#did the one that was stolen get scratched up?
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"Because I fucking love you !"
Author's Note : Here is the argument OS we talked about ! I hope you liked it. I think that's the more smut I have ever written (save for one that was deleted when my phone was stolen...). It's not really filthy or hardcore but I did my best. Let me know what you think ❤️
TW : Smut
You were leaning against the wall, arms crossed, while your boyfriend of four months was standing in on your doorstep, nervously scratching his beard. You were absolutely dying to hear the excuse he would come up with, to try and explain why you waited for two fucking hours at a restaurant, for a man who never showed up. He had let you down in the past, cancelled plans at the last minute but this humiliation was new. And this time, you had enough.
Two hours, Marshall. I waited for you for two hours, you reminded him.
I know, I’m sorry, he said sheepishly.
Well, two hours is only the time I spent waiting for you in the restaurant, you corrected. Because it took you two more hours to call me after I went home. So, really, that’s four.
I can do the math, Y/N, he sighed. I don’t suck that much with numbers.
Speaking of which… You sure seemed to have lost my number, you pointed out.
I wasn’t getting any service, he replied.
Whatever, you said. That’ll teach me.
Teach you what ?
Not to waste my time on men who clearly don’t care about me.
The both of you stayed silent for a couple of seconds. It was time to address the elephant in the room : he clearly wasn’t that into you. The past four months had been great, overall, and Marshall was a great guy, but you were tired of cancelled plans, of going days on end without so much as a text… and waiting, all dolled up, in a crowded restaurant with waiters feeling sorry for you was the last straw. Plus, it was always you making efforts to accommodate his busy schedule, never the other way around. You liked him, a lot - hell, you were in love with the man - but you knew you had to do yourself a favor and put an end to it. You had been there, done that, spending time on people who wouldn’t do the same for you and you weren’t about to make the same mistakes. It was a shame, though, because if you put aside Marshall’s shitty schedule and time management, he was one of the greatest men you had ever dated. Funny, kind, compassionate, thoughtful. He even gave you his undivided attention. If only said attention wasn’t so hard to get…
You think I don’t care about you ? Marshall asked with a confused look on his face.
You clearly don’t, you scoffed.
Really ? I clearly don’t ?! he asked as he crossed his arms in a defensive stance.
In the past two weeks, you have cancelled one date, bailed on me for a second one and barely texted me, Marshall, you sighed.
Because I’m busy ! He exclaimed. I am fucking drowning in work ! Do you have an idea what my fucking schedule looks like ?! I have meetings, trips, studio sessions… I’m busy trying to finish my album !
And you don’t think I’m busy ? You asked with a raised eyebrow. I work too ! I have a busy schedule and, yet, I have never bailed on you, have I ? And I respond to your texts ! So you don’t get to play the « I’m busy » card. I don’t have time for your shitty excuses !
Look, I’m sorry I bailed on you, but-
No but ! You almost shouted. I’m sick of excuses. I don’t deserve this. I’m sick of waiting for you to call me whenever you want to hook up or whatever it is you’re even capable of !
You think that’s all I want ?! To hook up with you ?! He yelled. If I wanted a hook up, I have a thousand groupies to choose from, I wouldn’t waste my time trying to apologize at 1AM on your doorstep !
Why don’t you go and pick a groupie for the night then ?!
Because you’re the one I want ! He almost screamed.
Because I’m probably the only one who’s dumb enough to put up with you, you scoffed.
Because I fucking love you, Y/N, he shouted.
You were ready to enter a shouting match with him but this impromptu declaration stopped you in your tracks. You looked at him, flabbergasted. He was red in the face, almost panting from the yelling.
Y-you… what ? You asked.
I… fuck. I wasn’t planning on telling you like this, he groaned.
But… you do ?
Of course I do, he nearly scoffed.
Say it again, you asked.
He chuckled and took a step closer towards you. You were still mad at him but hearing those three magic words did a great job softening you, and so did standing in his presence. Whenever he was close to you, it seemed like you couldn’t think straight. You weren’t too sure if it was his stature, his piercing blue gaze or his heavenly smell, but there was something about him that drove you crazy. It had been so since you first met, the chemistry being undeniable on both parts. He cupped your face and smiled at you.
I love you, Y/N, he said softly.
I love you too… Dumbass.
You were trying really hard not to smile. After all, you were still livid that you had to wait for him. In your opinion, it was humiliating. But Marshall’s grin was almost contagious and, from the look on his face, you could tell that he knew it.
Are you going to let me in ? He asked calmly, still smiling.
Do you think you deserve it ? You asked as you failed to contain a smile.
Probably not, he admitted. But you know you want to.
I’m still mad, you warned.
I’ll make it up to you, he assured you. I told you I love you. How about I show you how much ?
His voice was seductive and there was absolutely no doubt as to how he wanted to show you the depth of his affection. And, deep down, you were all for it. You caved in and grabbed his arm, pulling him in for a deep kiss. You could feel him smile against your mouth as he kissed you back, one of his hands on your waist, the other cupping your face. With his foot, he slammed the door shut behind him and, one second later, he was carrying you to your bedroom as your legs wrapped around his waist. One he entered your room, he gently let you down on the bed before taking a good look at you. You had abandoned the pretty dress you had worn to dinner for silk pajamas : tiny shorts that hugged you ass and a camisole that did not cover much of your chest. Your boyfriend arbored a smirk and a lustful look in his eyes that left no doubt as to what his intentions were. You smiled and pulled him closer to you, kissing him fervently. He kept on kissing you as he removed his jacket and kicked his shoes before laying on top of you. His kisses were passionate and hungry but his moves were painfully slow. He was running his hands up your bare legs, feeling how silky smooth they were, his caresses almost tickling you. His hands continued their exploration of your body, that he knew like the back of his hand already. They roamed underneath your camisole, tracing circles on your back and sending shivers down your spine. His ability to electrify you with just one touch always amazed you. Whenever the two of your touched, you could swear there were sparks all over the room and fireworks in your chest. He had always told you how much he loved your soft skin and how he could spend hours just stroking it. But you were yearning for more, you were absolutely hungry for him. You wanted his touch all over your body, on every inch of your skin, and especially in some places. Places that did not include your back. You tried to grab his hands to redirect them in the right spots but he simply chuckled at how eager you were.
We have all night, baby, he whispered. And you have me for the whole weekend. Just be patient, alright ?
You let out a small displeased whine. You wanted him and you wanted him right now. And after keeping you waiting all night, the least he could do was to oblige, right ? You were about to remind him when he pressed his index to your lips and buried his face in your neck, kissing your sweet spot before sucking on it. His teeth grazed your skin and you couldn’t help but let out a small moan. He pressed his finger to your lips again and you did not resist the temptation to tease him by sucking on it. You could feel a grin form on his lips, still against your neck, as you ran your hands underneath his tee-shirt, which you desperately wanted him to remove. Under your fingers, you could feel every muscle in his back. He hummed at your touch and, as you tugged on the fabric of his shirt, he seemed to get the message. He sat up, straddling you for a second to remove it, allowing you to catch a glimpse of his perfect, muscular chest. It was no secret that you were absolutely fond of his pecs, nearly obsessed with them. So, as he undressed, you were virtually unable to resist the temptation to ran a hand over them, playfully squeezing as a grin formed on your lips. He chortled and grabbed your hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing each one of your fingers and knuckles with infinite softness and tenderness, before moving on to your wrist and the rest of your arm. God, you didn’t know arm kisses could ever be so sensual but there you were, turning into a puddle under his soft lips. Your eyes were shining with adoration for this man, your brain solely focused on him, who was giving your body his undivided attention. He helped you sit up and made you remove your camisole. Now it was his turn to admire your chest and your tits, which were already perking up thanks to your state of arousal, causing him to smirk. He had you lay back down on the bed as he took one of your nipples in your mouth while he pinched the other. You let out a soft whimper, relishing in the stimulation. The sensation of him sucking on you was absolutely heavenly and sending you into overdrive. You could feel your own wetness and your clit swelling by the second. You were squirming under him, so much so that he had to press his body harder on yours in an attempt to prevent you from moving too much. You were mellow under him, at his mercy. Not that you’d have it any other way, mind you. You enjoyed the sensation way to much. Your breath was heavy and, as seconds went by, you were starting to think he would make you come this way, just by teasing your nipples. Right when you thought you were about to climax, he let go of your breasts and went back to kissing you.
Marshall, you pleaded.
Yes, love ? He asked innocently.
I want you.
You were almost begging. The self-assured woman who was yelling at him on the doorstep moments earlier was nowhere to be found. You were nothing but a puddle, a moaning mess, his to enjoy, tease and torture. He looked at you as he ran his fingers from your cheek to your shoulder to your hip. The trace of his touch was almost leaving a burning sensation. You were craving for more but, at the same time, you relished the softness of it. Your usual lovemaking sessions had always been passionate but this was something else. It was torrid but equally gentle. He was not claiming your body like he usually did. He was enjoying it like one relishes something they know for a fact is theirs. He slowly removed your silk shorts, leaving you bare while he was still wearing his half-dressed. He smiled at the view of your naked body, devouring you with his eyes. You could see the sheer adoration o his face, showing you how he really meant it when he said you were the only one he wanted. For a split second, you locked eyes, his piercing blue gaze staring into your soul. He kissed your lips, your neck, the valley between your breasts, your stomach and your soaking wet pussy. It was wet and glistening, and there was no doubt that he could see. He chuckled and his warm breath against this area sent more shivers down your spine. Unable to control yourself, you let out one more whine and he took it as his cue to start teasing you with his mouth. His expert tongue was flicking against your clit and you let out a guttural moan as you mindlessly ran your hand through his hair, maintaining him in place. He kept on sucking on your bud as he easily slid two fingers inside of you and immediately hit your g-spot, causing you to gasp at how incredible it felt. You tried sitting up but his free hand went straight to your chest to maintain you in a laying position. His movements accelerated and you were soon bucking your hips, curling your toes, your release being imminent. But, much to your dismay, he stopped just as you were about to reach your climax. You were almost on the verge of tears, the denial being too much for you to handle.
Please, you begged. I-I need…
I want to be inside of you, babe, he said softly.
He quickly removed his jeans, socks and boxers and you stared shamelessly at his naked body. He was fully erect and you were almost foaming at the mouth. His perfect chest, his abs, his dick… All of him seemed carved in marble. Seeing your expression put a smirk on his face. He knew full well the effect he had on you and he enjoyed it. He stood there for a couple of seconds while the two of you admired each other’s nakedness. The sheer admiration in his gaze made you forget about everything that ever made you feel self-conscious : the scar on your knee - inherited from a scooter fall, your stomach that wasn’t as flat as you wanted it to be, the stretch marks on the size of your breasts… In his eyes, they disappeared and you felt like a goddess. Fitting, seeing as he was your own personal deity, with a body you’d worship day and night if you had the opportunity. Still staring at you, he opened the drawer in your nightstand and grabbed a condom. You spread your legs a little more and he laid on top of you, kissing you as he positioned himself at your entrance, after putting the rubber on. The two of you had done it countless times but the sensation of him entering you never failed to make you gasp. It wasn’t pain or surprise, more so a form of relief. You let out a small moan as he moved further inside of you, the position allowing you to take a good look at him. His eyes were half-closed and you could tell he was focusing on the sensation of how you felt around him. He stood still for a second before starting to thrust in you, slowly yet precisely. You put a hand behind his neck, pulling his face closer to yours. Your mouths crashed on each other and you kissed him violently, hungrily. You couldn’t wait any longer : you needed him. All of him. You wanted him to claim you, possess you, mark you as his… As if he could read your mind, he immediately picked up the face, keeping on kissing you. He was pounding into you and you put up a fight with yourself not to scream his name. You took it out on his back instead, scratching violently - not thinking about the marks that would undoubtedly be there the next day. He loved the sensation, you knew it, and the whimper he let out was further proof. There was nothing you enjoyed more than his sounds of pleasure, he who was often so quiet compared to you. Your mouth traveled to his, to his neck, where you started sucking. His movements started to become a bit sloppy and you could tell he was close. You gently grazed his shoulder with your teeth, happy to be the one who got him lost in his own pleasure.
Y/N, he warned.
Come for me, you said softly.
You first, he said firmly.
He caught you by surprise and, in the matter of one second and two movements, you were on top, straddling him. You would almost be mad at the ease with which he managed to flip you around if it didn’t feel so good. He knew this position was, by far, your favorite, as it allowed you to feel all of him. You let your head fall back as you enjoyed the sensation of him pistoning into you. Just because you were on top didn’t mean he was intent on giving you any control. The only sounds you could hear were your moans (yours being much louder than his) and your ski slapping against his. Lost in your haze, you weren’t too sure, but it seemed like you babbled something along the lines of « If you stop, I’ll die ». And you could swear it was about to happen and your heart was going to explode when he played with your clit with his thumb, while still pounding into you.
I-Oh… My-G-god…, you whimpered.
He wrapped his remaining arm around you and brought you closer to his chest, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips. It was almost too chaste for the moment, but it felt good, soft and intimate. Your eyes caught his and a smile formed on his lips.
I love you, he said.
Three words. That’s all it took for you to come undone and reach your apex. Next thing you knew, you were collapsing on top of him as he kept on thrusting, chasing his own high. You weren’t too sure if it lasted seconds, minutes or hours. You were in your own pleasure zone, focused on Marshall’s heartbeat against your chest, the sensation of his fingers digging in your skin, the scent of his sweat mixed with yours… When you came back to your senses, you were under the sheets, wrapped in his arms, him kissing your temples, lavishing you wish praises.
Hey, you said almost sleepily.
Hi princess, he chuckled. You alright ?
Mmmmh mmmh, you nodded as you closed your eyes.
Am I forgiven, yet ?
Forgiven ? For what ? You asked, confused and all fucked-out.
Nevermind, he chuckled. Let’s sleep. I love you.
In the moment, you had no idea what you were supposed to forgive him for. In truth, you had forgotten all about the argument. The only thing that echoed in your mind were those three sacred words.
I love you too, you mumbled as you drifted off to sleep, a smile on your lips.
#marshall mathers#eminem#slim shady#eminem fanfiction#eminem x reader#eminem fluff#marshall mathers x reader#marshall mathers imagine#eminem imagine
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how much money has the 118 cost the lafd from replacing ladder trucks?
#911 spoilers#spoilers in tags#the one that got blown up and landed on buck#the ladder that snapped before oceans 911#the power pole in jinx probably did some damage#the door got ripped off the one in 4x14#did the one that was stolen get scratched up?#the one they intentionally got the kid to crash into#(not the 118 but lena's crew's got flooded in the tsunami)#the ambo that crashes into the girl#how did i forget the one that gets blown up in 2x01?#does the truck do over the cliff in 5x18? if so that defs a write-off#i probably forgot one but from what I googled one new ladder truck costs about 1million USD ($1 431 936 AUD)#and an ambo is between $120 000 and $325 000 USD ($171 870 to $465 481.25 AUD)#so thats.. *does maths poorly realises my calculator is dead and then gives up cause i hate maths*..... a lot#dont come for me if those figures are wrong i spent almost no time looking it up#911 show#911 fox#wee woo show
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𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧
remus’ touch after a long night prompts a tired confession (and a slew of clumsy kisses).
requested here. modern au. fem!reader, 3.6k.
˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚
“I'm going to bed,” Sirius mumbles, scratching at his eyes as he gets up. “Don't let her sleep in her makeup. She'll get an eye infection.”
Your eyes are getting sore, but it's hardly Remus' responsibility to make sure you wash your face tonight, nor Sirius’ to remind you. “I'm a big girl.”
Sirius sends you a smile, ignoring your chiding. “Goodnight, my loves,” he says, waving you both away as he heads out of the living room and up the stairs.
“Notice how he didn't do his dishes?” Remus asks, shifting beside you.
He's sitting as he tends to, slouched in a way that can't be good for his back in the long run but is clearly comfortable short term. His chin is on his chest, his legs kicked out under the coffee table, which is decorated by the casualties of the night. Sirius’ dinner plate, Remus’ mug, James’ rarely used handheld console. He'd been playing a cutesy farming sim before he said goodnight an hour ago. Sirius stayed to mess with James’ crops and eat a late supper. You're surprised it took him as long as it did to admit defeat.
“What time is it?” you ask.
You're laying on the sofa with your socked feet tucked behind Remus’ back, of which he's yet to complain. His elbow brushes your shin as he brings up his arm. “Nearly one in the morning, now,” he reads from his watch. “Let's go to bed too, yeah?”
“I don't want to.” You turn your face into the pillow behind your neck.
“Me neither,” Remus says, dropping his hand on your knee.
You watch another twenty minutes of TV together failing to summon the energy to stand, but the want for a glass of water grows too big. Your head throbs as you get up, offering your hands to the pretzel that is your favourite housemate.
Remus turns off the TV and lights. You lock the front door. He carries the dirty dishes to the kitchen and you fill up two glasses of water to take with you. It's all so… regular. A routine you share nearly every night, only to climb into your two separate beds.
He ushers you out of the kitchen and down the hallway with his hand behind your shoulders, his touch a phantom as you ascend the stairs.
You're silent beside the creak of the old wood, too tired to speak. Remus is similarly quiet, though he does whisper, “Watch,” when you nearly kick the box of Halloween decorations waiting to be taken up into the attic.
You leave your water on the towel box in the alcove and dance around one another in the bathroom. Sirius’ toothbrush lays on the sink still wet, but otherwise there's no signs of him.
You're feeling very, very tired. You hadn't realised how bad it was until you're putting your toothbrush in your mouth, leant up against the window sill, a slot of cold air seeping in from the dark outside. Your eyes shutter closed. The scrubbing sound of Remus brushing his teeth is almost lulling.
He swills out his mouth and washes his brush. “Here,” he says gently. You open your eyes just enough to see him beckoning you forward. “Dove, your necklace.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You turn your back to him.
His fingers are damp and cool on your skin as he unclasps your necklace. He often takes it off for you. It's one of the things you'll miss when you guys aren't living together anymore, the slow meander to his bedroom, the wood of his door jam on your cheek as you lean against it and give him a hopeful smile. Sometimes he's awake, reading a novel on his side in bed or listening to music at his desk, other times he's sleeping. On those occasions you spend too long lingering, stolen seconds spent staring at the rise and fall of his shoulder.
“Thank you,” you say as he puts your necklace in the jewellery dish. It comes out missing vowels, lips stuck together as though honeyed.
You spit pathetically in the sink, rinse your brush, and consider sitting down. “I'm tired,” you whine, wiping your lips.
“I know,” Remus says, giving you a fond nudge. “Just wash your face and get on with it.”
“You first. I'm going to nap standing up for a bit.”
He puts as much of his hair behind his ears as he can and turns on the tap. This is just as familiar as brushing your teeth together. It's not quite as bad as watching James Perfect Skin Potter wash his face with bar soap, but you have to admit that Remus’ eight-nine pence face soap hurts your heart. He washes it off, pats his face dry, and takes the small bottle of bio oil out of the medicine cabinet to pipette onto his pinky finger. “Wash your face,” he says, smoothing the oil into his scars one by one.
You shake your head. “M'gonna do it in the morning.”
“That's why your eye was swollen a few weeks ago. You know yourself you won't.”
“I might,” you say, letting out a big breath as you rub your sore eyes even sorer, “I'm too tired.”
“Can you sit up, at least?”
“No.” Remus takes you by the shoulders and forces you to sit on the edge of the bath. “Aggressive?”
“Don't fall in,” he says, cupping your cheek briefly as if to make sure you've heard.
You are hearing him, seeing him, even feeling the immensity of his touch, but you're tired, and you know you can let yourself relax completely with him. You'd be the same with James or Sirius, though neither of them could have your head feeling so dizzyingly light from a single touch as Remus can. You probably wouldn't let them persuade you into this, either, tilting your head back to watch through blurry vision as Remus soaks a cotton round in your facial oil.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
“Was that a dracula impression?”
“I command you.”
You close your eyes. The queasy feeling of oil drags against your lids as Remus wipes them, loosening the stiff tubes of mascara that coat your lashes. It's not a short process because he's very, very gentle, holding your face delicately as though you're a flower in need of coddling, and him the sun. It's the only metaphor that would ever make sense for you and Remus; he's like the sun even if it goes against every statement he's ever made about himself, or anyone else has, for that matter. People think he's a moody, sarcastic boy, and he is, but he's also a vestibule of sweetness, softness, and warmth. The kind of heat you'd only ever feel kissing your skin under the summer sun. But more than that, he's the relief that follows when the clouds come out.
And his hands are all over you. Your head gets heavier by the minute, eased into dozing by his touch and quiet tones. “We're almost done. I'm gonna have to carry you to bed at this rate.”
“I'm going to miss this so much one day,” you say. It's easier to admit when you're not looking at him.
Remus turns on the tap. Hot water runs, you can tell by the sound as strange as it seems, and he wrings the dirtied cotton round before replacing it with a new one. He wets it, bringing it just that touch too hot to your cheeks to wipe you down. “What are you going to miss, dove?”
“Us. You. I'm going to miss you.”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, but one day I will be. James will finally have had enough of us and I'll,” —you swallow around nothing as a rivulet of water runs down your cheek, a cooling tear from the cotton round— “have to move out and we'll never see each other anymore.”
“Don't be silly, you're not going anywhere.”
“It's not about the going,” you murmur, peeling your eyes open tentatively as his dabbing follows down your cheek to your neck. “I miss you sometimes and we still live together. I can't imagine how much I'll miss you…”
Remus puts the cotton round aside. He takes your face into his hand, and suddenly his touch feels raw, nothing like it had moments ago. Because Remus would wash your makeup off for you any day of the week, but his looking at you like this, so unshielded and unabashed, is a rarity.
“You won't have to miss me. Even if we did move away from each other, I wouldn't let it be that far.”
“Friends move away all the time. We don't speak to half the people we knew at school.”
“I only really knew you and the boys,” he says. It isn't true but it is at the same time. Together, you'd been a happy lot, but your current housemates are the ones you'd known. “And see? We're still together.”
“But for how long?” you ask.
Remus brings his second hand, holding your face entirely. He covers your cheeks, index fingers sliding slowly under your ears. He's exceedingly gentle, and his eyes are soft. He holds you like you're made of glass, like you could break under a hint of pressure. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side as though he might lean in for a kiss. Maybe he doesn't know he's doing it, but Remus is a very purposeful soul. He'd do much worse to wind you up if you wanted him to.
You sober up. It's like he has caffeine in his palms.
“You want to go where I'm going, is that it?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” you say, barely say, voice shame-facedly weak. Is he asking what you think he is?
“Do you want to start now?”
You breathe out as one of his hands shifts down your jaw. “Yeah, I… I want to start now.”
“Okay, dove. Then close your eyes again.”
You hold his gaze for a second that feels infinitely long and short at once, your heart racing. Clarity has returned, a thrust into wakefulness even if your fatigue ties knots around your ankles. You look at him in his late night glory, his scars shining a pink-white like the petals of a young peony flower, and you know it's happening now.
You shut your eyes.
He steps closer, though the bath you're perched on is low, and he has to bend a considerable amount to reach you. The weight of his hands on you doesn't change, not even as he grows near enough to sense the heat of his breath against your lips. It's his nose that makes first contact as it slides against yours, and then his forehead presses down into you, his lips noticeably absent. Each contiguity between you thrums.
A pit opens in your chest, cleaved by his voice as he says, “I'm going to kiss you, okay? S'that what you want?”
Your hands don't feel like your own. Under the sickening nervousness twining its way through your ribs, you're excited. You're smiling, your voice shaped by it. “Yeah. It's what I want,” you say.
“Good. It's what I've wanted for a while–” while pressed into your lips, all shaken up by an emotion you've never heard him speak with. He kisses you and you're frozen, and he waits and waits and pulls away to push back in. You remember yourself then, responding to his wading with some pressure of your own. Sparked back to life.
It's so strange. It doesn't feel real. Remus Lupin kisses you heated and hard for just long enough to feel it in your teeth before he pulls away. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his fingertip running down your cheek, following that same path as your earlier rivulet. To think he saw it, really saw it, locked it away to remember and trace into your skin now… maybe he's seen much more of you than you realised all along.
“Will you do it again?” you say under your breath.
Remus must hear the thread of insecurity running through your question; you're afraid he'll say no, but he strokes your cheek again with that unfathomable softness and says, “Yeah, dove, of course I will.”
“Do you want to?”
And that's less insecurity and more selfishness, wanting the confession. He hears that, too.
“I want to kiss you more than I've ever wanted anything,” he says, eye to eye with you, your head tipped up and your heart in your throat, twitching and fizzling like a firecracker. “Yeah? And all that missing me you've been doing? All your worrying? You don't need to do that. You've never needed to do that–”
“I just never thought you liked me like that.” You and Remus aren't new to one another. “You've been the same since the day we met.”
Remus’ hands get a little more solid where he's holding you. “Dove. Dove, are you mad?”
“Remus–”
“Maybe I have been the same, but did you really not notice that I–” He squeezes your cheeks playfully, almost in disbelief. “If you want me, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere without you. You're not going anywhere without me.”
“So you like me?”
“Yes,” he says, his eyebrows pinched together at the starts. “Of course I do.” He laughs. “That's what I'm trying to tell you.”
“Oh,” you say, lifting your head.
Remus shuts his eyes a millisecond before you shut your own and kisses you again. The second round is softer, his smile to yours and struggling to find purchase. His breath huffs out in a minty laugh, shockwaves through your mouth.
“Stop laughing,” he breathes, his hands falling to your neck, your shoulders.
“You first.”
Your lips part under his, a split-second of contact. He yanks away before things can get too heavy, and you're glad he does, but for a moment you feel the loss like a wave of vertigo.
“Sorry, I'm going too fast, and you're tired.” His touch is ticklish behind your shoulder.
“It's okay. Maybe it is a bit fast, but I'm not tired anymore,” you confess.
Remus hugs you, cementing every feeling for him you have as he wraps his arms around you from over your shoulders, a deft hand cupped behind your neck. “That's not true. I can feel your back shaking. Let's go to bed.”
“After that?”
“What, are you worried it won't have happened in the morning?” he asks genuinely.
You go limp in his arms as he takes your weight against his chest. Not worried, but rather not sure you can be away from him so soon. You ask him in a whisper if you can come and sit with him, not to sleep with him, not to do anything else, and he whispers back, Anything you want. You both entertain the lie that you won't fall asleep in his bed.
—
Remus tenses as he hears the scuffling sounds of movement downstairs. It takes a train of thought awakening for him to realise it's only James, rising early as usual to put on a load of washing and prepare bits for lunch before he goes off for training. He can see him in his mind's eye if he tries, his friend dressed in the red and white rugby uniform, green socks up over his calves and white cleats scrubbed pristine for another ruck in the mud.
Remus’ relaxes, stretching out in bed until his hand bumps into something rigid.
He flinches.
You're laying on the mattress beside him, your head slipped off of the pillows and your arm tucked beneath you. It doesn't look comfortable, and if it were any other morning he'd pull it straight for you, but.
I kissed you, he thinks to himself, as though talking to you. He turns away from you until his back clicks and alleviates the ache in his hips, though he has to settle eventually, back on his back, no way of ignoring you. He doesn't want to ignore you. The opposite —why are you so far away? Can he hold you?
What are the rules here?
Kissing… not dating… You're here in his bed, you'd asked to stay.
He takes your hand and pulls at your arm. Still sleeping, you mumble and move onto your back, releasing the pressure on your shoulder as he pulls you toward his chest. Your face is impassive, lax in sleep.
He should let you sleep.
“Dove,” he says, stroking up the length of your arm.
“Mm?” you hum.
“I need to ask you something.”
You twitch awake with a small cough. Your eyes are red with a lack of sleep as you open them, blinking, and he wishes stupidly that he could make it better. He makes a sympathetic sound for want of more to do.
“Why have you woken me up?” you ask, blinking at him. You gather that there's nothing urgent happening and push your face into his shoulder, practically nuzzling him. “It's Saturday.”
“I just need to ask you something.”
“So ask me,” you encourage through your sleepiness.
The washing machine whirs downstairs. It’s an old machine that you often joke is taking off into orbit during the final spin, loud as anything. He can barely hear your sluggish breathing underneath it, but he can't miss the catch in it after he asks, “Can I be your boyfriend?”
It's not the catch he's expecting. You laugh and readjust, wrapping your arms around him from the side and kissing the side of his neck clumsily. “Y'u asked me last night,” you say in a borderless run-on, sounding about as dopily in love as he's ever heard you.
He thinks about it. Yes, he did, after he'd kissed you many more times than he should've and curled up in bed with you, hands held loosely beneath the blankets. He remembers the question, the answer. The last kiss that followed, and you falling asleep beside him.
