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joelsmochi · 1 year

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Dirty Lies

SUMMARY: Joel realized how much you matured since he last saw you 4 years ago and can’t resist you. WARNINGS: age gap [reader is 22, joel is 35], smut minors dni, no descriptions of reader aside from having shoulder length hair & having a girly sense of fashion, pervy!joel, shy-ish!joel, needy!joel, reader seduces joel. 18+ WARNINGS: infidelity if you squint (technicalities people), brief objectification, masturbation (f), oral (f receiving), dirty talk, reader was a lying little shit in high school but it paid off WC: 7.3k [please read author's note]

A/N: this was originally going to be a 15k word long smut as part of my LDR series, but........ I figured the more parts I can make out of it the more content I can produce, so here is part one of Us Against The World. Enjoy :) Edit: I’m rereading this and noticing a few typos, I apologize about those! Grammarly isn’t so helpful sometimes…

There you were in your blue tank top and yoga pants laying with your father’s dog in the middle of the front yard. You had just returned from New York a few days earlier from college, which your father amicably told Joel about over a few beers the week before.

Joel was expecting to see your 18-year-old self: long hair, sparkly eyeshadow, dressed in your late mother’s hand-me-downs from the 80s. But that was no longer you.

You dressed more modern and age-appropriate. Your hair was shorter, looked curlier, and you had highlights. Your eyebrows were thinner and your face was free from the loud makeup your teenage self was accustomed to. Joel would make jokes from time to time about how he believed you were just born with glitter all over your eyes.

Joel felt a little silly thinking you wouldn’t have changed. Who doesn’t make a drastic change when they leave high school? He hadn’t found the time to stop by and say hello but he wasn’t necessarily rushing it.

He’d met your father when you guys moved in next door in 1993 and he remembered you introduced yourself the second you saw him and Sarah playing outside despite your father’s protests.

You told Joel about how your dad was only being grumpy because he’d just turned thirty-six. Something about getting old. You didn’t bother to retain that information.

But here you were: all grown up. It reminded Joel of the day he overheard you and your best friend talking about how handsome you thought he was. He wondered if you still felt that way.

You sat up, feeling the sense that someone was watching you; your eyes scanned around until instinct made you look to the same window Joel was standing in.

For some reason, he didn’t feel embarrassed about being caught staring. He offered you an energetic smile and you took in his appearance.

He hadn’t changed much — his hair was a little longer and he had a few more fine lines across his face, but he was still the handsome man you remembered and admired.

You stand up and walk over to the window prompting him to open it.

“Hey, creep,” you teased with a big grin, “how ya been?”

Even your voice sounded different with its blend of Texas and New York. It was sultry with a hint of confidence. He tried not to let his weaknesses show.

“I’m doing all right… Sorry for starin’. Could hardly tell that was you,” he responded.

You just barely saw his eyes glance down to your chest, and it made you smirk.

Had this been any other man you’d have your fist meeting their jaw, but it wasn’t any other man. It was Joel. You hadn’t forgotten that he was attractive, but you did forget just how attractive. Or maybe his sexiness came with his age.

Not like it mattered anyways. It wasn’t like you could make a move.

“I been gettin’ that a lot… Dad tells me you’re a contractor now with Tommy.”

Joel nodded and said, “Yep, hated workin’ for other people, so…”

You were unsure if you were being awkward or if it was just… Awkward.

“Cool. Yeah, no, I get that. How is Tommy, by the way? Is he still really cute?” You giggled.

This made Joel roll his eyes. “Not cuter than me,” he answered begrudgingly. You watched how his eyes faltered again, trailing from your lips to your belly ring. “Your dad let you get that?”

You scoffed and waved your hand lazily as if you were swatting his condescending tone away. “One, Dad can’t tell me what to do with my body. And two, Tommy was always the cuter one.”

“S’that so?” Joel grunted as if he were tempted to laugh.

You gave him a cunning look and nodded. “Yeah. But you were always more handsome.”

Joel found himself blushing at the compliment, trying to wipe the redness away with his calloused palm to no avail.

You let out a quiet teetering laugh and looked back to make sure your dog was okay for a moment. “He get that dog after I left?”

Joel focused on you again and confirmed it once he noticed the dog again. “Yeah. I think your dad likes having something to take care of.”

You looked back into Joel’s eyes and bathed in them for a moment. He seemed more like himself, more certain of who he was. It made you a little sad to know how much time has passed, but maybe it was better this way.

“He was always like that. I think it started after… Well, you know.” You took a deep breath and tried to change the subject. “How’s Sarah? She still my little rockstar?”

“She’s more of a pop star, now,” he said. “She still wears that bracelet you let her have, the… The silver one.”

Your chest swelled with joy and you couldn’t contain your excitement. “Really?! Aw, man, that’s so cool. I remember I would throw a fit if I didn’t have that damn thing on.” The dog barking grabbed your attention once again. He was just barking at the mailman but settled once the worker started petting him. “Sorry!” You shouted before returning your focus to Joel. “Well, Joel it was nice seeing you. We should… Catch up. I could use some… Life advice.”

“I’m free tomorrow night if that works?” He tried to contain his excitement.

You slowly backed away, giving him one more nod and smile. “Perfect. Just come over whenever like old times.”

Joel decided to be respectful enough to not ogle over your ass as you walked away. He turned away from the window wondering how the hell he was going to get over this… Crush?

Is that what this was? A crush?

He decided to not torture himself with his intrusive thoughts.

“Hey, kid,” Joel greeted. You rolled your eyes at the nickname but greeted him back. He entered the backyard slowly trying to get a feel for the mood. He sat next to you in the extra papasan chair and snatched your beer out of your hands. You glared at him, unable to hold it for long when he shot you that infamous smile. “Everything all right?”

He tasted your strawberry chapstick around the rim of the glass and let the taste linger on his tongue. His eyes fell to your lips as he thought about how the chapstick would taste coming straight from you. Raw and unfiltered.

You held your breath, wishing you had enough courage to ask your father these questions. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust your father, you just wanted an opinion from an outside perspective. You were hoping Joel wasn’t as inclined to protect or embarrass you as much as your dad.

“There’s this guy I’ve been dating for a few months now… I…” You sigh frustratedly with the tension surrounding the question meanwhile Joel grew tense and jealous? He asked himself why that was the way he felt about you having a boyfriend.

You apprehensively said, “We had sex a few times before I left and it wasn’t…good.”

“Okay?” Joel asked as a way to tell you to keep going.

“How should I go about telling a guy that?”

He cleared his throat uncertain of how to answer your question. He didn’t want his newly discovered feelings to cloud his judgment as the chances of you two becoming a thing were slim to none. He wouldn’t want to sabotage you or your relationships. Especially when you trusted him enough to ask such a burdening question.

Joel accepted the awkwardness of the topic and put it aside. He didn’t want you to feel embarrassed. “Well, have you tried suggesting things that he can do to make you—it feel good?” He asked.

“Yeah, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s me,” you admitted.

“Does he do the things you ask him to?”

“Kinda?” Your cheeks flushed and your eyebrows furrowed tightly.

He gave you a look that said come on now.

“He like… Does half of it?” You could just die of embarrassment right now.

“Wh—? How does he do half of it?”

You groaned obnoxiously and chugged some more beer. “I don’t know?! He does what I ask for like five minutes and then just does what he’s used to I guess.” He watched you poke your bottom lip out to pout as you stared into the glass bottle. “I really like him, Joel.”

“Does he like you?”

“Well, yeah,” you said as if it were obvious. “Fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He inhaled sharply through his teeth and stole your beer bottle again. “All I will say is that a man that truly likes you would try harder, especially during sex, and especially if you’ve told him how he could make you feel good.”

“So… What do I do?”

“Do you think he likes you?” He asked again. “Think about it for a second. What does he do for you?”

“Well, he…” Your voice trailed off into silence as your mind went blank. Surely this guy did something for you to make you like him, right? But anything that did happen to come to mind was the bare minimum. You didn’t want to give Joel the satisfaction, so you said, “I think it could work.”

“Who’re trying to convince? Me or yourself?” He saw the frustration on your face and propped a finger below your chin to make you look at him. “If a guy really likes you, sweetheart, you wouldn’t have to ask more than once,” was all he said after he took a sip of your beer.

“What do you mean?”

Joel’s sigh almost sounded irritated. “I mean… A guy that truly likes you and deserves you won’t make you suffer through sex. A real man’ll take care a’you.”

“A real man, huh?” You bantered.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Like you?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Do you like me?”

Why the fuck did I ask him that?! You thought as soon as the words left your mouth.

Joel didn’t couldn’t answer right away. His voice just stumbled over his tongue and out of his mouth.

“I think you’re a sweet girl,” he finally said, “and you’re smart enough to know who’s worthy of your time and attention. Doesn’t sound like it’s him.”

You couldn’t defeat the growing smirk on your face as he fought the urge to look over your body. He wasn’t so good at hiding it.

You turned your body in the chair slightly and dauntingly lifted your leg to touch your bare toes against his calf. You watched his breath get caught in his throat and your mouth fell open in awe at how easy it was to get him riled up.

He looked at the ground, not moving a single inch of his body. He was overwhelmed by your confidence.

The amount of attention Joel’s given you in the last ten minutes already seemed to surpass the attention your “boyfriend” (can you even call him that?) had given you.

Your foot trailed up Joel’s leg before you rested it upon his knee; Joel’s eyes screwed shut as if he were praying to not get caught like this, but your voice brought his gaze back to you.

“You didn’t answer my question, Joel,” you whispered seductively. Your foot left his leg and you got on your knees in the chair, then you leaned forward, hands around the rim of his own seat, and leaned in devilishly close to his face. “Do you like me?”

He swallowed hard, his fingertips turning white as they pressed into the bottle.

His lack of an answer caused an impatience to grow inside you. You leaned in even closer and strengthened your eye contact with him. Your fingers absentmindedly trailed over his knee to the midpoint of his clad thigh.

His spine shivered and his arms grew goosebumps. “Why don’t you have this attitude with your boyfriend?” He asked lowly in a poor attempt to further evade answering you.

