsaid feelings and difficult situations to care about labels and professions, so maybe a first date isn’t too soon.
“we’re not eating here obviously, i just wanted to show ya,” he says, sheepishly rubbing his palm against the back of his neck when you don’t respond for a few seconds too long.
your eyes dart from his soft gray eyes to his lips and back again, not sure where they should land to tell him something like this. your breath is caught in your throat, not because you’re worried, but because you’re so excited. “i love you, samu.”
there’s a soft stun in his eyes that might’ve caused some form of nerves to stir in your stomach if you weren’t so sure about this, if you didn’t trust him so much. his eyes widen just a bit and you swear you can feel his heart skip a beat, or maybe that was yours. the pink tint that takes over the tops of his cheeks is warm when you caress your palm against it. you don’t need to hear it back. you heard it whispered between every single word of his story and screamed in the way that he looked at you just a few moments ago.
when his mind catches up to him, he leans down quickly, finger under your chin to tilt your lips into his. it’s soft and sweet and disgustingly romantic, but not as romantic as the way he pulls you closer as he pulls away from the kiss. “i love you, angel.”
you don’t need to hear it back, but fuck, is it really nice.
/\ /\ /\
now, this? this is exactly what you had in mind when you envisioned the place that osamu would take you for your first date, a restaurant with minimal overhead lighting and flickering candles on each table and no prices on the menu and more choices for wine than there were food.
when you walk to the table, osamu places a strong hand on your lower back, fingers curling around the fabric of your tight clothes, gripping and kneading into the fat of your hip as he makes polite conversation with the person who guides you to the private room with a chilling bottle of wine on small round table.
and you’d think that sitting across from osamu, unable to wrap his arm around your waist or throw his arm over your shoulder, would be easier. there is an entire table of distance between the two of you, but that doesn’t stop him. he moves his chair just slightly to the side of the round table, not sitting next to you, just closer, and now he can rest his arm on your knee and the inside of your thigh the entire night.
he doesn’t bring any attention to it either, doesn’t send you mischievous smiles or knowingly glances, he just talks to you as if he’s not driving you absolutely fucking insane right now, pushing his fingers under the hem of your skirt, dragging his nails against your thin tights. he asks you about your day and about what you and your friends did after you left the restaurant last night and about how you met your friends and nothing that’s coming out of his mouth is even remotely about how wet he’s making you right now with his feather soft touches and assuredly harsh grips.
the place is amazing, gorgeous, and the dinner is delicious, but the company is much better than the two combined and you’re having a really difficult time being patient, because as much as you don’t want this moment to end or this dinner to be over, you really fucking want this dinner to be over.
you get your thank you and gratitudes out of the way before the bill is even on the table and osamu doesn’t tease you for your assumptions in his refusal to split the check. you wait until he’s placed the cash with the check and closed the front of the little black book to mutter, “samu, i don’t know if i can wait until we get home.”
he knows exactly what you’re talking about the second that it leaves your mouth. he doesn’t play dumb or make you explain yourself, but he does ask, with narrowed eyes and a slightly tilted head, “is this a test?”
“no,” you shake your head, similarly narrowed eyes now, “why would it be a test?”
“you just complained about the fact that we’ve only ever fucked in bathrooms last week,” he explains, and you’re wondering if the drag of his fingers pulling on the thin fabric of your tights is habitual or not because it doesn’t stop even as you’re having this conversation.
“okay, fair, yes, i did do that, but,” you say, head tilting back and forth as you try to think of some form of difference between then and now, “yea i don’t know if i have an excuse. you’ve been teasing me all night and i’ve spent all week thinking about you and i really want you,” you say, low.
“you can’t wait until we drive back to mine?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
realistically, you probably could wait the drive home and maybe if you weren’t so comfortable with fucking in bathrooms, you would’ve easily done it, but if you didn’t have to wait to feel him against your skin and deep inside of you, why would you? you shake your head now, teeth scraping against your bottom lip, eyes soft and impatient.
he lets out a sigh, shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but these actions aren’t quite matching the loving touch he gives you or the hungry smile he’s wearing as he helps you up. “no use in beating around the bush then, huh?” he asks, nodding towards the restrooms in the back of the restaurant.
as you’re walking to the bathroom, your brain catches up with you, and you almost laugh at how easy the explanation for why you don’t mind doing this again is, “i think it’s because i know you’re going to take me back to your place for a glass of wine tonight, even after you’ve fucked me, and i’m going to spend the night and then in the morning, we’ll make true to all of the promises that we’ve made about never fucking in a bathroom again.”
