#he belongs in the pocket of my jacket
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After the occupation, the princess was confined to the palace.
Once a month she'd be taken on a walk around the city, heavily guarded of course, to show the people that she still lived. It also served, of course, as a reminder of what they stood to lose if they made trouble. The princess did her best go wave and smile and give the people what encouragement she could.
The rest of the time, her life was spent in musty rooms and dusty towers. She filled most of her time scouring the castle for materials which she would sew into more and more elaborate outfits, which she would show off on the days when she was allowed outside.
Indeed, the public loved their princess and her dresses so much they'd often sketch or paint them along the route and pass the images on so that all could see the princess at least was well.
This pleased the occupiers for two reasons. First: it kept the princess out of trouble. Second: it gave them a reason to sneer and they did love a good sneer.
"What a vain creature she is!" They would remark.
"Doesn't even care we murdered her brothers so long as she gets enough satin to make her little dresses!" They squawked.
This was unfair, of course, for to call her creations "little dresses" was to call Queen Murderfun the Needlessly Genocidal "a tad piquey". Her dresses were gravity-defying wonders lace and pearl. They were thunderstorms captured in velvet and waterfalls summoned in silk. She was a wizard with silk.
Still, she bore their mockery with a tight smile and careful deference.
"Please, good sirs, my home, my people and my city now belong to you. Let me keep, at least, this one last joy."
And they sneered and they crowed most unpleasantly, but they let her keep her sewing room.
Of course, they would have known their mockery to be doubly unfair had they realised the true purpose of the princess's elaborate designs. For hidden in the intricate embroiderings across her gowns, jackets and fans, the princess had encoded secret (and very detailed) messages. When she would go on her monthly walk, the city's loyalists would line the route, sketching down the patterns to decode later.
Thus did the princess transmit all the occupiers' secrets (unearthed while supposedly 'searching the castle for old fabrics') to the city and thus did she build her resistance.
On the day the revolution finally came, she girded herself in armour of thick spider silk and whale bone. She cut a fine figure with a lacy handkerchief in her top pocket and a razor sharp knitting needle keeping her hair up.
As she waltzed through the castle to open the door for her army, the Usurper King tried to stop her and she simply unfolded her handkerchief and showed it to him.
Upon seeing the impossible arcane pattern emblazoned across it, he fell to the floor with blood streaming from his eyes.
She always had been a wizard with silk.
---
Thank you for reading. If you'd like to support my writing, you can do so at https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories
#writing#microfiction#short story#flash fiction#wrote this a few years back and finally got round to posting here
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— DAD OF THE YEAR
SYNOPSIS: seungcheol accidentally reveals he has a daughter on a first date and doesn't know how to tell you that his daughter is a dog
PAIRING: csc x reader
GENRE: fluff
TAGS: first dates, dog dad cheol
WC: 575
MESSAGE FROM NU: s/o to this seungcheol for making it out of the dating app conversation phase & making it work bc I did it once and it did not turn out like this
seungcheol doesn't know if he has the heart to tell you that it was all a misunderstanding that he accidentally took too far. several hours of conversations on a popular dating app about various niche topics that piqued both of your interests led the two of you to skip the basics. he didn't find out about your occupation until twenty minutes into the current date.
when you accidentally drop your phone on the sidewalk, he immediately bends over to pick it up for you. but one of kkuma's several hair clips from the last time he walked her falls out of his jacket pocket and slides a few centimeters away from his hand. by the time he slips it back into his pocket, you've already seen the pastel-hued flower clip.
you tilt your head at him while he hands you back your phone as if to ask him who that clip belongs to.
"my daughter" — the answer slips out of his mouth before he can correct himself. he's already so used to calling his dog his daughter that it feels right to address her in that way.
when he realizes his mistake, he's expecting a question from you asking for an explanation about the bomb that he just dropped. his correction forms on the tip of his tongue, but you're quick to beat him. and weirdly enough, you ask him about her clips and whether or not he does her hair every day.
the several pistons that churn his brain are all firing at once. there's a frenzy happening in his mind. are you going to ignore the fact that he said he has a daughter even though the daughter is technically a dog? would you think of him differently? he already knows about how you always look at city bike riders to see if they've adjusted their seats high enough, but he doesn't even know if you're a dog person.
yet he casually continues the conversation. he's been sucked into a black hole. he loves talking about her accessories and the different ways he dresses her up. she's his daughter. of course he's going to spoil her and dote on her all the time. he can't stop talking about her and embarrassingly spends a good chunk of the date talking about her.
he talks about how she's the smartest in her class, how she's a picky eater, and how she sleeps by his side. he thinks you're fully convinced that he has a human child at this point, but he doesn't know when exactly is a good time to casually drop the fact that he has been talking about a dog the whole time.
"do you have pictures of her?" you ask him. the question causes him to physically stop in his tracks.
"huh?" he dumbly asks in response.
"your dog right? I remember seeing a pic of her in your profile." you're smiling at him.
all of the little fires in his head extinguish. smoke rises from the top of his head. gosh, it feels so nice to know that there wasn't a miscommunication. you're a good listener and you pay attention to tiny details that even he might miss. he thinks you're cute, especially the way your eyes seem to smile more than your mouth. he blushes.
"yeah. lots of them." he grins while pulling out his phone from his pocket. "we can picnic with her next time."
"great. it's a date."
#seventeen imagines#svt imagines#seungcheol imagines#seungcheol fluff#svthub#seungcheol x reader#seventeen fluff#svt fluff#wondernus imagines
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Don't Forget It
Paring(s): Dean Winchester x F!Reader
Summary: While working a case with Dean, he gets jealous of the way you interact with a suspect and decides to remind you who you belong to.
Tags: 18+, p in v, unprotected sex (be smart), rough sex, jealous dean, spanking, light dom/sub dynamics, sex in a public place, begging, voyeurism if you squint
Word Count: 2.2k
A/N: Just another finished work that's been sitting in my drive, collecting dust. Beta'd by my loves @makeadealwithdean and @wayward-dreamer; love you both to the moon and back 🤍 GIF is mine. Enjoy!
You can also read me on Ao3!
DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
You don’t miss the way Dean’s eyebrow raises when you lift one leg to sit on the man’s desk, twirling your hair and batting your eyelashes as you try to get him to confess. You’re fully aware of the way your pencil skirt is riding up, revealing more skin than you care to show to this douchebag probably-murderer, but it’s clear that he’s way more interested in speaking to you than Dean. If it helps move the case along, you can turn on the charm.
Dean’s watching you from the corner of the room as you flirt with the sleazebag, his jaw clenching as he reminds himself that you’re just doing your job, but it doesn’t make him want to remind you who you belong to any less. Especially when you look like that . Tight skirt, the top three buttons of your blouse undone, and then when you lean over pretending to laugh at something this guy had said, he catches a glimpse of your black lace bra, and he finds himself trying not to think about ripping it off of you. Not that it was working.
“You know, you’re a pretty little thing, Agent,” the man smirks, and then he’s reaching for the exposed part of your thigh and you’re wishing he wouldn’t , and Dean clears his throat so loudly it startles the both of you. You hop off the desk as the suspect turns around to look at him.
“I think we’re done here,” Dean says, walking over to the desk and pulling a fake business card with his real phone number on it out of his inner suit jacket pocket. “If you remember anything, Mr. McAnn, give me a call.” He tosses the card carelessly onto his desk.
Mr. McAnn huffs. “Yeah, alright, Agent.”
You and Dean both know the phone call isn’t coming; you’re going to need to find another way to prove the dickhead sitting in front of you murdered his wife — possessed or not.
“Let’s go, Y/N,” Dean grits out, his eyes not leaving Mr. McAnn’s as he walks to the door. You follow suit, and the anger in your boyfriend’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. Dean’s already ten steps ahead of you by the time you’re fully out of the office.
“Dean!” you call after him, speed-walking to match his brisk pace down whatever corporate building hallway you were in. “Slow down, I’m in heels!”
You catch up to him and grab his wrist, spinning him around.
“The hell’s gotten into you?”
He huffs in disbelief, his hands coming to rest on his hips as he tongues the inside of his cheek, thinking of how to answer that question.
“You can’t be serious,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your eyebrows, realizing what’s gotten his panties in a twist. “I was trying to get him to confess , Dean.”
“I’m not — I know. Okay? But —” he pauses, beginning to stalk towards you, a hunger in his eyes that tells you exactly where this interaction is heading. You nearly trip over yourself as you walk backwards, a soft gasp leaving your lips when your back hits the wall. “Doesn’t mean I like watching you slutting it up for the asshole.”
He’s got you fully caged in between his arms now, one hand on either side of your shoulders, his face inches away from yours.
“You’re mine .”
You roll your eyes. As hot as he is when he’s jealous and possessive, it’s not like he can fuck you in this hallway. Plus, he’s being ridiculous anyway.
“Your point ?” you prod, probably further than you should.
“My —” he huffs again, his hands back on his hips, shaking his head before looking around. “Oh, I’ll show you my fucking point, sweetheart.”
He grabs your wrist, ignoring your squeal, and drags you a few feet down the hall, turning into the women’s bathroom and locking the door behind him. His eyes quickly scan underneath the three stalls before he determines the two of you are alone.
“Dean —”
He cuts off your protest with his hands on your waist, walking you back into the nearby sinks before hoisting you up onto the counter.
“Dean!” you yelp in surprise.
He pays it no mind as he reaches for your blouse, tearing it open in one quick motion, plastic buttons clattering to the floor.
“Dean!” you scold, and Jesus, how many times can you say his name in different ways in one minute?
He remains unphased, focused on two things and two things only, both of which he reveals as he pulls down the cups of your bra.
“Christ, Y/N,” he breathes, cupping your breasts in his hands as he stares at them like it’s his first time ever seeing boobs. His thumbs flick over both of your nipples at the same time, and you arch your back as a moan escapes you.
“Mm, fuck.”
He leans in, his breath fanning over your earlobe as he continues tweaking your nipples. “Might as well have shown that dickhead in there these fuckin’ tits, the way your shirt was hanging open. Left really fuckin’ little to the imagination, Y/N,” he whispers, drawing more sounds from your throat. “He was probably sitting there thinking about doing all the things I’m doing to you right now. And I don’t like that. That’s my fuckin’ point.” He pinches one of your nipples, a yelp leaving your lips. “Understand?”
You nod, unable to form words.
“I can’t hear you.” He pinches the other peak and pulls a little.
“Oh — fuck! Yes, I understand,” you answer. “I’m yours, I’m yours.”
“And don’t forget it.”
His lips find your breasts, and soon he’s sucking bruises into your skin and teasing your nipples with his tongue. He’s everywhere at once, everywhere but where you really need him, and you’re not sure how much more of this torture you can take.
“Dean, please,” you gasp, and he lets out an irritated grunt as he pulls his mouth off one of your breasts, seeming annoyed that you had interrupted his fun with your begging. You can’t blame him – he’s a boob guy. Especially if they’re your boobs.
“I’m not done yet,” he states, before resuming his attack – for lack of a better word – on your breasts.
You groan in protest, the heat between your thighs building, and you spread your legs as far as your skirt will allow. The cool air that hits your core reminds you that you had chosen to forego underwear today, and you reach down to shimmy your skirt up to your hips while Dean’s still focused on your breasts. You’re able to spread your legs a bit further now, and you can’t help but chuckle at the fact that your boyfriend still hasn’t noticed you fully on display.
He pulls away an inch or so when he hears your giggling. “Somethin’ funny?”
“You really are a boob guy, huh?” You shake your head in disbelief, biting back a smile. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, and you use the opportunity to lean forward, simultaneously pulling him towards you by his shoulders so you can whisper in his ear. “You’ve been so focused on them you haven’t taken the time to look down yet, have you?”
He pulls away, still confused, until his eyes dart down to your core. “Jesus – wait – did you –”
“Was debating between those panties you really like or just foregoing them altogether,” you shrug.
“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at your dripping core for a few moments before a second wave of feral hunger hits him. “ Fuck .”
Before you can even process his movements, you’re bent over the counter instead of sitting on it, your legs kicked apart with two fingers plunging into your heat.
“Oh my – Dean !” you squeal at both the abruptness and the roughness of it all.
“Don’t know what you expected, sweetheart, walking around with everything on fuckin’ display.” He crooks his fingers at just the right angle, and you bite back a scream.
“I – fuck – nothing w-was on display – oh God !”
“Might as well have been. This tight little skirt of yours doesn’t leave much to the imagination, either. And then to find out there’s been nothing underneath it this whole time?”
“Ow!” you exclaim, as a loud smack fills the air, courtesy of Dean’s hand landing on your bare ass.
“ Louder ,” he growls. “I want the whole fuckin’ building to know they can imagine whatever they want, but I’m the only one who gets to act on it.” He pulls his fingers out of you and spanks you again.
“De – oh, fuck !” you choke out. “Please, Dean.”
“Please what?” he asks nonchalantly, and you can hear his belt buckle clinking behind you.
“Fuck me. Please, I need you to fuck me.”
“ Need me to, huh?” You hear the zipper of his slacks, and you shift your weight in anticipation, your ass squirming. He lands another smack on your left cheek – the hardest one yet.
“DEAN!” you yelp, and you’re certain the entire building heard that one.
“There you go. Now beg that loud and I may just give you what you want,” he chuckles, grabbing a fistful of your hair and bringing your face up from the counter while he runs his cock through your soaked folds.
“Please!” you groan.
“Mm-mm, not hearin’ you, sweetheart.”
“Deaaaan!” you whine, pushing your hips back, trying to force him inside you.
“You know what to do, Y/N.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath – there’s only so much of this you can take. You focus on his cock teasing your folds for a few moments, and that’s all the encouragement you need.
“Please, Dean! Please, fuck me!”
“That’s better. Louder.”
“Jesus fucking – FUCK ME, NOW!”
You’re rewarded immediately, and he bottoms out inside you with ease.
“Was that so hard?”
“Fuck me,” you reply through gritted teeth, “or I’m gonna go get Mr. McAnn to do it.”
That is both the very wrong and very right thing to say.
You yelp as he yanks up harder on your hair, your chest leaving the counter. His hand moves to rest on your neck – not choking you, simply holding you in place – and then he pounds into you harder than he ever has before.
“You are something else, you know that?” he hisses, his thrusts hard and fast. “I know you were only acting like a slut for Mr. Douchebag back there, but it just comes so – fucking – easy – to you, doesn’t it?” He punctuates his words with more thrusts. “And not wearin’ any underwear – that wasn’t for the act, hm? That was because you were hopin’ to end up like this, yeah?” His hand moves from your throat to grip underneath your jaw when you fail to answer. “ Yeah ?”
“Yeah – oh m-my God – fuck , D-Deaaan.”
He smirks, watching you in the mirror above the counter as you slowly come apart on his cock. “No, you don’t have to act like a slut for me, sweetheart. You just are one, hm?”
You nod to the best of your ability.
“Open your eyes, look at yourself,” he orders, his grip on your jaw tightening as his thrusts speed up. You do as you’re told, meeting your reflection in the mirror. You’re not sure if your mascara is smudged because of sweat or tears, your hair looks like a bird has made its home in it, and you can’t remember a time that you’ve looked this fucked out. “See what I mean?” Dean questions. “Sluttiest you’ve ever fuckin’ looked. Not that I’m complaining.”
You feel the dam inside you about to break, and you let out a whimper in warning.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, almost out of breath, his tone laced with pity. “Are you gonna cum?”
“Mm-hm,” you nod, whimpering again.
“You like being my slut that much, hm?”
“Dean, please,” you beg, squeezing your eyes shut, stalling your release as much as you can. You’re not sure why – it’s not like you have to wait for his permission – but you find yourself wanting it.
“Christ, Y/N,” he breathes, quickly realizing what you’re asking for. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and you know he’s close too. “Hold it, baby. Can you do that?”
“I don’t –”
“Mmm, I think you can. I’m – fuck – I’m close. Be a good little slut and hold it. Want you – shit – want you to cum with me, sweetheart.”
You find yourself nodding, focusing on Dean’s pants in your ear instead of the precipice of your release, and a few seconds go by before expletives are falling from his lips and you know it’s safe for you to let go.
Your dam breaks. “Oh, God – fuck – Dean!”
“Fuuuuuck,” he moans, filling you up. He lets his forehead fall to your shoulder as he catches his breath, post-orgasmic shivers running through him as you ride out your high, your walls clenching around his cock. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he pants, lifting his head to press a kiss behind your ear. “Such a perfect fuckin’ slut.”
You manage a soft giggle as your body settles. “Only for you, babe.”
He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder as he stares at your reflection in the mirror.
“And don’t you forget it.”
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At the Movies
Male Alpha Yandere x Transfem Omega Reader
CW: Noncon, extortion, coercion, cum licking, panty sniffing, a/b/o dynamics, stalking, general yandere behavior, musk, pheromones, knotting
Word Count: 866
(I had a dream that this happened to me last night and decided to write it as a story. Not beta read. Sorry for errors. I don't think transfem readers are really catered to that often, so hopefully some people feel represented without feeling fetishized in this. <3)
You were an omega. You had decided to go see a movie by yourself because the theater was playing old classic horror films every night this week. This was the first time since coming out as a trans woman that you had been out in public and you were extremely nervous. You had worked very hard on your makeup and had put on a cute skirt. Though you had a lot of anxiety, you also felt more yourself than you ever had before.
It was a Monday night and still a bit early, so there was no one else viewing the same movie that you were. You picked a good spot to watch from and settled in with your popcorn and drink. After a few good minutes, you felt more and more comfortable, until halfway through the film, you heard someone come in.
You didn't pay the person any attention until they were close enough for you to catch their scent. You recognised who it belonged to immediately. Your stalker, Shaun. He was a persistent alpha who had been after you for months. A total creep who thought you were meant to belong to him.
By the time you could smell him, he was already too close for you to escape. He sat down beside you and grabbed your wrist so you couldn't get away. With his other hand, he muffled your mouth so you couldn't scream. He leaned close, and his scent made you dizzy.
"Sorry I'm late for our date. I had to pick up Mr. Sir Squiggles."
Your blood ran cold. Mr. Sir Squiggles was your beloved hamster. The implication was clear. Stop struggling, or else he'd do something to your pet.
"Don't look so horrified, baby. I'd never hurt our pet. But I have custody, so if you want to see him, you'll have to do what I want with you and move in with me."
Shaun sounded so smug. He knew he had finally won. His romantic advances had failed, so why not keep your pet hostage? You cried silently and nodded so he knew you understood what you had to do. He released you from his grip and pulled you close with his arm around you. His pheromones were suffocating, and you could smell how aroused he was.
After a while, he noticed you shaking with nervousness but misinterpreted it as you being cold.
"You look cold, here~"
"N-no I'm fine." You sputtered.
He ignored you and draped you in his sweaty jacket. It did nothing to soothe your anxiety though his musl did make your body betray you in a humiliating fashion. Your cock was hard and slick was starting to leak from your ass. He could smell it as soon as it happened.
"Well I was going to wait until we got home, but if my girl needs it now, I'd be neglectful if I said no."
The tip of his cock was already visible poking out the leg of his shorts as he reached under your skirt and rubbed your soft thighs before ripping off your panties. He brought the tattered underwear to his nose and inhaled deeply before stuffing it into his pocket for later. You had to suppress the urge to run away and just let it happen.
Shaun pulled his shorts down enough for his eager prick to bounce free. Then he hitched up your skirt and pulled you on his lap, lowering you on his length in one smooth motion.
"I fit so well~ you were made for my cock."
You whimpered but he shushed you and kissed up your neck.
"Shhh, relax. Just watch your movie and enjoy my cock."
You tried to focus on the movie, to focus on anything but this gross violation. But it was impossible with him sliding so deeply into you while claiming, biting, and kissing your sensitive neck over and over. Je began to gently stroke your weeping cock. You couldn't help but moan softly as his knot swelled and brought you to orgasm. Your insides clenched and throbbed around his dick and finally made him drain his balls into you. He took the cum you spilled into his hand and smeared it on your lips before licking it off.
Shaun held you tight in his lap while waiting for his knot to stop swelling so that the two of you could uncouple. You panted and blankly watched the film while not really watching it as your head was overloaded with all that had just transpired. Occasionally, Shaun would kiss your neck gently or rub your legs in what he thought was a soothing manner.
Every once in a while, he'd whisper praise softly into your ear.
"You're so good at taking me."
"You look so pretty in a skirt."
"You're such a good girl."
When the movie ended, and when his knot decided to dislodge itself from your rear, Shaun led you out of the theater and into his car, cum slowly dripping down your legs the entire time. You were a mess, but too numb to really pay attention or care, but that was okay. Your new alpha boyfriend would take care of you.
#yandere x reader#alpha yandere#alpha x omega reader#Transfem reader#Transgirl reader#Male yandere x transfem reader#My OCs#My OC Shaun#Yandere a/b/o#yandere omegaverse#yandere
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as time gets close - jude bellingham x reader.
quick sum: almost close to your due date, what is wrong with a late-night grocery trip with your very excited and anxiously waiting fiance?
wc: 1.8k | masterlist | jude's masterlist
psa 🗣️: a little dad! jude blurb bc we haven’t seen much of this on the timeline!! like always hope you enjoy 🤍
"why are you bending down? you know that is bad for you," you rolled your eyes at your fiance's scolding, grabbing the keys from the floor. "i dropped the keys by accident," you say as you pick the correct key that belonged to the lock. jude rubbed your belly, ensuring you were okay before helping you out to the car, the reusable bags tucked underneath his arm.
"did you bring the list?" you ask him seeing as he nods and pulls it out from the pockets of his hoodie. "i did. i also brought you some snacks because you didn't eat much after getting some nausea," you pouted your lips leaning up to peck his cheek thanking him. "what would i do without you?" you tease, a playful scoff falling from his lips.
"what makes you think you'd be without me? i'm attached to you for life remember?" he grabs your left hand kissing over your ring finger as he gives you a knowing look. you feel as he brings your intertwined hands to your belly, "and you're carrying my baby in there."
"really i couldn't tell," you say sarcastically.
"let's make it quick because my feet already hurt and i want to sleep," you advised letting out a tired yawn. despite being close to your due date, you still had some work to do before maternity leave. making calls to set meetings, attending them over zoom, filing paperwork, in charge of making sure the firm doesn't backfire, and planning some stuff out for your wedding.
jude had told you multiple times to take it easy, but placing that aside, he always helped you unconditionally. in the shower, when cooking, taking care of chores, before bed, and attending all your doctor's appointments. he was your personal midwife and wanted to take care of you the most he could.
you remembered to look on his face when you told him you were expecting, the tears on his face as he spoke to your barely bump all night and traced his hands on your belly. singing and humming lullabies and stories about his day. since then he wanted to protect you the best he could.
going to the grocery store at this time was nothing new, in fact, it became so prevalent now that you were pregnant because you craved everything. making jude do a late run to pick up your cravings or groceries for the upcoming weeks. the same store, at the same time.
you placed your purse on the cart, snuggling into your jacket as the cold air inside the store blew you away. you followed jude who picked out veggies and greens for his meal prepping, helping him tie the bags and weigh them on the digital scale that produced labels. you watched in awe as your boyfriend picked out three pairs of different flowers. "what are these for?" you asked, smelling the flowery scent.
"for the house. we need to replace the old ones that dried out," jude says with a shy grin. "you were the one who said plants and flowers bring a sense of home into our house, " jude recalled your words, kissing your temple, pushing the cart since it became a bit heavier. "i did say that didn't i? well i wasn't wrong," you shrug, wrapping a hand around his bicep as he trailed along isles to pick up the different items on the list.
he did all the heavy lifting as you reached and picked stuff up from your level, like spices and eggs. you turn your back for a few seconds to retrieve some milk and coffee beans for the morning, to see the cart filled with pop tarts and other salty snacks. "no no no," you shake your head, as jude whines out protests. "y/n we need them! they're even on sale!"
“jude, i don’t care! we just got some three days ago!,” you say laughing, putting back the box of pop tarts. “y/n i’m telling you right now, in a couple of hours or days you’re gonna have me running back here for them,” jude states following behind you.
“am not!” you quickly defend, bringing a hand to your aching back. “are too! last night you had me running out for cheetos. what’s it going to be today? kettled popcorn? or wingstop?” jude teased making you rolls your eyes and focusing back on to what needed to get done. “don’t forget we need to pick some of that acid reflex stuff for you, to get rid of the heartburn,” jude reminds you, taking the cart and walking out of the pop tarts isle, sneaking a box in for you.
“what’s left on the list?” you ask him, taking out a small snack you had in your purse and offering some to jude. “we need bananas, strawberries, orange juice, and meats for upcoming dinners…” jude reads the list one by one, using his index finger as he goes along.
you pass by an isle grabbing some cereal and granola for your yogurts and bowls. jude insisting he grabs his favorite too since you refuse to share from your part. as you wait by the deli section jude come behind you, grabbing your belly and relieving some of the pressure.
you immediately lay your head back on his shoulder sighing in relief, hearing jude chuckle and place a kiss on your head. “almost there darling,” he whispered running one of his hands along your tummy. “i know what you’re doing jude… and if this baby starts kicking right now i’ll leave you here,” you warn.
“i’m just trying to help you love. doesn’t it feel good?” he reprimanded as you nodded. “yes but not when she starts kicking, i swear she does it on purpose and it’s your fault. like she knows it you,” you said feeling your lower back less tense and heavy. "i kid you not, last night she almost made me pee from this hard kick!"
"sounds to me like we have a mini footballer coming into our lives," said jude continuing to hold your belly since you were tired and your baby was heavy. he had read the method online with other tips and tricks. jude got more into reading when he found out you were pregnant, wanting to know every effect and secret to ensure a healthy and safe pregnancy.
"let's hope not, i don't think i could handle cleaning up broken stuff around the house every day," you sigh, releasing yourself from his hold because you began to get hot. you didn’t understand how your body was so quick to adjust and then de-adjust from hot and cold, but it was so easy and it drove you mad sometimes.