You snickered and looked over his beer-covered lips, craving to taste them. “If I’m being honest he’s technically not my boyfriend… You’re tellin’ me things about men and how they should act. It’s making me feel like… He just can’t handle me.”

He smirked at you, fighting the way his body pleaded to touch yours. “If that’s the case then, sweetheart, I don’t think he’s the one for you.”

“Oh?” You got even closer, your nose touched his and you heard him choke on his breath. “Do you think you could handle me?”

He chuckled rashly and straightened his posture, now sensing you tense up. “I could,” he confidently confessed. “But this ain’t right, sweetheart.”

“Please,” you scoff, “you can’t keep your eyes off of me.”

“If you keep actin’ like a spoiled brat you won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

“Maybe that’s what I want,” you retorted, a cocky essence in your eyes.

“That so?”

“Maybe you can show me how a real man should be taking care of me.”

Joel had to stop himself from speaking as it would have potentially led to consequences. His flustered cheeks and wide lustful eyes created a hunger you’d never felt before.

However, you wanted Joel to earn it. Push him to the point of begging for just a taste of you. You needed to know if he craved you. Something you longed for from other men that just could not deliver.

You hovered your agape lips over his so dangerously it tickled his nerves. You gave him a soft kiss on the cheek then sat back in your original position.

Joel was both relieved and disappointed with the kiss. Relieved it didn’t end up with his head buried between your thighs, and at the same time disappointed that it didn’t.

For the next few days, you settled into your room as best as you could and got everything how you wanted it to be. Well, almost. You wanted a shelf to go over your closet so that you could display your most prized possessions.

When the idea sparked in your head you remembered that your dad said he was going to be gone for most of the day. You figured you could hold off for one more day. That was until you heard some power tools and heavy grunting from beyond your window.

Joel.

Joel had followed your lead as best as he could and you had to admit that the lack of physical contact was making it harder to resist him.

You felt a bit strange, however. After all, this is Joel. Sweet, caring, next-door neighbor Joel. You and your friends had a crush on him and his brother, Tommy, sure, but this wasn’t that. And you surely weren’t a child anymore. But still, you couldn’t help but think of how strange the dynamic is.

It wasn’t enough to stop you from taking your sweatpants off and changing out of your t-shirt into a stretchy tank top. You poked your head out of your window and shouted Joel’s name a few times until you successfully got his attention.

“Hey!” You said with a proud smile.

“Hey, kid!” He shouted back.

“Can you build a shelf for me? I wanted to get my room done today, but my old man’s gone!”

“Right now?” He tried to seem indifferent.

You just smiled harder and motioned for him to come over. “Please?!”

He huffed and looked at his half-done project, ultimately deciding to help you instead. The sooner he helps you the sooner he could create distance, he figured. Though deep down he knew that wasn’t the real reason.

You patter downstairs to unlock the door for him. He could see from the corners of his eyes that you were half naked, only in white panties and your top.

“Couldn’t a’put pants on?” He asked grumpily as he walked past you, not giving you the satisfaction of staring. You shut and lock the door before guiding him upstairs.

“Yeah, but I figured since you were doing the job for free I could at least give you something to look at,” you flirted. He didn’t even bother trying to stop you.

“What d’ya need done exactly?” He asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“I want those shelves to hang over my closet right… Here. I have a power drill here already, I just couldn’t figure out how to get it.”

He was doing a decent job at keeping his eyes anywhere but on your body, but in his mind he had already taken your clothes off and fucked you against the wall.

“S’alright, I can get it for ya,” he said while giving you an earnest look.

“What?” You asked after a moment of silence.

“Nothing,” he answered with a shrug and a smirk. You lightly smack his arm and plop down on your bed.

You lay on your stomach and flipped through a fashion magazine, occasionally smelling some of the perfume samples. You snuck glances at Joel’s broad back as he made sure everything could be lined up, smiling to yourself at how efficiently he worked.

“How’s your boyfriend?” Joel randomly asked after about ten minutes. You looked at him through your eyelashes as he peaked over his shoulder.

You stifled your laugh and began looking at the magazine again before answering him. “He actually ended things with me two days ago. But like I said, he technically wasn’t my boyfriend. He never asked.”

“Oh… You doing okay? Seemed like you really liked him.”

“I like someone else more,” was all you said. Joel took a second, then just nodded even though you weren’t looking at him anymore.

“This someone have a name?” He asked after a few more moments of silence.

Joel’s internal conflict was teetering between giving in and giving up. He wasn’t sure why he was so drawn to you, but that’s what fueled his filthy thoughts even more.

“Yep, he sure does.”

Your tone was the exact opposite of what you were feeling. You felt hot and desperate, but you (almost) fooled him by sounding bored. He didn’t want to give into your childish game of beating around the bush, so he kept his mouth shut and began hammering a nail into the wall.

Suddenly you had an idea. An awfully sinister one.

You tossed the magazine on your nightstand and sat up in the bed, leaning into a few pillows and angling yourself so that Joel could get the perfect view if he dared to look.

Your hands traced uneven lines and patterns over your clad breasts and you gasped softly at your nipples perking up quickly. He couldn’t hear you over his hammering.

You rid yourself of your wet panties, kicking them to the edge of the bed. You spread your legs and began working big and slow circles over your sensitive clit. You used your free hand to pinch your nipple over your shirt, the combination of stimuli making you give a more audible moan.

Joel didn’t think much of it at first — he figured you were moving around on the bed to get more comfortable. So when the next moan came and he stopped his work to look at you he was taken aback, to say the least.

He said your name, but you shook your head in protest. “Is this okay?” You asked, innocence spreading across your face.

He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe.

“Joel?” You snapped him out of his daze. “S’this okay?”

He nodded and watched your trembling hands dip down into your glistening slit, collecting your wetness and coating it over your clit. Your body was stiff with anticipation, watching him watch you.

He took in all of your beauty like the way your eyes fluttered halfway shut and how you bit your plump lip to quiet your mewls. One hand cupped your breast so gently and the other rubbing steady, taunting circles over your sensitive bud. He watched the way you pleased yourself and let this picture of you engrave itself into his memory.

One day, Joel thought, I’d be able to make her feel as good as she makes herself feel.

He ignored the hardening of his cock pressing against his jeans, not caring enough to touch himself if it meant he didn’t get to feel you. He found the situation quite sexy and the lack of physical contact made him feel good.

You were showing him that he didn’t need to touch you or talk to you. He didn’t need to do a damn thing. All he needed to do was stand there and let you look at him.

Your moans were quiet and soft, barely heard by him. You squeezed your nipple harshly and jolted at the shock of electricity it sent throughout your body, your eyes screwing shut and your legs curling up into an almost fetal position at the feeling.

He saw you swallow the lump in your throat as you looked into his eyes again, soon scanning over his body and imagining how he would feel on top of you. The imagination was more than enough to get you going.

You imagined he felt strong and heavy above you, trapping you with his burly arms and using his lean thighs to keep your legs open for him as he rolled his hips to meet yours.

You absentmindedly curled your middle and ring finger into your creamy pussy, chasing after the feeling of being stretched out by Joel. Your pussy effortlessly squelched as your discharge poured out of you like a waterfall, coating your plump ass cheeks in your juices.

You got a bit louder but remained mindful of the open windows just a few feet away. You watched the movement in his jeans from his cock that twitched, longing for just some fucking relief. But he didn’t move, he didn’t even adjust his pants. He wanted you to know that you were the one in charge and that he was willing to suffer just for you.

“Joel,” you breathed out in between helpless murmurs.

He almost caved at how sweetly you said his name like you were asking for help. You reached even further into your sex, pressing into your sweet spot carefully. You pretended it was him.

Allowing your eyes to shut and your mouth to open, your mind dove deeper into the fantasies of Joel. You imagined him fucking you slowly, steady enough to not make your bed squeak too loud. Your fingers followed your mind, bumping against your g-spot the same way you wanted him to: carefully, yet forceful.

Joel felt awkward just standing there watching you, but you looked so beautiful. Sprawled out just for him with your fingers dipping into your sopping cunt as if you were made just for him. He saw your shoulders twitch and a hiss escaped your lips.

A ripple of ecstasy shocked your nerves, your walls tighten around your fingers, and your clit tensed up with a tickling sensation.

Your face twisted from the overwhelming feeling that began to encapsulate you from your core to your mind. Your moans became shallow and louder. Your clit throbbing beneath your palm motivated your to work your fingers faster. You fucked yourself with more desire than you had before, still twisting your perky nipple between your other fingers.

You were a lot more gentle with yourself than Joel would have expected. You took your time, didn’t overwhelm yourself.

He knew he loved it when the ever-growing pressure inside of you burst into a million flames throughout your trembling body. He saw that the slower you were with yourself the more intense the orgasm was.

He accidentally groaned at the sight of you: clinging to your bedsheet with the very hand that toyed with your breast, eyes refusing to open from the immense pleasure soaring through your veins, curling up into a ball because your body couldn’t comprehend just how good you were feeling.

He noticed how your cum gushed around and below your fingers creating a wet spot on your blanket. He carefully watched as you opened your eyes, still slowly fingering yourself. You continued to feel your orgasm, exploring how much of it you could endure.

You moved your free hand to your clit and rubbed tiny and fast circles around it. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you refused to moan anything but his name.

You shoved your fingers deep inside of you to press against your g-spot relentlessly. Your toes curled at the mix of pleasure.

You knew your orgasm was coming back more powerful than before already, and you braced yourself when your walls flexed against your fingers basically forcing them out; you chewed hard on your lip and laid your stiff fingers flat against your clit to rub from side to side at the arrival of your squirt. You squealed behind your swollen lip and let your squirt splash everywhere.

Joel palmed his rock-hard cock for some relief as he watched in awe at how you came for him. You looked so fucking delicious soaking yourself in your juices. His heart punched against his chest and his mind nearly blank, only filled with you.

Your lips formed an ‘o’ shape as you eased up on your clit. You let out sweet hums of bliss and you opened your eyes again, carefully analyzing his body language.

He practically reeked of inferiority. He was your marionette, your toy, whatever you wanted him to be. He didn’t recognize you in the best way possible. You were an unwrapped present that he couldn’t wait to open and play with. Your confidence grew at his puppy eyes that were low and dark, filled with a need to serve you.