“I need a coffee,” he says, encouraging your head back so he can kiss your temple.
“No, you need to sleep more with me. And maybe kiss me again. If you want to.”
Sleeping isn't half as interesting as kissing you. He slots his nose against yours and languishes in the feeling of your lips, wondering if he's having a false start. He could still be dreaming. It would make sense.
The door clatters open with a curse. James stands in the doorway with a folded pile of Remus' washing from the radiators in his arms, an apology on his lips, “Sorry, mate, the door got away from– oh my god. Oh my god?”
Remus isn't an overly shy guy but he can't deal with this. “For fuck's sake,” he mutters, dropping his face into your shoulder. Your arm wraps under his neck, fingers splayed across his cheek.
“James–” you begin, resigned to your fate.
“This is flat-cest. This is the cardinal sin.”
“We don't live in a flat,” Remus says.
“That makes it worse. You can't even blame close quarters.” Remus peeks up to watch James in the doorway, still clinging to Remus’ washing, pure shock curdling his features. He shakes his head. “I'm telling Sirius.”
“Please don't!” you say.
You slump back into the pillows as James leaves anyways.
Remus hugs your soft abdomen. “Don't worry,” he says.
“I guess it's a good thing you've already asked me out,” you say.
“Why, what can they do?” Remus asks, wondering if he's allowed to put his face on your chest or if that's too forward. You rake a hand through his hair and encourage him forward, to his delight.
Frantic words. You and Remus loved up in bed despite it.
“I'm chucking them out!”
“James, they've been seeing for weeks. Can I go back to sleep?”
“What?!”
You grumble into his hair. “That's not even true… Does everyone know, then? That I liked you?”
Remus thinks of the shadow of you in the doorway, that sheepish smile you send his way before you ask him to unclasp your necklace before bed, or your face as he’d wiped the sooty stain of mascara from your cheek last night, half in love with him as you fell asleep in his palm.
“I don't think so, lovely,” he comforts. “Don't worry about it. We'll clear it up at lunch time. James isn't even mad, he's just sulking thinking we didn't tell him.”
“How could you not tell me?” James asks on cue, rounding the door again, arms ever tighter around the bundle of Remus’ clothes. He assumes it's being kept hostage. “I thought we were best mates.”
“James,” you say softly, all sympathy.
Remus likes the feeling of your voice under his ear, and your slightly too-quick heartbeat. He could fall asleep here and now if it weren't for the company.
“It's new,” you're saying, softness melded to a sweet pride. “Okay? I've barely told Remus how I feel, of course I was going to tell you. We were only talking about it last night. It really hasn't been weeks, Sirius is a stirrer.”
Remus pulls the covers up over your heads and climbs on top of you in a rush, demanding that the both of you be left alone, to James’ great annoyance but your delight, your laughter loud in the shell of his ear. Your chest shakes with it beneath him.
A great wad of fabric hits him in the legs. “Twats,” James says, seemingly stalking off.
Your whisper sends shivers down his spine. “We're alone again. Do you have anything else to ask me while you're too tired to remember?” you tease.
There's not a chance in the world that Remus would ever forget this.
˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚
thanks for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed, it's been a little bit since I wrote for remus like this so I was actually a bit nervous and I hope it's okay :D <3
#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin x fem!reader#remus lupin fluff#remus lupin x you#remus lupin x y/n#marauders era#remus x reader#remus x you#marauders#remus lupin drabble#remus lupin blurb#marauders x reader#remus lupin imagine#remus lupin fanfic#remus lupin fanfiction#the marauders
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Tommy's Two Hundred
From the moment Tommy had joined the gay dating app, he’d spotted that the closest person to him geographically was a catfish. It was obvious from the little thumbnail picture that no one with a body that good could live so close by and him not know about it. The picture, showing the massive pecs and toned six pack were guaranteed to have been stolen from some straight bodybuilder somewhere in the world; but definitely not anyone who lived within at least two hundred miles of this backwards town in the middle of nowhere. The guy was probably some lonely, middle aged man seeking some attention that he did not deserve; attention that Tommy had no intention of bestowing upon him.
With his good looks and average height, Tommy soon found himself on a couple of dates with guys from the app. Some a little older; a couple still in college. He always got himself so excited before each one, having enjoyed endless kinky exchanges beforehand, back and forth. He liked it when the guys led the conversation with their horny talk, getting most aroused when they spoke about dominating him and tying him up. He gave these virtual suitors a deep, authorative voice in his head as he read out their messages, imagining the ways they’d seek their pleasure from him. In these fantasies, he built an entire persona for his dates; the way they spoke, the way they acted; the things they would do to him after getting back. He was his own worst enemy. No one could live up to such expectations. Despite being bold and brave behind the keyboard of their cell phones, the guys were never as Tommy pictured them in real life. They were polite and friendly; a little kinky perhaps, but only behind closed doors. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Tommy’s bubble to burst, leaving him stuck on a dull date with another boring Mr Average.
As Valentine’s Day rolled around once more, Tommy felt the sting of still being single at the age of twenty-four. Friends, who thought they were being helpful, lamented about how difficult it was to understand why a guy so good looking and successful was still on the shelf. Tommy, however, knew that he just wasn’t being plain enough with people about what he was really after. He’d wasted more than a couple of years of his time on guys who were never going to please him in the ways he most wanted. If he was going to find the man of his dreams, he would need to start his dating profile from scratch.
Stripping his shirt and binding his hands with rope, Tommy posed for his new profile picture. He updated his username to include his submissive nature. Then, it was finally time to work on the profile itself. He stripped it bare of the mundane details about his favourite hobbies and movies, his education and aspirations. In their place, he went to town about his kinky interests and desires. He wanted to submit himself to someone entirely, openly and without reservations. Like a form of cosmic ordering, he outlined in great detail the sort of kinky, dominant guy he was on the lookout for, and ended by posting a further picture of his toned, naked body, wrists and ankles bound with handcuffs.
With breathless excitement, Tommy saved his changes and waited with fizzing excitement for his first messages.
Nothing. Sure, his profile had had lots of views, but no one had felt compelled enough by it to reach out.
Days went by. Tommy began to feel that he had made a mistake; that he had exposed himself and his kinks too openly on the app. Perhaps, rather than being turned on by his pictures and words, they were laughing at him instead; his extreme submissive fantasies, too weird and niche for anyone to actually want to meet him. Maybe the man of his horny dreams didn’t actually exist.
By the end of the second week, Tommy had made up his mind to delete the account. He gave his profile one final read, cringing as he tried to imagine it from another person’s perspective, then he stormed onto the app settings and found the exact link he needed to erase it entirely.
Just as he did so, Tommy saw a message pop up on the screen:
‘Nice profile.’
Assuming sarcasm, Tommy skeptically tapped his way into his inbox and rolled his eyes when he saw that the message had actually come from the catfish profile of the guy who supposedly lived right here in town.
‘Thanks,’ he typed back, determined that he would never be rude enough to ignore anyone who messaged him.
‘If you’re really as submissive as you claim, I’d be very interested in meeting you,’ came the next response.
Again, Tommy rolled his eyes at the fake profile picture. However, given that in five minutes time he would be deleting the app for good anyway, why not just click on the profile and take a look?
What Tommy saw next altered his perspective entirely. He didn’t care if the profile picture was a fake; a guy who could write like that, so erotically, about his desires to dominate, could look however they wanted to in real life. Tommy needed to meet them.
What followed over the next couple of hours was a kinky exchange where Tommy literally poured his heart and soul out to the mystery man on the other end. No one had ever shown such an interest in his kinks, nor drawn them out of him with such precision. So, when the offer of a meet at the coffee house in town came up, he didn’t think twice.
Sitting with his back to the door, Tommy waited patiently, but with a realistic mindset that a guy with a fake profile picture was unlikely to ever actually show up. Then, suddenly, he felt a large, warm hand land on his shoulder and a deep, masculine voice rumble into his ear. “Tommy?”
Tommy didn’t turn his head. He wanted to preserve that catfished image of the man he had been messaging for just a few moments longer. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw that very same man appear in the flesh. Tall, strapping, muscular and handsome; it was as if a beautiful, mid-twenties Greek god had just arrived in his hometown; from out of absolutely nowhere.
“I’m Hunter,” the guy smiled, reaching out his large hand to shake.
Tommy couldn’t help admitting to the fact that he hadn’t believed Hunter’s profile pictures to be real, and Hunter nodded, saying that he had been told the same thing many times. He seemed pleased by Tommy’s appearance too, stroking his knee gently under the table as they settled into their first real conversation.
A few moments later, Hunter was up and ordering coffees for them both. Tommy turned to catch the guy from behind as he stood at the counter: so tall, with such perfect glutes and that broad back adorned with muscular shoulders. Was this really Tommy’s lunchtime date?
Hunter soon returned carrying a tray with coffees and, surprisingly, a large slice of triple chocolate cake, which he placed in front of Tommy.
Politely, Tommy thanked him for it, even though he had not asked for something to eat and actually felt a little awkward picking at it when Hunter did not have anything himself.
“I wanted to discuss our sexual interests,” Hunter stated next, steering the conversation when Tommy seemed to be taking it down a more mundane path. “The domination and submission.”
Tommy felt his cheeks getting hot. There were another two couples close by; probably within earshot. But Hunter didn’t seem to care in the slightest.
“What do you want to know?” Tommy replied excitedly.
“Actually, I think it's time that you listened to me instead,” Hunter replied sternly, putting Tommy in his place perfectly. “It’s lucky that I saw your profile as I don’t use that app much for meeting guys.”
“Where do you usually meet guys?” Tommy asked, sensing that Hunter had paused for him to ask just such a question.
“A few places,” Hunter shrugged, flicking through his cell phone. “These are some of my previous subs,” he offered, holding up his phone and swiping through pictures of himself next to other guys in various forms of submission to him: on their knees, bound and gagged, you name it. “Do you notice anything in particular about the guys I sleep with?” Hunter asked next. His tone was serious and it was obvious that he wanted Tommy to respond in much the same way.
The answer came to Tommy immediately, but he squirmed as he tried to think of a way to reply to Hunter, without seeming rude. “Well, you’re so…” he mumbled, gesturing towards Hunter’s powerful body and chest. “And yet, these guys here… there’re a bit…”
“They’re fatties,” Hunter stated for him; obviously not one to dress his language up. “I need you to just come out with it in the future when I ask you questions,” he stated frankly. “That’s the way I work. No bullshit.”
Tommy nodded, feeling turned on by how direct Hunter could be. Having discussed in such detail what his dream dominant would be, it was almost as if Hunter was slotting perfectly into place.
“Why fatties?” Tommy asked, hoping that mirroring Hunter’s language would please him.
“Because fatties turn me on,” Hunter replied plainly. “I work hard to build my body up. So when I fuck a sub, I need him to be soft and doughy for me.” He reached over to the plate of half eaten cake in front of Tommy and gave it a gentle nudge.
Tommy’s eyes bulged. Hunter wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t like to bullshit. His meaning couldn’t have been clearer. “So, you bought me the cake because…” he mumbled. He considered leaving it there and posing it as a question to Hunter, but he got the sense that the dominant hunk in front of him wanted him to just say what he believed to be true. “You bought me the cake to… soften me up.”
Hunter smiled for the first time in a few minutes and he leaned in, putting his giant hand back on Tommy’s knee. “That’s right,” he nodded, seeming to be genuinely delighted that Tommy had been frank with him. “Submission for me, is more than just slipping on a pair of handcuffs during sex. Submission is a lifestyle. It should be your entire body. You should wear it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”
Feeling his heart beating faster and his palms sweating simply from hearing Hunter’s deep voice speaking at such a volume about things, without a care in the world, Tommy nodded. “I agree,” he answered. “Submission should be a lifestyle.”
“I’m glad you said that,” Hunter nodded again, his eyes now fixed on the still half eaten cake.
“Oh,” Tommy shook himself, picking up his fork again and popping the next bit of cake into his mouth. Instinctively, he apologised and Hunter did not correct him for it.
“I’m not going to lie,” Hunter stated, nodding subtly with approval. “I think this could work between us.”
“You do?” Tommy shot back with so much delight that he immediately wanted to punch himself in the face for it. “That’s cool,” he nodded, trying to seem more relaxed.
“We’ll meet at my place next time,” Hunter told him, draining his coffee as if this interview was already over. “I’ll message you on the app.”
“Okay,” Tommy replied, surprised by how fast the date was over with.
Hunter leaned in. “And make sure you finish that cake,” he whispered into his ear. “Every last crumb.”
Having Hunter so close sent exciting electrical pulses through Tommy’s brain: the smell of his delicious aftershave, those perfect lips so near to his face. “I will,” he replied sincerely, turning to look Hunter in the face in the hope that they may end with a kiss.
Hunter held Tommy’s gaze, studying him. But Tommy knew better than to be the one to initiate a kiss. “I know you will,” the hunk replied after a few seconds. “You’ll be a good boy,” he chuckled, then turned and walked away without a second glance.
Tommy raced home feeling more elated after a date than ever before. Finally, he had found someone who seemed to relate to him on a level that no one had before. And, unbelievably, the guy was hotter than anyone else he had ever dared to dream of.
Of course, there was the one part of the date that he was less sure about. He hadn’t come across someone so into domination that they had insisted their date consume cake for them. But just because it was a little different, didn’t mean that he had to view it negatively. After all, he’d got quite a kick out of complying, hadn’t he?
“Come on in,” smiled Hunter a few days later, opening the door to his apartment.
Just as he had stated in his messages, Hunter had not long got in from the gym and still looked a little sweaty, dressed in tight, and particularly short, shorts, together with a well-fitted compression top that showed off every detail of his exquisite body. He was even taller than Tommy realised, making him feel so insignificant standing next to him. He tried not to faint, right there on the spot.
“Rule number one,” Hunter began. “When you come here, you take your clothes off as soon as you get inside.”
Tommy stared up at Hunter, wondering if he was serious. But as the pause continued, Tommy realised that Hunter was waiting for him to comply. He fumbled for a second, then began unbuttoning his shirt, feeling more than a little embarrassed to be doing this straight away. He’d taken so long to pick out his outfit for their second date. What a waste of time that was!
“Come on, quickly!” Hunter prodded him impatiently.
Tommy kicked off his shoes, removing his pants and underwear in one go, knowing that his dick was going to be pathetically hard already. He stood there after awkwardly removing his socks, not knowing whether to cover his hardness, or act like this was normal.
Hunter nodded with approval. He reached down into the pile of discarded clothes and pulled out Tommy’s underwear, holding them up as if for inspection, and gripping the small waist between his fingers. “Cute,” he chuckled to himself, seeming to find them highly amusing.
But Hunter did not throw them back onto the floor. He carried them as he turned into the apartment, clearly expecting the naked Tommy to do the same.
Following the jock inside and admiring those fine, muscular glutes just ahead of him, Tommy had never felt so turned on in his life. It had been immediate, from the moment he stepped inside. He felt, at that moment, that he would have eaten an entire mountain of chocolate cake if Hunter had told him to.
Hunter led him to the kitchen area, where Tommy was surprised to see that the big man was busy preparing a meal for them both, despite not having even showered yet. A good meal was clearly more important to him.
“Smells delicious,” Tommy chirped politely, still unsure whether to cover his boner with his hand as he trotted in.
Hunter raised his eyebrows in recognition of his comment, but did not reply. Instead, he pulled out a chair at his table and pointed for Tommy to sit whilst he went back to stirring and serving it out.
There was something so sexy about a man in the kitchen. There were so many things on the go and yet Hunter did not seem in the least bit flustered. Everything was under complete control. But as Tommy watched, he noticed that it was all being served onto separate, single plates; not distributed between the two of them as he had expected.
At last, Hunter pulled out a chair and positioned it directly in front of Tommy. Then he sat, spreading his strong legs and looking at his guest seriously. “I enjoyed our date, Tommy. I really did. I think you’re a nice guy and I believe that you would make a great sub for me.”
Tommy smiled back, pleased; feeling the need to tuck his hardness between his thighs whilst Hunter was being so friendly.
“But if I’m going to spend some real time with you, I need to know what you can do. I also need you to see the type of man I really am. You may not like any of what I have planned tonight. You may want to leave. And that’s fine. But at least we'll both know where we stand, and neither of us will get our hopes up, thinking that this is more than what it is.”
Tommy looked from the gorgeous man to the piles of steaming food still on the counter. He knew that Hunter would want him to think for himself and be direct. “You want me to eat this for you, don’t you?” he asked, realising that the chocolate cake slice of their first date had just been the start of whatever kinky play Hunter was into.
Hunter simply nodded. “I want to see how far you’re willing to go for me.”
The stud sat back, lifted his arms and removed the tight compression shirt he was wearing, revealing his remarkable torso to Tommy for the first time.
Chuckling slightly at the obviously smitten expression on Tommy’s face, the large guy leaned in and gave him a sweet kiss on the lips. “Are you ready to do this for me?” he whispered into his guest’s ear, before picking Tommy’s small hands up and placing them on his strapping chest.
The hot, sweet breath on Tommy’s neck, combined with the musky scent of the jock’s body, so firm and strong, made him want to climax there and then. “Yes,” he replied obediently.
Hunter sat back again with a smirk, making Tommy’s hands fall back down. He knew exactly the effect he was having upon the boy. He reached down to the guy’s stomach and, with the back of one finger, he stroked across the light six pack that showed there. “Goodbye, little buddy,” he teased wickedly. Then he stood up, seeming to loom larger than ever without his shirt on, and brought the plates and bowls to the table.
Armed with only a fork and a spoon, Tommy was expected to feast on all of it.
Luck was on Tommy’s side; he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. Plus, Hunter was watching him, rubbing his back sweetly and advising him on what to eat next; taking him back and forth from one dish to another. But something seemed to happen about thirty minutes in. Hunter changed slightly. He’d had a laid back attitude the entire time that Tommy had been there, as if he wouldn’t have been bothered if Tommy cancelled the date and took himself home instead. Maybe he was used to that. But now he was actively supporting; up and about, fetching the furthest plates so that Tommy did not need to reach. The man’s breathing had altered as well, with deeper, more rapid intakes of breath as he watched Tommy eat. Then, with a small glance down, Tommy saw that the thickest hardness had swollen down one side of Hunter’s gym shorts. How incredible! Had Tommy really excited the dominant man that much?
“You’re doing well,” Hunter praised him; his voice deeper and more gravely than Tommy had heard it before. “I’m impressed.”
Tommy’s stretched out stomach began to really hurt about forty minutes in, yet he continued to push himself as far as he could. Some plates were clean now, which Hunter got up and replaced with some dessert items. Tommy had always enjoyed switching back and forth between sweet and savory items, so the additions to the table were more of a help than a hindrance.
Eventually, the time came when Tommy knew he would have to stop. His pace had slowed and he started selecting those easier, lighter items to make the remaining plates look at least a little emptier. “That’s it. I’m done!” he whimpered, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his painfully distended stomach.
Despite expecting cries or protests from Hunter ordering him to finish the pathically small amount of pasta he had left, or gulp down the last few melting scoops of ice cream, Hunter simply sat there, surveying the destruction on the table. “Where did you learn to eat like that?” he asked, seemingly flabbergasted.
Tommy quietly dredged up a burp to relieve some of the pressure and shook his head. “Don’t know,” he shrugged. “I’ve always had a pretty good appetite.”
Hunter still seemed unable to comprehend what he had witnessed. “I’ve seen some seriously fucking fat boys eat less than half of what you just put away.”
Tommy burped again and found some pleasant relief; more than he was expecting. He knew how expensive the ice cream that Hunter had served him was, and decided to finish it off after all, not wanting to see it go to waste. He could see Hunter staring at him in amazement. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I’ve always had a very fast metabolism.”
“I can soon destroy that,” Hunter growled, giving away just how horny he was. “Natural greed like this… It's incredible. And very rare!”
“Thanks,” Tommy smiled,unsure what else to say.
“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” Hunter asked next, wrapping a big arm over Tommy’s shoulders, like a snake about to suffocate its prey. “I know you don’t have work in the morning. I can make you breakfast.”
A mixture of relief and arousal swept over Tommy. He’d made such an effort to eat, he’d all but forgotten the fact that he’d need to catch the bus home later.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Hunter teased, as if Tommy needed persuading. He reached for a tiny bottle of lubricant in his shorts and tipped a small amount of it onto his fingertips, before gently massaging the head of Tommy’s hardness.
Tommy gasped and grabbed for the sides of his seat, as if the floor was about to cave in. Hunter was so good at this. All that eating made the oxygen catch in his chest and it took him a few seconds to get his breathing into a rhythmn as Hunter took the reins of pleasuring him. He nodded his head, not wanting to use his voice in that moment for fear of how pathetically weak and needy it might sound.
“Come on Greedy Boy,” Hunter teased him. “Let’s go take a shower together…”
“I can’t come next weekend,” Tommy grinned, addressing his coworkers six weeks later. “I’m away with my boyfriend.”
As predicted, the whistles of delight sounded in the air as they all made a fuss at the news that their colleague was dating at last. Tommy wasted no time in sharing a picture of the two of them together, sitting in his parents’ lounge.
“He’s hot!” blasted one of them straight away.
“He looks like he should be on a catwalk!” squeaked another.
Tommy smirked to himself. He loved the reactions he got to pictures of Hunter. Sure, people might have thought he was punching quite significantly above his weight, but he was still the one who got to be fucked by such a hunk, and not them. However, behind that handsome smile and perfect ‘boy next door’ act Hunter laid on astonishingly thick for all of Tommy’s family and friends, lay the kinkiest, most dominant lover he could have ever wished for. The things they got upto in the bedroom satisfied him completely. After years of dating boring guys, Hunter seemed to swoop in and make Tommy fall hopelessly in love with him in only a matter of days. Tommy was utterly devoted to him. And the best part was, Hunter knew it.
“You haven’t really told me much about these friends of yours we’re going to meet this weekend,” Tommy pondered, sitting in the passenger seat and noting how far out into the country they had gone on his online map.
“Well, why bother? You got along with all my other friends,” Hunter chuckled, obviously keeping something from Tommy about this trip.
Tommy sighed. “Yeah, but they were all co-workers and old school buddies. They don’t know… all the sides of your personality,” he replied diplomatically.
“Well, let’s just say, this weekend will be good for us,” Hunter smiled, leaning back and driving smoothly. “These guys are sexy as fuck, and we all like to play together. I’ve been excited to show you off to them since we first started going out. ”
“Show me off?” Tommy asked. “How so?”
“Just you wait and see,” Hunter laughed, adjusting the developing boner he was getting in his crotch. Something about this was exciting him very much. Then he reached his hand across to stroke Tommy’s thigh and brushed off some of the many wrappers from the drive-thru they had stopped at a good few miles back.
The location, when they finally arrived about two hours later, was nothing short of breathtaking. The house was set in the most charming of spots, overlooking the hills; with eight bedrooms, a pool, and the largest hot tub Tommy had ever seen. They entered, Hunter leading the way, only to see several shirtless men all standing around in the kitchen. They cheered when they saw Hunter and came over to greet him with a hug.
Tommy stood back awkwardly. He’d been so stupid in how he had imagined these men in his head. They were not at all as he had envisioned them; all of them round bellied and at varying levels of obesity; not the types of guys that someone in Hunter’s extreme, peak physical condition would have been expected to associate with. But, then again, Hunter had always said that he preferred fat guys.
“And this is my new boyfriend, Tommy,” Hunter finally stated, pulling Tommy forward to greet them all.
There was a look of surprise on all the guys’ faces. One of them furrowed their eyebrows, as if about to ask whether Hunter was being serious. Then, the first one stepped forward and shook his hand warmly; followed by the rest of them, one by one.
“That was a little weird,” Tommy whispered as the pair of them went up to the bedroom that had been assigned to them: thre master suite no less. “Did they not know that you’re dating?”
“No, they knew,” Hunter smirked, undressing himself and slipping on his tiny swim shorts to head out to the pool. “I date fat guys, remember. I’ve fucked and dominated every one of them in my time,” he continued, checking his perfect hair in the mirror. “So when I told them I was dating the fucking greediest, sexiest guy I’d ever met, they’d probably assumed you were a lot larger.”
“Wait. So do they know that you…” Tommy asked.
“These guys know everything. That’s why I was so excited for this weekend. We can just relax and be ourselves, without having to worry. I can cook mountains of food for you, just like normal, then bring you up here, tie you up and fuck you all night long,” he grinned, striding over to Tommy and kissing him. “Now, get changed,” he ordered, throwing some swim shorts at him.
“Looking good!” growled one of the men as Hunter led the way down the stairs. “I’ve never seen you looking so chiselled.”
Hunter stood and soaked in all of their comments, comically flexing and posing for them all. Then he smirked and tapped one of the guys on his gut. “I could say the same to you, buddy,” he nodded. “This overhang has really gotten a lot bigger since the last time I saw you.”
Tommy inhaled slightly with shock at Hunter’s rudeness. He looked for signs of offense, until he saw that the man instead looked mightily pleased with himself. “Paul has been feeding me a big tub of ice cream before bed every night,” he pointed over at another large bellied guy in the corner, who was obviously his partner.
“Well, it’s really working,” Hunter smiled at him, giving him a deep, horny kiss. “I’m doing the same with this little guy,” he continued, pulling Tommy closer to him. “He was still living with his parents when I met him, but I’ve got him with me most of the time these days. That’s making things easier. Ice cream before bed is one of the things I started him on straight away,” he stated proudly.
The eyes of the men studied Tommy’s body in his swim shorts.
“I’m having to break down his incredibly fast metabolism. It’s not ideal. But if I turn him around, you can see,” Hunter explained, spinning a light and clueless Tommy around and bending him down so that his small butt faced the men instead. “There’s a little more softness forming around his lower back and…” he continued, dropping Tommy’s swim shorts slightly so that his butt cheeks showed, “...his glutes and thighs are filling up a lot more than when I first met him.”
Hunter tapped Tommy’s butt, creating a short ripple.
“Do you see it?” he asked them all.
With his head down, facing away from them, Tommy didn’t know if the guys had nodded in agreement.
“Do you think he’s going to be quite bottom heavy then?” another of the men asked, clearly feeling that Tommy’s butt was wothy of discussion.
“Possibly,” Hunter agreed. “It’s a bit too early to tell. There aren’t many fatties in his family for me to get a good idea of how he might develop. That was one of the first things I checked. But he’s quit the gym to spend more time with me, so that should speed things up a little.”
Tommy felt his swim shorts getting pulled back up and a sweet kiss being placed on his forehead by his boyfriend. Then he was spun back to face the others, just as they all started chuckling with amusement to themselves, noticing the hardness that had developed in Tommy’s crotch during their conversation about him.
Hunter soon noticed as well and joined in the laughing, patting Tommy on his butt proudly. “He’s a kinky little fucker too!” he smirked, repositioning himself behind Tommy, rolling his big strong arms around the smaller guy’s shoulders and gently rubbing his crotch into his lover’s rear.
“I take it he’s a sub?” Paul asked from the corner.
“Of course,” Hunter shot back, gently nibbling Tommy’s ear. “One of the most obedient I’ve ever had,” he whispered. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you Tommy?” he teased, reaching one arm down to stroke the hardness in Tommy’s shorts, even with all the other guys there.
Tommy’s head flopped back against Hunter’s shoulder. In this situation, he felt so crazily out of control, yet it was arousing him in ways he could not explain.
“Anyway, come on, Piggy,” Hunter finally ordered, pulling his large hand out from Tommy’s crotch. “Let’s go try out the pool.” He tapped his lover on his butt, admiring the slight flutter that spread into the guy’s thighs. “But remember, not too much exercise for you. I don’t want you to spoil all the fast food calories I bought you earlier.”
Dinner was served a couple of hours later: a vast spread of multiple dishes, prepared by the varying couples in attendance. They sat in the shade, all of them in their swim shorts, and some of the men spilling out of the tight patio chairs that the rental property had for its guests.
“You finished already, Danny?” Hunter asked the significantly overweight man across the table. “Tommy will be nowhere near finished. He’s got at least another twenty minutes in him,” he boasted.
“It is extraordinary,” one of the others nodded in agreement, seeing how easily Tommy was packing it all in. “Is this how he usually is?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Hunter nodded, reaching over and spooning on another large serving of cheesy pasta, as if he was psychically linked to his boyfriend and knew exactly what he wanted. “He can go like this for every meal: breakfast, lunch, dinner… He’s also a great little snacker as well. I need to eat frequently throughout the day to keep this physique up,” he explained, tensing his large biceps. “So it’s easy to get this one eating with me, and it still never spoils his appetite when dinner time rolls around.”
“How are his family feeling about him dating a feeder?” Danny asked, eyes still on Tommy as he continued to consume.