“you okay?” jude softened his eyes as you let out a breath of despair, holding your hand and feeling a sit squeezed tightly against his. “yeah just got a mini cramp,” you held your back and practiced breathing methods you learned, “i’m good, i promise,” you kiss his hand before retrieving the meats from the butcher. "we'll get home soon, and i promise you a warm tea and massage okay?"
"did you want chocolate or strawberry milk?" jude held up the pint containers, "strawberry, we still have chocolate milk at home," you said, jude nodding as he quickly picked the orange juice and your favorite yogurts. "i was never a fan of sweet or flavored milk but these are soooo good," you exaggerated, jude smiling hard down at you.
"never a fan? these were my childhood as a kid! my mum used to buy these or the powder to make it ourselves," jude says recalling a old memory thinking of his babygirl. "you reckon she'll like them too?" jude spoke softly as he saw you give him a fast nod. if there was one thing loved it was discussing his babygirl. he was so anxious and wanted to meet her. the itch in his teeth getting bigger as every day passes.
to hold her while she slept, hug her to keep her warm, coddle her to sleep, feed her. he was ready for it all. he loved to shop and spoil her already. her carrier, crib, different books, toys, and stuffed animals like he had as a kid. she didn't know it yet, but she would be jude's second best friend. firstly you. always you.
they saw if one ever finds love at first sight, and jude definitely did with you. a smile so bright, eyes gleaming with happiness, a stranger who he fell madly with almost immediately after hearing her say hello. through ups and downs, you found your way to each other and since then, it's a love story for the movies. jude had his career blowing, a beautiful fiancee, and now a baby on the way. what more could he want?
as jude helped bag the groceries into the recycled bags you had, you paid and thanked the cashier whom you got close with on nights like these. asking how her day was, about her kids, anything special, always something to distract her. "you two have a safe night!" she yelled as you turned and thanked, wishing her a good night as well.
after you insisted on helping, you carried four light bags as jude carried most bags since he hated double trips. you guys quickly unpacked everything, longing and wishing to get into bed. you ensure the stove and other appliances are off, grabbing your tea and heading upstairs with jude.
"lay here for me," jude instructed, grabbing some cream and begging to smooth and massage out the muscles on your legs and shoulders. "after we have her, i promise i'll return every single thing you did for me while i was pregnant," you say struggled and full pleasure as the tension went away at jude's fingertips. "oh i'm fully expecting the injured boyfriend method again," jude teased as he finished up.
he grabbed a new book, laying on your side as you brushed and played with a few curls on his head, twirling them around your finger as he breathed softly. he looked so gentle and full of excitement like this, reading to your babygirl, who sensed her daddy's voice as she kicked. she knew, she always knew.
he applied your belly oil to prevent any stretch marks and kissed the small ones that formed along the way. jude cherished your body for carrying his baby in there, for being able to give and bring a new life into his and yours. you laid on your side, jude's chest connecting and fitting the crevasse on your back, holding your tummy as in a way to keep it safe.
you placed and locked hands with his, as jude wishing you a goodnight, peering kissed on your shoulders then finally lips, moaning in delight, a tiny groan leaving his lips. "i love you so much darling," he whispered, kissing your temple and snuggling into you more. "iloveyoutoojude," you said fast, with a playful smile on your lips as you felt a familiar sensation of a certain craving. "okay now i do want some pop tarts..."
"are you serious right now?"
#jude bellingham#judey thoughts 5️⃣#jude bellingham x reader#jude bellingham blurb#jude bellingham imagine#jude bellingham one shot#football fanfic#footballer#football x reader
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MISTAKEN HATRED
A/N: okay im veeery nervous about this one bc its the longest story i've written in probably months and it took me sooo long to finish it so im just praying its not utter shit 🙃 anywaysss, happy holidays guys! it's not overly festive, but it has some vibes so im labeling it as my xmas fic haha feedback is always appreciated! 🎄
WORD COUNT: 6.3k
SUMMARY: Things don't go as smooth as you planned with your bakery's opening, but you're doing your best to overcome the struggles. However there is one person who is hating on your business as if it was his job: Harry Styles. You just wish you knew what you did to earn his hatred...
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
This is not how you imagined the last weeks before your official opening.
You imagined the interrior to be fully done by now so you can focus on the last touches, ordering the right ingredients and promoting the opening.
Instead, you’re staring at what’s supposed to be your eight tables, intact and put together but it’s all in pieces. You specifically remember the website said they would deliver them done and you wouldn’t have to play puzzles. But they arrived six days late and very much not the way they promised.
Taking a deep breath you stare up at the ceiling and decide to take the trash out before turning your bakery into Ikea.
“It’s alright. I can do this. I can do anything,” you keep telling yourself as you drag out the trash bags that are almost the size of you.
You knew opening your own business would be tough. Especially in Eroda, the little town you have some of your earliest memories from, where your grandma used to live, the place that was closest to her heart and it breaks yours to know she couldn’t spend her last years here because she was too sick to live on her own.
She never asked you to come back here, but the moment you found her recipe books the summer after she passed, you just knew what you had to do. Now it’s been three years and you’re finally opening Nana’s that will bring her warmth and love back to Eroda, or you hope so.
Pushing the door open with your shoulder, you keep dragging the bags to the containers behind the small shop and you’re so deep in your thoughts you don’t even notice the two people just a couple of feet away.
“Hi, Love!”
You recognize Anne’s sweet, chirpy voice and a smile spreads across your face even before you look up, but the moment you see the person standing next to her, all joy just drains from your body.
Harry Styles is standing as grouchy and arrogant as always next to his mother, hands hidden in the pockets of his fleece jacket, his unruly curls are tucked underneath his beanie and any normal woman would be into the man, but you. Not after he very clearly let you know you don’t belong here and you should take your business back to the city where you came from.
You expected some resistance, not much has changed in town in the past decades and you had a feeling some might want to keep it that way, but you guessed older people would riot against your bakery, not a thirty years old grown man.
“Hi Anne,” you smile back and mustering up all your strength you throw one of the bags into the bin, but you overestimated your muscle work, because it only falls to the edge and almost topples right out. Luckily, you grab it just in time and push it in.
“Oh, dear, those bags are bigger than you! Harry, help her!”
“No, it’s alri–”
Before you get to protest, Harry strides over to you and grabs the remaining two bags as if they weighed nothing and throws them into the bin without breaking a sweat.
Of course he is fit, the man probably runs up the hill carrying twice his weight every morning, because that’s how you can imagine him working out.
Though you shouldn’t be imagining anything about him.
“Thanks,” you purse your lips and square your shoulders as you face the two of them.
“How is everything coming together?”
Anne has been so enthusiastic about your bakery, she comes around probably every other day, checks in on your progress and always offers her help.
“Um, it is… okay, I guess,” you let out a tired chuckle. Glancing over at Harry you see him looking to the side, as if he wasn’t even listening, but something is telling you he is very much focused on the conversation.
Yeah, that’s right, I’m still here! Not even your arrogance can chase me away!
Anne cranes her neck, peeking into the shop and she spots the pile in the middle.
“Oh, are you planning to put those together by yourself? Harry, why don’t you help her?”
The moment she suggests, you both protest.
“No, there’s no need.”
“Mum, I don’t really have the time,” he says at the same time, but it doesn’t seem to go through. Anne’s phone starts ringing and she excuses herself, leaving the two of you there.
Great, this is all you were missing today, an awkward, forced situation with the man who wants to see you gone. Perfect.
“Should’ve ordered them done, don’t you think?” he speaks up, nodding towards the shop.
At first, you just blink at him, then close your eyes and when you open them, you have the fakest smile on your twitching face.
“What a wonderful idea! I totally did not think of that!”
“Then send them back and ask them to bring what you ordered.” He rolls his eyes and it’s irking you so much. You definitely don’t need his stupid advices, not when you’re terribly behind your schedule.
“They arrived almost a week later than they should have, if I send them back there’s now ay they will send me the new ones in time for the opening.”
Harry stands there, staring at the pile of furniture pieces inside and for a moment you think he might actually offer his help, which you’re not sure you’d have accepted, but it remains a mystery, because that’s not what he says when he speaks up.
“I’m busy for real. Mum likes to offer my help around without asking me.”
It takes you a couple of moments to figure out what you feel about what he just said. And when you finally do, you see red.
“As I said, I don’t need help. I did everything by myself and I will get this done as well. I don’t need your unwanted, half-assed effort to pretend like you’re helping me.”
You come off rougher than you probably should have, but he’s been bugging you ever since you moved to Eroda. The man knows nothing about you or your business, yet every time he comes near your shop he acts like it physically pains him to even look at it. He’d be the last person you’d ask for help, he doesn’t have to act like he has so much to do and doesn’t have the time to help when he doesn’t actually want to help.
Harry stares at you with such intensity you almost break and stutter a sorry out, but that’s when Anne returns.
“Ah, we have to run. But I will come by tomorrow, Darling. And Harry can hel–”
“No need for help,” you smile at her as gratefully as you can force yourself to be in this moment.
“Alright, then see you later,” she waves and you nod at her before your eyes meet Harry’s one last time before they walk away and you return to your shop.
It takes you six hours to assemble the tables later that day, but you do it.
With no help.
Moving to Eroda, it hasn’t been your only goal to have your business become part of the town but you also knew you’d have to become one of the locals as well. Only a handful of people know who your grandmother was and you don’t plan to reveal it until the opening. You want them to taste all the baked goods and think of her first and then put the picture together. But this means you’re a total newbie for most people around. Last time you spent more than just a day here was when you were sixteen and you’ve changed a lot since then, so it’s natural people don’t recognize you.
Anne has been your biggest help in breaking the ice and involving you in as many things as possible so you get to meet the people of Eroda. The weeks leading up to Christmas are usually filled with all kinds of winter activities locals enjoy wholeheartedly. Concert by the town hall, decorating the trees at the main square, collecting donations and cooking for those in need for example. You’ve been to all of these and very much enjoyed being part of the community. This weekend however, you can’t say you’re looking forward to the new festive activity.
Ice-skating on the frozen lake.
It sounds nice and fun, but you’ve ice-skated only once in your life and ended up breaking your wrist. Not your favorite childhood memory for sure and you don’t exactly want to relive it as an adult.
You arrive with the intention of just sipping some hot tea and watch everyone else skate around until your fingers are falling off and you can go back to the shop to finish putting up the tinker lights at the back.
Anne however had different ideas about today. Because as soon as you arrive at the lake, she is waving at you, holding up a pair of skates and you know they are not hers, because she’s already wearing those.
“Kick those boots off, Love, I brought you my old skates! Come join us!” She smiles brightly at you from next to the pier where people get on and off the ice.
“Oh, no, I don’t skate, Anne, but thank you!”
“Don’t be silly, even Bernie is on the ice!” She nods towards the old man who must be at least eighty, sliding on the ice as if he did this all his life. He might have, you have no idea.
“It’s really not for me, I–”
“Just try it! Come on!”
She drops the skates by your feet and then slides away, leaving you no chance to protest.
Staring down at the skates, you can feel your stomach churning, but as you look up you see that literally everyone is on the ice, you’d look weird standing on the pier on your own.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath as you give in and sitting down you start peeling your boots off your feet.
“You’ll break your ankle if you leave it that loose.”
You know the voice and it just adds to your stress even more. You see his black skates in front of you as you’re trying to lace your own up.
“Hi Harry, so good to see you again,” you hiss through your teeth.
“Tighten it or you’ll fall.”
“I’ll fall either way,” you mumble as you go back and pull the laces tighter. When you’re done you straighten up, but remain sitting on the end of the pier, anxiously string down at your feet. Harry doesn’t speak, but you know he is still there, probably watching you, trying to figure out what’s wrong with you, why you’re not just standing up and going at it like everyone else.
Your hands are holding onto the wood underneath you for dear life as you picture yourself finally moving, but you never get to actually acting.
“Do you need help standing up?” Harry speaks up at last and his voice is different this time. It’s not as arrogant, maybe even concerned. Do you look that awful right now?
“N-No.” Your voice cracks and you hate that it’s him who sees you like this.
“Doesn’t seem like–”
“Would you stop being an asshole for a moment?” you snap at him and finally look up, eyes meeting his examining gaze. You have no idea what he sees in yours, but a few seconds later he breaks eye-contact, looks around as if he is hesitating before he sits beside you at last.
“You don’t have to skate if you don’t want to.”
“Tell that to your mother,” you mumble under your breath and it makes him laugh.
The sound of it is actually nice, surprising, but nice to hear something other than insults coming from his mouth.
“She can be a bit too much, but she’s just too enthusiastic.” You sit in silence for a bit before Harry turns to you. “You really don’t have to skate.”
“I want to take part, I just… I broke my wrist on the ice once when I was a kid and I haven’t tried skating since then.”
You didn’t plan on telling him much, but you felt like you had to explain why you’re being so dramatic. Part of you is expecting him to make fun of you for being scared of skating because of something that happened ages ago, but the arrogant comments never come.
Instead he stands up and when you look up at him he is holding a hand out to you.
“I’ll help you. You won’t fall.”
Any other day you’d think he is plotting against you, that he would get you to trust him and the trip you the first chance he got, but not this time. He looks and sounds genuine and as you take his hand, you put way too much trust into them than you would have ever allowed yourself to.
You hold onto him with both hands and he keeps you steady as you finally attempt to push yourself up from the edge of the pier. Your knees wobble the moment your weight is on the blades and you instantly feel yourself losing balance, but Harry’s hands wrap around your arms and keep you from falling.
“It’s okay. Relax a bit, you’ll find your balance.” He encourages you and it’s almost strange to hear him so supportive of anything you’re doing, but not breaking your neck keeps you too busy to care about his random act of kindness.
“Try to move forward.”
“I can’t,” you protest without even trying.
“You can, just relax.”
“Don’t tell me to relax, it’s not gonna help me relax!”
“Y/N, you’re gonna have a panic attack if you don’t relax,” he warns you and you realize how fast you’re breathing and all your blood is being pumped into your head.
“I-I can’t, I can’t do this, I–”
“Y/N, look at me!” His hands snap to your shoulders and you grab onto his biceps as you look him in the eyes while your chest is still heaving. “I’ve got you, okay? You’re not going to fall. I’m holding you, I promise.”
Focusing on his words you finally forget about your fears and instead, you’re now trying to figure out where this version of Harry came from and why he hid from you all along.
You’re not one to trust people that easily, but just from this one promise he made, you let go of all your doubts and hesitation.
“Okay,” you breathe out. Harry nods and his hands slowly slide lower until they rest on your waist.
“You knew how to skate, right? Before you broke your wrist.” You nod. “Alright, then it will all come back quickly.”
There’s a tiny smile hiding in the corners of his lips and your heart pitter-patters in your chest, but not because of the skating this time. His hands on you are not helping either, because for some reason, you feel heat radiating through the millions of layers you’re wearing where his hands are touching you.
What is happening?
“Okay, I’ll hold your hand and you just focus on moving forward, yeah?”
You nod and panic rises in your gut for a moment when his hands leave your shoulders, but then they instantly take your hands and you feel safe again.
Slowly you start moving, inching forward, your hands gripping Harry’s so tight, you’re afraid you might hurt him, but you’d never let go of him, not when you’re getting farther away from the pier.
“That’s it, you are doing great,” he encourages. “Try to move a bit less rigidly.”
“Easy to say that,” you breathe out shakily.
It takes time to loosen up even the tiniest bit and not grip Harry’s hand as if you wanted to crush his bones. But as you slowly move around the ice, led by him, you finally get more and more familiar with the feeling of sliding on the ice.
“See? It’s not that bad,” he smiles when you stop for a short break after circling back to the pier.
“I still fear for my life, but it’s bearable now,” you nod and he just chuckles.
It looks good on him. His smile is warm and welcoming, it’s a shame it took you so long to see it. You definitely prefer this version of him.
“Honey, it’s so lovely to see you on the ice!” Anne slides over to you with ease, holding a cup of something warm, probably hot chocolate.
“Well, it’s not quite my element,” you let out an awkward chuckle.
“You’re doing just fine. Besides, you just snatched up the best skater in town.” Winking, she bumps her hip against Harry’s. Your puzzled look urges her to elaborate. “Harry took over coaching the boys’ hockey team last year, the kids adore him!”
Instantly, you imagine Harry dealing with a bunch of cute kids, cheering on them, teaching them, making them laugh… The image is actually moving something inside you that’s been buried somewhere deep for a while now.
“Y/N, how are things coming together? Everyone is buzzing for the big opening!” Anne does a little dance that makes you laugh, but at the same time, something changes in Harry.
“Um, it’s going okay. Not how I planned, but I’ll manage.”
“I’m sure everything will fall into place perfectly. And if you need any help just let us know!” She turns to Harry, looking for validation that he is open to lending you a helping hand as well, but his reaction is not quite what she was expecting, probably.
“Sorry, I gotta go now,” Harry mumbles quickly, his gaze obviously avoiding you or his mother and he skates away so fast you just blink after him.
“What’s gotten into this boy?” Anne huffs, but she lets go of it fast, starts chatting about something you don’t quite catch, because you just stare after Harry, watching him slalom between the skaters so fast it’s almost aggressive.
And once again, you feel like you’re back where you began. He hates you and you have no idea what you did against him.
Theoretically, opening Nana’s two weeks before Christmas was a great idea, because you imagined all the baked goods people would order for the holidays, you knew it would be a great kick start.
Realistically, it means that now you have to do the last touch ups in the harsh winter that’s as cold as the North Pole. Or at least that’s how you imagine the North Pole.
It’s been non stop snowing for the past three days, the fresh, soft looking snow is now covering every bit of Eroda’s breathtaking view and though it’s very festive and nice to look at it from a warm room with something hot to drink, it’s not as relaxing when you’re still working on the bakery, doing the last bits of decorating and starting the first batches of baked goods, because in 24 hours, Nana’s is officially opening its front door to the public.
You’ve been here since five in the morning, now it’s four in the afternoon but it’s almost entirely pitch dark outside so it feels like it’s nearing ten. The place is not a mess anymore, but the kitchen is, there’s all kinds of dough everywhere, you’re doing everything you can now so there’s less tomorrow, but even with all the work tonight you’ll be here at five in the morning again tomorrow.
It’s been hours since the last time you looked out the window, so it fully goes over your head how heavy the snowfall has gotten lately, chasing home every soul from the streets. While you’re covered in flour and keep muttering Nana’s recipes to make sure everything is measured right, there is one more person out there who is still not home, battling the weather.
Harry has been going around town all day, helping out the elderly with either delivering groceries, or repairing the heating, whatever they needed a helping hand with. He’s usually the person one calls in Eroda when something needs to be fixed.
The roads are now not quite safe to be driving around, but with his jeep he’ll be able to get home just before it gets too bad. Or so the thought, but that is until he drives by the bakery and sees the lights on.
At first he keeps driving, telling himself it’s not his business. But the farther he gets the guiltier he feels and then he turns the car around.
You’re too busy to hear the knocking at first, but then you hear it again and know it wasn’t just in your head. Rushing out of the kitchen you stop in front of the door, because through the glass you make out Harry standing there, the snow already covering the top of his head as if he’s been out there for hours.
“It’s freezing out here, Y/N! Would be nice if you let me in!” he shouts through the glass and you finally snap out of your surprise, unlock the door and Harry practically runs inside.
“What are you doing here?” You watch him shake the snow off of him and finally turn towards you. For a moment you forget about how you parted ways at the skating, how cold he turned out of the blue after helping you.
“Funny, I wanted to ask you the same thing. There’s a snowstorm out there, you won’t be able to get home if you stay here!”
“Are you kidding me? I’m opening tomorrow, I have a million things to finish!”
“So you’re risking getting snowed in? Were you planning to sleep here or something?”
“Maybe! Yeah! I need to get a ton of dough ready and I still haven’t put up the tinker lights and I need to clean up…”
Harry stares at you with such a vivid look, you expect him to start screaming at you or something. But he just keeps staring until he finally breaks.
“Okay, where are the lights and where do you want them?”
“What?”
“You’ll spend the night here if you do everything alone. I’ll help and hopefully we’ll be able to leave when it’s all done.”
Now it’s your turn to stare at him as he is looking around, searching for the lights to start working, but you can’t really believe he is about to help you out when he could be home by now. On the other hand, you could really use the help and maybe finish earlier than midnight, so after pushing your surprise to the side you start instructing him. While Harry works on the lights, you return to the kitchen.
To test out the dough for the croissants, the one thing you’re the most nervous about because it used to be Nana’s specialty, you decide to make a few and pop them in the oven while you do everything else.
It’s hard to believe you’re finally at this point, so close to the opening, turning your biggest dream into reality. You wish Nana would be here with you today.
“Lights are done.”
Harry interrupts your thoughts and you wipe your floury hands into your apron before following him out of the kitchen to see the work he did.
“Oh my God, this looks perfect!” you gasp, seeing all the tinker lights run along the ceiling and walls, lighting up the place like magic.
Harry just nods, pressing his lips together, as if it was nothing.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“Yeah, I have a few pictures I want to hang up and then it’s all done–” The timer in the kitchen goes off, letting you know the croissants are done. “Let me take them out and then I’ll show you where I want them.”
You rush back to the kitchen and take the fresh, steaming croissants out of the oven, completely missing that Harry has followed you and he is now watching you curiously as you take the baked goods off the tray one by one.
“That smells like…” he speaks up, but the words die on his tongue and you just smile, placing one onto a plate, holding it out for him.
“Here, try it.”
He hesitates, but takes the plate at last. Though it’s still hot and he should definitely wait a bit, it’s hard to resist, you know that. You watch him take a tentative bite and wait for his reaction as if he is about to tell you your future.
“So? How is it?”
“It’s… it’s really… good. Really good.”
It’s obvious he is having a hard time admitting you did something right, but his face says it all. You just don’t understand why he looks kind of puzzled, but you think it’s just because he didn’t expect it to be this good.
“I bet the croissants will be the bestsellers,” you chuckle as Harry takes bite after bite until it’s all gone. He devoured it so fast it’s incredible. You couldn’t help but focus on his pink lips while he ate and those tiny sounds he let slip… they surely planted some thoughts into your head, thoughts you shouldn’t be thinking of when it comes to Harry.
“Come on, I’ll show you the pictures.” It’s your attempt to clear your mind.
You walk out and grab the box that holds all the framed pictures you want to hang on the walls, of course, all of them feature Nana.
“Okay, so I thought a few could go over here, and then on that wall as well, and these, I want them behind the counter…” You start explaining your vision, but when you turn around you see that he is staring at a photo in shock. “Harry? What’s wrong?”
You step closer and see that it’s the photo that was taken on your tenth birthday. You’re holding up one of the cupcakes Nana made just for you and she is standing behind you, with her hands on your shoulders. It’s a fond memory, one of your favorite birthdays you ever had.
“Oh, is it the dungarees?” you ask, pointing at your outfit. “I wasn’t quite the fashion icon back then,” you chuckle.
“No, it’s– who’s this?” he asks, pointing at Nana. You give him a puzzled look, because it’s not rocket science to figure out who the woman in the picture is.
“That’s Nana, obviously.”
“But as in… your grandma?” He finally looks up at you and his face is frantic, as if he is solving a lifelong mystery.
“Of course, Harry, what is goin–”
“Y/N, Nana was your grandma?”
“Yes!” you laugh in confusion. “Of course she was, that’s why I’m opening a bakery under her name with all her recipes she taught me!”
You can’t read the look on Harry’s face as he puts the photo back into the box and then starts walking around with his hands on his hips.
“Why do you look like you just learned you were adopted or something?”
“Y/N, I didn’t… I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“That you’re… Nana’s granddaughter. I had no clue.” He runs a hand through his hair and you try your best not to stare at how his bicep flexes in the movement.
“What? Harry, why else would I be opening a bakery, named Nana’s right here, out of every possible place on Earth?”
“I don’t know!” he admits, throwing his hands into the air. “That’s why I… Okay, this is why I hated the idea so much. Because I knew Nana, I loved her! She was like… my grandma too! And I thought you just chose this name for fun!”
“Are you kidding me?” you huff in disbelief.
“I felt like you were ruining her memory, that’s why I was so against this place. I had zero clue that you are actually… related to her.”
“Oh my God, Harry!” There’s nothing else you can do other than just… laughing. This whole situation feels oddly comical, like something that only happens in movies.
“I know, I’m sorry!” He exhales sharply and you truly see the regret on his face. “I was such a dick.”
“Yes you were!” you laugh in agreement.
“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”
“Well, now at least I know why you were my biggest hater all along.”
“Not anymore!” He holds up his hands and finally breaks a smile that looks so fucking handsome, it makes you forget about everything in a second.
Turning to the side he stares out the window for a moment before looking back at you.
“The snowing has stopped, let’s wrap things up and go home, alright? Big day tomorrow.”
You both go back to work, Harry finishes quite fast with the pictures so then he helps you clean up in the kitchen and you notice how obviously different the vibes are now. There’s no trace of his usual hostile behavior, in fact he is so open as he asks you about Nana and how the idea of the bakery came. Then he tells you about her as well, how he has known him for so long and after the passing of his stepdad Nana helped him through the toughest time of his life. You’re surprised the two of you never met when you were visiting, but you believe in faith and it must be because it wasn’t the right time.
It’s almost ten by the time you’re locking up while Harry is scraping the snow off his jeep. It’s rather eerie to see the town so empty, but it’s also pretty, the untouched snow covering every inch of the scenery.
“Thanks for the help. And the drive home,” you say when he has parked in front of your house.
“I’ll pick you up in the morning as well.”
“What? There’s no need, Harry–”
“Just accept the help,” he flashes you a crooked smile. “I have a lot to make up for.”
“What if I say you’re forgiven?”
“Then I’ll do it because I want to spend time with you.”
His answer comes so fast and honest, you can’t mask the surprise on your face as you stare at each other in the dark car.
“Um, alright then. See you in the morning.”
“Good night. Y/N.”
You fumble with the belt and then climb out of the car, still feeling kind of giddy from his words. He waits for you to get to the front door and you wave at him before walking in. Through the closed door you hear the engine roar and he drives away, leaving you with quite a lot to digest.
