#long live the ring light glare
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𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
part one | part two | part three | part four
summary you’re a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. queue the movies, nachos, cherry cough syrup, and a couple of moments of clarity. [10k]
warnings teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is junie’s birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, eddie being a total girl dad (<3), mutual pining, yearning etc, tw for not having much money, general mom struggles :(, slowburn friends to lovers, idiots in love!!! tw sick fic
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Eddie has the most peculiar curl tucked up by his neck. Where most are frizzy and loose, this one falls in a perfect shiny ringlet below his ear. He shifts and it's out of view, a curtain of dark hair falling forward and hiding his face as he puts your car in park.
"Remind me why you had to drive?" you ask, ducking down to look at the glaring white lights of the movie theatre across the street.
"You were gonna fall asleep behind the wheel."
For once, Eddie might not be exaggerating. He grins at your lack of rebuttal and throws an arm behind your shoulders, twisting in the driver's seat to set his sights on Junie.
"Are you ready?" he asks her.
She wiggles. It's an ecstatic movement. Her clothes are prim and sweet if you do say so yourself, a long sleeved shirt under a pair of the world's cutest dungarees. They crinkle as she moves, pressed to perfection.
You and Eddie open opposite doors in tandem and step out into the brisk, early night. The sidewalk shines with rain, a black slickness stretching in every direction. You shiver and pull your thin jacket tighter to your torso as you turn back to the car, intending to retrieve Junie and rush into the theatre before you can freeze on the spot.
Eddie's already swung open the door and rescued your daughter from the confines of her car seat, neatening up the hem of one of her socks with her face pushed over his shoulder.
She giggles about something and Eddie says, "Sorry, June. 'M tickling you, am I?" so fondly you have to avert your eyes.
He locks the car and hands over your keys with a smile. You smile back, heart flipping like a spinning coin. Head over tails, over and over.
The big, ring-heavy hand he holds to Junie's back reaches for you suddenly enough that you flinch.
"I'm sorry," he apologises, suppressing a laugh, "your necklace is twisted."
He moves in a second time and you raise your chin, chest aflame as his fingers glance off of your bare skin. He slips the chain over his index and pulls, encouraging the links around until the clasp is hidden again.
"Thank you." You huff an awkward, sheepish laugh.
"You owe me," he says, mock-severe.
Your laugh is much more genuine as you follow him across the road.
You're squinting as you approach The Hawk movie theatre. The title cards are hard to look at, aggressively white with black capital letters that read, 'The Great Mouse Detective 7'.
There's a small line of families waiting by the front. You realise it like a shock, that the three of you must look like a family too.
Eddie carries Junie with the surety of a dad that's carried his child a hundred times before; he strokes the back of her head with the affection of one, soothing the mess of flyaways she'd acquired by squirming in her car seat. Junie responds with familiarity, hands tucked into his hair and tugging. She's trying to be nice but his hair won't allow it, all his long curls tangled at the ends from a day at work.
Still, he says, "Thanks, baby. Make sure you get the back, okay?"
"Okay," she echoes.
You look down at your wringing hands. There's ink smudged up the side of your writing hand. You scratch at it half-heartedly, blinking against your fatigue.
You're exhausted tonight and it's only Wednesday. You can't imagine how you'll fare tomorrow considering how little sleep you're expecting tonight — there are a thousand things to do when you get home. Laundry to wash and press, cleaning to do, dinner to make.
You'd been writing cheques for due bills when Eddie had come knocking, well-dressed, stupid-handsome, and announced that tonight you would be accompanying him to the movies. He'd actually said 'accompanying'.
Despite a full agenda, you'd said yes. You're not very good at saying no. At least, not to him.
It takes you a moment to realise you're at the front of the line. You pay for the tickets before Eddie can try it, and with his hands full he can't really stop you. He whines about it all the way to the concession stand.
"You can buy the snacks," you say. His face lights up, and you amend, "If you're reasonable."
"I'm always reasonable…ly over the top," he says, chided by your hard stare.
"Yes, you are."
He follows you down the two steps to the concession and cuts in front of you. "How did you do that? What face was that? I felt my soul leave my body."
"That's my disapproving mom look. I'm disapproving."
"Ah." He pats Junie's side sympathetically.
She pulls her head from over his shoulder and smiles at you. Her arms vy for your hold. You steal her from Eddie and kiss her all over her tiny face, uplifted by how much she loves you, how happy she is to be in your arms.
"What snacks do you want? Do you eat popcorn with butter? Without?" Eddie asks, his newly emptied arms already posed thoughtfully, a hand under his chin as he thinks over his options.
The theatre has a huge array of jellies, an even bigger array of candy bars. There are more brands of soda than there are glasses in your kitchen cabinet.
You're daunted.
"Whatever you want," you say.
Eddie groans and tips his head back. "Don't play with me like this. Butter or no butter? It's an easy question."
"I don't know. Without?"
"You are so weird," he says happily.
You pout and pull Junie closer.
Standing at the side while he gathers concessions, too many things, you watch in awe as Eddie stacks it all against his chest with the sure confidence of someone who's done it before.
He grins at you from between two huge cups. "Are we ready?"
If you could, you'd leave him here in the foyer with his jumbo deluxe popcorn. As it stands, you like him too much to leave him behind. You juggle Junie and your bag to push open the doors for him outside of screen two.
"Thanks, babe," he says outside of screen two. You bite your lip, surprised by his easy tone.
You climb up the stairs and into your seats. You're high enough for Junie to sit in her own chair between you and Eddie and see the screen comfortably but she adamantly refuses, stretching out in your lap like an alley cat hungry for affection.
Eddie moves into the ragtag velvet seat beside you, a million things in his lap and at your feet. He's pretty enough under the theatre lights to dull the panging ache at the back of your head. "If she won't sit here, I will. I got you a lemonade, is that cool?"
If it weren't you'd hardly tell him.
"She's being extremely well-behaved," Eddie notes, an inkling of pride in his tone.
You could sucker punch him. Why does he do this to you?
"I know," you say with a shy smile, "it's suspicious, isn't it?"
"I don't know. If I were in your lap I might be well-behaved too." He raises his eyebrows, an over-exaggerated show of flirtatiousness.
You reach over the arm to take a handful of popcorn. Eyes on Junie, you offer her your stolen goods and say, "I've got two thighs."
"Don't tempt me."
Junie all but snatches the popcorn and tilts her head back. A kernel falls from her hand and disappears between the seats. You make a mental note to pick it up afterward, ears full of her chomping.
You'd worried she might be a little loud for the movies but there's a bunch of kids and none seem keen on keeping quiet, a cacophony of childish complaints to hide your conversation.
"Are babies supposed to eat popcorn?"
You freeze up. "Oh- I don't know," you say, turning Junie toward you so you can watch her swallow.
"I thought I read that somewhere, but-"
"No, I think you're right. Um…" Junie looks at you with obvious confusion. "Was that yummy?" you ask. You hide your concern with a strained bubbly attentiveness.
"I guess she's old enough."
Eddie's being very casual – it is casual. He's just thinking out loud. You know he's not criticising you. He never has, though sometimes you think he should.
It must show on your face anyhow that you're having a 'I'm a bad mom' crisis. A mean stroke of insecurity.
"Sweetheart," Eddie says suddenly, brows pinched, "it's alright. It was just a thought. And she had no problem eating it, I'm sure she's gonna be aces. Better than aces."
Junie climbs out of your lap and into his. He sets the popcorn on the floor to take her, and when her hands reach for his drink he holds the straw to her mouth. All the while his eyes move between her and you.
"Okay," you say, because you're being silly.
Junie is fine. Eddie was only saying something that's very well true. Babies aren't supposed to have popcorn, but June's not a baby, really. She knows how to chew properly. It's unlikely she'll choke.
Eddie has to keep his focus on her to avoid getting soaked – she barely knows how to use a straw and keeps trying to turn the cup upside down.
"Not like that, trouble. Right way up. You got it."
You pick at the loose stitching at the end of your shirt and have to change the subject before the embarrassment of it all swallows you. Such a small thing.
"Can I try one of these?" you ask, grabbing the first bag of candy you can find. They're a bag of Super Sour Suckers.
He looks at you over Junie's head, startled and hiding it poorly. Then, a smile so bright it increases the embarrassment you're feeling tenfold.
"You have to! Robin said they're even worse than the normal ones, I don't wanna go through that alone," he says urgently.
Robin is one of his friends. You're not jealous that he has friends (though you are, because you want your own, but not jealous that he has friends that aren't you). He's mentioned her in passing before. When you'd asked as bravely as you dared if they were anything more than friends he'd laughed maniacally.
"We're definitely just friends," he'd said.
You fight to stay smiling and pull open the bag of candies. Ironically, the jellies inside are shaped like pacifiers. Covered in sugar packed densely and looking almost wet with what you suspect to be citric acid, you shake the packet wearily and search for a candy that won't ruin your tongue.
Eddie holds out his hand. You drop a green one into his palm. Your fingertips ride up the curve of his thumb.
He's unflinching as he eats it. After a few seconds his eyes screw up and he clutches June tight to his chest, raising an unhelpful hand to his jaw.
"Holy sugar," he says, wincing.
You bite into a pink pacifier unfortunately layered in sugar and wait nervously for the sourness to kick in. Sure enough, it comes quick and torturous. It's a knife cutting through fog.
It's hard to feel tired when there's something this sour in your mouth.
"You can't spit it out!" Eddie says.
You stop with your hand halfway to your mouth. "What?" you ask incredulously, trying not to dribble.
"You gotta eat it! Chew and swallow!"
You chew miserably. He laughs at your expression – a warm and hyper sound, practically giggling. Junie joins in as she always does. His joy can't be overstated.
The lights go down while you're still fighting for your life. Your eyes water and you have to smother the taste with a quick drink and a gasping breath.
"You're sick. I can't believe you let me eat that," you whisper.
"You saw me eat mine! You knew what you were getting into… Think June wants one?"
Your outrage has him laughing again. It's a magnetic sound. Every time he does it you want to touch him, his arm one pole and your hand another.
Junie gets comfortable on his right leg, head tipped expectantly against his chest and eyes drawn to the screen as the trailers begin. You don't bother with jealousy; in ten minutes she'll be climbing over the arm to sit with you again, or want to sit in her own seat. She may even try to walk around. Toddlers are indecisive and easily distracted.
Even if she weren't. Even if she sat there in his lap for the next hour and a half and didn't look your way, you're not sure you could harbour any envy against him. His hand spreads over the front of her torso with fingers splayed against her ribs, stroking thoughtlessly through the fabric of her thick clothes.
He tips his head toward your chair. "There's nachos."
"I saw."
"Wanna eat some before they get cold?"
"Subtle."
He snorts. "Yep. That's what they call me. Eddie Subtle Munson."
You reach over the dark floor for the tray of nachos and balance them carefully on the armrest between your two seats. Eddie digs in without fuss, you fret over which ones have jalapeños on them, and Junie gets mad that nobody's sharing with her. She puts her hands straight in a mound of orange cheese. Her face is a picture when she brings it to her mouth. She's discovered molten gold.
"Junie," Eddie says lightly, carding hair away from her ear so she can hear him properly. "Don't get cheese on your pretty clothes. It took your mom a week to get the rocky road out of your strawberry jammies, you know?"
He doesn't care that she's mauled the food. He's worried she might stain her dungarees. Your heart goes crazy, another sudden surge of clarity.
Junie climbs back into your own lap as the movie begins. You whisper to her about proper theatre etiquette in your mommy voice and she doesn't do too bad a job at listening. She finds the appearance of the Great Mouse Detective himself quite funny, and laughs at his grave features and expressions every now and then. It's a golden sound.
Try as you might, you can't keep your eyes open. Junie's having such a good time and Eddie whispers funny commentary beside you, but eventually your eyelids creep shut and Eddie squeezes your arm, skin braceleted by his thick, warm fingers.
-
"C'mere," Eddie prompts, hands vying for your daughter where she's perched in your lap.
"Why?" Junie asks.
He's surprised at her inquisition. "You don't want a hug?"
She nods voraciously. Eddie lifts her off of your lap before she can use you as a climbing frame and into his own.
"I think mommy's sleeping," he tells her.
Junie looks at you curiously. You've got a wet wipe in your limp hand, which he takes and discards, and your head's fallen to one side. You'll have an awesome crick in your neck when you wake up.
Junie gives him a hug. He loves her hugs. They're so small and sweet, she's genuinely an extremely loving little girl. Her smile when she hugs people is beautiful as yours is, though her affection is less hesitant.
Everything's going well until she catches a look at the huge, scary bad guy Professor Ratigan somewhere in the middle.
Eddie's crunching through a greedy mouthful of popcorn and almost chokes as she turns around and hides in his chest. He brings a hand up to her back protectively though he doesn't know what happened, eyes moving between her and the screen at lightning speed.
"Aw, June," he murmurs sympathetically. He really is a scary looking guy.
"Eddie," she says, dangerously close to tears.
"Sweetheart, it's okay! He's only on TV."
She says something that might be, "Don't want." It's not quite there but Eddie thinks she's doing a great job lately with her talking, patting her back in a silent well done as he attempts to reassure her. "Basil's gonna outsmart him, Junie. The Great Mouse Detective is gonna save the day, scout's honour."
"No," she whines softly.
He covers her unhappy face with his hand.
"It's okay," he murmurs, melted and bemused. "It's okay, junebug. I swear."
Despite his best efforts, she starts to cry. Eddie freezes up because she doesn't cry often, not with him. When she does you're always there to find a solution. He supposes the novelty of being a new person has long worn off, and that he's going to have to make more of an effort than just tickling her or petting her hair to make it better.
Her volume increases. He shushes her, clumsy and awkward but earnest, trying the best that he can to make it up. He offers candies and drinks, he rummages through your baby bag for Mr. Bear. She takes it all but none of it lasts.
Someone in the chair behind him coughs pointedly.
Eddie turns to wake you up. He gets one good look at your face and can't follow through.
You're sleeping deeply, at the movie theatre of all places. How tired are you, and why hadn't you said? He'd known to some extent — it's why he'd offered to drive — but with the movie blaring and all the kids and noise and now Junie's crying, he realises you must be exhausted to sleep through it. Why hadn't he noticed? He kicks himself.
He lifts her up with his head angled down, giving your shoulder a swift squeeze and then bumping down the steps with Junie until he's out into the lights of the hallway. The door swings closed.
It's oddly quiet and extremely bright. Junie stops crying to blink, and starts to cry again once she's adjusted.
Eddie does not know what to do. It's a kick to his ego that he quickly accepts, though he does murmur a rueful, "Babe, I thought you liked me."
Lost on deaf ears, his comment hangs in the air.
He pats her back some more, wracking his brain for how you take care of her when she gets like this. Mostly, you're patient. You hum and you wait. Eddie tries to emulate you and your kind heart, walking her up and down the hall as he taps the bottom of her spine.
"It's okay," he repeats. The more he says it the easier it feels. It is okay. He has to find a way to help June understand that, is all.
She grizzles. It's a long process. A couple of times he wonders if he's in over his head, if it's even his place, if he should wake you up and admit defeat.
But Eddie Munson is trying to prove something.
He works Mr. Bear out of Junie's iron grip and pinches his back taut so that his face and arms wiggle when he wants them to.
"Baby June," he begins, in as gruff a voice as he can manage. He tries to channel his uncle's sternness, and his fondness. "Won't you quit crying? You're getting tears on the neck of your t-shirt and all over your cheeks."
Junie quietens. She still cries, but the severity of the situation noticeably shifts.
Eddie keeps on. "I got just the thing," he says, pushing Mr. Bear forward and making smacking sounds as he kisses both of her cheeks. "Gotta kiss these tears right off a'you."
She laughs as Mr. Bear kisses her face dry and laughs some more when Eddie kisses the top of her head.
Eddie loves Junie.
He knows it for a fact.
She's very easy to love. She's beautiful as you are, she's loving, she's sweet. Her laugh is adorable and her smile is more. When she cries, Eddie finds he's never annoyed. Grated by the repetitive sound, maybe, but he can't find it in himself to be mad with her ever. He wants to help her work through it. To get you both through it. Eddie wants to be good at this.
He has Mr. Bear kiss Junie all over her face.
"See?" Mr. Bear asks. "Isn't that better? No more tears, little girl, or we'll never see the end of the movie!"
As Eddie says it, he wonders if taking her back into the theatre is a good idea.
"Hey, junebug?" he says, all drama set aside.
Junie lifts her flushed face.
He smiles gratefully. "Do you wanna go back inside? Go check on mommy?" Leaving you by yourself doesn't exactly sit right with him.
Ah, there's the face he was expecting. Puzzlement, surprise. Junie frowns at him and looks over his shoulder, her own, searching the empty hallway for you and finding only reflective floor lights and patterned carpet.
Eddie starts back into the screen room before she can cry over your being missing, chatting quietly but in a way that commands her attention. He's effective in the art of distraction if nothing else.
The mouse detective and his friends have defeated Professor Ratigan, though Eddie shields Junie's head from the screen in case he's thinking about making a comeback, finding his way back to you in the dark. He picks over other people's snacks and then the abundance of your own, finding you still sound asleep. The sight doesn't spell good tidings.
"Here she is," Eddie tells Junie, "here's mom. You wanna give her a kiss?"
He sits down in his seat and squishes a bag of gummy worms under his boot. Junie immediately bends over the armrest and grabs at your front. You'd worried to him once that she had separation anxiety, and Eddie didn't know anything about it to agree or not. This display makes him think she might. She's clinging to you, desperately wanting your attention.
Eddie winces as she grabs your face. She's obviously not trying to be cruel, hand stroking over your cheek as you'd stroke hers.
"Mom," she whispers, the action itself enough to get Eddie laughing. Her version of whispering is almost like a character in a pantomime.
He doesn't laugh for very long. You're not easy to wake up. Junie squishes your cheek and tries again. "Mommy," she says.
You groan in your sleep and your eyes scrunch together. "What?" you murmur finally, voice scratchy.
"You're missing the movie," Eddie says, patting your thigh.
Your arms come to life before you do. You wrap them around Junie's short torso and encourage her up your chest until you can nose at the top of her head. You rub slow lines, a steady back and forth. Eddie would bet money you don't have a clue in the world where you are.
"S'loud," you complain. Your voice is weak with sleep.
Junie looks at Eddie weirdly. He suspects it's her way of asking him to help out without asking.
He tenses his hand where it rests at your thigh. "Do you wanna go home?"
You don't answer. You go limp under his touch and Junie's weight, nose and lips set in a frown but otherwise near languid.
Eddie's small (and alarmingly ever-present) worry for you multiplies by a hundred.
He grabs up a bag of chips and entices your daughter back onto his thigh. She digs through half the bag as the movie draws to a finish, distracted if not happy, her face and fingers swiftly flaked in corn dust. The lights are thrown up and the noise is immense, a hundred pairs of shoes over tipped popcorn, babies and young kids unsettled, their parents eager to head home and watch their own movies no doubt.
Eddie can't say he'd really watched the film besides precursory glances, his focus on you and your fidgety offspring. He'd been excited to tell you about his Junie success, but now he just wants to get you home.
He says your name as clearly as he can, his hand finding its way to your thigh for the third time. He rubs down toward your knee and gives your leg a shake.
Junie climbs off of his own. Now the lights are on she can see the grand assortment of snacks laid out before her, and she seems eager to try them all.
You eventually, thankfully rouse, you drag a palm over your eyes and cross your legs, squishing his hand in the process. He steals it back.
"Babe, you gotta get up. The attendants are looking at us funny. I think they think I've run you ragged, and while the dad tag doesn't bother me, 'cruel husband' doesn't suit me."
"What?" you ask.
He shrugs. "Junie pissed her pants."
Your eyes open, lashes parting clumsily. You move like the air around you has turned to glue and moan in a quiet display of agony as your neck clicks. "She leaked through?"
"Nah, I'm messing with you. Movie's done. Getting some weird stares."
You're quiet, but you shrug on your jacket and Eddie packs what he can of the leftover candy into your bag. He swings it over his shoulder.
"You wanna come up?" he asks Junie.
She raises both arms.
You stand on shaky legs. Eddie stations Junie on one hip with one arm wrapped around her and holds out the other. You let him fold you up into his side.
"You okay?" he asks.
Your face drops into his shoulder. "I'm so tired."
"You're alright to walk out to the car?"
His worry is like a rubber band. You snap to attention, disengage from his hold. It's a foreign and really uncomfortable feeling to see you out of sorts.
Eddie walks behind you with a hand nearly but not touching your back. If you topple, he's not sure how he's gonna save you. Determined anyways, he guards you down the hollow stairs and through the hallway, one step behind you.
It's a cool, crisp night outside.
The smell of rain sticks around. You lift your chin. It's much colder now that night's fallen. The breeze kisses your damp skin. When did you start sweating?
He presses his hand to your shoulders and guides you across the road.
Junie starts her lovely babbling in his ear. "Mouse 'tective," she says at one point. You don't react, affirming his theory: you're more than tired. You're sick.
"Mouse detective," he agrees, arm around your shoulder to assuage his own worries as he gives Junie the best of his attention. "You liked that one, huh?" Besides the evil Professor. "Better than the Muppets in New York? Junebug, you little traitor. How easily your favour changes."
"Are you surprised? She took to you like," — you yawn wide enough that Eddie feels it under his arm, a full body thing — "a duck to water."
He beams, relieved to hear your voice. "Yeah, well, I'm special."
"That's true."
Eddie walks you around to the passenger side and opens your door.
"Flirting! Awesome. You're not too sick to forget how much of a catch I am. Watch your head."
"I gotta do Junie's straps," you say.
"I think I can do it by now."
He's only sort of bluffing. It takes him much longer than it would've taken you. He celebrates his win by pinching her cheek lightly and then whacking his head hard on the roof of your car.
"Fuck," he mutters as he jogs around the hood, scrubbing at the back of his head.
You're staring at him as he opens the door.
He puts the baby bag in your lap and shoves the key in the ignition, trying not to buckle under the weight of your gaze. He cracks quicker than he should, hand paused in its action.
"What?"
"You tryna give yourself a concussion?"
"Kiss it better?"
You kiss the tip of your finger and touch it to his head. It's an instant healing potion.
Getting you both home is easy enough, it's the trying to leave that's hard. You collapse heavily into the couch, Junie drapes herself over your lap and begs for her clothes to be taken off. Your second wind has worn away to nothing, leaving you plainly exhausted.
Eddie can't go home, not until he knows you're alright.
He slinks into your bedroom and tries not to look around too much. It feels like an invasion of privacy despite having made it in here a couple of times, always with his hip to the door as you search for something. He fails spectacularly and straight away, always hungry to know more about you. These days especially.
Your bed looks like you shook out the duvet but never tucked the corners. Your pillow's on the floor, your thin throw blanket is screwed up in a ball. There's a bunch of Junie's stuffies against the headboard. He grins at their straight backs.
He makes for your wardrobe, a cheap bit of cherry wood with one sagging door. As much as he wants to outfit Junie in her goodwill band t-shirt, he pulls a soft pair of cotton pyjamas out from a neatly folded stack, thumbing the blue fabric fondly. There's a noticeable disparity between her clothes and yours. One work skirt and one work shirt hang from two lonely hangers, accompanied only by your infamous 'best jeans'. He frowns at a small stain at the knee and scratches it fruitlessly. Not her best jeans, he thinks in horror, picturing your unhappy face. He can see it so clearly, the pinching of your brows.
Junie squeals happily from the living room. Eddie remembers himself and follows the sound, finding you both on the ground. You're kneeling, blowing raspberries into Junie's naked stomach where she lays on her changing mat, a discarded diaper and her dirty clothes to the side.
There's a big break between raspberries where your eyes drift shut sluggishly. Junie whines for another.
Eddie sits next to you. Stupidly close, his crossed leg kisses your thigh. He could wrap you up in a hug easily right here, and he wants to. Your tired face has his stomach aching with guilt.
"Sweetheart," he says to you firmly, "get back on the couch. You look like you're gonna fall asleep right here."
You don't argue, leaving Eddie the impossible duty of dressing your baby. Junie hates the shirt more than he can describe, loathes the fabric as it covers her face. He has to pick her up to get her into her pants, another fury. She forgives him easily once he's done, lingering by his side with Mr. Bear in hand. She pinches his back and imitates Eddie's low growl, laughing at herself as she does. She finds it very funny. Eddie can't help giggling with her.
"Eddie?" you ask.
He turns. You look miserable.
"What?" he asks softly, startled by your intense expression.
"Thank you."
"Oh, baby," he says, loud and brash as he twists where he is to grab both of your knees. He practically throws himself at you, at your feet, ducking his cheek to your leg. "You really are sick as a dog."
You look visibly embarrassed.
"Listen," he says, insistent, "If we start saying thank you to each other, we won't stop. We'll be a loop of thank yous."
"I think I have more to say than you do," you murmur.
He shakes his head, exasperated at your inability to see him for what he is even now. It's funny. Eddie thinks you've a better view of him than anybody else, that you see him more generously than anyone has ever seen him, and you still haven't noticed he's a boy in love.
You must feel his grin as he kisses your knee, his thumb stroking over the ridge of the cap.
"If I started to say thanks for all the things you've given me I wouldn't stop. I'd talk myself hoarse," Eddie argues.
You laugh at his dungeon master dramatics, but reaffirm, "I haven't given you anything."
"You don't know what you've given me," he says into your leg.
Eddie lifts his head, weary of his chin digging into your leg.
Now isn't the best time to declare devotion, or drop kisses into you when you can't offer any in return. Not that he's expecting you to. Not that he wouldn't receive them gratefully.
"I should go home."
You reach for him. Your hand moves slowly like you've a weight around your wrist, but your fingertips curve over his cheek; you move from the corner of his lip, under his eye, and then finish your circle at the skin beneath his ear.
"Can you hug me?" you ask.
"Yeah," Eddie says. He doesn't waste any time.
He gets up, slides a knee between your knees and rests his full weight on the couch between them as his arms curve around you and his hands feel for the dip of your lower back. He clutches without any hesitation.
"Can I? Did you mean it like that? My arms work fine."
You curl your arms around him and groan. "You're gonna crush me."
"Really?" He pulls you closer. "How 'bout now?"
"Ow," you whine.
He laughs and pushes his face toward your ear. "Liar," he whispers. "No way that hurts."
"Why's everybody always on top of me?"
"That's your issue?" He pulls back. "You want to sit in my lap?"
"No!"
"Aw, my poor girl. You totally wanna sit in my lap. Alright, get in it."
He sits down beside you and waits, one arm still behind your back. He gives you an encouraging tug.
"I'm not sitting in your lap."
"I didn't think you would, just- Just c'mere," he prompts, pulling your face into his chest.