“It’s still early days,” Hunter replied. “He’s not really started to fatten up properly yet and take shape. Plus, they absolutely love me. I have his mom eating out of the palm of my hand! I’m sure the idea that I’m fattening their son won’t cross their minds for some time yet.”
“What’s his recovery time like?” Danny’s slightly slimmer husband asked next.
“Pretty good,” Hunter nodded again. “After he’s done here, I’ll take him upstairs, jack him off and then let him sleep for a couple of hours. Then he’ll be back up and ready for something else before bed,” he laughed, rubbing his boy’s back sweetly.
Tommy listened to it all as he continued to eat. Below the table, his hardness was weeping into his swim trunks. It wasn’t at all how he anticipated the life of a submissive, but it was still absolutely perfect, hearing Hunter boast about his control over him to all his friends.
“Are you struggling there, Fat Boy?” Hunter grinned as he watched the enormous Jack trying to repack his suitcase in the middle of the lounge that Sunday.
Tommy could tell that Jack was Hunter’s favourite of all the fat guys; most likely because was the softest of them all; partly due to his shorter height, making him rounder and more spherical than the others. Tommy had been with his boyfriend long enough to know when Hunter was getting horny and he sensed the spark of arousal within him each time Jack waddled on by, dressed only in his swim trunks all weekend.
Jack wiped his brow and nodded. “I’m not as sprightly as I used to be.”
Hunter chuckled and nodded in agreement. “Harry has done an awesome job on you. All that fresh fat in that big gut…” He growled in approval, admiring it all. His hardness was getting too much for him and he pulled Tommy gently down into his crotch to pleasure him whilst they spoke.
“I think you’ve got a good one there too,” Jack nodded over at Tommy, sucking away, as ordered.
Hunter sighed with pride and slapped Tommy on his butt, as he crouched across the sofa. “He will be. He just needs time to get into my ways.”
“He looks pretty obedient to me,” Jack chuckled.
“Oh, definitely! Like I said, he’s one of the best subs I’ve ever had. Decent blow job skills too,” he sighed, really starting to feel Tommy’s work now. “I just need to take down this metabolism of his.” He gazed down at the back of Tommy’s head bobbing up and down in his crotch. “I need every part of him to submit to me.”
Jack nodded knowingly, trotting over and rubbing Tommy’s butt as well. “Don’t worry, Hunter. I know you. You’ll have him under control very soon now...”
Over the next few weeks, Tommy felt a creeping tightness in his workpants. He stared in the mirror, hardly believing that the swollen glutes and thicker thighs were actually his. In his constantly bloated state, he hadn’t noticed the disappearance of his light six pack, as a thickening layer of fat began to spread itself around his waist. In fact, it was only as he jumped down from his office chair after finding something on the top shelf of a cupboard, that he noticed the first flutter of that fat, especially in his chest. But after that day, everything seemed to spiral.
“Hunter, I need you to come to my work,” Tommy whispered down the phone.
“Why?” Hunter asked, clearly in the middle of a training session with one of his clients at his gym.
“I bent down to pick up my pen and…”
“You ripped your pants,” Hunter finished for him. “About time. Did anyone see?”
“No,” Tommy replied with relief.
“That’s a shame,” Hunter sighed in disappointment. “And now you want me to drop everything and head over to deliver some larger pants for you?”
“Yes, please!” Tommy begged, knowing that his dominant boyfriend might actually get quite a kick out of leaving him in his ripped pants all day long.
A long, excruciating two hours later, Hunter arrived at the office. Many of the female employees rushed from their desks to greet him, and Hunter flirted sweetly with them, knowing exactly what sort of effect he had on them. It was strangely arousing to see him in action, pretending to take an interest in Melissa’s honeymoon or Fran’s new grandchildren; this charming character that he portrayed with ease.
“Well, I must go, ladies,” he smiled, walking towards Tommy’s office as some of them continued to bleat on. He closed the door behind him and comically put his body against it as if to stop anyone following him in. Then he locked it, just in case. “How do you put up with such boring people?” he sighed, looking straight at Tommy.
“They absolutely adore you,” Tommy reminded him.
“I know. But they’re still fucking boring,” Hunter smirked, checking the blinds were closed properly before striding over to his chubby lover who rose from his chair to greet him with an embrace.
Immediately, Hunter seized the opportunity in those moments of weakness; his strong hands sliding down to the tear in Tommy’s pants, mercilessly ripping them open further.
Tommy’s hands slipped back surveying the damage. Now, even his underwear had been compromised as he felt cool air against his increasingly fleshy glutes. “Please tell me you brought my new pants,” he blasted in panic.
“I did,” Hunter nodded, rifling through his backpack and showing them briefly. “But it’s going to cost you,” he sniggered, now pulling out his hardness from his shorts and nodding for Tommy to lie himself on the table.
“But I’m in work!” Tommy shot back.
“All the more reason for you to stop complaining and get a move on then,” the man laughed back, stroking his thick hardness to warm it up for Tommy’s softening butt.
Tommy lay himself down, realising that one of his most kinky work fantasies was about to come true, despite feeling no less worried that there would be a knock on his door at any moment. He spread his legs, making the tear even more pronounced, then heard the thud of a supermarket cheesecake being dropped by his head and then slid underneath his nose: Hunter’s latest fascination, watching him gorge on something extremely fattening whilst fucking him.
Both of them set to work, Hunter pounding him so forcefully that the cheesecake smeared itself over Tommy’s nose and under his chin as he tried to eat it at the same time. It was clear that he needed to eat fast, save getting it on his white shirt and ending up in exactly the same sartorial predicament again. His tongue came into play, scooping it all up and then pushing whatever didn’t need chewing straight down. Hunter didn’t take long to finish, but the sweat on his brow gave away just how much he had really gone for it. He threw Tommy a pack of cleaning wipes for his face and unfolded the new pants, presenting them like a prize to his lover.
A minute later, Hunter insisted on being walked out of the office; both of them stopped on the way multiple times.
“Yes, we’d love to come over for dinner sometime, Christine,” Hunter smiled politely, both he and Tommy knowing full well that it would never happen. Hunter wouldn’t waste his free time socialising with any of these people, unless there was something in it for him.
“Whart a nice boy he is!” Christine marvelled, standing at the main entrance of the office block, watching Hunter drive off. “So polite and gentle!”
Swishing his tongue around his mouth and still tasting nothing but cheesecake, Tommy nodded in agreement. “He’s the best.”
It felt very festive, turning up at the picturesque rental cottage covered in snow. Unlike last time, Tommy knew exactly what he would be walking into as Hunter’s friends arranged their next meet up. Being from up north, renting these houses was the best way for them to meet up with Hunter, who they all found just as fascinating and intoxicating as Tommy did.
“Someone has been eating well!” the men chuckled, seeing Tommy for the first time in almost six months.
Tommy nodded, taking his big jacket off. In the last couple of months, his cheeks had blown up in a way that was not too dissimilar to a hamster stuffing itself with seeds. Fat had spread under his chin and into his neck, always visible now that Hunter insisted that he stayed clean shaven. Hunter kissed him proudly, always delighted whenever anyone mentioned his boyfriend’s gains.
“I’m guessing you defeated that fast metabolism of his?” Danny laughed, seeing more and more of Tommy’s shape as he removed the layers of winter clothing.
“Did you ever doubt me?” Hunter smirked back, grabbing both of their bags to take them upstairs; never wanting Tommy to burn any calories unnecessarily.
“What do you weigh now?” Paul jumped in after Tommy and Hunter came back downstairs after settling into their room.
Tommy looked to Hunter, knowing that he would want to be the one to tell them all.
“We’re up 70lbs since you last saw him,” Hunter beamed, draping his big arm over Tommy’s shoulders. “I bet you can hardly recognise him with these chubby cheeks, huh boys?”
“I suppose the sweatpants come in handy these days?” Eddie asked, nodding at Tommy’s casual attire as he stood beside his muscular boyfriend.
“Um, I guess so,” Hunter pondered. “To be honest, I don’t let him wear clothes when he’s at home. Do I?” he asked Tommy in an attempt to include him, even a little, in this discussion about him.
Tommy shook his head.
“As you can probably see, his tits are starting to come in real nicely,” Hunter continued, lifting Tommy’s shirt for the boys to see. “Lovehandles are fully in shape now, and the back fat,” he rambled on, spinning Tommy around for their viewing pleasure. “I’ve had to rescue him twice in work now after he’s split his pants,” he laughed, rolling the sweatpants down so that the guys could see the transformation that had taken place in Tommy’s glutes. “And, best of all…” he went on, rapidly spinning Tommy like a ragdoll again to face them once more, “Check this out…”
The boys marvelled in unison as Hunter grabbed a thick wedge of fat that had amassed at the top of Tommy’s groin.
“It’s hard to believe how much fat there is here, considering he’s only 220lbs at the moment,” Hunter grinned. “It’s incredible!”
“Well, we can help add to that this weekend,” Danny smiled. “It’s your first holiday season as a fatty,” he nodded at Tommy. “That’s got to be quite exciting?”
“It’s also our first one together,” Tommy replied, falling back into Hunter’s large chest.
“What are you guys doing for the big day?” Eddie asked next.
“Well, we told Tommy’s parents that we were going to my family. And then we said the exact opposite to my parents. So, basically…” Hunter smirked, pulling his lover into a cute sideways cuddle, “...this little piggy is going to be spending the day sitting on my cock whilst I feed him absolutely everything I’ve been preparing for him for the last month.”
The guys all looked at each other, clearly astounded and secretly aroused by the idea.
“Have you had much backlash from Tommy’s family now he’s getting so overweight?” Danny questioned them later, sitting at the table, waiting for Tommy to finish his meal.
“Not so much,” Hunter replied. “Now his face has started to balloon, people are certainly a lot more aware of it. But his parents aren’t as switched on as mine. My dad pulled me to the side a couple of weeks ago and told me to start going easy on Tommy.” He straightened up, about to do an impression of his father and put on a dull, stuck-up voice. “Your mother and I know exactly what you’re doing,” he began at a fast pace, poking his finger out like a school teacher. “You’ve always been forceful about getting your own way; always the bully we used to get complaints about when you were in high school. But Tommy is a nice boy; the nicest you’ve ever brought home, and you’ve got to start getting your kicks some other way. One that doesn’t involve him getting so out of shape!”
The men all laughed in unison.
“I just tell them I’m going to set up a diet plan for Tommy in the New Year,” he chuckled; setting the rest of them off.
“Well, I can imagine exactly what sort of ‘diet plan’ you’ll have for him,” Danny smirked, knowing his friend all too well.
Hunter nodded and laughed along with them. “Yeah, this fat boy is so fucking screwed!”
Their conversation rolled on. All the while, Tommy continued to eat.
“Good boy!” Hunter sang moments later as Tommy finally put his knife and fork down; his plate cleared. “Was that tasty? That lamb dish is one of Eddie’s most fattening recipes. I should know. I taught him how to make it.”
Tommy nodded his head; utterly stuffed.
“Do you want me to take you upstairs for your pleasure time?” he asked the blubbery boy. “It’s part of his routine,” he explained to the guys. “Or would you rather have it here, so that the other fat boys can see you?”
Tommy looked around at the faces staring at him. All of the men were shirtless and some of them, like him, had come to the table wearing nothing at all. His initial thought was to go back upstairs. However, that seemed like such an effort in his stuffed state. He looked over at a cosy chair by the fireplace and nodded; “Over there.”
Initially, the other kinky guys had pretended to busy themselves whilst Hunter took Tommy over to the chair and began to rub his hardness up and down. However, their curiosity and arousal was soon gettng the better of them, one-by-one, coming to sit on the other chairs or stand nearby watching Hunter controlling his sub.
“Are you a good piggy for me?” Hunter whispered into his ear, making Tommy moan and nod. “You’ve put on so much fat for me this year. Did you see how shocked the guys were earlier? They’re all looking at you now.”
Tommy opened his eyes and looked around. What would he have said a year ago, had he imagined a scenario that was anything like this?
A curious and horny Eddie licked his thumb and began rubbing it over Tommy’s pointed nipple.
Hunter looked across with approval. “Piggy loves that now his tits have come in. He can’t get over how sensitive they are.
Danny licked his thumb and began playing with the other nipple, before Paul came along and grabbed a wedge of Tommy’s stomach fat, as if hardly believing how quickly it had developed.
“You see, you’re the star of the show, Piggy!” Hunter whispered into his lover’s ear.
Tommy’s breathing became a lot heavier as he felt his climax building.
“It’s alright, Piggy,” Hunter continued. “Don’t hold back. You can show them what I taught you to do when you climax.”
Tommy looked into Hunter’s eyes. Was it really okay to let himself go like this? But the orgasm was coming so fast and the urge to do it was becoming too much for him to resist. He gasped, letting go of his inhibition, then snorted, loud and clear, just like a pig, mimicking the tones that Hunter had taught him exactly. Jets flowed across the coffee table in the middle of the room and Tommy shut his eyes, calm at last..
As the New Year came and went, Tommy realised that his weight had spiked at an alarmingly fast rate over the holidays. Hunter had declared, looking at the vast new size of Tommy’s glutes, that it had been the best gift he had ever received. The gains did eventually slow down, but never stagnated. And so, by their first anniversary of getting together, Tommy stood next to his gorgeous boyfriend with over one hundred and ten pounds of added fat on him.
Hunter was more pleased with his own body than ever before as well. He’d spent the last few months bulking his shoulders and glutes, so that even he was outgrowing his clothes. Seeing Tommy swell so fast had given him the motivation he needed to make a real push with his weight training, and he spent much of that summer without a shirt on, both inside and outside of the apartment. He’d inherited a decent amount of money from a great uncle he had never even met, spending most of it on a new convertible and a designer watch that helped to inflate his ego even further. Their kitchen had been the epicentre of it all, with Hunter cooking himself up vast amounts of high protein meals, whilst simultaneously pouring in the butter, oils and grease into everything he made for Tommy.
Hunter’s bulking had also created the perfect excuse for Tommy’s ever swelling stomach. Hunter made no secret of how much he had to consume in order to keep up the strapping muscle on his body. “Most evenings, I’m cooking up food and portioning it out for myself for the next day,” he explained to Tommy’s aunt during their next visit. “But I think the smell of it makes Tommy hungry, and when I go to bed, I hear him rummaging around in the kitchen for hours.”
“Oh, Tommy!” his aunt tutted with disappointment. “No wonder you’ve gained so much weight then. You need to exercise some self control.”
Hunter nodded in agreement, rubbing Tommy’s back supportively; as if this was all one great big intervention, aimed at helping him. The lies just rolled off the hunk’s tongue with such ease and he’d soon be laughing in the car at how easily they all swallowed them. “Come on, Fatty,” he whispered whilst still smiling and waving at Tommy’s extended family as they reversed off the driveway. “Look at their faces,” he laughed. “They really think you’re going to turn things around this time.”
“My aunt spoke to me a minute ago, before we left,” Tommy explained from the passenger seat. “She told me that you’re the fitness expert and that I just need to do whatever you say.”
Hunter laughed victoriously. “Good old Auntie Paula!” he roared, waving one final time to her in particular. “In that case, your fitness expert is taking you home to sit my dick while I feed you your disgustingly oversized dinner. I heard that chair squeaking when you sat on it earlier. Next time we go to see them, I’m going to make sure your fat ass destroys it!”
The summer was coming to an end, but not before the pair of them drove up in Hunter’s new car to yet another rental place for a weekend with the boys.
“I’ve got a surprise for everyone later,” Hunter joked, shirtless and with a strong arm draped over his flabby, newly 300lb boyfriend.”
“Another one?” the boys joked, having just spoken at length about their shock at seeing the swell of Tommy’s chest and underarm fat in particular.
Hunter kept them all waiting keenly. They ate their dinner, recharged and then settled down to some beers in the large lounge. “Want to see something super cute?” he finally asked them, grinning with excitement.
“Is this our surprise?” Jack immediately replied, ready to be entertained.
Hunter nodded. “Look at these!” he cooed, suddenly holding up a tiny pair of underwear he’d been hiding behind a cushion.
The boys laughed. “Awh!” they all sang back. In their world, no one wore underwear that small; even Hunter with his giant glutes and muscular thighs needed a large, or even an extra-large in many cases.
“These belonged to Tommy when he came over to my apartment for the first time,” Hunter laughed wickedly, spinning them around and holding them by the very ends of his fingertips as if to further emphasise how petite they were. “I’ve not even washed them since.”
At this, all the guys began laughing in much the same way. They passed them around, each of them marvelling at their tiny size.
“Your butt used to be so small!” Paul bellowed, draping the underwear over his large gut to show how minute they were in comparison.
Tommy stared at them, suddenly remembering how Hunter had walked off with his underwear on that first date at their now shared apartment. His perspective really had been skewed, hardly believing now that he ever wore clothes that small.
“That was only seventeen months ago, boys!” Hunter shouted, raising his arms up in the air for the admiration he was owed. “That’s how it’s done, my friends! That’s how a real feeder takes control and fattens his piggy!”
The boys all cheered in complete agreement. The transformation, the sheer speed of it all; it was breathtaking.
“He’d never get them on these days,” Eddie laughed. “Not with the amount of fat he carries on his thighs, and that huge butt of his.”
Hunter pretended to ponder the idea; theatrically raising his thumb to his chin and rubbing. “Hmm, do you really think so?” he asked, barely holding back his laughter. “I think we may need to test that hypothesis, don’t you, boys?” he called out, rousing the crowd of fat men into a chorus of cheers.
Within seconds, Hunter had stood up and moved clear so that the other men could move in and do his bidding. Tommy was being lifed and forced out of his current underwear, feeling delighted pats of approval from some of the guys as his big, fat, doughy glutes came on show. The coffee table had been removed from the room, the music turned way down, and he was pushed into the middle of a now cleared space, with all the large, occupied chairs and sofas imprisoning it.
Suddenly, the mood changed. Unlike the others, Hunter was standing, blocking the only path out of the room; his giant arms folded intimidatingly across his immensely powerful, shirtless chest; an inpenetrable wall; a ringleader, ready to entertain.
Even before he started, Tommy could hear little hoots of laughter all around him. He looked up at Hunter’s stern expression and his hardness throbbed uncontrollably.
“As you all remember,” Hunter began, “a short while ago, I started dating a very handsome, a very athletic, and in fact, a very pretty-looking guy…”
His tone was so playful and full of mockery; making the other guys laugh; every single one of them. Then he reached out and took the tiny underwear from the person who had them. Although only a few feet away from him, Tommy looked up at his lover as if the giant man was standing high upon a towering pedestal. The way those cold eyes stared down at him aroused him more than anything else.
“The pride and joy of his parents…” Hunter sang, holding Tommy’s old underwear for them all to see again, “...college graduate, all round nice guy. He told me that he wanted to meet me. Practically begged me!”
Again, the other guys all laughed at that. Tommy’s first foolish mistake.
“He told me that I was the sexiest guy he had ever seen in his life,” Hunter smirked, emphasising the language and slipping a finger up into the crotch of the old unerwear, showing where Tommy’s little erection would have once pushed against them. That got him one of the biggest laughs. “And he promised me one thing…” Hunter went on. “...That he would do absolutely anything that I wanted him to.”
The guys all turned from looking at Hunter, to gazing with awe at Tommy’s fattened body: the rolls and blubber, stretch marks and sag. His complete submission was right there, before their very eyes. Hunter’s will, made flesh.
“What you’re about to see, boys, is my now disgustingly gluttonous, obese boyfriend, trying to put on a pair of underwear that he last wore the second time he met me,” Hunter declared, throwing the tiny material down at Tommy’s feet, filling his large chest with air and folding those enormous arms once more.
Again, the fat men all laughed to themselves, some reaching in again to poke Tommy’s fleshy stomach, or tap his naked, under-exercised butt.
“Taking them off was one of his first acts of submission to me. And now,” Hunter continued, “this greedy, fat hog is about to try and put them back on for us.” He stared hard at Tommy, making him hornier still.
Tommy nodded slowly, hardly believing that this was all happening so fast. Two minutes ago, he had been snuggled into Hunter on the couch, oblivious that any of this was coming.
“Are you ready, boys?” Hunter roared at them all; rousing another cheer of excitement. He was made for this. Showmanship was in his blood. “Count the fat fucker into it for me…” he shouted at an alarming volume.
Tommy glanced at the ridiculously small underwear; his heart beating at quite the pace. He could feel the huge ring of fat under his chin as he looked down and tried to envision how best to do it.
“Three…two… ONE!” the boys all sang with the boisterous Hunter; lifting their bottles of beer up high; eyes wide and excited to see how this would all go down.
With a slight grunt from all that he had eaten earlier, Tommy bent down to pick up the underwear. There were cheers of amusement as his butt crack opened to those standing behind him. Then, turning the underwear in his hands, he lifted one leg to begin to put them on. He stumbled, feeling the fat in his butt and love handles quiver with the force he had to throw his foot down, just to keep his balance.
“Take your time, Piggy. Get it right,” Hunter reminded him in his stern tone. This show was important. These were his friends, and he had brought Tommy here to entertain them.
Tommy nodded. He started again, slipping one foot into the tiny hole and raised the material to his ankles. Now came the trickier part. He grunted, raising his other leg and miraculously slipped that inside as well. The big moment had arrived.
Grabbing onto the tiny waistband, Tommy sucked in his stomach and heaved them up. They began soaring up his legs and then slowed dramatically. just above his knees. They were so narrow, he felt like he needed to spread his legs more to get them up; but there was no room. He pulled at them again, hearing howls of laughter all around him. The effort was almost unbelievable, and yet the underwear raised barely more than a couple of inches. Never mind his giant butt, it was his blubbery thighs that were the problem.
On he struggled, feeling the waistband at last touching the lower part of his doughy rear. He lifted the front part easier, just managing to squish a little of his excited erection inside and then he looked up at Hunter. Had he done enough?
Hunter simply raised an eyebrow and smirked, the guys’ laughter suddenly becoming too infectious for even him to ignore. His smile spread and he laughed too, throwing his arms out and then pumping his muscular chest. Some of the men reached their congratulatory hands out to the feeder for him to shake as he walked around the space where Tommy stood. His victory lap.
“Thank you. You’re right,” he replied to their comments. “Twenty five years old, and look at it now!”
Finally, he came to stand in front of Tommy again, suddenly becoming falsely affectionate and stroking his submissive’s large, chubby cheek. “I’m so glad I met you,” he told Tommy, speaking as much to the other men who were listening in.
“I’m glad I met you too,” Tommy replied, full of love and arousal for his dominant lover.
The men all laughed at Tommy’s words and Hunter looked around at them with devilment dancing in his eyes. His perfect white teeth glistened as the widest smile grew on his face. He knew exactly what they were all thinking. Obesity was beginning to take a vice-like grip on Tommy’s body, and yet the twenty-five year old was still hopelessly under the spell of his wicked boyfriend.
“Good. I’m very glad,” Hunter nodded, lovingly tucking Tommy’s overgrown, sweaty hair behind his ears. He could never resist stroking the extensive chin fat with the back of his finger at the same time; the broad, fat face, freshly shaven as Hunter always insisted upon. “You realise that you’re going to be fatter than everybody here soon, don’t you?” he continued, explaining it to the fat boy like it was an exciting adventure they were embarking upon.
Tommy nodded.
“And that’s okay is it, Piggy?” Hunter asked, playing up to the crowds.
“Yes,” Tommy nodded again. Compliance was so easy.; submission so arousing. And this situation he was in now, so exhilarating and undenyably thrilling. Everything he never knew he needed.
Delving further into the three hundred pound zone was every bit as strange and transformative as the guys had warned Tommy as he left that weekend. Everything jiggled. Everything made him sweat. He had to accept how severely overweight he was now. It was the first thing people noticed when they met him and it was the one factor that influenced how people treated him most. He noted their tones of disapproval and impatience; their blunt answers to his questions and their indignation whenever they saw the gorgeous Hunter kissing him. He stared at pictures of the two of them at his sister’s wedding: his large, bulbous, doughy belly spreading out of his jacket and barely contained within his enormous shirt. He looked at the beautiful Hunter standing behind him, grinning proudly; no one there realising that he was laughing at them all, showing off what he had done to one of their own.
“I think it’s time you considered a new job. One where you can work from home,” Hunter declared, getting up after having fucked one of his new favourite places on his lover’s evolving body: the fat roll encompassing Tommy’s deep belly button.
Tommy nodded. “That would certainly save me a lot of time,” he agreed.
“It would also save you a lot of calories,” Hunter sighed impatiently. “I get so frustrated thinking of you burning off all my delicious breakfasts, trotting that giant ass of your back and forth to the photocopier.”
“But the girls in my office would miss seeing you though,” Tommy joked.
Hunter rolled his eyes. “Another good reason to quit,” he grumbled, chugging down one of his protein shakes and drying off his sweaty body with the towel they left under the bed.
“They actually asked me to apply for a job at another one of our branches the other day,” Tommy considered, remembering how little he had considered it at the time. “Two days in the office, three at home.”
“Where?” Hunter asked with surprising interest.
“North. We’d have to move. At least we’d be closer to Paul, Eddie, and the other guys. But then, it means uprooting your life as well.”
Hunter furrowed his eyebrows in disagreement. “Look at me!” he cried. “I could get a job at any fitness place I wanted. A move away is exactly the sort of thing that we need.”
“It is?” Tommy asked, having never heard Hunter even consider the idea of moving before.
Hunter came over to Tommy, who was still sticky and sprawled out on the bed. The guy’s immense, muscular body made the bed sink slightly as Hunter sat next to him, making the fat in Tommy’s tummy jiggle and lean towards the powerful lover, as if attracted by him. “Listen. You’re now a very fat man. By this time next week, I’ll have you at over 350lbs,” Hunter explained. “But people around here don't see that. All they see is that skinny little dweeb they used to know. That handsome guy with a six pack and no ass, who couldn’t admit that being dominated would make him so fucking horny.”
Tommy chuckled. Hunter’s descriptions were blunt, but always very accurate.
“It’s time we went somewhere new. Where people don’t know about how slim you used to be. Where they will see you the way that I do: just another fat, disgustingly overfed piggy.”
Tommy exhaled deeply, feeling himself getting aroused hearing Hunter using so many of the trigger words that he usually deployed when he was getting pleasured. He nodded. Perhaps Hunter was right. Maybe it was time for a change.
“You make sure that you look after him, won’t you?” Tommy’s mother sobbed, speaking to Hunter as the pair of them stopped to pick up the last of their things and load them into the truck.
“Don’t worry, Angela. He’s in good hands with me,” Hunter smiled back. Now that Tommy had grown wide enough, the big muscular man could rub his boyfriend’s disgustingly overgrown glutes the entire time he spoke to the guy’s mother, without anyone even noticing. “Your boy will be well taken care of.”
They all hugged, with Tommy’s parents telling him how proud they were about his big promotion, as well as how much they would miss him.
“Do you think they know? Even on some level?” Hunter asked as the pair of them got back into the truck. “They have to, surely? No one is that fucking stupid, watching their son get into a relationship and suddenly gaining over two hundred pounds in just over two years!” he sniggered, surprised that no one had mentioned Tommy’s weight today; even with the daringly tight t-shirt he had made him wear.
“Perhaps, on some level,” Tommy considered. At barely average height, his 370lbs was sitting more and more on his stomach these days. Only a few moments ago, Hunter had needed to push against his wide, overgrown butt, in full view of his parents, in order to get him back into the high removal truck they had hired for the journey. “But, if I’m honest, I don’t think they really know what’s going on.”
“So fucking stupid! It’s unbelieveable!” Hunter sighed, turning the volume way up on the stereo and pulling off his shirt as the air conditioning blasted into life. As much as he enjoyed playing the innocent boyfriend, Hunter also longed for recognition, in whatever form it came.
“Goodbye,” Tommy waved to his parents as they started pulling away. He knew they couldn’t hear him. The music was far too loud.
“Goodbye,” Hunter joined in bitterly as he started to steer. “I’ll look after your son. I’m turning him into a big fat pig, y’know!” he shouted loud and clear, although he would never be heard. “I’ll have the fat fucker at 400lbs by the time you see him this Christmas! Goodbye, idiots!”
Hunter laughed with delight at himself as they rolled down the street. He slipped on his sunglasses and opened his window, just a crack, to let in a bit of fresh air.
“Still think this is the right thing?” Hunter asked moments later, reaching for Tommy’s chubby little fingers and holding them sweetly. His question was so ambiguous, with so many different possible meanings, and an infinite amount of responses. Not that any of that mattered to Tommy. For him, there was only one possible answer to any of those questions.
“Yes,” he smiled with certainty. “Two hundred percent, yes!”