Never in a million years did you imagine the opening of Nana’s to be like this. The small bakery is full to the brim, there are people everywhere, you haven’t stopped thanking everyone for the love and support and your heart leaps in your chest every time you hear someone talk about your beloved grandma. All the pastries are selling well, but as expected, the croissants are the biggest hit.
But it’s not just the opening that has you smiling ear to ear.
Harry did show up early in the morning and he’s been helping you out all day as if he was getting paid for his work. In the kitchen, at the counter or by the tables, he’s been a one person army and your hero. You couldn’t have done it without him.
You have just a couple of seconds to breathe between two customers and you peek over the crowd, spotting him right away by the table his mom and her friends occupy. He just made them laugh and he’s basking in their attention as he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up, revealing his tattooed arms.
Fuck, he looks so good, it’s criminal.
Now that he is not an asshole to you anymore, it’s pretty hard not to notice everything you’ve been trying to ignore about him. His charming dimples, his bouncy curls, the way he throws his head back when he laughs, how his nose moves when he talks, they was his hips sway when he’s walking… there is not one inch on the man you can critique.
The situation would be a lot worse if it was one-sided, but it appears that Harry is just as keen on being around you, always touching your lower back when he walks behind you, or brushing your arm to get your attention.
“I’m seriously writing you a paycheck when it’s over,” you tell him when he returns behind the counter grabbing some cinnamon rolls to bring to the ladies by the window.
“I thought that we were already over this, Y/N,” he smirks and you bite into your bottom lip as you turn back to the customer in front of you.
It kind of goes by in a blur, there’s so much happening, you’re always on the move and before you could even process the events, the day is over and Nana’s is closing for the first time. After the constant crowd, it’s weird to see the place empty again, but seeing that everything has sold, it finally settles in your mind: you did it.
As you turn the sign on the door your eyes slide over to the picture on the right. It was taken in Nana’s kitchen, you were about six or seven, the two of you are photographed from behind as you stand on a stool, next to Nana at the counter while she is teaching you how to make bread. The memory still lives vividly in your mind even though it’s been over two decades.
“She would be so proud of you.”
Turning around you find Harry behind you with a soft smile on his lips, his eyes on the photo at first, then they move to you and your heart skips a beat.
“You think so?”
“I know so,” he chuckles.
“So, I was serious. I owe you a paycheck after today.”
He rolls his eyes before arching an eyebrow at you.
“And I was serious when I said I don’t want anything in return.”
“You’ve been here since six, Harry!” you huff out a laugh. “I would feel so bad if you just went home without anything.”
He stares at you for long moments and you start to think he’ll just let you suffer with your guilt, but then he speaks up.
“Go on a date with me then.”
You suck on your breath as your eyes lock with his.
“What?” you whisper.
“Go on a date with me, Y/N. Will you?”
“I-If you’re still trying to make up for–” you start, but he cuts you off.
“I’m not. I told you, I want to spend time with you.”
You blink at him once, twice, as if you’re waiting for him to say it was just a joke, but he stands his ground with a serious look.
“Are you gonna leave me hanging?” he smirks, snapping you out of your haze.
“Yes–I mean, yes to the date!” you shake your head, clearing up your answer.
“I was afraid you hated me too much to give me a chance,” he breathes out a shaky laugh.
“I never hated you, I was just confused. You were the one who hated me.”
“I couldn’t hate you, Y/N. And believe me, I tried.” You both laugh at his words. “I was frustrated, because I wanted to hate you and this place so badly, but still… I was drawn to you.”
“You were?” you ask, your voice barely more than just a whisper.
“You have no idea how much,” he admits with a soft smile, stepping closer to you. “When we were skating, I totally forgot about everything and just wanted to hold your hand and help you. It was like a slap across my face when mum brought the opening up and I remembered I was supposed to hate you,” he admits with a chuckle and e inches even closer. “I’m glad I don’t have to try to hate you anymore.”
“I’m glad too.”
He is right in front of you, his face only inches away from yours and you suck on your breath when he reaches up and takes your chin between his index finger and thumb, angling your head further up so your lips are now perfectly lined up with his.
His eyes move down to your mouth, then up to meet your gaze and even without words you know he is asking for your permission to kiss you. You push closer and he is quick to close the distance and press his lips against yours.
You’d be lying if you said you never imagined what it would be like to kiss Harry. Because you did, several times. But nothing compares to having him wrapped around you, his lips so soft yet rough against yours at the same time as he kisses you over and over again while you’re fisting the collar of his shirt so tight your fingers are turning white.
Maybe you kiss for hours, or maybe it’s just minutes, you have no clue, but when he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, you just know your life is about to turn upside down.
“Changed my mind,” he speaks up at last.
“Huh?”
“About the payment.”
His words sink in slowly and your eyebrows rise.
“Oh.” Harry laughs at your reaction.
“I want my payment in kisses,” he then says with the cheesiest smile you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“That could be arranged,” you breathe out when you finally get what he was talking about and grabbing the back of his neck you pull him in for another one.
And another one.
And some more.
And just like that Nana somehow brought another wonderful thing into your life, even though she is not here anymore.
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
#harry#styles#harry styles#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fanfic#harry styles oneshot#harry styles one shot#harry styles fluff#harry styles x you#harry styles x y/n#harry styles x reader#harry styles blurb
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Walter to the Rescue
Gif not mine it belongs to @alphinias
After a ride in the woods late at night you wind up getting lost and to the readers surprise Cole actually answers your call.
Tag list - @cognacdelights
Kicking my horse in the belly to go faster with the wind running through my hair that I left completely loose. This wasn’t the first time I had taken one of the Walter family's horses to clear my head from a day of high school. It all could be a lot especially when everyone in this town knows you have a close family relationship with the Walter kids. Because it only results in half the school thinking you're sleeping with some of them. “Woah boy. Easy now.”
My horse begins making some noise in protest hearing some thunder off in the distance. I knew that horses could get spooked easy but I wasn't too worried about it. Alex had taught me how to keep your cool on them. Looking around at the treeline the leaves have already begun changing colors making it really beautiful. “Ah!” I screamed suddenly when lighting hit the ground in front of me and that caused my horse to whine and throw me off its back.
“Ow! No wait…” I called out to my horse but he was already far off into the treeline. Running a hand through my hair I sighed seeing that the sky was getting darker meaning there was a storm coming. Digging inside my jacket pocket I drew out my phone dialing the house phone getting no answer. “Seriously a house full of that many people and nobody hears the phone!”
I guess I couldn't blame them for not answering. That house is always loud and crazy no matter what time of day. Plus now that Jackie from New York had moved in things got more complicated. Tapping my knees in thought I tried to decide who would answer my call. Alex was busy with Jackie, Parker was probably outside playing with Benny. Will was working tonight selling houses. Jordan, Nathan, Lee, Isaac and Danny didn't drive. So that left me in the hands of the most popular guy in town who was known for hooking up with multiple girls Cole. Lifting my head up to the sky I felt heavy rain coming down where I scrambled to my feet but collapsed when I felt a sharp pain in my left ankle. “Shit!...guess he's my only choice now.”
It wasn't that I hated the guy. I just hated the reputation he had made for himself. The rain came pouring down where I grunted, forcing myself to stand up. I hopped over to the treeline to get some coverage from the storm. The wind was picking up, shaking everything so I dialed his number. “Pick up, pick up.”
“What's going on, Y/n?” His voice came through the phone.
“Don't make fun of me but I'm lost.” I stated.
He chuckled at me. “How did little woodlen girl get lost?”
“Cole, I'm not in the mood for teasing right now.” I spat back.
The former star football player still was laughing on the other end. “I’m sorry I just can’t believe girl who hunts with her father managed to get lost on our property. I mean I never thought I’d see the day from someone like you.”
“Cole, I am currently stuck out in a storm and called you for help so can you take this seriously please!” I raised my voice pulling the hood of my jacket over my head shivering when the wind blew harshly against me.
Finally to my surprise he came to his senses responding back to me. “Alright I’ll come get you.” He hung up the call and I was forced to listen and watch the storm get worse for an hour or so.
Burying my face into my knees my body was shaking from the cold and the fact that my clothes were soaked head to toe. I heard a vehicle engine getting closer in my direction and it pulled to a stop showing me it was Cole’s truck he was usually working on in the barn. The drivers door flung opened and quickly shut where I saw someone running towards me with a jacket in their hands. “Cole?”
“One knight in shining armor, woodland girl.” He declared dropping down on a knee, draping the jacket over my shoulders.
I glared up into his green eyes seeing his blonde hair sticking to his forehead. “Can you please call me by my actual name for once?”
“Maybe someday. Come on let's get out of the cold before we both get frost bite.” He offered me his hands tugging me to stand.
“Argh!” I winced, dropping down on my other knee after my injured ankle.
Cole was quick on his reflectances sweeping me up bridal style into his muscular arms. “Looks like you needed a better horse riding teacher than Alex huh?”
“Let’s not talk about it right now.” I said feeling embarrassed enough as is. He helped me into the passenger seat and we drove home. He carried me upstairs and sat me down on the edge of his bed in his bedroom.
He searched around in the closet grabbing himself a change of clothes. Then he tossed me one of his blue tea shirts and some shorts. “Here I can help you if you need it.”
“Turn around first.” I instructed him, blushing since I haven't even kissed anyone before. He did as told giving me the chance to slip my wet shirt for his and shrugging off my jeans until I thought about getting the shorts on. I pulled them up as much as I could before getting his attention. “Cole, I can’t get them up without standing on my foot.”
He looks over his shoulder coming back to me moving his hands down to the left side telling me. “Lift your foot for me.” I lifted my foot and he shrugged it up then helping me sit back down on the bed so I could do the same to my right leg without his assistance.
“Thanks, Cole.” I whispered where he stands in front of me letting silence fill the room. I avoided his gaze, not sure of what to say until I shut my eyes to ask the question. “So did you have to skip a hookup with Erin to come rescue me?”
He tilted his head to the side. “Why would you care if I did. You have a crush on me or something, woodland girl?”
“Y/n, you know my name so use it.” I corrected him. “And even if I did, you don't have relationships. I wouldn't want to be another girl tricked by The Cole Effect.”
He raised a brow at my words. “Oh yeah. What makes you think you'd just be another girl I hook up with?”
“Like I said everyone at school knows you don't do real boyfriend girlfriend relationships. You do hook ups and my mother saw it before I did but I refuse to let my feelings for you lead me down that path since you can't possibly feel the same way about me as I do you.” I accidentally admitted without realizing it to him.
Cole stared blankly at me. “You don't think I feel the same?”
“If you did, you have a funny way of showing it.” Shrugging my shoulders I lowered my gaze down from his green orbs.
Cole simply replied then closed the gap between us. “Is this enough of an effort for ya.” He cupped my face in his hands, crashing his lips down onto mine.
I gasped in shock and awe that the famous Cole Walter was kissing me. He was kissing me, the girl that wasn’t popular like he was. The girl that was just a friend of the family but still no one special. “Cole…I’ve never….never done anything like this.” I mumbled tugging on his blonde locks deepening the kiss. He moaned gently pushing me down onto the mattress and he climbed over top of me never breaking the heated kiss until we needed air.
“I’m not doing this to just have a hook up with you, Y/n. I’m not good with commitment but I do actually care about you.” He breathed out holding himself up by his hands on either side of me, blonde hair falling in front of his eyes and his eyes were focused on me.
Raising one hand up I tangled my fingers into his hair asking the question that was eating away at me now. “So what does that make us now, Cole Walter?”
“We can take this slow and figure it out as we go along, Y/n Woodland Girl L/n.” He smiled leaning down kissing me gently this time. I giggled wrapping my arms around his neck bringing him closer to me enjoying the kisses we shared.
Comments really appreciated ❤️
#cole x reader#cole walter#cole walter x reader#noah lalonde#my life with the walter boys#mlwtwb#netflix#jackie howard#alex walter#friends to lovers#lost in the woods#horse ranch#colewalteredit#Spotify
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Ultraviolence
pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!afab!reader
summary: thank god—a handsome stranger saves you from the grips of a pack of cruel, cruel men. unfortunately, said stranger, joel miller, is cut from the exact same cloth as the rest of them.
warnings: oh. boy. rough sex/smut (fem penetration, fingering, cum play if you squint) so 18+ only content; fem!afab!reader; raider!joel; canon typical violence; mentions of hair pulling/reader having long hair; light dacryphilia; age gap; pet names (baby, darlin’, sweetheart, girl); slapping, spanking, choking; !!!NONCON!!! (sexual violence/assault, coercion, allusions to more sexual abuse—Dead Dove, Do Not Eat y’all, protect yourselves).
word count: 4k+
no use of y/n in this fic
alright y’all!!! here is the non-con raider!joel fic!! stay tuned for the version coming out soon wherein Joel actually rescues the reader LOL join the taglist to be notified when I post it!!! y’all’s requests will quite legit be the death of me BUT this was fun to write so im not mad. this version is just purely depraved & Joel ‘Big Dick’ Miller is a mean mean man. wrote it pretty fast too so b nice 2 me.
love u all, sorry for searing your eyeballs:)
-em<3
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The stucco prickles and tears at the flushed skin of your cheek, a reminder that it’ll be winter soon. The birds are sure of it, and most of them managed to get away before the frost stood a chance of nipping them.
You didn’t.
After a few years of non-stop struggle, losing everything but your own life, you figured there were worse ways to go. At least you would be… well—you, in the end.
In whatever shape this man and his leering group of accomplices left you in.
“Against the wall,” and his voice had been the crack of a whip, snapping by your ear as electricity shot up and down your spine, as the tingling realization that the chase was over—the jig, up—settled into your bones. “Spread your fuckin’ legs.”
There were more hounds around… waiting.
Always waiting.
They’d already gotten to your old, tattered clothes. The brisk air bites at your exposed skin, but at least the cold would account for the violent shivers wracking your limbs. Even as the beast pins you to the side of the decrepit house, forces himself between your knees, your primary preoccupation is to stifle your fear.
They’d get everything else on display—but they would never get to see that.
When the screaming starts, those confused grunts, huffs, and squelches of a blade carving into flesh, you mostly commend your own imagination:
“I did it. I’m in my happy place. This will be quick, then.”
But then a rough, unfamiliar hand grabs hold of your naked waist, flipping you around, slamming your spine against the frosty stucco.
This is real.
And you bear witness to his carnage.
He painted the side of the house into a mosaic of inter-mingling blood, splattered like a Pollock against the grass, the wrinkled clothes and the rugged face of your salvation.
His eyes rake over your still-trembling body before he wrenches a red-coated knife—never breaking eye-contact—from the throat of the man you’d been at the mercy of just a few seconds ago.
Blood gushes up from the fatal wound, and you both watch the cruel scene, mesmerized. The attacker’s eyes dull, all evil dissipating from that once-ferocious gaze. The rescuer’s big, wide hands flip him over, stripping him of his stained beige jacket. Then, he carelessly kicks the lifeless form face-down onto the yellowing grass.
“Put it on.”
You uncross your arms, snatching the coat from the stranger’s extended hands. It doesn’t bother you, its belonging to him.
He’s dead; you get his coat.
A fair exchange.
He keeps an eye on you as he sorts through the pickings: a few strips of dried meat here, a loaded gun there (two bullets in the clip—you watch as he checks), and a few good blades, stashed inside pockets, bags, and down shirt-fronts.
The man straightens up.
Tall.
“Get in front of me,” his low baritone strikes you, causing your knees to concede to a slight wobble. “You run, you die. Got it?”
Texan.
Slowly, you nod, and a firm grip circles your wrist, tearing you from the wall.
“Walk.”
Your heart hammers—near deafening in your ears—as the stranger stalks behind you, directing your trembling movements with brusque, snapped commands.
Finally, the scattered orangey-red leaves begin to multiply, the domestic remnants of a past civilization thinning. The neighborhood opens into a field; large oaks and slouching willows shiver under the weak glare of the afternoon sun.
There’s a house up there. It seems to be in alright shape (some things are built tougher than others) and it’s certainly a step up from a few of the more… unsavory places the outbreak had led you to.
Nearing it, you take not of how much it resembles a barn-house. Red, pentagonal roof, and a big, wide, brown front door.
Gingerly stepping a foot on the cracked wood of the porch, you turn to face your rescuer, uncertainty tying slippery knots in your tummy.
Because there’s clamour coming from inside. There’s people in there.
The momentary hesitation allows you to get a good look at your rescuer: he’s greying and dark—mixed, likely, or just disposed to a stubborn tan—and probably in his mid forties. Probably handsome, too, if it weren’t for the resident cruel scowl deepening his apathetic expression, or the violence dancing in his eyes.
A raise of his eyebrows.
“I tell you to stop?” He nods towards the looming house. “Move.”
But… you don’t.
“Are you gonna kill me?” and you’re downright shocked by the strength—the resignation—of your tone, the way the question comes out so matter-of-fact.
That sparse mustache crinkles in the corners, teasing into something wicked. “You want me to?”
“No.”
“So get movin’, then.”
That left little room for debate.
So, you turn, fingers and knees shaking with anxious anticipation. He cuts in front of you at the last minute, shoving the front door open with his knife at his side—for you or for something else, you’re not entirely certain.
He pulls you into the foyer by your forearm; to your great dismay, you’re faced with an entire group of middle-aged men. Killers—for sure—leering at you with that same starved, animalistic look your rescuer had fixed you with.
Then, he tosses the bag on the floor.
“Found ‘em by the school. Decent haul.”
Their eyes tilt to your shuddering frame, dwarfed by the jacket weighing down your shoulders. One of them looks strangely familiar, proud features reminding you of something else you were afraid of. “No shit, huh,” he commends, “Nice work, Joel.”
Joel.
As the shaggy-haired man speaks, his voice strikes familial resemblance, and it dawns on you. Your rescuer’s brother, or at the very least a cousin.
And what he says is a clearly marked taunt. That much is clear. Uttered with the kind of cruel camaraderie which collected on the tongues of men who committed acts of violence together.
Who hunted together.
And it’s obvious you’re not being rescued. Just… reclaimed. Redistributed.
Fuck.
Another voice joins the mix. “How much you think y’could get for her?”
Joel’s profile turns, harsh, brutal lines forming as he assesses you. “Depends,” and then—ohmothermary—he smirks.
“Gonna have to test her out first.”
A few snickers.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
You’re trapped with nowhere to go, once again surrounded by a gaggle of soulless monsters. Fear grips you, but thankfully, it’s muted, now, having been mostly expended during the harrowing events of the morning.
Just an hour ago, pressed to the side of an abandoned house, you’d allowed yourself to give up.
So, it feels easy—natural—settling back into that rhythm.
To submit to your inevitable, violent fate.
Joel’s voice cuts through the clamour of your racing thoughts. “Upstairs, the room with the open door. Go.”
Eyes glued to the floor, you put one foot in front of the other, your insides twisting and turning inside your core. Fuck, you can feel the pairs of eyes following you with every step you take. The stairs creak as your weight presses into them, squealing like wounded prey.
“N’ take that fuckin’ jacket off,” Joel calls after you, the echoes of his booming voice and the group’s degrading laughter chasing you all the way up into the room—the one with the open door.
And it’s nice, surprisingly. Dusty, admittedly, and clearly having belonged to someone else—a long, long time ago—but the bed is made, the window lets the light in, and the walls remind you of cinnamon.
No, this wouldn’t be the worst prison. Or the worst place to die. It’s a sure-fire step up from the gutter between two dilapidated houses.
You keep the jacket on, shivering under its weight. Even as you hear footsteps climbing the stairs, even as the more rational, civilized side of your mind urges you to accede to your (non)rescuer’s every command.
The conversation downstairs dies off just as Joel rounds the corner, appearing in the doorway—a giant. Though your stomach lurches, and though your legs feel like putty, you hold your ground.
“I’ll fight, you know,” you hiss, watching him seal off the entrance to the room behind him. His flannel has droplets of blood on the collar—reminders of your previous captor—would your other attacker have been a better option? Who’d be more merciful to your quivering body?
You charge your voice with every last modicum of strength at your disposal. “I’ll fight.”
He turns, smirking softly at your clenched fists. “S’good, sweetheart. I like a little fight.” He stalks towards you, swiping his thumb along the plushness of his bottom lip, his intimidating presence forcing your back to meet the flat hardness of the wall behind you.
So much for fighting.
There’s nothing living in his eyes as he says it—nothing save the roiling flames of hunger: “You see those guys downstairs?”
You glare up at him, trying not to notice the alluring hook of his nose, or the way your body works against you, responding to the earthy smell of him.
Then, you nod, wordlessly.
“Did you count ‘em?” He splays a hand beside your head, using one hand to pry your arms uncrossed.
Again, you nod. “How many?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft.
“Five.” Breathless.
“S’right, sweetheart. Ever had your lil’ holes stuffed by five guys at once?”
A swallow, and your voice cracks when you’re finally able to put it to use. “No.”
He pries your elbows to your sides, pulling the beige fabric open, revealing the torn remains of your underwear.
It’s almost a croon, feigned concern underpinning his low tone. “You wanna see what it’s like?” He drinks in the sight of your bare chest, almost groaning at the sight of your naked front.
It’s not cold anymore; no, suddenly you’re very hot.
“No, please, no.”
He slips the coat off of your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. He assesses you once more: studying every square inch of your skin under his shadowed eyes.
“M’only gonna say this once, sweetheart.” All that fake-gentleness fades from his tone, replaced by the sadistic, authoritative timbre he’d first greeted you with. “I need you to be very careful.”
You’re frozen—all that fight, it drains out of you, captivated by the raider’s looming form, his mesmerizing speech.
“You’re alone, yeah?” A nod, which he acknowledges, trailing a hand up the length of your waist. “S’what I thought. N’ the way I found you today? That’s a best-case-scenario for a girl like you, out here on your own.”
He drags a finger up the centre of your breast, skilled fingertips just barely brushing the peaked nipple. You lean into his touch—the near imperceptible arch of your back doesn’t go unnoticed, and you kick yourself internally as the corners of his lips twitch up.
Still, the raider ignores your trembling.
“You’re mine, now,” he continues, egged on by your involuntary movement. “Means you’re gonna be a good girl n’ do as I say, n’ I’ll make sure I’m the only man who touches you.” His big hand drops to his heavy silver buckle, and the clearly defined, bulging lines underneath it have your heart clawing out of your chest. Joel senses your fear—and it only makes him harder. “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine, y’know? But you try anything—you step outta line—I’ll throw you to my guys downstairs.”
His hand finds your throat, hunger and warning beating to the same rhythm in his gaze. “I have no problem watching.” He gives your larynx a squeeze, multitasking as he pulls the strap of his belt through the worn loops of his denim. “Understood?”
You have no words left, shaking from head to toe as the reality of the situation finally settles in.
As he works the intimidating weight of his cock out of his jeans.
A huff. Joel flips you over, impatient, pressing your scraped up cheek to the cinnamon-brown of the wall.
Déjà vù.
Your knees are separated by his own, and his weight flattens you. He wastes no time: lining himself up, his tip separates your folds. Resistance is futile—with one hand, he holds your thighs open—even as they try to press themselves closed, even as you whimper at the rough, male knuckles pressed to bruise on the insides of your legs.
Leaving his mark.
It’s not an option to simply take it. Joel forces you to participate in the sinful act: “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” he growls, gripping your chin indelicately. “You understand me, girl?”
A swallow and a flinch as you feel the head of his cock poke at your entrance. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”
“Yes, Joel,” he corrects. “Use my name. You’re mine now. Use my fuckin’ name.”
Tears prick the corners of your eyes at the promised savagery in his tone. Holding back a sob, you respond: “Yes, Joel.”
You watch his hand, large and capable, splaying out a mere inch away from the tip of your nose. “Good,” he commends. “Z’are the only fuckin’ words you know, from now on.”
His free hand slaps against your hip, yanking you down onto his hard length. Your hips buck up against his abdomen, responding to the pull of his fingertips, even as you cry out at the sting, the stretch. The raider tries to force himself between your walls—muttering a grunted “shit”—and thrusting up against your ass.
But you’re too tight, too tense, and your stubborn body refuses to open up for him. Finally listening to you.
“Relax,” he orders, surprisingly softly. He moves his hand from your hip to the apex of your thighs, rubbing rough circles against your clit. Fuck, how’d he find it so fast? You gasp at the feel of his fingertips against your most sensitive, touch-starved spot, hating yourself for the way his pressure makes you feel.
Because…
Because—fuck.
It feels… good. The man knows exactly what he’s doing—methodical in his ministrations, prepping you only enough to ensure his own eventual pleasure. “S’too tight, baby,” he breathes against your neck, “Need to loosen up for me, yeah?”
He’s not gentle. No part of it is gentle. Nonetheless, pleasure ripples through your centre and down your thighs as he effectively turns you on.
“Thaaaaaa’s right,” and his voice is mocking and taunting and degrading as he drags his digits away, grabbing and pulling at your breasts, instead. Feeling the involuntary release of your cunt, Joel finally pushes himself in, sheathing the long, thick length of his cock inside you.
“Need to show this pussy what it’s fuckin’ made for.”
A current of pain flutters up your cunt just as he fills it up to the brim. You can’t help it—your stoicism crumbles to dust—and a soft, scared, pained whimper tumbles from your lips.
And he groans at it, thrusting roughly, over and over again. And again. “Hurts, does it?”
His breath is hot against your ear, and despite the fear, the ancient instincts gripping your bones, telling you to run, run, run, fight, fight, fight—it’s… enticing.
Hot.
“It hurts.”
He laughs, low and dark, bringing his hands to circle your hips, steadying you as you stumble on your tip-toes.
“Cry about it.”
And he keeps on going, tearing you open. The way his girth touches every starved part of your insides leaves you wanting, even despite the sting of his fingernails biting into your hips, the tears and cuts stinging at your opening.
You hate yourself for it.
But you clench around him, stifling a pathetic moan.
God, no—I am not enjoying this.
He breathes another laugh. “Feelin’ full, baby? Tell me how good it feels, c’mon,” and your inhalations come in heaves as he pounds into you, delivering a harsh slap to the side of your hip, hard enough for your skin to ripple from the contact. “Do as I say.”