Your arms slide around his waist. He can feel the scratchy skin on your left index finger, a scar of a recent kitchen accident, against his hip where his shirt has ridden.
"You're really handsy. Has anyone told you that before?" Eddie asks, trying to cover the entirety of your back with his arms alone.
You push your face as far as it'll go into his chest. Eddie keeps you there, and soon a little body has found its way onto the couch next to you both, demanding to be included. Eddie quickly drags her in.
Long minutes of quiet hugs.
"Wish we could stay like this forever," you murmur.
"Well, I'm not going anywhere. If you were worried."
He massages over the slope of your shoulder, a tight looking muscle. You sigh inaudibly, a hot patch over his heart.
"I wasn't," you say.
Eddie thinks you might finally be on the same page.
-
You get really, really sick.
"On my days off!" you croak, the injustice too much to handle.
Eddie laughs from the end of your bed, a bandana tied around his face like a doctor from one of his awful horror movies, though the bandana is far from a clinical white. "That's exactly why you're still sick. Your body sensed the weekend."
Hadn't it? You'd been achy and awful on Friday and Benny had sent you home at lunch, citing a need to keep his patrons from infection. Which sucked, because you'd really wanted to stick around for the very beginning of the Friday night rush and get some payday tips. People are generous when they're high on the buzz of a forthcoming weekend, especially to over obsequious waitresses.
It had sucked worse when Junie came out of daycare in the best mood ever and demanded kisses. You'd had a headache the size of a tennis ball behind your eyes and didn't want to pass anything over, and the crushed look on her face had made you cry in the car on the way home.
Eddie dropped in particularly early that night with soup. "I had a feeling," he'd said.
And now here he is again the day after.
"At least one of us is enjoying this," you say.
"You think I'm enjoying this?" Eddie asks.
You give his precautionary outfit a once over. "Yes."
"This is just something I had lying around."
"Shut up! Shut up, no it wasn't!" You're voice cracks, giggly and giddy even with the spikes of pain to your tender head.
"It was. We did a campaign, I was a plague doctor-"
"That is in terrible taste."
"It was perfectly appropriate, thank you very much. You're determined to vilify me. Need to slow down with the cold medicine, I think."
You shriek as he tries to take the bottle. "No! No, please, my throat hurts."
He takes the bottle. It is a hurtful defeat. You curl your fingers around nothing and sulk, slouching down into a sanctuary of pillows and blankets to hide from him. Extra pillows provided by Eddie. With fresh covers, duh. They smell like him anyway. You turn your nose into it indulgently.
"You've had too much to safely be responsible for any further consumption."
"Further consumption," you echo, eyes closing in defeat as he leaves.
"You okay, June?" you hear him ask, voice occluded partially by the sound of the TV.
"Okay, Eddie?" she asks.
You grin to yourself.
"I'm great. This looks very fun. I'm gonna make mom a cold pack for her head and then you can help me make dinner, okay? Does that sound fun? Tell me, June."
The 'Tell me, June,' isn't a command so much as a gentle reminder that she can answer the question if she wants to.
"Fun," she says.
"Hey, great. Oh, thank you. Thank you."
They better not be cuddling without me, you think bitterly, grin swiftly replaced by a self-pitying frown.
You cough into your hand, roil in your own misery for a second and then grab the big glass of water Eddie had insisted on from the night stand. You tip it down yourself in your hurry.
"Missed your mouth," Eddie says, appearing at exactly the wrong moment.
"Don't baby me."
He pads into the room with a cold pack wrapped in a hand towel. "For your head."
"This is silly. I don't need to be in bed."
"Obviously you do. You're sick, did you notice? Stupid question," he adds regretfully, gesturing for you to lie back. He sets the pack to your forehead. "You wouldn't notice a hole in your stomach. You'd be dripping entrails in the freezer aisle wondering if Junie wants corn on the cob or mashed potato with dinner tonight."
"What does she want for dinner tonight?"
"Boo! Exactly my point."
"I'm gonna go ask her-"
Eddie puts an unapologetic hand in the middle of your chest and pushes down. "You will do no such thing." He lowers his face to yours. "I'm willing to get physical. So behave."
You flush with heat because you're sick and not because he says it a certain way, dropping back down into your fluffed pillows without another word.
Eddie's hand climbs up to your collar, your neck. His fingers slide one after another behind it. It's a blessed cold. You can't find a comfortable temperature today, moving between chills and hot flashes at the drop of a hat.
Or a bandana. Eddie unties the dark fabric from his neck and leaves it where it lands, staring at you without saying anything.
His thumb presses into your sore throat carefully, the barest hint of pressure, and his lips part. He doesn't say anything for a while. It looks like he wants to.
"Do me a favour?" he asks finally.
"Of course." Anything to feel useful right now.
"Take it easy." He again lowers his head, talking to you with a private smile. "The sooner you chill out, the sooner you'll beat this thing."
"Don't say that. Like I have something serious."
"The sooner you'll beat this moderate-"
"Mild-"
"-affliction." He strokes quarter-circles into your neck.
"I don't need to lie down. There's things I have to do."
"On a Saturday?"
"Yes. There's things I need to do everyday." You clear your throat. It's useless, the lump remains and your voice stays scratchy. "I have- I always have laundry. So that first. Gotta wash it and put it out and bring it in and press it. I gotta make sure Junie has lunch for daycare this week 'n if she doesn't I have to go get it, I gotta," — you cover his hand with your own thoughtlessly — "make sure her rash is getting better. And I promised we'd do a tea party tomorrow, I have to make sandwiches!"
"We both know she doesn't remember the tea party."
"I promised."
"And if I… If I tried to get all those things done, would you stay in bed?"
"You can't."
"But if I tried it? I can do laundry. I'm good at it. Get oil stains out of Wayne's coveralls every Sunday."
You slump into a lump of sadness and achy arms. "Don't do my laundry. Don't do any of that stuff. I'll punch you if you do."
Eddie bursts into laughter. "You'll punch me? You horrible woman."
"I will," you promise, fingers curling around his arm to hold him in place.
"Why don't I believe you?"
"I don't know. 'Cos you're a know-it-all who dislikes me."
"I far from dislike you." He grins at you, all dimpled and pretty. "I don't believe you'd hit me because I know you, idiot."
"Name-calling."
"Uh-huh. Are you sleeping or am I helping you out onto the couch?"
While you're happy for the compromise, you have one problem. "I don't think I can move."
Eddie lets his face fall amicably to your collar. "No, I bet you can't. More reason for me to get you on the couch. I think you've genuinely had too much cough syrup," he worries, warm breath fanning over your skin.
You bring your spare hand to his head. He has so many curls.
He lifts his head and you're close enough to kiss. There's no other reason anyone has ever been this close.
"I can see your beauty mark," you say, hushed. You don't wanna breathe on him too much.
"Freckle."
"Your freckle." You lift and drop his curls, fingers toying through the softness towards his roots, the frizz at the ends.
"You- You smell like fucking cherry syrup."
You abandon his hair to clap a hand over your mouth. "I'm sorry."
He covers his own mouth. "It's okay," he says, similarly muffled. "I like the sweet stuff."
What the fuck does that mean? Your stomach doesn't flip — it leaps right up into your throat. "You're an idiot," you breathe, caught off guard.
"What was that?" he asks, taking away his hand. "Didn't catch it."
"I said, 'You're an-"
"Amazing friend and confidante?"
You try to talk and he says, "A real stand-up guy?"
You try again and he says, "A total rockstar? Baby, if you really think all this you should've said."
You flop completely onto your back, away from his hands, his jokes and his lovely brown eyes where they bore into your own. Eddie hums and rubs brashly over the top of your arm until the skin glows with heat.
"Please stay in bed," Eddie says as he stands.
Medicine or his touch, you're feeling pretty tired. You pull up your blankets and sink like a stone, head disappearing into a mess of pillows and throws.
-
It's much later when you wake. You move into the land of the living abrupt as whiplash.
Eddie seems very sorry. "Sweetheart, June's past due for a new diaper, and I-"
"Oh, right," you say, sounding much more alert than you feel. You're a girl made of sandpaper.
"I would've, I mean. If it wouldn't make you uncomfortable, I would've tried. But I've never changed a diaper in my life."
You scratch your flaky eyes, disorientated and head like a boiling saucepan with the lid glued on.
"That's okay," you say. Your voice refuses to cooperate with you, gruff and too quiet. "It wouldn't bother me, but it's also not your job, so… Um." You yawn wide and cover your entire face.
You spend a minute rubbing your eyes.
"Fuck, what time's it?" you ask, squinting at him and bringing your hands to either side of your face.
"Like, seven. Ish."
"Eddie…"
"I know. I thought you could use the rest. I knew you could. And it's not urgent, you know? Come around, first. Everything's stellar."
You peel back the sheets. You're a clammy, too-hot mess with weak legs.
Eddie sees you wobble and rushes to wrap an arm around your waist. Completely unnecessarily, heart-achingly kind. You wince at the dampness of your shirt under his touch.
Junie sits on the couch in her jammies with a yellow-green soup stain down the front. She's propped up like a princess, a pillow behind her head between the armrest and her blanket covering her legs, cheek pressed to the cushions. Eyes trained on the TV and her bottle propped in a slackening grip, your baby is peaceful, near luxurious.
Only a little wiggle might suggest she's uncomfortable.
You part from Eddie's side and sit down beside her, the seat warm. She doesn't even look up.
"What, no hi for mom?" you ask tenderly, hand falling to the top of her head. She's lovely.
She gasps, little lungs fit to burst. It's pure excitement, her bottle dislodged and the blanket pushed away immediately. She doesn't bother getting to her feet, throwing herself into your lap and assuming you'll do the rest. Of course you will. You pull her up and kiss the top of her head, though you quickly hold her at arm's length.
"Sorry, mommy's still sick," you tell her, sympathetic at her crushed expression.
"Mis'd," she says.
"Yeah? You missed me?" you ask hopefully.
Her lips part in comprehension. "Missed you," she confirms.
You throw your gaze over your shoulder to Eddie. He stands by Junie's changing station with a smug smile. "What?"
"You're not very convincing."
"I'm not trying to convince you, thanks," he says, holding up two hands in surrender.
"She didn't learn that herself," you argue.
"She might've. You tell her enough."
You go back to your girl, pleased at her own smug smile. "I missed you, too, I missed you so much. Missed you millions. Sorry I've been sleeping all day, you've been such a good girl. She has, hasn't she?"
Eddie sorts through a nearly empty bag of diapers and brandishes one with fish printed on the back. "Oh, yeah. Junebug's been amazing. She came in with me to see you earlier, took your temperature." You frown. "From a distance. Kind of. I held her above you. It was… acrobatic."
You close your eyes at his absurdity, your laugh prompting another spike of pain.
Junie forces herself closer and gets both arms around your neck.
You sag into the contact, defeated. "Aw, June," you mumble ruefully. "M'trying to make sure you don't get sick too. Wasting my time."
"Mommy," she says into your neck.
"That's me."
You know she has something she wants to say. You can't wait for the days where she can. Exciting, to think that one day she'll be able to share all of her thoughts.
Right now, she's probably thinking, Woah, mom, you smell weird. And you look weirder.
You feel her back with your hand and cringe. Definitely time to get her changed.
Afterward, you sit with your back to the open front door on one of the porch steps. Physical exertion of any kind seems to be inadvisable; you're sweating up a storm. Junie sits beside you at her own insistence, her hand clasped in your hand and her head on your arm. You look down at her thighs next to your own and marvel at their small size. The evening breeze is a blessing.
Eddie stands in front of you with his backpack slung over his shoulder and a checklist.
"Tea party sandwiches are badly made and saran wrapped in the fridge. Junie doesn't have lunch for Monday but I can go tomorrow if you want me to. Her clothes are folded in the hamper. Uh, some stuff got left out, you might need to press them. Not tonight though, please."
"Thank you."
He talks around a smile. "Soup's on the stove. I'll come back later, if-"
"You don't have to."
"I want to. I wouldn't actually leave, but-"
"Eddie-" You cough into your shoulder. He waits for you to finish. "You- You didn't have to take care of me."
"What does that mean? Of course I did."
He hikes his backpack higher up his shoulder and pads back up the steps, not all of them but enough for him to lean down and stare at Junie.
"Thanks for the best day ever," he says seriously, looking out of the corner of his eye at you. "Almost. See you later?"
Junie nods voraciously and reaches up with her empty hand. Eddie takes it and kisses her temple. He does the same to you, lips brushing soft as downy-feather over your skin.
"I'll come back around ten? Is that cool?"
"Don't knock too loudly," you mumble, very aware of his proximity.
He backs up and bows like an idiot, hand moving in circles.
You and Junie wave him off.
"To work?" Junie asks.
Your eyebrows jump as you pull your gaze from his retreating figure. "Huh?"
"To work?"
You play with her fingers. "No, he's not going to work. He's going to take care of someone else, now."
Wayne, Eddie said, in a fondly exasperated tone that explained everything you needed to know. His uncle's self-preservation must come in similar disinterest to himself as yours does to you.
"We'll see him tomorrow," you say. It's not even a lie, you will both see him tomorrow.
But apparently he's coming back tonight.
-
True to his word, Eddie Munson knocks your door carefully at nearing ten o'clock.
Wayne's dismissal chases his heels. He'd spent an hour worrying about you at the dinner table with his uncle, fingers curling anxiously in his hair.
Wayne had been talking about some gab the boys in the shop had heard about killer mice or killer lice or something when he'd suddenly cleared his throat and snapped Eddie to attention.
"You're a good kid. Notice how I said good, and not smart," Wayne had said.
"Gee, thanks. You always did know how to make a guy feel loved, Wayne."
"You don't wanna be here."
Eddie had frowned. "Obviously I do."
"Kid, what I mean is, you gotta," — he'd nodded his head hard to one side and raised his eyebrows — "you know."
"Haven't brushed up on my mysterious gestures lately. Translate that one for me?"
Wayne had flicked up his newspaper and sighed. "Don't be dumb."
"You keep saying that."
"You keep being dumb, boy."
"I don't know what you want me to do."
"Think you better go look after your girl, don't you?" Wayne had asked finally, clearing his throat.
So here he is to look after you. A tad early, worried you'll be sleeping on the couch with a misbehaving baby in your lap or passed out in the bathroom after an impromptu cleaning.
Thankfully, you open the door in different clothes than he'd left you in, the neckline dark with run-off and face damp under your eyes and by your ears. You dab at your tacky skin with your index knuckle.
"You look better," he says. He wishes he could take it back instantly, though you don't take any offence.
"Hot shower," you explain.
You step back to let him in. Eddie closes the door behind him without turning, eyes glued to your fresh face. He's depressed by the lingering fatigue he finds lining your darling features.
"You okay?" you ask him, perturbed by his silence.
Eddie's better than okay.
He steps close. You look like you might step back, make room for him he doesn't want, so he reaches out for your face and holds it in one hand, the other landing in tandem on your arm.
Your cheek lists into his hand as he wipes away what's left of the dampness on your face. He's not sure you know you're doing it.
"Did you take any more medicine?" he asks quietly, rubbing under your eye carefully with the tip of his thumb.
"No, I- I think you fixed me, Munson. Me and Junie had your soup, and after a shower I felt way better. It was really nice. She slept easy."
He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. "You don't feel too hot."
"Like I said. Fixed me. My hero."
He looks over your shoulder at your life — at his life, or at least where a majority of it seems to take place. All his favourite parts these days happen right there on your couch, or at that table, or knee to knee with a baby that isn't his but- but-
"You said that to me the first time we met," Eddie recalls, shaking his head. It's like there's water in his ears. A few strands of hair drift into his eyes.
You catch his elbows in both hands. "It feels like a really long time ago now."
Months. Only months. "I feel like I've known you for years."
He strokes over your face, chin to cheek, the tip of his thumb pressed to the corner of your mouth.
"That's how I feel, too," you whisper. Utter. Hushed, your words ring loud anyway. "You're my best friend."
Eddie doesn't take it for a door closing because it isn't. It's a door kicked wide open. Split on its hinges. You and Eddie stand on equal ground, and, for once, the same page.
"You know I don't mind taking care of you?" he asks, hand passing over your ear to hide behind it. He wants to see all of your face.
Predictably, you drop your eyes to his neck, pupils wobbling as you search for somewhere to plant yourself. "I know. I'm not sure I deserve it."
"Why wouldn't you deserve it? Everyone deserves taking care of."
"Even murderers?"
"Maybe not murderers-"
"The evil guys from your game? Necromancers?"
"They're not all evil." His left palm skirts up the curve of your neck, encouraging your face back to his. "Don't change the subject."
You press your lips together, caught.
"I actually…" — he gathers as much bravery as he has — "want to take care of you."
"You do."
He holds your face in both hands. "You know you- You know you started it, right? You know it's- that without your-" He cringes internally at his stammering, but he has to get this part right. "You have gold where your heart should be."
"Y/N The Golden Hearted. Doesn't have the best ring to it," you muse, hands clinging to the crooks of his elbows like twin pooled teardrops waiting to fall.
Eddie stares at you, floored.
"What about you?"
"What about me?" he asks.
"What's your name?" you demand, grinning.
"Eddie the Subtle. Munson the Mad."
You huff a laugh. "That's a cop-out."
"Maybe."
"How about…" The air feels thick as jelly. Light from under the bedroom door stops short of your legs, your toes almost touching. His rubber soles, your socks. "Eddie the Indomitable?"
He crinkles his nose. "I'd almost think you were trying to flirt with me, that's how bad that is."
Your blinks are slow. Your eyes soften.
"What if I was?" you ask.
A stock-still silence pervades, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the droning of the bathroom light, left on. He could tell you the contents of this room by its sounds alone.
His hand moves of its own accord, up and down the slope of your neck. "I'd say you needed a better pick up line."
"Like what?" you ask, chest rising too fast.
Eddie takes a step and feels his jacket zipper cut into the cotton of your shirt. It's your matching band t-shirt.
Eddie drags his gaze slowly to your widened eyes, your lashes as they move almost imperceptibly upward. Taking him in as he inches closer.
"You're so fucking pretty," he says.
He leans in. He closes the gap. Eddie Munson takes the leap.
Your hand comes quickly to his upper arm and you turn your face just enough to force his lips, his kiss landing a centimetre shy of your nose.
He struggles to keep his eyes closed. His heart thrums like a blown amp.
"You can't kiss me," you say. Eddie struggles to discern your tone.
His nose presses to yours. Not desperately, but almost. "I can't?" he asks, throat thick with emotion, a stickying, cloying taffy.
"I'll make you sick."
He turns your face with his palm, lips hovering above yours, a hair's width. Close enough to feel their heat.
"Can I trust you'll nurse me back to health, in the event that that happens?" Would you take care of me? His hands tremble where they're touching you. He's too scared to open his eyes.
You don't answer.
You cover his hands and the seconds stretch endlessly, a thousand moments of terror and pining and want suddenly flattened into one as you kiss him.
He exhales against you. His relief is a palpable, viscous thing as he pulls you in and his nose digs into yours. Lips soft as he'd imagined, as he'd known they'd be, you kiss back tentatively. Sweetly.
You're kissing him like he's something that needs a careful touch.
Eddie screws his eyes shut tight enough to see stars, firecrackers, a shattering bouquet of colours as you move beneath him. He can't believe he's kissing you. He can't believe there was a time where he wasn't.
He yields, leaning back just enough to see your face. You keep your eyes shut, your eyelashes kissing the delicate skin beneath. They move like blades of grass in the breeze as Eddie tries to catch his breath, regaining some of his composure. It's hard while he's here, this close.
You make a small sound, a breath like a barb. The shaky demarcation of tears.
"Okay?" he asks, more movement than sound. His lips skip over your own.
You have to feel it.
A laugh bubbles up through your parted lips like a hiccup. "I'm definitely gonna make you sick," you mumble regretfully.
"Make me sick, sweetheart," he says, begs. Whatever.
Whatever word you want to use. He doesn't care if he pays for it afterwards, he wants to be close to you now, unapologetically close. And kissing you — kissing you like this, your reciprocation, it's everything because it means you feel the same as he does.
Or a fraction the same. He's reassured either way. If you felt a fraction of what he felt, that's enough.
It's a lot. To be touching you, finally. He grabs at the nape of your neck and kisses, kisses, kisses. He goes slowly, not quite sweetly. He's never been as sweet as you have, never as soft or patient.
It doesn't feel like it matters.
You pull his hands from your face, press his and your own, all four hands to the collar of your shirt.
"It wasn't just a, uh, pick up line, was it?" you ask breathlessly.
"Wh- No." Eddie massages the back of your hands. "No, you're the fucking prettiest girl ever. I think you're aces. Killer. Everything."
"Everything," you say, an almost indecipherable glassiness to your eyes.
"Everything," he says. He spreads his hand over your heart.
You don't throw yourself at him, but you move alarmingly quickly. Arms over his shoulders, hands crossed and buried in his hair. Your laugh is magic, a bright and exuberant sound loud in his ear and then the skin underneath. He's barely got an arm around the small of your back when you start to kiss him, repetitive, chaste pecks over his pulse. It capers under your lips.
"I don't know what kind of girl you think I am-" He begins deadpan and breaks abruptly, your second wave of laughter impossible to ignore.
Your arms tighten at his laughing, palm cupping the back of his head.
"You're my best friend, too," he says. "But you knew that."
"Maybe," you murmur, your smile wide against his skin. You're uncharacteristically mischievous.
He lets his back bend under your weight until your heels lift and you're scrabbling to stay on your own two feet and is rewarded by your shrieking laughter.
Oh, god, he thinks, ecstatic.
"Wait," you say, bargaining for freedom as he squeezes you hard enough to make you laugh again, and again, "wait, wait! Wait, let go. I have something to tell you."
Eddie sets you down. He's reluctant to let you go, almost desperate to hug you now that he knows he can, but his curiosity gets the better of him. What could you have to tell him now that isn't confessional? It's like being promised something good.
You stand sure and sweet in front of him.
"It's…" You look shyly at his lips.
"What?"
"I…"
He shakes his head gently from side to side. "What? Tell me."
"Nothing," you say, beaming. Act dropped, you take his face into both hands and kiss him soundly.
Eddie's barely got his hands on you before you're pulling back.
"Just wanted to do that," you say.
𓆩❤︎𓆪
thank you for reading! | my masterlist | this fic is multi-chapter
if you enjoyed (i I really hope you did), please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x reader fluff#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson#stranger things#stranger things fic#stranger things x reader#stranger things 4#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x afab reader#mom!reader#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson oneshot#stranger things fanfiction#fem!reader#Single mom!reader#reader insert
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i absolutely LOVE your works!! could you write about y/n and bakugo having a argument and y/n sleeping on the couch? i dont mind if its gonna be a sad or happy ending ;D
(feel free to ignore this ask!)
WOOOO I GET SUCH A BOOST WHEN PPL COMPLIMENT MY WORK is that shallow idk but like even if it is you can’t blame me 😚
“leave me alone katsuki.” you frown, tears in your lash line as you walk into the kitchen.
“stop acting like a child yn.” he calls after you.
you stop before inhaling sharply to regain your composure. you’re not in the mood to argue, you had a really long day today and you just wanted to cuddle katsuki and go to bed.
you continue walking to the fridge so you can make dinner.
“now you’re fuckin ignoring me? it was one date.” he says coldly.
that pushes you over the edge. whipping your head to glare at him.
“one date?! katsuki you’ve missed 15 dates. you’re constantly prioritizing me over your job and i get left behind to pick up the pieces. i’m sick of it!!” you scream.
he walks toward you, caging you into the counter and you frown because you know what he’s looking for.
“you can’t kiss me and expect this to all go away katsuki. it’s happened too many times!” you frown, pushing him away.
he lets you, taking the hint.
“you know i need to go into work when they call me, you’re being selfish!” he yells and slams his hand on the countertop.
you jump away from him and your eyes fill with tears.
“don’t yell at me.” you frown.
“i’m gonna go to bed. i don’t want dinner.” you mumble, rushing past him to go to the family room.
“you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“don’t tell me what to do!!” you snap.
he purses his lips and turns to leave.
“i’m sleeping on this couch before you decide to do the proper thing and apologize like an adult.” you call after him.
his fists clench and he stoms into the bedroom.
you force yourself to sleep. you’ve forgiven him way too many times.
katsuki lies awake in his room. counting how many minutes have passed without you coming to bed. he didn’t know you were this mad, he wants to spend time with you so badly. unfortunately hes trying to save up for the perfect ring and has taken on too many shifts. hes hoping he hasn’t fucked up bad enough for you to leave him.
at that thought, he makes his way to the living room. peeling back the warm blankets in exchange for the cold air of a girlfriend-less night.
he finds you in a light sleep on the couch.
“baby.” he says, brushing your hair out of your face.
“baby come to bed please? ‘m sorry.” he says, lowly.
your eyes flutter open and you frown at him.
“i said im not coming to bed, suki.” you pout.
he grunts in frustration.
“fine.” he says, standing.
you think he’s on his way back to bed so you shut your eyes once again.
only to feel your body get crushed by his weight.
“katsuki.” you groan, trying to shove him off.
“not moving.” he says while wrapping his strong arms around your waist.
“i’m not done being mad at you.” you whisper into the silence.
he removes his arms in favour of pulling up your shift to press soft kisses to the spot on your tummy that sends butterflies to flutter around your stomach.
“i know.” he replies in between kisses.
“but i’m done with you being mad at me.” he says while putting your shirt down over his head.
you sigh, attempting to pull the shirt back up so you can see his face.
he doesn’t let you though, preferring to nose at the soft part of your tummy.
“i know you’re hiding a blush under there.” you say.
“no you don’t.” he replies, resuming his kisses.
“alright.” you say softly.
he pops his head out now, thumbs starting to rub circles into your hips.
“hm?” he questions.
you sigh before reaching to cup his cheek.
“i forgive you,” you mumble and he smiles softly, leaning into your palm.
“i guess.” you grin and he bites your hand.
“ow! don’t push your luck.” you frown.
“sorry,” he mumbles.
“i guess.” he says and your grin drops.
he cackles loudly before standing and throwing you over his shoulder.
you laugh with him and bite his waist.
“hey.” he grunts and throws you on the bed.
you giggle and open your arms.
he shuffles up until his entire body weight is on you and his face is in your neck.
“don’t sleep on the couch ever again.” he mumbles, lips grazing your neck giving you shivers.
“don’t do dumb shit ever again.” you mumble back and he frowns.
“said i was sorry.”
“i know.” you smile, brushing his hair off his forehead and pressing a lingering kiss to his skin.
he hums in content as his eyes flutter shut before he falls asleep.
“miss another date and i’ll fucking kill you.” you whisper.
his eyes snap open.