osamu presses a kiss into the side of your head as he walks with his arm draped around your shoulders. “well, i don’t know about never,” he jokes, or maybe not jokes.
you don’t have time to protest or to agree because when you make it to the bathroom, you realize a very distinct lack of private bathrooms, of single rooms with lockable doors. you also don’t have time to hesitate or worry about logistics because osamu is tugging you into the women's restroom quickly and with less fear than he maybe should.
you can barely appreciate how nice it is in here either, only realize how clean and spacious the stalls are because osamu closes the two of you into the nearest one and you can’t stop giggling at how fast he made all of the decisions to end up here.
“what was that?” you ask, eyebrows knit together as you swivel your head in disbelief, “didn’t even have enough time to take in my surroundings or make a single choice.”
osamu tilts his head slightly, pushes you gently up against the non-stall wall, and your jeers and taunts melt away. “didn’t wanna make you wait any longer, bunny, been teasin’ you all night.”
a whimper leaves your lips in place of meaningful words, but that’s perfect for osamu. he smiles down at you, presses his palm into your hip to keep you pinned against the wall as he kisses down your neck and chest, tugging on the thin straps of your top until they fall down your shoulder.
his lips are everywhere but yours, drastically different than how he usually is, and you understand why very quickly. he pulls your top down, bunches it up around your waist as he quickly captures your nipple into his mouth. you move to let your head fall backwards at the feeling, but there’s nowhere for you to go, no room for your body to squirm in response to his wet tongue circling around your hard bud.
your other tit is in his hand, kneaded and massaged as his thumb flicks across your nipple, pointer finger migrating to roll it between his two fingers. “fuck,” he says, so quietly, between licks and soft suckles, “can’t believe it’s taken me this long to see your pretty fuckin’ tits, babygirl.”
there are knots and butterflies taking up the space in your stomach and the words can’t come out fast enough, “want you to fuck them, samu.” you’re much louder than he is, so loud that he throws you a warning look, turning his head from side to side to remind you of where the two of you are. the thought of not hearing osamu as much as you normally get to isn’t sitting right with you, but he’s gently coaxing you to your knees and fumbling with his belt and y’know what, you’ll get over it.
before his hardening cock slips between your soft tits, you capture his head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his thick head, taking as much of him into your mouth as you can. when you pull off, you let the spit drool off of your tongue and onto the length, spitting any remaining between your tits, and then you let him do the rest.
he holds your tits in both of his hands, has to stop himself from getting distracted by the weight of them or the softness of your skin as he thrusts forward between the fat. he tilts his head back, chin to the ceiling as he squeezes your tits around his cock, slit drooling precome onto your chest as he fucks through it.
every new part of your body that he gets to touch and hold and feel and fuck is just as perfect as the last, but so completely different. he watches your tits bounce as his balls hit your stomach, focuses on the ripples in your skin and the jiggle of the fat, and your pretty eyes looking up at him through your lashes. he compares the sensation to fucking your thighs and your mouth and perfect cunt, and fuck, he can’t stop the amount of precome leaking from the thought.
he’s silent, though, save for a few strong exhales and harsh swallows, and the longer that he’s fucking your tits, the tighter his grip is, the more powerful his thrusts are until he’s convinced that he’s going to come all over your face. you can feel his cock pulsing between your tits, his face focused on the sight, and you’ve fucked him enough times to know that he’s getting close.
you don’t say a word either, only place your hand on his hip until he slows his movements, and stand up and turn around. he doesn’t need you to explain anything to him, the way that you arch your back, both arms crossed over one another and pressed up against the wall above you is plenty tell enough. he reaches under your skirt, pulls your tights down just enough to spread your legs, and then pushes inside of you.
how full osamu makes you feel will never get old. it will never not be the most incredible feeling in the world, being filled to the brim, inch by agonizing inch until you can feel his balls brush up against the inside of your thighs. the first few thrusts inside of you are harsh, too harsh, the clapping echoes off of the walls, bounces right back to you, it’s so loud.
he’s slower after that, long, steady strokes inside of you that allow you to feel every inch, every throb. the small circles that he’s rubbing into your messy clit are only making your pussy clench around him tighter. you can’t tell him anything, can’t communicate how close you are or how good he’s making you feel, so you’re very grateful for how well he knows you, how easy it is for him to feel the signs.