When you refuse to sate him, swallowing all of your little noises, Joel grips your throat, bringing your head slamming against his shoulder. Your back arches into a perfect crescent, spine contorting at his will. A gasped cry fans out against his salt-and-pepper jaw.
A sob—of fear, of frustration, of reluctant pleasure. “You’re evil.”
The grip on your throat tightens, and he looses another laugh, squeezing your skin, muscles, and tendons oh-so-tight.
You’d be wrecked, bruised—branded—come sunrise.
“Yeah?” He groans, cock slamming up into your very guts.
“M-mhmm—” and the saltwater tears start pouring, trailing glistening slopes down your cheeks in long, long lines. Distantly, you hear his answer—“Yeah, well, you’re wet”—as those silver droplets keep on falling. Where they come from, you aren’t certain; of course, the terror, the physical torture, and the frustration at your entrapment contribute to the mess under your eyes.
But that warmth… the unbridled desire radiating between your thighs… that wasn’t helping, either.
“Fuuuuck,” he groans, muttering another “S’it—s’right,” and releasing your throat to tilt your head up to face him. He drinks in his creation, the ruined sight of your tear-stricken face, and his cock swells between your beaten walls. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ it from me—cryin’ like your lil’ pussy ain’t desperate for this.”
Joel smiles when you sob.
It goes on for a while. He doesn’t tire quickly, bringing you right up to the edge of reluctant ecstasy before you remind yourself of the hatred you owed the man fucking into you. You get used to the sound of his hips snapping against your skin, your cries mingling with his gravelly, low grunts. It’s a dirty, depraved symphony—orchestrated by the monster between your thighs.
You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips when he finally, finally brings his fingers back down between your legs. He grunts in approval, barely grazing the length of your folds, pressing his thumb into the delicate flesh of your thigh, instead. “Dirty lil’ girl—fuckin’ dyin’ to be an old man’s whore, z’that it?” and he doesn’t even touch you, focussed on his own pleasure, but the proximity alone is enough to have you wrecked.
And you just can’t help it: “J-joel—”
“Y’know,” he chuckles, slightly out of breath, slowing his strokes to address your wanton whine, “You’re gonna make such a good lil’ fuck-toy, baby, f’you keep makin’ those pretty lil’ noises for me.”
The reality of the situation comes barrelling down on you as he acknowledges—praises—your enjoyment of his torture.
This man… this man was cruel. He was hurting you, and enjoying it.
You struggle against him, a pathetic show of weakness. Joel holds you in place effortlessly, arching your back further, keeping your hips preened back to receive the harsh thrusts he delivers to your torn, ruined cunt. “Where you goin’?” He laughs at your pathetic attempt at resistance, grips tightening. “Thought we were havin’ fun, baby—don’t it feel good?”
And he quickens again, slamming into every needy spot inside you. His breaths grow shallow, as rough as his hands and the ferocity of this punishment.
“No,” you manage, fingernails digging into his forearm.
He tuts, the vocal click constricted with lust, and his hand travels the length of you, settling against that aching bud between your thighs. “Fuckin’ liar.”
He presses down, proving his point. Your entire body tenses as pleasure ripples through you—despite your best efforts, climax crests through your core, threatening to implode within you. Joel hums, smirking when he feels your legs parting even wider.
“S’mine now, alright? You’re mine now.” He crams every inch of his cock up inside you, pulling you flush against his chest. “S’okay to come for me—s’okay, baby, I want you to—s’fuckin’ right, let go for me, baby—” and his crooning takes you over the edge.
Christ, it feels so good.
You clench around him, high-pitched pleas and moans tumbling from your lips, his own pair dragging down the swoop of your ear. In that split second, Joel—the devil at your back—is your favourite thing in the world: your hero, your haven, your God. Fuck, you could just kiss him, marry him, fuck him over and over and over and over—
A hand clamps over your mouth during those brief, blissful moments; the man practically bounces you up and down the length of him, muffling the cries of pain and pleasure tearing from your sore throat against the rough skin of his palm. He groans inside your ear—a stammered, sinful “fuuuck”—and then he’s spilling his seed inside you, shoving it impossibly deep as those quick, harsh strokes stutter and slow.
You come to, waking up from your pleasure-drunk daze. Before you get the opportunity to wriggle away from him, the monster flips you over again, slamming your shoulders to the wall. With his forearm barring your chest, and despite your fear and ire—somehow, all you can think about is the fact that he’s not as out of breath as he really should be (given his age and, of course, what he’d just done to you).
Joel leaks out of you. His cum paints masterpieces down your legs.
He slides his free hand down the length of his cock, collecting the last bits of slick clinging to him and not dripping out of you. The intermingling juices are brought to the roundness of your breasts—the raider slathers your sore peaks with his own spend.
“Nobody’s gonna fuck with you—but that means you’re Joel’s girl. Hear me?” With your head bowed, you glare up at him through silver-lined spider lashes, shame beating at your cheeks. When you hum your acknowledging “uh-huh,” the stranger continues on, gripping your jaw to angle your gaze up: “Means you listen—you-you don’t fuckin’ try me—n’ you take everything I give you, every fuckin’ time. Understand?” He tucks his softening length back in his pants, dark eyes dancing with satisfaction as he leers at your destroyed form.
When you don’t respond, he brings the back of his punishing hand colliding with the side of your face.
Something between a squeal and a gasp tumbles from your lips; Joel catches it, placing the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, pressing down. Your cheek stings from his harsh slap, delivered on top of the scrapes and wounds a different cruel man had left upon your skin.
“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby, but I will f’I have to,” and he’s earnest, commanding and pleading at once. “You gotta answer me.”
Slowly, you croak out a timid, “Yes,” and an “I understand,” followed by a final “Joel.”
Nodding, he straightens, the violence in his gaze fading just minutely. When he lets go, you stagger—the raider senses the instability of your knees, reflexively snaking a steadying arm around your waist.
You’re not sure where the impulse comes from. Perhaps it’s exhaustion, the aftermath of your orgasm, or maybe it’s just a sick, twisted desire to sink into something beyond your body—either way, you respond to Joel’s support by throwing your arms around his neck.
And he responds by lifting you, walking you over to the bed, and tossing you down on the sheets. Awakening into reality, you scamper back, grabbing and yanking at the surrounding bedding in a desperate attempt to cover yourself.
But Joel pays you no mind.
Having had his way, he’s through with you—for now. Nonchalantly, apathetically, he runs a hand through his hair, tracing heavy steps towards the door.
“Lock the door when I leave,” he instructs, but his tone is soft… possessive and commanding, yes, but… caring. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
He waits for your show of understanding, your near imperceptible nod.
Then, he sighs, yanking on the handle and giving you his final address over a pair of creaky, squeaky, rusted hinges. “Try to sleep, sweetheart—got a long night ahead of you.” Chuckling to himself, he leaves the sanctuary of the room.
All you can hear as your body grows heavy and warm, travelling somewhere far, far beyond this violent world are the echoes of male laughter down the hall, and a familiar, satisfied, gravelly voice:
“Not worth much, now. Might just fuckin’ keep her.”
And you slip away, dreaming of belt buckles, blood-stained collars, and the lung-squeezing heat of the setting Texan sun.
—
He used to call me DN
That stood for deadly nightshade
'Cause I was filled with poison
But blessed with beauty and rage
Jim told me that
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
Jim brought me back
Reminding me of when we were kids
With his ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
I can hear sirens, sirens
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
I can hear violins, violins
Give me all of that ultraviolence
He used to call me poison
Like I was poison ivy
I could've died right then
'Cause he was right beside me
Jim raised me up
He hurt me but it felt like true love
Jim taught me that
Loving him was never enough
With his ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
I can hear sirens, sirens
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
I can hear violins, violins
Give me all of that ultraviolence
We can go back to New York
Loving you was really hard
We could go back to Woodstock
Where they don't know who we are
Heaven is on earth
I would do anything for you, babe
Blessed is this union
Crying tears of gold, like lemonade
I love you the first time
I love you the last time
Yo soy la princesa, comprende mis white lines
'Cause I'm your jazz singer
And you're my cult leader
I love you forever
I love you forever
With his ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
I can hear sirens, sirens
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
I can hear violins, violins
Give me all of that ultraviolence
—
TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @sallymilkweed @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @ayehomo @dzaga890 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0
TAGS WILL CONTINUE IN A REBLOG (there are simply too many of you & I don’t want this post to crash <3)
#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller x you#joel miller#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x y/n#raider!joel miller#raider!joel#tlou#the last of us#joel miller the last of us#Joel miller fanfiction#Pedro pascal#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal x reader#tlou fanfiction#joel the last of us#joel miller tlou
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Brozone (+ Poppy & Viva) x Touch Starved Fem! Reader
Ok the request is that the reader is a touch starved, easily flustered, insecure yet passionate female. Her hair can change based on how she’s feeling. She likes to rant and info dump a lot. She likes drawing herself and her loved ones, and gives small gifts as a form of affection or to make them feel better. There will be a friend and s/o version.
(I’m also really sorry if this is not to the liking of the request, I kind of struggled while making this 😭)
John Dory:
Friend:
- As your friend he’s a little concerned for you
- Like he knows your fine but sometime he worries 😭
- But nothing JD can’t handle
- Genuinely enjoys your little gifts but he never makes it obvious at first
“Hey JD look I made you a little gift.” :)
“Oh that’s sweet. Can you put it on my desk? I’ll look at it later.”
- One day him and his brothers were rough housing around while you Poppy, and Viva stood by cheering them on. Bruce gets a little too rough with him and knocks something out of his jacket, it was your gift
- This man stops everything
- Like everything
- Like everyone’s frozen in place no matter what stance they’re in
- And picks it up and places it gently back in the pockets inside his jacket then lectures the boys about how he could’ve gotten his belongings crushed 😭
S/O:
- Still worries about you even after being together
- Sometimes the way your emotions change with your hair startles him
- And that’s mostly because your emotions can change rapidly
- But he also finds it really funny
- So prepare for his scare attacks
- Your hair gets so spiky, and you get so mad
“Oh come on I was only playing around babe. Tell you what, I’ll find a better way to mess with your hair.”
- And he did, which was by flustering you with comments that boost your confidence
- Your face turns red and your hair poofs up then falls around your head
- You’re always muttering a lot just like Viva and Poppy and JD finds it hilarious that him, Branch, and Clay are in the same boat (not saying Clay and Viva are not dating jus to clarify 😭)
Floyd:
Friend:
- Loves having a friend that’s the complete opposite of him
- He’ll listen to you rant all day
- With feedback on every question and statement
- Also finds your hair amusing but won’t abuse it’s power on purpose like John 😭
- Shocked by your passion to draw
“Is that me and you?”
“You know it.”
“I love it.” 🥹
S/O:
- Absolutely head over heels for you
- Still would be into listening to you rant but he’s helping you calm down a bit more
- Now your drawings had a more romantic reference behind them and he loved them even more
- No matter where he goes he always has one of your pictures on him
- He carries it around and values it like cash
- And absolutely none of his (little) brothers are getting their hands on it (yes he’s aware that they’re all adults now)
Spruce Bruce
Friend:
- He’s an expert on hair so he’s not too shocked or anything
- I mean look at that fluff on his head
- Seeing as Bruce could handle so many kids in the movie I believe he could deal with a ranting partner just fine
- He knows how to avoid frustration with you
S/O:
- Finds everything you do cute (c’mon it’s Bruce)
- He loves your arts & crafts
- Probably more than you
- Just like John he likes to you see you flustered with that big frizz on your head
- Your hair is constantly poofy because this man never stopsssss
“Hey (____) did it hurt when you fell?”
“Huh?”
“When you fell. From heaven?”
“Bruce you’re litteraly gonna kill me and my hair…”
- Definitely helps you get the knots out afterward 😭
Clay:
Friends:
- He hangs around Viva so the rambling is nothing new to him
- Always tries to hide you from Viva because he knows you two would be a unstoppable force ( plus poppyyyyy?!?)
- Hates when you feel insecure in any kind of way possible
- So just like you leave him little sketches, he leaves little notes of affirmations for you to read
- And makes you read them
- Outloud
“I am so pretty, beautiful, smart, talente- Clay do I have to keep-”
“Keep going.”
“Ok but-”
- Extremely intense eye contact
sighhhhhhhh “I am talented, I am kind, I am loyal…”
S/O:
- One of the most respectful boyfriends in the world
- Eventually gives in and let’s you and Viva mingle (possibly a bad descion!!??)
- Astonished by what your hair is capable of (can’t show his excitement tho cause he’s not a fun boy anymore right?)
- He is a words of affection (and physical touch sjejkemsjks) kinda guy so as your boyfriend he’s all you could ask for
- So now your attached to this man like glue and it’s kind of his fault
- Has to pry you off sometime but he will never stop loving you the same
“I love youuuuuu.”
“I love youuuuuu too.”
Branch:
Friend:
- Just like Clay he’s friends with Poppy so he’s used to the talking behavior (no Boppy in thissss 😔)
- You guys didn’t exactly hit it off at first either
- You met him during his “no color” era so that makes most of the sense
- ntgl when he first finds out about your hair he’s thrown off
- And the other trolls had so much fun with it that he considered you a distraction from the bergens soooo he wasn’t too fond of you
- And it takes a while but eventually you both become inseparable
“You hated me for no reason, and now I’m your favorite.”
“Yeah yeah.”
S/O:
- He’s growing as in character development
- So now instead of getting upset he uses your hair to read you
- He never really knows when he’s doing anything right or wrong as far as the relationship so he depends on your hair to know which path to take
- Your info dumping soothes him, wether he likes it or not
- He plays it off subtly but he knows how to fluster you and he takes pride in that (*AHEM* SINGING)
Poppy:
Friend:
- Doesn’t even realize that you’re rambling cause she’s doing it too
- You both are a special duo that at one point drove Branch up a tree (no pun intended)
- As much as the trolls like you, they don’t realize how actually dangerous you two could be together 😭
- And you can imagine the fear on Branch’s face when he finds out Viva and Poppy are sisters
S/O:
- Everyone knows Poppy is a scrapbooking master so when she begins to receive little arts and crafts from you she’s in love
- Like she’s bouncing off the wall excited
- Literally (it’s Poppy)
- She’s superrr touchy-feely so your living your best life
- Your hair is so fun and amusing to her
- Like JD she might try to scare you a couple times to see your hair spike up for fun but cuddles you after
“I’m sorry sweetieeee you know I can’t help it. Your hair is just so fun!”
“Poppyyyy you say that everytimeeee!”
Viva:
Friends:
- Basically Poppy’s doppelgänger so what can you expect?!
- Always rambling but somehow always manages to do it more than you
- She might just be you plus Poppy times five
- Clay tried to help you hide your hair for the sake of you and Viva
- Unfortunately she popped up out of nowhere startling you both and causing your hair to go erratic
“So so sorry guys I didn’t mean to…OMG YOUR HAIR!”
S/O:
- Everything you could ask for from a girlfriend
- Like she literally could not have given you anymore
- She loves your art works
- She loves to hear you talk and join in with you
- She loves the touchy-feely type
- She literally can’t find a single flaw in you whatsoever
#trolls#trolls band together#brozone#brozone x reader#trolls x reader#female reader#john dory x reader#john dory#floyd x reader#floyd trolls#bruce x reader#bruce trolls#clay x reader#clay trolls#branch x reader#branch trolls#poppy x reader#poppy trolls#viva x reader#trolls viva#fanfic#trolls headcanons#headcanon
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RIBBONS, CHEERLEADERS, EDDIE
PAIRING: eddie munson x fem reader
SUMMARY: eddie is surprised to see a hawkins high tigers uniform in a heavy metal shop. but he’s even more surprised to see it belongs to hawkins high’s golden girl y/n l/n.
WARNING: fluff sm sm sm fluff. THIS IS CO CUTE OMG!2:!:7: creds to the original gif owners! idk their @ cuz i find most of these gifs on pinterest and they aren’t linked :((
eddie walks the streets of hawkins with his hands in his pockets. he’s wearing his hellfire shirt with his jean jacket. his skinny black ripped jeans. it’s the same thing he wore last week on tuesday. but it doesn’t really matter.
he looks at the shops, none of them seem to fit his style and taste. not that there are any to begin with in hawkins. it’s a shit hole made for stupid suburban rich families. not for people like eddie.
in the midst of his little breakdown of how shitty the town is, one shop catches his eye. he’s never seen this shop before. he walks a bit faster. his eyes widen. slayer heavy metal shop? holy shit. holy shit.
his face brightens up. there’s no way. a heavy metal shop in hawkins? what the actual fuck? he stops right infront of it. he looks at the inside from the big glass windows. holy shit it’s sick. there’s everything there. t-shirts. vinyls. posters. cassettes. jackets.
his eyes travel around the shop. his eyes widen. he stumbles.a hawkins high uniform. a cheer uniform to be exact. he stares. your hair is up in a pony tail. a dark green ribbon tying it together. your wearing white knee socks with white sneakers. he recognises you. it’s y/n. what are you doing at a heavy metal shop?
he pushes the door open. you turn around, your skirt twirling with you. a smile on your face. “ e-eddie?” you blurt out in surprise. “ oh my would you look at that! you remember me!” eddie says his eyes wandering around the shop. you smile, “ yeah of course why wouldn’t i?” you say folding a motörhead t-shirt.
“ i’m surprised you remember me y/n.” he says flipping through a bunch of dio vinyls. you laugh. eddie walks around the shop, “ you know, i am obviously not the one to judge people but uh. what are you doing here y/n?” he says shoving his hands in his pockets. you turn around crossing your hands, “ what do you mean?” you ask tilting your head to the side with a smile. eddie laughs grabbing a mötley crüe cd. “ you know your a cheerleader what would you be doing in a heavy metal shop?” he confesses turning the cd around to look at the price. you giggle, “ what your saying is i don’t fit in?” you mumble smiling.
“ no no totally not. it’s just you know you dont-“ you cut him off. “ fit in? i know. believe or not i like heavy metal.” you giggle looking through patches. eddie walks up to the cashier leaning on it, “ so let me get this straight. y/n l/n the most popular cheerleader of hawkins high works at a heavy metal shop.”
“ correct.” you mumble turning to look at eddie. “ is that a bad thing?” you ask smiling.
eddie quickly shakes his head. “ no no no totally not. it’s just- your not what i thought you’d be like.” he says grabbing a metallica patch. “ mean and scary?” you giggle walking to the cashier. eddie tilts his head to the side, “ yeah well i actually kind of thought you’d be kinda mean and scary too.” you mumble biting your lower lip. eddie chuckles, “ i certainly look the part.”
you laugh. “ so do i, i mean i look like your typical mean cheerleader.” you joke biting your nails. eddie covers his smile with his hair. “ who works at a heavy metal shop.” he adds. you smile nodding.
you look at the patch he’s holding. “ i have that one on my jacket.” you say looking up at eddie. he giggles, “ you listen to metallica?” he questions quietly. you nod giggling, “ yeah i do.”
he smiles again. he’s surprised. and shocked.
and happy? your so easy to talk to. no one from hellfire is gonna believe him if he tells them he saw y/n l/n in a heavy metal shop. but he also doesn’t wanna tell them. he wants it to be a little secret between you and him. how is it so easy for you to make him smile. how are you so easy to converse with. he feels warm. really warm right now. he feels secluded from the world. and that’s a good thing right now.
“ then i‘ll take this one.” he hands you the patch. you look at his denim vest, “ do you want me to sew it on?” you ask looking back at him. “ oh i wouldn’t wanna steal your look l/n.” he whispers furrowing his eyebrows jokingly. you roll your eyes.
he takes off his vest placing it on the counter. “ i put mine on the right side. do you want yours on the left?” you mumble opening a drawer, grabbing a sewing needle. “ i don’t really mind.” he says shoving his hands in his pockets. “ i’ll put it on the right side so we can match.” you mumble smiling.
his heart just melted a bit. heat rises in his cheeks. his ears get warm. he quickly looks down hiding his face.
“ all done!” you exclaim looking at eddie, he looks at his denim vest. “ oh that’s sick.” he chuckles. “ you like it?” you question smiling.
“ yeah of course i do.” he says admiring the patch. you feel your cheeks start to heat up. you cough looking around the shop. “ it’s uhm- it’s for free.” you choke on your words. he looks at you in confusion.
“ your cool eddie.” you mumble playing with the hem of your skirt. eddie chuckles, “ your cool too y/n.” he whispers gently grabbing his denim jacket putting it on. “ so uh are we just gonna go back to not talking to each other during school?” he says putting his hands in his pockets. you giggle. “ why?”
“ because i’m a freak l/n.” he teases biting his nails, you look at his rings. “ so am i munson.” you giggle biting your lower lip. “ you know what- here.“ eddie looks at you.
you remove the green ribbon from your hair. your hair falls down.
eddie stares at you. you look so beautiful right now. your eyes are beautiful. your hair is falling in slow motion for him. time froze. he examines your face, your eyes are sparkling. your smiling. you have the cutest most adorable smile on earth. his eyes bore into you. he can stare at you for hours and hours and not get bored. something soft snaps him out of his trance. he looks down to see you tying the green ribbon around his wrist.
“ here. if your so sure we won’t talk to each other at school. or if u forget to talk to me, just look down at your wrist. there’s your reminder munson.” you giggle tying the ribbon.
“ you deserve a reminder too then. for when your too busy with the shooting balls into laundry basket weirdos. with your little pom poms.” he reaches for his back pocket, he grabs his black hankerchief. you laugh tilting your head to the side. “ what is it?” you ask smiling. “ your wrist please?”
you extend your wrist to him, he ties his hankerchief around your wrist. you blush again. he’s holding your wrist. and holy shit your skin is soft. so so so soft. he doesn’t wanna let go. he double ties it just to be able to feel your soft skin against his. “ there we go.” he chuckles.
“ oh that’s sick!” you exclaim looking at your wrist. eddie smiles. “ yeah? you think so?” he whispers gently. you nod smiling. “ then i’ll see you at school freak.” eddie says turning around . “ i’ll see you freak.” you laugh. eddie opens the door turning around to look at you once more. you wave. he waves back. “ gosh your adorable.” he mumbles under his breath turning around to leave.
#eddie munson#fanfiction#imagines#mike wheeler#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#stranger things 1#stranger things 3#stranger things 4#stranger things season 4#xreader#eddie munson smut#eddie munson imagines#eddie munson x you#billy hargrove#oneshot#stranger things 2#netflix#smut#stranger things#eddie munson fluff#steve harrington one shot#billy hargrove imagine#eddie munson x reader#angst#stranger things angst#stranger things x reader#stranger things x you
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I owe you a black-eye and two kisses (pt 2)
(Part one) (part three)
playlist | pinboard
more of my writing here
CW: smoking, language, some slurs
(Not everyone I tagged here asked to be tagged, but they did express interest in it, so let me know if you don’t want to be tagged in future parts)
Eddie tried to walk slower as Steve stumbled behind him, back to the parking lot off the back of the school where he had left his van. He felt kind of bad for Steve, but then again, this guy had always been an asshole to him. He didn’t know why it stung to watch his glassy eyes dart around the ground as he went, making sure he didn’t trip over anything.
He hopped over the curb and onto the concrete, holding his hand out to catch Steve as the guy practically fell over the small drop. And he said he had walked here? No wonder the knees of his jeans were all scraped up.
Eddie’s cheeks heated as he awkwardly helped Steve limp over to the passenger’s door of the van. If he knew he would have been driving someone else, he would have at least tidied up a bit. It wasn’t that messy, but the blankets were bundled up on the mattress in the back, and the whole place smelled like cigarette smoke and whatever tea Wayne had left out on the counter for him when he woke up. He opened the door for Steve and watched as Steve clambered inside, wincing as he hunched over in the seat, hand on his stomach. He totally wasn’t only aware of that because he had been looking at the way Steve’s shirt clung to him too tightly. It couldn’t have been his. Steve didn’t look like the kind of guy to listen to Madonna. It probably belonged to some girl he was hooking up with.
Eddie walked over to the driver's side and grabbed a cigarette from the cup holder on the side of the door as he got in, holding it out to Steve. Steve hesitated, but eventually took it, and Eddie handed him the lighter, starting the car. Steve fumbled with it for a moment, and Eddie sighed, taking it from him and lighting the cigarette for Steve before putting it back in the pocket of his jacket.
He was mostly quiet as Eddie drove, which Eddie was thankful for. He didn’t need to listen to Steve complain about the state of his van or the empty cigarette boxes stuffed in front of the passenger seat—no one ever rode with him, save his uncle, who didn’t care how the van looked, as long as it still worked. Steve didn’t look like he hated this, though, because he was leaning against the window with his eyes closed, forehead pressed to the glass and his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. He looked almost at peace.
Eddie guessed it was probably because he knew he was going to be rid of him soon—back to his big fancy house with his big driveway and his nicer car. And just because he could, Eddie reached over to the glovebox, rummaging around the cassettes until he found one that he knew Steve was going to hate.
He put it in and tried to turn it down as quickly as he could, so that Steve could rest a while, because he did look tired—but Steve still jolted awake when it started.
“Sorry, sorry,” Eddie said lightly, finally turning the music down to a softer volume. He felt bad, which was weird. Because of course he had to be sympathetic towards the person who had called him a queer and a fag all his life—who had glared at him in hallways. He had never actually touched Eddie, but words still fucking hurt. It’s not like Steve was wrong, though. He was a fag.
Steve blinked slightly, and Eddie looked back at the road, hearing Steve sigh and go to touch at his face, but he winced. Eddie glanced over again, trying not to take his eyes off of the road for too long. It was kind of dark, now, and there wasn’t really anyone else out there driving, since it was a Saturday.
“You alright? I’ve probably got some pain killers in here,” Eddie muttered, turning a corner as slowly as he could so that Steve didn’t get jostled around too much.