#bakugou x reader#bakugou fluff#bakugou x yn#bakugou x you#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugou katuski x reader#bakugo x reader#bakugou katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugou x reader#bakugo katsuki x reader
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the proposal // l.wälti x reader
l.wälti x reader
based on this request! lia and caitlin never dated in this and i added my own little flair to make it that little bit fluffier. also i’m being vague about the ring so you can picture any one you want :))
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“what about this one? ooh, that one’s pretty. look at that one though. would it be cringe of me to get one with a red diamond? i just think she looks incredible in red–“
“jesus, stop and take a breath,” beth laughed, placing her hands on your shoulders and shaking you gently. “this is lia we’re talking about. you could propose with a haribo ring and she’d say yes.”
“still. she deserves a pretty ring, bethany.”
“and we will find the prettiest,” leah reassured you, popping up at your side. “if not in this shop then the next. we will find the perfect ring.”
“i’m not sure we will,” you sighed, nibbling on your lip. “i mean this is the third shop we’ve been in and we’ve found nothing.”
“because you’re overthinking it.”
“of course i’m overthinking it. you only get one ring, beth. i can’t buy one, propose, and then change my mind about it. it has to be perfect—everything has to be perfect.”
“and it will be,” leah piped up again and you turned to her. “i think we need to take a little break. we can get food, coffee, whatever and talk about what it is you’re looking for because i don’t think you know the answer to that right now.”
you wanted to argue but ultimately leah was right. you really had no idea what you were looking for. the three of you found a nearby restaurant and you practically collapsed into a chair as beth patted your back sympathetically.
“why is proposing to someone so much work?”
“just wait until you plan the wedding,” leah snorted, lowering her head when both you and beth glared at her. “sorry.”
you turned your attention back to beth when she tapped you. “i meant what i said earlier. i know that you think that you need to do something extravagant but you really don’t need do. lia’s gonna say yes no matter what.”
“i hope so,” you muttered under your breath. “i still want to do something nice. i mean we’re in the public eye, people are going to ask questions and i don’t want her to have some stupidly lame story for an answer. i have to do something.”
“okay,” leah nodded, sitting forward a little. “let’s brain storm. three heads will be better than one, right? if we work together, we can definitely come up with a plan and find a ring.”
and over a giant pizza and a share bowl of chips, you did just that. since it was nearing summer and london was growing warmer, you’d come up with the plan to take lia on a romantic picnic somewhere, somewhere you could hang fairy lights and make the set up really fancy. with the help of leah and beth of course.
as for the ring, as soon as you’d outlined to the girls what you were looking for, beth had found the perfect one in the next shop you went to.
“it’s perfect,” you’d whispered, staring down at the ring in awe, the added red ring box an added bonus. “beth, oh my god, it’s beautiful.”
“see?” leah grinned, nudging you playfully. “told you we’d find one.”
“thank you. thank you, thank you, thank you,” you whispered continuously, throwing your arms around both blondes and squeezing them tightly. when you pulled away, you quickly hid the ring box and wiped at your eyes. “sorry i don’t know why i’m crying.”
“if you’re crying now what the hell will you be the like when you propose?” beth laughed.
leah nodded, a laugh escaping her own lips. “we’re definitely staying. i want to see the entire thing.”
you rolled your eyes and for the rest of the shopping trip, you found yourself at the receiving end of their teasing. you simply decided to be petty by taking a little too long choosing shoes or trying on clothes.
your arms were filled with bags when you finally headed back to yours and lia’s house, having took the shopping facade a little too far.
you made sure the ring box was hidden before heading into the living room, finding lia sat on the sofa, doing what you assumed to be uni work.
the brunette glanced up at you, not at all surprised at how much you’d spent. “have fun liebling?”
with a huff, you dropped all of the bags onto the other sofa, placing your hands on your hips. “i spent the entire day with leah and beth, you tell me.”
lia laughed softly and you dropped into the seat next to her, leaning your head on her shoulder as you watched her type away.
after a few more minutes, you pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before hauling your shopping bags into your shared bedroom. you made quick work of sorting everything into its new home and took a seat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the door to make sure lia wasn’t there. and when you were sure that she wasn’t moving, you pulled the ring box from your pocket and opening it.
for a moment, you had the urge to just burst back into the living room and dropping to your knee then and there. but you couldn’t, you had a plan and you were going to stick with it.
after training the next day you were ambushed, a loud yelp falling from your lips as someone grabbed the collar of your training shirt and yanked you into an empty room.
“what the hell are you doing?” you stared at katie with wide eyes, watching as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“what are you three planning and why am i not part of it?” she asked and you immediately rolled your eyes.
“nothing.”
“i don’t believe you,” she told you. “you’ve been whispering and giggling about something all day and i want in.”
“my god, fine! but you cannot tell anyone and i mean anyone!” you said sternly and she nodded. “i’m gonna propose to lia.”
katie grinned. “really?”
“yes and if you promise to keep your mouth shut, you can have in on the plan.”
and with a quiet promise that she wouldn’t tell anyone, even caitlin, you swiftly informed her of the current plan. and as the two of you walked towards the locker room, you answered any questions she had, motioning for her to be quiet once you’d pushed the door open.
katie headed to her cubby and you headed to yours, deciding to have a shower when you got home. you skipped over to lia once you’d grabbed your bag, throwing your arms around her. she playfully pushed you off with a grimace, her hair still wet from the shower she’d obviously decided to have.
“lia!” you half-whined, half-laughed as she pushed you away again. “stop! i wanna hug!”
as your girlfriend finally gave in and pulled you into the hug you wanted, there was only one thought swirling through your mind.
you could not wait to make her your wife.
ᡣ𐭩
the whistle blew and the crowd erupted, your teammates practically bowling you down as they jumped on top of you. after all it wasn’t everyday you scored a goal that secured a champions league victory.
“we got the treble, baby!” you heard katie shout and your teammates burst into cheers, lia helping you up once the pile had disappeared.
she hugged you tightly, swaying you from side to side as you held back tears. the brunette just about managed to kiss your head before you were whisked away to go round shaking the other teams hands and getting ready for the medal ceremony.
as always, you stuck close to lia, comparing your gold medals as you headed to the rest of the team awaiting the trophy. the two of you found yourselves near the middle of the team, cheering loudly with the fans as soon as kim and leah lifted the trophy.
katie wasted no time covering everyone with champagne and by the time everyone had wandered off to celebrate with fans or family, you had been her target multiple times.
you and lia managed to find a quiet-ish corner away from the chaos that katie was still unleashing on your unsuspecting teammates. you laughed softly as alessia squealed, running away from the champagne spray.
“i’m so proud of you.” lia whispered, bringing your attention back to her as she brushed your wet hair back from your face.
you swallowed thickly, the words falling from your mouth before you could stop them.
“marry me,” your heart was pounding in your chest as you realised what you’d done but it was too late to turn back. “this wasn’t the plan—i have a plan, i have a ring, but i can’t wait. i love you too much to wait any longer—oh god, lia please marry me.”
it felt like forever had passed before the brunette responded. “only if you marry me.”
you blinked. it certainly wasn’t the response you were looking for. “what?”
“i have a ring too.” lia admitted and your eyes widened.
“really?” you asked.
“you sound surprised.” she noted with a laugh.
“i am a little but i also thought going ring shopping with beth and leah would be easy so what do i know?”
lia laughed again and you pulled her into a hug, resting your chin on her shoulder. you breathed out in relief, eyes fluttering shut as she pressed a featherlight kiss to your jaw. “i can’t wait to marry you liebling.”
you nodded in agreement, whispering the words back to her before pulling away, turning around in time to see leah, beth and katie all grinning at you like chesire cats.
with the adrenaline from the win and incredibly recent engagement running through your veins, you couldn’t really focus on one thing at a time but there was one thing you did know.
none of them were helping you plan the wedding.
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𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.
rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader
✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶
NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au
[wc: 8.8k]
↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness
The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.
Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.
Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.
Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.
The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.
Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.
The true night began.
A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.
The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.
Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.
Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.
An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.
Eddie kicked the can away.
He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.
Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.
You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.
It was a lot to deal with.
Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.
So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—
You flinched.
A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.
Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.
You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.
More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.
Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.
You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.
Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.
He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.
Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.
Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.
Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.
That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.
The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.
You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”
It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.
“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”
Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.
“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”
The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.
You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”
And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.
But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.
You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.
Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.
Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.
There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.
The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.
You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.
He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”
A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”
“What’d you order?”
Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.
Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.
“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.
“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”
Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.
Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.
“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.
A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.
A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.
Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.
Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.
Drip, drip, drop.
Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.
You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.
You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.
Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.
Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.
Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.
His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.
Toofulltoofulltoofull.
The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.
But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.
Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.
Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.
Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.
The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.
Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.
You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.
You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”
“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.
Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.
Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?
Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.
Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”
Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.
“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.
He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.
Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”
The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.
Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”
You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”
“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”
A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.
You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.
No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.
~~~
When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.
A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.
Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.
Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.
Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.
“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.
Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?
Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.
He got up, and left.
Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.
Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.
Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.
Your pen was mighty interrupted.
It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.
A pang of humility gentled his nature.
The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.
It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.
Eddie made it exactly how you liked.
Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.
The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.
Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.
The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”
You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”
“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.
You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.
Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.
Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.
He snorted.
Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”
No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.
He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.
“Uh-huh.”
The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.
While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.
You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.
“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”
“No.”
His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.
The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.
A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.
The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”
You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.
“I earned this,” you said about the drink.
“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.
In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.
You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”
His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.
Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.
Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.
The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.
Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”
The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.
Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.
His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.
When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.
The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.
Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.
The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.
Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.
Boys will be boys behavior.
“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.
You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.
At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.
He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”
Not an apology.
“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.
Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.
Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”
Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.
“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”
“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.
You closed your curtain, too.
The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.
You could do many therapeutic things.
Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson smut#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things#stranger things fanfic#eddie x reader
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seasons of you (year 1 - spring)
Farmer!Joel Miller x F!Reader
summary: it’s your very first spring living in the valley & you’re very sure Joel Miller already wants you leave
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI, stardew valley AU, reader is a new farmer & has a family but no physical description, mentions of unspecified age gap (reader’s age is not mentioned but Joel is older & in his 50’s) very light use of gendered language, handyman & farmer!Joel, grumpy!Joel, wound tending & blood imagery, discussion of family loss with light navigation of grief, Ellie being Joel’s daughter, secret softie!Joel, alcohol consumption mention, use of nickname, budding romance
word count: 5.4k
a/n: our first ‘Joel’ fic for our stardew AU series! Here’s to starting this new aventure with y’all! I couldn’t have the strength to post this without @swiftispunk @lowlights @ahauntedcowboy @burntheedges @perotovar you angels don’t know how much I appreciate y’all and am so grateful for you babes…and to you, if you read this - I’m so thankful for you too ♡
No one in Pelican Town hates you more than Joel Miller does. George, the crabby older elderly man in town, might be a close second, but Joel has him beat by miles.
For someone so incredibly handsome, almost beautiful in a rugged wilderness way with his misty mountain gray hair and sharp lovely nose, his glare could wither your entire family farm’s field.
“He’s just an ass sometimes.” Your Dad had told you with a sigh over the phone. “Been that way even when your gramps was around.”
At first you didn’t want to fully admit it but yeah, Joel is a prickly cactus of a man.
He owns a farm further down the path from yours. You love walking by it when you take the long way home and getting to spot all the sheep roaming around his fields. He’s also the town’s handyman.
“A jack of all trades, more like it.” Pierre, the main store owner, snickered that to you while Joel was in the store fixing a light fixture.
After that Joel helped you set up your first fencing gate. Then he fixed your sink. And then your water heater.
It’s been a lot and you know it. You feel guilty at how bad you can’t seem to get a hang of this new life yet. Your grandpa did it, thrived even. You can too, or you hope you can.
Until Joel glares at you like you’re a bug ready to squash, then you feel incredibly small.
Once you physically and accidentally ran into him walking out of the blacksmith’s shop when he was heading in. You sputtered out an apology, but without a single word Joel walked past you as if you weren’t even worth his time.
One night you went to the town’s saloon hoping to maybe mingle and get to know everyone better. But simply seeing him sitting inside made you turn on your heels and scramble out.
From that point on you’ve been avoiding him.
But now unfortunately, a few paces away from Joel Miller’s farm, your hand bleeds out a bit aggressively.
“Shit.” You hiss, slipping off your backpack to search for your mini first aid kit.
Yesterday you stubbornly tried fixing your fence and accidentally scrapped your hand pretty bad against the wood. Earlier you believed you wrapped it good enough but now the blood soaking through the bandaid mocks you.
“You alright?!”
The sharp accented drawl rings out loud in the early morning and fear collides into you.
Of course Joel hadn’t left for the morning.
You yell back that you’re fine but scramble frantic now trying to find the damn first aid kit.
“Is that blood?” Joel snaps, sounding closer, as his boots rush against the dirt.
“No, I spilled paint.” You grumble to yourself annoyed.
“M’old but I fuckin’ heard that.” Damn.
He’s much closer now, so close his shadow falls over you but you refuse to look at him.
“What happened!?” He barks confused.
Sighing, you give up hope on finding the poor elusive first aid kit.
“Just cut my hand, that's all. It isn’t deep. I’m fine.” You reassure him.
Joel sighs angrily.
“Come on.”
Now you turn and discover his soil eyes stare at you with such a steeled intensity you almost want to scurry away.
“Fixin’ this up inside.” He doesn’t even ask or let you leave. With one yank Joel Miller pulls you towards his farmhouse.
“I’m fine.” You snap back.
“What? Just wanna let it bleed ‘n get everywhere?” An edge in Joel’s voice silences you.
Any argument you wanted to hiss out immediately floats away the moment you cross the threshold into his house. Your eyes go wide. You never once thought you’d ever see the inside of Joel Miller’s place.
It’s larger than your grandpa's.
Joel deposits you into his kitchen. The lingering smell of breakfast, possibly oatmeal with its warm cinnamon notes, hangs in the air. Yet you feel like a caught feral cat that doesn’t know how to react being inside a house for the first time.
So you let your eyes wander.
Beautiful wood cupboards line the walls. A fridge is covered with various papers held up by sweet colorful cartoonish magnets you never would’ve expected from him. A worn cozy, well loved, couch peeks out from the slight view of the living room you spot being inside the kitchen.
Joel’s house seems knitted together by a rustic weathered comfort. Yet, there’s a hollowness to the house, like it’s waiting for more spirit to fill the halls. You can’t pinpoint or describe the stillness here in this place, but you sense it.
After rustling around a drawer, Joel yanks out a rather impressive medical kit. Largely bulky and intimidating, like him, it’s no surprise a handyman and farmer has such a first aid kit.
“How’d it happen?” Joel asks gruff and quiet as he rummages around the bag.
You tell him and his seasoned face scrunches up frustrated.
“Why didn’t ya call and have me go fix it?”
You thought about that. But you couldn’t handle the thought of asking him to help again, to deal with his frustrated sighs and gruff annoyance. He barely said a word to you last weekend when he went to check your sink again.
“Don’t need you to fix everything.” You tell him composed while Joel pulls out various things to wrap your wound.
“Besides, I can fix things on my own.” You add firm.
“Not all the time.” He replies.
You stay quiet and watch his hands, large and callous, gingerly dab away all the crimson from your cut.
He’s never been this close to you. You catch the faintest smell of wood and of something clean crisp, his laundry detergent maybe. It threatens to fog your senses knowing he smells this lovely.
“Y’dont ask for help and shit like this happens.”
Your face hardens at Joel’s words. You even childishly want to yank away your hand and storm off.
“Look I get it, you barely tolerate me and think I can’t do shit. I know I’m still new, but this was an accident. It happens.” Your words come out harsher than you intended, sharpened scythes that cut through the room, and Joel freezes.
“I don’t think that.” He replies clear as a spring blue sky.
You want to bark a laugh of disbelief, but instead you simply stay silent.
Joel sighs, keeping his eyes on the medic tape he readies.
“And I… tolerate you.” He sputters like he’s trying to muster the words out.
A moment passes. Then Joel sighs, ancient and heavy.
“Don’t mind me. M’just some grumpy old fuck-”
“Hey you’re not old. You’re just grumpy.” You interrupt trying to ease the mood and your heart jumps hearing him snort.
“M’old.” He clarifies. He is older, older than you, and that fact creates a strange flutter in your chest you don’t want to explore just yet.
“And…don’t want ya feelin’ like shit.” He continues with a curt softness.
You never knew his voice could sound this layered, so tough but tender.
“Just tryin’ to look out for ya like your gramps asked me too.”
There’s a strange apology shaded in his words but you manage to catch it. A rush of emotions drown you in their current.
“You were close with my grandpa.” You comment with a curious question lingering below the surface.
“Yeah,” Joel answers low now tenderly moving to wrap your hand. “His ol’ ass used to keep me in place.”
You smirk fondly. That sounds like your gramps.
“Miss seein’ him walk by this place and hearin’ him complain that he likes the sheep more than me.”
Joel’s fond and aching voice digs its hooks into your soul. You miss gramps too, so much.
“Used to fish a lot together out by the lake.” He adds.
This is the most Joel Miller has ever spoken to you and you worry the sun might fall out of the sky soon.
“I bet he out fished you.” You tease soft.
Joel snorts. “Damn right he did.”
You can almost picture it clearly, your gramps and Joel laughing together, having a friendship.
“He’d be proud of ya.” Joel mutters but his words chime clear.
Your attention flickers to Joel. He keeps his focus steady on your hand. However his words crystallize deep in your heart and you blink away tears. You ever expected Joel Miller to almost make you cry like this.
“Thanks…means a lot.” You truthfully tell him while you swallow back the heartache and love threatening to spill over.
“He’d also say you’re a fuckin’ stubborn thing for not askin’ for help.”
You snort at that.
“Well you knew the old guy, it runs in the family.” You reply.
Joel chuckles.
It’s small - like the faint flash of seeing a cardinal in the trees. But you heard it, his amusement, and it’s lovely for a man quietly layered as him.
“Alright, all fixed up.”
The wrap is tight, secure, and speaks of his many times previously doing this before.
“Thank you Joel, appreciate it.” You do.
“Can't be a handyman if I can’t fix up people sometimes.” He shrugs but there’s a deadpan charm to his words you’re slowly catching now.
“Doctor and a handyman, no wonder the town keeps you around.” So you dryly joke back.
This moment isn’t much. Yet it feels like gaining a good step in the direction of something right and solid.
Gathering your things, you decide to head out. Even though curiosity claws at you to take in a few more moments being inside Joel Miller’s home, you have seeds to buy.
“Where ya headin’’ to?” Joel asks.
“Pierre’s.” You huff. “Need more parsnips.”
He hums a noise of acknowledgment.
Back outside the mid morning sun’s warmth soaks you in its gaze. Maybe you could fish for a bit before you head to the store. After all, the weather is so nice.
“Hey.” Joel barks out and before heading back on the road, you turn to him.
He’s a sight on his porch. You think of the typical romance movies of the handsome farmer trying to woo the newcomer in town and how right now he puts them all to shame.
Hands crossed over his chest, his broad shoulders seem like mountains against the doorway, so striking and large taking up the entire focus.
“Don’t hesitate to call y’hear? Don’t fuckin’ care what it is or what it’s for, call me.” Joel’s face is hardened and serious, reflecting the unwavering tone in his voice.
Something heated crawls up your throat and makes you dizzy. You blame it on the blood loss.
“Besides, s’what neighbors are for, right?” He adds a bit awkwardly.
It hits you. He’s the closest homestead to you. You are neighbors with him.
“Alright will do, promise.” You nod and mean your words.
“Thanks again neighbor.” Those words tingle on your lips.
Joel nods and with that you head out.
You’re on such a strange high you simply float straight to the pier and fish. It’s comforting being among the crashing waves, the sea breeze, and the wonderful weather. You also think of your gramps and Joel here.
But by the time the sky starts to turn into a ripe tangerine you realize in horror you forget to buy more seeds.
You almost scream in anguish when you find Pierre’s doors locked. Accepting momentary defeat, you head home.
When you reach your porch, there against the steps a bundle of parsnip seeds and a small pack of bandaids sit waiting for you.
- ☼ -
Your hope to quietly enjoy the egg festival, your true first event here in the valley, is diminished when Mayor Lewis practically drags you into the egg hunt saying it’s a rite of passage.
His deadly polite politician smile said there was no way you could worm your way out of participating. So you simply start the hunt thinking of the strawberry seeds you can’t wait to plant once this is over.
You’re not overly competitive, but these eggs are getting harder to find. You want to finish at least with some dignity.
Besides the area around Stardrop Saloon you scan every inch like a hawk. Someone coughs, clearing their throat, and it catches your attention.
Under the shade of the building, nursing a cold drink, Joel slightly turns towards you.
Now instead of a hawk you feel like a surprised field mouse caught in his gaze.
Without saying anything Joel flickers his eyes a couple of times towards the corner of the building. Is he giving you a hint?
Heading to the spot his eyes vaguely guided you to, you discover a colorful egg.
You almost want to keep it as proof this happened. Joel helped you.
By the time the egg hunt ends everyone already seems to be packing up and the mysterious Mr. Miller has vanished from the commotion.
Abigail wins the egg hunt and you aren’t even upset. In fact you walk home feeling like a champion.
The next morning on the help wanted and errands bulletin board in town you spot Joel’s name. Below it is a request asking for a small pack of wood.
You readily answer it and drop off the bundle eagerly, a way to help pay him back for everything.
The pretty decent payment he gives you is nice but the crooked soft hint of a grin on his face when you arrive to deliver the request is worth iridium.
A few days after that he mails you a recipe. The letter is so simply Joel - a straightforward recipe then a scribbled JM below it. You hang the letter up proudly on your fridge.
Spring blooms more and more before your eyes.
You decide to take advantage of it by foraging for the day.
“Where y’heading?”
You’ve been taking the long way to the forest these past few weeks in hopes of seeing him again. Now that you’re not actively avoiding him, you discover, small town or not, Joel is a surprisingly busy man.
When you catch glimpses of him, instead of glares being thrown your way, Joel Miller simply nods acknowledging you. Comforting as it is to know he doesn’t outright detest, you don’t like how much you hope to run into him more.
Now he’s here sliding on his backpack while moving to lock his gate.
“Just heading to the forest, gonna forage and walk around for the day.” You answer him.
“Works out, hafta head that way myself.” Joel explains falling into step besides you.
Alone with Joel Miller once again.
The small talk comes - asking each other how your days have been, anything new or interesting happening. The heat is starting to pick up announcing summer’s close arrival. Thankfully it’s still not unbearably hot as you and him fully enter the woods.
Cindersap forest is tranquil. A beautiful glimmering evergreen haven you enjoy simply strolling through. You never thought you’d ever be here with Joel.
“No new crops coming in?”
“Nothing exciting.” You shrug. “I’m more upset that I didn't plant any tulips this season.”
“Those your favorite?” Joel asks, surprisingly curious.
“Not mine, my gramps.” Your memories of the farm might be hazy, but you always remembered fresh tulips in the kitchen.
“They’re for the fairies.” Gramps would tell you with a wink.
You were bummed after realizing Pierre had flower seeds and it was too late to see them bloom in your kitchen.
“Damn,” Joel sighs. “Ain't your fault. Pierre’s an ass and hides all the good shit, flower seeds included.”
You’re almost positive Pierre doesn’t do that, but you burst out laughing.
A giddy twinkling glee consumes you and fills you buoyant. He’s trying to comfort you in his own Joel way. And it’s dangerous how fast you’re growing to enjoy the company of this grumpy cactus of a man.
You move to snag a few dandelions and wild horseradishes. You make a face at one that smells a bit ripe and decide to leave it for the forest.
“You can eat those y’know.” Joel comments.
“Yeah so I’ve heard.” You tried your first ever daffodil this month. “A wild horseradish might be a bit too much right now though, but who knows. Maybe one day I’ll try ‘em.”
“My kid used to eat these all the damn time. Never took a likin’ to ‘em myself.” Joel grumbles kicking the disposed horseradish.
Kid.
“You have a kid?” You ask curiously.
Joel blinks to you and there’s a gleam in his earth eyes of something reserved slowly revealing itself.
“Uh… yeah. A daughter. Ellie.”
A daughter. He’s a dad.
It fits him in a way that you never would have expected.
“She doesn’t live here?” You ask but then quickly apologize for pressing the subject. Joel waves you off, casual and unbothered.
“She did, just graduated highschool this year. Wanted to do the whole college deal. She lives out west now.”
So he’s an empty nester.
Delicately, wanting to know more about him and his daughter, you ask about her.
Joel inhales deep then exhales slowly, as if an immovable weight on his shoulders rattles deep to his bones.
“She’s a headache, my Ellie.” Fondness trickles out of Joel a steady stream.
“Stubborn, damn near impossible to argue with cause she’s so fuckin’ smart. Got a good heart. Good head on her shoulders too, wants to be an astronaut.”
“An astronaut?! That’s incredible!” You exclaim in brilliant excitement.
Like the proud dad he is, adoration tugs at Joel’s lips.
“Yeah, been wantin’ to be one for years. That’s why she’s going to school.”
“She sounds incredible, Joel. You must be proud.” You earnestly tell him.
“I am…” His voice is thick, and you don’t miss the way his eyes gloss over distant and misty.
You decide not to press the subject any further. He instead does it for you.
“She loved livin’ here until the damn flower festival rolled around. Then she’d swear up ‘n down about how much she hated this town and was gonna leave the second she could.”
The flower festival is just days away. The town swirls in a controlled chaos for its arrival.
You laugh warm. “I’m guessing she’s not a fan of dancing.”
“Takes after me.” Joel nods.
“Ahh…so guess that means you’re not asking anyone to dance this year.” You comment lightly and Joel snorts.
“Ain’t danced with anyone in a very long time.”
A wistful ace now twists your heart thinking of Joel alone in his home, alone watching the others in town pair off.
“You gonna ask anyone?” Joel turns the question around to you and you almost choke on an inhale.
Not wanting to get flustered or react wildly you focus on the wild springs among the lush forest.
“Uh no. Don’t think anyone wants to dance with the newbie in town. Which is fine.” You answer.
There are lovely and gorgeous people in town. Some have caught your eye. However, you didn’t feel brave or interested enough to ask anyone to dance. And no one seemed intended to ask for your hand in the dance, and you find you’re not too upset about that.
Joel hums low, a sign you’re catching on means he’s listening without having to reply much.
“Hopin’ someone will ask ya to dance?” That question takes you by surprise.
You shrug not wanting to fully answer the question either.
Someone suddenly calls out to Joel from behind. At the edge of the forest leading back into town stands Maria, the town’s legal counsel and assistant mayor.
“Caught playing hooky, busted.” You snicker and Joel scoffs.
Maria yells out Joel’s name again.
“Can you come back to town and help us with something? Thought you’d be at home seeing how it’s your day off today. I’ve been trying to call ya but nothing went through.” She yells.
The service here in the forest was awful compared to the town, a hard lesson you’ve learned quickly.