he picks up the pace just long enough to make you come, sacrifices a bit of noise to make you drip all down his cock, to tighten around his throbbing cock, quivering gummy walls coaxing him just as close as you are.
you hear the door to the bathroom push open, voices accompanying it, and osamu stills, not moving a single muscle at the first notice, and then quickly moving with you onto the toilet to fuck you through the rest of your orgasm. he’s full sheathed inside of you, holding your legs up by the backs of your thighs as he lifts off of the toilet seat, thrusting into you, holding you in place above him as he pulls out.
you wish you could think more about how insane this is, but all you can think about is how good he’s making you feel, how safe and supported you feel in this wild position. you lean back into his chest, back of your head on his shoulder, and the second that you’re close enough, he kisses the side of your face, saying so soft and so slow that you’re certain no one else in the world hears it, “love you, pretty girl.”
as soon as you’re alone again, you scramble to your feet, turning around and facing him. he pulls you into him, tugs the sides of your tights back up and pulls you into his lap, legs as wrapped around him as they possibly can be. he kisses you, gently, and the tone of this entire hookup has shifted dramatically since he said those words to you again for the second time tonight.
he doesn’t ask or apologize as he grabs your tights between your legs and tears a hole in them big enough to slip inside of you again. he only laughs when he notices how shocked you look, can’t help it, and then kisses the corner of your mouth as the shock fades, replaced with the feeling of being incredibly full and extremely close.
it doesn’t take long at all for the eye contact and the rhythmic thrusts to get osamu just as close as he was before, head falling against your shoulder, arms wrapped around your lower back as he lifts off of the toilet to fuck his cock into you deeper, but he doesn’t have enough room to fuck you faster, needs more space to give you nice, long strokes. he leans your forward, both of your hands splaying out to brace yourself on either sides of the wall.
he fucks into you faster, harder, one hand under your lower back, the other on your stomach to pull you back onto his cock, and you’re so perfectly warm and tight around him, look so pretty under him like this. you can feel his cock begin to pulse, streams of come ready to spray inside of your snug walls, but he pulls out at the last second, shoots his load between your legs instead, ropes of thick come landing on the insides of your thighs, the fabric of your panties and the outsides of your tights.
the two of you stay like this for a second in this exact position as osamu catches his breath and lets you recover as well. when he finally moves, he sits back down on the toilet with you on his lap and he presses a soft kiss into the bottom of your jaw. he doesn’t need to look to reach for the toilet paper. you close your eyes at the feeling of the tissue on your skin as he cleans you up as best as he can for how unplanned his release was.
“i can’t believe you tore my tights,” is the first thing that you say when you’ve recovered enough to talk.
he laughs, kissing the bottom of your jaw again and squeezing his arms around you tighter. “i’ll buy you new ones, baby, i promise.”
it’s quiet in the bathroom. you feel okay enough to keep talking, only slightly on edge about someone walking in on the conversation, but you can’t wait until you’re outside to ask him, “are you gonna fuck me again, can we just establish that? no more beating around the bush or wondering how the other feels because the situation is complicated?”
“can you- can we just-,” you’re struggling to finish the question because it feels dumb, futile given the fact that you’ve already told him that you love him. but you suppose that the question is trying to be so much more than that, you just can’t communicate it correctly.
“oh, sweetheart, i want to do so much more than fuck you,” he says, hand moving up to cup your face, “i want to love you in every way possible.”
your face is so hot, stomach flipping, and the only words you can say in response are a breathy, “i can’t believe you just said the most romantic thing i’ve ever heard in a bathroom stall.”
“in a fancy bathroom stall,” he corrects, still beaming, “but then, i should probably wait until we go back outside to ask if you’ll be my girlfriend?”
“yea, samu! probably!” you say, but you can’t hide your matching smile.
“and is this before or after i invite you back to my place tonight?” he asks, and you’re 99% sure he’s fucking with you now, asking you all of these questions like this just to get you riled up. not that you were questioning the validity of them, just the timing and the tone.
you feel like you’re combusting. how are you going to explain to your friends and family about how you and osamu got together? on your first date? after you told him you loved him? after you fucked him in the bathroom of a nice restaurant? but don’t worry that was also after he told you that he loved you back. oh, but he asked you to be his girlfriend before you went back to his place and after you had sex in the bathroom, yes, you get it now.
you lower your head into his shoulder, exhaling a big sigh as he picks your head up and presses a kiss into your forehead, cheek, jaw, and then your lips. you’re wearing a slight pout even after he pulls away and he laughs. “alright, alright,” he nods, “how about i ask you now if you’ll go back to my place and i can ask if you’ll be my girlfriend there?”