#gainer fiction#gay feedee#gainerstory#gayfeeder#gainer story#gainerstories#gayfeedee#gainer stories#gainerfic#gainer fic
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friendswithbenefits!Sukuna x reader. Your friend Yuuji sets you up on a date with his co-worker to help you get over your recent slump, not knowing that his dear older brother had ended it months ago.
cw: none really, some possessive behavior
"He's really great though, I swear!"
"What does 'really great' entail, exactly?"
"Well he's nice! Like, super nice."
You waited to see if there was any more information and when there didn't appear to be any forthcoming, pushed your friend. "Yuuji, I'm going to need a little bit more than that."
Yuuji seemed to think about this for a second and as he did you snuck some dumplings off his plate. He'd taken more than his fair share of the take out anyway.
You loved Yuuji, he was one of the most genuinely kind people you'd ever met. He just happened to have terrible taste in men, aside from his own boyfriend.
"Well, when I got lost the other day, he gave me directions and they were super helpful!"
"Wait, did you find this guy on the street? Are you setting me up with a stranger?" It wouldn't surprise you, Yuuji tended to adopt human beings the way a normal person might adopt stray cats. You couldn't complain too much since it's how the two of you had ended up being friends, but it didn't necessarily mean that whoever he'd picked up off the side of the road this time was your one true love.
"No, no, he works in the school too. He teaches like history or something. He just teaches in the upperclassmen building, so I don't see him that much."
"So he gave you directions after you got lost in your own place of work?"
Yuuji either doesn't hear your tone or he chooses to ignore it. "Yeah, really nice dude. He's also good friends with Maki, so you know he must respect women."
That was actually pretty persuasive. Maki would never put up with any man who was a piece of shit, maybe there was something here.
"Is he cute?"
Yuuji scratched his head and tried to take some dumplings off your plate while you blocked him with your chopsticks.
"I mean I guess, he always looks kind of sad but you're into that right?" You blocked his attempts at stealing your dumplings with a little more aggression than necessary at that.
"I am not!"
Yuuji hummed unimpressed, chewing on the dumpling he'd managed to snatch away while you argued. Thief.
"He's like a little taller than me, pretty eyes and he's stronger than he looks. He actually beat me in some sparring matches last year when the teachers competed." You listened even as you scowled at the way Yuuji said all this with his mouth still full of stolen food. He swallowed and gave you a mischievous smirk. "He has really nice hands too."
"Yuuji!"
"They're big and his fingers are long but not too skinny, they kind of remind me of Megumi's-"
"Who the fuck are you talking about?"
You stiffened as Yuuji's older brother walked in, scratching his bare midriff since he seemed to have once again forgot that wearing shirts was an expected human behavior. Even though he was only a few years older than you and Yuuji, he always seemed larger than life. Maybe because you had known him for so long.
"Yuuta, this guy I work with," Yuuji said, pouting when his brother stole some of the food off his plate. Served him right. "Hey! I asked you if you wanted anything before I ordered it."
"And I told you, I don't want any of this garbage. I'm just sampling," Sukuna said as he popped another piece of chicken in his mouth.
"Go eat your stupid healthy food then and leave our garbage alone," Yuuji protested pushing the plate out of Sukuna's reach. Naturally, this led to Sukuna shoving Yuuji's head into the table as he reached over and stole more food off the tray in the middle.
"So why are you talking about Yuuta's hands anyway. You and Fushiguro finally call it quits?" Sukuna's tone was casual but you had once seen him knock out a guy for groping Megumi in a club. If the day came where Yuuji and Megumi actually broke up, you think he might take turns knocking sense into both of them.
"Mnat mor me."
"Huh," Sukuna said even as he kept Yuuji's face pressed to the table. You rolled your eyes.
"He's saying that he's not the one interested, he's trying to set me up with him." You tried to push down the guilt you felt as you spoke after all you had nothing to be guilty about.
There was a flash of something in Sukuna's eyes but it was gone before you could identify it and with one last shove that had Yuuji groaning, he let him up.
"That hurt, you bastard!"
"Not an insult, I'm literally a bastard," Sukuna said and Yuuji rolled his eyes.
"Whatever, anyway, back to helping you get laid-"
"Hey!"
"-I'll let Yuuta know you'll meet him at six?"
"Can you make it eight, only old people eat at six." Yuuji nods and goes to type something in his phone. There's an awkward silence that he doesn't seem to notice and you can't help but look at Sukuna who hasn't taken his eyes off you.
"Didn't realize you were so desperate," Sukuna says and Yuuji doesn't look up from his phone before throwing a punch at him. Sukuna dodges, his eyes still on you.
"There's nothing wrong with going on a date," you say and you wonder who you're convincing. "It has been a while since a nice guy took me out."
"Ah right, I forgot you liked nice guys." His tone is too knowing and you feel yourself flush.
"Stop picking on her, Sukuna. Don't you need to be going to the gym, anyway?" Yuuji asks, finally putting down his phone. He seems to attribute the current tension for you and Sukuna's usual animosity. You wonder if that's all there is to it. Sukuna scoffs and walks back to his room. You still weren't sure why he'd even come out in the first place.
"Whatever, you two have fun planning the wedding," he says, his tone making your hackles rise.
"Say hi to Uraume for me," Yuuji calls back, oblivious. "Tell them I still want a rematch after last week."
Sukuna waves a hand before shutting the door to his room. Yuuji turns back to you and the two of you talk about other topics while your mind wanders.
You weren't doing anything wrong. Were you?
You and Yuuji decide to meet up with Megumi and Nobara for a movie before you need to get ready for your date. While Yuuji goes to his room to change, you head to the kitchen to clean up the remains of lunch.
You're putting some glasses in the sink when you feel a warm presence at your back. You can't hold back your sigh as a familiar pair of thick arms comes to wrap around your waist and a pair of lips presses gently against your neck.
"I haven't seen you in forever," Sukuna murmurs, the movement of his lips against your neck sending a familiar pulse of want to your core. You tell yourself not to let the soft gesture get to you. He never did shit like this without a purpose and his usual purpose isn't going to be fulfilled with Yuuji in the next room.
"You saw me last week, Sukuna," you remind him before leaning away from him to close the dishwasher. His hands slip down to your hips and you just know he's staring at your ass. You roll your eyes even as he pulls you back to him once you're standing. His hands pressing into the curve of your hips, putting pressure on them in that way that makes you melt.
"That's too long, princess. I was getting lonely," he teases and you feel him smirk against your cheek. "You must be lonely too."
"Actually I'm just fine," you tell him but you tilt your head so he can kiss the skin of your face, your neck, the parts of your shoulders revealed by the stretched collar of your old t-shirt. You let him lull you into a false sense of security before he reminds you why that's a bad idea.
"Really? I just assumed you felt lonely and that's why you were agreeing to go on dates with losers you've never even met."
There it was. This was why you couldn't let Sukuna get soft with you. He never did it without returning your vulnerability with malice.
"Sukuna," you say and you go to pull his arms off you but he pushes you into the counter, you wince as the cold stone presses against your body. "Let go of me." Your tone is calm even as emotions band their way across your throat.
"I would, but you seem to get lost when I let you out of my sights. I mean you're going to go on a date with some high school teacher?"
"Your brother literally has the same job?"
"Well, are you going to fuck my brother too?"
"For fuck's sake, Sukuna, get off me!"
Sukuna does let you go but only so he can turn you to face him.
Sukuna doesn't get mad the way normal people do. Usually he's just amused, maybe even mildly annoyed, but blatant rage isn't his thing. After your years of-acquaintanceship? light antagonism?-friendship, you recognized this as the stage where he was about to make his insults increasingly personal until you needed to go cry in the bathroom later.
"We are not dating," you tell him and he rolls his eyes.
"Obviously."
"Therefore, I can go on dates with other people."
"I don't give a fuck if you go on dates with other people."
"Great, because I'm going to go on this date tonight."
"Good for you."
"Yes, yes it is good for me!"
"You seem really happy with your choices," Sukuna goads in that tone of his. You hate that tone.
"I am. I don't plan on just accepting whatever scraps some loser will throw me when there are actually decent guys who want a real relationship."
Sukuna narrows his eyes at you. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I wasn't being subtle," you tell him before leaning back against the counter. Going for casual, knowing you're not quite hitting it. "Don't worry, I don't hold it against you. You can't give what you don't have, you know?"
"No, I don't know," Sukuna bites out and if he was anyone else, you would think you'd hurt his feelings but this wasn't anyone else and there was no way something you said bother him.
"You're just not a relationship person and that's-that's fine, I knew that before we started this thing. It's just, sometimes I want more." You soften your tone from earlier but it doesn't do anything to relieve the tension between the two of you.
"And this, Yuka is going to give you that?" He sounds bitter and he's not touching you. You'd been the one to tell him to back off but you couldn't remember the last time he hadn't had his hands on you in some way when it was just the two of you.
"I think his name was Yuuta," you correct before his expression tells you this is the wrong step.
"Right, okay. You know what, you go on your date and have the best time with Yuuta. I got places to be."
He brushes past you and goes back to his room just as Yuuji opens the door to his.
"Geez, what's his problem?" He asks as he makes his way over to you. You shrug your shoulders and he takes your lack of response as just your normal discontent with his brother and wraps his arm around your shoulder. "Don't let him get to you, he's just a dick."
"I know," you tell him and you do. You know Sukuna's true nature better than most.
You two make your way out of the apartment so you can make your movie and you try to ignore the guilt you feel as Yuuji talks to you.
"You know, he's actually been in a better mood the past few months. I think he might actually be seeing someone. Can you imagine who would be crazy enough to actually date that asshole?"
new series? wrote this to get the rust off so we'll see.
#jjk sukuna#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen sukuna#ryomen sukuna#sukuna ryomen#sukuna x reader#sukuna x y/n#sukuna x you#jujutsu kaisen
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Forbidden Dream
This is all of my Adventure Time AU in chronological story order. Thanks to my friend for proof-read.
Act I: Prismo and Betty
This takes some time after the events of F&C. Prismo and Scrabby inhabit the TR(TimeRoom) and Golbetty has gotten restless with her time in space. She decides to reach out to other multiversal beings, but no one wants to associate with Golb. She finally finds someone that puts up with her ..that being the Wishmaster.
Prismo is scared of Golbetty at first, especially Scrabby since he has a little bit of history with her. He scurries off or hides behind Prismo when she is in the TR. To Scrabbys surprise, Pris and Betty hit it off and become good friends. They find they have something in common, which is their “human” past. Theyre both mortals turned to immortals.
The duo start off by drinking and making fanfics together, but then Betty proposes the idea of making these fics “real”. Prismo is hesitant at first but lately he doesn’t mind breaking the rules.
At first they visit universes that Prismo considers safe. They treat them like vacations, and a lot of these worlds do not have the typical AT characters. Theyre peaceful docile places. Prismo gets daring, telling Betty that he wants to feel alive again. The two of them agree to visit a dangerous world, the Vampire Kingdom.
Notes:
- Betty chose her physical form to look like magic Betty because she felt it would be strange to appear as she normally did in the past.
- Prismos physical form is what he looked like as a younger human. He thought it would be more fitting for the “adventure”. Also.. He hates how clothing feels on him, so the see-through garments suffice.
- Scrabby is not happy about their friendship. He feels that Prismo has gotten even lazier, foregoing his Wishmaster responsibilities and even worse, ignoring him. The scarab thought he found someone that was happy to spend time with him for the first time, But feels like he has gone back to being the “forgotten” one.
EP II: Vampire Kingdom
Once Pris and Betty teleport here, theyre immediately caught off guard by a group of vampires that whisk Prismo away and the two are separated. Betty gets surprised by a starved vampire!Simon, who at first doesnt recognize her until he gets a good look at her face.
He refuses to believe its actually Betty and rather a wizard attempting to play tricks on him. Marcy calls his name and he flys away, leaving Betty stunned.
The vampire world is an AU where Vampires take over, but Simon never died and was able to stay with Marcy. Marcy isnt evil here. Simons crown was stolen before he could make a complete transformation into IceKing, and his sanity was kept in part to Marcy turning him to save him from a group of hungry vampires. One curse was replaced with another.
Marcy was turned at a younger age by the VK, but Simon saved her by scratching at the VKs eye (his face scar). Even though the King is furious at Simon for this, he thinks it is more amusing to keep Simon alive and suffering from vampirism. Vampires are starved in this world just like “The Star” episode, but Simon proposes the idea to wrangle human (and animal) survivors and keep them on a reserve to supply the Vampires with a food source. He inevitably becomes the person in charge of the Blood farms. Keep in mind, Simon did this to save humans, otherwise they would have been hunted to extinction.
Unlike the safe worlds PrisBetty visited, this world has most of the original cast in them. Finn is a survivor of the Blood Farms, swearing to kill Simon who he believes imprisoned him in there (which.. is true). The farm is surrounded by booby traps all around the perimeter, no one can get in or out without some level of flying.
Finn always managed to get close to escaping But eventually gets caught in one of the traps. The last attempt caused him to cut his own arm off to be freed and helped by Huntress Wizard. She is one of the few wizards to help the freedom fighters, a band of humans and candy people led by Commander PB. Wizards are hated by Vampires since theyre the few beings that can overpower them. They try to stay out of each others business But huntress is an exception as she feels that the vampires are disrupting the balance of nature.
The Candy Kingdom is fortress walled with wooden spikes and garlic (I thought it would be silly Lol). PBs armor consists of wooden stakes and reminiscent of Golb who she is a follower of. She has access to the Enchiridion and sees Golb as a being that she should harness the power of if the vampires happen to overwhelm her people someday.
The end of the story would involve PrisBetty helping Simon overthrow the VK after Marcy discovers the vampires ability to “drink red” instead of blood. They team up with the help of PB and Huntress. Simon never truly reconciles with Betty as his defense mechanism is to push any feelings of his past away. But he does have a newfound respect for her and tells her to visit him again. Simon will assume the role of Vampire King and free the humans afterward.
Notes:
- Simon is the only vampire dressing in traditionally “Dracula” clothes. Because hes a nerd and thinks its fitting.
- Marcy is raised by Simon here instead of VK, so she is a lot kinder and sympathetic to the humans and candy kingdom (even if she doesnt show it for a while).
EP III: Winter Kingdom
After the Vampire world, Prismo and Betty decide their adventuring is “complete” and attempt to teleport back to the Time Room with Prismos magic. This doesnt work out. Turns out, their human forms have been draining their magic slowly, making it so that they need to find a magical item to recharge. This being the Enchiridion.
This is a totally different world than (Canon) Winter Kings as obviously he is alive here.
Ooo has been mysteriously frozen over and put into an eternal Ice Age. There is hardly any life (apart from immortal beings and those resistant to the temperatures) so hardly anyone lives on the surface. Prismo automatically assumes WK is responsible, but Betty refuses to believe Simon would be the cause of this destruction. WK has a much larger kingdom with a variety of ice people, a lot of them more human-like in appearance. It seems like he is trying to mirror a human society.
Here WK has Bettys skeleton and attempting to use the cloning machine he has in F&C to clone a “real” Betty (which is why he doesnt have an ice clone of her).
The backstory of this WK mirrors my au version of him.
Prismo and Betty are briefly separated and I wont go into too much detail on the story. Betty gets the “safe” tour of the kingdom by WK and Prismo is left to wander in search for the Enchiridion. He starts to see things that point to a darker scene (fire people fighting ice soldiers, lack of any plant life, and ice clones of people who no longer exist). At the same time, Betty is off-put by WKs controlling nature. He reveals to her that he has been in a 100-year war with the Fire Kingdom “who destroy everything” with their flames, while ice “preserves it”. Betty is shocked to see the extent of destruction the Ice Kingdom has caused to Ooo and manages to slip away to do her own investigating. She eventually ends up in the room Bettys corpse is kept, which is the only place that WK allows plant life to grow. The Enchiridion was sitting on skeleton Bettys lap.
The two of them engage in a fight where he details his plan for her and Ooo.
Prismo manages to save her at the end of it. Up until this point hes been a pacifist in the story. They use the Enchiridion to teleport home and they end up.. not there.
Notes:
- I had a bonus page where Scrabby is reacting to PrisBetty not arriving back in the Time Room. He thinks they didnt teleport back on purpose.
- This page also has WK grabbing Bettys ankle right as she teleports. I was going to have WK teleport with them so there was some kind of threat. I am not sure yet.
- The fight scene was supposed to be a lot longer with Betty having the upperhand at first, But I didnt want to draw all of it.
- Winters appearance slowly turns back into Simon when separated from the magic crown.
EP IV: Back Home
They end up in Ooo where the magic teleported them into the sky, making them fall a great distance. They are a little injured, but Betty is mostly shaken by her experience in the Winter world. She redirects this into frustration at Prismo for not teleporting them to the correct place and that they would need to search another “sucky universe”.
Prismo is frustrated and goes off on his own to find another magical object. Betty stays put in the forest. When looking up, Prismo realizes the universe they teleported to was actually the main Ooo upon seeing the floating human city. He rushes back to where Betty was sitting, telling her to go find her Simon here in Ooo, that he knew that he had the Enchiridion in his closet. Betty refuses, knowing that she already said goodbye to Simon years ago and him seeing her again will only hurt him.
Prismo is annoyed at this but walks off, and Betty wanders around the forest until she encounters one of the transport boats that take people up to the city. In her reluctance, she hitches a ride. Meanwhile Prismo reaches a graveyard on the outskirts of the woods, he hides in the bushes and sees a familiar person, Finn, walking up and leaving a bouquet of flowers at the grave.
When Betty makes it up to the city, she explores for a bit before approaching Simon (who is signing a childs book). Before she could say anything, she covers her face with her hat and speeds off. He is at first confused by this but is immediately distracted by the kid again.
Betty is in shock and retreats onto the boat leading her back down to land. She eventually catches up to Prismo, who is kneeling over Jakes grave. She attempts to comfort him, but the words fall short. He asks her if she visited Simon, but Betty says she couldnt do it. At this point Prismo feels like he wasted his time in the Time Room when he could have been spending it in his human form visiting Jake. He remained trapped in the TR unable to spend time with the mortals he built connections with. He feels that Betty is going to suffer the same regret he feels after Simon inevitably dies.
In a turn of events, Prismo places his hand on the grave and it teleports them back into the Time Room. They are amazed by this, Jakes grave acted like a magical object would have. They temporarily celebrate before Betty is impaled by an angry Scrabby.
Bettys human form is heavily injured as Prismo and the Scarab fight in several rooms. Scrabby tells him that he alerted the auditors about their misdeeds. That they will both be locked away for thousands of years or perhaps forever just like he was trapped in the Time Room.
Prismo temporarily subdues Scrabby and goes back to the main room where Betty is. This is where he turns her into a fox to keep her hidden, and promises that her memories are all stored in her body dormant in Golb (Like how Prismos form is dormant in the Time Room).
Fox!Betty wakes up in Ooo, no memories, a feeling of disconnect from her body, and hungry.
End of Act 1
Act II is all about Bettys life as a fox in Ooo. Its a lot calmer and slow burn in comparison to Act I. Upon landing in Ooo, fox!Betty encounters posters advertising Simons* sci-fi series Casper and Nova. She is convinced he is knowledgeable about space because a talking dog told her he was.
*EDIT: Someone pointed out that C&N was written by Astrid (it is implied heavily). Pretend the posters are the two of them working together, maybe Simon helping Astrid write them since she is just a kid.
She starts pestering Simon at one of his book signings and he already dislikes foxes because earlier in the week, a band of them stole his draft for an upcoming book. Betty proposes that she will find the notes and return them to him if she can have a place to stay (Even though he says no, she crashes at his place anyway).
I thought about Simon giving Betty a nickname so that she isnt just referred to as “fox”, so she is “Sunny” since she really likes when he makes sunny-side up eggs. She really likes eggs as a fox that is her quirk.
Update 1/21/24: Sunny encounters Simon after breaking into his home and snooping around for clues. Simon ambushes her in the Golb ritual room, assuming she has come to steal the Enchiridion. Sunny explains herself and claims that she can get Simons draft back from the fox thieves. They go on an “adventure”. It is revealed that fox!Betty can transform into Betty only when unconscious/sleeping. Simon wakes up next to her but assumes he is hallucinating..
Post about Simon and fox!Bettys dynamic.
I couldnt fit all images into this post as there is a 10 photo limit. I decided to link additional photos to underlined text. If you want further context, check those out. I love reading others AUs and was inspired to do my own. Any questions can be left in comment. Thanks for read..!
#Forbidden Dream AU#Edit: 1/21/24#adventure time#fionna and cake#betty grof#prismo#simon petrikov#au#headcanon#fanart#guide post#vampire simon#winter king#prismo the wishmaster#the scarab#petrigrof#golbetty#golb#princess bubblegum#marceline the vampire queen
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,,,, domtop pervy, himbo x subbt male reader,,, honry thoughts ahmehrm.
both amab, cw;; hatefucking perhaps. dubcon, feminization,,, spiking drinks; aphrodisiacs.
"hey, lil bro!" a nickname that you loathed. just because you were shorter than he was - his hulking mass of 6'7 and 250 pounds... he just had to know how much you disliked him, right? "lil guy" was another one of his favorites to call you. you couldnt stand the fucking guy - hounding you constantly in such a friendly manner - you cant stand him. "how are you ?!! i missed you at practice." - the funny thing was you never went to his practice. hes under the delusion that you do, occasionally walking past just to get a scope of his muscles...
"fine..." you grumble, scratching the nape of your neck and avoiding eye contact. societal norms force you to greet him back in the same way - "and how are you?" so awkward...
ㅡ"i'm fantastic !!" he claps you on the back, snickering to himself - "so anyway, theres this party later. youre coming." he tells you - of course, a party... he was demanding youㅡbrushing off your mumbles of having to study - you can do that later, silly ! all giddy as he thumbs a pair of ur stolen boxers in his pocket. grabbing your already open phone - ignoring your soft yelps and attempts to grab it back as he then shows you the address. "you're coming!" he tells you once more, unable to contain his happiness - yet sorrow washing over him as he has to leave you,,,
shit was so easy... he tells you how weak you are - fumbling with your pants, humming a soft tune to himself; all alone in the huge house... in an empty bedroom - a guest room, where the owners wouldnt mind having a mess. "you have to be more wary of people." he scolds gently, grinning to himself as you squirm n mewl to be touched - for help, to relieve the tension built along your cock.
"nnngh.. nn-nooo... anyone but you..." you whine, squirming to press against him, cock aching and unable to touch yourself with your wrists restrained together - he disregards your pitiful howlsㅡ"do you see how easy it was for me to slip you something? well, i am pretty flattered you trust me..." giggling to himself while thumbing his cock - taking a moment to admire you; "you're so pretty... i'm so glad you came... it really shows how much you like me."
ㅡ"wha..? no way... you just straight up creamed yourself. just - just at me... talking?" mumbling to himself, so dumbfounded that you said you hated it, that you wished he would die - but here you were, your cock still hardened and pressing against your jeans; begging to be free with a wet spot forming... "you really are as disgusting as i am!" he cheered - before finally shucking off your pants - huffing the stain for good measure... lining himself up after so thoughtfully fingering you - stretching you with lube and pushing forward; piercing your puckered hole with his flustered cockhead. cooing gently and easing your frazzled nerves, telling you to relax...
"nnn-nuh... fuck, hnnh-" so willfully grinding against him, drool pooling from your mouth and tears slipping down your cheeks - the person you disliked most stuffing you full of his fat cock, cooing praises - "... you would really make a fine chick... all horny, but you're saying no... so contradicting." he teases, hand dipping underneath your shirt and groping your chest
ㅡ"waah.. check out this sweet lil boypussy of yours..." slapping his huge hand gently against your hole gaping that had a steady stream of cum - his cum, dribbling out... he couldnt uelp himself. snapping a picture for safekeeping - to jerk off to when youre no longer around... "so pretty, bro... i'm so glad i got you before anyone else did... haha! you sure are too, huh?!" making fun of you; nuzzling into your squirming n drunken frame. drooling on yourself n yr hole clenching around nothing - as if missing the shape of his cock already... !
#bottom male reader#sub male reader#dom male character#top male character#x male reader#male reader !!!#uke male reader
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daddy chris and reader hate eachother but they accidentally take viagra and get horny and fuck 😜🤞🏼
chocolate | chris sturniolo.
this was such a unique concept to write so hopefully i did it justice. receiving oral, face sitting, daddy!kink so not for everyone, sorry. not proof read whoops. use of a sexual stimulant, explicit language. 18+ content. reader discretion is advised.
part two here.
your eyes grow heavy as you pull the blanket tighter around your body, head nodding drowsily onto the pillow you’ve stolen from chris’s room. matt is already asleep on the other side of the lounge, giving you your space. the moment you feel yourself completely give into your sleep, the weight of another body drops onto the lounge beside you, making your body jolt.
“move over.” you hear chris’s croaky and tired voice demand.
if there’s anyone in this house to interrupt your sleep, of course it’s going to be chris. he’s functioning at absurd hours, never in his own bed, always on a mission to find someone else who’s awake to keep him occupied. the fact it’s him switches your mood instantly, and you're annoyed.
“chris, what are you doing?” you whine, rubbing your face, looking up through foggy vision.
“can’t sleep.” his waist is where your head is.
he adjusts his body on the lounge cushion so that your pillow is essentially on his lap, tucked beneath the pillow your head lays on. if he wasn't so tired, you'd be wary that he's about to suffocate you with it. he hunches into the cushion, and you're forced to sit up now that he's undone your comfort.
“i was just about to fall asleep, asshole." you sigh, picking yourself up.
you fluff the pillow and bring it with you, hugging it to your chest as you sit back, shoulder to shoulder with chris now, both your bodies slouching into the lounge. you push him off of you.
he turns to look at you, a slight shadow of his facial hair gracing his jawline, his hair fluffy sitting like storm clouds on his head, eyes squinting slightly from exhaustion.
"is that my pillow?" he asks, not even looking at the item in your hand. he just knows, and wants a reason to be difficult.
“god i hate you” you grind your teeth together, refusing to even put up a fight.
you throw it at him, making sure it collides with his face as you do. chris swings the pillow in retaliation with a burst of energy and whips it against your shoulder, making you twist your face with anger and shove him.
chris's body drops back on the lounge and his brother stirs awake within seconds. matt looks pissed as he comes to, lifting his body up to see you and chris frozen and staring at him in anticipation. you're immediately guilt-ridden, hesitant to see what he has to say.
"fuckin', of course it's you two," he grumbles, stealing a blanket from the couch as he drags himself to his feet, wrapping it around his shoulders.
"sorry matty," you grimace, watching him as he aims for his bedroom.
"i'm going to bed, try not to kill each other." matt waves you both off, leaving you alone with chris in the semi-lit, silent room.
"nice one" chris teases, knowing how bad you'll be feeling having woken matt up, really rubbing salt into the wound.
"you're such a dick." you huff, scooting over to put a safe distance between you and chris. he blows a raspberry with thought, like a child.
"i'm hungry" he sulks to himself, in an artless tone while he scratches his forearm.
"that sucks for you." you reply, completely untroubled, scrunching your face in an ‘i didn’t ask’ manner.
your body hasn't been able to find another comfortable position and it's making you grow more distressed with every passing moment. the lounge shifts again, making you blow air out through tight lips, an exhale that reads 'i'm trying to keep my cool', and chris knows that.
you can tell he's more than happy to get under your skin by the smug look on his face, regardless of how tired he claims to be. he always has energy to piss you off.
chris shuffles off the lounge and moves slowly, lazily into the kitchen. he stretches his arms above his head, forcing his faded grey shirt to lift ever so slightly, and his sweatpants are dangerously low on his waist. the plaid boxers peeking through have an expensive brand plastered on the elastic that clings to his hips. it makes you roll your eyes.
you watch curiously to see what midnight snack he manages to find, and when he locates a stash of chocolate from a funky, unique candy store that he and his brothers all visited, he's hit the jackpot. the kitchen is only illuminated by the downstairs light, but you can see enough to observe him pour the grocery bag out onto the dining table, rummaging through all the individually packaged sweets.
as much as chris isn't one to share, you try your luck and make your way over. he groans at the sight of you, in a way that's like he knew you would appear, but didn't want it to happen.
"relax, i'll take what you don't like so i don't have to hear you complain." you speak wearily, starting to shuffle through the chocolates yourself.
"here," he holds out a candy wrapped in a bright pink wrapper.
you observe it in your hands. it has the words 'nice and naughty' written on it in a bubble font, and you assume it's a play on words, based on the fact that the chocolate is half milk chocolate and half dark chocolate.
"where did you guys get these?" you cross your face, having it be a complete mystery to you. you glance up at chris who just shrugs with a downward smile as he's still trying to find one he fancies.
"some obscure candy store in boston" he acknowledges. you choke out a laugh, at his expense.
"define obscure, chris" you grill him.