“S’fine,” Steve muttered, but his voice was tight like he was about to cry again, and all of this felt too weird for Eddie. Steve Harrington didn’t cry, let alone in front of someone who he hated. Eddie pulled the car over and ignored Steve’s small noise of protest as he climbed into the back, rummaging around his bag for a minute, nearly tripping over one of the blankets.
“Do you sleep in here?”
Eddie’s head snapped up and he squinted slightly at Steve. “What?”
“In your van.”
“I have a fucking house,” Eddie snapped, glaring at Steve. “I’m not that poor.”
Steve flinched slightly, looking away, and Eddie went back to looking for the pain meds. Maybe he should just leave it and get back to driving. The sooner he could drop Steve off, the better. Still, he kept looking and eventually found them, grabbing the water bottle tucked away under one of the blankets. It was kind of warm, but it would have to do.
He tossed it to Steve and handed him the pill-bottle, climbing back into the driver’s seat and kicking the blanket off of his shoe as he sat back down, straightening out his hair. “There.”
He saw Steve nod as he took the pills, nearly coughing and spitting it back out, and Eddie reached over to pat his back slightly, sighing. “Jesus, Harrington, don’t choke.”
Steve coughed again, tucking his face into his arm, his eyes brimming with tears. “I-I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Eddie moved his hand, sitting back properly in his seat and turning the music up a bit now that he knew Steve was awake. He started to drive again, and Steve pressed a hand against his chest, taking a deep breath.
Eddie huffed. “What’s wrong now, hm?”
“Nothing,” Steve bit back, and there it was. The guy could only pretend to be nice for so long. “Just—don’t take me home.”
Eddie paused, glancing over at Steve again so quickly that the car swerved slightly, and Steve gripped into the armrest of the seat for a moment before Eddie looked back and straightened them out. “Don’t take you home?”
“Just—just drop me off here, okay? My parents aren’t there, and Robin’s parents aren’t letting her leave the house, and—a-and I can’t be alone right now. Please.” And fuck, Steve was practically begging, now, his hand gripping at Eddie’s shoulder in a way that hurt. He looked panicked.
Eddie forced himself to relax and gently pried Steve’s hand off of him, placing it on Steve’s thigh and patting it lightly. “Come home with me.”
“What?”
“Harrington—you can barely keep your eyes open, and you’re…you’re hurt. Stay the night with me. Wayne knows fuck-all about medicine, he can take a look at you, okay? And then in the morning I’ll drop you off at….?”
“Dustin’s,” Steve answered quickly. “Dustin Henderson.”
Eddie looked Steve over. He had heard talk that Steve had gone soft—stopped being such a bitch and actually treated people like people—but no way in hell was he going to believe that. Still, Eddie felt kind of bad about his appearance. His hair didn’t look as nice as it always did.
“Fine. But you’ll have to tell me how to get there.”
Steve nodded and Eddie pulled into someone else’s driveway—one of the nice fancy houses, but it didn’t look like Steve’s. Not that he would know what Steve’s house looked like. He had never been there.
“And don’t piss Wayne off, okay?” Eddie warns, reaching over to shove Steve’s shoulder lightly, and Steve winces, but smiles slightly. “He doesn’t like me bringing people home. You’re lucky, sweetheart.”
“Am I?” Steve whispered, rubbing his shoulder slightly. He must have been pretty fucked up for that to hurt, Eddie thought to himself, looking back at the road.
“Yep. You can have the couch.”
“Mmm,” Steve hummed, leaning back against the chair. “This how you treat all your girls, Munson?”
“I would, but there are no girls,” Eddie replies, his voice almost too bitter, even though he knew Steve was joking. “But you already knew that. Right, Harrington?”
Steve shrunk into himself, nodding. He hesitated, before sighing and rubbing a hand over his bruised face gently. “I don’t—you have a bed in the back of your car. S’why I asked earlier. I didn’t mean to piss you off or anything. I was just worried.”
“Worried,” Eddie repeated, trying to make himself sound less pissed off, because Steve looked upset—and guilty—enough, and Eddie didn’t want to make him feel worse.
“Yeah. Thought your Uncle might’ve kicked you out, or something.”
Wayne wouldn’t have done that, but Steve wasn’t completely insane for thinking it. He and Eddie argued a lot—and it seemed to happen in public more than anything—so most assumed that Eddie would be out of the trailer within a few weeks, and he’d have to find someone else to bother. But then months would pass, and he’d still be hanging around. Wayne loved him, even if he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to, really. He was the closest to family that Eddie had, now.
“He can’t get rid of me, even if he tried, Stevie,” Eddie said lightly, forcing a smile and a wink—and Steve smiled back, but his eyes were still glassy and his hands were shaking, his breath uneven.
“Okay.”
“This doesn’t mean we’re friends. Got that? M’just helping out for tonight, Alright? Tomorrow you’re outta here and we go back to hating each other.”
Eddie couldn’t help but notice the disappointment in Steve’s eyes as he glanced over again. The way he wiped at his eyes, agitating blood-dried skin.
Steve nodded again. “Yeah. Alright.”
Hallo!!! So, part one got way more attention than I thought it would, so I wrote this super fucking fast because I was excited. I don’t know how many more parts this will have, but I do have a part three planned out :)
as always, reblogs and comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading! <3
@estrellami-1 @randombibitch @insteviewetrust @anne-bennett-cosplayer @hack-saw2004 @lolawonsstuff @goodolefashionedloverboi @slowandsteddie @ellietheasexylibrarian @mugloversonly @littlebluejane @zombiethingy @steddie-island @rozzieroos @ohimamarigold @origamiplushie @mamafaithful @redhoodandhellfire
#Finn writes#my fic#my writing#steddie fics#steddie#steddie fanfiction#Eddie munson#eddie munson fics#eddie Munson fanfic#Steddie fanfiction#steve harrington#steve Harrington fic#steve Harrington fanfiction#Wayne munson#wayne Munson fic#eddie x steve#steve x eddie#steve eddie#Stranger things fic#stranger things season 3
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21:34 • jww
pairing: nonidol!wonwoo x f!reader, established relationship
synopsis: reader misses wonwoo and is bad at showing it
genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!! fluff & angst
warnings: p in v, pwp, riding, praise, swearing, mentions of weed. wonwoo is smoker and your neighborhood pharmacist
wonwoo comes in dressed in his typical attire: black, baggy joggers, a loose black tshirt that’s about two sizes too big for him, a black beanie, and a large black jacket. everything he wears is black, including his shoes and socks—you wouldnt be shocked if his boxers were black too.
he’s late, so when you greet him it’s stiff, and he smells like cigarettes, which annoys you further. “hey, baby,” he mumbles, pressing you tight against his muscular body as he snakes an arm around your waist.
“hey,” you say, turning your face away from him to not smell the cigarettes. wonwoo follows after your lips, holding you tighter against him to get to your mouth. he tries to give you a kiss, but you turn your face from him again, and he frowns.
“give me a kiss,” he says, but it’s more of a demand. you look up into his eyes and try not to crack, a light tremor coursing through your body. wonwoo looks down the slope of his nose at you and raises an eyebrow, daring you to pull away from him again. you place a quick, chaste kiss on his lips before slipping out of his grasp and heading back to your previous spot on the couch.
wonwoo can tell something is bothering you, but to save for an argument, he lets it go and follows you into the living room. he slips off his coat and hangs it on the back of a chair and kicks off his shoes, lining them up neatly beside it. you watch him out of the corner of your eye, letting out a quiet sigh when he starts to pull everything out of his pockets: phone(s), lighter, cigarettes, and keys.
wonwoo sees you watching him and gives you a small smile before taking a seat next to you, stretching an arm over the back of the couch with the intent for you to cuddle into his side. when you don’t, he holds his tongue to refrain from asking you why. something is wrong, and he guesses you’re probably annoyed with something he did, or didn’t do, like not answer the phone when you called, or miss a date. if it were something as big as missing a date, though, he’s sure he’d never hear the end of it, so he chalks it up to something little, like an unanswered phone call.
it’s not just one single phone call, it’s multiple. it’s him not coming over when he says he’s on his way, or him coming over much later than you’re expecting. it’s him coming over smelling like cigarettes, and sometimes weed, more often, when you’ve explicitly told him you hate the smell. it’s the excuses the next day; he was busy, he was working, he got caught up. you just miss him, and wish he’d show that he cares, or something.
wonwoos phone rings—his other phone—and he glances at it before sending it to voicemail. he taps on his phone for a second, and then it buzzes in his lap. “fuck me,” he mutters, putting the phone up to his ear and leaning against the back of the couch. you fold your arms over your chest and huff out a sigh, leaning away from him and into the cushion. “yeah… nah, not tonight… i’m with my girl man, not tonight… alright. hit me tomorrow—bye.” he hangs up and glances over at you. “babe.”
“hmm?”
“you alright?” he asks, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder. you nod and he presses again.
“won, im fine,” you say and he only lets out a heavy breath in response, leaning back into the cushions and biting down on his jaw.
wonwoo tríes to press you again a few minutes later, his frustration with your silence and dismissal seeping through his pores. “fuck this,” he grunts, springing up from your couch.
you frown as he grabs his jacket, shrugging it on and pulling his beanie. “where are you going?” you ask, sitting up.
wonwoo scoffs. “home, since you don’t want me here,” he grabs his belongings off of the table and shoves them in his pockets, yanking a cigarette out of the carton and putting it behind his ear.
“wonwoo, wait,” you say, panic bubbling in your chest as he starts to walk down your hallway, feet already shoved into his sneakers. “baby, wait.” you follow after him, reaching for his arm to pull him back.
“what, y/n?”
“just stay, okay?”
“for what? you’ve been acting like you don’t want to be around me ever since i got here. so let me just do you one better and get out of here,” he says, nostrils flaring. your stomach churns and you slide your hand down to his wrist.
“wonwoo, i want you here. i swear—please just stay,” you say, pushing up against him and circling an arm around his middle. he only stares down at you, his eyes hard. “im sorry, baby. just stay.” wonwoo sighs through his nose and turns his head away from you. desperately, you gently push his face to look at you, and you stand on your toes to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “i just miss you. i’m sorry.” you mutter.
“just say that, then! don’t act that, way” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. wonwoo stares down at you for a moment before leaning down and crashing his lips into yours, backing you against the wall.
“i’m sorry,” you mumble against his lips, fingers gripping onto his shirt like it’s a life raft. he slips his tongue into your mouth and drops his hands to hold onto your hips, holding you against the wall.
blood rushes to your cheeks when he holds you against the wall with his own hips and pulls his jacket off, his member hard against your middle.
clothes are dropped in the hallway, a trail leading to your bedroom. your on his lap, bra tossed haphazardly across the room, his mouth on your neck and chest. you dig your fingers into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp on the way he likes. “wonwoo,” you sigh, dropping your head against his.
his fingers grip your ass and you raise your hips to start pulling down your underwear. you’re both fully bare in seconds, your aching core practically dripping all over his lap. “cmon, baby girl,” he rasps.
you sink down on him, letting out a grunt when the head slips inside. wonwoo murmurs praises in your ear, telling you that you can take it and that you’re being so, so good to him. “w-won,” you moan as you move up and down on him. he wraps strong arms around you and presses you close against him, his lips leaving open mouthed kisses on your neck. “fuck—i love you.” you cry, biting your lower lip.
wonwoo grunts as he helps move you up and down on him. “i l-love you too, shit,” he stutters when you clamp down on him. you cry out his name when he asks you how it feels, if this is really all you needed. “a-all you needed was some dick, huh? baby’s being mean cause she missed me.” you whimper pathetically as you roll your hips and hold onto his shoulders tightly.
you start to falter and wonwoo puts his hands on your ass and raises you up as he lies flat on his back. you gasp when drives his hips upwards, the force nearly knocking the wind out of you. wonwoo grunts with every thrust, and a knot forms in your stomach, getting tighter and tighter every time his hips snap against yours. “wonwoo, i-im gonna cum,” you manage, arms starting to shake as you try to keep yourself upright.
“go ahead, baby,” with a few more thrusts, you’re gushing around him and he follows nearly seconds after. you shake and whimper out his name, face buried in his neck. wonwoo groans and you clench around him and milk him for all he’s got, his vision going spotty from over sensitivity.
when you both come down, you peel yourself off of him with the intent to go clean up. but wonwoo gently tugs you back, sitting up and pulling you into him. “are we good?” he asks, kissing your forehead. you nod and cuddle into him, tucking yourself neatly in his side. “i miss you too. every fucking day.” he murmurs, making your chest warm.
you pull back to look at him, a soft hand on the side of his face. you whisper an i love you before properly kissing him, taking your time and savoring the moment.
#svt smut#svt fluff#svt imagines#svt angst#svt x reader#svt x y/n#svt x you#seventeen x reader#wonwoo x you#wonwoo x reader#wonwoo x y/n#wonwoo smut#wonwoo imagines#wonwoo scenarios#wonwoo fluff#wonwoo angst#wonwoo fanfic
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Going flower picking with Sebek, Vil, and Rook, seperately please, headcanons or just a drabble is fine! gn reader :3
Flower-Picking the Heart
Characters; Sebek Zigvolt, Vil Schoenheit, Rook Hunt, Rollo Flamme
Content; Gender-neutral reader, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, unresolved feelings
Word Count; 1.4 K (headcanon format)
Author's Note; I included Rollo since you mentioned that you also wanted to include him. I included some of the symbolism behind the flowers, but may miss some; so do be mindful of that! Also deviated a bit, but still stayed on prompt!
Do not put my work into AI.
If you would like to read more of my work, please see my masterlist
Sebek Zigvolt
Sebek was standing by your side in the flower garden; this was supposed to be a relaxed day with no duties or responsibilities demanding your attention. Yet, his back was as straight as ever as the both of you slowly made your way through the botanical garden.
You nudged him in the arm, trying to get his attention, only to garner him giving you the side eye and letting out a quiet grunt.
“Hey, you were the one that wanted to come to the botanical garden,” you offer, giving him your own side eye to rival the one he was sending you.
Sebek sighed, silently questioning why Lilia recommended the garden as a hang-out spot (no, it wasn’t a date as Lilia taunted, that’s what Sebek told himself anyway).
“I don’t need to explain myself,” he said in a clipped tone, but he was eyeing the floral displays.
For today they could pick a single bloom, and he was set on getting the best flower for the dorm; a rose that could belong back at the queen’s rose garden! That’s what Sebek had originally thought he was going to do.
That was until you went over to one of the displays and plucked a flower, and gave it to him with an expectant look.
“What is this for,” he nearly shouted, paying mind to control his voice since others were also attending the showcase and he didn’t want to bring prying eyes to this situation.
You tucked a bright blue bloom into his chest pocket, a bright, cheery, contrast against the black of his jacket. A single morning glory blossom.
You hummed, “No reason. It just spoke to me is all.”
A simple honest answer. But why did it cause his ears to burn?
A favour. I cannot owe them a favour for this! So he did the same, looking among the vast amount of blooms until he chose a pale pink peony, shoving it into your hands.
You eyed the flower, and put it into your chest pocket, to match with him. “Alright then, where to now?” Where will we go? Will we continue in this or will we grow into something else?
Flower Language
- Morning glory; willful promise, affection
- Peony; bravery, bashful, happy life, shame
Vil Schoenheit
Vil had received flowers countless times before, so many times that he had honestly lost count. He was also versed in both flower and overall plant toxicology, but also flower language itself.
This flower-picking trip was originally supposed to be for him to restock for both the school (since Professor Crewel trusted him) and his own stock for potions.
And you just so happened to be there, giving him a small wave from where you were collecting your own flowers.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Vil offered, walking over to where you were. “Hard at work I see.”
Vil took note of the flowers in your basket, as well as the dirt on your hands; it was charming. Daffodils and pansies? That’s odd, I didn’t take them as the sort to make poison… Hopefully, they do remember that daffodils are toxic and pansies are fine—
“Good to see you too,” you chirped, dusting off your hands from the dry dirt. You took note of his own basket and patted the ground next to you. “Come on then, join me.”
Vil looked at you and without much thought or other prompting, he knelt beside you in the sea of yellow daffodils. “What are you planning to do with those,” he asked, gently clipping a yellow bloom from its stalk.
You paused, a white flower in your hand. “I was going to give them to someone special to me,” you said quietly, deciding to be honest.
“Hm, you must hold this person in high regard then,” Vil eyed you curiously since the long stalks of the daffodils looked quite awkward next to the pansies. “Respect, regard, unequalled love,” he said, holding a daffodil. “Thoughtful and caring,” he looked at the pansies, before looking to you.
“I do, and he is,” you answered, hoping that he hadn’t caught on to your little plan.
Well, he didn’t until he came back to the dorm to find the flowers in a vase. For Vil; I suppose you already know what these mean. And he did.
Flower Language
- Daffodil; respect, regard, unequalled love
- Pansy; thoughtful, caring
Rook Hunt
“Rook, where exactly are you taking me,” you asked him, facing in his direction (or at least you hoped you were facing his direction since he had handed you a blindfold to “make the surprise be meaningful”).
Rook just gave you the answer he had given you the entire way, “You’ll see soon, Trickster.”
Eventually, the two of you did stop and Rook took off the blindfold.
Flowers, flowers everywhere. Of every shape and colour. They were blooming everywhere.
You were silent for a few moments, just taking everything in. The slight irritation that you were blindfolded slipped to the back of your brain (you could be annoyed with him later) and you watched hummingbirds and fat bees flit from flower to flower.
“What do you think,” Rook asked you quietly, not wanting to break the spell you seemed to be under.
You looked back at him, and a breathy chuckle left your lips. “What do I think? It’s stunning,” you say in awe.
Rook smiled brightly; either at your reaction or that he was correct in that he thought you would enjoy this.
He didn’t say anything though, and just watched you go about the flower field. Even though he wanted to say so many things, he found that he was for once, speechless.
Looking down for a moment something caught his eye; violets. Next to the gardenias, most would not pay them much mind; but Rook gently plucked a few, alongside a gardenia.
“Rook!” Your shouting snapped him out of his own thoughts, and he looked up. “Am I allowed to pick some?”
He blinked before regaining his usual cheery mask. “Oui, but only a few.”
He eyed the flowers he held in his hands before ultimately setting them back down. For although they spoke the truth, Rook wasn’t yet ready to lay his heart bare; not yet.
Flower Language
- Gardenia; you're lovely, secret love
- Violet; honesty, watchfulness, modesty, faithfulness
Rollo Flamme
Rollo hated that he could feel his heart beat like a bird trying to escape a cage, yet he found himself next to you again, the very person who caused the anomaly; like a moth to flame.
You were taking a path on the outskirts of the city, silent. And while Rollo was often used to the quiet, it only heightened his nerves, causing his heart to beat faster.
“Why did you invite me along,” you asked, breaking the silence.
Rollo faltered in his step before regaining his composure. “While the city is our main attraction, I do find the quiet walkways to be more enjoyable.”
You hummed, eyeing one of the numerous hydrangea bushes that lined the walkway, separating it from a lavender field. “It is rather nice, thank you. Although you can stop your sales pitch on your city.”
Rollo blinked at you, brow slightly furrowed. “Sales pitch?”
“Yeah, like selling all the good points? … Damn, I’ve been spending too much time around some people, sorry.” You felt embarrassed, that you had distrusted him when he was most likely just being proud of his city.
“Hmm,” was all he said, moving along. The silence returned, as Rollo was not the type to make simple small talk or force a conversation where one wasn’t needed.
“Pft,” your sudden outburst of near-silent laughter caught his attention and he stopped, turning to you with a curious look.
“What seems to be funny?” He meant it in a genuine manner, but you just started laughing more which only made him more perplexed. Perhaps the fresh air can do you some harm?
You got a hold of yourself, eyes watering from the wind and your little chuckle fest. “Fleur City, your city is literally flower city, and look what we’re surrounded by; flowers.”
Rollo looked at the flowers and then at you. “It is a bit on the nose, I guess.”
You plucked a hydrangea cluster from the nearest bush and tucked it behind his ear. “But it’s fitting nonetheless.”
If his heart was beating fast before, now his face was sure to be red, and not from the brisk breeze.
Flower Language
- Hydrangea; pride, gratitude for being understood, frigidity and heartlessness
- Lavender; faithful, distrust
~~~~~~~
Tags; @azulashengrottospiano @bloomstruck @cheezy-moon @eynnwwyjth @ithseem @krenenbaker @lucid-stories @moonsoup01637 @ryker-writes @syrenkitsune @the-v-lociraptor @twistwonderlanddevotee @xxoomiii
#twst#twst x reader#twst x gn reader#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland x reader#twisted wonderland x gn reader#sebek zigvolt#sebek zigvolt x reader#sebek zigvolt x gn reader#vil schoenheit#vil schoenheit x reader#vil schoenheit x gn reader#rook hunt#rook hunt x reader#rook hunt x gn reader#rollo flamme#rollo flamme x reader#rollo flamme x gn reader#the shame part for peony is for the shame sebek feels at being human; yet he loves your humanity#just felt like clearing it up a bit#rose!#also my first rollo piece hopefully i did him justice since i'm still playing through the event#pansies are edible btw!!! but make sure you identify flowers before eating them!#i'll put this in my masterlist in the morning; i'm tired and want sleep; but this was fun to write ^w^
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KNOCK AT THE CABIN | Prologue
Written for @bettyfrommars, @allthingsjoeq and @somnambulic-thing’s Stranger Prompts, Prompt 1. He shows up at your house covered in mud in the rain, but the problem is, he died two months ago.
Series Summary: After the events of the previous months, everyone is shocked by the unexpected return of an old friend. But is it really him?
Chapter Summary: On a stormy night, an unexpected visitor arrives.
WC: 1.14k
Series C/W: 🔞 18+, MDNI, NSFW. I mean it, if you’re under 18, git! Post-S4, Upside Down exists, dark/supernatural themes. Eventual Eddie Munson x fem!reader smut. Swearing. Not much to caution about in this part, unless you don’t like rain, or bad decor.
A/N: This series contains a lot of things I haven’t written for before, so I’d love to know what you think! Please comment and reblog, it means the world to writers, and reblogs mean work gets seen. This series has a taglist so if you’d like to be on either it, or my general list, lemme know in a comment, ask or message 🙏💗
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You’re holed up in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Hawkins. It’s not exactly remote, but the nearest building is little more than a speck on the horizon so you feel pretty isolated. Owens organised it, explaining it would be a good idea for the older members of the party to lay low for a little while. Nancy had put forward an excellent argument for remaining with her family, but you, Robin and Steve had reluctantly packed up some of your belongings and relocated here. For how long, you don’t know.
It’s no palace. The wood-built building is certainly past its best, the yellowing 50s kitchen barely functional and the faded decor not to anyone's taste. But it’s (mostly) warm, (usually) dry, and most importantly, it feels safe. Which is something you all need after the events of the past few months.
You’re all acutely aware of the obvious gap in your merry band. Owens had insisted that the three of you didn’t attend the funeral, but he’d involved you as much as he could, ferrying messages between you and the kids and Wayne, discussing what he would’ve wanted to wear (you all agreed on his spare Hellfire shirt and leather jacket, knowing he’d never want to be separated from either, plus a brand new, government-funded pair of black 501s), and sneaking mementoes to you with Wayne’s approval.
Mike and Will have taken charge of his D&D paraphernalia, Dustin got his wallet chain (and wears it with literally everything, even his Weird Al shirts and colourful shorts), and Lucas opted for a small pocket knife. You, Steve and Robin each have one of his rings. Steve and Robin keep theirs in their rooms, but you wear the silver skull every day. It’s too big for your fingers, and is even a little loose on your thumb, but that’s where you keep it, spinning it to ease your anxiety, and smoothing the pads of your fingers over its bumpy surface to remind you of the friend you’ve lost. Rueing the fact that you always wanted him to be more than that, but never had the chance to find out whether he felt the same.
The kids visit periodically, even staying over sometimes, nobody expecting anyone to be watching the comings and goings of a bunch of nerdy teens. Nancy drops them off, sometimes staying, sometimes not. On this occasion she’d dropped and run, explaining that she was going to visit Max in the hospital tomorrow, spending some quality girly time with her. Lucas, who usually spent every spare moment by her bedside, was going to spend the weekend here, after Max, still seriously ill but now well enough to communicate, insisted that he needed to spend at least a bit of time with his old friends.
Tonight, you’d had a movie marathon, Keith developing an uncharacteristically generous side since everything kicked off and periodically dropping off and collecting piles of VHS tapes. Not quite generous enough to bring you any brand new releases, but even things you’ve seen before are better than the ‘sweet FA’ you’d have available given the nonexistent TV reception around here.
Popcorn litters the floor and the saggy furniture, as do gangly boys and a long-haired girl. Jane has commandeered the sole armchair, sitting in it cross-legged, and you, Steve and Robin are squashed onto the sofa with an equally squashed Dustin, the latter insisting that there was definitely room for one more.
Mike and Will are on the floor between the sofa and the old, battered coffee table. Mike’s hunched over a bowl of chips that he’s shovelling in, and Will is leaning against your legs, you stroking his hair in a way you know he finds comforting. Lucas is lounging on the floor at the side of the table, his long body stretched out and his head supported on threadbare throw pillows.
The gentle patter of drizzly rain against the windows and roof, and the crackle of the open fire, one of your only sources of heating, gives the evening a cosy feel, though you hope the rain doesn’t get any heavier as you don’t entirely trust the roof over the rear extension to cope with much more meteorological abuse.
You’ve just finished Raiders Of the Lost Ark and Steve has got up to swap it out for The Stuff, when there’s a strong gust of wind and the rainfall picks up significantly. Great, you think, the weather gods definitely weren’t listening to your silent pleas.
None of you notice Jane stiffening in her seat and shifting uncomfortably.
Under the lashing of the wind and rain there’s a sudden noise at the front door. Not urgent, not loud, just two soft thuds. If the kids had been roughhousing or the film had been on you may even have missed them.
You all look at each other, instantly and equally on edge, and all hoping that somebody, anybody, will provide a simple explanation for this.
Steve’s the first to speak. Jaw slack and brow furrowed, he asks the room, “Uhh, did anyone order takeout?”
There’s a cacophony of ‘no’s’ and shaken heads, before another soft thud is heard, just one this time.