Your fingers collected some of the creamy nectar between your folds before you brought it to your mouth and darted your wet tongue out to taste it.

You never broke eye contact once, observing how his body shuddered at the filthy action. His breath was heavy, his chest heaved in anticipation. You stuck your fingers inside of your mouth moaning at the salty goodness coating every single taste bud.

It wasn’t until your fingers dropped back down to your side and you gave him a shit-eating grin that he finally looked away, sighing loudly.

He felt ashamed of himself.

He’d known you since you were a child.

How could he ever look you in the eye again?

How could he ever look your father in the eye again?

You slipped your panties on again while he wasn’t looking and just grabbed your magazine, flipping through the pages again like nothing ever happened though the wet spot on your bed clearly said otherwise.

When Joel saw you had returned to your previous activities he did the same. Drilling and hammering your shelves onto the wall like nothing fucking happened.

“Here you go sir, you have a lovely day,” you chirped at the customer as you handed him his food waiting until he left. You turned around to straighten up the counter behind you when the bell on the door jingled. “Hello, give me just one moment and I’ll be with you!”

You gave the counter a lazy wipe with the wet washcloth before tossing it into the sink nearby and turning around, being met with a smirking Joel.

“My, my, you working at a burger joint? Never thought I’d see the day,” he teased.

You made a face and told him to shut up. You tried not to notice the sheer layer of sweat that coated his partially exposed chest. “What can I get you, sir?”

His face contorted with arrogance and he placed a hand over his chest. “Sir? You callin’ me sir now? Oh, you are just too cute.”

With a roll of your eyes, you huffed out a stream of air, waiting for him to stop fucking with you.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, dropping the act. “Can I get a burger and some fries?”

“You don’t want a drink?” You asked before writing his order down quickly and sliding it through the kitchen window.

“Are you tryin’a make me tip you more?”

You shrugged. “Nah, it’s just that the cola here is really good.”

“Mmm,” he hummed as if he didn’t believe you.

“If you want a cola I’ll make it extra cold for you,” you whispered as if you were telling him a dirty secret.

“Mhm, okay. Fine, I’ll take your word for it. Gon’ and get it f’me then.”

“You can ask that a little nicer,” you scoffed. You walked off, breathing in a gust of smoke on your way to the soda machine. “F’here or to-go?!” You shouted.

“Mm, I was gonna get it to go, but I think I’ll stay and keep you company.”

You could just hear the smile in his voice.

“Awe, how thoughtful of you,” you bantered before rinsing out a clean cup and filling it with ice. The cook called out the order was ready and you thanked him before finishing up with Joel’s drink. You grabbed the tray and walked over to the end of the counter where the stools sat, setting the food in front of Joel with a weak smile.

He watched you closely as you leaned onto your elbows waiting for him to try his food.

“What r’ya doing workin’ in a restaurant? Didn’t you graduate for like… Fashion or some shit?” Joel asked, unable to keep his smile down at how pretty you looked in your uniform: a teal skirt and a mustard yellow shirt, but so, so tacky. You hated the fucking outfit, it was everything you would never wear, but Joel thought you made it look good.

“I did,” you confirmed, “but I wanted a humbling job before I truly entered the world of fashion.”

Joel’s thick and somewhat dirty fingers unraveled his greasy burger after he dumped the fries out chaotically. He took an unnecessarily big bite, not seeing how your eyes watched the trail of juice trickle down the corner of his mouth to his chin before he swept it set with his thumb.

“Humbling, hmm?” He questioned before swallowing his barely chewed bite. “You’re a wise girl, you know?”

“So I’ve been told,” you smugly replied. You stole a fry off of his tray and smiled at his frowning face while eating it before washing it down with his fizzling soda. “Best drink that ‘fore it goes flat.”

You walked away momentarily to help a customer that just walked in; she only wanted a dollar milkshake so you told her not to worry about paying. You took a dollar and some change from your tip pocket and put it in the register before grabbing a styrofoam cup and packing her cup.

Joel noticed halfway through you making the shake that whenever you tapped the bottom of the cup against the counter your breast jiggled against your arm. He felt the lady nearby staring at him so he turned his head just enough to see the mix of disgust and concern on her face.

If only she knew how filthy you were for him just last week…

He didn’t care enough to stop though, he just went back to looking at how your clothes hugged your body.

You finished up her shake and popped a lid on it before grabbing a straw and walking back to give it to her.

Joel heard the lady ask if you were okay, and he promptly rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and tried his best to not laugh. You were confused by her question, simply nodding your head and saying, “Yeah?”

She looked at Joel once more, choosing not to say another word before leaving.

“Fuck was that about?” You asked, watching her walk away.

“She saw me starin’ at your tits,” he said between obnoxious bites. “If only she saw—“

Your eyes widened. “Do not finish that sentence.”

“Whatever you say, doll,” he teased before taking another bite.

You pretended to be grossed out by seeing the chewed-up food in his mouth as he spoke, swatting his hand gently. “You’re so gross.”

“You love me,” he quipped with a simper. He took a sip of his drink, humming at how refreshing it felt. “This is good,” he told you.

“Told ya.”

“What time are you out?”

You looked at the door when your manager came in, apologizing for taking longer than she expected.

“You’re fine, it’s a slow day,” you told her as she walked to her office. You looked at Joel and slammed your book and pen on the counter near the register. “I’m out now. Why?”

“Your dad asked me to pick you up.”

You felt a rush of worry. “Why? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, honey, everything’s fine. He forgot about pickin’ you up today and got drunk with his buddies and called me—well, he called Tommy. Said he wouldn’t be back home ‘til tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow at the mention of his brother’s name. “Oh? Well, why isn’t Tommy here?” You strutted around the counter and stood next to Joel as he inhaled the last of his food.

“Think you know why,” he grunted.

Anxiety pang inside of your chest, but you convinced yourself it was excitement. You were hoping that he wanted to get you alone somewhere and fuck you into the next week.

But you didn’t want to seem desperate. You kept a straight face, waiting for your boss to come back out before getting your things and punching out.

You followed Joel to his Chevy and thanked him when he opened the door for you. He huffed when by the time he got inside the car himself you were already flipping through his book of CDs.

“I got a good one in already—“

“Is it The Writing’s On the Wall by Destiny’s Child?” You interrupted after you found said CD.

“No, b—“

“Then it’s not what I want to listen to.”

Joel endured your (arguably bad) singing for the ten-minute ride back to your house. He thought about a few things in that ten minutes:

-Sarah wasn’t home, so he didn’t need to worry about food (or getting caught), so this time was optimal to make a move on you.

-If he were to make a move on you, then you two wouldn’t get caught.

-If he were to make a move on you, how exactly would he do it?

Once he arrived in his driveway, you both stepped out of the car and he walked over to your side.

“You not working tonight?” You asked.

“No, we finished early.”

You looked at him with lush eyes and bit the inside of your mouth, a flirty smile coaxing your lips. He looked hopeful for something, anything.

“I was just gonna watch TV all night,” you started, “and maybe make some dinner. I know you just ate, but you and Sarah are welcome to come over.”

“Sarah’s at a friend’s tonight, doing some studying,” he answered. His voice trailed off as if he weren’t finished speaking his thought aloud, but you picked up where he reluctantly left off.

“Do you want to come over, then? Just you?”

He looked around the quiet neighborhood as if he had to think about what he wanted. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

You lead him to your house, kicking your shoes off at the door and he followed. He felt unsure of his decision. He wondered if this night would play out platonically and just be filled with conversation and dinner, or if this was truly the beginning of a secret he’d have to keep forever.

“Spaghetti okay?” You asked him once you both entered the kitchen, decorated with oranges and reds, and yellows, reminiscent of your late mother. You tossed your half apron on the island before making your way to the refrigerator.

You heard his feet patter on the linoleum quickly but before you could turn around on your own Joel did it, pinning your back against the refrigerator and knocking down some of the bottles inside of it.

You gasped when his fingers peacock over the outsides of your thighs, gripping at the hem as a means to pace himself.

His eyes were bright yet lustful as his proximity alone sucked the air out of your lungs. Your chests heaving against each other’s created the only other physical contact you had with him.

He then dropped to his knees before you got the chance to speak; his calloused hands rose beneath your skirt, hiking it up enough for him to pull your wet panties down to your ankles. You stepped out of them for him and he lifted one of your legs over his shoulder before meeting his mouth to your clit tongue first.

You moaned at how he just dove into it, not bothering with kissing or easing you into it. Your digits laced through his messy curls while his tongue coated itself in your juices.

His tongue did crazy laps around your clit and he smacked a couple of firm kisses in between his licks. You tried to watch his work but your stupid fucking skirt was in the way. You settled, however when his eyes opened, the only visible part of him from your view.

You tasted so good to him, he tasted your day of work mixed in with your salty precum and he couldn’t get enough of it. He moaned when you tugged at his hair, burying his face as deep as he could and closing his eyes.

You let out a stream of obscenities while using your calf to push into his back, afraid that if you didn’t hold on tight enough he’d vanish.

He wrote out his full name over your clit like he was casting a spell that anything you or someone else touched you there you would only think about him.

You were amazed at how good he was eating you out — you didn’t think he’d be bad. You just didn’t know it could feel this good. It was like you felt him touching and kissing and licking all over your body, swimming in an endless pool of dissolution.

His touch was decadent through remembering how careful you were with yourself. He wanted to cater to you and to make you feel as good as you made yourself. And on top of that, he just really wanted to eat your pussy.

Savor it.

Taste it.

Drink you until you fucking ran dry and begged him to stop.

Nothing could have torn his lips away from your pussy. Hell, someone could have walked in and he’d still keep going.

“Joel,” you gasped, throwing your head back and grinding on his face.

He loudly moaned, tightening his grip around your thighs and wagging his head furiously from side to side to provide more stimulation.

Your hips bucked into his face roughly and you screeched, pulling even tighter on his hair.

“Joel, oh—fu-fuck!”

He smirked and pulled at the skirt to unveil his eyes again. His dick angered in his jeans, but he ignored it. He’d much rather focus on the way you writhed from his touch. Your panting growing heavier fueled his already intense movements. He began to suck while still shaking his head earning another screech from you.