“deal,” you say.“best deal i’ve ever made,” he says back.
♡ tori's polls ♡
fav moment of ch5 !!!!!!
taglist: @miyaluv127 @useless-bicth @mushasstuff @unstaaableaf @mimivinx @tsukiran @kurapika-1999 @hehatesmati @karmakarter @hunny-hotline @bella009888 @um-no-ok @footjib @mon-cherries @privthemis @agashki @renster05 @greeniegreengreen @tokyo-banana @fandomtrash5092 @coyloves @heathsuii @pasta-water @ran-rangasma @ayz-it-they @ellesalzar @dabibreeder @s4m1 @perry-gallifrey @barely-coherent @katsunarii @thisbicc @jaynawayna @levis-wheelchair @sugar-crumbs @miyaslvt @sheeshizzy @i0nlyr343mut @ajbutasimp @snazzyturtles @idontevenknowlolls @nicerthanu @angelgvtzzz @lovely-part-time-whore @lilac-ski3s @dovenu @heirxx @kur0obaby @tetsuswhore @alienvarmint @georgettesand @misfit-megumi @bijuu-naginata @captain-alien-america @ti-mame @buckys-hoeee @whos-curiosity-killed-the-cat @stargazing-girl @whoisgami @zany17 @privthemis @pennylanewrites
(if any of these are wrong, off and you notice it LMK so i can fix em!)
♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡
follow my writing updates tag: #♡ woah! tori's writing update! ♡ (pinned tag!)
#osamu x reader#osamu smut#osamu x reader smut#hq smut#hq x reader#hq x reader smut#haikyuu smut#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu x reader smut#miya osamu x reader smut#osamu x reader fluff#osamu fluff#osamu fic#hq fic#toriwritesshit#abd update!
308 notes
·
View notes
Text
save me from the nothing i've become
rated M | read it on ao3 | 3k words | next chapter
John’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. He had no idea that Abigail had settled down. “I– I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a feller,”
She tilted her head, appearing confused. Then, understanding washed over her. “Oh, John, I’m not…” She shook her head. “I’m not married.”
She could tell he was still (justifiably) confused, so she continued. “I’d like to introduce you to someone. John, this is my son, Jack… Jack Marston.”
//
1899. Three months after the dissolution of the Van Der Linde gang, John reunites with Abigail, whom he hasn't seen in 5 years. Unbeknownst to him, she's kept a part of him with her the whole time.
NOVEMBER 1894
That fateful evening, everything had seemed relatively normal. Until, of course, it wasn’t.
Abigail approached John at the campfire. The New Austin heat had cooled as the sun went down, and now there was a chill in the air. As such, he had been sitting with Arthur and Javier, the latter strumming his guitar somewhat aimlessly.
“John? Can I talk to you?” She asked.
“Yeah, ‘course.” He looked her up-and-down. There was something wrong, her body language was off, her voice a little shaky. She’d been acting standoffish and strange lately, so he’d been giving her space. Perhaps she was upset by it, and they’d likely argue. But then they’d go back to normal soon enough, as they always did.
She glanced at the other two men. Arthur was nodding off, and Javier was paying no attention, instead focused on his guitar. She cleared her throat. “Can we talk alone?”
John raised an eyebrow, but complied nonetheless. He grabbed his jacket off of the ground first, slightly put off by the fact that he had to leave the warmth of the campfire. Abigail lead him to the area overlooking the rocky cliffside, where two sideways barrels sat as makeshift seats. She gestured to one of the barrels. John sat, confused.
He looked at her, tilting his head. “You alright?” He was starting to get a little worried.
“No. Yes. I will be.” She sat down on the other barrel gingerly, folding her hands in her lap.
Her confusing answer did little to abate his worries. On instinct, he shrugged his jacket off and placed it around her shoulders. She accepted the gesture with little gusto.
“It’s okay. You can tell me,” he assured her.
Abigail nodded tensely. She shook her head, a humorless chuckle escaping her throat. “Christ, I just.. I’ve been tryin’ to figure out the best way to say this. Spent all day tryin’ to come up with the words and I still can’t.”