Steve steels himself, not for the first time realising that it’s his responsibility to investigate the possibly terrifying, and potentially life-threatening, situation. He stands from his position by the video player and moves towards the door, fingertips skimming the top of the bat that’s always to the side of it, before closing his hand softly around the handle.
He pulls back the sliding bolts before twisting the lock and pulling the door open just a crack, leaving the chain on. The noise of the weather increases in volume, but other than that there’s no indication of what’s on the other side.
Steve has his back to you so you don’t see his eyes go wide, but you do hear a soft, “Wh- What the fuck?”
Robin being Robin, and perpetually thinking about her stomach, she says,
“What is it, doofus? Pleeease tell me it’s Jonathon and Argyle dropping by from Cali with some delicious Surfer Boy pizza??”
“Uh, no, it’s, uh- You know what? Maybe you should just come and see for yourself. Wait, scratch that, just the adults.”
Knowing this will unwittingly pique the interest of the kids more than if he’d just allowed everyone to come look, you and Robin glance at each other before quickly rising and moving to the door.
Steve closes it and takes off the chain, opening it wide as the three of you arrive, the kids following close behind and trying to look between you.
There, hunched, shivering, soaking wet and covered in mud, is your friend. The one who’d died saving the town. The one they’d buried only a few days ago, after he’d been lying on a slab in a lab somewhere for weeks.
Eddie.
.
Continue to Part One
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Thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this. Lemme know if you’d like to be tagged in future parts.
Extra tags: @jamdoughnutmagician @joejoequinnquinn
#eddie munson#strangerprompts#stranger things#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson smut#post S4#upside down#Eddie lives#my first time writing anything supernatural#I hope I don’t fck it up#steve harrington#robin buckley#eddie munson imagine#dustin henderson#lucas sinclair#will byers#mike wheeler#eleven hopper#Jane hopper#stranger things fanfic#eddie munson x you#Eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x fem!reader smut#The Party#ST S4 canon#my first time writing canon#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic
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come care about me
joel miller x reader
a quiet evening at your house in Jackson with the man you call home | implied but unspecified age gap, domesticity, jackson au, joel is a flirt and a gossip [2.2k]
a/n: my first attempt at joel! hope it's alright.
read part 2 here! part 3 here! series masterlist here.
Jackson is quiet at this hour. The whole world is pretty quiet these days and sometimes it's more suffocating than peaceful. The white noise of life is so different -- you remember how car horns and humming power lines and the thrum of planes overhead used to remind you that you weren't alone. Now, most of the time, you're hoping you're alone. The snap of a twig or click of a safety or a muffled cough are signs of danger. But this town is safe. You know it, you feel it, but sometimes it catches up to you: how tiring it is to be on guard all the time. This is just how it is.
You hear little but your own footsteps as you head for home, hands tucked into your pockets and book wedged under your arm. The warmth of an evening spent at the town book club is still in your veins -- well, that and the finger of whiskey -- and it chases away your melancholy musings for the moment. Even better is the promise of what awaits you.
The porch light is on when you round the corner. You half expect Joel to be strumming away in his chair but there's no sign of him. Not unusual, not really, given that there's a chill in the air and Ellie was meant to come over for a movie night. Maybe she's still here and they're inside watching some shitty action flick on the couch. One or both of them always doze off before it's over. Regardless, you know he won't head to bed until you're home.
You ease open the door. The hallway smells like Ellie's favorite tea and slightly burnt bread but there's no splash of light from the TV, no clash of swords or quiet laughter.
It's dark in the house but that's not unusual either. "Took a few years to stop flicking light switches," Joel once told you. "Reckon it'll take a few more to get used to it again." He's the kind of man who would rather sit in the dark than chance disappointment.
"Joel?" you call. Your jacket goes on the hook next to his and you sit on the bench you dragged in last month for unlacing your boots, which will go next to his spare pair. He's undoubedlty still got his on, wherever he is. The tell-tale trail of belongings that often indicate the presence of a teenager is absent.
Your name echoes down the staircase followed by heavy, slightly uneven footsteps. Joel emerges into the hallway, guitar in hand. His hair is mussed like he's just thrown on the sweater he now wears and his expression softens at the sight of you, an ever-so-slight ease of his jaw and upturn of his mouth. It took you a while to learn how to spot it.
There are nights when you'll make a joke, tease him a little to try to get him to laugh. It's easier than it used to be but he likes to make you work for it. But tonight you're just glad to be home and you want to tell him so. He leans the guitar against the wall and beats you to it.
"Was gonna wait for you on the porch," he says. "Bit early to be back already." He's right. The after-discussion drinks will be going for at least another hour, thought the sun has been down for ages. You just shrug, fingers a little clumsy from the whiskey and the cold as you undo your laces.
"Wanted to come home," you say. His eyes crinkle at the corners and he crosses his arms, shoulder pressing into the wall above the guitar. Joel rarely takes, rarely reaches for what's in front of him even if he wants it, even if it's already his. It's a patience, a self discipline painfully constructed from years of survival and two rounds as a father mixed with the deep guilt he'll never allow himself to be rid of.
Point is, he'll wait for you to touch him. But that's okay. You've worked on your patience, too, and you've been doing this dance for a few years now. His arms will be open once you finish getting your damn shoes off.
"Ellie still here?" you ask. Joel's words are heavy with his drawl, heavier since being around Tommy, if Ellie is to be believed, his sentences clipped of unnecessary words and syllables. It seems that you've adopted some of his speech pattern. He'll never admit it but you think he likes it.
"You just missed her."
"I think she'd like this." You nudge the book on the bench beside you with your thigh. "I'll drop it by tomorrow. Movie night go good?"
Joel dips his chin, eyes on the floor. He shows you so much but there are some things he can't. The scabbing over wound between him and Ellie is often one of those things. "Was nice," he allows. "She n'Dina will be at dinner this weekend, she said."
You finally get your boots off and sigh, tossing them into the corner. The thud is loud enough to make you wince. "About time those girls graced us with their presence." You reach your arms above your head and stretch, joins popping and muscles sore from the sheer exertion of existing after the end of the world. Joel watches you.
"Alright," he says. He pushes off the wall with a groan. "C'mere."
It's the easiest thing in the world to walk into his embrace, socked feet soundless on the hardwood. You love Ellie like she's your own but her absence means that Joel will touch you more. He's a private man, reserved around people he knows and downright stony around those he doesn't even though the years in Jackson have softened him a great deal. He'll squeeze your hand, your shoulder, hover his palm on the small of your back as he moves around you, but that's it. He worries constantly that you'll wise up and realize he's too old, too boring, too mean, that people in town whisper the same behind your backs. Funny how in a time where you fight against fungus-powered flesh eaters, gossip still makes its rounds.
Still, you feel Joel's eyes on you in every room and you'd rather he worry about things like that than life and death beyond the walls. It's like your cells know he's near, a compass needle magnetized to the set of his shoulders and smell of wood glue and gunpowder. The rasp of his voice and his rough hands and the lines on his face. In the privacy of your home he's all yours.
"Hello," you say into his sweater. It's a new find, different from the threadbare button-ups and flannels he wears into the ground. His beard scratches against your skin and you sink into him, arms around his waist. He cradles the back of your head in one warm palm and holds you steady with the other on your back.
"Howdy," he mutters because he knows it'll make you laugh. It does. You match your inhales to his and any remaining tension from the day leaks out of both of you. "Do y'wanna to sit on the porch or go to bed? You hungry?"
His knuckles trace your spine as you shake your head. "Astrid had Seth make sandwiches. So, bed. Too cold to be on the porch."
"S'not that cold," he retorts. You roll your eyes and pull away from his embrace to look at him. His hair could do with a trim, the silver strands falling into his eyes. Your own hair has greys here and there by now, a byproduct of the times. Nearly everyone born Before has some. It's damn stressful to be alive. Joel often grumbles that you're too young for that kind of shit, not far enough from twenty for such visible signs of age.
"I've got gossip for you." That gets his eyebrows to raise.
"Do you now?" He releases you and grabs the guitar, gesturing for you to head upstairs first. "Should'a led with that."
Joel Miller is a lot of things, some of them better than others, but one of your favorites is that he's become a gossip. Maybe he was Before, too. Small-town life and safety and a teenager of his own and you have turned his eye back towards the business of other folks. Information gatherin', he calls it. Important to know what's going on.
But really he's just nosy. Good thing you are, too. It's basically the only reason you go to book club. If you actually wanted to talk about books you'd do it with the teenager living out back -- and you do -- since she's a bigger reader and miles smarter than anyone else in town.
The stairs creak like they always do. Joel has put away the laundry that you finished this morning and despite his inclination towards darkness, has left on the lamp in the bedroom. He sets the guitar back in its stand and sits in the armchair to unlace his boots, grunting a bit as he goes.
"Jesse's mother brought a new batch of whiskey for after the discussion. Caused some loose lips, I think. I hope she did it on purpose because it was worth it."
You eye the book on Joel's side of the bed. Something about...woodworking? Typical.
"Whiskey, huh?" he drawls from behind you. "Could smell it on your breath," he says. You look up and he startles you a bit by appearing in your space and tilting your chin up with two fingers. Joel presses his lips to yours firmly, tongue dipping into your exhale for just a moment before he pulls back. "Can taste it, too."
He's gone before you can lean into him. You sit down heavily on the bed. Whiskey aside, Joel's touch, his kiss, his attention always make you feel a little overwhelmed. And he knows it. You hadn't even heard him creep over to you.
"Asshole," you mutter.
"Say somethin'?" He's wandered to the closet to shuck off his jeans and sweater.
"Remember Scott?" you ask instead. "Short, got that scar across his face."
"I might be old but my memory is fine," he grumbles. "Patrolled with him last month."
"Well, he's been with Duy, that guy who works the gardens, for almost half a year, right? But according to Wendy, as of yesterday, Scott's not living in the house on Spring Street anymore. She saw him moving into a split level on Crescent."
Joel whistles through his teeth. You watch him slide into flannel pants, catch flashes of his tanned skin and your palms ache to touch him.
"You think it has to do with...what was his name? The other guy Scott's with sometimes? Phil? Peter?"
"Patrick. Yeah, that's what I thought too. Something must've been happening there." You tuck one leg under you on the bed. "What was that about a fine memory?"
He ignores you. "Never did like him much," he says. "He talks a lot." He reappears from the closet in his pants that belonged to some other man long dead, his chest bare despite the cool evening. He's a furnace, this man. You barely need layers to sleep in as the seasons change so long as he's next to you, all solid warmth and muscle. He tosses you the shirt you like to sleep in. It smells like what passes for detergent these days.
"You don't like anyone much," you tease as you unfurl your leg. It's not true, not really. Joel likes a few people a great deal and tolerates everyone else just fine. He's respected not only for being Maria's brother-in-law but for the way he can fix things, for his calm head on patrol. Children in town adore him and Ellie's friends used to revere him like a god, or so she tells you. You didn't know him before Jackson but you know enough about what happened twenty years ago, four years ago, and everything in between. You know that it made him hard but hollow. You know that that dear girl in the back shed brought him back to life and now that they're on the mend, you can see even more pieces of who he was.
You know that you've helped, too.
"I like you plenty," he says. He stands between your knees and frames your face with his hands. The callused pad of his thumb drags over your lower lip as you just stare at each other for a few moments. You press your palm to his stomach, nails sliding through the thatch of hair that leads down under the band of his pants. His abdomen contracts and his nostrils flare.
You give him a grin. "I like you plenty, too, Joel Miller." There isn't much more to it. He's probably your favorite person on this god-forsaken planet.
"Get outta these damn clothes," he grumbles around a small smile of his own. He tugs at the shirt in your hand.
You wiggle your eyebrows at him. "Oh, so we can f--"
Joel steps back and heads for the bathroom, leaving you behind with a dramatic sigh. "So we can go to sleep."
Laughter spills out of you as you head for the closet. "Whatever you say."
"You're a pain in my ass, you know that?"
The end of the world isn't so bad.
thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller x y/n#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel miller one shot
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guilty as sin? (fic - part 1/2)
jj maybank x fem!routledge!reader | largely inspired by the bible
content warning: sexual content; mentions of parental abuse (physical abuse) | any questions for trigger warnings, feel free to inbox anonymously
word count: 14k.
blurb: when you, John B's half sister, return to Kildare after over two years of living in Colorado, your adolescent crush that you harboured for his best friend comes screaming back. Because you and JJ can't be together in real life, what's the harm in a fantasy?
“And this is your room.”
The syrup-coloured wood is the first thing your eyes meet when John B pushes open the bedroom door. There’s the vague lingering smell of teenage boy which he’s tried to air out, the window open ajar, and the clutter of his belongings has been moved to make space for your own. As you drop your duffel bag and step into the room, you take in the walls. There’s posters and prints stuck above his bed, dotted around on slats of wood separating windows: someone surfing; a rockstar smashing his guitar. An old skateboard deck is nailed into the wall alongside a license plate. The sheets are bright blue, the bed freshly made, and a clean towel is folded up at the foot. It’s well-lit with plenty of daylight flowing through the many windows. Homely and inviting.
“Is it, uh, alright?”
You turn to find John B leaning against the doorframe, hands in his short pockets. Smiling, you nod.
“It’s perfect,” you tell him. “I’m honestly chill with crashing on the couch, though.”
It’s pretty obvious this was his room: you feel guilty kicking him out.
He shakes his head and gestures with his thumb over his shoulder. “I moved into my dad’s room anyway. This has been the spare for a while.”
“Well, thanks,” you smile.
He nods, mirroring your content. “I’ll let you settle in and stuff. I moved all my crap out the closet so you can put your stuff in there, and the top bedside drawer is empty.”
“That’s perfect,” you say. You lift your bag with a grunt and dump it on the bed.
“I gotta go to work but call if you need anything. Shouldn’t be back too late.”
Unzipping your bag, you look to him. “Where’d you work?”
“Got this gig helping out at Ward Cameron’s. Don’t know if you remember him?”
“Course I do,” you snort. “The kingpin of Kildare, and your dad’s treasure hunting buddy.”
There’s a tense silence as your words catch up with you. You press your eyes shut, embarrassed.
“Shit, sorry. That didn’t come out how I meant it to.”
“It’s cool,” John B says, graciously gliding past it. “Anyway, he pays pretty good so can’t complain. Mostly just handy-man odd jobs.”
“Very noble work,” you joke.
With a quiet laugh, John B nods and backs out the door. He lingers another moment, contemplating saying something else. “Look, uh, I know it isn’t ideal circumstances, you coming back to Kildare and stuff, but I’m glad you’re here. Really. It’s nice having you back, sis.”
Your mood sobers, smile turning solemn.
“Thanks,” you quietly reply.
He nods once more and pats the doorframe in farewell. “Right, I’ll let you get unpacked. See you later.”
“See ya.”
When John B leaves – the front door shuddering against the house as it slams shut – you’re overcome with quiet. In Colorado, where you lived with your mom in the city, there was little nature. You forgot how peaceful Kildare is. Through the crack in the window, birdsong and cricket chimes accompany the sound of your unpacking. You turf out your clothes and take to putting them in the closet. Shoes and bags and bikinis. A jacket and a few sweatshirts. It was easy enough to plan for your outfits considering you’re only staying the summer. You remember the weather in Kildare well enough from when you used to live here.
Once you’ve unpacked your clothes, you find your paints. A box of watercolours which have seen much use and love, the hinges rusted and the inside of the palette smeared with dried mixed paint. Turning to the bedside table, you pull open the bottom drawer on accident. You come face to face with corny porno magazines, a box of tissues, two wrapped condoms and a half empty bottle of painkillers.
“Gross,” you mutter, slamming it shut. Yep, this was definitely a dude’s bedroom.
The top drawer is empty, like John B promised. You fill it with your paints and sketchbooks and pencils.
As the day ploughs on, the room becomes increasingly saturated with your personality. Postcards from Colorado, of the towns and cities you visited, photographs from school of your friends and classmates: you scatter them along them wall, amongst John B’s. Some of your favourite paintings, alongside artists which inspire you, join the mix. On the desk you add a few of your own books to the haphazard stack of abandoned homework and school reports.
At the bottom of your duffle bag is your penny board. You look around the room, searching for empty space to slot it without adding to already cluttered surroundings, and opt to slot it under the bed. Ducking down, you come face to face with a collection of empty beer cans. Clearly the spring cleaning only went so far. It’s noisy as you drag them out, but you’re certain you hear someone shouting. Pausing, sitting back on your haunches, you turn to peer out the open bedroom door. It’s silent for a moment, and then you hear footsteps.
“Yo! JB, you home?”
It’s a guy shouting. His voice sounds vaguely familiar. When he comes into the corridor, he glances into Big John’s bedroom (now claimed by your older half-brother) first. Blonde messy hair and well-worn combat boots instantly name him. JJ. He turns to the spare bedroom and stops short the moment his eyes land on you, sat amongst a pile of trash.
“You’re not John B,” he says.
“What gave me away?” you reply with a lift of your brows.
There’s a long awkward moment where he stares at you. You can practically hear the cogs turning as he takes you in. When you lift your arm up to scratch the back of your neck, realisation dawns upon him. You imagine your scar on the outside of your elbow gave you away.
“Holy crap! Little Routledge?” he gapes.
You laugh. “Haven’t been called that in a minute.”
JJ steps into the room and you get to your feet. He tackles you into a hug. It’s too short, too sudden, and then he’s stepping away from you again, leaving you dizzy on your feet.
“The fuck? You’re, like, grown now,” he says.
Rolling your eyes, you reply, “well, I am sixteen.”
“The fuck!” he repeats. He then takes in where you’re standing, and the state of the room, and frowns. “Wait, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Colorado with your mom?”
“I was,” you say. You kick one of the cans out the way and fold your arms over your chest, shrugging. “I came back for the summer.”
“Oh, that’s sick!”
You laugh. It’s a nice reaction to have from someone who you haven’t seen for over two years.
“John B gave you his old room then?”
He walks into it as if it’s his own. You watch as he studies the new additions to the wall that you’ve added. Lingers on one of your paintings.
"Yeah, he’s moved into his dad’s, apparently.”
“Yeah, he moved in there a while ago,” JJ tells you. “I’ve been sleeping in here most of the time.”
Your mind flashes back to the bedside drawer stocked with teenage boy necessities. Ah, makes sense. You remember how JJ was when you were a dorky thirteen-year-old. At the ripe age of fourteen, he had girls fawning after him. He was shameless in his reputation. The conversations you overheard between himself and John B as he’d brag about his escapades are seared into your memory, as you felt your wasted preteen heart splinter with every tale. It’s no surprise now that he’s probably just as unruly. Especially considering how he looks. There isn’t much time to ogle though because he’s looking away from the décor, meeting your gaze again.
“That explains all the empty beer cans, then,” you say.
He cringes. “Yeah, uh, sorry ‘bout that.”
You shrug. “It’s cool. I need to toss ‘em out but I don’t know where the trash bags are…”
“Oh, right,” he says, breezing past you. His cologne lingers in the air when he leaves. There’s the smallest moment for you to catch your breath as JJ bangs around in the kitchen, and then he reappears with a roll of black bags. Tosses them to you and you catch. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
You begin to shove the cans into the bag and JJ starts to help. His black button-up gapes open as he leans over and it takes everything not to glance down his shirt like some pervert.
“How come you didn’t want to stay in Colorado for the summer, then?”
“Change of scenery,” you vaguely reply. It isn’t a complete lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either.
“Well, you chose the best summer to come back. Our mission this year is to have the best summer of all time.”
“Pretty lofty goal to set,” you chuckle.
JJ glances up at you, flashing you a grin. “Nah, we got it in the bag.”
You find yourself smiling back, held captive under his stare. When he takes the now full trash bag off you, tying it off, you snap out of it.
“So, where’s your brother at then?” he asks, heading out the room. You follow.
“At work. Said he does jobs for Cameron now.”
“Oh, yeah. Cameron sorta took him under his wing after his dad…went missing,” JJ replies.
You have a feeling that the way people talk about John B’s father is rather doctored.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” you tell him, referring to Big John.
As you step on the porch, the sunlight warms your face. The floorboards creak as you make your way down them, to the garbage can outside.
“It was insane,” JJ says to you. He tosses the trash away. “I mean, we all knew Big John was a bit too into the whole royal-merchant thing but…we never thought it’d go that far, you know?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Scary.”
JJ looks at you a moment longer. Then, he laughs to himself and shakes his head. “Can’t believe you’re sixteen now.”
“Can’t believe you’re seventeen.”
“What? I look good or something?”
He does a small spin on the spot, arms held out by his sides. You roll your eyes, acting as if you’re unaffected. It’s hard to swallow the reflex reaction of yes.
“Or something,” you say.
JJ takes it in stride. “Well, you look pretty cute yourself considering you’ve been in the mountains for the last three years.”
“I don’t live in the mountains,” you snort. The word ‘cute’ rattles around your head like a pinball.
“You’re taller now too. Practically come up to my shoulders. I remember when me and John B could pick you up by your ankle like a marlin.”
“Yeah, I remember that too,” you not-so-fondly recall.
JJ grins and steps over to you. Despite both of your growth spurts, you still have to look up at him, and him down at you. His eyes are just as dreamy as you remember them. When you first left for Colorado, you hardly had time to pack. In the midst of chaos, taking a picture of your brother’s best friend didn’t seem all that important. Cut to you spending endless nights trying to remember his eyes, the exact colour and the exact shape. Trying to remember the dimples that popped out when he smiled. The pure joy in his laugh. The way your heart felt like it might explode whenever he looked at you, even if it were for a second.
But when JJ pats your head, your chest deflates.
“Well, see you around, little Routledge,” he says, stepping away. “Tell your brother I was looking for him.”
Because even after all these years, you’re still just John B’s little sister in JJ’s eyes.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
You stare into your can of cider. In the night, the only light being that from the bonfire John B started up in the backyard, you can’t make out the colour of it. Just the swirling of liquid. You’d spent the last three days working on a watercolour of the marsh side to John B’s house, but you couldn’t capture the movement of the water quite right.
“Wait, I’m confused,” Pope frowns.
“What’s there to be confused about, Pope?” JJ sighs, seemingly exhausted from the questions. There had been an influx of them the minute John B brought you out of the Chateau. “His mom shagged her dad and boom, here she is.”
“Charming mental images there, JJ, thanks,” John B cringes.
You laugh into your drink.
“No, I get that. But…You used to live here, right?” Pope asks you.
You nod.
“But then you moved to Colorado?”
“Yeah?”
“But now you’re back here?”
“Apparently,” you say.
Pope’s frown deepens: apparently that cleared nothing up for him. You’ve never known someone so analytical. “This is complicated,” he observes.
“No shit,” Kiara quips.
It was complicated. Families usually are. You and John B had different dads, in short. Your shared mom cheated on Big John when John B was hardly a year old, putting you around 11 or so months behind him. She ran off to Raleigh with your dad to try and fix their tumultuous relationship, leaving you with Big John for practically thirteen years. Whilst he wasn't unkind to you, he never saw you as his. You supposed you were a reminder of his ex-wife's unfaithfulness. But John B treated you like blood, as did his friends.
Just after your thirteen birthday, your mom decided to flee the state, and she was taking you with her. It all came out of the blue. You weren’t exactly thrilled to go to Colorado. You liked Kildare, and North Carolina, and John B and his friends. Kiara was always nice to you. She never talked down to you, despite you being seen as John B’s little sister. You bonded over turtles and Bob Marley. JJ was different. He’d prank you with John B and tease you about your dolls, but he’d also patch you up if you fell and calm you down after a nightmare. Your crush on him evolved naturally over time. What started as childhood infatuation with the supposed delinquent of Kildare became real. You liked JJ. He was funny and rambunctious, but he had a kindness and tenderness that he kept hidden below. He was often at the house as his own family situation was far from perfect, so having him around became as familiar as John B’s presence. When you left, JJ gave you a hug that you wished would last a lifetime.
But you drifted away in Colorado. You didn’t have anybody’s phone number, save for Big John’s (which your mom refused to let you use), and you were too young to remember addresses to write to them. Social media was never something you latched onto and eventually it all faded away into a strange, dreamlike memory. Being back here is almost proof that you didn’t imagine the whole thing.
“We’re half siblings,” you say, whittling down your family history into a simple statement. “That’s all you really need to know.”
“Damn straight,” JJ whoops, downing the last of his drink. He crunches the can in his fist and heads to the cooler for another.
“You’re staying for the whole summer then?” Kiara asks.
You nod. “I’m tryna get a job at this restaurant in town to keep me busy.”
“Screw that. Just come smoke and surf with us all day, that’ll keep you occupied,” JJ grins.
He’s comfortable in himself, relaxing in a lawn chair, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. His t-shirt represents one of Kildare’s small-town establishments and his shorts are stained with dust and dirt from riding his bike.
“She’s the good one out of us lot,” John B announces, gesturing to you. “Out of all the Routledge offspring, she’s gonna go places. You’re not gonna taint that, JJ.”
“And by ‘all the Routledge offspring’ you mean yourself and her?” Pope checks.
John B nods fervently. “I’m telling you! She’s madly talented.”
“You’re drunk; it’s giving you beer goggles,” you dismiss, finishing your drink.
“You were always the creative one,” JJ remarks. Everyone looks over to him. “Me and John B would be out on the water and she’d be drawing it.”
“Maybe you can show us some of your stuff,” Kiara says.
You laugh and shake your head. “Maybe not.”
The alcohol wizzes up your body as you get to your feet and you take it as a good time to call it quits.
“I think I’m gonna head in.”
“What?”
“No!”
“Come on!”
You laugh, shaking off the group’s disputes. “I’m tired!”
“Lightweight,” JJ teases. You flip him off as you pass, ditching your empty can in the garbage as you go.
“Night guys!” you holler as you head back into the house.
“Night!”
The bedroom John B offered you is starting to feel less like a guest house. You shrug off your cardigan – it stinks of smoke from the fire – and close the door. Through the window, you can hear the group chattering.