You never felt out of control with how loud you were before. Every motion sent a million shockwaves throughout your body. You always did a good job at keeping quiet enough so that the neighbors wouldn’t hear, but fucking hell was Joel the one to break that evergreen streak.

You felt his hot breath collide with the fluids coating your sex and his nails leave indents on your flesh.

His tongue darted out to collect a stream of your cum, but his nose butted against your clit as he continued shaking his head making your hips buck once more. Then he realized… He got to stimulate your sensitive bud and lick between your folds.

He loved it.

Your moans became more distressed and uneven; he felt you chasing that high. He wanted you to cum so fucking badly. To let all of your pent-up cum pour over him.

You held the back of his head gently and he angled it just right enough for you to ride his face.

“Use my fucking face,” he moaned loud enough between your legs for you to hear. “Use my fucking face to cum.”

Your body gave in finally at his hoarse voice; your hops sped up, still using his nose and lips to overstimulate yourself. The orgasm was forceful, your moans strident.

Joel felt a pool of your cum leak out and drip down his chin onto his neck. He watched you crumble and curl into him and he was attentive enough to hold you steady while your balance dissipated.

Your head was dizzy and your vision blurred. You slowly halted your movements and just stood there being held by him while he placed light, but loving kisses along your dripping cunt.

He finally pulled his face out from underneath your skirt and carefully put your leg down before standing. He tucked some loose hairs back or behind your ears, then caressed your cheek and gave you a peck.

You wiped some of your cum off of his wet chin with your thumb and held it up to his mouth which he gladly sucked on. He grinned at you afterward and fixed your skirt for you.

The silence was soothing because frankly, neither of you knew what to say. It left you speechless, but that could just be the aftereffect of your climax.

The night was beginning to close in sooner than either of you wanted it to. You two just talked, truly catching up on the past four years. He was a lot funnier than you remembered, your cheeks were aching from how much he was making you laugh.

"You are a real gentleman, Joel Miller. What can I say? Dinner and an orgasm?!"

He lifted you up from your spot on the couch and pulled you into his lap so that you were straddling him. "I don't have to be," he murmured against your lips. His fingers flexed into your feverish skin, holding you upright and close by. He chased you with his lips until you finally let him kiss you. "Be honest with me... Did you really think I was handsome in high school?"

Your face grew warm and you hid behind your hands in embarrassment. "Oh, my God."

"Why are you actin' all shy now?"

"Because you weren’t supposed to know about that."

"Know about what exactly?"

You crossed your arms, deciding to let him win this time. "You want details?"

He smirked and leaned back to get more comfortable.

"Well... I used to lie and tell my friends that we fucked," you admitted.

"Really?" Despite his surprise the smirk never left his face. If anything it grew wider.

You sheepishly nodded. "I used to tell them how good you were. Everything you would do to me."

"What would I do to you?" His cock was already throbbing against his jeans, and just like every other time, he ignored it.

"You would fuck me up against the wall," you explained. "Sometimes, you would bend me over the edge of the bed and spank me for being naughty. Or just 'cause you felt like it. I'd even tell them about how you played with my ass so gently because you didn't want to hurt me."

Every word went straight to his dick, making it jerk and prod your thigh.

"Maybe I do need to bend you over and spank you for all that lyin' you were doin'. Your friends probably think I'm some creep now," he said; his tone wasn’t scolding or cold. He sounded thirsty for more of you. Like his throat had already run dry despite how much of you he drank earlier.

"I'd tell them the truth, but if I were to do that now then I'd be lying again," you whispered against his lips.

"We certainly cannot have you spreadin' no more dirty lies, now. Can we?"

Read Part 2 here.

#joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #tlou smut #joel miller blurb #the last of us hbo #the last of us

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appocalipse · 3 months

Text

never mine ✧ eddie munson

bartender!eddie x fem!reader • old friends to lovers • chapter 01 • 3.5k words

ೃ ✦ ✧ ∗ ❥ ҉

Summary: After everything that had happened with Vecna and the Upside Down, Eddie Munson left Hawkins as soon as you and the rest of your friends managed to clear his name. And you understood why Eddie and his uncle had made that decision. Truly, you did; Eddie's innocence had been proven, yes, but Hawkins was a small town and some people would always turn up their noses at them. It didn't mean you didn't miss Eddie, or think about him over the course of the next decade. Somehow, in your heart, you always felt that one day you would meet him again. The last place you thought that would happen, though, was at a bar — that Eddie, now in his early thirties, owns in New York.

ೃ ✦ ✧ ∗ ❥ ҉

It isn't the type of bar you usually frequent.

For starters, it's tucked away on a relatively quiet street in Brooklyn instead of being one of those swanky, pop-up bars you've gotten used to seeing all over Manhattan since moving here from Boston last year. Also, it's more rustic than sleek, more dark than trendy, its exterior walls adorned with faded red bricks, its small windows lined with black frames. It seems almost like an anachronism among the new construction that has been sprouting up all over this part of the neighborhood.

But even before you get close enough to see what the sign reads, something about this little place feels oddly familiar. In some intangible way, it reminds you of a time you left behind when you moved here: your years spent growing up in a sleepy Indiana town named Hawkins.

And maybe it's just because it's clearly about to rain — the air wet and misty, as though a storm is coming — but right now, for reasons you can't explain, you feel compelled to enter.

So you take a deep breath, open the heavy wooden door and step inside.

The inside is as rustic as the outside, with one long bar stretching across most of the space, booths running along the adjacent walls, and several tables scattered in the center beneath the glow of dim, gold lights. A jukebox quietly plays 'In Bloom' by Nirvana at the back. And just like outside, everything feels achingly familiar, a wave of nostalgia you don't quite understand crashing into you so intensely that you have to grip one of the barstools tightly to steady yourself.

"One sec, doll. Be right with ya!"

He's not really looking at you when he says those words. He's got his back turned, hands busy preparing a drink at the far end of the bar, head just barely visible as he hunches over to scoop ice cubes from the metal container beside him. You can't see much from where you're standing — he's wearing a denim jacket rolled up to his elbows, hair pulled up into a messy bun at the top of his head — but there's something about his voice, sweet yet gravelly, something about what little you can see of his face that makes your breath catch in your throat.

And then he straightens up, turns around. And you both freeze, staring at each other.

Eddie Munson.

It's impossible. But it's him; the same Eddie who sold you weed a couple times your senior year of high school. The same Eddie you grew to call a friend before he left Hawkins without even saying goodbye. The same Eddie whose name still leaves a dull ache in your chest if you think about it too long.

Ten years later, and he's somehow more handsome than ever, all grown up. His hair is a little shorter, curlier than you remember. He's wearing dark-wash jeans and a navy Henley beneath his scuffed leather jacket. That playful expression you once found so adorable is now made even more endearing by a small scar across one eyebrow. And those eyes — a warm brown, expressive as always — are locked onto yours as his lips part, slightly agape.

"Y/N?"

Your heart pounds in your ears when you nod. It's hard to tell what emotion lies behind his gaze, but after a few seconds of staring at you like this, he slowly places the drink he was preparing down on the bar countertop and all but runs toward you, a giant grin lighting up his face.

He nearly knocks you off your feet with the force of his hug, pulling you tight against him.

But you're not complaining.

You cling to him just as tightly, your cheek pressed against his chest. The scent of cedar and tobacco mixed with something else — something unmistakably Eddie — overwhelms your senses as he picks you up a few inches off the ground and spins you around with an excited laugh, making you wrap both arms around his neck for stability.

"Jesus Christ," he exclaims, setting you down before gently taking hold of your shoulders. "I can't believe it's really you."

For the briefest moment, it almost feels as though you've gone back in time, returned to 1986 — the year everything changed forever — right after defeating Vecna for good and before Eddie moved away with his uncle, Wayne, just days before you followed suit to leave for college.

And it seems impossible — ridiculous, really — that you should both be standing here, in this bar in New York of all places, years and years later. So you just stand there blinking, speechless, trying to make sense of it all with the most stunned smile plastered across your face.

"I—"

"What's going on out here?" someone yells from the other side of the room. "For fuck's sake, Ed, if you're gonna flirt with another customer, do it a little more quietly."

At that, Eddie drops his hands from your shoulders and turns toward the woman speaking, more amused than you've ever seen him. He playfully sticks his tongue out at her before giving you a wink.

"Sorry about that," he chuckles.

The woman leans forward a little bit, squinting as though she can't quite believe what she sees. Then a smile stretches across her face, too. "Wait, aren't you–"

"Yes," Eddie interrupts. "It's her, Dottie."

The woman — Dottie — seems to be in her 50s, with shoulder-length blond hair streaked with gray and a sleeve of colorful tattoos on one arm. When she strides toward you, she's wearing an easy smile that crinkles the corners of her green eyes, extending her hand to you over the bar.

"Hey there. I'm Dorothea, but everyone calls me Dottie. You must be the girl that Eddie—"

Eddie quickly steps in between you. "We were just catching up, actually," he explains. "Do you mind giving us a few minutes to ourselves? Great, thank you."

He doesn't give her time to respond; Eddie kisses the back of Dottie's hand and grins, then wraps his fingers around your wrist as he drags you behind the bar, through a set of double doors leading to a stairwell.

"Mind the step, sweetheart, it's a little steep," he cautions, keeping a tight grip on you as you both ascend the stairs.

And maybe it's because you're just getting over a breakup, but your stomach flutters from the nickname, from the way his thumb draws gentle circles into your skin.

This isn't the first time he's called you sweetheart. You don't know why it affects you differently now.

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer until the two of you reach the top of the stairs, at which point he drops his hand from your wrist and faces you.

"Well, here we are!" he announces, stretching out his arms and turning in a full circle. "Home, sweet home."

You blink as you look around, realizing you're standing inside an apartment — presumably Eddie's — whose open floor plan means you can see straight into the kitchen and living room.

"I can't believe you live here," you mumble, more to yourself than anything else.

A large black sofa sits opposite the TV, a coffee table littered with beer bottles, candles and an ashtray between them. There's a little dining room table for four beside the couch, across from the galley kitchen where the counters are covered with dirty dishes. But despite the mess, everything still feels very... cozy, somehow. Welcoming.