"you want the candy or not?" he looks at you with the aim of redirecting your question.
you put your arms up in defense, a smile pulling your lips as you wave him off as if to say, go back to what you were doing. you can tell he's not pleased with anything he's sifting through, getting hot and bothered.
"they all look gross," chris tosses whatever he had picked up with a 'i give up' tone.
"give me half of yours." he speaks casually, reaching for the one he quite literally passed you. you snatch it away from him, making him grasp at air.
"it's cute that you think we're that close." you satirize. chris huffs through a raspberry blow with his lips.
chris moves his jaw side to side with thought before grabbing your hand quickly, unexpectedly, and pulling you to his body with one fast swift movement.he's hovering over you, a strong grip around your much smaller, delicate wrist, compared to his rough hand.
"this close enough for ya?" he smiles with his teeth, the tip of his tongue peaking out slightly through his canines.
the slight drop in his eyes, the small head tilt, and the way he's looking at you with an unfamiliar alluring stare. you're trying not to pay attention to the way the shadows on his skin showcase his gentle muscles, the way his white tank exposes his collarbones and barely noticeable chest hair that you can only focus on because you're face to chest.
you pull your hand away from him with a scoff and unwrap the chocolate, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking him in the eyes. you do yourself a favor, to shut him up, and snap it in half. you throw the wrapper on the table for the time being.
without saying a word, you hold it out for him to take, sparing him the dark chocolate side because you know he doesn't like it. he has a puzzled look on his face, as if you're trying to punish him, but you're not.
"thanks," he says, sounding more like a question than a statement.
you both take a bite from your chocolate at the same time, and make a displeased face in sync with each other.
"that tastes terrible" he thinks aloud. you agree with him, a rare occurrence. usually, he just complains for the sake of complaining, especially when he knows it's going to irk you.
"i don't mind it" you don't actually believe your own words, but you're trying to be optimistic.
“of course you like it, you're weird.” chris speaks, blatantly.
you both finish the pieces off and chris licks his fingers, the residue of the slightly melted chocolate on his fingertips. you really can't help but watch as his cheeks sink in slightly and his lips wrap around his skin, making a small pop sound when he cleans his hand off.
chris chews obnoxiously loud, like the type of loud that usually sends matt into a fit. smacking his lips together, clicking his tongue on his teeth. despite it being such a small piece, he's eating it like there’s a whole pack of gum in his mouth.
"any louder and you'll wake up matt again" you speak, walking over to the sink to rinse your hands.
"any louder and you'll, shut up." he mocks your scolding before brushing you off and snapping the roof of his mouth with his tongue, to annoy you further.
“good comeback” you taunt with an eye roll, wiping the corner of your mouth clean.
you hear the crinkle of a wrapper and assume he's throwing it in the bin, but then he falls quiet, and you can sense his body is frozen.
"hey, y/n?" chris voice shifts into a serious tone, and you're not sure you've ever heard it before. not toward you at least.
“what?” you dry your hands quickly and skip back over to him, leaning over his shoulder to see what he's reading. your brain scatters with concern.
it could be expired, it could have an ingredient one of you is allergic to. it could be a dog treat for all you know, not like that would stop chris. his reaction gives little to nothing away.
chris straightens out the chocolate wrapper, holding it with both hands like you would hold an open book. you begin intently reading the small writing on the inside.
the black letters on the silver malleable foil reads, 'increases sex drive, enhances performance and stimulates blood flow. a nice treat for when you're feeling naughty'. your eyes almost pop out of your head.
snatching the wrapper from his hands, you need to make sure what you're seeing is correct. chris is rubbing his hands through his hair and you feel his shift in energy. he doesn't seem concerned, but he's not as composed.
"who the fuck packages sex chocolate like this?" your words are so harsh, and much louder than you need to be expressing.
"oh god don't say sex chocolate," chris covers his ears and hunches over as he paces around the living room, shaking his head like he's hearing something he's not supposed to.
"that's what it is!" you shake the wrapper in his face, letting out your frustrations onto him. you try to steady your emotions, and reaction, by simply throwing it in the bin.
chris shushes you with panic, knowing if his brother wakes up again, he's going to be the one that receives his wrath.
"who uses the word naughty on chocolate?" he matches your tone to a much less important piece of information.
"that's what you got from this?" your eyes feel like they could pop out of your head and you quickly shake it off, before you pass out from stress. he throws his arms up frenziedly.
“this is what i get for sharing my food” chris shakes his head, and all you want to do is slap it out of him. you crack your knuckles in frustration, inhaling at least a three second breath inward.
“it’s gonna be fine. it’s fine, just relax" you say with conviction, remembering to keep your voice down.
chris stops pacing and is standing still, leaning against a dining chair with a drained look on his face, arms folded and holding onto his elbows.
“i think you’re stressing more than me” he’s suddenly at ease again, finding some zen in being able to fixate on your emotions and reaction rather than his own.
“you’re the reason for all my stress, christopher” you spit. which is true, even if by accident.
"so, what happens now?" he waves his arms up again, always expecting someone else to hold the answers to what he has to ask.
"we don't think about it, it probably doesn't work anyway." you gloss over his question
“and if it does work?” he pries.
“you finally get to see a girl naked.” you tease with a flat look on your face, not looking at him while heading straight back to the couch that you don't plan on moving from again.
your next intention is googling what the effects are about to be, trying not to expose your concern. chris will just use it against you.
before you sit down, you hear chris swipe all of the chocolates into his arms and the metal clank of the bin opening and slamming shut. he moves quick, and knows the faster they're out of sight, they're out of mind.
the second you cuddle up again and pull your knees to your chest, you take your phone out to start investigating. chris follows your lead, and before you know it you're both silently tapping away at your phones, illuminating your focused faces.
all of your fatigue is now non-exist, and now you're wide awake with paranoia. or arousal. yet to be confirmed. it's evident that chris is in the same boat.
there's a long period of time where neither of you speak, and at some point chris had turned the t.v back on, volume low, filling in the white noise. whatever movie he started to play is about half way through when he finally speaks again, and for a second you were startled, forgetting about his presence.
"why does matt get a nickname and i don't?" you can feel him looking at you, phone down. you exhale with contemplation and turn to him, wondering what triggered his question.
“huh?” you raise an eyebrow, his question coming out of the blue.
“just answer the question” he hurries his words.
“do you want a nickname?” you remark.
“i’m just saying, something other than asshole or dickhead might be nice for a change.” he sounds sassy through his words, and it does make you realize you've never approached him the same as you do his brothers.
admittedly, you've always assumed he can handle it. your words escape your mouth out of frustration most of the time. he's never been inherently bad toward you, he just knows how to say all the right things to piss you off.
“so you want me to call you, like, chrissy?” you try to match your nickname for matty and nicky, versions of their names you throw around more or less because chris hates it.
“mm, nah.” he scrunches his nose and shakes his head.
“how about like,” his words fall off with thought. chris smirks at you, a clear intrusive thought tempting his lips.
“daddy.” he blurts out, a slight croak in his suddenly deeper voice.
“you’re actually crazy if you think i’m calling you daddy" you emphasize the word sensually, but still impassively.
"what's crazy is that i didn't hate hearing you say it." he replies offhandedly.
you aren’t sure if it's a placebo effect or the aphrodisiac kicking in, but you flash back to chris tugging you toward his body, and suddenly you want to rewind, so you can throw yourself at him.
"do you think it's working?" you ask him with an outlandish desperate curiosity, aligning with the sudden shift in conversation.
“the freaky chocolate?” he asks, voice coarse and lightly croaky. you roll your eyes.
“no chris, the magic beans" your face drops to mirror the sarcasm seeping from your lips.
“i hate to break it to you but i think the chocolate is working” his shoulders jump with a small laugh. a devious laugh, like the next thought on his mind is one he has to hold back but can’t wait to say.
you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on.
“is it?” you have to prompt him before the silence gets too tense.
“considering i wanna tear your clothes right now, i think it is." he's awfully calm.
"are you just saying that?" you ask brusquely.
"do you want me to prove it?" he shifts to sit up in his spot, rubbing his thighs as he waits for your response, on the edge of standing up.
"i want you to stop messing with me." as you finish your sentence, chris stands up and slowly, painfully slow, and begins to walk closer to where you lay.
"for once, i'm not. it's just giving me the confidence to admit what's running through my head."
"you can form your own thoughts?" you act surprised.
"yeah that's funny, kid" he brushes off your joke.
"well, go on. what's running through that head of yours?" you reel him back in, curious for him to express what's on his mind.
he steps up to the edge of the couch.
"that you look really good right now," his eyes are slightly squinted, and his head gives a slow nod, like he's agreeing with himself.
"you always do, honestly." he bounces one shoulder, as if it's not at all a big deal that he's complimenting you. something he simply does not do. he’s better at demanding praise rather than giving it.
chris stands over you, looking down at your body. your legs are arched and heels are on the couch cushion, slouching slightly. your heart race quickens.
there’s a weird, foreign confidence tingling through you. you clench your core, feeling your breathing become tight at the thought of being touched in any way right now. chris has always been attractive, you’re not blind. you just don't see eye to eye.
you've definitely had a few dirty dreams about him, and on top of that the bickering you two do, it gives you a little kick of adrenaline. you just actively choose not to make it easy on him, and have no intention of changing just because you’re getting turned on.
"good enough to be my next late night snack." his words have a playful undertone, but the look in his eyes is serious, and hungry, and he leans down further.
"that doesn’t turn me on." you deride.
“then i’ll keep talking until something does” his eyes widen slightly, like he’s daring himself with his prompt.
“is talking and eating all that mouth is good for?” the pure look you're giving him up through doe eyes, is making the smallest grin tug at his plump, peachy lips. all these little details about him that are being accentuated.
“eating, yeah” chris arches his body down, wrapping a hand around the back of the couch near your head and he casts a complete shadow over you. you shake your head with a disapproving attitude at his terrible frat boy attempt in dirty talk.
“actions speak louder than words” you reply seductively.
“is that an invite?” he gives a crooked smile and a head tilt, narrowing his eyes.
“fortunately for you, it is.” giving him the green light, you part your legs open, luring him in.
the silk pyjama shorts you have on riding up to the crease of your hips, and the fact you're not wearing any underwear makes the experience all the more exciting. chris shuffles on his knees between your legs.
his hand makes contact with your skin, making you hot. he slides his touch from your knee, up your thigh and finally to your waistband. at the same time, he leans in, tilting to the left while you naturally find yourself leaning to the right.
"i really wanna taste you" his voice is dark, but sweet, and your lips brush his before finally pressing hard together.
you feel your body ease instantly to your own surprise, and the kiss is almost perfectly orient. he dominates your bottom lip, grazing over it with his tongue.
there’s not a thought or care in the world from either of you. like there will be no repercussions after this, even though you're sure there will be. earlier in the night you were arguing over a pillow, and now, you’re fighting for dominance in a passionate makeout.
he juts further into your body with his hips, throwing your one leg he has in his hand over his waist, and you take the initiative to completely engulf his lower half. your heels dig into his lower back and pull him closer until his dick presses into your cunt.
the dark room and baggy sweats deceive you, his prominent boner pressing into you, making you moan into the kiss. his dick is already struggling to comfortably arch into your heat, restricted because of his clothes but also because his length clearly requires more room.
he immerses himself in your lips with the kiss, losing his composure and humming lowly with pleasure. your hands tangle into his hair, gripping his head and taking control of the kiss, bopping your heads in rhythm and chasing each other's mouths.
chris's hips grind down into you and you feel yourself become more needy, pushing up into him, to meet him where you both crave friction the most.
the grasp he has on your shorts loosens the moment he tugs them down. you thrust upward, levitating off the couch while still secure around his body to help him shuffle them off. the moment his eyes fixate on your naked heat, his jaw slacks open.
"wasn't expecting that" his voice shakes slightly, barely above a whisper.
“i don’t think either of us were expecting this” you get a little ego boost from how engrossed he is, and you give your hips a little wriggle to finally release from your shorts.
“you’re right” chris tosses your shorts to the side with a chuckle at your words.
“i usually am” you blush, and he rolls his eyes.
his hands are dancing all over your legs, embracing how smooth they are, and the smell of your scented lotion. he's exploring every inch of you. feeling his hands stroke up your thigh, your hands start to tingle and your head starts to spin.
"you said you wanna taste me, right?" you snap his eyes back up to yours, and he trails his lips with his tongue, adding a pleading nod.
"go ahead, chrissy." you flaunt the pet name, knowing it's not what he wants to hear. he exhales a smile, but shakes his head with dejection.
“if this is gonna happen, i'm gonna need you to use another word.” he orders.
"you want me to call you baby?" you feign ignorance, feeling like you only temporarily have this leverage over him.
chris's face changes quickly from a naive, compliant stare, to a more serious one.
"hey, don't be smart," he grabs your jaw, giving you a squeeze. your sudden desire to be a smart mouth escapes in one swift breath, letting his grip tighten.
"i'll make you feel good, y/n" he pulls your face closer.
you're willing to completely cave, and in the back of your mind you're convinced it's that dreadful chocolate's fault.
"just say it." he demands. your stomach flutters, a cold chill swirling through it.
the word is dancing on the tip of your tongue, but your stubbornness when it comes to chris has you struggling to spit it out. the dynamic has completely shifted, and at this point you're just delaying time.
it's almost like he knows your tactic, and strategically rolls his hips into you hard, making sure you feel his long hard cock against your cunt, shamelessly getting your wetness all over his sweatpants.
"daddy" you gasp against his open mouth, finally let it spill from your mouth, spiteing yourself for giving in to his dominance.
“good girl.” he smirks, pulling your face to his to slam a rough kiss together. your stomach knots at the sound of his gravelly voice.
you’re chasing him with your lips, a whine escaping as he pulls back, forcing you to tilt your head to the side. messily he begins kissing down your cheek, jaw, chin, neck. making his way further down your throat with his lips until he passes your collar bone, tugging and tearing at your shirt to meet your skin.
your body is arching into his and you’re trying to grasp at his hair, following his movements. watching and feeling him devour your skin with hungry kisses.
“so soft,” he mumbles against your lower stomach, just below your belly button.
“so sweet.” he praises, licking his lips before he grabs your knees, steadying himself at your heat.
his face is situated between your thighs, but his hand is still on your face. he squeezes and grabs at your face, two fingers pushing into your mouth. you moan and take them across your tongue, wrapping your lips around his thick, warm fingers.
wrapping your hand around his wrist, you tighten your grip when you feel chris’s mouth attach to your pussy, open and tongue flat against your folds. closing his mouth onto you, he sharpens his tongue and lets it flick side to side at a fast, aggressive pace. he’s letting pleasure-filled sounds escape from his mouth, humming and huffing when he needs to catch his breath.
“f-fuck, oh my god,” you throw your head back, pulling his fingers out of your mouth to speak but letting his hand fall to your chest.
the feeling of him shaking his tongue so passionately against your cunt is making you need to hold your breath, to stop yourself from being loud. you feel yourself grow a more thick wetness between your legs, and his tongue scoops into your opening, swallowing every taste he can pick up.
“chris, chris, sh-shit” your voice trembles in a hushed tone, feeling a mix of overwhelming delight and panic of the reality of everything hitting you suddenly.
“what was that?” he pulls away for a second, asking with tease. his hand grabs your throat but his mouth is still eating you with desire, sucking and licking every inch he can travel over.
“i’m not saying it again” you almost want to laugh, exhaling and twisting your face as you feel him wave over your clit, your body reacting by thrusting into his face.
“oh you will” chris speaks smug, the tip of his nose taking over the pressure on your clit and he uses it to his advantage, keeping it there but simultaneously circling his tongue around and around just below your hood.
suddenly, chris hooks his hands on the underside of both your knees, forcing you to flip over as he turns his body. his ass is planted on the floor, his back is pressed to the couch, and you’re straddling his face now. his head is resting on the couch cushion looking up, and you’re able to support yourself on your hands and knees, looking down.
chris groans into your pussy. his hands, firm, strong hands, grab your buttocks and drag you down onto his waiting mouth. you brace yourself against the armrest of the couch. when you look down, you gaze upon chris’s closed eyes, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hair already a mess from where your thighs are messing it up. you add your hand to his scalp, lightly scratching and pulling.
“f-fuck, that feels good, s’good”, you whine, biting your hand to try and drown them out, while his tongue draws patterns into you, his nose still utter perfection against your clit.
“you like this, huh? fucking my face with this pretty fucking pussy” his voice is so strained and laced with filth.
stifling your thrusts and thirsty grinds on his face is not an option, and you know that chris is taking some pride in receiving all of your wanton movements and paving them into a road of an earth-shattering orgasm.
his hands don’t hold still, continually roaming your hot flesh, sometimes pressing you further into his face, sometimes dragging you away, always aiming for your best stimulation. his occasional moans vibrate your very core, making your pussy pulse with pleasure.
“more, more, more”, you beg breathlessly, and he gives it to you, but not without slapping a hard firm whip to your ass with the palm of his hand.
“more, what?” he growls, smacking his lips together and swallowing your flavors.
“fuck you.” you groan.
“something you won’t get to do if you don’t start behaving” chris fully detaches his mouth from your dripping pussy and you try with all your efforts to roll into his face, to regain some friction.
chris pulls back, and slaps your ass again hard. you wince, but more at the fact of how loud the impact is. the last thing you want is to wake anyone else up, especially in this position.
“more, daddy. fuck” you beg, still refusing to use manners. you’re both equally putting up a fight. with that, he gives it to you until your legs shake and your abs are tight. you are so, so close to coming, and you finally, blissfully do when chris’s tongue laps at your clit in just the right way.
“better.” you feel him smile against your pussy, as he then bites your inner thigh quickly. your orgasm draws much louder than you intended, hoarse groans out of you that eventually peter out into whimpers.
chris doesn’t stop licking you, making your legs shake in the air. he only slows down and is as gentle as your sensitive clit needs after his hungry attack. you feel ready to collapse, so you carefully shimmy off his body, dropping backwards onto the lounge, feeling your skin sticky and sweaty.
he follows you, clawing his way up the lounge to follow your body. he’s panting, wiping his mouth clean but staring down at his hands, admiring the glistening cum you’ve lathered his chin, cheeks and lips with. chris drops next to you, shoulder to shoulder. for once, you don’t want to push him away from you. you can hear his thundering heartbeat. you can feel his still hard cock against your ass.
“we should probably,” you’re trying to catch your breath as you speak, taking a moment.
“-should probably do something about that” you lazily point to his crotch, making him look down and gain a double chin as he notices what you’re mentioning.
“you mean before the effects wear off?” chris huffs a laugh. you turn over to rest your head on his shoulder, looking up at him.
“i mean before you start complaining about it” you reply jocosely, and he rests both of his hands behind his head.
“i’ve got nothing to complain about right now. not with the taste of you still on my tongue” he sounds genuine, like he’s still reminiscing about the act of eating you out.
“i’ve still got the taste of the chocolate lingering” you frown.
“we can fix that” chris turns into you, resting a hand on your waist. you take the prompt before he continues, and pull yourself onto his lap, straddling his thighs.
you lower your face toward his chest, shuffling further down his lap while obtaining eye contact and watch as chris’ breath hitches. he bucks his hips forward lightly, making you bounce, and the way your tits react to the movement has him drooling.
he breathes out heavy through his nose, licking his lips and watching as you slide down toward his cock.
“my turn.”
#christopher sturniolo#chris sturniolo#chris sturniolo smut#chris sturniolo fanfic#chris sturniolo fic#chris sturniolo imagine#chris sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo blurb#chris sturniolo oneshot
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Day 1: Pegging - Mafia!Stucky
Summary: Steve had once instructed Bucky how to pleasure you, but what happens when you’re the one being given the instructions?
(this is basically part 2.5 to my fic 'Steve's Birthday Wish')
Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, threesome f/m/m, polyamorous, pegging, strap-on, size kink, dom/sub, pet names, scratching, kissing, handjob, blowjob, anal fingering, anal, vaginal sex, creampie, praise kink
masterlist 📚
kinktober masterlist😈
AO3 Link
Steve Rogers, the leader of the Rogers Mafia, the most renowned organisation throughout Brooklyn, was a highly inquisitive gang member. He had to be in his line of work to continue deceiving the cops or work with people who were so dangerous he didn’t dare to even blink more than necessary whilst in their presence.
Due to the threatening line of work, Steve had to be prepared for anything, making quick decisions to protect his friends, family and business in the heat of the moment. Over time, this could strain him, verging on feeling burnt out; therefore, he needed others to cling to and help unwind, where you and Bucky would always thrive.
However, it wasn’t so much that Steve would lie down and expect the two of you to care or pleasure him; it was quite the opposite. His ideas usually consisted of kinky scenarios you would never even dream of thinking about. For example, the only reason Bucky was in the relationship now was that Steve had suggested that his second-in-command fuck his girlfriend whilst following his instructions with where to touch you. Never would the thought have crossed your mind to include Bucky in a sexual situation as not only was he your bodyguard but Steve’s best friend, but now, the three of you were inseparable, and you couldn’t imagine it any other way.
This all leads to a dark autumn night, the leaves covering the ground in a sea of burnt orange and brown shades, the sun having set hours ago over the tall Brooklyn buildings as the weather changes. These earlier nights, however, did nothing to stop Steve with his intense working schedule, and neither did it for Bucky, as they both had been in the office at your home for hours on end. Even as you wished them a good night did neither man stop to have a break; only when Bucky glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearing midnight did he mutter that he was going to join you in bed, kissing Steve’s temple tenderly and murmuring for him not to be long. He all but collapsed into bed, only just managing to strip down to his boxers before wrapping his body around yours, his metal arm sliding beneath your head as the other cocooned around your chest and hand resting over your heart, his face nuzzling into the back of your neck as the feeling of your heartbeat lulled him into a deep sleep.
Sometime later, you found yourself waking, detecting warmth behind you but not in front, which felt unnerving and like something was missing, which happened to be Steve. Carefully reaching across the bed, you grasped your phone and clicked the button to see the time was nearing 3 a.m. and still no sign of your blonde boyfriend.
“Is he still working?” Bucky’s voice croaked, startling you, having not realised he had woken from your slight movement.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go and find him”, you respond whilst untangling your limbs from his. Bucky sighed away, the sleep still settled heavily in his body, before following you, not bothering to pull on any clothes as you’d stolen his oversized shirt from where it lay on the floor. It took only seconds to walk across the hall and find Steve in the same position as hours ago. Your voice was soft as you explained, “Steve, you can’t work 24 hours a day; you must sleep at some point. The bed’s getting so cold without you.” Your bottom lip pouted dramatically as you stood on the other side of his desk, looking at him with wide, sad eyes and fingers teasingly stroking the edge of the oak surface.
The corner of Steve’s lips turned up as he took in your sleepy appearance and then over to his just as tired boyfriend over your shoulder. “Is Bucky not keeping you warm?” he asked, his voice deep and full of jest.
Bucky rushed up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him as you squealed in surprise, “I’m doing a perfect job, actually”. You melted into the embrace, tilting your head to the side so he could dramatically kiss your cheek with an audible smooch noise.
The brunette man dropped into the leather chair behind him, pulling you with him. You laughed at the sudden movement but quickly righted your position to feel more comfortable, turning slightly so that your legs were slung over his lap, hands resting against his toned shoulder and face resting on his chest.
Steve watched you curiously, especially the skin of your bare legs as he rested his chin on his closed fist, the material of his black button-up shirt straining to keep his muscles contained. You noticed the look and gave him a flirtatious smile whilst reaching up to scratch your nails through Bucky’s buzzcut hair. “What’s going on that’s keeping you up for so long and can’t wait for the morning?”
Steve sighed and leaned back in his bulky leather chair, causing it to squeak under the strain of his massive muscular body. For once, Steve looked to be contemplating something and being careful how to phrase his words before explaining, “I’ve actually been thinking about you two and distracting myself with work”.
You could feel Bucky adjusting his position as he frowned, “What about us, Stevie?” His tone was calm, but you became more aware, fingers pausing with their idle distractions as your attention fixed completely on Steve.
“I’ve bought you both a present”, Steve simply explained, offering no further description and leaving you both with more questions than answers.
“Are you going to tell us, or will we forever remain in suspense?” Bucky drawled tiredly, his hand beginning to stroke a swirling pattern against your ticklish thigh.
You yawned from the comforting touch, leaning further into Bucky again, eyes feeling increasingly heavier with each passing second as you struggled to stay awake.
Steve’s ocean-blue eyes flicked between his two lovers as he continued to be careful with his wording. “I’m not being upfront about the gift because I’m unsure if you’d be into it. Wait, let me rephrase that, Bucky, I know you’d be into it, and I sure as hell would be, but little miss Sleepy head over there is the one I’m not sure about”.
Your posture straightened as you pushed off Bucky’s chest to give Steve a toothy grin, “I’d be up for whatever you have bought us!” you say happily, being a people pleaser and automatically agreeing to it.
Steve smiled, knowing you’d already give this sort of response. “You don’t even know what it is yet, baby”, he laughs under his breath before reaching next to his chair and lifting the gift onto the desk.
A confused frown settled on your expression as you visually inspected the boxed gift. “You want to fuck me with a dildo? But you’ve both done that in the past anyway-” Steve’s shake of his head stopped your words.
The man then looked away from you towards Bucky and asked, “Do you remember the first time Bucky touched you? I want to do something similar, but I want you to touch Bucky while I tell you what to do. How does that sound?” His eyes flicked back to you, waiting for your answer.
“Good. It sounds good.” Your words came out with a rushed, warmed breath as your body heated from head to toe; all lingering exhaustion suddenly disappeared. You thought more on it; you were always the submissive one in the relationship, so at least Steve was still technically in charge of the fucking, but the thought of Bucky lying down with you pleasuring him in such an intimate and dominant way, him allowing you to fuck his body, would he even want that? Sitting in Bucky’s embrace, you turned your full attention to him. “How do you feel about it?”
The handsome smirk already displayed across his face was answer enough, but then he readjusted in his seat so that his half-hardening cock brushed against your lap. Bucky leaned his face closer to yours, confidently stating, “I’d want anything you’re willing to give me, mama”.
And this was how Steve’s latest idea had you standing in your bathroom at 3:30 am, completely naked and stepping into a harness as Steve crouched down to help you into it, tightening the straps until comfortable. You were surprised just how cosy it was as the straps wrapped around your hips and between your legs, resting over your cunt without irritation.
Looking down, you couldn’t help but giggle at seeing the dildo pointing out from between your legs. It was thick, probably the same thickness as Steve, which you had a secret suspicion was on purpose; it even had veins along the shafts and balls beneath. Almost on instinct, you gripped it, running your hand up and down just to feel what it was like, but then the searing gaze of Steve’s caught your eye as his hands rested on your thighs.
“Why does that turn me on so much?” Steve mumbled as he stood, dipping to kiss the pulse point on your neck. You lean into the touch, especially as his hands grasp your waist and pull you closer to his naked body, his cock already hard and flush against your abdomen. “I’m half tempted to just ask you to use it on me”, Steve suggested, leaning back to look down at your body to stare at the toy that rested against his thigh.
Before you could ponder over his words, he gently directed you back towards the bedroom where Bucky was naked and lying in the middle of the giant bed, his metal arm casually under his head as he waited for you both to return.
Bucky’s cock was already hard with anticipation and resting against his abdomen, red and visibly pulsing with desire. His eyes darted from your fake cock to Steve’s real one, a smile brightening his handsome face as he sat up on his elbows, announcing, “I can’t fucking wait for this”.
The warmth behind your back disappeared as Steve dragged a cushioned chair to the side of the bed, extending his arm towards Bucky to encourage you to approach your boyfriend. Bucky licked his lips, sitting up fully to help you climb onto the bed and straddle his lap, hands resting on his shoulders and the dildo awkwardly hitting Bucky’s chest as you hadn’t been careful where it was positioned.
You giggled, flustered, hiding your face behind your hair to avoid ruining the moment, but Bucky tilted your chin up so your eyes met his bright blue orbs. “Don’t hide that pretty face from me, Doll”.
The tension that you hadn’t realised was thick in your shoulders loosened as you relaxed further into his touch, fingers caressing his cheeks and gliding over his stubble as his cold and warm hand smoothed over your hips, pulling you closer over his thighs as your dildo brushed his cock. The two of you simultaneously turned towards Steve, waiting for instructions. Still, all he was doing was looking happily and lovingly at you both before he decided, “Kiss each other, make sure you tease him real good, Baby”.
You looked from one man to another and didn’t waste another second before pulling Bucky in for a heated kiss. Lips slid and massaged against each other as he tilted his head first, deepening and thrusting his tongue into your mouth to taste you, moaning as he did so. It was an automatic response to roll your hips and then brush your breasts against his chest, your nipples pebbling at the contact.