But you also don’t miss Maria’s comment.
Joel had today off. Yet he decided to stay a bit with you. That thought has teeth and you can’t stop their bite from sinking into your heart.
Joel groans but doesn't hesitate to head towards where the assistant mayor stands. Maria of course spots you and a wonderful grin lights up lovely her face.
“It’s good to see you.” She calls out.
“You too!” You reply back thankful your voice is level.
Joel glances over his shoulder to catch your eye.
“Good luck foragin’. Don’t eat any weird shit.”
You sputter out a squawk at his casual comment.
“Next time I see you, I’m giving you a wild horseradish!” You playfully snap the ridiculous reply before you can even stop yourself, but Joel thankfully rolls his eyes unbothered.
Maria’s eyes however flicker curiously between you and Joel. Too many emotions heat up your skin now. So bidding Joel and Maria a quick goodbye you stomp back into the forest to continue foraging.
Now along in the woods, your thoughts still think of Joel. The bag of parsnip seeds, the bandages, and the recipe, come to mind. You never once discussed any of it with him or him with you. It’s something you keep locked in your heart, just like today will be.
Soon the day melts into early twilight. You snag a couple of dandelions and a few other forageables before deciding to head home.
Joel’s farm house looms quietly still with no lights. You can’t bring yourself to open the gate to his farm and walk up to the house.
So instead you place a few dandelions along with a nice fresh large wild horseradish on top of the mailbox by his gate then head home.
Even when you unwind for the night, you mind still feels like it’s snagged on Joel Miller, still there with him foraging in the forest.
- ☼ -
The flower dance, as strange of a custom as it is, is rather ethereal. So many vivid floral arrangements decorate the space with dynamic colors and the air even smells fresh.
The flower dance honors the legacy of celebrating the final days of spring. But it also is a celebration of love blooming.
“It has roots dating back to fertility rituals.” Demetrius, ever the town scientist, told you while you were chatting with him and his wife.
He was right of course. The flower dance is the opportunity for someone to extend a hand of romantic feelings towards another. Those who hope to participate in the couples dance, or possibly win the crown of Flower Queen, are dressed in glorious attire. Soft light fabrics and flowers woven into crowns create a scene conjured out of a fairy’s kingdom.
Compared to the others in lovely attire with flowers in their hair, you didn’t even dress up or change out of your messy dirt covered jeans. And the only flowers in your hair are actually twigs and leaves from cleaning up more of your property.
With no need to worry about someone asking you to dance, you instead simply enjoy the various foods prepared for the occasion.
“Be careful, the salsa actually has a pretty good kick.” You’re about to go in for a second helping when a gentle accented voice floats out to you.
Besides you is a man with the kindest eyes you’ve seen. Faintly you recognize his face and can recall seeing him around town.
“Tommy Miller.” He reintroduces himself seeing your slight hesitation and your eyes go big.
“Oh, Maria’s husband!” You fully remember her introducing him to you. But now something else clicks.
He’s Joel’s brother.
“Yup.” He grins proud at his wife’s mention.
You apologize profusely for not remembering him sooner and with a kind understanding smile Tommy reassures you it’s fine.
“Been a busy first month for ya, I get it. You’re a tough cookie handlin’ it all.”
Even though his twang mirrors his brother’s, Tommy already radiates a much different energy than Joel. He’s warm in a way that reminds you of a soft summer day welcoming everyone with his vibrant energy.
You thank him earnestly. “The town’s been good to me.”
A part of you wants to add Joel has been good to you. Weeks ago, you would’ve laughed at just the idea of Joel Miller showing you an emotion other than annoyance. But now you and him seem to slowly be warming up to each other.
“Don’t go stealin’ all the good stuff, y’little shit.” Joel arrives with a gruff grumble of a voice and quickly nudges Tommy.
Yet his eyes remained glued on you.
You also seem to notice how striking Joel looks in the crisp light jean button up shirt he wears.
“Speak of the devil… was just about to ask our new farmer here if ya haven’t scared her away yet.” Tommy jokes.
Joel’s face flickers with a scowl fighting to form but he keeps himself surprisingly composed.
Guilt sinks in your gut. You know he’s hard to read and you even feel bad for thinking he’s mean. Because you’re learning fast Joel is earnest in his own way.
“Nah,” you tell Tommy, answering for yourself and Joel almost. “His sheep are actually scarier than he is.”
Tommy busts out laughing and you grin. Your eyes flicker to Joel but see he isn’t grinning. Instead Joel’s handsome aged face stares at you guarded and you can’t read the emotions shimmering in his eyes.
Shit.
You might have overstepped and upset him. So to physically stop yourself from saying anything else you take a bite out of the delicious cornbread on your plate, wave a weak goodbye to the Miller brothers, and scurry away.
Now alone under the shadow of one of the lovely cherry trees, you’re aware of how new you still are, a fresh bud still trying to foster roots in this new ground. You wonder how your gramps dealt with this every year.
Soon enough, the music starts and Mayor Lewis claps excited ready to begin the dance.
At least this will be over soon.
The couples slowly sway to the soft melody then rustling arrives at your side. Gently your eyes turn to the source and you almost collapse seeing Joel move in besides you.
His eyes though stay on the couples dancing among the blooms.
“Could’ve at least picked better music to dance to.” He mumbles bored.
Your lips press hard trying not to smile ridiculous and wide.
“Could you imagine if someone played the wrong song?” You whisper back. “Like, some heavy metal rock song suddenly started screaming out?”
Joel snorts, masks it with a few coughs, but you did it. You made him laugh.
Golden soaked triumph fills you and it feels like the first morning you woke up and found a sprout peeking up from the dark tilled soil.
He’s a complex man and you’re barely even scratching the surface of him. But it’s a tender start you want to continue kindling.
For all the commotion and production given to the festival, the dance only lasts a few moments. It’s over thankfully fast.
“Bit anticlimactic.” You mutter under your breath.
“Yeah it’s dumb.” Joel deadpans.
Your lips fight from letting out a laugh.
Everyone claps joyously at the couples concluding their dance. You wonder, even as silly as this is, if one day maybe you’ll dance with flowers in your hair. But you don’t give that thought too much attention. Just imaging yourself next spring already seems so far away.
“Headin’ home?” Joel asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.
You hum, narrowing your eyes at the gorgeous meadow.
“I’m kind of tempted to maybe see if I can steal some of the leftovers but yeah, I’m heading back.” You reply.
“Tell me which food you’re eyein’ and I’ll grab it. No one will tell me no.” He offers and you laugh.
“Tempting as that is, I’m just gonna go home.” You wish Joel a warm good night.
He continues walking alongside you.
Your heart jumps until you realize he lives in the same direction. The chatter from the festival still lingers in the air even while you walk further away from the meadow.
“How do you deal with that every year?” You ask with a sigh.
“Alcohol.” Joel dully answers and you snicker at his reply.
“Maybe one day you’ll be dancin’ out there.” Joel comments like he’s trying to continue the small talk. But the suggestion makes you skin itch for a reason you can’t pinpoint.
You only reply with a simple ‘maybe’ and a shrug.
“I’d pay a hundred bucks to see you dance though.” You joke, but also quickly imagine Joel a picture of softness with a flower behind his ear resting beautifully among his silver curls and it makes your knees weak.
Joel however rolls his eyes.
“Next year we’ll just sneak in and take over the music. See what happens.” You offer.
“Now that sounds like a plan.” Joel agrees gruffly.
It sounds like a promise.
You bid him good night until his eyebrows crinkle so classily grumpy Joel.
“Whadya doin’? Ain’t lettin’ ya walk home alone, sprout. Now come on.”
He continues walking as if nothing while your mind tries to recover being tilted on its axis for a bit.
Joel is walking you home.
And he called you sprout.
You want to cradle this new nickname so tenderly in your hands.
Joel quietly asks about your plans for the upcoming season, almost as if he’s trying to keep you focused.
To settle your flutter heart, you manage to ramble about the new incoming seeds you’ve heard about. You talk about your hopes of going to the beach more, not just to fish but to simply enjoy the ocean.
Among all that discussion, in a blink you’re back at your farm.
Instead of Joel rushing home, he lingers.
He checks your porch almost like he’s making sure the thing still stands.
“Hope one day to see that dang greenhouse up ‘n runnin.” He points to the broken greenhouse and you can’t help but sigh at the sight. You hope so too.
Then Joel moves to stand next to you on the land.
It feels different seeing him here.
Just a few weeks ago he was shouting every profanity known to man trying to fix your ancient water heater. He also glared at you the entire time.
Now he stands next to you suggesting on what to grow for the upcoming season.
“You could plant the tomatoes over on this side, give ‘em more shade to grow.”
Joel already reminds you of a back alley cat, one that hisses and refuses to let others near until he decides when to warm up to others. And, like a fresh new sprout, you want to soak up this warmth of him up.
“Also… Don’t forget to plant flowers.” He adds with a soft grumble.
“I won’t.” You grin impressed he remembered.
When you bid him goodnight and thank him again, you almost want to promise you’ll stop by with coffee tomorrow morning.
However that feels too much, like you might make the wrong move and spook him. But you do want to know if he makes it home okay. You can’t even bring yourself to ask him for his phone number.
So you watch Joel leave until your thoughts move fast and you blurt them out.
“Wait how will I know you made it back?”
Joel suddenly stops then glances back to you.
A very soft twinkle comes over his face and he gives you a crooked grin. It colors him with such a boyish expression. This new face of Joel feels sacred, special, and it steals your breath away.
“Hang outside for a bit. I’ll give ya sign, don’t worry.” He nods then melts into the darkness.
You stay frozen on the spot, not wanting to miss whatever it is. You wait, hoping he makes it back safe. Then out from the darkness, far down the path, you see it.
A light from Joel’s house blazes alive.
Then it flickers on and off, like someone flipping the switch a few times. The movement of it against the darkness even feels like a wave of some sorts.
You wish so badly to wave back.
Reassured that he’s home, you head back feeling as light as a feather.
Stepping onto your porch, something catches your eye.
Resting on the main railing barrier are a batch of tulips that were not there when you left.
Your heart jumps into your throat. You didn’t even see Joel place them there.
Delicately placed, the tulips so brilliantly colored sit warm and bright for you - the most beautiful end to your spring.
Though, in your heart, these blooms feel like something closer to a beginning.
#I blame this on the Stardew valley update and thinking of sheep farmer Joel and here we are lol#but wow this au means so much and im so grateful to write this and if you read this me & Joel love you & are giving you a stardrop#joel miller x f!reader#farmer!joel miller#Joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfiction#Joel miller x you#stardew valley au#seasons of you fic series#Joel 🤎#pedrostories
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ʙᴇᴅᴛɪᴍᴇ - ᴄʜʀɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴜʀɴɪᴏʟᴏ
summary: chris and you have twins together, lola and maggie, bedtime is always a struggle with them.
contains: fluff, kissing, swearing.
------------------------..••°°°°••..--------------------—-
11:37pm
chris and i have been dating since highschool, 4 years ago i gave birth to twins
"girls! bedtime please, i didn't realise the time." i call out, opening the door to their shared bedroom.
maggie and lola are bouncing on their double bed while squealing, i walk over to them, my hands resting on my waist. "are you meant to be doing this?"
they both pause to look over at me, innocence spread across their face.
"no.." maggie says quietly, i nod with a small smile
"are you ready for bed?" i ask as the girls flop down on the bed, "yes!" lola says throwing her arms up with a cute grin.
i pull up the covers over them, "stay in bed for the whole night okay? daddy will be in the kitchen until late, so bother him alright?" i say, pressing kisses to their foreheads.
walking out of their room, i flick off the lights behind me. i close their door softly and go out into the kitchen.
chris is sitting on a dining table chair, his phone in one hand and a pepsi can in the other.
"they asleep?" chris asks, putting his phone down "thankfully." i reply with a sigh, sitting down on chris's lap with a heavy sigh.
he plants a long kiss into my hair "i love you so much."
i flip myself around to straddle chris, moving my hair to one side i collide our lips together desperatly. "fuck.." chris breathes into the kiss.
bang.
a loud bang comes from the kids room, i instantly pull away from the kiss, my eyebrows scrunching i throw myself off of chris's lap.
i hear excitable laughing coming from outside their door. i swing open their door, the bedside table is tipped over, maggie and lola are giggling while throwing stuffed animals at each other.
"lola and maggie." i yell sternly, their heads instantly snap round to look at me, their face dropping.
"do you know what time is it? almost midnight." i glare at them
"i am going to put you to bed and if i hear another noise come from this room, dad is going to come in here and be very angry." im cut off by lola
"mommy but- but maggie keeps taking the blanket and my stuffie." she whines.
i shake my head and shut the door for the second time tonight.
"chris-" i say walking into the kitchen "shh i know." he says, grabbing my waist and picking me up. i groan into his shoulder as he walks us into the living room.
"lets watch a movie okay?" chris says calmly, the warm sleves of his crewnecks wrapped around me.
he plonks us down on the couch, i lay on his body comfortably.
-
1:34am
"this is the best part shush!!" i giggle.
"mooom!" i hear lola laugh as she runs into the room, clutching the ear of her bunny toy in one hand.
i look over at chris, whose rubbing his eyes with his ringed hands.
"maggie wet the bed." she points to her bedroom with a snort, covering her smile with her stuffed animal.
chris sits up, moving me off him and walking over to lola. he scoops her up with one arm, looking into her eyes he starts "did you hear what mom said?" he asks, maintaining eye contact with lola.
"well mommy's stupid!" lola says sassily, my jaw goes slack.
"lola no." chris says, more stern than ive ever heard him. he carries lola out of the room.
i lay back on the couch, closing my eyes and instantly drifting to sleep.
9:39am (the next day)
the harsh sunlight hits my body from the window to my left. i sit up, dazed and somehow in pyjamas, even though i fell asleep in jeans and a tanktop.
"what the fuck.." i groan, my eyes adjusting to the blinding light.
chris walkss into the living room "hey!! you're awake." he says happily.
"oh yeah hope you dont mind, i changed you last night after i changed the girls sheets, you were knoocked outt though." he says with a laugh.
"oh shit wait-" he says, doing a full 180° out of the living room.
he comes back in about a minute, hes holding lola and maggie, one in each hand. theyve both got small cards in their hands and a guilty expression on their face.
"chris what is this?" i ask, standing up off the couch.
"mommy i'm very sorry for being awake late last night." lola says, chris sets her down on two feet and she trots up to me, handing me the card.
the cards are in chris's hand writing, but has a drawing made by lola on the front.
"she told me what to write." chris clarifies setting down maggie aswell.
maggie runs up to me, "and im sorry for wetting the bed but dad says it wasn't my fault and you were just tired and grumpy and it was okay -.."
shes cut off by chris's hand over her mouth "shh shush".
"christopher!" i laugh, slapping his arm with a scoff.
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got a good feeling bout this one team!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
#sturniolo smut#sturniolo triplets#matt sturniolo x reader#sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo x reader#sturniolo fanfic#nick sturniolo#chris sturniolo#sturniolo#matt sturniolo
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“Wanna get married?”
Damian Wayne x Gn!Reader
(They’re about 19)
“WHAT??”
“What…? Why’re you so freaked out?” You and Damian were currently sitting across each other in the living room.
“What do you mean, why am I so freaked out?…explain yourself” his sudden mood changes never ceases to amaze you- something you seriously shouldn’t be thinking while being suspected of by an ex assassin .
“Well… Since we’re tired and bored, I asked if you’d wanna get married-“
“Yea, I understood the first time but why and…in what sense?” He interrupted you, rude
“Ok ok look, just hear me out” he glared at you but then sighed and just nodded.
“Alright” you sat up “so imagine this,me, you, fancy high end restaurant- AND before you say anything!” You shove a finger against Damian’s lips.
“Imagine the food, we can, idk… go in together and I could fake purpose to you for fun” you sat back and studied Damian’s facial expressions .
He let out the deepest sigh you’ve ever heard in your life that you’ve heard from him. Which is to say a lot since sighs from Damian aren’t exactly uncommon.
He leaned back and started thinking “where would you even get a ring-“
“I’ve thought of that” is how you responded and quickly pulled out the best looking ring you have.
“Okayyyy, I don’t know why you have that but, ugh, fine.” He said finally admitting defeat. He got to his feet and held out a hand for you to grab.
Show time.
The two of you decided to head out the the fanciest, high class restaurant damian knows and once the two of you got dressed you had Alfred drive you there.
You’d be lying if you said you and Damian didn’t look absolutely stunning, I mean anyone would be jealous if they saw the two of you, not knowing whether they’d want to be with you or you.
Once you finally stepped out you stayed behind and watched as Damian managed to get a seat despite not having a reservation, maybe all he said was that he was Bruce Wayne’s son.
Well anyway, a waiter led you there and had you two seated in a very public place, nice.
Although it was good for your plan it wasn’t exactly ideal, especially since Damian really hates being the center of attention.
Anyway the both of you ended up eating away without a care of the cost (mostly you) and when you saw it fit you got up, cleared your throat and began your plan.
“Damian Wayne, you and I had been friends for a long time now and we’ve been dating for a good while aswell. I’m aware we are young but our young age doesn’t make my love for you invalid. So I ask this with upmost sincerity-“ you go to kneel and continue your cringe ass over the top speech.
“I wish for you and I to be lovers and even more in the near future so-“ you pull into your pocket and get the ring and open the box “will you make me the happiest person alive and marry me?”
Collective gasps could be heard around the restaurant and even some people pulled out their phones to record- I mean imagine Damian Wayne and y/n l/n getting married of all people???
An event of the century
Well Damian’s shocked face was worth it and although unexpected, his blush certainly wasn’t unwelcomed.
Nice! He was s totally selling it
Anyway he got up abruptly and nodded his head, that wasn’t enough for you though. “What?-“
“YES ILL MARRY YOU” he hastily let you slip the ring on his finger and he called over the waiter to bring your check.
Someone had to have called paparazzi because when you stepped out of the establishment there was flashing lights all around you while you two hurriedly got into the vehicle driven by Alfred.
-
The very next day you were forced to go to the Wayne manor because of how much Damian kept pestering you.
Once you managed to sneak past the news reporters you entered the living room and the whole family was there, everyone had mixed reactions but most of them Thought it was hilarious.
But in all seriousness Bruce said that you’ll have to give an official statement saying it was all a stunt while a video of the news played on the tv talking about you and Damian’s new engagement.
-
The next few days were full of people spreading “Damian x y/n” all over previous haters and people were also mentioning how absurd it was due to your young age.
“Damian’s and y/ns engagement “ was trending all over twitter and any social media platform and although it was fun while it lasted an official statement had to be published eventually. 😔
It was fun calling Damian your “fiancé” when in interviews, but everything must come to an end 😔
#gn reader#male reader#female reader#fanfic#fluff#fanfic fluff#fluff headcanons#damian wayne x reader#damian wayne x male reader#damian wayne imagine#damian wayne fluff#damian wayne headcanon#older damian wayne#damian wayne al ghul#damian wayne fanfiction#damian robin#robin damian#damian wayne#damian al ghul#dc fanfic#dc robin#dc comics#dc universe#dc
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Words don’t trigger him, emotions do
Bucky Barnes x Reader
Anger, resentment and especially, jealousy—those emotions were all he knew while you both spent decades at Hydra.
Warnings- angst, jealously, mental struggles, smut, possessive sex, love bites
Words- 3400
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And his love has its own dark morality when rivalry enters in, when another man dares to flirt with you and Bucky shall show well what he shows best.
“Hello, snowflake" he says "Hope I'm...interrupting”
There is an intonation so bitter and so imperative that the man who you are talking with shallows hard. The words which are set in the air—in themselves they are simple and sweet. But his jealousy, protectiveness are a living thing. Shifting, changing, growing.
"Do you know the man?" he asks politely, blue eyes burning with violence.
There is a natural comorbidity between possessiveness and jealousy, between the desire to fuck and the desire to kill.
„Yeah, I do,“ you reply and Bucky feels alone in the moment your eyes break contact—and in a fever, among the walls of the bar, he looks around too, a thickening twilight peeps out in his mind.
"Who is he?" he asks in a pleasant but cold voice, now clearly less friendly than before.
„It doesn’t matter“ you smile softly, that sentence is a uttered curse to Bucky’s ears. Immediately, his guard is up.
Bucky is silent for a moment, suffocated by the situation, ringing in his ears, and the heart—it will bust.
The simplicity of your answer spreads as frost, closing off the light of his eyes. His mind starts racing once again, a nameless emotion has nested in Bucky – who is that guy?
Bucky sits on your left side before he leans on the counter next to you, with his metal hand and puts his right one on his tight, closer to his gun strapped there.
You know him, you know that behavior— this yearning to protect, tearing at his insides like hunger and thirst. It is not love. Love is warm and soft, like a bed of leaves. But this is dark, like the shade under a poisonous shrub, and it is hungry. So hungry.
You know its' name—Winter.
You're stuck with him. Not for a few decades, not for centuries. You're tied to him forever. That's why you are good at putting out his flame before it grows—the frame he still carries from the past.
Jealousy isn't a pleasant quality, apart from its inconvenience there's even something touching about it—his starless nights eyes—his face, as if it has been a dial cut in impassive stone, the dwindling of life.
You are equipped to handle what he has, both past and present—package deal of both. In other words, you have been assigned a load you can handle.
“Bucky-”
“Let's go home, it’s getting late” he interrupts, in a soft, vicious voice.
“Give me ten minutes”
He feels like a thread has come between you when he hears your answer, tugging, tugging at his heart—so hard, it hurts him.
You glare at each other. He closes his eyes, because there is a petulant woundedness with which he stares back at you.
Neither of you say a word until Bucky moves, leaning back against the counter, and folding his arms over his chest. It takes all his concentration, to keep from ripping out this man’s throat. But Bucky shoves the familiar fury down, to the place where he stifles Winter's power.
“Okay”
He says as he looks over to the man, and wants him to say something mean so he would have an excuse to shoot him. Bucky is something dark and beautiful, in conflict with what he shows to the world and what he truly feels inside, it is hard to control it.
A worry deep in you stir, but you ignore it for now, pushing it down as best you can with the distraction of music and whiskey.
You fully turn to the man and all Bucky wants is your full attention. He wants your gaze to stay fixed on him, only him. He wants to stare into those beautiful eyes for as long as he lives.
Every avalanche begins with the movement of a single snowflake, and you are this Snowflake tonight.
When the ten minute mark hits you hear a quiet screeching sound—he has carved a small heart on the counter with his index metal finger—you can’t believe how jealousy has him gagging, his blue eyes are clouded before he lowers his gaze to the floor.
Snow is super soft, bottomless and amazingly light, yet supportive—until you take a wrong turn and feel every crystal reacting within your soul, suffocating you. Bucky has lost himself in the emotional storm: it takes so little this time, to put fuel in his cynical heart.
“Bucky…” you whisper and your eyes meet, his actual humanity can’t seem to triumph over the rage and jealousy this time, something you hardly imagine in your wildest dreams.
And this is the secret you both share—the kind you don't dare to let out—Words don't trigger him, but emotions do. You can’t leave them unnoticed, unattended and unsolved.
“Let's head home”
Your language has been lost for so long at Hydra. But not the gestures. It is almost comforting, this mutual acceptance of understanding each other without the need for words.
He maintains his silence, but he slowly gets up—he doesn’t look back, he knows you are following him closely. Of course you do, but you think about what has just happened
While you were looking into his eyes, there were fragments of his inner struggle that were deeply repressed—he always tries to repress the past. It’s hard to distinguish if they were buried inside because dealing with them was such dirty work, or if he was ashamed to voice them.
The truth is that he would rather dig his own heart out, with a knife, than admit it. A while ago he let you know that it's hard to control certain emotions—but he didn’t want to throw his intimacy in front of you, especially when he cares.
But nothing stays secret forever
You are trying to heal too, but, finally, there are things which he is afraid to divulge even to himself—he needs you, he needs your reassurance, he feels like someone will snatch you from his hands, damn his split personalities and untrustworthy habits from the past, but he can’t help it, it scares him.
You are both unearthed by deception, torture, brainwashing, whose essence was shrouded by Hydra—your own father naming the Winter Soldier program after his own daughter, you, stringing you with Bucky together—the yearning theme of your life.
After you escaped Hydra, you went your separate ways until he came back to you, searching for someone who understands him.
That was a year ago.
The more he thinks about it, the more he wants you, the more my desire rises and swells—
“Bucky” He shakes his head in exasperation, not stopping as he climbs the stairs to your shared apartment, aiming for the door, but he can’t stay with you, not when he is not fully himself “Bucky, stop, talk to me”
You have known him for so long, you can see the pride through his words, the truth through his silence, and the anger through his smile.
Always.
“Soldat“ he turns to you, perusing your body as he comes to stand in front of you, his abysses as deep as those of love, finally meet yours.
That realization takes about a nanosecond to register in Bucky’s brain before the real important information comes to the forefront—you’ve noticed.
He lowers his head toward you, so you could feel his breath warm against your skin, your mouths only inches apart
“Why did you call me that?”
He has no answer nor idea, just a never-ending list of questions, he is searching for a loophole that increasingly feels like a noose—he denies it, he tries to—you are not entitled to exposing him like that.
How hollow is it for him to have no secrets left—Bucky's love gives, and Soldat's lust takes.
His gaze, improper, is the most sensual thing he can have done at this moment, and it jolts your heart into a strange rhythm as you speak
“Tell me, how can I help?” You put your hands on his chest, your eyes still locked and an unwelcome sensation pierces you.
“You already know” he says thoughtfully as his cool gaze devours you “snezinka” (snowflake) and his lusty grin when he says that, it's sinful—and pleasurable.
“There is nothing to worry about. Do whatever you want to make yourself feel better” All you want to do is make him feel better, to drown his worries in your embrace.
Both shame and worry drown themselves in the dark eyes that stare back at him.
You.
Only you.
Bucky dreads this power you have over him.
Everything you say is exceedingly obvious, and undoubtedly true, but he feels that something more obscure, more frightening lurks in the back of your mind.
You don’t halt the hands he lays on your waist when he pushes you, backing you into the door.
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1968–1969, Zhao Jianmin Spy Case
„That is going to be mass murder, send them together.“
This mission is a long, never-ending massacre, it never ends.
He is lost in your eyes, it’s eating him alive.
Corpses fill the floor, the sight of gore is peaceful in your corrupted existence. He becomes obsessed in this moment of solitude with you, he has the need to touch you and you respond with a kiss, blood all over your face.
Your wretched fate is shared, your need for touch also.
Winter’s lust betrays him as he pushes you against the wall, feasting on your lips and neck, his hands running up and down your back.
“Relax, Winter” you giggle as you gently press your fingers into his shoulders, forcing him to break the kiss as he looms over you- waiting with a predatory grin.