Eddie chuckles, reaching behind himself to loosen the hair tie at the base of his skull. A few tendrils fall loose across his forehead as he tousles his hair, then combs his fingers through it. You feel something twist in your abdomen, your breath hitching in your throat.

Fuck, you think. That's distracting.

"Yeah, me either sometimes," he says with a shrug. "But it's got a roof, a bathroom and a bed. It used to be Dottie's, but now that she and Wayne are married, she decided to move in with him instead."

"Your uncle got married?"

Eddie nods, and the expression that settles in his features softens as he talks about his uncle.

"They met at the bar. Got hitched a few years ago, have a little place not far from here. It's cute, really. Like a little love story for old folks or something. But yeah, this place is all mine now. Not bad, huh?"

Your heart aches a little hearing this — not because you're sad that his uncle found love (you do feel happy for him), but because you hadn't realized how much you've missed in the last decade, how much of Eddie's life you weren't around for.

Still, you smile.

"Not bad at all," you agree.

Eddie's returning grin is more hesitant this time. As if he wants to say more, but he's unsure of how.

"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Because you had; so much more than you ever knew was possible. Even when you'd only grown close to him for a few weeks before he moved away, he had managed to make such an impression on you that his absence became a wound you couldn't quite heal, no matter how many years passed.

So for the longest time, you told yourself that he'd probably forgotten all about you anyway, since he never tried to contact you after he left. It was easier that way, somehow. Better than waiting for something that would never happen.

"Me too," Eddie breathes, voice so quiet you might have imagined it. "Me too, sweetheart."

For a second, you can't breathe.

When you do, you inhale his scent, a hint of weed and tobacco mixed with cedar. His cologne, then, you suppose. And there's something entirely new, too, something that belongs uniquely to him.

You stare at Eddie, trying to find the right words, but all you can manage to utter is:

"Really?"

His eyebrows knit together in confusion. Maybe concern, too.

"What? Why do you seem surprised?"

"No, I just–" you trail off, thinking. "I dunno. I guess I just...figured you wouldn't even remember me after so long. It's been...what? Ten years?"

"You thought I didn't remember you?" he asks incredulously, and those deep brown eyes widen a fraction.

You bite your lip, sheepish. "I don't know. Maybe. A little bit," you confess, looking away.

Eddie exhales a half-chuckle.

"Sweetheart, you're — Jesus — you're not exactly easy to forget," he utters softly, almost like he hopes you won't hear.

You can't help but laugh at this, although your cheeks immediately warm up, burning like fire. "Says you."

There's something almost bashful in the way Eddie smiles, his gaze cast downward as he reaches for a strand of hair and curls it around one finger.

"Don't you wanna sit down?" he asks. "I'll get you something to drink. Any preference?"

"Whatever you're having is fine," you reply, still a little overwhelmed by everything that's happening as he gestures for you to take a seat on his sofa.

"Alrighty. Just wait here. One sec."

As you make yourself comfortable on the black leather, you notice several framed photographs atop the mantle of the fireplace. Most of the pictures depict Eddie with people you've never met — a tall, handsome black man, a blond guy, a girl with short, spiky hair and a tattooed arm — but the one you can't look away from is a smaller frame with a picture of you, Dustin and the rest of your friends squeezed tightly together, the sun setting behind you.

It was taken after you beat Vecna in 1986. Before Eddie moved. Before you did, too. Everyone in the picture looks dirty and exhausted, but there's also an air of celebration hanging over all of you that you can clearly see just by the wide, gleeful smiles stretching across your faces.

"It's a real shame you ever doubted it, by the way."

Eddie's voice pulls you out of your reverie, and you turn around to find him already halfway to the couch. He's holding two beers in his hands.

"I wasn't—I didn't mean to pry or anything," you explain, your heart beating a little faster.

He shrugs as he hands you one of the beers and takes a seat beside you, close enough for you to feel his thigh press against yours.

"Nah, it's okay," he assures, his gaze traveling to the picture you were examining a few seconds ago. "That's a good memory."

You nod in agreement as you bring the bottle to your lips. It's cool and refreshing against your tongue, but not as calming as you need it to be.

"I'm sorry for just barging in here, by the way. I don't actually know why I came in the first place, I just... felt like something was pulling me in," you tell him.

And it's true; that strange sense of familiarity that tugged you forward earlier today has started to fade, now replaced by a comforting warmth that feels like coming home.

Eddie snorts a laugh before taking a swig of his beer.

"Sorry, I'm just making it weirder and weirder, aren't I?" you groan, leaning forward to place your beer on the coffee table.

Eddie sets his down, too.

"No, you're not, sweetheart," he soothes, taking one of your hands in his and rubbing a calloused thumb over your knuckles. "Why would you think that?"

You can't look at him when you answer.

"I don't know, I just... I spent years wondering about what happened to you after you left Hawkins, and then I randomly show up here, and now we're just sitting on your couch like we haven't spent ten years apart? It feels insane."

There's something unreadable in the way he's looking at you, then.

"You look really pretty, by the way," Eddie says.

Your heart is thumping so loudly you worry he can hear it.

"Oh yeah?" you tease with a grin, desperate to hide the fact that you can feel yourself blush all the way up to the tips of your ears. "Prettier than when we were twenty-one?"

The grin he flashes you is bright and lopsided, playful.

"Way, way prettier, actually," he drawls.

Your brain seems to malfunction after this, his words playing on a loop, over and over and over again inside your head. And all you can do is return his smile, feeling a pleasant heat pool in your belly that has nothing to do with alcohol. "Eddie Munson, are you flirting with me?"

He laughs at this — a genuine, low chuckle.

"Depends. Is it working?"

Yes, you think.

"Not at all."

"Liar," he smirks before raising the hand he's still holding and pressing a kiss to its back. "Then yes, I am."

Your breath catches in your throat, a thrill running down your spine as Eddie holds your gaze with a small smile. But then it fades, replaced by something more serious as he absentmindedly traces a pattern onto your palm with his fingertip.

"Can I ask you something?"

You nod. He lets go of your hand.

"If you're here, does that mean you're also living in New York?" he asks, eyes filled with a cautious hope as he stares at you. "Or did you just happen to be passing through on vacation?"

"I moved here a year ago," you tell him, biting your bottom lip. "I can't believe you're really here. What are the chances, right?"

It feels like some kind of cosmic joke. And while you never quite stopped hoping that you and Eddie might meet again someday, you didn't expect it to happen like this. In a bar. In New York.

Ten years later.

"Fate works in mysterious ways, huh?"

"You sound like an old man."

He chuckles at your teasing tone before bending forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him.

"I just—this is gonna sound totally lame, but..."

Eddie trails off, chewing on his lower lip as he searches your eyes.

"Go ahead," you urge gently.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing a few strands away from his face as he takes a deep breath.

"When I left Hawkins, I felt like a fucking idiot because I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to you. Not really, I mean. And I—shit, I really wanted to. More than anything. So... the reason why I left without saying anything was because I was scared that if I saw you one last time, I'd lose my nerve and not leave at all. And...I know, I know it's dumb, because we had only known each other for a couple of weeks, but—"

"It's not dumb," you assure him. "Not to me, at least."

It's one thing knowing someone for a long period of time and losing them. But when you grow attached to someone so quickly, so suddenly — like you did with Eddie — it leaves an emptiness behind. Something you can't quite fill, nor begin to explain to anyone else without feeling as though you're speaking nonsense.

"It's not?"

"No. Not at all."

And you wonder if he can see the vulnerability in your eyes when you reach forward and brush your fingertips over his. It's all you dare to do, all the courage you can muster, but he responds by uncurling his own and sliding them between your palms. His hand feels warm, smooth. Cold where the silver of his rings touches your skin.

"I never forgot you, you know? And I—" he stops, and you watch him swallow hard. "Shit. Sorry. You're gonna think I'm a creep."

"Try me."

The smile on his face is shy and endearing, his cheeks flushed pink when he admits: "Sometimes I have this...dream."

You cock your head to one side, curious. "What about?"

"About you."

Eddie glances down at his hand in yours, studying it for a moment like it's the most interesting thing in the room.

"Mostly about that night you saved me. You know, from the bats."

"I didn't save you," you protest. "I just...I got lucky."

He scoffs, shakes his head like that's the most preposterous thing he's ever heard.

"Sweetheart, I was half dead when you showed up. If it wasn't for you, I would be completely dead right now."

You glance at Eddie's side, where you remember him having an angry, festering wound when you found him. You wonder if the scar is still there, if it bothers him.

"Maybe," you concede, and his smile returns. "So you dream about that?"

"Among other things. Yeah."

Your heart hammers in your chest as you consider what those other things might be, his gaze intense upon you as you nervously wet your bottom lip with your tongue.

"Other things?" you repeat.

"Other things," he confirms. "I might tell you about 'em sometime if you play your cards right, though."

"Oh, right," you muse, pulling your hands away from his with a soft chuckle. "This is you flirting, isn't it?"

"So what if it is?" he asks, grinning as he leans back on the couch cushion.

You don't miss the way he looks at you, the same way he used to in high school whenever he was trying to get under your skin, to rile you up. And it seems that — even after all these years, with you all grown up, both of you in your early thirties — he hasn't lost his touch.

"So what if it is," you echo.

Eddie raises both eyebrows, smirking. "Guess you're gonna have to come back sometime if you wanna find out. You know, just to be sure."

"I—" you hesitate, realizing you hadn't considered the possibility of leaving before, too caught up in the whirlwind of seeing him again after so long. "Shit, yeah, I should...I should go, I've kept you long enough as it is. I should let you get back to work—"

You move to stand up, but a gentle hand on your arm stops you.

"Wait," he pleads, voice soft. "Do you...have anywhere you gotta be? Anywhere you need to rush off to?"

"Um—" you look down at the floorboards, shifting your weight from foot to foot. "Just my bed? It's getting late. Well, not really, but...it will be soon?"

The tension slowly eases from Eddie's body as he relaxes, his expression becoming playful.

"Are you asking or telling?" he teases.

You sigh.

"I don't wanna intrude."

"You're not. At all," Eddie says firmly, his words a promise. "Besides, you still have a lot to catch me up on. So you can tell me all about whatever boring day job you landed now that you're living the big apple life, and I'll tell you about my band, which has a gig tomorrow, by the way, so you're definitely coming to see it."