Pope seems nice. He hadn’t been around when you lived in Kildare, but you recognised his name. Heyward was a legend on the Cut; you could see his dad in his eyes. Kiara was just as you remembered her, if not more consumed by her environmental activism than before. JJ was the most staggering change of all. He’d grown into his looks, matured around the face. Any puppy fat that you remembered from childhood had vanished. Lithe and lively, he was an American heartthrob, through and through.
As you do your skincare, you glance out the window. You can make out JJ, sat with his back to you. His arms are flailing around as he tells a story. You can’t make out the details through the window but the looks on everyone’s faces tells you it’s pretty damn entertaining. He was always the joker, humour hiding whatever was happening underneath like he was arming himself with a grin. The unexplained bruises on his face and the painful batterings on his body were never explained whenever he’d stay at Big John’s, when you were younger.
The moment he shifts in his seat, you dart away from the window, scared to get caught, and finish getting ready for bed.
A bad dream rouses you awake. It was about Colorado. The warped memories keep you from falling back asleep, no matter how hard you try. Sighing, you stare at the ceiling. The room is bathed in moonlight, cosy in the wooden interior, and you contemplate sitting outside for a bit. The same cardigan from earlier gets pulled on over your vest top and you slip into some crocs.
You head for the front door, creeping past John B’s room, and step onto the porch. There’s a warm, humid air in the night. The crickets and owls harmonise with the faint buzz of mosquitos who surround the porch light. That’s when you realise that it’s already on, and you’re not alone. JJ’s on the porch, laid out on the sofa. He’s smoking a joint. The smell of weed merges into that of the dying embers from the abandoned, extinguished bonfire. You rap gently on the wall as you approach, hoping not to startle him.
“Hey,” he says, looking up at the sound.
“Hey.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“No,” you say. “I thought everyone went home.”
“They did. I’m crashing here tonight. My dad’s…”
He falters, glances up at you, and shakes his head.
“Don’t need to bore you with it.”
“You’re not boring,” you hear yourself tell him.
Smiling, JJ offers the joint to you. You take it, sitting down in the red armchair at the foot of the sofa. The weed consumes your senses when you take a drag, hitting the back of your throat and dulling your thoughts.
“Haven’t smoked in ages,” you say.
“Big smoking community out in Colorado?” JJ asks.
You laugh. “Not where I live, no.”
He takes the joint back when you lean over to him. Tilts his head back as he takes another hit. He’s in the same clothes as earlier, hasn’t even taken off his boots; his hair is tousled like he tried to sleep but couldn’t. You’re caught in the act of staring at him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make a joke. Instead, he holds your gaze. It’s almost like a silent challenge: who’ll break first?
“Can I say something kinda inappropriate?” he asks.
“I feel like you have to, now.”
JJ grins at that, amused. “You’re way cuter than I remember you.”
“Oh? You mean sweaty thirteen-year-old, chalk-highlight-pink-hair wasn’t cute?” you joke.
Shaking his head, he adds, “No. Well, yeah, but not in the way you are now.”
Your stomach tightens and heart constricts, and you wish you had the joint to have something to distract yourself with. You hope you sound calm and collected when you say, “thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”
“Oh, you’re too kind,” JJ jokes. He takes another long, deep drag. “Is it nice? Being back in Kildare?”
You glance off to the marsh. You forgot to check the time when you got up but judging from the endless navy blue of the sky, it’s still late.
“Sure.”
“Sure?”
You look back to him. “It’s better than Colorado.”
“So, you’re not missing home then?”
The blunt is passed back to you. Taking a drag, you ponder his question. “I don’t think I know where home is right now. I don’t think it’s Colorado, but I don’t know if it’s here either. Maybe I don’t have one.”
JJ doesn’t say anything and you remember yourself. Laughing self-deprecatingly, you shake your head.
“Sorry, think this joint’s going to my head. That was dramatic.”
“No, no, I get ya,” JJ assures. “I know what you mean.”
“You don’t like Kildare?” you ask him.
His expression darkens like a shadow has cast over him. “It depends.”
“Hm,” you say. Nothing more is said on the matter. You get the sense that JJ was vague on purpose.
Pulling your legs into your seat, you glance around at the clutter on the porch. A surfboard is lent against the nett lining of the porch; a rusting duck ornament balances on one of the beams. What looks to be a broken radio sits beside a half-full bottle of rum on a small table by the couch.
“I think it’s good for John B, having you back.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” JJ smiles. “He sorta spun out when his dad disappeared. You’re kinda the only family he has left.”
“You’re his family too. Been around longer than I have,” you tell him.
JJ’s smile softens. He glances away from you, fiddling with the paper of the joint, almost as if he’s flustered. “Thanks.”
“So,” you say, “you got some poor girl on this island falling after you?”
“Rude of you to assume there’s only one,” JJ grins wickedly.
You roll your eyes.
“What about you? Some West Coast jock waiting for you back in the home state?”
The sarcastic ‘har har’ that he gets has JJ frowning, bemused.
“Definitely no guy, and definitely no jock.”
“Now that I find hard to believe,” JJ says.
Before you can ask what he means by that, or spiral out by thinking too much about it, JJ’s getting to his feet. He puts the blunt out on the window ledge, ditching the empty butt in a filthy dish. Stretching his arms over his head, sighing, you watch as his t-shirt rides up. The tensing of his abdominal muscles is like torture. God, to run your hands up his chest, over his shoulders, tangle them in the salt-soaked strands of his hair…
“Right, night Little Routledge,” JJ says.
You blink away from his chest and meet his gaze. There’s a strange expression on his face, one you don’t recognise, and you want to scrutinise it and find out what it means. But it’s gone in a flash, as is he as he heads back into the house. You watch through the window as his silhouette drops onto the pull-out sofa.
It takes a minute to regain your composure.
You can’t think of JJ like that. He certainly doesn’t think of you like that, and that childhood crush has long been put to bed. Shaking it awake is the last thing you need right now. Besides, he’s John B’s best friend. Your brother’s best friend. The same brother who’s taken you back into his house, offered you a room, free of charge, without complaint or question. And it seems like John B needs as many people around him as possible right now. But it’s hard to maintain that line of thought, when as you lie back down in your bed, desperate to get some sleep, you can vividly picture the slit of JJ’s chest that you were privy to just moments ago when you close your eyes.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
You follow Tom through the restaurant. He’s the supervisor, eighteen and a fresh high school graduate. It’s hard to keep up with him as he points things out: waiter’s station; kitchen; storeroom…You’d forgotten how overwhelming job orientations can be.
“And this,” he pushes a door open, “is the staff room.”
You glance in and take in the messy pile of shoes, the overflowing trash can, and the three coat pegs overwhelmed with bags and hoodies.
“Love what you’ve done with the space.”
Tom laughs. He closes the door and leans against the doorframe. Broad shouldered, he stands taller than you by a couple inches.
“So, what made you want to work here?”
“I’m really interested in not being broke,” you reply, making him laugh.
“You new to the island? Feel like I haven’t seen you around?”
“This island that small?”
“Or you’re just that unforgettable,” he smoothly returns.
Your face fires up. Laughing nervously, you shift your stance. “I just moved in with my half-brother for the summer. Need something to keep me busy for a few months.”
“Ah, sweet. Anyone I’d know?”
“Dunno,” you say. He starts back into the main restaurant building. They haven’t opened yet. It’s void of life. “John B Routledge?”
“Oh shit, yeah. JB,” he says, flashing you a grin.
He’s charming in a disarming way. The kind of face that a modelling agency would swipe up because of his easy marketability.
When the two of you approach the bar, there’s a girl stood polishing wine glasses. She looks to be about your age, maybe a couple of years older. Her smile is sweet and welcoming like warm hot chocolate on a winter’s night.
“Hey, Lizzy. This is the new starter,” Tom introduces.
“I’m guessing I got the job then?” you ask him. He nods. With that, you offer a hand to Lizzy.
“Nice to meet ya,” she says, shaking it. “Could do with more girls around here.”
“Happy to help,” you reply.
“So, you think you can cover a shift tomorrow night? I figured cause you’ve waitressed before it shouldn’t take too long for you to learn the ropes here,” Tom says.
You nod. “Sure. Sounds good.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow then,” he says.
You bid farewell to himself and Lizzy, seeing yourself out the front door. The restaurant is in the heart of the cut, surrounded by other small businesses and hipster start-ups. You begin the journey home, plugging in your headphones and submerging yourself in Reggae music. Children play in the local park and preteens chatter as they speed past you on their bikes. There’s a warm breeze that brushes past you; it smells of sea water and fried fish. You’re passing the harbour. Eyes land on Heyward’s store, the logo just as you remember it from all those years ago. It’s surreal being back.
When your phone buzzes, you pause your sightseeing to check it. It might be John B asking after the interview. Your throat closes up when you see your mom’s contact pop up. A text. ‘Call me back.’
Just like that, you’re dragged out of Kildare and are back in Colorado.
It’s impossible to ignore the text, but you do your best either way. You don’t even remember half the journey to the Chateau as you walk through the door. JJ is home. He’s sat at the messy dining table, eating a bowl of cereal and scrolling through his phone. Tugging out your earbuds, you give a small wave hello.
“How’d the interview go? That was today, right?”
“Smashed it. Got the job,” you say.
“Oh, sweet. Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
You ditch your bag by the door along with your phone. Taking the seat opposite him, you sit cross-legged on the wooden chair. The sketchbook you’d abandoned earlier lays dormant. Opening it up, you flick to your latest piece of the marsh. It’s coming together rather well. You’d decided to add the H.M.S Pogue, sat harboured on the grass. JJ peers over his bowl to the painting.
“Holy shit. That’s sick,” he says through his mouthful of Captain Crunch.
“Thanks,” you smile. “I’m pretty happy with how it’s come out, considering how old these paints are.”
JJ watches as you crack open the aforementioned watercolours. The smell of artificial paint teases the air. Dampening a thin brush in the mason jar of water, you dip into the blue.
“They bad quality or something?”
“A little. They best ones are Winsor and Newton, but I can’t justify spending over twenty bucks on paints.”
“Why not? You’ve clearly got a gift,” JJ says.
You hate how casual he is when he says things like that to you. Like it doesn’t knock the breath out of you like a sucker punch to the chest.
“S’just practice,” you mumble.
You can feel his gaze as you paint. Resting your chin in your hand, you work at the water under the jetty, trying to perfect the shading. You want to feel as though you can walk into the painting; like you could drown in the crystal clean waves.
Painting had become an escape when you were in Colorado. Whatever you could remember of Kildare, you’d paint. When that well ran dry, you began to paint places you wished you could go. Anywhere but the dilapidating family home you’d found yourself in. Secret gardens made of twisting ivy and crumbling, ornate statues hidden amongst orchids and rose bushes. Cosmic planes with make-believe ice cream stations snuck onto Mars and Venus; whales which bathed in the stars and caught a tan in moonbeams. Underwater societies full of sea kelp and multicoloured coral reefs, with octopi hiding amongst crabs and shellfish.
You glance up to find JJ transfixed on the painting. There’s a crease between his brows as if he’s the one concentrating. It makes you laugh, quiet and under breath, and he looks up. Holds your stare.
“That’s amazing, that you can just do that,” JJ says, remarking to your work.
You swallow the sickly rush that his words give you. His tongue dampens his lower lip, tantalisingly slow. You feel it hit somewhere deep inside of you. Something in the air shifts.
Then, so quiet neither of you can be sure he really said it, he utters, “you’re amazing.”
“Yo!”
The door swings open with your brother’s arrival. Your head spins over your shoulder to the front door. John B stands holding a bag of takeout burgers in the air beside his head.
“Y’all hungry?”
“Hell yeah,” JJ says.
When you look to him, it feels as if you could have imagined the whole interaction had just moments ago. JJ’s sat in his seat as he was before, unfazed.
He abandons his cereal and follows John B into the kitchen like a starving dog, begging for food. You place your paintbrush back into the water and join them. John B unpacks the burgers and fries onto half-clean plates. You watch JJ toss a fry into the air and catch it, whooping in celebration. A plate is handed back to you, over John B’s shoulder.
“Beef burger with cheese, no pickles.”
“Thank you,” you sing-song, taking the plate off him.
JJ turns around and looks at you with faux disgust. “No pickles?”
You shake your head, heading back to the table. JJ and John B join you with their own quick dinners, and the three of you eat. You tell John B about the summer job you secured, and he tells you and JJ about Sarah Cameron and her new boy-toy Topper. JJ says he’s “biceps without a brain” when you ask which one Topper is.
“That can’t be his real name,” you snort.
“Oh, it is,” John B replies.
“His name is almost as dumb as he is,” JJ sniggers.
There’s the sound of chewing and swallowing.
“Two official weeks into summer,” John B randomly announces.
You quirk a brow. “Two weeks since I came back to Kildare.”
JJ holds his cup of soda up in a toast. John B wipes his mouth and raises his own, as do you. The three of you clink cups, smiling at the stupidity. As you bring your cup to your lips to drink, you find your eyes meeting JJ’s across the table. He holds your gaze as he sips, swallows and licks his lips of the sugar. You feel it hit somewhere deep, deep inside of you. JJ looks back to John B and starts recounting his tales of the day fishing, leaving you stumped.
What the hell was that?
~*~*~*~*~*~*
As your days in Kildare stretch on, your imagination becomes your most loved and loathed place all at once.
The Pogues had taken you under their wing without a second thought. It felt as if it wasn’t just because you were John B’s younger sister. Kiara would spend hours talking to you about music and star signs. Pope would discuss books and artists that he’d read about, falling into a huge debate about whether Andy Warhol is as legendary as everyone makes him out to be (the answer is, of course, yes). You and John B connected as brother and sister, filling that hole of ‘family’ that had been taken from both of you within the past year. Movie nights sharing popcorn and critiquing corny horror films, and mornings spent tending to the yard and fishing at the jetty: you felt yourself coming back bit by bit, in the company of the brunette.
But spending time with the Pogues came with spending more time with JJ. That little childhood crush that you’d claimed had succumb a long, undisturbed slumber…Oh, she had been awoken. Him staying over more and more on the pull-out when him and his dad ‘got into a thing’ meant the throw pillows smelt like his cologne and soap. He’d offer you his sweatshirt when sat around the bonfire on evenings drinking, and the warm distinct smell of him would consume you, drown you in the pheromones, affecting you like some pathetic animal in heat. Days spent surfing and sunbathing at the break gave you space to shamelessly ogle his bare chest, splattered in sea water, scorched and tanned with sunlight. The ripple of his lats when wearing his useless muscle tees as he waxed his board in the surf shack. His jawline strong and steely when annoyed or focused, with faint blonde stubble a week after shaving. But you swear he knew how it affected you. Swear he knew it drove you crazy whenever he’d fleetingly touch your back, brushing past you in the kitchen to grab a drink, or adjust your grip when helping him fix up his bike. When sharing a blunt on the porch (as you often did when sleep couldn’t come), he’d take his time passing it to you, fingers brushing. Innocent, incidental touches that felt calculated and planned. The way his eyes would gaze into yours, like he could read your thoughts and decipher your wants. A vague, barely-there smirk to his lips, constantly tortured by his tongue and teeth…
God, your whole body feels as if it has been on fire for the past week.
You blame your overactive thoughts of JJ on your boredom. Working at the restaurant hadn’t been sufficient distraction from the mess that is your life right now. Even now, as you stand before the till, typing through an order for the kitchen and bar, you feel your mind wandering. To thoughts of the Chateau, and to a certain blonde-haired guy sprawled on the pull-out sofa, shirtless, back on proud display…
“You gonna be much longer?”
“No, I shouldn’t be,” you say to Tom.
You hope your embarrassment doesn’t read on your face. It’s not as if he could hear your thoughts, so you’re not sure why you feel caught in the act. You finish selecting the sides for table 16 and press ‘store table’. Stepping to the side to grab some side plates, Tom takes over the till.
He’s nice. Makes you laugh a lot at work, as you slander rude tables and gush over those that tip an extra twenty.
After depositing the side plates at the table, you head to the bar to run the drinks you put through. Lizzy is mixing the cocktail you ordered. She pours rum into a shaker and then passionfruit puree.
“Can I ask you something?” you say to her.
She glances over. The two of you had gotten closer at work. You were hoping to hang out with her one time down at the beach, or maybe grab lunch after a morning shift. She runs a hand over her buzzcut hair style and nods.
“Do you think there’s such a thing as bad thoughts?”
“Bit deep to be asking that at eight o’clock at night, don’t you think?” she smirks.
You roll your eyes. As she goes on making the cocktail, you elaborate. “I have this dumbass crush on this guy which I know I shouldn’t have…I just feel bad for thinking about him so much.”
“Well, that’s dumb,” she snorts.
There’s the loud rattle of ice against stainless steel as Lizzy shakes the cocktail. Then, as she strains it into a martini glass, she looks up at you once more.
“Who’s this guy? Do I know him?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “Is it Tom?”
And, no, it isn’t Tom, but maybe saying it is means she won’t keep digging. You’d rather keep your embarrassing years-long infatuation with your brother’s best friend close to the chest. So, you do your best to look meek as you nod.
“Holy shit! Well, if it makes you feel better, he’s totally into you,” Lizzy tells you.
“He is?”
“Hell yeah. Guy practically ogles you across the room,” she says.
You glance over to Tom. He’s stood before a table, talking away, scribbling down their order on a notepad. At the feeling of being watched, he looks up and meets your gaze. You flash him a small smile and he mirrors it quickly before returning his focus to the task at hand.
“So, do you?”
“Think there’s such a thing as bad thoughts?” Lizzy checks. You nod. She ponders the question whilst garnishing the cocktail. “No. No, I think only actions talk. I mean, I think bad things all the time about customers who are dicks. I could put glass in their drinks: that’d show them sort of thing. But I don’t actually put glass in their drinks, so I’m off the hook. Nobody’s the wiser.”
It’s a somewhat extreme example but it gets the point across. You take the tray and nod.
“I mean, maybe fantasising about it might be cathartic. Get it out your system, you know?” Her sly wink speaks volumes as to what these ‘fantasies’ are about. You roll your eyes.
“Thank you for your advice, Lizz. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Anytime sunshine.”
With that, you walk over table 16 and deliver their drinks. The rest of the shift passes by rather quickly. You end up making a bet with Tom that you can sell more pints of larger than him and come up victorious, leaving work with an extra ten dollars in your pockets.
The streets are painted sunset purple, orange and pink. You spot John B’s campervan, known as The Twinkie, in the parking lot; he’d promised to pick you up after work tonight. But as you walk up to the passenger side, you realise it’s JJ behind the wheel. You’re not sure if the feeling of your organs shrinking is a good thing or a bad thing.
“Where’s John B?” you ask, climbing in beside him.
“Nice way to say, ‘hi JJ, it’s so good to see you!’”
“Okay, hi JJ,” you say, rolling your eyes. He starts the engine. “Now, where’s my brother?”
“He had to go do something for Cameron.”
“At ten at night?”
“Dude, I just work here, a’right? I do as he says so he lets me stay on his sofa,” JJ says. You laugh.
The radio kicks on and ‘Downtown Lights’ starts to play. You look out the window as he drives, watching the houses fade into overgrow and trees.
“Hey, you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“We can swing by a Wendy’s on the way home, if you wanna,” JJ says.
You smile as you look over to him, nodding. With that, he takes the next left and the two of you make your way in comfortable silence to the drive through. At the worker’s request, JJ recounts his order: two hamburgers, both with cheese, one without pickles. Oh and a large Pepsi.
As he pulls forward to pay, you say, “you remembered I don’t like pickles?”
He glances over to you like you’re stupid for even asking. “Course.”
Food secured, Pepsi in the cupholder for you both to share, you start the journey to the Chateau.
“Feed me a fry?”
You laugh and oblige. It’s the least you can do, considering he bought you takeout, after all. You turf one out the brown paper bag and hold up to his lips. His breath fans against your fingers as he takes it. Chews and swallows. You managed to tear your eyes away. That man could yawn and you’d be mesmerised, you swear. It’s pathetic.
“Thanks.”
“Course.”
The ride back is over way too soon. You take what’s left of your food and your bag, opening the door. “You staying over tonight?”
JJ contemplates a moment before shaking his head. He studies his hands as they run up and over the steering wheel when he says, “no. No, I gotta go home sometime.”
“Right,” you quietly say. The last fight him and his dad got in was ugly. He came over, shaking with anger, a purple bruise forming under his eye. It scared the shit out of you to let him go back there alone. “Well, thanks for the food.”
JJ looks up from the steering wheel and takes you in. His lips move, like he wants to say something, but he seems to abandon the thought. You take it as your cue to leave.
“See you soon.”
“Yeah. See you soon, Little Routledge.”
You hate that nickname. The resentment is thick to swallow as you say goodnight, stepping out the van.
John B isn’t home when you walk into the Chateau. The lights are off, dirty dishes piled up in the sink. The sofa bed is unmade from the last time JJ slept on it. You contemplate crashing on it for the night, just so you can feel as if you’re near to him, but you know that’s insane. If John B were to find you there, he’d only be concerned that something was wrong with your own room, either way. So you trundle back to your bedroom and strip out of your uniform. Makeup rinsed off and teeth brushed, you crawl into bed and drift off easily.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
His lips are hot and wet on your skin, kissing down your stomach. Your breathing’s laboured like you’re fighting an adrenaline rush. He seems to notice, laughing darkly against your tummy.
“So wound up already and I’ve barely touched you,” JJ croons in his southern drawl.
Your eyes slip shut, fighting back a whimper as his fingers dip teasingly into the waistband of your panties. A moan finally lets slip at the sensation of his lips pressing against your crotch, over the cotton.
“You want it?”
“Please,” you whisper.
“Yeah? You want my mouth?”
“Yes, JJ, please.”
It’s embarrassing to beg but you don’t have much left in your mind other than thoughts of him to even care.
Fingers knotting into his hair, you try and coax him lower still. And he obliges. Drags your panties down your legs like time is a luxury. You wonder if he likes teasing you; if it brings him pleasure like the feeling of his hands on your body does for you. He leans back on his haunches and runs his palms up and down your thighs, staring at you exposed pussy. His shark tooth necklace sits against his toned chest and you’re jealous of how close it gets to be to him.
“Fuck,” JJ groans as you open your legs.
He leans back down and nuzzles your inner thigh, pressing a sharp kiss with his teeth, sucking in the skin and relishing your pleasured yelp. It feels as if he’s marking you as he leaves the hickey: mine.
“Been dreaming ‘bout this.”
Before you can let out another pathetic plea, JJ situates himself between your legs and goes down on you. Eats you out like a man who’s been lost at sea, like a man starved. Sighs at the taste of you on his tongue, kissing at your thighs as if to catch his breath, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. The damp of his tongue laps at your clit and your legs lock around him in a vice. He’s indefatigable, insatiable and…it’s too much.
“I can’t,” you whine hopelessly. Your fingers grasp at the sheets, eyes clenched shut.
“Come on,” JJ preens. “Wanna see you come.”
He leans close to your ear, taking your lobe between his teeth, and slips a finger into your seeping hole. Your orgasm comes like waves crashing over splintered rocks; breathing jagged and vision blurring behind eyelids. Somewhere in the euphoric haze you cry out his name. Flashes of colour blending into a mercurial high as he works you through your ecstasy, unrelenting.
You gasp awake.
Had you been sleeping?
Your forehead is damp with sweat, throat parched and chest heaving. Anyone would have thought you’d have just sprinted three miles. When you sit up in bed, you register the pulsing between your legs and the telltale stickiness of your thighs.
Shit. Good thing there’s no such thing as bad thoughts.
Wiping at your face, your skin feels red hot. You venture to the bathroom and drink water from the faucet. Making eye contact with yourself is too hard right now, considering you just had the most incredible wet dream about your brother’s best friend. Now that the high is passing, you’re overcome with shame and guilt. You’re delusional. Maybe you should submit yourself to be sectioned. Would be a good way to kill some of these summer weeks…
Heading back to bed feels like returning to the scene of a crime. Instead, you head out onto the porch, dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and panties. John B’s a deep sleeper, you’ve come to learn. You’ve never heard him get up in the night, in all your moments of insomnia. There’s no risk of crossing paths with him out here.
Stepping out onto the paint-peeled floorboards, you notice he forgot to turn off the porch light when he came home. Great, I guess I know where my wage is going. But as you head to your favourite red armchair, ready to gaze out at the marsh and watch the waterside plants dance in the breeze, you freeze.
JJ’s on the sofa. And he’s awake. You can tell just from where you’re stood.
Before you can flee back to your room, the floorboard creaks. JJ jolts up and looks around, eyes landing on you. You swallow. The moment you lay eyes on him, part of your dream comes screaming back to you. The way your voice cracked as you cried out his name, tumbling over the edge. You quickly shun away the thoughts, slamming them closed in a box, before your body can lose itself to the fantasy once more. Please God tell me that I didn’t actually scream his name.
“Hi,” you dumbly say.
“Hey.”
“I thought you were staying at your place tonight,” you say.
JJ shrugs. “Change of plans, I guess.”
“Oh.”
He looks back ahead at the armchair, back to you, and you can’t help but pull a face akin to holy shit what the fuck do I do? When he holds up a joint, you decide to stay. Panties are just the same as a bikini anyway, and he’s seen you in those. You make sure to wear your cutest ones when he’s surfing with you. The ones that are tight in all the right places and hug your figure in a way that you wished he would. Oh my God, shut up. You wordlessly take the joint as you quickly step past him, planting yourself in the armchair. You pull your legs up and sit atop of them, taking a long drag to try and calm your racing mind and heart. Inspecting the floor seems a good thing to do, suddenly. The divots in the wood from worms and the strips of paint. Looking up, you find JJ’s eyes trained on your legs. His gaze diverts when you lean forward, offering him the blunt again. As he lifts himself to take it, you see him wince, and now in the light of the porch, fully taking him in you, you can make out the bloody cut beside his eye.
“Jesus Christ, JayJ.”
“It’s fine,” he reflexively says. He takes another hit. “Just need some self-medication.”
“Bullshit. You need to clean that thing ‘fore it gets infected.”