„I need you, Samodiva“ he slurs, eyebrows furrowed as he glances up at you. His trembling fingers touch the strings in vain, wanting to find the right notes from the fading memory, Soldat wants his soul to vibrate again; with lust, with love.
He knows you feel his arousal, your closeness causing him to grow hard, inhaling sharply, enjoying the sensations you are eliciting in him.
“I need you, too” you finally answer without faltering.
This is all Soldat needs to hear - his tongue flicking lightly over your neck once again, tracing the skin slowly, eliciting a moan from your lips, bodies acting on instinct.
A soft squeak escapes your puffy lips, the tension building up in your body too fast, too soon. Winter puts his hands around your waist, your pants already unbuckled, surrendered to him.
He wastes no time, there's no time left… his hands suddenly drop to his own pants, popping the button open and then pulling down the zipper.
The feeling of your insides drains all of his self power to not come on the first trust, he moves at an excruciating slowly pace, fucking you into the bloodstained walls, there is a glimpse of human nature when you fill the room with moans.
„I am yours,“ he whispers, his words sending a series of chills through her.
This is about him, not you, this is what he needs.
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“1968, do you remember?“ he groans as he brushes his mouth against your cheek. The plea in his tone floods your veins with a whole different form of power “Just say no, snezinka-”
“This is exactly what I want“ you counter. As you arch your back, pressing the tips of your breasts against his chest, closing your eyes at the whisper of a kiss, at the hunger that ravages inside you.
He leans down more, his mouth only inches from yours. “Fuck,” the barely leashes growl of his voice rumbles up through his chest, and every nerve ending in your body flares to life.
Bucky loves seeing you pinned to the door—his control balancing precariously on the point of a knife. He tightens his hands holding you even closer, until your chest is pressed against his own, you can feel his hard cock pressing between your bodies.
All he needs is one push.
And you are about to shamelessly shove.
“Come on, I can take it” you tilt your head up to his and draw his bottom lip between yours, sucking before gently nipping him with your teeth.
“Yeah, yeah, okay” He speaks against your throat and finishes one languorous stroke up the column of your neck.
It breaches something within him, and he gives in.
Finally, mouths collides, and the kiss is hot and hard—it invades his body, abolishing any constraints and bringing to life the desire for you. It grounds him firmly in the moment and drags his body in it, too—Bucky wants to be the only thing touching you, the only thing that touches you ever again. He is kissing the shell of your ear, nipping at it gently and then soothing the nips with soft kisses.
Rage. Lust. Jealousy. Past. Preset. Every day is a reminder of how nothing stays the same, every day an exercise in variability, resilience, understating and trust.
You love the seasons, but, you must admit—at the risk of offending the others—Winter is your very favorite one. What a beautiful madness, to explore the darkness in his old self and find joy in the unearthing of such a wicked past.
He craves you, he kisses you again.
When your mouth touches his, it is like a blade glancing off metal—the darkness inside him briefly lights up with violence and rage before the emptiness comes flooding in like a black lake—you see it in his eyes.
“Let’s get inside '' he hears your whisper and he reaches up to stroke your cheek with the backs of his fingers. He might be lust-intoxicated, but he always cares.
Tonight, you have successfully deflected his attention from the gloomy thoughts and the contemplation of his past—his lust rushes, but his love makes him wait.
His love lasted for decades—will last for a lifetime.
Awash with trepidation, you two manage to get into the apartment, but the moment you lock the door—your back is against the wall again.
All those desires Bucky has felt in passing have culminated, growing deeper, hungrier, darker—he can do whatever he wants with you.
That through alone causes trouble below his belt.
He pulls his shirt over his head, the sight of his sculpted muscles, crisscrossed with countless scars. They have the strange power to remind you both that the past is real.
Bucky’s hands languidly roam the curves and valleys of your body as his kisses became sensual, slow and deep. There is such a luster in his eyes that you have to look away, but when you look back at him, his gaze hasn’t moved, still focused on your face.
Then he shifts his mouth to your neck for a hard love-bite that makes you cry out— the need to possess you, to claim you, he never did that before.
But even though you feel his erection stir as you press your hips against his, he doesn't attempt to resume the lovemaking in full, he catches you around your slender waist again and brings you close to whisper teasingly in your ear
“Ты - моя, слышишь?”
You begin to feel a familiar wetness form between your legs.
“Bucky,” you call out, impatient with desire.
But that exact position triggers so much delight, of the heated memory—he has all the time in the world, not as the last time.
He kisses you like he has forgotten how your mouth tastes—with a curious childish delight, kisses like wants to take you dancing.
As you pull apart, you remove your own shirt and his teeth scraping down the skin of your neck, his hands sliding around back to remove your bra, tossing it aside.
His right hand makes its way up, passing over a mark left by a bullet—your cheeks heat, and your breath hitches, but you can’t look away, you follow his hand with your eyes.
“I was not there when you got shot” he says as his fingertip skims the top of your breasts “When was that?” he uses the vibranium arm to lift one of the long locks of your hair to his lips and inhales the scent.
“It doesn’t matter”
And maybe you are right, but it stands as a reminder yet again of how you too escaped death's touch before. It was almost...normal for you back then.
Bucky takes a breast into his mouth to suck at it vigorously as you shiver in his grasp, the metal hand sides down to your waist to keep you against the wall.
You let out a small moan as you feel his hardness tighten and press even more insistently against you.
You worm your hands between your bodies, opening his jeans, freeing his length from the confines of his boxer-briefs, then reaching in to caress it and he burying his face in your neck to stifle his groan.
Bucky shudders when when you take him in your hand, stroking him painfully slowly. He allows it for several moments before hiking up the skirt of your dress to quickly tear your damp underwear.
He rubs a hand down your leg, fingers curling behind your knee and pulls it to his hip.
You instinctively jump, he catches you, abandoning his attempts of fingering you in favor of grabbing your hips, and you moan as you wrap your legs around his waist.
He loves you.
He loves you because nature wills it as it did for decades.
Because you are already long united by the past.
The bare flesh on every part of you always belonged to him, the scent emitting from your skin is his—he loves you, but he doesn't dare tell you that.
You have become Bucky’s favorite hiding place over the past year, the place he put every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, you keep him safe.
You have possessed him—and you never knew it.
He has been dependent on exactly how close he can have you next to him, how long he can get to stay at your apartment—making various excuses every time until you suggested to him to move in with you two months ago.
“Bucky,”
you tighten your legs around his waist, urging him to continue, running your hands over his shoulders.
Your voice pulls him out of what was ravaging in his mind, all those thoughts, but then he kisses as he roughly inserted his cock with no warning, you let out a surprised gasp as his forehead falls to your shoulder, bracing his hands on your hips and pressing you against the wall more firmly when he bottoms out, moaning shamelessly at the feeling of your body against him.
You are made for him, made for fucking.
“I love biting you, I need it” his voice is brittle, not saying anything else.
You stare like he is something you can’t comprehend, something unexpected – willingly admitting.
Your fingers thread gently through his hair and you can’t help, but hang your jaw in bewilderment at the sight before—he is falling apart from the need to claim you, to reach the white-hot ecstasy.
You have never seen him like that.
He bites his way along your jaw to the base of your throat. His mouth is hard and punishing, lathering your skin with marks—ferocity burns in his gaze promising something primal—thrusting into you wildly, trying to elongate your pleasure for as long as possible, but suddenly he is choking on moans as waves of climatic bliss are sent throughout his body.
This is about him, not you, this is what he needs.
This night you learn about his jealousy, it has you starving to learn more about this side of him. A new hunger that you know you will satisfy only with time.
His steel blue eyes hide a nearly irresistible urge to claim you—it’s hard for Bucky to control it when the incurable desolation of Winter exaggerates in displaying old emotions.
#BARKING ON MY KNEES FOR HIM#bucky x ex!asset reader#smut and feels#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes smut#bucky smut#bucky x female reader#bucky imagine#bucky x you#bucky fanfic#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x oc#winter soldier smut#winter soldier x you#bucky angst#ws!bucky#bucky barnes fanfiction#winter soldier fanfiction#marvel x reader#bucky x oc#bucky barnes x snezana kabakov
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poison in my mind
PAIRING: idol!jisung x afab older stylist reader
WORD COUNT: 5.8k
SUMMARY: he has been your poison for years - Jisung with his innocent looking face, steely gaze, and wicked tongue. you do your best to keep a professional relationship with him during your work as a stylist for NCT Dream but his calls of "Noona" on set continue to test your patience.
AUTHOR NOTE: A VERY belated happy birthday to Andy Park and a big thank you to SM for letting us have that Poison live performance at the end of the year. This has been half written ever since the Poison track video behind vlog went up a million years ago but fueled even more by the dance intro at MMA. His more recent lives may have also served as inspiration. I hope you all enjoy this very self indulgent fic made especially for all my friends who also love Jisung <3
WARNINGS: explicit smut, idolverse, pet names (including Noona kink I'm so sorry)
PLAYLIST: Poison by NCT Dream, Quiet Down by NCT Dream, OK! by NCT U
dreaming 'bout you, dreaming 'bout you
~~
The set is buzzing with nervous energy in the dimly lit space, dark blue light cascading over the stage area dressed with large floral arrangements that almost make it look like the ocean floor. Renjun is talking to the camera filming their behind vlog footage and you look up from the shirt you are steaming when you hear his voice.
“Dream will try for the sexy vibe for the first time,” with a sly smirk.
You can’t help but chuckle as the makeup artist next to you elbows your side and you tut at her, waving the steamer to quiet her. It wasn’t a secret that the Poison track video was going to be beloved by fans because of the concept and the way the members were styled. You had been tasked with pulling some of the key looks for the video, taking an opportunity to incorporate different textures like the metal grommets and fringe on the leather jacket Renjun currently was wearing. You watch proudly as he stretches his arms over his head in the center of the flowers, torso muscles rippling under the sheer mesh shirt.
You hadn’t been on staff for very long, a couple years of working under the main stylist under your belt. They had been hesitant to give you bigger opportunities due to your young age and lack of experience, but your boss saw that you had a great eye. It didn’t hurt that you were always the first one to volunteer for less than desirable tasks and always arrived early to shoots and stayed late.
“Sorry, this one’s a little too small, did you have others?” comes a voice behind you and you turn to see Mark, holding out one of the large metal rings you had laid out for him in his dressing room.
“Oh sorry, yes, of course,” you reply, smiling softly at him before kneeling down to dig in your bag for the small pouch holding the extra accessories. He was always so polite to the staff, greeting everyone and even when he was clearly exhausted, doing as many takes as the director needed.
“This one might work better and it’s adjustable,” you reply, taking his hand and sliding the ring on his pointer finger. You squeeze his hand gently before he inspects the rings, holding it out in front of him.
“Noona,” comes a harsh and low voice suddenly, causing you to move your head to the side of Mark’s leather clad legs to see an annoyed looking Jisung with crossed arms, shirtless and barefoot.
“Jisung, where is your shirt?” Mark replies, half laughing as he turns to face him, scratching at the back of his neck.
Ignoring him, Jisung returns his gaze to you and glares at your crouched position on the floor in front of Mark. A curious Renjun walks up at this moment, peeling a tangerine and flicking narrowed eyes between the three of you. Mark shrugs at him before walking away, answering a message on his phone.
“You tailored the crotch of these pants wrong, it feels weird,” Jisung continues, voice even and tinged with frustration.
Your face flushes at this, dropping the pouch back in your bag and grabbing your pins, suddenly on your feet and in front of Jisung.
“How do you know it’s wrong?” you ask, knitting your brows together as you look up at him.
He looks good and you know he knows it. Something has shifted in Jisung in the past year - especially since they returned from tour. He carries himself differently, with a different level of confidence and wears it well. Today is no different and the fact that he just barged onto set without a shirt on is evidence. His dark blue hair is styled perfectly, long strands dangling in his eyes and contrasting beautifully with his sharp jawline.
“Here, feel,” he tells you simply, pulling your hand to his crotch and you almost let yourself palm him through the tight denim until you snap back to reality and pull your arm back. His eyes hold no emotion, dark and still, long eyelashes blinking at you temptingly. His lips are soft and plump and you want nothing more than to close the distance between the two of you and taste the glossy lip mask.
And there it is, your poison, Park Jisung. When you had graduated early from your program a few years ago, you had been focused on your career and hadn’t spent much time dating. You had some people you went out on dates with every once and a while and had your fair share of waking up in a stranger’s bed after a long night out. But Jisung had caught you by surprise. Something about the way he was so forward and aggressive with you made your brain turn to mush around him. Your heartbeat would quicken, palms sweat, and filthy thoughts would swirl in your mind until you could indulge in them with your hand pressed between your thighs later that night.
A heavy sigh comes from Renjun, accompanied by a shake of his head, as he walks out a nearby door muttering something about not wanting to see Jisung’s dick.
You flush violently, grabbing at Jisung’s bicep harshly and pulling him to his dressing room, leaving the door propped open intentionally as you take the layered black tank off the hanger and hold it out to him.
“Please put the rest of your outfit on, I think they are going to be ready for you soon,” you sigh as soon as you’re alone, reaching for the box that holds the platform boots you were reusing from a shoot with Haechan a couple months prior.
You both move silently as he pulls the shirt over his head, staring at the long leather cords before lifting his head back up to you. You move behind him, reaching over his broad shoulders to pull the leather cords around his neck and then letting the ends dangle in front of his toned chest. You try to avoid brushing your hands against his bare shoulders as he steps into the boots and ignore that his ass brushes against your stomach when he bends down slightly to zip them up.
“I just don’t know about these pants, are they the right length?” he asks, tugging at the material at his thighs. His tone is whining and defiant, lighter than how he was in front of everyone, but still slightly combative. He knows you’re weak for this very tone, as he can usually get you to do whatever he wants if he just adds it into whatever he says.
You sigh and move around him, dropping to your knees at his feet, slapping his hand away from pulling at the fabric. You pull the pants leg out of his left boot, pulling lightly and examining the hemline. You’re about to correct him when you suddenly feel his hand soft on your hair.
“You look so good from this angle,” he murmurs, voice low and sultry, causing you to jerk your head up and look at him from the floor.
Your lower lip is instantly caught in your teeth, sinking into the flesh deeply as you try to control your breathing, unable to stop yourself from blinking up at him. You feel drawn into his dark eyes and his hand in your hair is almost overwhelming.
He lets out a groan, tightening his fingertips on your scalp, exhaling audibly and clenching his other hand into a fist at his side.
“What am I going to do with you,” he tuts, dropping his hand to your chin and gripping it gently.
You rise from your knees, glancing at the open door just as Jaemin bounces by, screaming at something Haechan is doing. Suddenly aware of where you are, you step forward, adjusting the cords aimlessly.
“What happened to my sweet, innocent Jisung?” you whisper, staring at the soft skin of his collarbone and wishing you could press your lips against it forever.
“Don’t act surprised. You created this monster, Noona, dressing me in all these sexy outfits. How could you think I would stay your bright eyed baby Sungie forever?” he asks back, tucking loose strands of your hair behind your ear. His words are biting, even if they do hold some truth.
Memories of him dozing off on your shoulder during long bus rides and hastily helping him into heavy jackets and necklaces during quick changes on tour come flooding in, mixed with the heavy, lustful stares you feel on you when you wear a low cut shirt or on hot summer days in Thailand when you wore thin athletic shorts in the airport.
He had kissed your lips gently a year ago after many bottles of soju and when the rest of the members were preoccupied by endless rounds of karaoke. You had stopped him then, told him that as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t. Ever since that moment, he had made every effort to get you alone when he could, using every excuse under the sun, today’s outburst nothing new. You still remember how soft his lips felt on yours and the fire under your arm as he held you close after you rejected him.
Back on set, you’re packing up your bag again when you’re called over to check something on the computer from Jeno’s scenes. You give your feedback and suddenly your eyes are drawn up to where Jisung is filming, camera close to his face, light illuminating his beautiful features perfectly.
“Dreaming ‘bout you, dreaming ‘bout you,” echoes across the large soundstage and your heart is pounding in your chest as he plays with the cords at his neck, just as you had earlier, chests pressed up against each other in the dressing room. He makes eye contact with you briefly when the take ends and you look away quickly, embarrassed.
While you had been released to go for the day, you take your time packing the rest of your stuff, helping the makeup artists clean their station and even rearranging some chairs that barely needed adjustment. You watch the way he moves confidently, take after take, adjusting the jacket so his shoulders show boldly against the dark material. His fingers brush through the cords, pulling them up to his teeth at times before dropping them, leaving plump lips open before cracking a large smile at the reaction of the staff. In between takes he shakes his dark hair, casting his gaze down to the floor until someone asks him a question. You watch as he smiles and winks at the makeup artist powdering his cheek and you feel nervous energy stir in your stomach. You can’t bear to watch much more, so you slip out when he isn’t looking in your direction.
When you finally are home, feet pushed into fluffy slippers and sipping on steaming green tea you had just prepared, you peel the sheet mask off and rub the remaining serum into your cheeks and forehead. You are flipping through a magazine your coworker had given you on set, paying attention to the tabbed pages they had flagged for inspiration when your phone buzzes on the table next to you. A message from the head stylist fills your screen as you tap into it.
Jisung left his street shoes at set, did you take them home? He said he “needs them” for tomorrow.
You sigh and go to the shoebox by your door to find his Nike sneakers tucked neatly, laces wrapped nicely. You quickly reply to your boss, saying you don’t mind bringing them to the dorm since you know the managers had a late night meeting tonight. Running a brush through your hair, you dot some perfume on your wrists and behind your ear before grabbing your keys.
You fiddle with the edge of your oversized sweater in the elevator as you climb the floors to his dorm, feeling a nervous pit grow in your stomach. Finally outside, you knock quickly before dropping it down to hold the box with both hands.
The door swings open and Jisung is standing tall in front of you, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp. A dark zip-up hoodie covers his chest and it’s unzipped just enough that you can tell he isn’t wearing a shirt underneath. You can’t help but let your mind wander back to shirtless Jisung pulling your hand to his crotch earlier and wonder if he was just lounging in his room in the sweatpants. Or worse, just his boxers.
“Hi baby,” he slurs out, lips curving up at the edge into a mischievous smile as he props his arm up on the door, leaning down as if he might kiss you. His sweatshirt hikes up on his waist when he does this, revealing a large swath of skin.
You shove the box at him, pushing him back into the room with it, letting it drop into his hands. You fling your bag on the table near the door and step out of your shoes.
“Don’t hi baby me, Park Jisung. I know you left these there so you could see me tonight. Did it really take you multiple hours to realize you weren’t wearing the shoes you came in?” you reply with a huff, picking up a sealed water bottle on the kitchen counter and taking a long sip.
Sweat is pricking at your hairline and you are starting to regret not texting one of the assistant managers or drivers to come get the shoes instead.
Jisung chuckles and sets the shoebox on a chair, reaching out to take the water bottle from you and gulping down the rest.
“Don’t be mad, baby,” he replies, leaving heavy emphasis on the pet name, stepping closer to you and wrapping strong arms around your waist, thumbs instantly finding the hem of your sweater and travelling across your lower back.
You can’t help how your body reacts to his touch, feeling your chest meet his, nipples hardening under the knit fabric now tugged down and exposing your cleavage. Your breath catches in your throat as you try to speak, looking up at him through your eyelashes for the second time today.
“Come on, I’m catching up on our show,” he says softly, lips grazing across your cheek gently. You had been watching the same show for the past few months, texting each other during episodes here and there, and chatting about it whenever you saw each other. He had complained none of the other members would watch it with him and while you would never let him know this, you had lied and said you were also planning to watch it.
Against your better judgement, you let him guide you to his small room, where his large tv is paused on the latest episode of the space docuseries.
“Oh, I haven’t watched this one yet,” you admit, dropping down to sit at the edge of his bed.
He clicks to restart the episode and unzips the sweatshirt, moving to remove it and reveal his bare chest.
“Jisung,” you say sternly and he chuckles, zipping it back up halfway, and plopping down on the bed next to you. He pulls the hood up over his dark hair for good measure before propping himself up against the pillows he has leaned against the wall. You settle back, leaving some space between the two of you and pulling a hamster plushie into your lap to nervously fiddle with.
While your eyes had started to get heavy back at your apartment, you are now wired, your body coursing with electricity and hypersensitive to every movement from the man next to you. He reaches for his phone occasionally, letting out light chuckles at messages from Chenle and even daring to post a couple Bubble messages. You thank whatever higher power exists that your phone was still tucked in your bag at the door, so he didn’t see yours light up when he sent the message. It was a drunken guilty pleasure you had indulged in and ever since receiving the first message tailored with your name, you couldn’t stop yourself from renewing the subscription.
His legs keep brushing against yours when he readjusts his position on the bed and somehow has gotten so close that his shoulder is now brushing against yours. You try to shift away, but he only closes the distance again when you do so. Your heart is pounding in your chest and you’re having a difficult time focusing on the show.
Suddenly the screen is filled with bright colors as they depict beautiful graphics of what scientists imagine the birth of a star looks like and a gasp falls from your lips as you lean forward, eyes flickering across the screen to take in the beautiful scene.
“You’re so pretty when you nerd out over this stuff,” comes his low voice, suddenly close to your ear, hand resting in the middle of your back.
You lean back in reaction, trapping his arm between you and the pillow, turning slightly to face him.
“Coming from NASA’s number one stan, please,” you reply lightly, shoving the plushie at him playfully. You let a chuckle fall from your lips and shake your head lightly, causing your hair to cascade over your shoulders.
He grabs at it and throws it off the edge of the bed, hands suddenly tight on your hips and pulling you into his lap, possessively gripping your ass as you straddle his legs.
Your lips drop open in surprise, both of you breathing heavy at the sudden movement. You feel your responsible self tapping your shoulder but finally decide to let the years of desire bubble to the surface and propel your lips to close the gap with his.
You move your lips across his gently, resisting the urge to push your tongue out immediately or bite down on his lower lip. He tightens his grip on you in response, pushing his crotch up to meet yours. You swear you can feel him through his pants which only makes you want him more.
He pulls away, taking your cheek in his other hand and looking between your eyes as if searching for some sort of silent answer to a silent question. You can almost see his own voice of reason forcing him to pause, if only for a moment.
“You ready to deal with the consequences of that monster you created, Noona?” he asks in a devastatingly low tone before moving his lips down to mouth at your chest, pushing the knit fabric to the side to bite at your shoulder.
A sigh falls from your lips as you let your head roll back, entire body on fire as he marks the skin at your neck, teeth sharp on your skin. You can’t help as your hands slide over the zipper of his hoodie and unzip it slowly, pushing the fabric down his shoulders to expose his toned chest. Running your hands over his hard muscles, you dig your fingernails gently, eliciting a deep groan from Jisung.
“Babyyy,” he sighs out, sliding his hand up to your throat and applying pressure there, pulling you forward to meet your lips again. The kiss is more urgent this time, tongue pressing deep into your mouth and hand gripping you tighter as he continues.
You let your hands slide down his torso, running over his abs and sliding them to his back to pull yourself closer to him. Before you can pull yourself fully flush against his chest, you are being flipped over, head falling back into the pillowy surface.
“Are you sure about this,” you ask, voice wavering despite every intention you had to form a confident question. Your eyes are flicking between his dark ones, as they had many times before, but suddenly holding so much more meaning in this intimate space.
“Are you not?” he asks back, head cocking lightly to the side, thumbs never stopping the circles they are rubbing into your hip bones.
“That’s not an answer,” you quip back, grabbing onto his hands to force him to focus. Unfortunately for you, it did the exact opposite.
You pull your eyes away from his, looking at your hands now pressed up against each other against the comforter. Your hand looks tiny next to his, his fingers could almost wrap fully around the tops of yours and that makes your mind fuzzy. You pulse your fingers, stretching them along his, feeling the length of them and how hot they are to the touch.
“Noona,” he calls, not as harsh and biting as on set, but still drawing you back to reality quickly.
His voice finally softens as he sees your watery blinking eyes, overstimulation creeping up on you before you’ve done much more than make out. He drops his thumb down the side of your face, caressing the space between your ear lobe and jaw tenderly. You want to look away, you want to push up and capture his lips in yours, you want to pull that stupid hamster plushie over your face and hide your burning cheeks.
“You know, I want it, I like,” he states, as if that is a full sentence other than in the context of the song they were filming with all day. His lips turn up in a small, shy smile at the end, showing a glimpse of that quiet boy you’ve always known and your heart settles a little in your chest. You nod rapidly a few times, sinking your nails into the palm of his hand and letting your eyes flutter shut.
His lips are on yours again quickly and that wicked hand that was just caressing your skin is now tightening around your neck again, which forces you up into an arch on the bed, pressing your lower body against his hardening cock. His tongue feels hot and wet in your mouth and you can’t help the moans that are escaping every time you have to pull back for air.
He sits up, straddling either side of your legs, tugging at your shirt and you manage to sit halfway up on your elbows, almost tearing the delicate fabric of your sweater as you rip it off, fumbling with the clasp of your bra as Jisung’s mouth is suddenly latched onto your neck, dropping heated kisses down your collarbone.
He sees you struggling and simply presses a strong thumb to the clasp, letting the cotton fabric slide off your arms and he tosses it clear across the room. This draws your attention to the door, which you realize now is cracked and you pray to every higher power that Renjun isn’t home.
“Hey, eyes on me,” comes the low voice above you again and you’re drawn back in, tuning out the distractions around you. He seems more amused than annoyed, which you have to appreciate given how long you’ve both waited for this exact moment.
Jisung makes quick work of removing his pants and boxers, reaching for a condom from his nightstand as you push down your own sweats, pausing at the thin band of your underwear. He sees you, dropping the foil packet to the bed and dips his head down, teeth dragging the elastic quickly, causing you to jump and let out a giggle.
“SUNG!” you yell weakly, trying to push his dark blue locks away as he continues to drag the dampened fabric down your legs.
He somehow manages to do it pretty easily, without getting too caught up on your knees or thighs, only struggling once he’s at your ankles and ripping them off with his hand, letting them drop to the floor with your bra.
He simply shrugs at you, a smile tugging at his mouth as he smooths those huge hands over your thighs, kneading the flesh there, eyes transfixed on your naked body. Your whole body is on fire and you silently beg for him to get on with it, even as it looks like he is about to swallow you whole.
A creeping monster your in your brain tells you you should feel more self conscious with him seeing you like this, despite both being equally exposed, realizing how many times you’ve seen him half clothed or even less. His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he reaches up, covering your breast easily with his hand, thumb teasing your nipple absently. Your breath hitches in your throat and you can’t help but hold your breath as pleasure begins to flood through your body.