John was silent as he waited for her to continue.
She was quiet for a good while, staring up at the stars. The sky was an inky black, and the cosmos twinkled in a cloudless sky. “I just— I can’t keep doin’ this, John.”
His heart sunk. What did she mean by that? Couldn’t continue with their relationship? He couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong lately, besides being a little distant. But they both liked their space at different points, and it was never an issue before, so why would it be a problem now?
John opened his mouth. Closed it. “I… you’re breakin’ up with me?” He let out an awkward sort of breathy laugh as a nervous tic.
Abigail pursed her lips, mulling over her words. She shook her head. “No. I need out of this,” she gestured loosely. “This life, I can’t do it.”
What else would she do? She hated her life before. Was her old life really better than whatever existence she’d carved herself in the gang?
“So… you’d rather go back to prostitutin’?” He asked, indignant. He felt immediate regret upon seeing her expression. The way her mouth pressed into a thin line and her brow furrowed.
She stomped her foot angrily, a cloud of dust rising from the impact. “That ain’t what I’m sayin’ and you know it! Christ, you can be so—“ She cut herself off with a clench of her fists.
“So what are you sayin’, then? You leavin’ ‘cause ‘a me?” He stood up, rising to his full height. He was just about ready to storm off and leave.
“Will you get your head outta your own ass for a minute an’ listen to me? This ain’t helpin’ nothin’!” She threw her hands in the air, gesticulating with an air of anger.
John sat back down with a huff. “I’m sorry. Go on.” he forced out. He had so many questions, so much more he wanted to add. But he’d hear her out; deep down, he knew she was right. Arguing wouldn’t help her explain herself.
She shook her head sadly, not meeting his gaze. “It ain’t nothin’ against you, John. You know how much I care about you. But I gotta do what’s best for me.” She hugged herself — hugging the jacket, John’s jacket, closer.
“And?” he pressed.
Her arms were still crossed, but the ire was gone from her voice. “I need to feel safe, and livin’ on the run with a bunch’a criminals ain’t safe. I have to protect myself.”
Rationally, John couldn’t argue with her logic. But the thought of losing her hurt more than he could have ever thought.
He said nothing in response — Hell, what even could he say?
Abigail reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry, John. I ain’t doin’ this to hurt you.” She let out a sigh, and when she finally met his gaze, her eyes were misty. “I already know what your answer is gonna be. But I have to ask, ‘cause I’ll spend the rest of my life kickin’ myself if I didn’t. Will you come with me?”
His mouth went dry. There were two clear-cut paths laid out in front of him.
He could keep living this life — wild, lawless, dangerous. All the freedom he could want and all the danger that came with it. Going to sleep and wondering if he’d be greeted with a torched camp and a knife in his throat in the morning. The constant brushes with death and the exhilarating temptation it brought.
Or a life with Abigail. Freedom — but in a very different way; experiencing the wild, untamed world with the woman he loved by his side.
That meant no more gang. No more safety net. No more stability. No more Arthur or Hosea or Grimshaw or Dutch.
Dutch…
He thought of how Dutch would react, shuddering. He’d be labeled a traitor… and maybe Dutch would be right for it. After all, how selfish could he be? To leave his family, even if it was for Abigail? He couldn’t do that, could he? They needed him.
But Abigail wanted him. Yet she was willing to leave, seemingly with or without him. She’d survived much longer without him. True, she didn’t need him. But did the gang need him? Surely they did, he put his due effort in and in turn they took care of him. He owed the whole gang so much.
He bowed his head down, unwilling to see the look on her face when he rejected her. “I… I can’t.” You fucking coward.
Abigail nodded, seeming like she expected this. “I know,” she said sadly. She rose from the barrel she was sitting on. Silhouetted by moonlight, the grayish jacket on her almost looked like a pair of angel’s wings.
Perhaps, she was an angel, of sorts. She wasn’t meant to stay in Hell with him. She was meant to soar to the heavens, far above this life.
She was leaving. She was leaving him. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, a dull ache blooming in his chest. “Wait. Abigail?”
“Yeah?”
He couldn’t let her leave without saying it at least once. He exhaled shakily. “...I love you,” It felt only fair that if she was going to shatter his heart, he may as well give it to her fully.
She gave him a sort of sad smile. “I know you do, John. I know you do.”
And just like that, she was gone, like smoke dissolving in the air, having left his heart adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
OCTOBER 1899
FIVE YEARS LATER
Three months.