“Be my guest,” JJ scoffs.
With that, you get to your feet and head back into the house. The first aid kit is under the bathroom sink. It’s probably the least dusty thing in the whole room. Returning to him, you forget all about the reason that you got up in the first place and shove it to the back of your mind. This was more important than worrying about some dumb dream. Shoving his legs off the couch, you force him to make space for you. You place the first aid kit on your lap and open it. JJ keeps smoking. The smell of weed clouds your senses. Picking out a disinfectant wipe, you turn to him.
“This’ll sting,” you say, opening the packet.
“That’s what she said.”
You frown. “What kind of kinky ass sex are you having?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he grins.
For a moment dread drops down your body, chilling your spine. Did he hear you? No, no he couldn’t have. You probably didn’t make a noise. He’s just being his usual, salacious self.
You take his jawline in hold gently between your fingers. The bone is hard beneath the soft of his skin; fine stubble scratches your fingertips. Leaning up, you try not to get distracted in his eyes as you dab at the cut. You apologise as he hisses. It doesn’t look as intimidating when clean of blood, which is more than a relief. You dip back into the first aid kit and offer up two band aids. One is plain nude and the other Hello Kitty.
“Take your pick.”
He rolls his eyes with a small smile and grabs the Hello Kitty one, holding it out to you. You shift onto your knees, bending over him to plant it over his cut. You notice a bruise forming on his cheek bone on the other side, and a cut lip. You should have insisted he stayed over when he dropped you off. He looks up, as if he can hear your thoughts, and meets your gaze. You can’t seem to find it in yourself to move away.
“It’s not your fault,” he quietly says.
You swallow. It’s scary how easy he can read you. Makes you worry what other thoughts he can tell from your face. “Wished you just stayed here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Hate the thought of you going back to that house.”
“That’s sweet,” he smiles. “But if I didn’t go, I wouldn’t have you here taking care of me.”
“Oh, was it all part of your masterplan?” you joke, finding your smile again. His seems to grow at the sight.
“Something like that.”
When his lips press to yours, you’re taken aback. It feels like fire, searing hot, and you flinch like you’ve been burnt. You gape at him, wide eyed, and it seems to register what he’s just done. You both move to put as much space between you as possible, as if trying to keep the blaze from spreading.
“Shit, I—”
“I should go back to bed,” you hurry out.
JJ nods. “Yeah, yeah. Course.”
In your scramble to get back to your feet and back in your room, the first aid kit falls to the floor, the contents spilling out. You cuss and drop to your knees, rushing to retrieve all the clutter. JJ joins you, passing you gloves and bandages. You find some nerve to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he says. The sincerity in his voice…It’s painful.
“It’s okay. I don’t…It isn’t…”
You sigh. Your speech is just as messed as your mind. Closing your eyes, gathering your words, you take a deep breath. Looking back to JJ, you shake your head.
“We can’t.”
“I know,” he replies, almost sadly. Nods once more. “Yeah, I know. I’m just…high. And tired.”
“Right. Course.”
And whilst his excuses should sting, they don’t, because you don’t believe them. JJ smokes enough weed to not be affected all that much by half a joint. But you don’t argue. Instead, you close the box and go to head inside. You stop in the doorway.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say.
You spare him one last glance. He’s on the floor, head hung and back to you, and you consider staying. But you don’t. You go straight to bed, acting as if a fresh start tomorrow will reset the entire thing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
In the morning, JJ’s gone. John B doesn’t seem to have even realised he’d stayed over. You find your older brother in the kitchen, washing up the dirty dishes. Swiping up a towel, you come to help.
“Hey. Sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie. “You?”
“Like a rock,” he grins. “You still up for that keggar tonight, at the boneyard?”
“Oh shit, that’s tonight?”
“Yeah. All the others are going,” John B says.
“Yeah, I’ll go. I think I’m catching a ride with Lizzy from work.”
“Alright. Just stay safe.”
“I will,” you drawl. He smiles at you before turning back to the washing up. “Hey, John B?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For letting me stay here.”
“Yeah, course,” he says. He pauses his handy work, turning his attention to you. “You’ve always got a bed to crash on here, even if child services are up my ass.”
“I appreciate it. I really needed to get out of Colorado.”
The seven missed calls from your mom slip into your mind. Her texts go unanswered, but she knows you read them. You don’t want her to think you’re in danger. Talking to her is just too much right now.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I needed you back too,” he says. “Things have been kinda messy since my dad…disappeared. I don’t know what I’d do if I was on my own.”
“You’re never gonna be on your own, though,” you smile. “The Pogues would do anything for you. It’s actually kinda scary.”
John B laughs at that. “Yeah, yeah, they’re, uh, not the smartest.”
“Apart from Pope,” you point out. He nods, smiling as he looks back to the soapy water.
“Yeah, apart from Pope.”
“JJ cares about you a lot,” you feel the need to add. His voice last night, apology ready, after your kiss, echoes in your mind.
“I know. I feel like you two are the best things in my life right now,” John B admits. The guilt multiples by tenfold with that. You fix your face when he looks to you. “So, thanks.”
“No worries, big bro,” you reply, nudging his shoulder with yours.
He laughs. “Thanks, little sis.”
With that, you both continue cleaning the pots. The shame from last night gets shoved down into the deepest, darkest pit of your stomach, and you try to go about your day without sparing another thought to JJ.
On the way to the keggar, Lizzy grills you about your ‘crush’ on Tom. “He’s gonna be there tonight, I think.”
“Oh, really?” you say. You know you don’t sound enthused. It’s too much effort to pretend.
“Everything good?” she frowns, glancing away from the road.
You nod and plaster on a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just tired, I think.”
“Couple drinks in you and you’ll be wide awake, I promise,” she assures.
Nodding, you shift in your seat and look out the window. Your skirt rides up in the processes. It’s a little short but it’s so ridiculously hot tonight, you can’t seem to care. A crotchet style crop-top dresses down the outfit. You don’t want to seem like you’re trying too hard for a beachside keggar. As you pull up closer to the boneyard, cars line the roads. Lizzy finds a spot and parks. You grab the crate of Budlight and her the box of White Claw, and you hop out the car towards the beach. Her stories about work and school have brightened your mood.
She’s tall and remarkably cool in a way that you never will be. She has stick and poke tattoos on her knees and elbows, and nine piercings on one ear. Her nose ring and snake bite piercings are far from intimidating on her cherub like features. The buzzcut has been dyed neon blue, standing bright against her dark skin. As you pass groups of teens, she shouts hello to those she recognises and shares the odd bro-hug.
You add your drinks to the pile of booze before grabbing a can, cracking it open. A quick scan of the scene tells you that the Pogues are still pre-drinking at the Chateau. You’d managed to dodge JJ so far.
“This is a pretty decent turn out,” Lizzy tells you, swigging from her can.
“Know a lot of people here?”
“Sure,” she says. She points to a gaggle of polo-shirt wearing pretty boys who look like they could snap you with one finger. “Those are the gym rat kooks. That tall blonde Topper is with the princess of Figure Eight, Sarah Cameron.”
JJ was right: biceps without a brain. You watch as he shotguns a drink and cracks the can on his forehead. Sarah Cameron, blonde hair straight flowing down her back, does not look impressed.
“And her brother Rafe. That guy’s all kinds of whacked out,” Lizzy mutters. You follow her finger to spot a tall, short haired guy. He looks unapproachable, even from far away.
“Yo Lizzy!”
You both turn to find a crowd of girls and guys. One of them is waving at Lizzy and she waves back.
“Come on, I know these guys. They’re cool,” she tells you, taking your hand and guiding you over.
You’re introduced to everyone and soon enough are roped into beer pong and shots. It’s fun though. Everyone’s having a laugh, cheering each other on. You hear about some good spots to grab food and learn Michael, Lizzy’s closest friend, can drink you under the table. A few hours in and there’s a comfortable buzz to your bones. You haven’t thought about the Pogues, or JJ, or the fleeting kiss all night. As you laugh along to one of Michael’s soccer stories, someone taps you on the shoulder. You turn around to come face to face with Tom.
“Hey,” you smile, squiffy.
“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
“Yeah, I came with Lizzy.”
“Hey, Tom,” she smiles before sending you a more than suggestive look. Oh, shit. The lie. “Hey, why don’t you go get my girl a top up?”
Before you can contest, she’s taking your half full can out of your hand and coaxing you away with an assuring smile. Tom takes it in stride and walks with you to the coolers. He grabs two cans of beer, passing one to you, and you cheers him.
“How you finding Kildare?”
“Good.”
“Yeah? You been hanging with John B’s crowd, right?”
“Most of the time, yeah,” you smile, nodding. He makes a face before taking a drink. You frown. “What?”
“Nah, nothing. They’re just kinda…well, I mean, some people think they’re bad news.”
“Some people, huh?” you say cautiously.
“Just reputations and all that. Like that JJ guy. He’s got slippery fingers, if you know what I mean,” Tom says, wiggling his own in demonstration.
Suddenly this conversation is very unappealing. You glance off to Lizzy and the others. “I should probably get back to them. Thanks for the drink, though.”
“No, hey, no,” Tom says. He grabs you by the wrist. “Come on, I was being a dick. I’ve had one too many. Let’s just hang, alright? I really wanna get to know you.”
You look between him and Lizzy and sigh. Taking a swig, you shrug. “Alright.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tick you off.”
“I like the Pogues. They’re a good group,” you feel the need to defend.
“No, yeah, they are!” Tom agrees. You can smell the stench of liquor on his breath. “I just don’t want you to get corrupted by them.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just, you’re new here—”
“And so I’m clueless on how to judge people?” you finish sardonically.
Tom rolls his eyes and it makes your anger tick. “Come on, you don’t gotta be a bitch about this.”
“What did you just call me? You know what? Forget it,” you scoff, snatching your arm away from his hold. “Have fun drinking on your own.”
But you don’t get very far before he’s grabbing at you again. “Calm down, would you? Just gimme—”
“Let go!” you demand.
His grip only tightens. The strong front you’re putting on begins to crumble under the panic of this guy is way bigger than me.
“Just quit bitching and we can talk,” he says harshly.
“I don’t want to talk. Now please let go of me,” you firmly return.
He doesn’t let go. Keeps chattering away, insisting that you have to hear him out.
“Let go, Tom!”
“Everything good here?”
Your wide eyes look away from Tom and land on JJ, and your whole body relaxes. He’s looking at you and the panic must read clear on your face because his demeanour changes in a split second. Jaw tight, he turns to Tom.
“I think you should let go, man.”
“You think I’m gonna listen to you?” Tom scoffs.
JJ takes another step towards him. He towers over Tom by enough to be intimidating. “Think you should listen to her.”
“Oh, I get it,” Tom snarls. He lets go of you and you can feel your skin breathing. You rub at the pink marks, easing the sting. Tom gets into JJ’s face, undeterred from a fight. “You wanna keep John B’s sloppy sister for yourself, huh?”
JJ’s fist flies at Tom’s face, making an ugly, visceral sound as it lands on his left cheek. You gasp. Nearly knocked off balance, Tom stumbles on the sand. The commotion has drawn in somewhat of a crowd. Before you can intervene, Tom’s throwing hands. He aims an upper cut to JJ’s jaw but he’s quick to dodge, landing his own punch instead by Tom’s eyebrow. That one seems to deter him. He trips backwards. The chanting of the crowds egging it on makes you feel sick. You’d just finished patching JJ up last night, and you’ve seen his anger before. It takes control quickly and blinds him to reason. The last thing he needs is to wind up in a cell. So, before he can land another hit, you’re stepping forward and grabbing at his arm, stopping him.
“Come on, let’s just go,” you say pleadingly.
His chest is heaving with anger, breathing short and jaw heavy set and tense. He hesitates, looking between yourself and Tom. He’s still cradling his last hit, trying to regain his composure. Sighing, JJ lets you lead him away. Tom’s heckling is laced with slurs directed at you, and you have to keep a steady grip on JJ to keep him from going back.
“He’s not worth it, JayJ,” you mutter.
“You’re so wrong,” JJ darkly returns, but he doesn’t go back.
Away from the beach, back on the road, you let go. He paces for a moment, trying to calm himself. Tugs off his cap and rakes his fingers through his hair, breathing deep and slow. You don’t speak: just let him go through the motions. Babying him through this isn’t going to help anyone.
Whilst violence isn’t the answer to anything, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for JJ’s help.
Letting him cool off, you take a seat on one of the fallen tree trunks.
“Hey.”
Looking up, JJ walks over. He’s mostly back to himself.
“You okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No. Just freaked me out a bit. He’s not usually like that. He’s just drunk.”
“Like that’s an excuse,” JJ scoffs. He takes the spot next to you, sitting worryingly close.
The culmination of last night and tonight makes your head spin. The effects of the alcohol vanished the moment Tom took a hold of you. Now you just want to forget the whole thing.
“Wanna get out of here?” JJ asks.
You turn your head to face him and smile smally, nodding.
“Come on. I brought my bike.”
His red bike is parked beside the Twinkie. He climbs on first and offers a hand to help you onto the back. Your arms slot around his middle, circling around his taught chest, pressing yourself against him. Face resting on the middle of his back, you try not to inhale the smell of him. It might be too much for tonight. His calloused hands on yours have you shifting your hold, ensuring your tight against him like a backpack.
“Good?”
“Good,” you quietly reply.
He kicks off the stand and starts up the engine. You pull away from the keggar and up the road, zipping down the isolated streets. There’s nobody around at this time. Not a soul in sight. It feels so right, wrapped up against him like this, safe in his presence. Tom was wrong: JJ wasn’t bad news. Sure, he was a klepto, but he was the same guy who learnt how to sew to fix your favourite pair of shorts when you were little. The same guy who stepped up when some dirtbag was harassing you. The same guy who remembered you don’t like pickles on your burgers. Who looked at your paintings as if they were Picasso.
Somewhere along the ride, one of JJ’s hands comes to rest on your own. You don’t ask why and don’t pull away. Just let the reassuring weight of his hand on yours stay there and ground you to him like an anchor. Here, flying through the night, you can pretend like all the other shit doesn’t matter. It’s just you and him.
He starts onto a dirt track, slowing down, and a house emerges. Pastel yellow painted exterior hidden behind porch netting. There’s clutter of engines and fishing gear amongst surfing supplies. He pulls to a stop and kicks on the stand, turning off the engine. It’s quiet now, without its rumble. “Your dad home?” you can’t help but ask, staring at the front door.
JJ shakes his head. “No. He’s out on Friday nights. Kinda the only routine he has.”
You don’t ask where and he doesn’t expand. You step off the bike and watch as he clambers off too. Fixing your skirt, you wait for him to talk. He doesn’t. “I should probably head back,” you say. You’re not entirely sure why you came to his place instead. You’d assumed when you got on the bike that he’d take you back the Chateau.
“I mean, we can share a joint first if you want. Help you calm down and stuff, after that shitshow,” JJ half-chuckles.
There’s something heavy in the humid air. It’s hard to describe, hard to place, but you can feel it like static electricity. You find yourself nodding. He nods too and starts up to the house, hands in his black short pockets. You watch his feet sink into the grass and guide your eyes up his figure. His shoulders are tense, dressed under a thin t-shirt. He ditches his cap on the kitchen counter when you walk through the door. Through the house, past the neglection, and to his bedroom. He flicks on the light and clears his throat as he goes to his desk drawer.
You stand, leaning against his door until it clicks closed, and look around his room. There’s a world map pinned to the wall but no markings on it asides from one: Kildare, North Carolina. Print outs of palm trees and pressed, framed butterflies and leaves seem less innocent when placed between posters of models on the beach. The floor is a mess of dirty clothes and empty beer cans. Several dead vapes litter near the overflowing bin, and cigarette and joint buds scatter the windowsill and beside table. But the smell of JJ hangs strong in the air; it makes you smile to yourself.
“Alright,” JJ sighs. The desk drawer slams closed and he turns around, holding up a fresh joint and lighter. His initials are scratched into the metal: JJ. He sits on the bed and places the blunt between his lips, flicking at his lighter. You watch him take a drag and take it off him when he offers it over.
No words are shared as you pass the bud for several minutes. You both glance around the room, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but each other.
“How’s your face?”
“Huh?” he asks, finally meeting your eyes.
You nod to his cheek. “Your cut from the other night?”
“Oh, right,” he mumbles. He lifts a finger and strokes it absentmindedly. “It’s alright.”
“Good.”
JJ hands you the joint again, you take a drag, you pass it back to him. That same feeling from earlier, when you first climbed off the bike, has only amplified.
“So…”
You brave clearing the distance between you. You take the spot next to him on the bed.
“We gonna talk about it.”
“What’s there to talk about?” JJ deflects, studying the floor.
“Well, you kissed me,” you eventually reply, taking the joint back. “So, there’s that.”
“I already told you,” he sighs. “I was tired and doped up.”
When you say nothing, he looks up at you. "What? You think I'm lying?"
You take a drag. Shrugging, you honestly reply, “yeah, a little.”
He holds your gaze as if challenging you to back down. You don’t. Beating around the bush won’t help anything here, and its obvious you can’t go back to acting like it didn’t happen. You can’t move past it until you know why he did.
“S’just weird,” JJ mutters, looking away. “What happened last night, with me and you. S’just weird.”
“Yeah, it was weird for me too,” you agree. Swallowing, you take another hit. “But not bad weird, right?”
JJ’s head lifts once more. His eyes flash across your face like he’s searching for some kind of trap. He sucks his teeth in contemplation. “No. Not bad weird.”
Your heart stutters, breathing shaky and unsure. You feel your eyes dart down to his strawberry pink lips, and his to yours. But then he’s shaking his head. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know…” you breathe. You’re transfixed on his lips. Can’t move away, can’t bring yourself too. The blunt in your fingers is burning away, ash dropping to the floor, but you don’t care. All of it, everything but JJ, is white noise.
The moment you flit your eyes up to his, something shifts in him. His jaw ticks as he clenches it. Your brows pull in thought but there’s no time for you to ask.
“Fuck it.”
His lips are on yours within a breadth. He consumes your senses like a drug, dulling down anything else until all your thoughts are on him. He grabs for the blunt in your fingers, haphazardly putting it on the bedside table, and then his hands are sliding up along your sides, up your back, into your hair. One finds purchase on your cheek, and you rest your jaw in his hold like a bird settled in its favourite branch. The way he holds you like you’re something holy is different to how sinful his kiss is. It’s pure passion: raw, animalistic heat from weeks of build-up. And, God, it feels so right. The way his tongue brushes against yours, warm in your mouth, heavy in your head. The nip of his teeth on your lips and the fanning of his breath when he has to break for air. You’ve never been kissed like this before, not by anyone. It’s dizzying.
Until it isn’t, and he’s pulling away. His forehead rests against your own. You’re both panting. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says.
You slide a hand up his neck, tracing his jawline with your fingers. He practically melts under your touch, eyes slipping shut. “I know,” you whisper distractedly. Your thumb traces his lower lip. It’s swollen from your kisses.
He blinks his eyes open. “I’m serious. He can’t know.”
“He won’t,” you say, going to reconnect your lips.
But JJ stops you. “No, he can’t. He’d…God, he just can’t.”
You want to cry, seeing the moral dilemma weigh on JJ, feeling you share the burden. But the thought of walking away from this, of not feeling every inch of him, of never hearing him fall apart, makes you want to sob.
“Maybe just one time,” you murmur. Your finger traces down his chin, along the centre of his neck. “And we can just get it out of our system.”
“Yeah,” JJ mumbles. “Yeah, one time.”
“Yeah?”
You meet his gaze. His pupils are dilated, heavy with lust, and you feel your body ignite. “Touch me, please.”
With that simple mark of consent, JJ’s unchained. He doesn’t hold back when your lips reconnect. Somehow it becomes deeper, rougher, better. It’s such a strange oxymoron, the way he touches you and kisses you. You pull away to remove your crop top, and he takes the moment to strip off his shirt. The two of you are shameless as you take in the other. Reaching out a hand, you run your fingers up his chest in the way that you’ve imagined so many times before. It’s funny how in your head, you’ve already done it. His eyes dip down, watching your hands explore. You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his left pectoral, then his right. Sighing, his chest drops up and down with uneven breathes.
“So pretty,” you say through your kisses.
His fingers tether into your hair. There’s a slight tug that sends ripples of pleasure through your body in ways that it shouldn’t as he pulls you away, guiding your lips back to him. As he crawls atop of you, you inch up the bed, skirt riding up. You settle on our back. JJ’s greedy in his touch. Strokes your skin, explores your body, like it’s his own. And in a way it is because you’d give him anything if he asked. When his fingers slip behind your back, searching for the clasp of your bra, you lift yourself onto your elbows. He holds your gaze as he unfastens it, guiding it off your shoulders, helping it off your arms.
“Fuck,” he sighs.
A smile teases at your lips. It takes a certain type of guy to make you blush at the sound of his curses. Your head rocks back, eyes sinking closed, as his lips latch around your nipple. A hand palms at the skin, teasing your breast, exploring your reactions. You sigh out your pleasure, bringing a hand up to mess with his hair. It’s better than you imagined. Tops every fantasy, every wet dream, every sinful thought. And it’s only just begun.
“So fucking sexy,” JJ groans, kissing up your body until he finds your lips.
You don’t want him away from you. He looms over you, encasing you in the safe, consuming feeling of his presence, trapping you in the smell of his cologne and soap that you’ve tried so desperately to avoid. Through the kisses and love bites marked into necks and collarbones, you feel one of his hands ghost the outline of your figure. Traces down so slowly like you might not even notice. Down, down, to your panties. It’s there that he sweeps over your cotton covered mound. You sigh against his lips in anticipation.
“I know you’ve been thinking ‘bout this,” JJ says.
His voice is just as you pictured it: deep and crooning, his Southern accent at forefront. You want to bottle it like brandy and drink it until you black out. His lips work down your neck as he lightly circles your clit over your panties and you can’t stop your moan.
“I heard you, the other night.” Your eyes shoot open. JJ meets your gaze. He’s dying, the desperation clear as day on his face. His eyes themselves could send him straight to hell. There’s the shadow of a smirk.
“Were you thinking of me, whilst you were getting off?”
You go to push him away. The last thing you need is for him to tease you about it and make fun. But he doesn’t let you. Instead, he kisses just below your ear.
“Cause I think about you. Every night since you’ve been back. Can’t jack off to anything else,” he confesses into the crux of your ear. Your only reply is a small, surprised gasp. Your body’s ablaze with his words.
His fingers finally dip below your panties, sliding between your soaking folds. He groans at the sensation and you feel your legs give way. He works at you for a while, toying with you like it’s a side hobby. You’re only half aware of the sounds you make. One of your hands has situated itself on his upper back, nails scratching at the skin. JJ can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. It’s one blasphemy after another, and it drives you deeper and deeper into the abyss. He seems to become impatient. He removes fingers to push your underwear down. You kick them off at the ankles with a small giggle.
The moment his finger sinks into you, you swear you’ve seen heaven. JJ worships you, taking his time to inch you closer and closer to the edge. Another finger, then another. The stretch is heaven. Your back arches off the bed, mouth agape, brain dumb with pleasure. He won’t be quiet. He whispers praises into your ear. Narrates his own fantasies he’s harboured about you. Know you’ve been teasing me with those tiny bikinis. I wish I fucked you on the porch the other night. The moment his thumb swipes over your clit, you know you’re close. And then he’s bending his fingers just slightly, hitting that spot. You abandon all religion: this is the only type of prayer you need.
JJ has the audacity to laugh as you climax. You grasp uselessly at his body, the bedsheets, anything. You use a shaky hand to push his fingers away, overstimulated, and he finally relents. Starts kissing at your neck like a Goddamn vampire.
“That good, huh?”
You can’t really formulate words. You just drag his face to yours, kissing him senseless. When you inevitably part for breath, JJ leans back. He pinches your chin between two fingers, gnawing at his lower lip, and parts your lips for him. Your body pulses at the submissiveness he’s placed you under. Then his used fingers are slipped into your mouth. You close your lips around them, holding his gaze as you suck them clean. The salty distinct taste is unfamiliar but not necessarily unpleasant. He gives a small laugh, like he’s in disbelief.
“Fuck. Why did we wait so long to do this?”
You pull his hand free, taking grip on his shoulders. Pushing him against his bedroom wall, you move to straddle him. His hands fall onto your hips. Somewhere in your heady make-out, you rock yourself back on him. JJ groans; his head knocks back against the wall. He’s rock hard. It must be torture. You shuffle off him to make room to pull his shorts off. They join the mess of clothes on the floor. The tip leaks precum, straining painfully. You go to jack him off but JJ stops you.
“I won’t last,” he admits, half-embarrassed.
You nod, biting back your smile. “You got protection?”
“Top drawer,” he says, nodding to the bedside table.
You lean over and dig about before finding a condom. You come back, tear it open, and gently slide it over him. He lets out a shuddering breath at your touch, eyes clenched shut in concentration. It makes you feel slightly guilty for letting him indulge you for so long, but this will pay it back.
Straddling him once more, you steady yourself with one hand on either shoulder. His find home on your hips once more, and he helps you line up. Then you slowly sink down onto him. The stretch stings despite the earlier efforts. Head hanging forward, mouth falling open in silent moans, eyes clenching shut, you take him in. JJ’s mumbling praises, eyes transfixed on where you connect, spurring you on. Taking me so good. Jus’little more. You rock against him, using whatever energy you have to ride him. He helps guide you, head resting against the wall. You love that he isn’t quiet. Love that you’re on top and can see every ripple of pleasure course through him, reflect on his face. But when his eyes slip shut, you take a hand and guide his face to yours. Pressing your forehead against him, you lean forward and steady yourself with a hand on his chest. The new angle is euphoric. You moan and whine against his lips, eyes staring into his own. It’s the most hideously lewd symphony as the two of you chase your highs. There’s only one thought in your mind. And when JJ comes unannounced, shuddering as he finishes, never looking away from your eyes, only one thought is in your mind.
If it can only happen this once, it has to be perfect...
to be continued (part 2 will be released later this week)
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