You beg your own gaze not to lower, not ready to see the size of him fully hard. You’ve unfortunately seen almost all the members’ dicks but usually in quick, embarrassed, accidental glimpses. Well, except for that one time Jaemin was literally helicopter swinging it around in the dressing room when you walked in with a tray of iced americanos. Both him and Jeno couldn’t speak to you for two weeks while Chenle continued to bring it up every chance he could, even mimicking the motion during sound check at their next stop.
You are startled at the sound of him tearing the condom wrapper, rolling it quickly on and leaning back down, face inches from yours as he cups the side of your face again. You instinctively nuzzle lightly into his hand at the contact, letting your eyes flutter shut as you draw your lips to his hand, smelling faintly of the lube from the condom. You kiss in between his thumb and forefinger lightly and before you know it, he’s slipping his thumb in between your spit covered lips, pad of his finger gently pressing against your tongue.
You gasp but drag your eyes lazily to meet his, knowing your own hunger is visible now not only in your gaze but also in the eager sucking of your lips.
He groans, taking the chance to push into you and you swear you see stars. Your eyes widen but pull his thumb further into your mouth, teeth grazing across the tip of his finger erratically as your hips buck up to pull him impossibly close.
Jisung’s eyes are fluttering shut, thumb dropping from your lips, now flushed red with teeth marks and slick with spit, sliding down to clutch your throat once again. Your own hand flies to your chest, groping at yourself, desperate for something to hold onto as he picks up the pace of his thrusts.
He’s quiet, but with deep and passionate groans tumbling from his lips every once and a while. You watch as sweat begins to form at his hairline, perfect face beautiful in the dim light of his room, quiet music floating from his tv’s speakers as the episode is long forgotten and scrolling through the credits screen endlessly. Each noise that bubbles up from his chest equally soothes and paralyzes you, your own personal brand of poison seeping coldly through your veins. Your lips are perpetually hung open, mouth becoming so dry you can barely squeak out your own moans.
You feel your orgasm building suddenly after a particularly strong thrust and you swallow harshly, moving to speak to alert him. He doesn’t need any warning, reaching down to throw your leg over his shoulder and angle his lower body to perfectly hit that same spot over and over.
In seconds the poison is washing over you, lapping first at your feet like waves at the shore, nearly knocking you out as you float high above yourself, almost feeling like you’re having an out of body experience. Your chest is heaving as he slows his movements, as if he’s going to pull out.
A confused look forms on your face, head cocking to the side as you grip his arm, shaking your head wildly. Your hair is sticking to the back of your neck and you feel too hot on his plush bedding, but that isn’t reason to stop.
“Wait…what about…” you ask, confused, knowing he hasn’t come. Your eyes flick to the door again, wondering if he’s heard something while you were swimming a galaxy of bliss post orgasm.
He smiles at you, sliding out slowly and disposing of the condom quickly. He walks back over and takes your hand, bringing you to rise on shaky legs, standing naked beside his bed as he takes both your cheeks in his hands and kisses you deeply on the lips.
“I was thinking it would be better to continue what we started on set,” he purrs against you when he finishes ravaging your swollen lips.
A mischievous look forms in your eyes and you drop your hand to his stiff cock, giving it a few experimental pumps with the mix of lube and pre cum.
“Oh yeah?” is all you can reply, sinking slowly to your knees, still managing to tease him at this moment. You drop your hands to let them rest at your thighs, pressed together in an attempt to cool the burning heat still there.
He hisses out as soon as he can see you below him, bicep flexing as he runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head in feigned annoyance. His lids are heavy and all you can see are the whites of his eyes as they roll up in ecstasy.
You run your hands up your body, fingering the side of your neck and then tangling your fingers in your own hair seductively, never looking away from the man standing above you.
“Show me how good you can be for me, Noona,” he grunts out suddenly, gripping your chin way tighter than he had in the dressing room earlier. You grit your teeth but try to keep your face even as he tilts your head lightly, as if studying your face.
You gulp audibly and take him in your hands, finally faced with what you already knew was going to be stretching your cheeks as you were definitely going to struggle fitting him in your small mouth.
You tongue at his slit teasing it gently before sucking at the tip, letting it rest in your open mouth, eyes flicked up at him menacingly. You can tell from the look in Jisung’s eyes that he is dying to ram his cock down your throat but is trying so hard to let you set the pace.
Without any warning, you're sliding him further and further into your mouth, hands massaging his smooth calves to ground you. He’s getting louder now and one of his hands is playing in your hair, every once and a while gripping it tighter.
It only takes a few gentle thrusts till his voice becomes more strained and he’s tapping you on the head as a poor attempt of warning you he’s close. You resolve to let him spill into your mouth, but as soon as he comes the sudden movement causes most of the mess to land on your cheek and shoulder.
His loud exclamation of his pet name for you still ringing in the air, his hand loosens in your hair and you’re on your feet, hands settling on his broad chest, a hazy look of satisfaction on your face.
He seems mesmerised by you covered in his cum and draws a thumb up to that same spot between your ear and jaw, sliding it down and through the mess he made on your face. It’s as if everything’s moving in slow motion as your bottom lip drops open without a word and he slides his thumb into welcoming lips. You taste him, all of him, as he watches you suckle on the digit and blush form on your cheeks under the shine of your skin.
“Fucking filthy baby,” he whispers out, yanking you towards him as he sits on the edge of his bed and lifts you into his lap.
You can feel him harden under you and feel yourself warm up as his cock brushes against your core. You grind down on his lap which is met by him only gripping your waist tighter and landing a light smack on your ass. You grin at this and lean forward to kiss him, pushing your tongue greedily into his mouth.
“Already wanting more?” he asks with a mild mocking tone when you pull back, breathless and red in the face. He’s fully groping your ass at this point, massaging your cheeks with his fingers and pressing his palms into the thick flesh there.
You nod aggressively as you grind down on his cock again, spreading your thighs a bit more for better leverage. You want nothing more than for him to slide his bare cock into you right here and let you ride him through multiple orgasms, your tits bouncing right at eye level as he groans into your mouth through open mouthed kisses.
He merely laughs, pulling you out of your fantasy and reaches awkwardly for another condom, hand firmly keeping you in place.
“As much as I want what you want right now baby, let’s make sure there’s no-“ he starts out, rolling the condom on with shaky hands.
“SUNG, PLEASE!” you yell, clasping a hand over his mouth in embarrassment.
Even in the midst of it all, all the lustful years leading up to this moment, all the hidden glances and late night drunken thoughts, he is still your poison. Something that worms its way into your mind, into your heart. Normally, you wouldn’t even imagine being this close to someone without protection but somehow, Jisung does something to you that makes you want to be reckless. You want to be reckless with your heart, let it be swallowed whole by him. You want to throw your body on him, let him tear you down and degrade you and use you. You want to give him everything and every bit of love you can offer. You think you can see the two of you growing old together, sitting quietly in a park watching your grandchildren play together in the distance.
But you see, that’s the problem with poison. It gets in your veins, in your lungs, in your heart and slowly sweeps and finally, finally tears you down. You float high above yourself again, seeing stars as Jisung releases into the condom and his head falls against your chest. You are both quiet and unsure of what comes next. The poison of this night will wear off soon and reality will set in, leaving you only the memories of this night to return to in your dreams.
~~
#nct smut#nct fanfic#nct x reader#park jisung#jisung x reader#nct dream x reader#nct dream smut#jisung smut#park jisung x reader
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blue christmas (boxer!steve harrington x fem!librarian reader)
summary: it's christmas time, and your boyfriend's traveling the country kicking ass. will he make it home in time—or will you be spending christmas alone?
uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.
✶ the king of the ring (1989)
✶ christmas carols
✶ main masterlist
tags: christmas!; descriptors for libby's friends but of course, not libby; kinda hurt/comfort (she's just a sad girl!); fluff; alcohol consumption; nothing major.
"i'll have a blue christmas without you. i'll be so blue just thinking about you. decorations of red on a green christmas tree, won't be the same dear, if you're not here with me."
— blue christmas, elvis presley
hawkins, indiana. december 1989.
“I can’t believe you won’t be here.”
The ribboned rubber of the telephone cord curled around your finger. You pouted at the flowered fabric of your bedspread, imagining Steve in a little Christmas sweater he’d never wear—but he’d be here. Cozy, warm, big and bulky under layers of cable-knit.
Christmas was in three days, and your boyfriend wouldn’t even be here.
“I know, angel,” Steve sighed through the phone. “‘m sorry. I wish I could."
And he does. It's your first holiday season together—your first winter full of fluffy white snow, and cold afternoons that make you want to curl up and sleep the days away. It was the season of love and affection; the time of the year meant for nuzzling noses and burying in coats for warmth.
You imagined so many times what the holiday season would look like if Steve were here to stroll through the town square holding your mittened hand. He'd come up for weekends—twice since the beginning of November—but it was never long enough. He'd get in Friday night, and have to leave Sunday morning. You never got to sleep in and feign domestic bliss, tangled in his sheets in the white, early light.
Too many times, Steve kissed your head in a half sleep and whispered his goodbye; a note on his pillow where his head was supposed to be.
Angel,
I'll miss you more than ever.
—Steve
"Me too," you mumbled, pout evident in the huff and puff of your quiet words. You let your chin fall to your arm propped on the edge of your bed, glaring ahead at your wallpaper.
The house fogged with warmth from a home-cooked meal roasting in the oven downstairs. Your mother had a jazzy Christmas tune pipping from the stereo on the counter. Your father—last you checked forty minutes ago—was reading the paper in his armchair beneath the yellow lamplight of the living room. Your brother was somewhere up the street getting into trouble with his friends, driven to boredom without school to keep them busy. You had a Christmas party to attend tomorrow night, and you still hadn't picked an outfit, or wrapped your Secret Santa gift.
"Baby," Steve sighed. "C'mon, don't...don't make me feel bad."
You rolled onto your back. "I'm not, I'm not...I'm sorry."
Commotion clattered behind Steve—hotel doors opening and closing, voices muttering. The bed springs squeaked with his shifting. Your chest ached and squeezed with what you already knew was coming.
"I gotta go, angel...I'll call you later, alright? Be good f' me?"
You pinched your eyes shut, willing the stinging to stop. You nodded without words a moment, and then heard the buzz of his waiting. "Okay...love you."
"Love you too, baby. Bye."
"Blue Christmas" spun on Lisa's turn table in the sunken den of her parent's basement living room. Still stuck in 1975 and decorated by her mother for the sole purpose of hosting cocktail parties, it was the perfect place for Lisa to hold her first "adult" holiday party: pink shag carpet, silver-tinseled Christmas tree, pastel wrapping and perfect bows, and geometric decor of diamonds and stars on the wood-paneled wall.
Lisa, Holly, Tammy (and even yourself) dressed in their best getups, hair and makeup perfected for Polaroids. They already snapped enough to cover the end table, and in every single one, your smile never met your eyes. You were too concerned with ruining Lisa's highly-anticipated party to be a drag, but the lack of Steve really weighed on you.
"Oh, honey," Holly sighed, padding her way over to you. She flopped onto the sofa beside you, arm wrapped around your shoulders. "You miss him real bad, huh?"
You sighed, head falling onto her arm. "That obvious?"
She sipped her (fourth) cocktail—something red and fruity and rimmed with crushed candy cane. "You haven't spoken a word in thirty minutes. It was just a hunch."
"I thought he'd at least...try to be here. I mean, he doesn't have a fight until next week. He could fly back and forth—but maybe that's...not right of me to ask that."
Holly hummed, setting her coupe glass on the Polaroid table. She turned to you, blonde hair neatly curled and pinned on either side, and pursed her glossy mouth.
"It's not too much to ask, hun. If he wanted to be here, he'd be here. He said he loves you, then he wouldn't miss your first Christmas together."
You peered at her, wondering if this were true. From their place near the tree, arranging gifts and flicking through Elvis albums, Lisa and Tammy looked up.
"Oh, that's not true!" Tammy squawked. "He's just busy. They're talkin' about him all the way in New York now."
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, stomach twisting. "They are?"
If Steve were truly gaining popularity across the east coast, you had more than just a missed Christmas to worry about. You sensed its arrival—his fame and popularity. Steve was up and coming, and he had an aggression not many fighters had these days. He had the drive, the passion, the determination. You saw it all in his eyes. You knew he wouldn't stop until he was the best, and he wasn't afraid to make the sacrifices necessary to be just that.
And maybe it was selfish of you to want him all to yourself—but you've never felt this way about anyone before. Steve was everything.
"Oh, Libby," Lisa cooed, hurriedly rushing your way. Tammy followed, and soon they were all surrounding you, perched on the sofa and the coffee table.
"It'll be okay! He loves you, it's so obvious. You just have to realize...maybe his career will always come first. You just have to find a way to be okay with that," Lisa offered meekly.
You nodded, but only because your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. The girls glanced at each other momentarily, and then Holly stood in a flash of sparkly, bubblegum pink and glitter.
"Well, to hell with Steve! Let's get drunk and open presents."
The glasses drained themselves, really. The records spun and scratched, the pretty, gilded wrapping paper shred to pieces, and the girls in the den soon became nothing but giggling messes. When you got bored of the music, you turned to the television, turning the knob until you reached a fuzzy, pixelated picture of It's A Wonderful Life, though the static-y voices fell on deaf ears.
"Oh, it's darling, Libby, really," Holly gushed, holding up the pink satin slip you gifted her for Christmas.
Holly was easiest to shop for—she'd be pleased with anything pink, soft, and fancy.
"I'm glad you—hic!—like it. And I love my book, Tammy. It's so beautiful."
The book, a cloth-bound classic, was wine-colored and gorgeous. It was so pretty you didn't even want to put it on the shelf. It would sit on your dresser for a little while to look at.
Lisa gave Tammy a pair of red Mary Janes, and Holly gave Lisa a new set of hot rollers. The remains of the wrapping paper sat in bits and pieces around you on the carpet, and you had to shoo away Lisa's cocker spaniel, Lady, before she ate it all. She trudged into your lap, shedding soft hair over your dress as you stroked her long, floppy ears, watching the pink-flushed faces of your friends through the glowing white light of the Christmas tree.
Despite Steve's absence, you were happy. You had your friends.
The giggles faded when the doorbell rang through the house. Lisa waved it off, peering up the steps of the den toward the first floor. "Probably just a caroler. Ignore it."
But the doorbell rang again. Lisa huffed, and Tammy and Holly giggled as she fumbled up the steps. In her absence, they turned to you, all gushing over each other's presents and asking after more cocktails. They kissed at Lady in your lap and tossed popcorn at her waiting mouth, and you fell in line with the amusement until Lisa's socked feet came flapping into the room.
"Libby, Steve's here."
You weren't sure you heard her right. The giggles dwindled again, and your hand stilled over Lady's head in a half-stroke. Your heart was in your mouth, pulsing dumbly.
"W-what?"
Lisa, out of breath and wide-eyed, had her hands on her hips with an ecstatic smile. "He's here. Steve, he's here—he's waiting outside."
"Well, for God's sake, Lisa, why didn't you invite him in?" Tammy chimed in.
Lisa shot her a glare. "He said he'd wait outside for her! Probably heard your cackling and got too scared to come in."
Holly soothed your friend's sting with a half-hug around Tammy's shoulders, but you were still numb. You carefully scooped Lady up and placed her on the floor, away from the wrapping paper. You pushed to your feet, smoothing down the skirt of your dress. You put your book on the sofa, and turned to your friends still on the floor.
"Do I...do I look alright?"
"Gorgeous, babe," Holly beamed. "Let me just..."
She stood, reaching up to fix your hair. She fluffed it, poofed it, found your purse on a hook near the door and spritzed your perfume at the crown of your head, and under your ears. She handed you your lipgloss and a mirror, and when you were content with the pink-eyed doeness of your appearance, you stepped toward the stairs.
"Go, go!" Lisa ushered you, giving you a nudge.
You steadied yourself on the wall, steps careful and cautious. Those drinks made you a little woozy, but nothing felt as fuzzy as the thought of Steve waiting for you in the snow. He came all the way here, for you. Your cheeks warmed at the very thought. Your stomach crawled its way up to your throat.
You made your way through the house, taking one last glance in the nearest mirror, before pulling open the door.
A cold rush immediately burst into the house, but any thought of shivering fled your mind at the sight of Steve looming before your eyes. Brown leather coat, black sweater, Levi jeans tight at the hips and loose at the calves. He had his hands cupped around his mouth, blowing hot, white air into his palms—but at the sound of your steps, at the scent of you, he stopped.
All you could do, for just a moment, was stare. Three long weeks since you last saw him—those perfect, round hazel eyes, those high, rosy cheeks. The tip of his nose was wind-nipped pink, the tops of his ears blown red. He smelled like vetiver and leather cologne, and he looked beautiful.
"Oh, Steve."
You crashed into his chest, arms wound tight around his stomach. He enveloped you in his own, holding you as close as he could; and the warmth of him immediately melded with yours. You buried your nose into his chest and hummed, eyes pinched shut just to hold onto this. This moment, this scene, this feeling of him so close after so long apart. You didn't want to let go.
"Merry Christmas, angel," he whispered, and then his mouth sat atop your head, pressing it into a kiss.
When the cold got unbearable, you pulled Steve inside. Fingers intertwined and cheeks sore with grinning, you skipped your way back down to the den where your friends feigned innocence despite their heaving breaths.
"Well look who's here," Holly cooed, watching you tug Steve down the steps.
You giggled, tipping into his side, one foot coming to kick up giddily. You felt like a schoolgirl with her very first crush. That's how love should always be, right?
"Steve, you know everyone. This is Lisa, Holly, and Tammy. Girls, this is Steve."
Your friends waggled their fingers in bashful little waves, and Steve lifted a wide palm in hello. You could smell the Marlboros on his coat, see the outline of a new pack in the front of his pocket. His hands were starting to warm up against your own.
"And this is Lady," you cooed, watching the cocker spaniel sniff at Steve's boots.
You dipped down and scooped her up, bringing her up against your chest to wave a tiny paw at Steve. He cracked a sideways smile, reaching out to scratch at her chin. You let her scamper back over toward the girls by the tree, and turned to Steve with your fingers looped together behind your back.
You could barely contain the giddy glee flooding through your body. Steve noticed. He nicked you under the chin with a gentle knuckle, and another small kiss placed on your sticky mouth.
"You girls been drinkin'?" he gruffed, thumb pressing on your bottom lip.
You shrugged. "A little. It's Christmas, Steve."
He hummed, eyeing the dazzled, feminine setup of the room. A mess of pretty paper, tinsel knocked astray, empty coupe glasses and picked-at pigs-in-a-blanket and bowls of snacks, a dog sniffing around for scraps and attention—harmless, he decided. Maybe even sweet.
As if waiting for his approval, and recognizing the submission, Steve turned back to you with a small smile. "Okay."
You took him by the hand again, tugging him toward the tree. "Come on."
But Steve paused, tugging you with just the resistance of his solid stance, snapping back like a rubber-band.
"Wait, honey..." You turned to him, and he reached into the lining of his coat. "Got somethin' for you."
He pulled out a slim, black velvet box. You pressed your lips into a smile and huddled close.
"But, Steve...yours is at home—"
"—shh. Just open it."
You were acutely aware of your friends craning to see over your shoulder from their place on the floor, petting mindlessly at Lady and munching at shortbread. But in this moment, it was just you and Steve. And he watched you intently once he handed over the box, gnawing at his own lip. God, he wanted a smoke. He just wanted you to love it.
You pushed the box open, hinges snapping back to reveal a navy blue satin lining, and a gorgeous golden locket strung inside. An "S" sat etched on the center of an intricately engraved heart, adorned with swirling roses on a delicate chain.
"Oh, Steve." It was all you seemed to be able to say today.
"D' you like it?" he asked, voice edged with worry.
You fingered at the locket, feeling the cool metal. "I love it, Steve. It's gorgeous."
He exhaled. "Good. Lemme put it on."
With fingers too big for such delicate things, he plucked the necklace from its box and pulled the clasp open. You spun around, moving your hair out of the way for his hands. With your back to him, you could properly convey your excitement to your friends, who mirrored your beaming grin with equal delight.
The locket rested perfectly in the center of your chest, and once clasped, you felt it against your skin with your palm.
"Thank you, Steve. I love it so much."
Steve, hands braced on your shoulders, tipped his head and kissed your cheek. "Anything, angel. It's all yours."
Lisa snapped the head of a gingerbread-man cookie off with her teeth, and Holly cooed. Tammy busied herself with the dog.
But you had a band of butterflies in your stomach and a drum line in your chest, and you turned to look up at Steve with nothing but adoration.
"Look inside." He nudged his nose toward the locket again.
Wedging a nail between the hinges, you popped the heart open. A crudely-cut picture of yourself and Steve—so minuscule it would be difficult to discern from a blob if you hadn't recognized the very moment captured in time—sat in a black and white fashion in the heart.
Another smile at Steve, loving and sweet. "Who knew you were so romantic, Steve Harrington?"
He tucked his bruised fists into his coat pockets and shrugged. "I try."
Steve had hours before he had to leave and a plane ticket burning a hole in his back pocket—but it was Christmas, and he'd do anything, even blow off his coach and a team full of people, if it meant seeing your pretty face.
"Merry Christmas, angel."
The softest of kisses shared between warm mouths. Strawberry-cigarette smooches were what life was all about.
"Merry Christmas, Steve."
#rolly!#boxer!steve harrington#steve harrington#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington hurt/comfort#steve harrington fandom#steve harrington au#steve the hair harrington#stranger things fic#stranger things au#steve stranger things#stranger things fanfiction#boxer!steve
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The Affair Pt 1
Context: What do you do when your husband cheats on you with your Head Alphas Omega?
You marry the Head Alpha of course? What's better than revenge served with a wedding ring and an ultrasound photo?
<PART 2>
Essentially:
Reader and Izuku are married. Eijiro is married to Katsuki. Katsuki cheats with Izuku. Reader marries Eijiro. Simple.
Main Pairing: Eijiro x Reader
Warning: Omegaverse!, Infidelity, Cursing, ex-communicating, Children, "Dammy" - GN term for Mommy, Katsuki being a bitch
The morning light shone into the kitchen as you hummed along to the song playing on the radio. You placed another perfect pancake on the already made stack. It was another amazing morning in the Midoriya residence and everything was perfect. The smell of fresh coffee, warm pancakes and syrup flooded the kitchen in a lovely smell and atmosphere.
“Dammy!!” You turned around with a smile at the sound of your five year old little boy. He was your everything. The cutest little boy who looked just like his sire. He wore his kindergarten uniform as he waddled into the kitchen, his yellow hat already on his mess of green curls. He hugged your leg, wrapping his arms around you.
You chuckled as you bent down and picked him up. “Hey there, Asahi.” You greeted him, picking him up from the ground and placing him on your hip for a moment as you switched off the stove.
Asahi was your only pup with your loving husband so far and he was one of the best decisions you ever made in your life. “You made pancakes!” He smiled so brightly at the sight already on the table. He was so happy to see the pancakes today and you knew it that he would never stop smiling. It was exactly why you called him Asahi. He was a bright light in your lives that never stopped shining, just like the morning sunlight.
You placed him in his chair, in front of his plate of a pancake with syrup. He yipped up at you in appreciation, before grabbing his plastic spork and starting to eat his breakfast. You chuckled as you put the pan in the sink and placed two larger plates on the counter. Just as you were about to grab the plate of pancakes, you felt a mouth against your neck.
You giggled at the kiss to your scent gland as the large Alpha behind you took shape against your back. You moved your hand up to go through soft green curls. You looked up at him with a broad smile. “Morning Mr Number One.” You greeted.
He hummed as he moved his kisses to your jaw, his large hands feeling your hips and your boy fitting perfectly in his arms. “Morning Mrs Number One.” He greeted back with a final kiss to your jaw before grabbing the cup of coffee that you had made for him. You giggled as he placed a final kiss on your cheek before taking a sip of his coffee.
You shook your head in dismay but couldn’t stop the broad smile on your face. You plated some pancakes for you and Midoriya, just the way you both liked it. “Do you have a meeting today, my love?” You asked him as you turned around and placed his plate right in front of him. Before you could leave he placed another kiss to your face making you giggle.
He nodded his head. “Yes, I do. A long one with the commission president but luckily the rest of the day is just paperwork and staying at the office.” He informed you, which explained why he wasn’t already in his hero uniform already. He took a bite of the pancakes and let out a rumble in happiness at the taste. Asahi giggled at the sound that his father made, trying to replicate it but all he could muster up was a soft purr. Midoriya chuckled at the action.
You sat down opposite your husband on the other side of your son. “Well that’s good news.” You wiped Asahi’s face of stick syrup before finally eating your own breakfast and taking a sip of your own coffee. “Remember that we have a pack dinner tonight, so no late night last minute paperwork.” You warned him with a pointed glare.
“What? Me?” He asked with a shocked expression. “I would never do that.” He stated, furrowing his eyebrows and shaking his head. He looked down to his son, both green haired males staring at each other. “Right Asahi? I would never do that.” Asahi had his freckled cheeks filled with pancakes and milk but he turned to you and shook his head a long with his father. You rolled your eyes at your two boys but you couldn’t help but find it amusing. Those two were so much alike, you found it almost laughable.
Breakfast in the Midoriya household was often like this. It was filled with soft laughter and your two happy green haired boys often ganging up on you. It was mornings like this that you wished would never change. It was something so beautiful you would almost hate for them to ever disappear.
After breakfast was eaten and you managed to wipe Asahi’s face of all stick syrup and milk mustaches, you placed his little bag on his back. With Asahi ready for school, Midoriya managed to slip on his red Jordans just in time, for the both of them to be out of the door. You leaned against the doorway, watching Asahi follow his dad with smaller red Jordans on his feet too.
Just as the two of them headed to the car, you heard the sound of your neighbours next door. Next door to your right was the Bakushimas, the Head Family of Pack A. Kirishima held Bakugou close to him, an arm wrapped around his small waist and kissed him sweetly and deeply. The blond Omega let out a soft hum with a smile on his face as he looked up at his Alpha, already having his hero bag on his shoulder. Running between their legs and out of the door was their son, Kane.
The energetic blond boy held the straps of his bag as he tugged on his dam’s bag. “Lets go!” He whined in annoyance.
Asahi smiled over at them, raising his hand to wave over at his neighbour. “Hello Kane!” He greeted with a huge Midoriya smile.
Bakugou turned around to look at the little green child that was greeting his own pup. You smiled as you raised a hand and waved with a nod of your head. “Good morning, Head Alpha and Head Omega.”
Kirishima grinned broadly at the sight of you and your family. He had one hand in the pockets of his sweatpants as he was also dressed casually. “Morning YN. Morning Izuku and Asahi.”
Izuku pulled on a smile with a nod on his head. His son smiled as bright as the sun as he waved an excited arm over to his Head Alpha. “Morning Head Alpha Eijiro!” He greeted with so much excitement.
“Katsuki, will you be home in time for the dinner?” You asked him as you walked outside as well.