Three months had passed since everything had fallen apart.
He had rode until the horse he’d stolen (after Old Boy had been shot out from under him) until it dropped. Then another, and another after that, until he’d passed through West Elizabeth. He spent his time roaming New Austin for a few weeks, then he went north into New Mexico.
John wandered the desert almost as a ghost, wandering from place to place aimlessly. He was far enough away that he hadn’t seen any Pinkertons, and he’d done his due diligence to cover his tracks.
He hadn’t fully let his guard down yet, but he felt confident enough to stay in a settlement for more than a day or two.
That was how he had found himself in his newest haunt. For the southwest, it was a decently big town — one by the name of Brimstone. It wasn’t quite the size of Blackwater, but it was close to as large, and besides, it was a good place to lie low.
John hitched his newest horse in front of a water trough. “Go ‘head, get yourself a drink, miss. You’ve earned it,” he said, smoothing his hand down her mane.
He’d stolen the Gypsy Cob from a rather bold bounty hunter (who’d unfortunately caught a bullet in between his eyes). She was a pretty thing, white splashed-bay coated with soul-stirring blue eyes. “I’ll be back, lady. Think I’m gonna get myself a drink an’ find us a place to stay.” He had no reason to speak to the horse, but he’d been sorely lacking conversation as of late.
The horse, naturally, didn’t answer him back, getting herself a well-deserved drink.
The town’s saloon was right across from where he’d hitched his horse. It was a short walk inside, every step made a little more excruciating by the sun beating down on him.
God, he was filthy. He couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t caked in sweat.
The saloon, of course, housed degenerates of all sorts — the exact people John fit in seamlessly with. However, it was fairly empty, considering it was high noon.
All the better. Meant less people would talk to him. The wooden floors creaked under every step he took, drawing the attention of the few patrons inside.
John fished a coin out of Arthur’s his satchel and apathetically tossed it onto the bar.
The bartender looked at him curiously. “You new ‘round these parts, stranger?”
“Guess you could say that,” John replied impassively. “Gimme a whiskey.”
The bartender poured him a shot and slid it to him. “You look rough, partner.”
“Feel rough,” John muttered before tossing his head back and downing the shot. The acrid taste and slight sting in his throat made him feel a little bit less like a zombie.
The room was quiet for a moment. The only other patrons were either sad drunks half-asleep on the floor, or crusty old men playing cards.
It was a downright depressing environment. Then again, he supposed he fit in perfectly with that.
“We got rooms and a bath upstairs, if you need ‘em. Fifty cents for both.” The bartender informed him.
John sighed deeply. He reached into the satchel blindly, then placed a dollar coin on the counter. “That should cover me for about one bath and three nights.”
“Thank you kindly, sir. Can I get you anythin’ else?”
“Nope,” John replied tersely. “Just the bath.”
“Sure, partner. Bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the right.”
He muttered a thanks in reply and pushed himself away from the bar.
As swiftly as he could manage, John sorted himself out. There was no reason to be hurried, but months of being on the run, it had become a habit to do just about everything quickly. After all, he had no idea when he’d next have to pack his things and go.
That had been his reality ever since the Blackwater incident. For most of the year, there was always someone hot on his tail, only now he didn’t have the safety in numbers that being in the gang provided.
Firstly, set down the few items he owned inside his rented room. Soon after scrubbing himself clean in a rather tepid bath, shaving, and putting on (semi) clean clothes, John walked outside, the blazing sun still high in the sky. According to the bartender, there was an open-air market the next street over. He needed supplies; it had been almost two weeks since he’d bought anything, and his rations were getting uncomfortably low. Should he have to flee town suddenly, he’d probably be up shit creek without a paddle.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have any money. When Arthur gave him the satchel, there was a ridiculous amount of money with it.
Arthur…
It still hurt to think about him. Hurt to think about a lot of people. All the people he’d lost.
Hosea. Miss Grimshaw. Lenny. Sean. Kieran. Jenny. Mac. Davey.
Even Abigail, though she wasn’t a direct consequence of Dutch’s insanity. Though it had been years, he still felt her absence keenly. Almost like a wound that never quite healed. She haunted his thoughts nearly every day — but did she still think of him?
He had no idea if she was even alive. And now, it would be nigh impossible to find her with the bounty on his head.
Perhaps it was fate that he ended up completely alone. He’d spent his formative years alone on the streets, and now it was much the same.