"Wow, you're bossy now," you point out.

His eyes gleam as they hold yours, and when he speaks, his voice is husky, full of mischief.

"You have no idea, sweetheart."

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wanderedaway · 2 years

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You know, I considered getting bangs again because of a certain character. 😅 Our hair is kinda similar, but I'm sure his is more tame.

#got my haircut yesterday #it really needed it #i like long hair #but with the heat #and the upkeep #it's too much sometimes #and it's curlier when it's shorter 😊

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mysterycitrus · 4 months

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im redesigning the titans so for my own personal reference —

dick has curly hair, maybe in the range of 3a-4c type curls. he doesn’t really take care of it but they coil super easily, especially when it’s longer. he keeps it at his shoulders, maybe with a fringe. he ties it back a lot. darker complexion, a strong nose, dark blue eyes. he has a beauty mark on his left cheekbone. he smiles like his dad, but he has his mother’s eyes. the shortest titan, but it’s easy to forget because he always seems much taller than he is

donna’s got curlier hair, with proper ringlets. she and kory do each other’s hair, and she’s a big fan of oversized claw clips. a roman nose, olive complexion, brown eyes. wide shoulders, strong arms, big fan of bangles and bracelets and rings — always in silver. if someone buys her gold jewellery she gives it to dick. the tallest, along with garth. she smiles with her whole face.

roy’s very tan, very freckled, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. his hair is more of a dark copper, and his eyes are hazel. he’s always stubbled, no matter the time of day. broad shoulders, and he’s got a tummy! lots of upper body strength. long, calloused fingers. he’s slowly growing his hair out, and it falls very straight. he’s taller than dick, but shorter than wally

garth is almost as tall as donna, high body fat as an underwater dweller, and always smells of the tide. curly hair that’s always crusted with salt and sand. the clearest skin — so soft to touch. dolphin braids his hair for him, so it doesn’t dry weird when he’s on the surface. keeps having to adjust his posture a little, when he’s walking around. his eyes are violet, like a sunset

wally is pale. very light complexion, pale eyebrows and eyelashes, lots of freckles, light green eyes. he keeps his hair short, and it’s always blown up off his forehead. roy calls him sonic the hedgehog. very lanky, with a runner’s build. upturned nose, strong jaw, struggles to grow facial hair. roy’s hair is red, but wally’s is almost a strawberry blond. when he goes outside without sunscreen, he crisps up like a bacon rasher

#thinking aloud #persephone tag #teen titans #dc comics #spokes

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operafantomet · 3 months

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Some Christines donning three fairly different wigs

KIMILEE BRYANT: For her Basel run (left) she wore a big, bushy early European style. When joining the early US tour (middle) those wig also had elements of bushy, but they were more fitted around the head. This is similar to what she also wore in Toronto (not depicted). For her final Broadway run (right) she wore the more ringley-y style.

SIERRA BOGGESS: For her original Las Vegas run (left) she wore a wig with lots of volume over the temples, and ringley-y curls. For her later Broadway runs (not depicted) the wigs also had ringlets, but they were lower over the forehead. For one specific photoshoot she was also fitted with a wig with no forehead curls (middle). For the RAH celebrations (right) she wore a fairly classic UK look, but with looser and bigger curls - which sadly deflated during the performance, so here's one from the beginning of the show... She also wore a curlier UK wig for the Classic Brit Award (not depicted), and a similar wig with bigger and softer curls for the alas cancelled Paris run (also not depicted).

CLAIRE LYON: For her initial World Tour run (left) she wore the large-curled dark wig with defined drapes over the forehead/sides. For her second World Tour run (middle) she was fitted with a more UK styled wig with lighter drapes and small forehead curls, but with large and soft curls in the locks. A similar, albeit shorter and less curly look, was worn for her surprise emergency cover in the Restaged Aussie Tour (right).

HARRIET JONES: Oh the lady of many wigs! For her initial West End run (not depicted) she wore a pre-raphaelite like wig with long auburn locks with loose curls. Later during her West End run (left) she wore a similar wig with slightly more brown teint and tighter curls. When she joined the Greek-soon-to-be-Middle-East-tour production (middle) her wig was styled similar to her original West End wig, but blonde and without forehead curls. For her current run (right) she wears a shorter blonde wig with side-parted hair and tight curls.

GEORGIA WILKINSON: When she was in the Sydney Harbour production she both understudied Christine and stunted as the double. She wore what I think was the same dark brown wig, but sometimes seen with fairly loose big curls (left) and sometimes with tighter curls (not depicted). I assume this was due to humidity. When she joined the Greek/Middle East tour (middle) she first donned a long, sleek blonde wig similar to that of Harriet Jones, but platina blonde. Later on she too was fitted with a shorter, curlier wig with side-parted styling over the forehead (right).

BRIDGET COSTELLO: Her brown West End wig (left) was usually tightly curled and with defined curls over the forehead. A similar style was worn for the Restaged Aussie Tour (middle) but with less forehead curls and looser, bigger locks. For the Middle East Tour she wears a a shorter blonde side-parted with with tight curls, in the vein of Harriet Jones and Georgia Wilkinson.

HANNA-LIINA VõSA: She is the only Christine on the list who's never done the replica version yet she's managed to don three different wigs! For her initial Estonian run (left) she wore a short, blonde wig with side-parted hair and tight curls. For her first Finnish run (middle) she wore a reddish blonde wig with middle-parted hair and loose curls. For her second Finnish run (right) her wig was brighter red, with side-parted hair and more defined curls.

AMY MANFORD: For her West End run (left) her wig was brown, with defined forehead curls and tightly curled locks. Her Restaged Aussie Tour wig (middle) was also brown, but sleeker in look and without forehead curls. For her Greek run (right) she donned a blonde wig, but in styling not too unlike her West End wig.

(note: this is not a complete list, just those I had good photos of)

#christine wig #christine daae #phantom of the opera #costume nerding #kimilee bryant #sierra boggess #claire lyon #harriet jones #georgia wilkinson #bridget costello #hanna liina vosa #amy manford

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diazsdimples · 2 months

Note

Why no I’m not here to encourage a ballet au… why do you ask???

Hippo you absolute menace, why do I put up with you?? Having said that...

When Buck walks into the rehearsal room for the New York City Ballet for the first time, he can’t quite believe he’s made it.

Here he is, standing among some of the best dancers North America has to offer, and they’re treating him like an equal, rather than the usual upturned noses or judgemental looks ballet dancers have often perfected. A group of women stand by the barre, doing some warm-up stretches before rehearsal starts, and at the other end of the mirror stands two of the most beautiful men Buck has ever seen.

They’re fairly evenly matched in height and size, both lean and strong, their muscles not huge like some of the bodybuilders Buck is used to seeing at the gym, but sculpted, with rippling muscles that convey a subtle power, used for performing complicated lifts but looking effortless and graceful as they do so.

The shorter of the two looks up as he enters the room, and Buck’s mouth goes dry as a pair of warm, brown eyes, like two pools of molten chocolate, meet his. This man is gorgeous. His hair is silky and brown, with a few strands that flop carelessly into his face, and he’s got a light shadow of stubble over his jaw. He’s wearing a tight, black tank top that clings to his body like a second skin and shows every ounce of muscle in his arms. There’s a small, circular tattoo, with what looks like some loopy writing on his forearm, almost mirroring the delicate lines on Buck’s own.

Buck is still drinking in the first man when he leans forward and whispers something in the second man’s ear, and he turns around too.

Holy fuck. Does the New York City Ballet hire on looks first and dancing skills second?

This man is taller, probably by a good few inches, and while the first man is soft and gentle looking, this man is sharper, more defined, and radiating raw power in the way his muscles flex beneath his white tank. He’s a little curlier than the other man, with icy blue eyes that pierce into Buck’s own. He smiles at Buck, his nose crinkling in a way that’s nothing short of adorable, and beckons Buck over.

Buck allows his legs to carry himself towards the two men, his brain not coming online enough to even rehearse his opening line, before he’s standing in front of them.

“Uh, hi,” he says eloquently, his mouth feeling drier than the Sahara. “I’m Evan Buckley, new principal. But – uh – everyone calls me Buck,”

“Hey Evan,” Blue Eyes says at the same time Brown Eyes says “Nice to meet you, Buck.”

“I’m Eddie Diaz,” Brown Eyes says, holding his hand out for Buck to shake. “Playing the Nutcracker.”

Buck tries not to make it super obvious how star-struck he is right now. “H-hey Eddie, nice to meet you,” he replies, taking the man’s hand. It’s warm and Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand lightly as he shakes it, his long fingers pressing against Buck’s knuckles.

“Tommy Kinard,” says Blue Eyes, extending his own hand when Eddie releases his. “Rat King.”

Buck can’t entirely believe that here he is, on his first day as a Principal Dancer for the New York City Ballet, and he’s meeting the two male leads. He might need to pinch himself, if it weren’t for the fact that Tommy’s squeezing his hand a little harder than necessary, the slight pain enough to convince Buck that yes, this is really happening.

“You’re new here, aren’t you? Which part have you got?” Eddie asks kindly, leaning against the barre. His arm crosses over with Tommy’s making it look like their arms are almost linked. The way they’re standing, and the familiarity Buck could see in their expressions earlier, he can’t help but wonder if they’re in a relationship. Or good friends, at the very least.

He licks his lips before talking and wills himself not to sound like a total dork.

“I’m playing Cavalier,” he said threading his fingers together as he stands in a bastardisation of 4th position that his old tutor always used to yell at him for. “First time as a lead.”

Tommy smiles softly, his eyes raking over Buck’s body as though sizing him up.

“It’s not so scary once you get to know everyone,” he reassures Buck, placing a hand just above Buck’s elbow.

“Yeah,” Eddie adds, flashing a dazzling grin in Buck’s direction that have his joints turning a little gelatinous. “We’ll show you the ropes.”