Bakugou looked to you with an amused smirk. He scoffed. “Of course.” He squeezed Kirishima’s hand before picking up his son who seemed happy that his dam was finally getting a move on and moving to his own car. “The dinner plan should be in your inbox and I placed a copy in the kitchen so if I’m not here the same time as you and the others, you can start without me.” He told you.
You nodded your head. “Of course,” You reached Midoriya and Asahi, placing an arm around your Alpha. “But don’t hesitate to tell me if you need anything or need me to step in.” You told him with a sincere look.
Bakugou hummed as he rolled his eyes. “Yes, you and your housewife things.” He let out in distaste which only made you all chuckle. He placed his son inside his car seat, the little five year old waving to Asahi.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a house dam, Katsuki.” You told him as you looked up to Midoriya who was still looking in Bakugou’s direction before noticing you were looking at him. He smiled warmly down at you. You chuckled lowly. “I’m okay with it.”
Midoriya hummed as he placed a kiss to your lips. “And it keeps you safe, where I can always find you.” He turned to pick up Asahi and put him in the car. “Don’t do anything stupid out on patrol, Kacchan.” He turned to look at the blond just as he closed the car door.
Bakugou scoffed as he kicked himself off of his car. “As if.” He smirked before waving a hand to Kirishima with a sway of his hips. You wondered how on earth Bakugou managed to always look so good even after giving birth to Kane. He lost all his post maternal weight and kept all the benefits of being a dam, from having a wide thick chest to wide hips and a small waist. The perfect modal.
You glanced up at Midoriya who seemed to be staring off into space for a second. You nudged him gently. “Izu, now is not the time to be thinking of some quirk related issue.” You told him as you shook him out of it.
He shook his head before looking back down to you. He had a soft pink blush on his face as he scratched the back of his head. “Sorry, love.” He apologized. You heard a soft chuckle but before you could turn to where it came from, Midoriya placed a kiss on your cheek. “See you later.” He assured you as he quickly raced to the driver’s door.
It was just around noon when you were on the couch looking through online stores to get Asahi some new pairs of socks (he seemed to keep on getting holes in his socks regardless of what you did). You hummed at all the little choices from plain to cute partners and even some hero themed socks that you knew he would just adore. Before you could click on a pair that you thought he would like, your phone started vibrating.
You shook your head in dismay but smiled. You turned back to leave back indoors. It seemed as though Kirishima was working home today. You noted that at the back of your mind before heading back inside. There was much for you to do now that those two were gone. Like nap.
You turned to look at the caller ID. Denks <3. You raised an eyebrow. You knew that Denki wasn’t home right now, he was off the Pack Estate and was on patrol today. He normally only called you when he was bored.
You answered the phone and placed him on speaker, before you even had the chance to speak, he was already going on like a bullet train. “Y/N, are you alright? I know this must be a shock for you, but just know we’re all handling it.” Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, he sounded so rushed and almost deeply upset. “The whole pack is out here handling the press and all media control so don’t worry. I’m on my way to fetch your son from kindergarten and-”
“Denki, what are you talking about?” You asked him with a raised eyebrow as you sat up properly on the couch.
It was silent for a moment. “Y/N… have… have you checked the news?” He asked, his voice quieter than he was before.
Suddenly dread started to settle in the pit of your stomach as you grew anxious. You slowly picked up the TV remote. “No…” you let out concerned. You wondered what could be on the news that was so important. Then fear settled in your heart like a wave of cold water. The normal crippling fear that settled within you whenever you knew that Midoriya was in a bad fight. The one that was just waiting for your phone to ring and it be the commission instead of him or the hospital. “Is it Izuku?” You asked as you quickly turned to the news.
“Wait Y/N it’s not what you think!”
You couldn’t even hear what else he had to say as the news channel started playing, the anchor sitting there in front of you on the screen. “If you are just joining, there’s breaking news of a national scandal. The Number One ProHero, Deku has been caught in an affair with the Number Two ProHero Dynamight. The nation’s top heroes were caught together what is said to have been a few days ago but word only coming out about the apparent union between the two this morning. Both heroes are married, Deku being married to his partner Midoriya Y/N and Dynamight being married to the Number Fifth hero, ProHero Red Riot. Pack A is yet to have said anything official regarding this scandal between two of their members.” Images of the two of them played on the screen in front of you, both of them hidden in more civilian clothes and baseball hats and sunglasses sharing a kiss.
Your world fell under your very feet and you couldn’t breathe. You were frozen. Frozen in time as your world felt like it was shaking and falling around you. A pain whimper came from inside you at the photos at the proof staring you right in your eyes. There it was. Your Alpha in the arms of another Omega that you had regarded a packmate and friend. You felt your eyes burn as crippled trills escaped out of you. You couldn’t look away from the screen even though every passing second felt as though it was torture.
“Y/N…” Denki voiced softly. “I’m so so sorry.” He whispered. You didn’t answer him and he didn’t expect you to. “We’re taking all the pups out of kindergarten for the day, Momo said she’ll keep an eye on them with Pony just to give you some time and all of us time to handle the press. Just… just stay there, I’ll be over as soon as I can.” He tried his best to be supportive but you could barely feel a thing out of it. “I have to go but, I love you. I’ll be over soon.” Just like that you were left alone again, in your crumbling world.
You weren’t the only one with a crumbling world…
Kirishima was in his office, not even having had the time to process all of this when the news blew up in his face instantly. He had one hand holding his office phone to his ear as he kept an eye on the headlines that flashed over one of his monitors screen.
“No, Pack A has no official comment at this time. Any and all communications regarding Deku and Dynamight will be handled at a later stage.” He finalised. “Please tell the commission that we’ll have it sorted and we appreciate the help on trying to minimalize online damage.” He slammed the phone down aggressively before falling back onto his chair. He put his hands over his face as he tried to organise his thoughts but he couldn’t get past the fact that his own Omega had been cheating on him and he didn’t even see it.
Were they not in love? Did he not love him enough? Did he not treasure him and care for him enough? Kirishima didn’t think there was anything wrong in their marriage. They had been happily married for the past seven years and yet this was how their marriage would go down? In one of the biggest hero news that would go down in the tabloids for the next six months?
Kirishima felt the feeling of digust and most of all sadness flow through him. His hands shaking as he tried to think but he couldn’t think.
His personal phone rang and Kirishima quickly picked it up. The longer and more work he had, the less he had to think about this.
“Eijiro.” It was Iida. “I just got off the phone with Denki, the kindergarten for the pups is keeping the press at bay and they managed to get the pups out of there. They’re all currently at Shoto’s agency with Momo and Pony for the time being.”
Kirishima dropped his shoulders in relief that at least that was going well for them. He was so worried that the pups would be a target of paparazzi and media harassment since they were so vulnerable and isolated away from their parents, which was the reason why he asked them to be excused from school for the next week while things would be handled and dile down. “That’s good.” Let out with sigh.
“And… Eijiro… Y/N, they…” He wasn’t sure how to put it and that’s when Kirishima remembered that you were in this situation just like he was. You were the other part of this whole messed up situation that he had forgotten to consider. “Denki confirmed to me that they’re still at home. Maybe you can-”
“I’m on it. Don’t worry. Please handle things for me, Tenya, while I’m with them.” Kirishima was already standing up and walking out of his office, his feet making quick work.
“Of course, Head Alpha. And Eijiro… I… I’m-”
Kirishima knew what he wanted to say before he would say. “It’s alright. Thank you, Tenya.” He quickly said before dropping the phone. Kirishima quickly opened his front door and ran over next door. He felt anger rise within him, knowing that he had forgotten to come up of a plan for you. You were all alone, just like him, when this news came out and so far he hasn’t heard a thing about how you must be feeling. He knocked on the door. “Y/N.” He tried the door handle and the door opened without issue. He pushed the door open harshly as he looked around for you.
He forced himself to be on high alert. He knew all the horror stories of what Omegas would go through and do to themselves due to mate rejection and such events happening in their lives. The last thing he needed was you losing yourself now too.
“Y/N!” He shouted as he ran into the house. The TV was on but you weren’t on the couch. Then as he moved forward, he saw you by the kitchen, hands covering your ears as you squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. You were keeping yourself small and trying to hide from the heart wrenching news on the TV. Kirishima growled at the TV, grabbing the remote off the couch and switching it off with little car. He ran over to you, getting down onto his knees in front of you. “Y/N… Y/N, I’m here.” He spoke more gently as he put his hands on your shoulders.
You looked up at him with eyes filled with heartbreak. Your face twisted in pain as you shook your head, tears running down your face. “No, no, no...” You sobbed out, realising the TV was finally off and you didn’t have to heard that God awful reporter with all that so called news. You shook your head as you sobbed, tears running down your face. Your scent was twisted in bitter agony and grief as you cried. “What did I do wrong?” You asked him. “Head Alpha, what did I do? I did everything for him. I love him so much.”
Kirishima scowled trying to stop his own tears. He pulled you into his arms as he scowled deeply, putting his head on top of yours. “I know, Omega, I know.” He assured you. He knew exactly how you felt so perfectly, it felt vicious inside of him.
You let out a sob as you clung to his shirt. You couldn’t even speak any more words, sobs only leaving your mouth as you bawled your eyes out. Kirishima’s own body was shaking as he held you, silent tears leaving his eyes as he squeezed them shut hoping this would all be a nightmare. You both just wanted to wake up and have it be some cruel nightmare, to go back to the bliss of just a few hours ago.
Eventually you had passed out, your body, mind and Omega too exhausted and drained to keep you awake for any longer. Kirishima, after finding the scarce bit of will power he had left, picked you up off the floor and walked you upstairs to your nest in your nesting room. He knew you had a nesting room, having heard from Midoriya before. Once he placed you there, he covered you in a blanket from your son’s room, something neutral that wouldn’t cause you to go into a drop. Once he was sure you were comfortable, Kirishima left you in there.
When Midoriya Izuku arrived back home, it was one of the most terrifying moments of his life. The pack was silent, with the normal central dinner for the back being cancelled leaving the middle park dark with its usual lights. When he drove into his driveway the feeling of pure dread sat at the bottom of his stomach as he stepped out of his car. By the looks of it, he had just beat Bakugou back since he didn’t see his car in the driveway next door.
He felt less of that angry drive that he had earlier. Now all he felt was a hollow emptiness inside him, even as he picked up the phone and called Denki to tell him where he would find you once he got here. Kirishima didn’t have the energy to deal with anything else, so he flopped back onto your couch, not knowing what he was supposed to do.
The whole day the both of them were swarmed with calls, looks, messages and internet press coverage that could make Endeavor’s career look shameful. The two of them had had a long call on what they would do from here but there wasn’t much to do from here. Not when their packmates weren’t answering any of their calls and there was radio silence from the whole of Pack A.
Midoriya swallowed down hard as he moved to the front door. He took a breath before opening the door. The smell of dinner caught him by surprise. He didn’t expect to smell dinner. In all honesty, he didn’t expect the house to be in the state that it was. Everything looked… fine… Almost as if nothing had happened at all. As if it was a normal day and it wasn’t swimming in scandals and an affair that was never meant to be out in the open.
Midoriya closed the door behind him, taking off his Jordans at the door as he walked further into the house.
“Daddy!” A happy Asahi ran over to him.
Midoriya forced a smiled to his face, glad that at least someone was glad to see him today. He crouched down and accepted his son into his arms with a bright smile. He placed a kiss on the pup’s cheek making him giggle. “Hey there buddy.” He grinned as he held the five year old in his arms. “How was your day, bud?”
Asahi looked freshly bathed and wore comfortable clothes. His chubby cheeks were pushed into a smile as he looked up at his father. “My day was so weird!” He stepped back jumping on his feet. “First I went to school and then Uncle Denki took me and all my other pup mates out early. We went to Uncle Shoto’s hero office and Aunty Momo got us ice-cream and we got to just have fun in the nest there.” He told his father, his retelling of his day being very similar to how Midoriya would go off about his own stories and experiences. Every hero agency kept nesting rooms around their agency for Omega employees or for cases that needed victims to feel safe. “Then I spent the day with Sonomi and Keiji at their house and then Aunty Momo took me back home and then we found Head Alpha Eiji here! He left a while ago but he was here while Dammy was taking a nap. Aunty Momo gave me a bath and helped me get dressed and then Uncle Denki was here and he was with Dammy till like five minutes ago.” He recalled.
Midoriya nodded his head, keeping his forced smile on his face. “Sounds like a very eventful day. Where’s Dammy?” he asked.
Asahi took one of his sire’s hands and started pulling him along towards the kitchen. There standing with your back towards him was you. You had scent blockers on your neck and you seemed very engrossed in what you were doing. While your husband felt fear slowly fill him at having to come face to face with you, your son seemed rather eager. He let go of his father who seemed rather frozen in place and ran over to your leg. “Dammy! Dammy look! Daddy’s home!” He spoke excitedly with a huge dimpled smile on his face.
You glanced down at him with a soft smile. “Really?”
He nodded his head. “Yep.”
“Thank you for telling me, baby. How about you go clear all your toys. Dinner is almost ready.” You told him. With a dutiful nod, the green haired little boy went running off.
The kitchen descended into silence as Midoriya stood in the entrance of the kitchens, feeling as though he was oceans away from you. The only sound was the deafening sound of your knife against your chopping board. Midoriya swallowed down hard as he took a step forward, his voice feeling trapped at thee back of his throat.
“Y/N, I-”
“How was work, honey?” The question took every word out of his mouth as he stilled. Your voice was so sweet, so sickeningly sweet it was almost as if he deserved to hear you speak to him like that. Midoriya was silent as he just looked to you. “It must have been so busy.” You continued.
“It… it was.” He clarified. He swallowed down hard as he took a step forward. “Y/N I-”
“You should get ready, dinner is almost ready. I made your favourite.” You moved to pick up whatever you had sliced and put it on the dish in the bowl next to you. You turned to him with a smile, your smile there but your eyes dull, hollow and empty. “Katsudon.” Midoriya looked down to what you held in your hands. A bowl of pork katsudon, just the way his mother had taught you to make it. He looked up at you, a tear slipping out of his eyes. This would be the last meal he would share with you and his son as a family. He nodded his head, silent.
Dinner was a tense and quiet affair with you focusing on Asahi and not on the Alpha across from you. Even after dinner, you avoided Midoriya like the plague. You wouldn’t talk to him nor would you acknowledge his presence. Not until it was late at night, Asahi was in bed and you sat on your bed with Midoriya standing at the door. He was silent as he waited for you to talk first.
You sat on the bed with your hands holding a bunch of letters in your hands. You sniffed as you looked through the letters that were addressed to you. “What was it?” You whispered softly, you didn’t look up at him as you spoke.
Midoriya was silent for a moment. “What was?”
You looked up with him, eyes lined with tears. “What was the reason that made you run to him? What made you choose him over me?” You whispered as you tilted your head to the side, trying to figure him out.
The Alpha in front of you was silent, not knowing what to say nor what to do? What was he supposed to tell you? He hesitated as he tried to find the words. “It… Y/N…” He closed his eyes as he dropped his shoulders. “You have to understand, I loved Kacchan since I was a pup. I tried so hard not to.” He closed his eyes almost as if it pained him just to try and explain it to you. As if you would never understand him. “I tried so hard not to love him, knowing that he chose Eijiro but… one thing led to another and we ended up-”
“Cheating.” You finished for him. “You ended up cheating.” Midoriya swallowed hard, looking down away from you not baring to meet your gaze. “How long have the both of you been sneaking around?”
Midoriya once again heisted, those green eyes that you fell in love with barely being able to look at you. “The past six years.”
You let out a soft gasp at that. You dropped the letters, letting them fall to the ground as you opted to hold yourself as well. Six years. Six years was he sleeping and hanging around another Omega and you had no idea. Six years he had been lying to you and he never said a thing.
Midoriya quickly moved to try and hold you, his instinct to comfort you moving stronger and faster than his normal reason. “Y/N-”
You wrenched yourself away from him. “No!” you shouted as you pushed yourself to the edge of your bed, not baring to let him touch you. Your face was scrunched up into one of disgust. “You don’t get to touch me with the same hands you touched him with!” You shouted into his face, Midoriya’s face twisting into one of hurt as he looked at you. You scowled as you looked at him. “Did I ever have a husband? Did you ever love me?”
“Of course, I love you!” He put his hands to his chest over his heart, his fingers scrunching up the shirt in his fist. “You are my wife! You are the dam of my pup and the Omega I marked!”
“NO! Don’t say all those things when they weren’t enough for you!” You shouted at him. Tears fell down your eyes as you looked at him so distraught. “I was never enough for you was I? I could have never been enough because I wasn’t him!” You pointed to the direction of the Bakushima household. It settled back into silence between the both of you. You sniffed as you swallowed down harshly. You lifted your head up trying to keep yourself together as the bond you had with the Alpha across from you seemed to be tearing apart. You pointed to the door. “Get out.” You whispered.
Midoriya looked up at you in shock. “W-what?”
“Get your stuff and get out of this house!” You shouted at him. His slight wince made you close your eyes. You took a deep breath and tried to control yourself. “I will not allow you to disrespect this family any longer by coming here when you clearly chose who you wanted instead. We can continue this conversation at a later date, but I want you out of this house.” You tried explaining more calmly than before.
Midoriya was taken aback from your words. The sinking fact that you were kicking him out, hurting more than he thought it ever could. His face scrunched up as he looked almost disgusted at the thought. “No. You can’t make me leave. This is our home!”
You lifted your nose at him. “It stopped being our home the moment you stuck your cock into Bakushima Katsuki’s cunt.” You whispered to him in hatred. “But if you won’t leave, we will.” You stood up and moved off the bed going to the closet. You were fast, moving straight to grab a duffel bag and just grab the essentials.
Midoriya immediately got up and followed. “Who is we?”
“Me and my son.” You clarified as you pushed In a bunch of clothes and a towel.
A growl interrupted your packing as you turned back to look at Midoriya. His canines were barred at you in warning as he glared at you, holding the doorway of the closet. “You are not taking my son out of this house.” He warned you, a dark undertone that told you that he seemed like he was ready to fight you if need be.
You got off your knees and moved over to him with a hiss. He growled back but you barred your Omegan fangs at him with a hiss, not backing down. “Either you leave, or we do.” You clarified to him. “I do not want our son to know that an Alpha cheating on his Omega is an okay thing.”
“You made a fucking fool out of me!” Kirishima shouted at his Omega as the both of them stood in their bedroom, their voices unhindered as the shouting match had happened almost immediately the moment that Kane went to bed. Kirishima stood in front of Bakugou with a scowl on his face. “How do you think I feel knowing my own fucking Omega has been fucking another Alpha behind my back?”
Midoriya was silent as the both of you stood almost chest to chest, glaring at one another, the other not backing down. He let out a low annoyed growl but stepped aside away from you, moving to pack a bag. You stayed on the defence, watching him pack as you stood your ground. Even though part of you was happy that he took the hint and was listening to you, the other half of you wished he fought harder to stay, even though knowing he was wrong.
Bakugou let out a breath as he closed his eyes. “Eijiro, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You’re fucking sorry?” He asked him with a cynical laugh. “Did our marriage mean anything to you!” The redheaded Alpha asked him with a hand to his chest. His face twisted in pure agony as he looked across to his mate only to be met with Bakugou looking away from him because he couldn’t bare to look at him. Kirishima closed his eyes briefly letting tears slip away. “We were the dream team, Katsuki. It was you and me. The Head Alpha and Omega of Pack A. What did Izuku do that I couldn’t?”
The blond Omega in front of him let out a breath. “It isn’t that Eijiro.”
“Then why the hell did you run off and fuck him for who knows how long?”
The crimson eyes of Bakugou tightened as they glared at the redheaded Alpha across from him. The blond Omega stood up and approached the redheaded Alpha. “Don’t make it sound like I’m a fucking slut, Red!”
Kirishima hardened his own gaze down to Bakugou. “Well when you fuck another Alpha, it sure makes you look that way!”
Bakugou scoffed. He pointed a finger to his chest. “I’m sorry that I did what I felt was me making the right decision.”
Kirishima looked at him confused. He put his hands to his head as he tried to understand, tried to fathom what Bakugou could see in this situation as a good decision. “How the hell is this a good decision? Did you even think about me or our son? How is this the best for Kane?”
A hiss left the blond Omega at the mention of the pup. “Only I know what’s best for Kane, for mypup.”
A loud growl came from Kirishima as he stepped up to stand toe to toe with Bakugou. He barred his teeth in aggression as he glared down at the blond. “Our pup, Omega.”
“NO! Mine!” Bakugou insisted. “How sure are you that he is your pup, then?
That question made the whole room fall into silence. Kirishima took a few steps back away from him as he froze. He wasn’t sure why that question made him feel more fearful than he had that whole day but it did. He could barely focus on anything else as he felt like everything around him was cracking for the second time today. “What… what do you mean?” Kirishima whispered, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked to Bakugou. “Why wouldn’t he be mine?”
Bakugou folded his arms over his chest as he stood his ground. “He’s not yours. You have no right to him or any decisions regarding his wellbeing! Kane is not your pup, never has been and he never will be.”
The Alpha shook his head as tears lined at his eyes and burned at him from the inside. “You’re lying. That heat we-”
“Izuku was over the day before my heat officially started, before I was with you the whole time.” He clarified. He moved fast and quickly, grabbing something from within his nightstand. He picked up a file, something he had for Kane since birth. “It was only after I gave birth to him did I have a paternity test done and found out who his real sire was.” He walked over back to Kirishima and handed him a piece of paper that was hidden behind Kane’s birth certificate.
Kirishima was terrified to look down. He felt like the moment he looked down, he would regret it for the rest of his life. But he did so anyways. He looked down and staring right up at him was a paternity test. It was for Kane and him. He couldn’t read any of the words that seemed to jumble up together but what did catch his attention was the numbers in bold at the bottom. 0,0007% Not even one percent match. Kirishima nearly dropped the document, a shaky hand moving to his mouth as he felt everything he ever knew and everything he ever loved get ripped away from him.
Bakugou took the document and folded it. “Kane is not your son, so don’t tell me what’s best for Kane as if it concerns y-”
The sound of whining came from the door as it was pushed open. Standing by the door with his hands together was Kane. He looked up at his parents in confusion and fear. He looked between them, confused as to why there was so much yelling. He whimpered as he kept himself small. “Daddy, Poppa, what’s going on?” He asked softly standing in his little shark pyjamas.
With Kane standing right there in front of him, Kirishima felt like he was so blind. Like he was so fucking blind. Kane, even though looked like he could be Bakugou’s twin, had certain things about him that didn’t make sense now. Did he always have such curly blond hair? Were his eyes always so wide and big? Was he always that small and tiny?
The redheaded Alpha couldn’t bare to look at him anymore, the fear that he wouldn’t recognise his own son settling in far too late. He turned to Bakugou, his face emotionless as he sniffed. He gave the blond a sad smile. “I hope your happier, then.” Kirishima turned and walked to his closet. He grabbed a duffel bag and started shoving his clothes into his bags. Kirishima wasn’t even sure if he was packing everything but he took all his essentials from the bathroom and his wallet too. Anything that looked important he took. Without looking at either one of them, Kirishima shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and walked right past Kane out the door to his bedroom.
Kane let out some whines behind him, saying something to his dam that Kirishima couldn’t hear in his right mind right now. He marched through the scarcely lit house as he moved to the front door. He needed to leave. He didn’t know where he was going to, but he needed to leave.
“Daddy no!” He felt a body wrap around his leg making him pause. He looked down to see the blond pup clinging to him as hard as he could. Kane was crying, borderline sobbing big crocodile tears that only made Kirishima feel even more blind. “Don’t leave! Where you going?” He looked up to Kirishima with big crimson eyes, his hands balled up as he clung to his sweatpants and didn’t want to leave. Kirishima’s face twisted into something painful not having the heart to reply to him. Kane didn’t deserve this.
Suddenly the blond pup was pulled away from him and pulled into Bakugou’s arms as he kept the young boy off the ground and in his own arms. He forced a struggling and screaming Kane into his arms, almost defensively as if Kirishima was a stranger.
Kirishima just looked at Bakugou, pain filled before turning to leave out the front door. The moment he opened the door, he was greeted with the one masc he never wanted to see.
Midoriya Izuku stood on his doorstep holding a box and a backpack on his back. He looked to Kirishima in surprise. Kirishima stepped out of the way, his eyes dead as he stared at Midoriya. “Welcome home.” He stated as he allowed the green haired Alpha through. Midoriya hesitated looking at Kirishima with such hesitation. Kirishima found it funny. He was sure Midoirya didn’t look this unsure every day that he looked him in the eye, knowing that he was with his Head Alpha’s Omega.
Midoriya stepped inside and Kirishima bee lined out the door, closing the door behind him. Kirishima stood outside his front door, not knowing what to do next. The Alpha looked around, not knowing where to go so he just went straight. He walked across the street to the park. He walked barefooted holding on to the strap of his bag. His body stopped by a bench and he sat down there in the darkness, with nothing but the park light to illuminate where he was. He leaned back as he stood there for what felt like just a second, staring off for a moment.
“Eijiro…” Standing in front of him now was Todoroki, Mina and Sero. Both men looked down at Kirishima in confusion. Sero put a hand on Kirishima’s shoulder leaning forward. “Man, you’ve been sitting out here for two hours. What happened with Katsuki, are you okay?” he asked deeply concerned for not only his Head Alpha but one of his best friends.
Mina nodded as she held her jacket around her, trying to stop the sinking cold from coming in. “Come on Eij, you shouldn’t be out here all alone in the cold.”
Kirishima didn’t move for a second as he just stared up at Sero, then tears started running down his face his face unmoving for a second. Kirishima bit his bottom lip to stop himself from shattering in front of his friends. He brought two hands over his face as he tried to stop the bubbling sobs in his chest as he leaned forward. He shook his head. “He’s not mine.” He cried out. “He’s not mine and I love him so much.” He cried.
Sero moved closer to him as Mina quickly moved to put Kirishima in her arms, turning the large redhead to put his head in the crook of her neck. She rubbed his back as she held him tightly. The feeling of his oldest best friend made him only cry harder as he held onto her. Todoroki stepped forward confused, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Who’s not yours, Eijiro?”
“Kane!” Mina’s eyes widened as she looked up to both men who both immediately froze as their faces fell in disbelief. Dead silence filled the space for a second. They looked to each other before looking back down at Kirishima. “He’s not mine. He was never mine! Katsuki told me. He’s-” A hiccup interrupted him as he couldn’t bare to speak more about it.
Mina shushed him sweetly as she rubbed his back. “It’s okay, Eijiro. Don’t think about all that right now, just let it all out big guy.” She told him as she looked up to her husband and one of her packmates.