Then there were your fingers; you didn’t know where to touch him first because you wanted to touch him everywhere. But you remained on his face for a moment, over his cheek, his jaw, pulling him closer and holding him there before moving to other areas. Your nails scratched over his shoulders, careful not to irate the joining between his flesh and metal arm before running your fingers down each of his muscled arms, enjoying the contrast of the metal components and then the warmth from his muscles on the other arm.
You were loving every hitch of his breath against your mouth, the throb of his cock that brushed against your thigh, but then, Bucky was doing his own teasing. His large hands cupped your arse, massaging the cheeks and pulling you closer until there wasn’t a gap between your fronts. Both of you were grinding against each other, releasing sweet little moans to show how much you were adoring the other.
In fact, the two of you were getting so into it that the whole notion of the strap-on was a distant memory until Steve’s voice interrupted as he instructed, “Bucky, why don’t you touch her cock”.
You couldn’t feel anything at first because it was a sex toy, but then the harness straps tightened around your hips and between your legs, as Bucky's metal hand moved up and down your thick shaft. You broke the kiss, desperate to see the sight as you looked down between your bodies as he even brushed his thumb over the tip as if he was spreading the precum over the dildo. You were mesmerised, moving your hips in a way that the cock brushed into his circled fist.
Bucky was breathing heavily as he moved his lips to your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses and then scraping his sharp, straight teeth against your pulse point, making your moans deepen in pitch, more wetness forming between your legs and soaking the harness strap.
It was a new form of erotism to see Bucky jerking off your fake cock, as if it was a real one; even though you had seen him doing the same movements to Steve, it still made you feel hot under the skin. Especially when you could see how much he was being turned on by it all, his precum coating your thigh from where you were grinding against his shaft.
Steve was leaning forward in the chair, his hands clasped together as he rested them on his knees, his eyes moving up and down your bodies as he tried to not touch his cock for as long as possible, playing his own erotic game. “Think he needs some stretching now; why don’t you lie Bucky back and work your magic. Remember, don’t listen to his whining; just listen to me, Baby Girl”, Steve continued to instruct.
You pushed lightly against Bucky’s shoulders, and he lay back against the soft sheets; you took a moment to take in the beauty of his swollen lips, glazed-over bright eyes and his chest broad and decorated with red lines from where you’d been scratching him.
Trying to maintain confidence, you smiled seductively down at him before beginning a taunting crawl backwards down his body, not keeping your eyes off of his as you stroked the tip of your cock along his lean muscles as you moved.
Settling between his heavy thighs, you didn’t start immediately stretching him, instead continuing to arouse him further by starting with your tongue licking up the entire length of his cock, feeling the soft yet hard member as it throbbed. Bucky gasped, looking down his body to you on your knees, sucking him off, starting slow, tasting the salty clear juices bubbling at the tip before letting the tip rest heavily against your tongue. You sucked him gently at first, the mushroom head of his cock sensitive from the gasps and groans coming from the man beneath you. Further, you took him into your mouth until he tickled the back of your throat.
Only you didn’t stop there as you pulled off the tip with an audible pop before delving south, sucking his balls into your mouth, a move that you knew drove him insane, and you were greeted by his hips thrusting into the air, his cock throbbing, begging to be touched again.
“You’re doing so well teasing him, Sweetheart”, Steve suddenly mumbled from beside you, still on the chair but finally giving in to his internal game as he was stroking his own cock slowly, his hand squeezing and tugging on the end and then down the length.
Seeing the glorious sight beside you of Steve masturbating and Bucky led out in front of you, the ache between your legs was now becoming nearly painful. You were absent-mindedly rutting your hips onto the mattress, letting the strap of the black harness push against your cunt, trying to relieve some of the need.
Reaching over Bucky’s hairy thighs, you fumbled around on the bed from where you’d caught sight of the bottle of lube hidden within the sheets. Finally, you found it and quickly squirted some on your index finger.
Bucky heard the cap of the lube opening and immediately opened his legs to give you a little more room and better access to your finger's intended goal. Releasing your mouth’s grip on his balls, you licked his inner thighs, teasing him further before stroking the lube around his asshole, ensuring it was thoroughly covered before applying some pressure.
Quickly you could breach through the ringed muscle, and simultaneously, you sucked his length back into your mouth. You worked your digit in and out for a minute before adding another finger, angling and curling them until you massaged his prostate.
“Fuck, that feels so good, Doll, don’t fucking stop; you’re doing so well”, Bucky praised, which pulled a smile to your lips as you were still sucking him off. You moan to add more stimulation before adding a third finger. Bucky almost whimpered at the intrusion, more precum leaking onto your tongue as he begged, “More, I want more”.
Steve’s chair creaked as he leaned forward again, and his voice drew your attention to him as he demanded, “Remember, don’t listen to him. Just listen to me”. So this is what you did, as you didn’t rush to do anything further to Bucky, making sure his hole relaxed around your fingers. Bucky sometimes liked to rush moments like this to get to the main event, not caring about the burn from the stretch or any discomfort as he only needed and wanted to be fucked so Steve usually had to be firm with him to make sure he was thoroughly prepped before continuing any further.
You were thankful for Steve’s directions, even though you did all the movements. It was nice that Steve could still tell you when and how to touch Bucky, and now you had a slight inclining as to how Bucky felt all that time ago when he’d first touched you with Steve’s instructions.
“Add another finger”, Steve encouraged, his hand returning to his own cock, never taking his eyes off of every little gasp that Bucky whimpered. Your fourth finger inserted into Bucky as your mouth continued to tease and tempt Bucky closer to the orgasm that you knew he was dangerously close to. You were shocked to have so many fingers into his hole, having never usually been the one to stretch him out, but then you remembered just how big Steve’s fingers were, and he usually prepped Bucky with more force than your dainty fingers were doing.
The mafia leader finally stands up from his perched position, but only so that he can sit next to Bucky’s head, his hard soothing over the man's throat and forcing him to look up at him. “How does she feel?”
“So fucking good”, Bucky groaned as he began to rock his hips to push your fingers deeper. “But”, he continued, “if she keeps sucking me off like that, I’m going to cum before we even get started”.
You pull off with a sheepish smile, looking between your two boyfriends, but you keep your fingers inside. Steve smirked at you briefly before dipping his face to kiss Bucky, holding his hand around his throat and forcing his tongue into the other's mouth. You watched, all hot breaths and swapping saliva, battling for dominance that both wanted and neither would be willing to succumb to. Only as you removed your fingers from Bucky did the man force his head away from Steve to look down at you.
“Please, fuck me already, hot mama”.
You looked towards Steve, waiting for him to tell you to do as Bucky wished verbally but instead, he moved off the bed and came up behind you, kneeling on the bed. Without a word, he helped you to your knees, pushing back Bucky’s legs even further so that you had better access to move forward. With further lube coating the dildo between your legs, Steve pointed the toy towards Bucky’s prepped and begging hole.
Gently, Steve nudged you forward, slowly and watching Bucky’s expressions over your shoulders as inch after inch of your cock stretched the man’s asshole. You were in awe at seeing Bucky’s reaction, the way his fists gripped the sheets beside him, his cock dribbled with his juices and was red and aching against his abdomen. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his mouth gaped open so that all his gasps were unfiltered.
The man behind you moved his hands to your hips, where they rested warm and heavy against your skin, pushing you further and further until your hips were flush against Bucky and the length of the blue dildo was penetrated within him.
It took a couple of thrusts to know how you were supposed to move, finding the right rhyme that felt good for you and Bucky, who was an absolute mess beneath you. You started slow and shallow, knowing that the dildo was moving deep and stretching areas your fingers couldn’t reach.
You were also distracted by Steve, who had begun to kiss along your bare shoulder, up the length of your sensitive neck and to the shell of your ear, where he nibbled on the lobe. “Do you like seeing Bucky like this beneath you? Do you see why we both love being dominant? There’s nothing better than seeing your lover sprawled beneath you, responding so well to your touches, until they're sobbing with need, their thoughts only of you and nothing else. I love it so much, making you feel good and seeing you make Bucky feel good”.
You’d begun thrusting harder, driven by Steve’s words and moaning yourself at his explanation. But then you’re halting as Steve starts to move your thighs apart so that he can slip his fingers from your hips, over your mouth and between your legs, pressing on the harness directly over your clit.
“Let me just move these out of the way. I bet you’re dripping, aren’t you, baby?” Steve mumbled against your neck as he moved the straps to the side to caress his fingers through your drenched folds. He chuckled as he confirmed his suspicions, “Always so wet for us; you’re just such a good girl. I think it’s about time to treat our good girl; what do you think, Buck?”
“If you don’t fuck her, I will”, Bucky decided as his hands released their grip on the sheets to begin fondling your tits, twisting and flicking on your nipples and making your hips snap forward harshly.
Steve shifted once again behind you, and before you could even moan his name, his cock slid between your legs and pushed into your soaked, aching pussy. Your hands reached out to grab onto anything and ended up grasping Bucky’s wrists, your eyes shutting and hips pausing as you thrived at the stretching from the Blonde’s cock.
Bucky readjusted his hands so that both of your fingers were linked together, holding you up as you took a moment to get used to the size of Steve as he kissed along your neck to help soothe you. “Feeling good, Sweetheart?” Steve asked, smugness evident in his tone.
“So-... So good”, you stuttered over your words as you tried to accommodate his length, groaning as he finally bottomed out and his tip pushed into your cervix.
“Now the real fun begins”, Steve grunted as he pulled out and pushed back in, causing your hips to snap forward and fuck into Bucky. The two of you gasped at the movement, and then you truly realised Steve’s plan. In this position, as Steve fucked into you, it caused you to thrust into Bucky so effectively; Steve was fucking both of you at the same time, which was probably why he had found a dildo that was similar in size to his own cock.
“Holy shit!” Bucky groaned, his back arching as his hands gripped tightly around yours as Steve began to move faster, the wet sounds echoing around the bedroom as the morning sun began to seep through the gap in the curtains.
Steve rested one hand against your hip, and the other reached around your body to grab your hand, pulling it out of Bucky’s grasp but only so that he could move it down to the man’s cock, wrapping your fingers around his shaft and then covering your hand in his. Matching his thrust, Steve used your hand to jerk off Bucky, and this only made your walls tighten around Steve at seeing the man beneath you crying out.
You knew Bucky was trying not to cum, Steve knew Bucky was trying not to cum, and Bucky was desperately in his own world of attempting to prolong the pleasure. He never wanted it to end. Even as his shaft hardened and his moans became more urgent, he still tried to will his body to not orgasm.
However, this all went out of the window as you had the sudden confidence to say, “I want you to cum for us, Bucky; I know you want to”.
It was almost instantaneous. Bucky’s eyes shut as his back arched further, his hands falling back to his side as long streaks of hot cum lathered up his chest as he came hard, his hips thrusting around your dildo and his cock into your hand.
Steve grunted over your shoulder, his movements quickening as he reached his peak, but he, like Bucky, tried to hold it back. Releasing the grip on Bucky’s spent cock, he reached between your thighs and stroked against your clit, pressing harshly and snapping his hips into yours.
It was like a burst of warmth and tingles spread from your abdomen, over your pussy and down your thighs as you came, slumping forward against Bucky’s chest as you lost any energy you had. Your pussy spasmed around Steve and he heaved a finally harsh thrust into you before he was pouring his seed into your hole, seeping out of the edges and pooling onto the sheets below.
The three of you tried to catch your breaths, not rushing to move as you each kissed random body parts lovingly, not quite having the energy to express how much you loved each other, but the touches conveyed the message thoroughly enough.
Steve was the first to move, kissing between your shoulder blades once before pulling out and then carefully beginning to help you ease out of Bucky, who gasped at the loss of the dildo. Next, Steve helped you stand on wobbly knees, only briefly so that he could clean between your legs with a warm washcloth and remove the harness from your body.
You then turned to Bucky and helped to clean all the cum and lube off of his body and then collapsed onto his chest, cuddling close as his arms wrapped around your shoulders as he kissed the top of your head. Steve did the same on Bucky’s other side, kissing your head and then Bucky wrapping his big arms around the man's abdomen and laying his hand over yours. No further words needed to be said; Steve finally found the calm that came from being with you and Bucky, the ideas and thoughts quietening in his mind as he found the peace he’d been craving all night.
#mafia!stucky#mafia au#steve rogers#bucky barnes#bucky#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers smut#steve rogers one shot#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes x reader#marvel#marvel smut#mine*#kinktober#stucky x reader#stucky
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Girl dad Astarion who is mourning the times when his biggest problem was coming up with more or less child-friendly excuses to not read yet another bedtime story. Or to fix the dress of a shabby old doll that gave him the creeps. Or to kiss some scratches better, even though the minuscule wounds usually troubled him more than they did the damn child.
Nobody ever told him that children grow up this fucking fast, okay?
But now he has to watch his darling little girl grow into a beautiful young woman, and he is—quite frankly—terrified for her.
Because wherever he looks, he can see that strangers are watching her, too.
It doesn’t even bother him that they notice his daughter’s beauty, no, you would have to be blind not to see it. She’s stunning—obviously. She's his child after all…and Tav’s, of course, but that’s not the point.
It’s the way they're looking at the girl that disgusts Astarion to his very core. Leering eyes following her every move. Ulterior motives buried under layers of false niceties. Seemingly innocent little touches stolen as if those filthy hands were entitled to her body in any way.
And for all their obnoxious gawking, they don’t even see her. They seldom care for his daughter’s talents, her sense of humour, or her intelligence. Her heart.
Those heads are only turning for a pretty face, and for all the small privileges that might afford her, they always come with a price—a price Astarion has paid once upon a time; a price he doesn’t ever want his daughter to even consider accepting.
But the world is not kind. It’s already leaving scratches on his child that neither he nor Tav can kiss better any longer.
And Astarion hates it because the last time he felt this helpless was when his own pretty face was all that kept him, well, as alive as he could be. A thing to be used for other people's gain. Selling himself out for crumbs.
And then, one day, he notices a new bracelet on his daughter’s wrist.
She happily hands it over to him so he can take a look. Then she tells him some stranger gifted it to her. Just like that!
All they wanted for it was a little smile—isn’t that so great, father?
It’s not. Far from it. Astarion is fuming inside.
How dare some random nitwit think that ugly trinket worthy of his daughter’s wonderful smile? The audacity. The nerve. Unbelievable!
“Darling, it’s not a gift if they’re expecting something in return,” a forced smile tugs at his lips, trying to soften his scolding tone.
It doesn’t work.
“But it’s so pretty, I had to have it!”
The girl sulks, her little nose scrunched up as if he just sent her to bed without her fairy tales. Astarion supposes, in a way, he has.
“And what do we do when we see something we want, dear?”
She rolls her eyes at him in a way that always has Tav cackling up. Maybe it's because, in moments like this, she looks a little too much like her father.
“We just pocket it.”
“Exactly, my darling child, we just pocket it,” Astarion nods approvingly. “And if they ask for a smile next time?”
“We stab them,” she sighs.
“Absolutely, we do. Now, off with you, lest your daggers get all rusty, you lazy duck.”
Ending the discussion with a gentle smile, Astarion watches the girl go before he produces the offending bracelet from his sleeve.
It’s always out of sight, out of mind with pretty things, isn't it?
He takes another look at the bracelet, scrunching up his nose as if it gave off a particularly vile smell. In a way, it does.
In fact, it’s giving Astarion the creeps. And it's not even made from real gold, by the way.
Astarion scoffs at the cheap trinket. This child still has so much to learn.
#astarion#baldurs gate 3#bg3#baldur's gate 3#dadstarion#astarion x tav#astarion headcanons#baldur's gate astarion#astarion ancunin#to the best worst dad#astarion father of the year every year#being perceived is pain#girlhood in a nutshell
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teamwork (makes the dream work...?) epilogue
summary: they ass is NOT doing homework 🤣
wc: 1k+
A/N: That's a wrap, guys! tysm for reading and enjoying!
prev 'if you believe in me'
“Miles, what is this emo shit you got me listening to?” you laughed.
Miles was currently in the middle of an imaginary drumming solo next to you, with two mechanical pencils as drumsticks. Once the final cymbal crashed, he turned to you to respond.
“I don’t give a fuck if it’s emo, that beat goes crazy. You done with your conclusion yet?”
You rolled your eyes.
“No, but I’ve got all my body paragraphs together.”
“That shit is due Monday,” the boy adjusted his glasses, “Mr. Padilla don’t do extensions.”
Shutting your laptop in protest, you got up and stretched your arms. “Can we take, like, a ten-minute break?”
Miles smirked. “The last half hour felt like a ‘break’, but sure.”
The smirk fell from his face when he noticed you staring at something on his desk.
“Aye, don’t touch nothing–”
“Is this me?”
Too late.
Miles’ notebook was already in your hands, flipped to a page full of sketches of your face. There were little lines scratched out next to each sketch, as if he were measuring the proportions of your eyes, nose, ears...
His lines were sharp and geometrical, as always, but they softened at your hair and lips. Speaking of lips, there was an oddly-detailed sketch of them off to the side. He’d even managed to include the suggestion of gloss.
You looked up to see Miles standing in front of you with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You done invading my privacy yet?”
“Nope,” you placed a finger on the page. “How long did you need to stare at my face for this?”
You held back a laugh when he tensed visibly.
“Not long enough for it to matter,” he deadpanned, finally snatching the notebook out of your hand. “It was just a study.”
“Oh, so you’ve been ‘studying’ my lips? Got it.”
Miles’ eyes flickered down at them as you spoke before he returned to his spot on the bed. “Whatever. Break’s over.”
“Aw, don’t be like that,” you teased as you followed him, “the drawings are nice! You made me look prettier.”
The boy looked at you like he wanted to say something - to argue - but he remained silent. You elbowed him playfully in the side.
“What, you think I’m ugly, then? I’m telling you, Morales, one day we gon’ fight–”
“No,” he interrupted.
“Complete sentences, please,” you mimicked, laughing when the boy sucked his teeth in response.
“Fine. No, you’re not ugly, and I like drawing you. Can we move on?”
With a triumphant smile, you finally cracked open your laptop again. “Yes, yes we can. I need your genius powers to proofread this for me.”
Miles leaned in to get a good look at your screen, hitting you with the crisp scent of sports deodorant and some generic brand of lotion. You watched his eyes dart back and forth as he read your work out loud to himself in a low mutter. While he read, your gaze drifted away from the screen and landed on his side profile. His ears were now delightfully occupied by tiny gold studs that you would’ve missed at a farther distance. Past his jawline at the nape of his neck, a thin gold chain peeked out at you from beneath his black graphic tee.
Your eyes met Miles’ the moment you brought them back up to his face, amusement playing on his features.
“Yo, are you good? There something on my shirt?”
“Nope,” you shook your head. “Go back to reading.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m done. I just said you need to switch these two body paragraphs so they flow better.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh’,” he laughed, dimples on display. “I’m scared I’mma get my face stolen one day. Do you stare at everybody like that?”
A beat of silence passed as you considered whether to say something bold a second time, if not just for a reaction.
“...Nah, it’s just you.”
Miles blinked, the smile dropping from his face. “Huh?”
“You’re nice to look at, and I can’t draw you in my notebook to make it last longer,” you tilted your head comically. “Staring will have to do.”
Like clockwork, the boy’s hand shot up to his ear to toy with his piercing. He glanced out of the window.
“The sun’s setting, you should really get that essay done,” he blurted out before narrowing his eyes at you. “What’s so funny?”
You had a hand over your mouth to stifle the laughter. “I’m sorry,” you giggled, “it’s funny when you’re nervous.”
Miles scoffed.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you sang, beginning to type your conclusion paragraph.
There was no response.
Your typing slowed as the silence grew long, feeling Miles’ eyes on you until you finally stopped to look at him quizzically.
“Yes?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
He leaned in closer until your noses were in danger of brushing each other, looking determined despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest. You met his gaze with a challenge.
“Well? You just gon’ sit there?”
Miles couldn’t hear anything above the heartbeat pounding in his ears, his eyes squeezed shut as he closed the distance between you.
No one told him that kissing would feel this weird.
For one, your lip gloss wasn’t half as sticky as he’d anticipated it to be, tasting like artificial fruit flavoring. Your sweaty palm came up to rest on the side of his face and kept him anchored as his breath stuttered. Having no idea where he would put his hands (another thing no one had explained to him), he kept them flat on the mattress for support as you deepened the kiss and he leaned back.
Your hand was gripping his chin now to guide his face. Having kissed at least two other boys before, you had a vague idea of where it was supposed to go. Unlike the other two, Miles was tense, almost unmoving, despite being the initiator.
Miles’ head buzzed when you pulled away, chuckling softly.
What the hell was so funny? The boy felt white hot blood rapidly coursing through all of the veins in his body at once. He thought he might start floating, like a hot air balloon. Or explode. Or vomit. Preferably the first one.
“Are you okay?” you asked, dropping your hand. “You look like you’re about to faint.”
He blinked slowly, three times. “Yeah, I’m…fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. That was, um…”
Hand on the neck. “Interesting.”
“A good interesting, I hope,” you laughed.
Miles tilted his head, a small grin spreading across his lips.
“I don’t think I’d mind doing that again.”
Handing the boy your phone, you said, “I think you’d need my number for that.”
-
#miles morales#spiderman across the spiderverse#earth 42 miles morales#miles morales x reader#earth 42 miles morales x reader#earth 42 miles morales x black!reader#miles morales x black!reader#moralesanhour
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meet me in the woods w/ Mingi
words - 3.5k
genre - fluff, friends to lovers, college!au
warnings - emo!mingi, drummer!mingi, pink!mingi, fangirl!reader, kissing, mentions of seasonal depression, mentions of a broken ankle, reader is down bad, so is mingi, they’re both idiots in love, kind of groping but not really sexual
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there’s still a chill in the air as the seasons flip from winter to spring. it shows in the way the air around you fogs up with every breath you exhale and the way the skin of your exposed thighs pricks up in little bumps. realistically you should’ve worn a pair of jeans rather than a skirt, but that would defeat the point of this whole thing you had going on. a sort of good-riddance-to-winter protest, in which you try to ignore the fact that winter was very much still in play.
although you have to admit you may have been a little too eager. you claim to have your reasons to pretend that winter is already over, but even those reasons seem a little obsolete as you sit on the picnic table awning, shivering every few seconds. perhaps your way of saying goodbye to your particularly bad bout of seasonal depression will have to be shoved to the back of your closet for a few more weeks. just until you're sure you won’t get frostbite.
you shuffle back a few inches, just enough to give yourself room to swing your legs back onto the awning. you have to go down the way you came up; that was a lesson you’d learned the hard way. a broken ankle and a particularly long lecture from your mother about making ‘sensible decisions’ was not something you care to repeat. she, of course, would blow a fuse if she knew you still frequent this spot years later, but what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. besides, you’re well trained in how to get up and down from your favourite thinking spot, now.
you already have one leg up when you hear a creek coming from behind you. your neck twists in time to see a hand slam itself down on the wooden surface, fingers splayed as they work their hardest to pull the attached body higher up. you recognise the rings like the back of your hand and as you watch mingi struggle, you can’t help but sigh.
“how many times have i told you how to get up here?” you grumble, loud enough for him to hear over his own strained grunts. the single hand that you can see moves until you can see a middle finger pointed in your direction, and you have to laugh, “you seriously can’t remember? right hand on the roof, left foot on the fence, and push yourself up.”
even without seeing his face you can tell he’s rolling his eyes at you. he’s heard this lecture from you a bajillion times before, and yet he never learns. it’s always right hand, right foot and pull with him - almost the exact opposite of how you instruct him.
“have you considered that i’m, like, twice the size of you?” he says as he corrects his form and finally manages to raise himself up. he swings his right knee onto the platform and rolls his gangly form onto it. you’ve seen more grace from a new-born horse, but you keep that to yourself as you watch him sit himself up and shuffle closer.
“if anything that would make it easier for you, y’know, since you don’t have to jump to reach the roof.”
you turn your body back to how it was, dropping your legs again so you can swing them over the ledge. the platform looks out over nothing but forest, and you quickly find a particular branch to focus your eyes on as the giant sits in his spot next to you. your hands subconsciously brush over the pair of initials that have been scratched into the wood when you were both teenagers. a small, neat set done with a whittling knife stolen from your father, sitting just beneath a much larger, much messier SMG that mingi had done with the biggest kitchen knife he could find. his mother never did discover how her carving knife missing for a few hours only to return to the knife block covered in moss and dirt.
“yeah, yeah,” he mutters as he drops his legs down to swing them at the side of yours. your pink sneakers look a little out of place besides his platform doc martin’s that he always wears, despite not needing the extra height, but somehow the contrast feels natural to you, “i thought i’d find you up here. went to your dorm to search for you but your roommate said you were out.”
“and you assumed i was here?” he nods, not bothering to look at you. he too has found a distant branch to focus on.
“where else would you be?” he nudges you with an elbow, “god knows you don’t go to your lectures…”
he’s right about that. you’d given up on college very early into freshman year, and yet you’re somehow still passing. not well, you have to admit, but enough to get a degree at the end of the year.
“my classes suck, mingi,” you clarify as you rip your focus away from that one specific branch. looking at the same thing was getting kind of boring, you realise, so instead you lay down on the dirty wood and stare up at the canopy. the february sun only just pokes through the fir-canopy, dousing you in just enough light to make your skin a little warmer. there was that heat you were hoping for earlier, “why would i go to them when clearly i can pass without?”
“fair point.”
you close your eyes, basking in the light that bathes you. there’s still a slight breeze that makes the fir needles rustle above you, a few of them raining down whenever a particularly strong gust comes along. one lands on your thigh, but it’s quickly brushed off and replaced by mingi’s warm hand. he must’ve been keeping it in the pocket of his oversized korn hoodie, you think to yourself as he squeezes your thigh.
the hoodie is an old favourite of yours. you’d bought it for him a couple of years ago, and it had soon joined what you like to call ‘the elites’ - the small collection of about three hoodies that he had in permanent rotation. it fit him better now than when you first bought it for him. he’d bulked up a lot, after all.
you still couldn’t get the sweet image of him opening the gift with a wide grin on his face out of your head.
he kissed your cheek on that day.
you always seem to blush at the memory.
“why did you come searching for me, anyway?” you say after a few moments of silence. his hand remains firm on your thigh, fingers drumming a rhythm against your leg gently, “don’t you have cooler people to be hanging out with?”
he hums, “all the cool people i know are busy today,” you swing your foot to the side to kick his shin. he lets out a laugh at the little tap - he knows you can kick harder than that - before giving your thigh a gentle tap in return, “besides, maybe i want to hear about all your little kpop groups.”
you scoff at him.
“no, you don’t.”
“no,” mingi agrees, “i don’t. but i do want to spend time with my favourite little fangirl.”
you giggle at him, opening your eyes just in time to see him turn to you with a wonky grin on his face. it seems he’s bored of staring at his branch too since his gaze doesn’t go back to it after a few seconds. it remains on you, boba-pearl pupils staring into your own as the rays of sun make them glisten.
he looks cute like this, you think to yourself. his short pink hair rustles as the wind blows it about. for a man who made so much fuss about the colour when you first dyed it, it has taken him a long time for him to go back to the bleach blonde that he loves so much. part of you likes to think it’s so he can match your own pastel pink hair - that’s a normal thing for best friends to do, right? - but you also know that he’s fiercely protective over his hair and definitely wouldn’t keep it just for your sake.
it needs a trim, you think to yourself as you watch it brush against his eyebrows. you wonder if he’ll let you do it again. he hated it the last time, so you assume the answer will be no. then again, there’s no harm in asking, right? you make a mental note to do so later, wanting nothing more than to see the same cute pout he wore last time you butchered his hair. it’s an expression that he only ever wears around you, much like that sweet smile he’d had moments prior. it’s a softness that he keeps close to his chest, a far cry from the cool exterior he tries to keep when he’s around everyone else. not that you mind the tougher side of him - it’s hot… really hot - but the sweet giggles and adorable nose scrunches will always be your favourite things about him.
“you said everyone else was busy?” you mutter, not bothering to break eye contact to go back to sunbathing. he takes the hint, and brings his legs fully onto the platform so he can face you fully. it’s much better, you think, this way you can see him more clearly, “what are they doing?”
he shrugs.
“i don’t know,” he begins to rub your thigh up and down subconsciously. he does it a lot when he’s talking. if it’s not your thigh - which it usually always is - then it’s his own, or the arm of a chair. it’s just something to keep his hands busy, you suppose, “i think some of the guys wanted to go over melodies, which they don’t need me for. jongho was saying he thinks it’d be cool if there’s a section where his voice and san’s guitar are kind of in sync? i don’t know, it sounds cool in theory but i don’t know if san’s guitar style necessarily matches jongho’s vocal style well enough to do that.”
you watch as his face lights up, just like it always does when he talks about music, or his band. he could talk about their newest ideas for hours, and most of the time you let him. you like to listen to the way his voice rises an octave when he gets excited, and watching his facial expressions never gets old. you love the way he talks with one hand, all while keeping the other firmly on your thigh; or his, or the arm of a chair. it’s nice to see him still so passionate about all the same things he was as a teenager. sometimes you’re even sure you can feel his excitement for him.
it feels an awful lot like butterflies in your stomach.