Now sit there and think about what you've done

(Gonna cheekily tag a few friends to alert them that I've been bullied into starting a new wip) @theotherbuckley @daffi-990 @bidisasterevankinard @steadfastsaturnsrings @spotsandsocks

#james answers things #hippo tag #she twisted my arm your honour!!#ballet au #I guess???#idk man until 2 minutes ago I didn't think I'd ever do a ballet au #serves me right for sending hippo texts I guess

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kallesque · 3 months

Text

the conflict of the mind — three.

cws // none for now (does dottore count as his own warning?)

╰┈➤ dottore x reader: in other words, new meetings. FIC MASTERLIST HERE.

𖤐 “I met Delta earlier,” you affirm, remembering the razor-edged teeth, the flash of pink silk at his neck. Hangman hands closing in on your shirt collar. A shiver traverses the length of your spine and the Dove notices it.

“Ah, that one,” she says, and you can’t quite parse the undercurrent in her voice when she says this— is it fondness? Irritation? Amusement? “He leaves quite the impression, doesn’t he?”

“That’s certainly a way to describe it,” you concur.

Nothing in your life has gone quite as planned for the last month or so. This fact further drives itself home a few days later when the door to Dottore’s laboratory slides open and you’re yanked in before you can even knock, still halfway through executing the action. You trip over your feet in a panic from the sudden blur of motion, the hand on your collar hauling you upright before you can tumble over embarrassingly.

It’s too early in the day for this. Your heart is hammering too fast and you’ve had it. “Lord Harbinger, is your frequent manhandling of me going to become a habit? Because I—”

“Prime allows you to speak to him like this? My.”

A shiver traipses down your spine and mangles the words on your tongue as you freeze. This voice, familiar yet not— you’re reminded of dissonant chords, arguments overheard down the hallways at night.

When you raise your head, the spark of outrage that flares within you is extinguished in an instant. Instead of the tapered bird mask you’ve grown accustomed to, this one covers his entire face save for the red eyes that bore into your, unblinking. His hair is styled differently, shorter and curlier than what you remember… and the clothes he dons are in a completely different taste from what you’ve seen Dottore wear.

But it’s the same pale hair, the same cadence— though there’s a certain quality of his tone, something shamelessly unhinged in comparison to the arrogant menace that outlines the contours of your patron’s voice. You can see half of his mouth through the bizarre mask, and his teeth are sharper— edges pointed like a shark’s.

You make eye contact and immediately flinch.

Does he also have…?

“You’re not him,” you say rather lamely, pausing as you try to disentangle the fabric of your shirt collar from his white-gloved grip. To your chagrin, he doesn’t let you go.

He lets out a crazed giggle at your disoriented expression and it wreaks pandemonium on your nerves the same way the unpleasant screech of a bow drawn over strings before rosin has been applied would. “Yes I am.”

You must look even more confused now because he lets you go and moves closer at the same time, drawn to your unease like blood in the water.

You take a wary step away and he closes in. “Where’s Dottore?” you bite out, words curt as alarm rises in the dark of your throat.

“I am Dottore.” You can’t identify any trace of a lie in those deranged eyes, but you’re nonetheless sceptical. “Just not yours, though.” He grins as if he’s just overheard a great joke, but all you feel is danger.

Your gaze scans the room for an exit, trying not to flinch. Something tells you that such a reaction would only spur him on, and you’re a little sick of this perplexing charade— but then he closes in and the backs of your thighs hit the desk, cornered.

“I called him a fool for this, you know,” he tells you. He’s not touching you, but you still feel trapped like a prey animal in the jaws of a beast. His presence is unpredictable and he’s even more difficult to read by way of sheer uncertainty.

Mad, your mind supplies, which isn’t a reassuring thought.

“But I had to come and find out for myself, and now that you’re here, I see it. I do want to…”

He trails off, breaking into another round of snickering. You don’t know what he’s talking about. You don’t know anything, and you’re not sure you’d like to.

“Delta.” Dottore is standing in the doorway to his office, seemingly having just emerged. His voice is scathing.

It comes as a warning but relief slams into you as you’re suddenly given room to breathe, inching away from him— Delta, apparently, who raises his hands in mock surrender. “I was merely curious,” he scoffs. “They’re a pretty little thing, too. Is that what you see?”

“Back to work.” Dottore orders without a single sign of acknowledgement towards the latter’s comments. His tone is final, and the other backs down, obeying with a sneer.

Maybe this really is going to become a standard occurrence, you think to yourself when Dottore’s fingers close around your wrist and he tugs you into his office.

The pads of Dottore’s fingers are rough on your skin as he kneads into your wrist again, the caustic heat from the contact twisting through you once more. You want to cower away from the feeling. You want to let it burn you at the stake.

“Does this hurt?” His touch drags over a sore spot and you hiss at the twinge of discomfort that jabs at you. He’s merciless as he works into it until the pain dulls and you exhale, nerves still frayed and tender.

You still have no idea why he’s doing this, insistent on treating you every day. You want to ask what benefit you pose to him, what he could ever gain from the patronage, if you were going to end up as another subject on the dissection table—

Instead, you say, “I have questions.”

“I expected as much,” he responds, not looking up. “Go on.”

“Who was that?”

“Delta.” The corner of his mouth curves up as he responds deadpan, secretly amused. Your eyes narrow.

“No, I know, but—” you try to gesture with your dominant hand and realise that he’s still holding it down, grip vicelike but not abrasive. “He said he was you, but not you.”

“He’s a Segment.” You stare at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, and Dottore goes on. “Simply put, a piece of myself plucked from one of the varying states of my life, given individual consciousness and thought.”

You raise a brow, but you think you can follow. “He called you Prime, earlier.”

“I am the original, the prime,” he tells you, taking your other wrist and beginning to work on that in turn. “The creator.”

You think of red eyes and the subsequent insanity caged within, the remorseless slice of a scalpel through helpless flesh.

“I see.”

If that’s the case, haven’t you found yourself in a den of wolves? Out of the frying pan and straight into the fire— another thought strikes you.

“This implies that there are more of you, then?”

You twitch as he digs into a nerve, holding back a gasp. “Yes, there are more. You may run into them occasionally.”

The way he says it implies discontent, as if it’s an unfortunate fact—

“But remember this, Composer,” He drawls, acerbic and sharp, “You report to me.”

You wonder if the way his voice dips low like a promise can be interpreted as possessive.

“Yes, Lord Harbinger.”

For all his previous words about how he’s not going to eat you alive, he certainly smiles like he’s about to. “Good.”

Technically, Dottore hasn’t forbidden you from leaving the palace. You’ve just been too wrapped up in a daze of fatigue and stress to think about doing anything else for the last month, and now that the Harbinger has ordered you off playing your instruments until your wrists have recovered, you have far too much free time on your hands. Your passing days have been spent reading and revising your old notes and music scores, but lethargy is beginning to settle into your muscles and you’re itching for a change of scenery.

You recall that the strings on your cello are wearing out. There’s a music store in the nearby village that you can get to on foot, and the salary he continues to pay you even as you’re laid off from playing is far more than enough to cover the expenses. It’s settled, then.

Your eyes sweep over your hands, noting the writer’s callus on your middle finger and the ink stain on your palm, somehow lingering longer than yesterday’s blood. The etchings of your cello’s strings are still raw and tender to the touch when your fingertips brush anything, crisscrossed over old scars of the same design. Perhaps you should buy some ointment as well, for the healing. A musician should have well-kept hands and you’ve never truly cared much about the nuances of this knowledge before— but now you have a patron, and he’s the Second Harbinger. You need to remember that.

Once you’ve bundled yourself up and made sure that you’ve obtained all you need for your errand, you slip out of your room and meander down the hallways. It takes you a few wrong turns and doubling back before you find the exit, but you’re halted by the Fatui guards before you.

“On what business are you departing from the Palace?”

You know it’s standard protocol, really nothing personal, so you’re nervous but steady when you respond. “A personal errand,” you tell them, hoping it’s enough.

Unfortunately, it's not. “Under whose command?”

Anxiety constricts your vocal chords and you hesitate a beat too long to escape suspicion. You wonder if Dottore would mind you using his name for such a small thing, but you hate going off uncertainties—

“They're with me.” Someone’s hand wraps around your shoulder and pulls you into them, but where you expect light hair and a baritone voice, you’re met face-to-face with Columbina, the Third Harbinger. You barely have time to stutter your acknowledgement before she’s sweeping past with you in tow.

Columbina’s smile is sweet and her touch is gentle when she leads you out of the Palace, but you have the inkling that she’s not helping you out of mere goodwill and that whatever she wants, she will obtain.

“My lady,” you begin, and she laughs, the sound blithe and airy. “Why, you delight me with your honorifics! No wonder our Second likes you so.”

Your mind slows to a crawl at that, trying to process the information. “He, he doesn’t— huh?”

“Oh, don’t play the fool,” she admonishes, voice lilting and sweet as a melody. Somehow, your limbs loosen at the sound of it, and tension leaves your shoulders. “You’re his little composer. I’ve heard all about you.”

“You… have?”

The Damselette nods and the seraphim wings on her head flutter excitedly. “But not enough— there are some things I’d prefer to learn from the source themself! Tell me, little bird, where are you headed off today?”

You remain wide-eyed, syrupy daze blanketing your senses like golden honey. Still, you manage to relate the details of your errand to her and tell her your name. Columbina insists on accompanying you on your tasks, and you’re not sure if this spells disaster or not— but there’s little you can do to protest, allowing her to loop her arm into yours as she speaks to you as one would an old friend.

Still, you can’t shake the crawling sense of disquietude that settles over you in her presence. Your mind seems to settle into a state of calm, too docile, too abnormal from your usual racing thoughts. You don’t sense malice from the Dove— but you’ve heard rumours about her lack of mortality and you suspect that it has a part to play in the half-stupor you’re draped in.

She talks to you all the way to your destination and watches inquisitively as you select and pay for the cello strings you’d needed. It’s all lighthearted chatter— you feel as if she’s trying to lull you into a sense of calm as she regales you with her tales, tidbits of palace gossip that make you giggle softly and promises of tea together in the future. It’s only when you’re heading back to the Palace does she finally expose the core of her curiosity.

“Tell me about him,” Columbina urges, practically promenading at your side from how light her steps seem. You notice that she’s barefoot, silk ribbons winding up her ankles and legs. Despite the snowy wasteland that freezes around you both, the Damselette pays it no heed, skin porcelain-perfect and unscathed by the cold. You can’t help but marvel at her.