Of course, the difference was that he knew how to take care of himself.
Still, he was just as alone as he’d been then.
The open-air market was much larger than he expected. Not only that, but it was rather crowded considering the time of day.
Merchants came from decently far, but considering Brimstone was the only town for miles, it made sense. The closest town was Tumbleweed, and it had taken him about two days to get from Tumbleweed to Brimstone.
He was perusing the lackluster selection of fruit — granted, it was hard to get a nice selection of produce all the way out in the desert. A kindly old woman was selling plums, upselling to him about how they were the best locally-grown fruit you could find in Brimstone.
His stomach growled at the prospect of having something fresh to eat. He’d been living off of canned food and jerky (when he remembered to stop and actually eat, that was) for months.
“How much will it be?”
“Five cents, sir,”
He fished around inside his satchel until he found a quarter and placed it in her wrinkled hand. Then, he grabbed a second plum. “Keep the change, ma’am,”
She grinned. “Bless you, young man.”
Sometimes, it was the simplest acts of kindness that made him feel a little less like an irredeemable monster.
John nodded at the old saleswoman, then continued to wander aimlessly. He didn’t exactly know what he wanted to buy, but he was hoping something else would catch his eye the way the plums did.
The trapper’s stand didn’t have much that interested him, but he did stroll by a little slower upon seeing a few of the pelts. Nothing was quite attention-grabbing enough, and after a moment he continued on.
Until he stopped dead in his tracks — because the woman just a few yards ahead looked eerily familiar.
It couldn’t be… could it?
Abigail.
He’d recognize her anywhere. The woman who had haunted his dreams every day since she had left his life.
She looked good. Happy. Relaxed. Healthy. All adjectives that couldn’t be used to describe himself.
She turned to face him — and when their eyes met, it was as if time had completely frozen. He forgot how to speak, how to stand, how to breathe. His mind played those last moments between them, how she had left him with his heart in her palm.
“Wait. Abigail?”
“Yeah?”
“...I love you,”
“I know you do, John. I know you do.”
“John?”
“Abigail,” he whispered. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. He pushed away the urge to run to her, scoop her into his arms and never let go, instead walking to her at a slightly hurried pace. He bumped into indignant townsfolk, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. His sights were solely on Abigail. John had complete tunnel vision; all he could focus on was her.
He was enraptured yet again by her bright blue eyes. They seized all the sadness in his heart when she looked at him.
“It’s, um, it’s really good to see you,” He finally said, dumbly. He mentally kicked himself. He’d been thinking about this moment for five years and that was the best he could come up with?
His only other want was to take her into his arms and kiss her like he’d never see her again. He had so many questions for her. How long had she been here? Why was she in Brimstone, the middle of nowhere, of all places?
“I heard what happened, it was in all the papers," she said, face scrunched in concern. “...You look like death.”
How he’d missed her. He thought about her so often, wondering what a reunion between them would be like.
"Thanks," he replied, accompanied by a dry laugh, "I feel like death."
She reached out to touch him, just a brush of her hand against his chest. Still, it made his heart flutter.
“...I thought you were dead,” she added quietly.
John could say the same about her. He sighed, trying to ignore the memories she unwittingly dredged up. “I was one of the lucky ones,”
“Karen? Arthur? Hosea?”
He simply shook his head, eyes downcast. There was so much he needed to tell her. It would surely take hours just to cover everything that had happened this year alone.
She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “God, I’m sorry,”
At that moment, a little boy — one with eyes that were the same blue as Abigail’s — decided to make his presence known, tugging on Abigail’s skirt insistently. “Mama, what are we doin’?”
John’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. He had no idea that Abigail had settled down and had children. “I– I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a feller,”
She tilted her head, appearing confused. Then, understanding washed over her. “Oh, John, I’m not…” She shook her head. “I’m not married.”
She could tell he was still (justifiably) confused, so she continued. “I’d like to introduce you to someone. John, this is my son, Jack… Jack Marston.”
#red dead redemption fanfic#rdr fanfic#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#rdr#johnigail#john marston x abigail roberts#john marston#abigail roberts#john marston fanfic#jack marston#rdr fanfiction#red dead redemption fanfiction#writers on tumblr#fanfiction#vittoria.doc
31 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
jaypyxis
closed.
kawaii-night666
kawaii-night666
serexana
Lotus
birdypng
⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆
chtounu
Chtounu