“and i mean, i know i’m just the drummer but,” you quirk your eyebrow at him and he stops himself talking. a pink flush rises over his face as he realises his slip up, “i didn’t mean just the drummer, i just meant that as the drummer, i don’t know as much about the music theory side as the guitarists do… i hit things, y’know?”
“you hit things very well, though,” you tease, using a manicured finger to poke at his knee. he catches it with the hand that isn’t occupied by your thigh and just holds onto it. its another thing he does a lot; not quite holding your hand, but definitely toeing the line, “and that’s coming from me!”
he rolls his eyes at you, and you were sure that if both his hands weren’t occupied with some other part of your body, he’d make the effort to lean forwards and place a finger over your lips to shush you. again, touching your lips like that it’s just something he does with you, just like almost holding your hands, and playing with your thighs. it’s all completely normal best friend stuff…
except you weren’t this touchy with any other guy. the last time you let a man get this close to you was when wooyoung tried to teach you guitar by moving your fingers into the correct positions for you. there was barely any contact between the two of you, and yet mingi sulked for days. part of you wanted to call it strange, but when you spotted him giving a pretty emo girl his drumsticks after a show, you gave him much of the same attitude.
you wouldn’t call it jealousy, per se, although maybe there was a little bit. mingi was your best friend after all. you have something special with him. something different that you have with no one else and you feel a way that you feel with no one else and-
oh.
oh.
suddenly the hand on your thigh felt very heavy, and you noticed the way his fingertips gently dip under the hem. had they been doing that the whole time? and you couldn’t help but feel like the way his thumb rubbed against the tip of your finger so softly had some type of further meaning behind it. not to mention the neutral yet unbelievably gentle look that took over his features, making him look even more pretty than usual in the scattered rays of light.
his lips were parted every so slightly, revealing that single wonky tooth that you found oh-so adorable. for a second you wondered what they would feel like against your skin, but you soon shunned the thought away as you remembered, oh yeah, the korn sweater. you’d felt them before. you know just how soft and gentle they are. it’s something that often plays on your mind and every time it does, you feel that same burst of excitement built up in your stomach. the one you get when mingi speaks about his passions. the one that feels like butterflies.
it is butterflies. fuck, it’s the whole damn zoo! a stampede of elephants charging though your body each and every time he does something that you find even mildly endearing. it just so happens that you find damn near everything he does endearing. you’d think those elephants would be tired of running by now…
“mingi,” you sigh, breath coming out in a plume of mist. you’d forgotten how cold it was in his presence. being around him just seemed to warm you up, “mingi, come here.”
he furrows his brow, but shuffles a tad closer. you almost groan in disappointment as he takes his hand away from your thigh, the skin immediately growing cold at the lost contact.
“what’s up, sunshine?” you feel em your eyes go wide at the nickname. you don’t know why; he uses it for you all the time.
“mingi, i’m confused… and a little scared,” you admit, although you didn’t know whether it was necessarily the truth. it was probably the closest word to describe how you were feeling though. with the way your heart was threatening to beat through your chest, and the way your stomach churned with nerves and the way your stupid brain had only just managed to catch up with how you had felt all along. it hurt, and it was painful and confusing and yeah, scared was probably a pretty good description.
“scared?” his voice grows serious as his eyes scan you up and down. once he sees that you’re fine physically, they return to your face. he looks just as confused as you feel, “what are you scared about? are you okay? hurt?”
you shake your head, taking in a deep, shaky breath. you let it out in yet another cloud of fog and watch at it floats away into nothing. you wish your butterflies, elephants, would do the same. it would make this whole thing so much easier.
“i’m fine, mingi,” you say, “just scared.”
“can you tell me why?” you nod, although it takes everything in you to do so.
“i want to kiss you,” you admit.
“kiss… me?”
you nod again, feeling a familiar heat rise to your face. the same one you get whenever mingi compliments you, or touches you. you can't believe it’s taken this long to finally figure it all out. it all feels so obvious now.
“i mean… yeah?” he stutters, “kiss me, yeah… yeah that sounds okay- i mean good! it sounds good… kissing, that is.”
if you weren’t feeling completely and utterly out of your depth, you’d have giggled at him. cutie pie you think to yourself before the heat in your body immediately gets more intense, and the elephants not only increase in number but in size too.
it’s now or never. before you can talk yourself out of it, you need to kiss him. because talking yourself out of it could be so easy. you could hop off of the awning, run back to your car and drive back to your dorm. sure, it would hurt when you would inevitably have to lock yourself away in embarrassment and never see mingi again, but time heals all wounds, right? and by the time you’re 50, the pain and embarrassment will have definitely almost healed over…
“so?” he mutters, pulling you back from the fantasy your brain had created, “are you going to do it?”
“i, uh…”
“i mean, i can if you want me to,” he shrugs, trying his hardest to play it cool as if he hadn’t been stuttering seconds prior. as if his face wasn’t just as pink as the mop of hair that sat atop it.
there is nothing cool about this man, you think to yourself as you push yourself into a sitting position. maybe that’s why you’re so attracted to him. his nerdy tendencies had tugged you in, and he’d worked his dorky little ways on you until you were hook line and sinker for him.
down bad, as the kids say. down so horrifically bad…
“i can do it,” you whisper as you look up at him with wide eyes. your lips are mere inches from his own, and his hot breath fans across your cold face. his eyes are on yours just briefly before they flicker down to your lips. they rested there for a second before making their way back up to yours, “i can kiss you,” you whisper.
“you can,” he mutters back, bringing his own face close enough to yours that you’re not even sure a sheet of paper would slip between the two of you. his tongue darts out to wet his own lips, gently brushing against yours too. your breath hitches as your last sliver of resolve vanishes. that’s it, you tell yourself, you can’t hold back anymore.
the tiny gap is closed as you press forwards, slamming your lips against his. your fingers shoot up to lace themselves in the hair at the nape of his neck, and his find a home on your waist. his eyelashes flutter against your face as he shuts his eyes, and you follow his lead, doing the same. it’s nice, you realise, the darkness letting you focus on how his lips feel moving slowly against your own. they fit perfectly, like they were always meant to be there.
he deepens the kiss briefly, tilting his head ever so slightly to get a better angle. it’s a little rougher at this angle, but you can’t find it in you to mind as he takes control. the desperation you feel from him as he moves his lips harshly against your own was something you feel yourself, so you let him take what he needs, taking just as much in return.
and by the time he pulls away, you’re both panting. rapid and hard and together. his lips have barely left your own as he catches his breath, but you don’t pull back either.
“fuck,” he mumbles against your lips, “that was… nice?”
“yeah,” you agree. ‘nice’ seems the best way to describe it, although it was so much more than just that, “it was nice, wasn’t it?”
“so nice, sunshine,” he says. a few beats of a silence pass before he presses his lips against yours again, this time for a much shorter, much more innocent peck. you can’t help but giggle as he pulls away. there’s a grin on his face too, “wish we’d done it sooner, though.”
you nod, “yeah, me too.”
“but we have all the time in the world, right?”
he pecks you again. this one lasts a few milliseconds longer than the last, not that you’re counting. when he pulls away, you chase it. another peck, this time led by you, but equally as brief as the other two. it’s his turn to chuckle.
“cute,” he grins, “you’re so cute.”
you get shy under his words and pull back just a tad. the grip he has on your waist refuses to let you go too far from him. you don’t mind; not at all. the fact he wants you so close actually sends the elephants feral. you feel them reach up to your heart to work their magic on that too. it probably isn’t healthy for it to beat at the speed that it is, but you really can’t help it. the elephants seem to respond to mingi and mingi alone. you don’t mind that either.
not at all.
#ateez x reader#ateez fanfic#ateez oneshot#ateez fluff#ateez scenarios#ateez fic#mingi fluff#mingi scenarios#mingi x reader#mingi fanfic
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Wings. Fire. Magic.
Dragon Trainer Joel x Female Reader
Summary: After stealing an egg you become the prisoner of a very handsome human male.
CW: no smut (yet), massage, weaponry, mild nudity, blood
Word Count: 3.3k, just a teaser
Graphics by @saradika-graphics 💚🐉
You peel one eye open, the man who has you captive appears to be sound asleep, leaning up against a rock with an axe across his outstretched legs, one ankle crossed over the other. The large trees rustle around you in the breeze. Moonlight dancing around his face, the scar along the side of his head glistens.
Ok, captive is a strong word. You did try to steal from him. You had stolen from him. A fiery orange egg. Between your magic and your wings you should have been able to escape. He’s just a human and you are one of the few magic Fae left in this world.
Last night, he let you out of the tightly wound chains he had wrapped around you since catching you. For two days you were stuck in those chains that glow a sickly green, chains that silence your magic. Now a single thick cuff, in that same putrid green, is wrapped around your ankle, a short chain binding it to a nearby tree. Your iridescent wings ache as you roll off your back and onto your side to face Joel.
Joel. Pfft. What a weird fucking name.
You try to stretch your wings quietly, but Joel’s eyes pop open at the little grunt you let out.
“What’s wrong?” He grumbles.
“Nothing,” you say defiantly as you roll onto your stomach and try to lift your wings out to stretch them. Your wings may look dainty and fragile, but they weigh more than you and without your magic it’s almost impossible to move them. You grunt again, if Joel hadn’t wrapped you in that fucking chain you wouldn’t be dealing with the uncomfortable tightness between your shoulder blades that can only be fixed by stretching and fluttering your wings.
Joel sighs in annoyance as he stands and walks over to you. The gravel crunching under his boots wakes the thing that quite possibly intrigues you more than it scares you. It’s a death sentence to want to be around her. It was a death sentence to steal that egg.
You try to slow your heart as you hear Remmer, Joel's indescribably large dragon move through the shadows behind you. Breathe, breathe, you say to yourself, sweat slicking your palms.
“What’s wrong?” He says again, more softly this time, feet stopping by your head.
“You fucking tied me up, Joel. With that enchanted chain for two fucking days. You squished my wings and now they’re sore.” You don’t mean for it to come out as a whine, but there’s a cold fire spreading across your upper back, slowly spreading up your neck and into your lower back.
He looks down at you, you stay on your stomach, eyes staring at his boots in front of you, resting your cheek on your hands. “You stole from me,” he says flatly.
“Ya, I know Joel, you made that abundantly fucking clear. Just go back to sleep.” You try to stretch your wings out and then up, but the right one cramps and a sharp pain lances through your body. You cry out into the quiet dark night and it echoes back at you mockingly.
“What can I do?” Joel says bending down beside you, placing a large warm palm in between where your wings meet your back.
“Rub there,” you say through the pain of the cramp. This isn’t like when you get a cramp in your calf, a wing cramp lights every nerve on fire. Tension builds in your neck and starts to blur your vision, your sciatic nerve shooting pain down both legs.
Joel rubs the space between your wings in slow gentle circles, his rough hand scratching against the leather of your jacket. You gasp out in pain again as the right side twitches harder. Joel moves swiftly, undoing the zipper down the back of your fighting leathers, opening it fully, rubbing at your bare skin where your wings connect to your back, trying his hardest to work out the knots. He continues the same slow gentle circles and your left wing finally relaxes, curling itself back against your body.
“Is this ok?” Joel whispers. His voice sounds dry and timid.
You moan slightly as the cramping begins to ease. “A little harder,” you say.
He kneads the joint of the right one a little harder and it flops down weakly beside you, but he doesn’t stop massaging you. His other hand trails along the top edge of your wing to the first joint and he gently folds it back to your body.
You close your eyes at the tingly sensation that spreads down your spinal cord at his touch, it feels like warm oil being drizzled down your back and the pain in your legs stops. No one has ever touched your wings before and humans are known to be vicious, yet there isn’t an ounce of fear in you as the man you’re currently a prisoner to cares for you.
His hand on your wing continues to trace along the outer edge until it’s all tucked up right above your hip. His other hand kneads down your spine and you melt into the hard ground you were sleeping on.
A little whimper passes your lips at how good his hands feel on your body. Both his hands trail lightly up your spine and massage at your neck. When they slip into your hair the pain in your head stops and your vision evens out. An almost pornographic moan passes your lips. He jerks his hands away and you bite your cheek to stop yourself from begging him to continue.
He lets out a low whistle. You feel the air move around you and the massive dragon lands beside you with a tiny thump. Fear rises in your throat like a dry lump. A voice inside your head laughs at you. Little Fae warrior, steals an egg yet is petrified of what’s inside.
Joel grabs your ankle and unshackles the chain. Then says, “Don’t run. Go back to sleep, we have a long journey tomorrow.”
The next morning Joel doesn’t wrap you in chains and make you sit side saddle on Remmer like he did the day before. Instead, he places a thin gold cuff that glows green around your wrist and then gives you a boost to sit normally before he hauls himself up behind you. He makes it look easy, his long powerful leg stretching, the lean muscles lining his back and arms pulling him up. The cuff silences your magic just enough that you won’t be able to fly.
The dragon rises from its crouched position when Joel takes the reins and you grab the edge of the saddle - even though you know that when you’re caged between Joel’s broad frame you won’t fall.
He lets out a whistle similar to last night and with one long swoop of her wings the dragon is up in the air. You tuck your wings in tight to your body, Joel's strong, leather wrapped chest close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. The warmth feels nice against the sore muscles lining your back, you have to fight the urge to lean against him completely.
He doesn’t bring up what happened last night so you stay quiet as the dragon soars high above the fluffy white clouds. Morning dew sticking to your skin, you gaze around admiring the rising sun casting hues of pink and orange around you. It’s almost kind of romantic, minus the whole being held captive and being taken - well, you aren’t exactly sure where Joel is taking you.
You sit in silence as the morning sun rises up and over you, until it becomes the evening sun. Joel pulls the reins and his dragon swoops down, skimming the surface of the large lake you didn’t even know you were flying over. The dragon drinks deeply, dragging her long obsidian claws of its back feet through the water. There’s a large mountain range on the other side of the lake and when you reach the shore the dragon gracefully veers upwards, landing in a grassy clearing between two peaks. Remmer lands so gently that you barely feel it, the only sign that you’re on the ground is that the wind around you has stopped.
Joel doesn’t take the cuff off, but says “I’m trusting you not to run” before climbing down the leg of his dragon. He disappears into the tree line, assumingly to gather some firewood, and the dragon turns her head to look at you, almost side eyeing you as if to say “get the fuck off of me you freeloader”.
You mutter an apology to the dragon, flinging your leg over the saddle, trying to replicate all Joel’s steps while the burnt orange eyes of the dragon watch you.
Once you hit the ground the dragon nudges you with her snout and you stumble forward before she takes off into the air, darting into a cave above the right side of the meadow.
Rude.
You look around the meadow, light green clover and colorful wildflowers cover most of it. Tall trees lining the edge of it, a jagged rocky mountain cliff face that leads to the cave closes in the rest of it. You hear water trickling, spinning around you see a stream of bright blue water. The water is so clear that you can’t tell how deep it is. The bed of the stream is covered in rocks of purples, greens and blues.
Joel is nowhere to be found and you’ve been up near the sun in these leathers all day. You glance around again before stripping off all your clothing and submerging yourself in the cool blue water. It flows over your skin like silk, you take a big breath and disappear under the water for a little bit, watching a few striped fish swim past.
Suddenly, a hand has you by your hair, ripping you from the water as a yelp leaves your mouth.
“Joel, what the fuck?” You yell, trying to cover your naked body with your arms. But it’s not Joel. No, it’s three large males dressed in greens to match the meadow. All of them have large full beards and are armed with curved blades.
When humans think of sprites they imagine small woodland creatures. But some sprites are anything but that. In this land, sprites have been after fairy wings for as long as you can remember. The brutal males need the wings to make the potion to keep their unbelievable strength.
They speak to each other in a language that you don’t understand. Two of them grab onto you, one at your hands and the other at your feet. They spin you around and slam you face first into the ground. You scream out, hoping that Joel is close enough, or cares enough, to come help you. But maybe he brought you here for this reason. Maybe he only massaged your wings so tenderly last night because he’s expecting some sort of payment from these males.
The third male crouches down beside you. “Shut the fuck up, there’s no one here who can help you.”
His hand reaches around the top of your wing and he pulls it as hard as he can to try to pry it away from your naked body. If Joel had removed the small gold cuff around your wrist you may have been able to fight them off. At this point all you can do is squeeze your wings into yourself as hard as you can. They need the whole wing, joint and all to make their potion properly.
“No! Please!” You scream, seeing the long sharp dagger he pulls from his boot.
His feral touch on the sensitive membranes of your wings is almost enough to make you wretch. His cronies pull your arms and legs tighter, almost as if they’re trying to rip you in half, the sharp rocks poke and scratch underneath you.
“No! Help me! Someone!” You are practically sobbing.
You know you aren’t a good fairy. You’ve spent years stealing and taking things that aren’t yours, but it was for your village. Fae in this area of the world have been pushed out of land that they once owned. Your ancestors were injected with that same sickly green that Joel has embedded in his chains and then stripped of their wings. Magic and wings were lost for centuries. Babies were born without either, and only recently did it start showing up in a new generation of Fae. You thought yourself lucky at one time, but here you are, about to be flayed open like a spatchcocked chicken.
A sharp poke hits just above your right shoulder blade and you scream out in agony. Before you can comprehend what’s happening you’re encased in a dark shadow. For a moment you think you’re dead, until glowing flecks of orange light cast a warm glow around you. A wing. You’re surrounded, tented in almost, by a wing. You hear the males pleading on the other side.
“Easy there.”
“We didn’t mean no harm. Eaaaasy.”
You hear the sound of wood falling to the ground and as if he appeared from thin air, Joel is beside you, his axe gripped tightly in one hand. He’s crouching slightly and you wrap your arms around yourself to cover your naked flesh.
“NO!” You scream, trying to scramble away from him.
He puts a finger to his lips to shush you and then steps out from the wing.
The males go quiet.
“If you touch her again,” Joel says darkly, “My dragon will be the least of your concerns.”
“We have gold,” the voice of the one who was cutting you says, “give us the fairy and we’ll give you gold.”
Joel is silent for too long, you’re sure he’s considering it, about to sell you off. You reach over your shoulder to where the dagger pierced you and feel a sticky warmth against the pads of your fingers, pulling your hand back you see your fingers coated in blood.
“Stay. The fuck. Away from her,” Joel growls. Remmer huffing beside you.
You hear the footsteps of the men trail off. The dragon lifts her wing and then peaks at you with one eye. You stay seated on the ground, knees drawn to your chest, covering yourself up as best you can. A shiver runs down your body, the dragon's eye narrows slightly and then warm air blows from her nose, heating the space under her wing.
You smile at the dragon. “Thank you.”
“Lift up,” Joel says on the other side of the wing. The dragon growls quietly at him. “Ok weirdo. Can I at least hand her her clothes?”
She lifts just enough for Joel to slide your boots, leathers, and white cotton shirt under. The moment his hand is clear she flaps it back down and huffs at him. More warm air fills the space before she turns her head away so you can get dressed.
“How chivalrous,” you say to the dragon. The tented space under the wing is big enough for you to stand up in as you shimmy your clothes and boots on, leaving your jacket off since the joint of your wing is burning. You can already feel the soft cotton of your shirt sticking to you. “I’m dressed,” you call out when you’re done.
The dragon peaks in again at you. “Am I allowed out?”
Remmer stares at you for a little while before Joel speaks up from the other side of your cocoon, “Rem, she’s not your pet. You can’t hold her in there…”
The dragon eyes soften at you and you smile a little. “I’m ok, I promise. Thank you.”
She lifts her wing up and nudges you towards Joel, using her nose to turn your body so that Joel can see the blood.
“Shit,” he whispers.
“I’m fine, Joel.” You say, trying to step away but you’re caged between the dragon's large head against your stomach and Joel at your back.
“You’re not fine,” he says, moving your hair away from the deep gash. “Fuck, don’t move. We need to wrap this up.”
The dragon must be able to understand him, because she immediately turns her body to where the bags hang off her saddle. He gets the medical supplies and then pulls you gently over to sit on a rock. He stands behind you, tugging the back of your shirt so he can see the full extent of the damage.
“This might sting,” he says as he uncaps a bottle of antiseptic.
He drizzles a little bit on you and it feels like liquid fire spreading across your body. You bite hard on your lip to not scream, hands curling into fists. The dragon pushes herself flat to the ground and almost slithers up to you, resting her massive head on your lap, looking up at you with sad eyes.
“Why’d you take it?” He says, gentle hands beginning to wrap a bandage around the joint of your wing. You stretch it out as much as you can to make it easier for him, wincing at the sharp pinching sensation, Rem lets out a whine, similar to a little dog, at the sign of your pain.
You want to reach out to pet the dragon but fear stops you, “The egg?” you ask timidly.
“Mm-hmm,” he says behind you, looping the bandage around, the back of his hand grazes the underside of your wing. You hadn’t realized how sensitive that part of your body is and your nipples harden, eyes closing briefly at the sensation.
“We needed money,” you reply just above a whisper.
“Who’s we?”
“My family. I’m the only one with magic and wings, their survival falls on me. And there’s not a lot for us here.”
“Why don’t you all go somewhere else?” he asks, his hand brushing that sensitive spot again.
You snort a little, the dragon thinking it’s pain nuzzles into you more, you still don’t move to pet her. “Wingless Fae aren’t exactly welcome in many places, and as you just saw, those of us with wings are under attack.”
“Why?” he asks again as he ties the bandage in a knot.
“Our wings hold our magic.”
One of Joel's strong arms trails down yours, his chest pressed against your back. Sparks shoot across your body at his sudden and all consuming closeness. He smells like pine needles and fresh grass. His hand wraps around your wrist and he brings your hand to rest on the Remmer’s head, right between her glowing orange eyes.
“Just don’t stroke against her scales, she won’t like that.”
You take a shaky breath and stroke back towards the spiky crown of her head. Her spikes lay flat and she closes her eyes, a purring sound fills her chest and you smile over your shoulder at Joel.
“Where are you taking me?” You ask.
“Where we take all thieves.” He says.
The King.
“No, please. You can’t! He’ll do worse than cut off my wings!” You plead, Rem shoots her head up towards Joel, eyes flaring.
“Remmer, down.” Joel says warningly at the dragon. She doesn’t lower her head back to your lap, but you notice the orange in her eyes softens. He turns now to address you, “This is the way of your world, you knew that long before you took my egg.”
Rem huffs smoke at him when he says ‘my egg’.
“Apologies. When she took your egg.”
Remmer blinks at him, then back at you before resting her head back on your lap. You use both hands now to stroke along her scales. It's hard to believe that just mere hours ago you were terrified of her, but something about those males that attacked you has changed her presence around you.
Joel turns towards the wood he dropped earlier and starts building a fire. You swear you hear him say, “whose side are you on?” under his breath.
Taglist: @corazondebeskar @hiddenbabynyc @mermaidgirl30 @rainstorms-library @smutsmutslut @sullyrocky44 @keylimebeag @pimosworld @casa-boiardi @pedritoferg @paleidiot @musings-of-a-rose @lorilane33 @pansexual-potatoes @baar-ur @jessthebaker @tightjeansjavi @javierpena-inatacvest
#joel miller#joel miller tlou#joel the last of us#pedro pascal#pedrohub#joel tlou#joel x reader#pedro is daddy#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#daddy joel#joel miller au#joel x f!reader#joel x female reader#joel x you#joel x oc#joel x y/n#joel miller fic#hbo the last of us#dragon au
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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧
You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]
fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.
There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie.
There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative.
You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little.
He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you.
"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?"
"I said you have good taste."
He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers.
You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of.
"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious.
He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years."
"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?"
He blinks at you. "You know the scene."
"It's my scene," you say.
You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life.
"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away."
"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.
"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you."
Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music.
"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case.
Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour.
"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–"
"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart."
—
Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.
"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"
You panic slightly. "I need a minute."
"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying."
Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya.
Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.
"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses.
"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed.
You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year.
"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks.
She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks.
She's multi-faceted.
"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to.
"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them."
And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice.
You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.
"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up.
"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now."
"That's dramatic."
Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow.
You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice.
"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick."
She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem.
"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says.
Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke.
"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late."
You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events.
"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion."
You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed.
"Do we know those guys?" you ask.
Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters."
Ananya turns off the TV.
You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone.
Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.
"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"
You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part.
Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance.
She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.
"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?"
"I don't need practice," Morgan says.
"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–"
Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks.
Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.
The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold.
—
Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away.
"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches.
Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.
"Shithead."
Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth.
"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks.
"You'll sneak out."
Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly.
But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist.
"You know this is stupid."
Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson."
"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now.
Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say.
"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded."
Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light.
"What are you losers doing?"
"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole."
"You're disgusting," Eddie says.
"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy."
Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image.
He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar.
Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles.
"I can't shower, I'm watching him."
"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot.
Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters
"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space.
"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats.
There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside.
"Jame," he protests.
"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?"
"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move."
"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly.
Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?"
"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?"
Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears.
—
So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this.
“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs.
She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.
Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.
“Whose house are we in?” you ask.
“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else.
She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back.
You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her.
I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody.
The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card.
I need to get paid.
The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate.
“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn.
She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose.
You blow it away from her.
“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers.
“The floor’s fine.”
You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession.
“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her.
“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.
“Bored already?”
“I have to be bored?”
To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.
You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly.
You find you aren’t asking Morgan.
In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty.
"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart."
Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun.
He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from.
"I saw you on TV."
"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?"
"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?"
His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.
"You look familiar," he says.
You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?"
He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you.
Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame.
"Nice to meet you," he says slowly.
You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot.
You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain?
You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here.
He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.
You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe.
The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in.
He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone.
You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection.
Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks
The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance.
Joan, you could hit him.
"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"
Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at.
"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…"
"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that."
You lick your lips. "'Bout what?"
"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?"
"No, that one passed me by."
"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand.
You take it. You tell him your name.
—
Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets.
"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks.
The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so.
You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation.
If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it.
"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.
You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here."
"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics.
It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever.
But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it.
Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room.
"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up.
Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home."
"Why's she so upset?" you ask.
Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing.
"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably.
You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing.
You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it.
If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough.
They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go.
They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me.
The subtext isn't important.
You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions.
Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone.
"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing.
You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target.
"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks.
Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you.
"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?"
You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day.
"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me."
You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night.
"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things.
She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short.
"This tastes awful."
You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie.
You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable.
Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue.
"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin."
You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?"
"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist."
"The loud one."
"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him."
"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible."
"Can you get me something from the minibar?"
You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems.
"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse."
"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine.
She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing.
An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones.
"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles.
"Sorry, love, that's all we've got."
The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes.
There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight.
After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume.
A familiar scent pricks your attention.
You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown.
He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way.
He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters.
It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time.
"Have we met before?" you ask.
He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle.
Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick.
Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?"
"You look exactly the same," you say.
It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.
This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you.
You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment.
The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front.
"You'll catch flies."
You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend.
There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek.
"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror.
His lightness fades. "Nice."
"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it."
He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually.
You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow.
"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh.
Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily.
He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments.
Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise.
Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet.
After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go.
He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch.
"Can I help you?" he whispers.
You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you.
"Fucking move," she says.
His expression flickers.
"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy.
You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.
—
Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle.
You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day.
Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh.
"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs.
Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good.
"She's hot," he furthers.
"Jesus, Gareth."
"What? She's fucking hot."
He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time.
The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything.
The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin.
He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot.
"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?"
Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser."
"I was just asking."
You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about.
He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline.
You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.
"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?"
"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange.
Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given."
"I did."
"And only that."
Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds.
"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that."
Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise.
You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.
Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence.
"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say.
Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green.
He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you.
Fuck it, he thinks.
What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder.
Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.
You appear and blitz past him.
"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"
You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory.
Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure.
"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired.
He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers.
He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks."
"Yeah."
He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice.
"She's a piece of work."
You shift uneasily.
"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.
"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart."
He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?"
You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that.
It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks.
"You always let her treat you like that?"
"Like what?"
He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog."
"Fuck you, I do not."
He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue.
"What would you know?" you ask.
"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit."
Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve.
"I must like it," you quote, strained.
"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?"
He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too.
"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options."
That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk.
"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out.
"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start."
He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it.
"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift."
"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.
"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."
"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.