“Shouldn’t you know him better than I do?” you ask. “I was under the impression that the Harbingers worked together.”

She laughs and it’s the sound of windchimes, crystal-clear and mellifluous. “Yes, little bird,” she says agreeably, “but I want to know about how he treats you.”

You rack your brain, trying to muster up a reply. “He’s… okay, I guess.”

Columbina tilts her head, encouraging you to elaborate. You heave a sigh.

“When he took me on as my patron,” you continue, “I expected him to be far more… restrictive with his expectations of my work, but so far he’s allowed me to work with only my own creativity as the limit. Except…”

You crack your knuckles, a nervous reflex. The motion of it grounds you, gives your hands something to do as you twist your fingers into each other and fidget. “…I got a little carried away, that first month,” you admit sheepishly, “and he’s forbidden me from playing until my wrists heal.”

The wings on her head twitch in something you’d call curiosity as she angles her head towards you. “Forbidden?”

Why is she smiling? This is the second time today that you feel as if you’re witnessing a secret joke that you’re not privy to.

You tell Columbina vaguely about Dottore’s treatment of your hands and wrists, leaving out the details. Somehow, the memory of his fingers pressing into your skin makes you shudder. Do you fear him so much, that even the mere thought of that scares you?

Like the Second, Columbina’s eyes are veiled— behind lace instead of metal— yet she regards you knowingly, as if she knows something you don’t. “Interesting,” she chirps, “so very interesting, little bird. Have you met the others?”

You raise a brow. “The other Harbingers? It’s only been you and him, so far.”

“Oh, no, I meant the other versions of him, though I’m delighted to have gotten to you before my co-workers. If only I’d found you before Dottore had…”

For the sake of your own sanity, you decide to take her latter statement as a joke and your laugh joins hers, bright in the afternoon air. “I met Delta earlier,” you affirm, remembering the razor-edged teeth, the flash of pink silk at his neck. Hangman hands closing in on your shirt collar. A shiver traverses the length of your spine and the Dove notices it.

“Ah, that one,” she says, and you can’t quite parse the undercurrent in her voice when she says this— is it fondness? Irritation? Amusement? “He leaves quite the impression, doesn’t he?”

“That’s certainly a way to describe it,” you concur.

“And did your Doctor say anything of it?”

You ignore the twitch of your fingers when she calls him yours; Delta had done the same earlier. “He reminded me that my patronage was under him, and only him.”

An enigmatic smile flashes across her face, pearly teeth showing. “He never did seem like the type who shared.”

“Huh?” Once again, you’re left in the dark.

“No matter,” Columbina disperses it with a flutter of feathers. “Why don’t you take me to your music room, little bird? I’d love to see your instruments, even if you can’t play for me today.”

Agreement comes to your lips easily and she’s delighted— the Damselette sweeps you up into a whirlwind of conversation once more and you let yourself be drawn in. It’s only when you’re back in the Palace and navigating the hallways back to Dottore’s wing that you realise that you’ve completely forgotten to to buy the healing ointment for your fingers.

Columbina’s company is not an unpleasant one, you conclude. It’s undeniable that she’s a little overwhelming and you have the intuitive feeling that crossing her would be an incredibly foolish decision— but conversation flows easily between the two of you and you’re content enough. Perhaps it’s just a testament to how starved you are of human interaction— it’s been weeks since you’ve had any of it, save for your few exchanges with Dottore.

The Dove sits on your piano bench, mouth open in song. It’s fitting considering her title, you think— the sound of her voice fills the room and holds you captive, silvery and resonant. In all your life, you’ve never heard anything like this— like her, spellbound as you listen, enthralled as you restring your cello.

The case is laid open on the polished floors of the music room. You’re kneeling over the neck of the instrument, fingers twisting the tuning pegs to drop the tension of the string. Once it loosens, you tug it from the pegbox and do the same to the fine tuners, extricating the string completely.

The hem of your shirt goes to wipe at the fingerboard absently as you select the new string, fingers running over the grooves of the instrument’s bridge before you fit it in, tightening it with the pegs. You repeat the process with the other three strings, and Columbina’s voice swoops low, concluding in tandem with your task so that you can tune the cello.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” you begin hesitantly, but she’s already nodding and the note you need spills from her throat, lilting. You draw the bow over your strings as you match the pitch to hers, the rest of the strings tuned in falling intervals from the first

You sit up, gathering the discarded strings up and returning your instrument to its case, quietly satisfied.

“Do you sing, little bird?” Columbina asks. You pause.

“At times,” you respond cautiously, leaning back on your haunches, hands folding in your lap.

She clasps her hands together, feigning a swoon. “We must hear you then.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you’re thinking of a gracious way to evade her cajoling when you sense another presence at the door, one you instantly recognize as your spine stiffens.

“Doctor, how lovely,” Columbina croons, unperturbed. “Your little musician was about to sing for us.”

You instantly protest. “N-no, I wasn’t—”

He steps closer and his shadow slides across the floor, fluid as it settles over you and blocks the light behind his looming figure.

You’re made to tilt your head up to look back at him— and then you realise what he’s staring at, rushing to explain. “I was just replacing my cello’s strings, I didn’t play…” you mutter. “Much.”

His head cocks to the side, judgemental. “Is the issue your excess of free time, Composer? I can always keep you busy if that’s the case.”

The memory of red flashes in your vision and you’re nauseous for a moment, mouth going dry.

“Stop that,” Columbina chides. “You’ll frighten the poor thing.”

Dottore shifts his attention to her, wings fluttering all around her head. “Damselette,” he intones dryly, a hint of sarcasm in the reply. “Is it too much to hope that you stay out of my affairs?”

“Far too much,” she responds, syllables spilling from her tongue like birdsong. “You always accuse me about my meddlesome nature. Isn’t it lovely to be right?”

“You can turn anything into a curse, you harpy,” he grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. Columbina laughs soft and low, hopping off the piano bench where she'd perched. She takes off in a flutter before you can blink twice and you’re left alone with the enigma who had shifted the scope of your entire life within a few weeks. Your fault, perhaps, for signing the devil’s deal.

You regain yourself, latching the case of your instrument shut and valiantly ignoring how you’re still kneeling before Dottore, tension building. “Lord Harbinger, did you come for anything?”

“Dinner,” he reminds you simply, and your eyes widen. He's right, it is evening and whatever little sunlight there is in Snezhnaya is already dimming into twilight; you can see it through the window.

A gloved hand is offered to you before you can scramble to your feet awkwardly. You eye it dubiously before you place your hand in his and allow him to help you up.

You gasp as his hand slides further up your arm— so as not to jostle your wrist— and Dottore pulls you forward sharply into him. You stumble and barely avoid colliding into his shoulder, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. You attempt indignation over the invasion of your personal space, but he's far too close for you to pull out all the stops and you're trying to remember how to breathe. “What was that for?”

He shifts, dipping his head so that his lips are at your ear and his voice rolls over you in a shiver, makes you think of a Dionysiac melody, ritualistic madness and religious ecstasy.

“Just to let you know,” he hums, “The offer remains open. You do seem to have a terrible habit of neglecting yourself whenever I leave you to yourself.”

( It’s a hypocrital thing to say, he knows. But in the face of all the alterations he’s made to himself, his reliance on things like sleeping and eating is far less detrimental, barely a cause for concern. You, on the other hand… )

His fingers loosen and you back away to recreate the distance between you, visibly rattled. Your mouth spreads into a thin line, eyes darkening beneath the guise of something unreadable as you glare at him, accusatory. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you.”

It takes every grain of your self-control to remain deathly still when he chuckles, stamping out the shudder that threatens to shake you to the core. “Doing what exactly?”

You fight for articulation, but your mind features only a rising dissonance, notes crashing into each other as you try for words. “Well, I— you know.”

“Let’s say I was doing whatever you’re accusing me of,” he taunts, voice thick with sarcasm. “Is it working?”

You drawn yourself up a little straighter, more rigid. “No.”

The answer is curt, firm, but you read disbelief in the curl of his lips and the flash of his teeth. You don’t realise that you’re staring at his mouth, noting how his teeth are blunter than Delta’s yet hold their own jagged sharpness. Once more, you recall him saying he wouldn't eat you alive, but he could. Carmine irises flash through your mind again and terror licks you down to the bone from the inside out.

He grins when he catches the expression on your face. “Are you scared of me, Composer?”

“No.”

“Liar,” he hisses. Razor-sharp, the smile that widens upon his visage is savage by nature, the embodiment of a demon by design. You know that all the efforts you’ve brought to the table in an attempt to leverage an edge for yourself pales in comparison to the beast before you. “You do fear. You fear me.”

And you can’t look away, because Dottore’s presence rewrites the gravitational pull of your attention whenever he so much as shares a space with you. Magnetic the same way a black hole draws stars towards it, shredding and consuming them with singleminded ruthlessness. Its very nature demands to devour, and you aren’t sure that his own doesn’t follow suit.

To your credit, you manage your terror remarkably well, diminishing it into something that you can swallow back down. Once you understand that denial isn’t an option you can sell convincingly, you resign yourself. “Perhaps,” you admit to him, “but I hope to never reveal the extent of that fear to you.”

“And why is that?” Wicked curiosity meets you with an inquiry, and you square your shoulders firmly.

“You just don’t seem like a very good person to trust, Lord Harbinger.”

He actually laughs at that, and some of the tension between you melts away. “Smart little thing you are, aren't you.”

The dark sky arcing overhead beyond the window seems to bring him back to his original aim in arriving here— when Dottore offers his arm to you in a mockery of courtesy, you take it and allow him to walk you to his office as you rearrange your face back into careful neutrality.

“I don’t like liars,” the Harbinger says abruptly on the way, and you make a mental note of the minute detail, tucking it away. “You’ll do well to remember that.”

As you lapse into silence, Dottore’s eyes slide to the still-healing wound on your cheek and he stifles a huff of amusement at how you take in the information, a performer ever-so-eager to please.

Even away from your music, you are just so entertaining.

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#♡. kal's kitchen #dottore #il dottore #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #dottore x you #TCOTM #genshin impact x reader

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