The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe.
He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you.
"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen."
Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast.
"You don't know anything," you murmur.
"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."
Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else.
He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.
"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel.
—
Donington Park, England, August 1990
"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all."
"They're hardly desperate."
"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares."
Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now.
"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile.
"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads.
He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless.
"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"
"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?"
Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?"
"It doesn't."
He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him.
"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone."
"You have it?" Eddie asks.
Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up.
"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath.
"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon."
Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column.
"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."
There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.
He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows:
Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see?
Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror.
Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off?
Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad.
"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."
"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him.
"And Cindy."
"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously."
"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs."
"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks.
"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave."
"Do I know that?" Eddie asks.
He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up.
He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet.
"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks.
"Because she was jealous of my success."
Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out."
"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands.
"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy.
What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious.
He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue.
He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right?
Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and—
Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely.
Don't be a bitch, he tells himself.
Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room.
Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it.
You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch.
You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly.
He can feel your gaze on the side of his face.
He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted.
He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end.
It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes.
"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly.
"Sorry."
"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?"
The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID."
You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips.
"You're American?" the cashier asks.
"I'm visiting for the festival," you say.
Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card.
"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie.
Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together."
"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.
You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now."
There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that.
"I thought you didn't know who I was?"
"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said."
He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till.
"What were you really gonna say?"
The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.
"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean."
His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown.
He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.
You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway.
"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm so serious," he says.
He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it.
"You're hot when you're mad."
You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same."
"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?"
"I thought that too," you say.
He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice."
You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter.
"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival."
You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor.
You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention.
"Seriously, come on."
"No."
"No?" he asks.
"No. I don't have to listen to you."
"You're being stupid."
"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care."
"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."
"What do you get out of this?"
He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?"
"Tormenting me."
"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other."
"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–"
"You started it."
You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his.
"Don't touch me," you say quietly.
He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea."
"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car."
You're infuriating.
Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…"
You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd."
His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that."
—
You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people.
The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt.
Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his.
Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl.
You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him.
And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats.
You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has.
You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second.
You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson.
You don't do that.
You wave.
You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat.
For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do.
You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face.
Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.
There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left.
A wooden board creaks.
You look up.
"Hey, you–"
Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat.
Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view.
"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest.
"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me?"
"You want to mess with me, is that it?"
His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart.
"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson."
"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation.
He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft.
You lift your chin.
I dare you.
His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in.
"Are you going to–"
"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours.
It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you.
You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away.
You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much.
Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth.
"Don't play games," he says.
He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist.
"You like games," you argue.
He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once.
His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt.
"Stay still."
You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own.
"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?"
Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it.
"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now."
A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan.
"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks.
His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding.
He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice."
"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again.
"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart."
Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance.
You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.
You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game.
You'll have to be better.
𓆩❤︎𓆪
I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson#stranger things#stranger things fic#stranger things x reader#stranger things 4#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things fanfiction#fem!reader#rockstar!eddie#rockstar!eddie munson#rockstar!eddie munson x reader#rockstar!eddie x reader#eddie munson fic#eddie munson angst#bite the
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i would like to ask an imagine ir headcannons about Alastor, Angel Dust, Husk, Vox and Blitzø when their s/o tells them "i love you" for the first time
I think I did something like this for Alastor and Vox in an overlord headcanon ask but I'll do them for Angel, Husk, and Blitz :)
Edit: I can't fuckin believe I forgot Husk goddammit
Angel Dust:
You were tired after a very long day of just trying to go to the store to stock up the hotel kitchen. Charlie had unfortunately made you the unlucky soul to go out to do it. You found it hard to hate her, but in this moment you disliked her extremely. The car you'd been loaned was stolen and you had to try and carry everything back on your own. No one from the hotel was answering their phone, except your boyfriend who was on the other side of the Pentagram for a show. So you were on your own and completely fucked.
Hours later, you've been in several fights over these groceries and hit with the car that was stolen from you, but you finally made it to the hotel. Up the steps and stumbling your way to the kitchen, you think about how to ease your aching body.
The groceries put away, and a new list for tomorrow to get the things you'd lost/went bad in the time it took to get home, you flop on your bed with a groan. A few minutes later you fell asleep.
You woke up to a commotion. Groggy, you sat up and winced at the ache in all of your limbs. The noises sounded distant, like it was in the lobby, but loud enough to rouse you from a fitful nap. You stood with a slight stumble to go see what it could be, and to possibly tell whoever it is to shut the fuck up.
On the stairs, you heard Angel's voice yelling and more angry than you've ever known him to be. Charlie's voice came softer, trying to mediate between the other angry voice. It seemed like Vaggie and Angel were going at it again. You made your way slowly down the stairs, wincing at the pain in your feet and knees from your little adventure today.
"You fucks! You sent them out to get some stupid fuckin' groceries and you don't even make sure they're okay after they called you so many fuckin' times!" All four of his arms were waving around and his eyes were slightly bloodshot from the exertion of yelling at the top of his lungs. Vaggie looked ready to kill him again, and with a bit of shame mixed into her expression.
"Angel, I'm sure they're fine--" Charlie was cut off by Angel's yelling once again.
"They aren't answerin' their phone! None of you assholes have seen 'em! If they're so fuckin' fine then where the goddamn fuck are they?!" He stops a moment to catch his breath. "Where are they?" His voice changed from anger to desperation. His four shoulders slumped as he looked at the ground. You cleared your throat.
"Uh, Angel?" You voice was rough from the nap. He whipped around, the movement causing you to sway with dizziness. "Woah..." Angel hurried over to you and grabbed you up in all his arms, squeezing you tight.
"Oh my god, I thought something happened to you!" He pulled back to look at you, your eyes tired, your limbs limp, scratches and cuts and forming bruises. "Why...Why are you so banged up?" You blinked and looked at him before shaking your head.
"I'm tired." You had barely said the sentence before Angel scooped you up and took you back upstairs. Vaggie's distant huff of annoyance and Charlie's "glad you're okay!" were the last things from the conversation as Angel took you back to your room.
Thanks for carrying me, babe." You were placed on your soft bed and Angel made quick work of taking off your shoes. He didn't answer as he went to the connected bathroom. You heard the faucet start before you saw him enter the room again. "Angel?"
"Why didn't you answer your phone?" His voice sounded angry, but in a hollow way. Not accusatory, not really. It sounded worried, haunted almost. He made his way to you and helped you out of your shirt. "I called you. A lot." Your heart ached worse than the rest of your body at the small tone.
"It was broken when some of the groceries were stolen." You pointed to the night stand, where you placed the broken remnants of your poor phone. Angel glared at it like it was the one to blame for everything wrong in his life. He helped you get out of the rest of your clothes and into the tub.
"Let me help." He grabbed a rag and cleaned your scratches and cuts. His hands were gentle and he apologized softly every time you winced. He helped dry you off and bandaged the worse of the cuts before allowing you to change into fresh underwear and pajamas.
You two were cuddled up in your bed. His arms gently around you and your head in his fluff. Angel had been soft and quiet this entire time. It made you think that he probably thought something more serious had happened. You thought about the last thing you said to him before he left to work. "Get going, bitch" wasn't what you would want to leave him with.
"Hey, you still up?" Angel only groaned in response and you decided to continue. "I want you to know that I love you." Angel only held you tighter at your words. You knew he reciprocated and you snuggled up closer before falling into a better sleep.
Blitz:
All day you wanted to talk to him. All day you waited patiently for him to be done with work. He just kept getting busy. You hadn't even gotten more than a "hi" with a small peck. Normally that'd satisfy you, you would be fine all day with that. Today was different. Today was exactly 666 days since you started dating. You'd been counting and wanted to do a silly anniversary like all the other dumb couples.
"I can't even be mad at him." You flopped on your couch. "He wasn't counting with me. This was just me being sentimental." You rolled over and curled on your side. It felt ridiculous to be upset about it. Childish. A ping from your phone dragged you out of your wallowing for a second. You picked it up.
Blitz Baby <3: Wanna get takout tnite
You: Are you asking a question?? Or is this you demanding??
Blitz Baby <3: Asking
You: Then yes ;*
Blitz Baby <3: ;* ;* ;*
You giggled, feeling a little bit better. Maybe you two could finally watch that movie you'd been wanting to for a while. A newfound excitement filled you. You loved things like this. Nights in, watching movies or playing games or even just talking. Simple, just you two. Intimacy in the best way. You're sure Blitz felt the same. He seemed to really enjoy both your alone time together.
The both of you communicated a time and decided to chill at your place this time. You'd gotten the food, cleaned up a little, got into the nicest comfy clothes you had. Everything was set and perfect and cozy. There was even a pillow fort and plenty of blankets. You were buzzing with excitement when you heard your phone pinged.
Blitz Baby <3: Mite hv t reshcedg som thn came up
You: Aw what?? :( Okay...
Blitz Baby <3: Gimme liek 30 min I try tmak it short
You: Okay
Somehow you knew this was going to happen. It always did when you wanted to hang out. Work took him too long, you had your own job, his thing with the owl prince. Too many things got in the way. But you were stubborn and had the attitude that if something wanted to take him from you, it'd have to pry him from your cold dead hands. Tonight that was kinda squandered.
Hours had gone by and still no sign from him. No text, no call, no knock on the door. Nothing. A part of you was worried something happened; the rest was just upset. Not at him, but the universe. You were laying on your couch, pillow fort taken down in a fit of sadness. Only a few pillows were allowed to stay to help comfort you. You put his food in the fridge and ate most of yours already. A little bit was saved because he liked to eat some of your plate like he liked to feed you some of his.
A knock at your door roused you from your almost sleep. You sniffed and rolled off the couch to head towards the door. Attempting to rub the redness from your eyes, you curse yourself for allowing yourself a small cry over some arbitrary thing you made up. A giant bouquet was shoved into your face.
"What the--!" You grab the offending flowers and look to the criminal responsible for the attack. There, stood in the hallway of your apartment building, was your boyfriend. "Blitz what the fuck? I thought you were busy?" His cat like grin grew on his face as he slithered by you into your apartment.
"Well, I was but, y'know." He went to the fridge and pulled out the food, popping it into the microwave. You grabbed your scissors to cut the ends at an angle only to find they'd already been cut. Blitz handed you a vase.
"You wanna watch a movie?" You put the water filled vase on the table and discard the wrapper on the flowers. "I've got that we talked about one in the dvd player already." The microwave beeped as he agreed with a hum.
"The flowers really go with the paint." They didn't but you appreciate the thought. You both left them to their vase and awful puke green wall paint.
The couch was still kind of warm from your sad wallowing earlier. You curled up to an arm on one side as he snuggled up beside you, feeding you bites every so often. Your arm was around his shoulders. The movie was some B-list horror about lake fungus coming alive and mutating the wildlife. It was probably some sort of message about saving nature or some shit, but it was funny and full of camp.
"I wanted to tell you something, by the way." You set your head on one of his huge horns. "It's kinda dumb."
"Yeah, so are a lot of things." He didn't move his head, but lifted up a forkful of whatever he was eating. "Shoot." You took the bite and chewed slowly, thinking over how you wanted to word this without sounding like the dumbest bitch in Hell.
"Today was a stupid little thing that I wanted to celebrate." You started. You felt him tense up. "It wasn't major, more like a fun thing that doesn't mean anything." You've said "thing" too many times. Abort! Abort!
"Well, what was it?" He finally moved so he could look at at you. You looked down and back to the tv. A breath or two and you thought more about what you wanted to say.
"It's been exactly 666 days since we started dating and I thought that was funny so I wanted to celebrate it like an anniversary." You stared at the credits rolling on the screen. "It doesn't matter, it was kinda dumb." You shrugged your shoulders. Blitz gently grabbed your face and made you look at him.
"I counted the days too." He admitted with a small smile, his brows knitted together. "It's kinda why I wanted to hang out today." He flops back into your side. You let out a small "oof". He fed you another bite of food before tossing the empty container onto the coffee table. The imp wiggled around to get comfy. You laughed a little and laid down so you'd both be comfy. Arms wrapped around each other, you couldn't be happier.
"I love you." You blurted after a few moments of silently tracing his white spot. Looking down, you saw Blitz already asleep. "Jesus Christ it's only been a minute." You let out a sigh of amused exasperation. That sentence can be used tomorrow to make it hard for him to leave for work in the morning.
Husk:
All day had been a living nightmare. You hadn't had the chance to sit longer than a minute at any given time. Charlie had her hands full with her and Vaggie's visit to the center of the Pride Ring. Some family reunion; the news was covering every appearance of another Prince of Hell and their immediate family. With the Pride Princess's attention elsewhere, she left most of the paper work to you. Today was full of talking with contractors and running around to get materials for the fixing of the Hotel. You'd been cussed out, smacked, overloaded, looked down on, and laughed at. In other words, you were overwhelmed and exhausted. All you wanted to do was curl up and sleep, maybe even cry.
Husk watched you run in and out the entire day. He'd seen how you looked worse and worse as the minutes ticked by. There was a pang in his chest every time you would do a half wave with a tired smile every time you passed him. He hated to see you so overworked. If he remembered correctly, Alastor was supposed to be doing half the work you were trying to juggle. Said asshole was smiling smugly in the shadows, watching you struggle with sadistic glee. Husk could feel the sticky air that hung around the red bastard nearby. It pissed him off, and Alastor knew it. That was worse.
"Finally done?" Husk grumbled out as you threw down a stack of paperwork you still had to do and sat on a bar stool. He glared at the documents. You sighed and laid your head on the cool, polished wood of the bar top. Husk winced at the way your back cracked as you went basically boneless. He poured you a cup of orange juice. A book somewhere said something about orange slices being a good idea after sports; this was the closest thing he had. The exhaustion on your face was heartbreaking as you looked at the glass.
"I don't want to exist right now." Your mumbled wish was emphasized by a small sniff. Husk put his clawed hand on your head and gave you a small scratch. You always did that when he was feeling down, maybe this could help you too. A small sigh of bliss was a good encouragement.
"What a heartwarming moment! I didn't think you had it in you, Husker!" The bane of your existence finally decided to show himself. You groaned at his loud voice interrupting the small bit of calm you were enjoying. The Radio Demon sat down next to you and threw an arm around your tired form.
"Go fuck yourself, you bastard." Husk threw Alastor's arm off you. Static popped as Alastor fixed his hair nonchalantly. You gave your lover a tired smile of appreciation. His undead heart ached at the sight.
"Now, now, no need to be crass!" The ever smiling demon laughed, making you wince. Husk's ears flattened as his anger flared. "If they wanted to be left alone, all they'd need to do is ask." That seemed to be the final straw for the cat.
"The only reason they're too tired to even be near you is because you're an asshole who loves to watch people suffer!" Husk pointed a claw at the red menace. His tail thrashed behind him, wings puffed up to make him look bigger. "Not only that, you're even more exhausting today because of your fuckin' smug face. You know you were supposed to help them today but you enjoy causing people misery more than you like controlling everything so you decided to hide in the shadows like the piece of shit you are!" You raised your head at Husk's outburst, jaw hung open. You'd never seen your boyfriend so mad.
"Husk--" You tried to comfort or calm him down. The last this you wanted was for Alastor decide to torture Husk over one bad day. Alastor's smile grew more amused at every word. Husk's glare grew with it. The deer demon threw his arm around your shoulders again and pulled you to his side.
"Would you look at that! You see how your loverboy raises his hackles! What a show, don't you think dear?" His grip tightened on you as you tried to push him away. You didn't have the energy to tell him off today, nor the strength to shove him off his stool, it seemed. Husk growled.
"Get your. Fuckin' hands. Off them." Husk's words were said through gritted teeth. Alastor was about to say something but Husk hissed at him. You felt like you were sitting in the middle of a vortex. They were both staring each other down with an intensity you'd never seen before. Miraculously, Alastor let you go and stood up.
"Fine, fine, I suppose I should be getting to work, anyhow." And with a snap of the deer's fingers, he was gone, along with the paperwork you'd placed on the bar top. A sigh slipped from your lips as you placed your head back down in relief. You really thought you were about to witness Husk's second death. It took the last bit of energy you had.
"Sorry 'bout that." Husk rounded the bar and gently scooped you into his arms. "Didn't mean to make you feel worse." You only groaned in response as you rested your head against his chest. He carried you upstairs and to his room.
Husk's room was the same design as yours when you first got here. A standard red wallpaper with dark wood furniture, red sheets and dim lighting. He hadn't bothered to change it, other than some of your clothes littering the floor. There were a few knickknacks you'd given him, some from his apartment. He'd always act aloof or uninterested when you'd give him something in the beginning of your relationship, but you knew he liked them.
"Wait here." He gently placed you on the bed. You basically moaned as you sank into the soft mattress. He left the room and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall. You used this time to take off your shoes and get comfier in the bed. The weight of your eyelids caused you to close them.
Husk re-entered the room, the sound of the door clicking back closed making you open your eyes again. He walked over to you and offered the glass of orange juice from earlier. You smiled and sat up a bit to drink some of it.
"Husk." Your eyes blinked slowly before looking up at him with a slightly bigger, tired smile. "I love you." The words made him tense up. He looked at the lamp across the room, his tail twitched at the end and wings fluffed up then back down. You waited patiently for his response. He fidgeted a bit more before looking at you then back down at the half empty cup in your hand.
"You should sleep, you look exhausted." He gently too the cup from you and set it on the nightstand. You laid back down and he went to turn off the light and draw the curtains. It left you in near darkness. You tensed slightly when you felt him crawl up beside you, but soon relaxed. He pulled you into his gentle embrace and covered you both with a wing as his tail curled over your thigh. A gentle purr lulled you into a much needed sleep.
"Love you too." The grumbled words were the last thing you registered before rest fully took over.
#hazbin hotel x reader#angel dust x reader#helluva boss x reader#blitzo x reader#husk x reader#trashcan answers you
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— can’t get you out of my mind
joel miller x f!reader
rated e - 2k
tags: loose structure, flashbacks, jackson-era joel, joel pov, established relationship, light angst, slightly possessive!joel, floor unprotected piv, brief oral, praise kink, 1 ass smack, squirting, come marking
a/n: wip title was ‘reminiscing and railing’ - Joel railing reader while thinking back to their beginning.
The flannel you now wear around your waist bunches in his fist. Using it as leverage, the jerk of his hand as he pulls you back to meet his thrust.
His flannel.
Joel recognizes it. A relic from Lincoln, the green and reds fading with the trail long since traveled. Patched sewn over holes that match scars carved into his own flesh.
Sweat beads at the nape of his neck.
The days have started growing shorter, as the leaves have started to fade into shades of gold and copper.
But the weather still clings onto the last dregs of summer. A morning chill that melts under the heat of the afternoon sun, settling over your skin.
He used to like this time of year.
Barbecues and football. An evening spent in front of Tommy’s new big screen, splitting a six-pack of some cheap, shitty beer - something that would feel like a luxury now.
Back-to-school shopping, the twist in his heart as he pulled up to the old brick building on the first day of school. The smile and wave that he had always tried to match, though she was far braver than he was.
That was a long time ago. The memories have become blurry, ones he reaches for in his sleep. Slipping through his fingers.
Still trying desperately to forget what came after.
His birthday. The outbreak. Sarah.
A permanent stain, ink red. For years there had been a desire to just skip these months. To go to sleep in the heat of the summer and wake up in winter, instead.
But even that wish has started to fade, but only just. Though, it wasn’t time that did it.
Now, layers are shed as the early patrol comes to an end - a reprieve taken within the wall of an abandoned house you’ve come to know well.
The flannel you now wear around your waist bunches in his fist. Using it as leverage, the jerk of his hand as he pulls you back to meet his thrust.
His flannel.
Joel recognizes it. A relic from Lincoln, the green and reds fading with the trail long since traveled. Patched sewn over holes that match scars carved into his own flesh.
His fingers had fumbled, not more than a week ago. Flattening over the curve of his chest, as he peered at himself the in cracked mirror.
Where the fabric pulled a little too tightly over his back. The buttons straining across his stomach. Hard labor in Jackson had thickened his shoulders. The food you made with so much care had nourished him.
Finally a chance to breathe in twenty years - to not rely on ration cards, or his own skill with a gun to guarantee a hot meal.
You had found him like this, your soft smile reflected in the mirror.
He had forgotten all about it, by the time you stripped the shirt from him.
There’s something inside of him that burns, to see the fabric tied around you now. The strips of skin above and below - the catalyst that had kicked off this unexpected break.
Tempted by your bare legs, kicked up on the broken coffee table. A peek of your stomach, as you stretched - before knotting your stolen flannel around your waist.
A reprimand had been on his tongue since this morning. That only layers could prevent a bite, the scrapes and scratches of being in the woods. His own too-hot canvas jacket a sacrifice he was used to making.
Disappearing from his tongue somewhere between the look you had given him, and the floor you’re now pressed against.
That canvas jacket discarded, slipped beneath your knees. Your cheek pressed against the sleeve, the button like a brand against your jaw. A mark indenting your skin, as your eyes screw shut.
His own knees ache, where they knock against the wooden floor. The creak of his leather boot as he adjusts the angle - a leg rising, a heavy foot pressing firm and flat against the ground as he arcs over you.
Your lips part with moan beneath him, the sound strangled as the air is pushed from your lungs.
So deep. So warm - his breath coming in a rough rush as he leans into you. Nudging himself just a little bit deeper, a palm pressing between your shoulder blades for balance.
It had been barely winter, when he’d first found this place. Another month before he brought you here, sheltering from a storm.
Eyes still fixed out the bare windows, at the skeleton-fingers of trees as you had rode him. Your own head thrown back, chest heaving against the mouth that teased at your tits - too intent on your own movements to notice the way his eyes drifted.
Fixing out, into the forest. Unable to help the split attention, with wounds still fresh from Salt Lake City. Hands that had taken, too harsh in the way they had bit into your skin.
The rough slap of his thighs when the sliver of control had been wrenched from you - rolling you beneath him to finish the job.
Now, with the golden sun overhead, the gentle sway of the leaves in the breeze - he gives.
Eyes fixed only on you.
He’s spent too much time looking away. Almost realizing it when it was too late. All those weeks of looking anywhere but at you.
It had been easier, that way. Maybe a part of him had known, deep down. An instinctual inkling of what you’d become to him.
He hadn’t been ready.
Content to know the scuffs on your boots better than the color of your eyes, missing the way they crinkle when you smile at him.
The way they widen, flutter, squeeze shut - just for him. Only for him.
It’s always taken him a little time to come around.
It was winter when you had fallen together. But it had been earlier that spring when the seed had been planted, first taking root.
His first true spring in Jackson - getting to see the shoots push up in the community garden. The main road slowly waking after a cold winter, filling out with people and stalls and coming to life, again.
You were new, slipping in while the town had still slept.
Easily winning Ellie over with your baking, simple cakes made from what they had. Learned from those who had still remembered the before, passing down their memories.
He had been won over, later.
As the days had slowly grown longer, and then short again. Tentative smiles in the summer turning into excuses to stay just a couple minutes longer - when you showed up on his porch, something saccharine wrapped up in the wicker basket at your elbow.
The memory lingers on his tongue.
As sweet as the taste he had gotten between your thighs no more than a few minutes ago, your little gasp as he had groaned into you.
Unable to resist, as his thumbs had hooked around the elastic waistband of your shorts. Pushing them down your legs, letting them twist near your knees.
Seeing how you already arched for him, legs nudging wider for balance. Waiting for his fingers, but he had dipped - ignoring the dull stretch of his back as his lips had ghosted across yours.
His tongue following, where you’re plush and wet as the tip slipped against your slit. Pretty, he had thought, like he had a hundred times before.
You always were.
Under the sun, with the flash of your teeth, the cock of your head.
When your forehead wrinkled with worry, the urge always rising to press his thumb against them - wiping them away.
In sleep - with the flutter of your eyelashes and soft sigh, as you burrowed against his chest.
Your muscles had tensed - shoulders stiff and thighs trembling as you had taken him. A held breath hissing through teeth, turning into a sharp groan as the tip of his cock nudged its way inside.
As he enveloped himself in you, his own words near-stuttered with the way you immediately clenched down around him. Warm and wet and made for him.
“Come on, honey. You can take it.”
“That’s my good girl.”
That last one had you softening. Unable to hide the way his words affected you, your head lolling against your shoulder as his hips finally pressed flush to yours.
The sight will be one that he thinks of often. That twist of green and grey and red around your waist. The arch of your back, already a little shift of your hips as you encourage him to move.
All that soft skin, not nearly as marred as his. His palm flattened over the curve of your ass, a smack that is more sound than pressure.
Your groan filled the room, as he finally began to move. The soft snap of his hips turning sharp, as the memories had washed over him.
The shift of your arm brings him back, now. Eyes half-closed in bliss, the curl of your shoulder as your hand moves to slip between your legs.
Something pricks at him then, the bite of possession sinking its teeth into his skin. An ache to do this himself.
Though he might not need to - he can tell from the way you meet him, the bitten-back sounds you make, that the move was in desperation.
He should have been paying more attention.
No use thinking about the past, when he’s got you here now.
Joel catches your fingers, a broad hand curling around your wrist. Pinning it back against the floor as his knee drops to the ground again.
“Y’ don’t need it.” His chest presses into your back as he leans over you. Close enough for his stubble to scratch against your cheek, feel his weight as he cages you in, “Can come like this, can’t you?”
He says it like a question, but it’s not. Not really. An edge to his voice, your knees inching wider as they scrape against the floor. As his rhythm ticks up - sharper and faster than his lazy rhythm earlier.
Stroking against that spot inside you. Just a tease before, when his mind had wandered. Now he knows he has you there, right at the edge. Just needing a little more.
Something he’s sure he can give you, if you let him.
“Joel.” His name is broken, whined through your teeth. Laced with awe, as if he hadn’t done the same thing with his fingers - teased at your inner walls until you soaked them.
“I think I’m… oh my god-”
Breathless, as his nose ghosts against your neck. As he pins you further, arching your back more. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to your throat, as he feels you shiver beneath him.
“That’s it.” His teeth scrape skin, a ragged edge to his voice, “Know you are.”
Something that tips close to a plea, with the way he needs to feel it, with the way it punches from his lungs, “Lemme feel you come on my cock, sweetheart. Come on-”
Your fingers squeeze around his, clinging to him. A lifeline, as the feeling swells and then breaks - as he rips your orgasm from you. That warmth around him turning molten and wet as he feels that tight pulse, how you drip down his cock.
Down to where his balls grow tight, a sharp coiling in his belly. A feeling he tries to hold back, but you’re still moaning his name, eyes screwed shut as each pump of his cock draws your pleasure out.
Each thrust pushes the air from your lungs in a pretty gasp, too far gone to do anything but press your cheek to his coat. Hands trapped in his - one still pinned to the floor, the other biting into his wrist.
He’s too busy watching you to notice the way his thrusts have grown sloppy, off-rhythm in the way he’s racing to meet you.
“Fuck-” Joel’s jaw grits. There’s barely enough time for his hips to move - to pull his length from you, leaving you clenching.
Slick with your release as his fingers closes around his cock. Barely managing two pumps of his fist before he’s spilling over the swell of your ass, dripping down damp thighs.
His groan rough and broken in the empty house, panting breaths with the slick slide of his fist as he works himself empty.
Making a mess of you, your skin streaked with him, shining and glossy. It makes him he almost regret starting this here - that he can’t pull you into the shower, and then bed, after.
Instead, he hovers over you until his heart no longer races. Until he can push himself onto unsteady feet, finding an old rag in the kitchen.
Wiping your skin clean, as you sigh - boneless against the worn floor. Content as the sun streaks through the windows, warming patches of bare skin.
Sweat clings to his skin after, leaving him sticky. Heart still fluttering in his chest as you both finally move - backs pressing against the threadbare couch, clothes mostly fixed in place.
Your head presses against his shoulder, a loose little lean as your legs stretch out. Still just as bare as before, his hand curving around your thigh and squeezing.
Letting time pass, for just a little bit longer.
“Tommy said we would stop by for dinner,” You eventually break the silence - flashing a still-dazed smile, as your fingernails scratch into his forearm, “You wanna go? Ellie said she’d meet us there. Think she’s bringin’ a friend.”
So casual in the way you say it - as if they weren’t going to show up with bruised knees, still wearing his shirt. As if your skin wasn’t still stained with him, patches and still-drying streaks he might have missed.
Moving up to rub at the joints that grow sore with the heat and the cold. Such a small thing to remember, but you always do.
“Sounds good.” He sighs into your touch.
It ain’t a barbecue, but it’s close enough.
Joel used to hate this time of year.
But today… it doesn’t seem all that bad.
experimenting with different styles of writing - I thought of this as a sort-of sister fic to looking back! and thank you so much for reading, it is so appreciated 💖💕
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