Sero let out a breath as he ran a hand through his hair. The drama only getting worse and worse as time went by. However, once he looked to Todoroki both husband and wife were shocked. Todoroki had a hard look on his face. A scowl was one his beautiful face as he frowned. Todoroki was a traditionalist, he was someone who valued family and valued what came from it, but finding out that someone had disrespected that to this extent to Kirishima’s face, all while lying, was something he could never stand for. Todoroki stepped forward as he sat next to Kirishima on the bench and put a hand on his back as well.
The Seros took Kirishima to their place, letting him stay in their extra bedroom. Sero and Mina along with Todoroki agreed that they would call a pack meting tomorrow morning. Due to everything that was happening, they didn’t have work for the next couple of days so they would need to take the time to discuss and talk this over.
When the next morning came, in a painful reminder that time still goes on, Denki immediately went to your place, still regretting his decision of listening to you when you told him to leave. Denki immediately saw the state you were in. A very bad depressive drop. You were in your nest, refusing to leave it nor even get ready for the day or help Asahi who was too worried about you as he stayed buried at your side.
Denki took Asahi to the Sato’s place where all the pups would be kept during the meeting. Pony took a worried Asahi who was very confused as to what was going on and got him breakfast with the rest of his pup mates. Once Asahi was safe, Denki went back to you. You stayed in your nest, not responding at all. Denki knew that at least you ate something last night, so he wasn’t too worried about how your health was. He kept you sleeping in your nest, promising he would come back.
Kirishima was also left in the Sero’s place, dead asleep, having exhausted his very being enough that even if anyone did speak to him, he couldn’t hear it. Mina had got him some extra blankets and left a plate of breakfast at the side of his table just in case he got hungry while they were gone. Her and Sero took their daughter to the Satos before going over to Iida’s place.
In Iida’s sitting room was where the pack meeting was happening without you, Kirishima, Midoriya or Bakugou.
“What do you mean Kane isn’t Eijiro’s?” Shinso asked as he stood up and stared at Todoroki.
Todoroki nodded his head painfully. “That’s what he said.” He retold the group. “He said that he wasn’t his. Bakugou told him that last night.”
Momo put a hand over her mouth with a gasp in shock at the new piece of news that was just received to the rest of them. “Poor Eijiro.” She let out softly, the others agreeing in saddened hums. She turned to look at her husband as she sat next to him. “Having a pup meant so much to him.” She whispered.
Iida let out a heavy sigh as he dragged a hand through his hair. “It does.” He agreed with her. “And now we’re stuck with two members in a drop, one of which is our Head Alpha who now is without an Omega and a pup.” Iida tried to think about what was the best sort of action. Iida was the acting Head Alpha until Kirishima came back out of his drop. It was his say on what they would do next regarding this whole unprecedented situation. Iida sat down in his cushioned chair, putting his head on top of his hands. “This doesn’t look good for us, nor does it for Eijiro. But lets deal with one thing at a time and quickly. Izuku and Katsuki. Their actions can’t go unpunished.” He stated, the pack nodding their heads in agreement.
“No, they can’t.” Jirou stated as she crossed her arms over her chest.
Denki frowned as he thought about it for a moment. He closed his eyes. “Their actions are very severe. Not only did they lie to their mates, but Katsuki had a pup and framed it as our Head Alpha’s for six years. That’s horrible.”
Mina nodded along with Denki. “We also need to keep in mind that the public will expect word from what the pack has decided to do to them.”
“Well then we all know what the best course of action is.” Iida sat up in his chair, Hatsume standing next to him, leaning against his chair with one hand on his shoulder. He looked around at the pack members in the room, none of them denying what he was insinuating. He sighed as he closed his eyes. “Then I’ll tell Head Alpha.”
That evening, the whole pack was in attendance at what was essentially a ruling of the events that had happened. Bakugou and Midoriya stood together the eyes of their pack member feeling as though they were drilling holes into them. Bakugou held Kane closer towards him at all the scrutiny, glaring at them all at how quickly they changed against him. Kirishima stood in front of the both of them with you sitting at his side. You looked hollow, kind of just staring into the distance for a while. Asahi sat beside you, looking up at you concerned but also to his father.
Much later in the day Iida sat in a chair next to where Kirishima lay in bed. His eyes glued to the ceiling as he listened to what Iida had to say. He didn’t say much about anything other than finding out what you thought about the situation. Finding out that you were in agreement with what the pack had concluded, he felt better about it. So Kirishima agreed.
“Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki,” Kirishima started. He had forced himself to stand before everyone tonight. He was in no state to do so, nor did he feel like he even had the will to exist right now, but he did what his job was. He was given the job of being Head Alpha and regardless of this situation he had to take it in stride. “You have both not only lied to your mates but also committed adultery. You also lied about the true sire of Bakugou Kane. Your choices have led to a unanimous decision made by the pack that the both of you along with your pup be exiled from Pack-A as well as ex-communicated.”
Both adults faces fell at that decision. Bakugou stepped forward with a face of disbelief. “Eijiro, you can’t be serious.”
Kirishima frowned as he looked down at the blond. “It’s Head Alpha Kirishima to you, Bakugou Katsuki and yes, yes I am. By noon tomorrow, the three of you should be off my pack lands.”
“If you all want to exile us that’s fine, but what about Kane?” Midoriya motioned to the blond pup who didn’t even know what the word ‘exile’ meant, let alone what was supposed to happen. “Kane did nothing wrong. He doesn’t deserve to be ripped from his pack like this. And what about my son Asahi? You’re just going to keep me away from him?”
Kirishima turned to the side, not having any more energy to talk to the both of them. Iida stepped in, putting a hand on Kirishima’s shoulder allowing him to sit down. Kirishima sat in the chair that was placed next to you roughly, too tired to try and sit gracefully. He leaned to the side and placed a hand over his eyes with a heavy sigh, just wanting to go back to bed. You put a hand on his shoulder, making him glance over to you. He gave you a tired smile.
Iida stepped to stand in front of the both of you. “What about Kane?” He asked with furrowed eyebrows as he looked over at the two of them. “As far as I’m concerned that pup would be with both his sire and dam. Should he wish to play or spend time with any of the other pups, he can do that at school.” Iida clarified. “Regarding Asahi,” The little boy perked up at the mention of his name. “A custody agreement will be settled between you and Y/N regarding him along with the divorce agreement, in the mean time Y/N has agreed to give you weekends. Katsuki, you will also receive a document of divorce papers shortly. From the moment this meeting ends, all three of you will never belong to Pack A again.”
-Glitch1d
#bakugou x kirishima#kirishima x reader#omega reader#alpha kirishima x omega reader#alpha kirishima x reader#kirishima eijiro#kirishima x y/n#eijiro kirishima x reader#eijiro x reader#katsuki x eijirou#Alpha kirishima x Omega Bakugou#izuku x reader#izuku midoriya x reader#alpha deku x reader#alpha izuku midoriya#alpha izuku x reader#midoriya izuku angst#bakugou katsuki angst#kirishima angst#tw: infidelity#bakudeku#mha omegaverse#mha x y/n#mha#kirishima eijirou#kirishima eijiro x reader#kirishima eijiro x y/n#eijirou x you
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Chapter 6: But Chaos Clings Within
Miguel O'Hara x Reader
WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Mild depictions of violence, emotional distress, mentions of mental illness, mentions of meds during pregnancies, graphic depictions of panic attacks, comfort towards the end, a squeeze of character background. Sexual language, Character study. No Proofread.
Summary: Just when things couldn't go worst, Miguel proves you wrong.
Previous
A/N: I do not condone toxic relationships or behaviors, much less encourage them. English is not my main so excuse any typos c:
Sorry for the wait, finally got the time to get this out :'). Internship is eating my soul. Feedback much appreciated ❤️. Enjoy!
Miguel O'Hara. Lab technician from the research department. Successful scientist, the best of his generation, the million dollar brain, as Sully had called him once, married to science, hard working man-
His calloused pads pinched the bridge of his nose.
And a cheater.
A deep exhale heaved through his already rigid nose, muscles hardening from the tension that always held an obsessed grip on his body. Like a ghost, permanent, silent and always manifesting in the least proper moments.
A liar,
He pulled the keys out from the slot, and grabbed in a single hand the stacked and unused boxes on the passenger's seat. Hoarding wasn't in his traits, as he'd rather to invest in things that nurtured his self or shut Dana up, like the ring she tossed on his chest after the elephant popped in the parking lot.
Hollow-hearted lover
This would be his last time entering the place that had been his shared home for the past four and a half years. His apartment judged him with it's silence, glaring his way from every ivory and smooth wall he walked by. Sneering at his life choices with minor inconveniences, that only added to his piled up and ever heavy stress load.
He walked towards the elevator, knowing by heart the buttons he needed to press. Moving towards the turns and angles he needed, to reach his soon long gone home.
Of course lights would be on, the new owner was already making some impromptu renovations in the trampled and spat on love nest. His keys, another thing he'd have to surrender later, were pushed inside the doorknob, to then open past the gates he always made sure to double lock before sleeping.
Dana's voice filled in the living room, followed by another he knew too well by the many times she'd welcomed him at Christmas gatherings. Blanca. Her older sister.
And a reluctant daddy.
The women stopped their talk as Miguel peeked over the door, hulking frame swallowing the narrow hall connecting to the jasmine smelling living room. There was no effusive greeting this time. No welcome home hugs, nothing but silence and an bungled up smile his way from Blanca.
The woman knew better than anyone that neither Miguel or Dana were perfect. Innocently mistaking the dreadful silence and tension between as another couple quarrel.
Does she knows?
Her demureness didn't give any hints that she actually did. And it was enough for him. He wasn't in his nines to hear another hysteric fit of how much of a coward he was, or how the consequences would be out there to get him sooner or later.
Another Tyler Stone.
"Gotta go"
She hugged Dana, and then him.
"Hope everything gets better soon." She'd mumbled through whispers.
The eldest of the D'Angelo siblings spoke with a sympathetic smile before leaving for the night. Almost running in her way out to avoid being used, as usual, as a mediator.
The door clicked quietly, and it was Dana's turn to heave a tired and languid breath, yet she didn't speak. Instead, she went over the kitchen to prepare some tea.
It was more than enough cue for him to mind his business and pack away the last bits of his belongings.
Some work tools, books, diplomas and the last bits of his clothes. To his surprise, they were neatly arranged and folded in a bag.
Eyes darted towards the kitchen where Dana was. Unbothered, focused on selecting the perfect mug for her comfort drink, ignoring his existence.
It didn't feel too different when they had a fight. The aftermaths were either them lying naked, breathless and laughing like loons or silence. It all depended on how bad the fight was and who displayed the ultimate final punch.
Miguel was usually the winner, leaving Dana in the corner of shame, nursing her defeat. But this time, she had won, a flawless and clean victory.
He hated it.
Cause it didn't matter how much he tried to come up with a comeback, there wasn't any. Her beating was too powerful to even fight back, leaving him on the floor, stunned but not wounded.
The boxes were filled in matter of minutes. The more he took away the more he realized his absence wasn't even acknowledged.
Dana had already filled in those spaces, and his things being removed only added a little mess in the neatly organized place if anything.
He wasn't missed.
In fact, the nattily folded clothes only reinforced his suspicion of Dana having her subtle way of hurrying his process, to get out of her home, her life and heart.
He took turns to fill in the void space of his car, accommodating the boxes and containers in a way to not damage anything fragile. One last box was everything that remained, reducing the countdown to mere minutes. He returned at the apartment to get his books.
Hefty pages easily carried in the cardboard recipient. As he lifted it like nothing, one of his thighs knocked over a golden, minimalistic and borderline abstract statuette next to the coffee table.
Dana's rushing steps made his scowl to deepen at the sudden accident.
"Goddammit, Miguel!"
It was her favorite. A tall figure cradling a small bundle. His best interpretation was a mother and his baby she had gotten in a gentrified decor shop, something that started after they talked about kids in the long run. She had gotten the supposed sacred and good luck figurine merely out of superstition.
And now it laid broken, in tiny shards on the floor, impossible to be glued back.
Dana brought the broom and the garbage collector to sweep off the pieces.
Miguel bent to pick up the bigger shards but Dana's stern voice stopped him
"Just leave it." She squeezed between him and the coffee table to pick up the pieces with such care it felt like picking herself up, "You've done enough." That's what she had been doing these past days.
Try and glue back all the pieces Miguel made sure to wham away with a sledgehammer.
"Dana"
Miguel's voice felt like a terse loofa on her tender skin, scrubbing raw and flushed red.
Blue gaze pinned him on the spot, a silent What from her. Sadly, they knew each other too well to ignore the subtle signs in the body language. Miguel crouched next to her, taking the rickety broom and plastic collector from her hands.
"Let me."
"Just leave, Miguel."
It was more a plead than anything. But stubborn was the main trait engraved into his brain ever since he was born.
"Dana, mi vida, look-"
"Miguel."
Her tone final. His hands rose up, defense in them.
"I'm sorry, ok?"
A shameless scoff escaped her pouty lips, while she retrieved the tools from his hands.
"The only thing you're sorry about is that you got caught, Miguel."
"I tried to correct-"
Dana took a sharp inhale before speaking, calmly. "You don't get it, do you?"
"I didn't think it would come to this, really. The condom-"
"Ugh! Stop. Stop!"
Dana had to take her distance from him, but he tried to reach out. A futile attempt as his ex fiancé slapped almost too gently his meaty palm. Away from her, disgusted and irked.
"You think I wanna hear how you fucked the receptionist? You should learn a thing or two from her-"
There it was. The bickering he loved, and the perfect chance to win her back. He didn't know if delusion hung high his brain today, but he was somehow convinced that Dana would tell him to stay. To fix everything. Delusion at it's finest.
"She was a slip-"
"And that slip and mistake ended up being pregnant and now she's trying to correct your fuck ups."
His brow quirked, suspicion rising at her sudden mellow talk.
"Didn't know you were her personal friend." His arms crossed while a hubristic smile stretched on his face. Seizing her with derision," Drank tea with her too?"
He was sure his eyes rolled so hard it hurt.
"My goodness. And to think I was about to marry you..."
Miguel snorted, cynic as usual "Stop acting surprised. Don't be a hypocrite you know how-."
"Hypocrite?! It's called empathy, jackass. Maybe you should learn it. While you're making fun of her and acting like we can go back to normal, she's desperate to find a solution to a problem you refuse to address or even acknowledge."
"For all I know, she could be lying and blame it on me," he tried to reason. But to no avail.
"You can't be serious right now. How messed up you must be to believe such thing when moments ago you admitted something happened?!"
Miguel's hands went on his hips, grounding himself to avoid invading her personal bubble more than he already was.
Another cloyed sigh from the brunette, "Unlike you, at least she's adult enough to face her problems and give the child for adoption."
A cold shudder came down his spine. Was his hearing right?
"Disculpa, qué?" He had to blink the frown and scowl that immediately took his countenance a hostage, but to no avail. It was another blow Dana gave him on the floor. Merciless as she was, she'd give him no truce.
"Adoption. A-D-O-P-T-"
"Fucking funny. The fuck you mean adoption?"
"I'm not here to amuse you."
And in truth he was far from being entertained. His brain had gone into an flout, ignoring his rationale, doused in glacial water that froze all attempt into logic thinking. Body buzzed with something ghastly, unable to be properly processed as it remained as a knot in his throat.
No. You couldn't.
"She can't be that stupid-"
"She's not stupid. She's assuming the consequences. As you should be!"
His hands no longer remained on him, too perturbed to stay still. They rubbed a bit too hard on his face, a twitch popped in his eye.
"No, she's... she's being fucking stupid. I.. I gave her-"
"A check to get rid of if. Yeah, I know." Dana crossed her arms while seizing his newly disturbed state. Steely nerves were something used to describe him, but this insecure and fearful man before her was everything but composed.
"She can't..." The ramble with himself continued, not really caring if Dana joined or not.
But you were keeping the child. Against his wishes.
How dared you?
His mind tried so hard that a painful pulsation echoed inside his skull. Hurting itself in the process of trying to understand why on earth would you keep a baby while having all the stakes at odds.
"She will. That's not up to you to decide."
"No, no, you don't understand, Dana. She can't have-"
"Well, too bad cause she's keepin-"
In a flurry of anger, his hands slapped the broom away from her grip, with such force she yelped, startled "Cállate!"
He roared and Dana recoiled, wide eyes in terror. It didn't matter how many times he clawed at his scalp, in an hopeless attempt to smear away the news. He heaved, realizing too late his mistake.
"I'm-"
"You need to leave."
His ex's voice was too calm, too kind, despite his aggression. It no longer held that bickering and holding a grudge like usual. It was devoid of all emotion, denying him the satisfaction of baiting and engaging into his game.
But he certainly wasn't there for a laugh anymore. Reality was always bitter and disappointing.
Heart jerked, menacing to splinter and rive at any second, fury flowed through his bloodstream, like a drug. Feeding his brain cortex with a much unrequited high of cortisol.
How could you? He gave you the money, yet you decided to do him dirty. Were you taking revenge? Without a doubt, and now you'd bring everything he had worked on so hard for, down and away.
In a place of a much higher shelf he, even with his height, could not reach. Like a timeout for his grown ass self.
But he wouldn't allow you. He refused to have his own story play on repeat once again.
He was set into finish this once and for all.
His anxiety had taken his nerves for an unwilling ride. Not only he had to wait for an extra hour for you to clock out, but he also had to face you once more.
Miguel was convinced that you had influenced his mind in such a way he was starting to believe you were his bad luck charm.
You were there in his revenge. You were there when Dana dumped him. He saw your sweet and fury-inducing face when the higher and richer bunch dejected his proposal in a subtle way it had given him hope. And somehow you still managed to get into Dana's head and root for you, when the woman usually remained on a neutral line or rather to not get involved at all, even if it somehow affected her personally.
You had tipped the balance completely on your favor. And now, the rotten cherry of his Frankenstein of cake, was knowing you were to take the pregnancy to a full term, when he had specifically told you to get rid of it.
His million dollar brain couldn't come up with a logical and quantifiable explanation as to why.
Why? Why? Why? So. many why's and little responses.
She wants to screw me over.
A malicious frown came to his lip, twitching ever slightly, temper already boiling underneath.
He wouldn't let you. Not when his career was taking a fly, the rejection was a little mishap, but nothing that he couldn't fix in a future.
He left for his car, ten minutes before the clock ticked at five pm. Your leaving hour. Silent and steadfast steps advanced towards the parking lot. Where everything had started. Where bad luck and unfortunate decisions from the universe begun to hunt him down.
Where his life took such a radical change for the worst. His nose flared upon the realization.
You brought the worst out of him.
Made him act out of his usual composed and calculating self. Forced him to conduct out of his pattern, taking impromptu choices wasn't who he was.
Lashing out when he'd keep his mouth shut. Behaving recklessly when he'd analyze the situation first, deeming it worthy to get involved or not. Saying things out of place when he knew he needed to remain shut, reaching to the points of threatening and mastering the arts of deceiving.
And now, you were forcing a role he didn't want, yet knew he had self imposed it. He knew the condom broke, he knew that he needed to change it.
But damned be his lust and hormones fluctuation, your deliciously sweet scent that somehow was engraved into his memory, the snug and tight cunt that had made his mind a puddle. And your fucking righteousness to accept your consequences that exposed him and his lies.
And once again, a reluctant daddy.
You've turned his life upside down. Everything he had carefully and methodically crafted, was now on the floor, ruined. Tarnished beyond repair. You were chaos.
He had given you the resources to end the problem, yet you spat on his face. Repaid him with aversion. And he was now set in finding out the answers he needed.
He saw your head peeking out from the elevator, going to your little and toy looking car. Pretty doll playing with danger.
Keys dangled, along a daisy shaped keychain in your hands, swaying back and forth at the rhythm of your steps.
The clinking drowned the heavy echoes of his leather covered feet, noticing him a little too late as he slammed your car's door shut, prowling over before you could enter.
"W-What the fuck?!"
Breath hitched, eyes widened in alarm as your skin crawled when meeting his accusing and dern gaze. Brain flaring with the dangers alarm, panic simmering on the slow burner.
You nearly stumbled while backing up as he stalked you.
"What's wrong with you?!" Your eyes closed as he yelled. Angry breath fanned on your shaky self.
For a second it wasn't Miguel that yelled, but Mother.
Body reacting with muscle memory by raising your arms up, trying to create more space between you both. Miguel was burning in wrath and it scorched you.
"I fucking gave you the chance to handle this, and you decide to keep it?!"
Hulking frame loomed over, reducing your existence even further as he slammed his closed fist in the hood of your car, startling you even more. He was violence.
"Get away from me!" With a brave push, your body made the great effort in pushing him off you. He barely budged, but his nose flared fumes, instead he took your wrists with a single hand and pulled you closer so you could properly have a piece of his mind.
"You don't understand, don't you?" You wriggled your hands and he bared his teeth, nearly colliding your foreheads together.
"You think I'm scared of you?!" But in truth, you were terrified beyond your wits. Heart wasn't beating, but pounding painfully the more you struggled.
"I don't want that child" He seethed through clenched teeth
"Let me go!"
"No te voy a permitir que me arruines la vida" (I won't allow you to ruin my life)
"I swear if you don't let me go, I'll scream!."
His grip loosened enough for you to wriggle your limbs away from his reach but he quickly clutched on you again, ignoring the the measly threat, desperate to find the answers you were reluctant to give him "Why are you keeping it?" He shook your body, "Why?!"
He panted in his frenzied state, and you whimpered at his manhandling. But the familiarity of violence in your life didn't break you instantly. Just made you irrational if anything.
"That's none of your business."
His chest puffed up, hand on your car's hood. He wasn't letting you go that easily. His gaze asserted dominance while stalking your own, moving his head along yours when you finally managed to free yourself from his grasp.
"Where is the check?"
"I tore it" His muscles tensed, nails digging in the fat of his hand, holding back a biting comeback, "Now get away from me."
Miguel heaved. Ire and frustration fighting over who gave the last punch. You were driving him insane, and not in the way he indulged.
"You must be the dumbest person I've known. All you had to do was to go to a fucking clinic and get yourself fixed! Why didn't you listen?!"
"Oh, fuck off!" This time the effort in your body as you pushed the wall of muscles was greater. A little light-headedness swooned over your sight. His eyes narrowed upon you exhaling through your mouth, repeatedly. Setting a pace while holding your lower back.
Physical exertion had you panting, but the emotional toll he had just put you through drained you completely. Like a vampire feeding off your sanity.
"You're sadly mistaken if you think I'll help with-"
"I'm not fucking asking you to. I've never asked and never fucking will!"
It was your time to roar while tears menaced to escape and roll down, "What makes you think I want anything that comes from you so you can throw it at my face later?"
Voice broke with a new found bravado that seeped through your panicked cracks, sick of him intimidating you, but your fight enticed him. He loved the sense of control he inflicted, it fuelled him and stroked his ego in such pleasant ways that had him folding.
"If you wanna play mommy, fine by me, but don't you dare saying I didn't try to help."
"Your fucking help was to hide your mistake before Dana found out" You gritted through teeth and he smirked, taunting even further
"You're not ready to be a mother-"
"Oh and you think you'd be a good father? You know shit about it." Vitriol dripped with every mouthful of your mind.
The two were too focused in marring each other as much as you could with words while struggling to keep afloat. He was drowning you, but you pulled him down. If you sunk, he was coming down too.
"That's precisely what I paid you for, pinche pendeja!" (Dumb bitch)
His tinge was everything but polite or caring. It didn't help that your head spun, you had to take a moment to scramble away to retch out behind a car. Slumping against the metallic structure for support.
His face squeezed into a disgusted expression at the noises you did. Concern and empathy wasn't in his vocabulary neither in his life. He just stood there, watching your hands curl as your body begged you to stop munching on his bait.
"Fuck off." you mumbled while wiping your lips with the back of your palm once the nausea subsided enough.
"What did you say?" His head tilted, vexed and amused you still had the energy to keep the bonfire alive and soaring. Just the way he liked. He was ready for round two.
"Fuck. Off."
It was the last thing you threw before scrambling to your car and locked the door. His bold hand already on the handle, doing his damnedest to pry it open. Hands banging on the now shaky glass, demanding for you to come out.
You drove away as he yelled something foreign.
The ambush had left you shaken to your very core, and just when you stopped on a red light, you finally noticed your trembling limbs, clenching on the steering wheel, anchoring to it.
Stop it stop it stop it-
Heart subdued into a claustrophobic beat within your ribcage, head spun, palpitations turned into powerful plows on your torso. Breath hitched, erratic, panicky.
No, no, no!
All you could see and hear was mommy dearest yelling, brain already sending the defense signals to your childish arms. Covering from the imminent physical lash out she'd provide after you accidentally dropped your drink in the floor.
What the fuck is wrong with you?!
Many things if honest. Eyes bleary with fat tears, panic rose the more your brain forced you to remember . Fresh belt marks burned into your arms and legs.
Nausea went rampant, but with the little strength you had, fingers moved to dial MJ's phone number between muffled sobs.
Chest rose and fell, into a frenzied breathing pattern, the unceasing honkings from the cars behind you drowned your terrified weeps. It didn't help your terrified state.
The distant voice of MJ kept ringing in your ears, imploring for you to reply, Your abdomen cramped, and your mouth screamed. Brain loaded with so much information, it was impossible to process properly.
The ringing in your ears sharpened, phone too heavy on your hands, lights came and go, dancing in such a hurried haze, forcing to clutch your chest.
A dark shadow hovered over the car's window, moving it's limbs frantically, lips moved but you couldn't hear a thing.
Mind too dazed with the past to be on the now. More shadows joined narrowing the space for light and reason, panic broke hell loose.
Throat burned at the shrill it gave out. Nails sunk on your skin. You had tried, but the shadows were stronger. And they engulfed you.
Sweetie
The muddled thoughts thrown together in a tiny space that begged for order.
Your name was called, lights danced before your eyes, following your irises movement, lids immediately covered them, a whine joined the messed up party.
"Hey, Babe."
You knew that voice. The Nyquil for your pained soul and berated brain. Soft fingers cupped your cheeks, gently turning your face upwards.
"It's me, MJ"
Touch toured to your hands, enveloping your limb in a warm embrace. Lungs exhaled a way too relaxed breath. Almost paused.
The milieu before you slowly took shape. Abstract lines and forms melding together into a red spot. It's angelic voice lured your liquified brain back to a solid mass, earning a lucid moment of thinking.
MJ. It was MJ.
"There you are" Her smile too tainted with sadness to pass as one of her genuine ones.
Your body buzzed with waves of something you couldn't pinpoint, but it felt good. Heavenly almost.
Your eyes blinked lazily, one after another, even your breathings were sluggish. Hand twitched, regaining the lost movement.
Body felt like a feather, weightless, suspended in air, floating, dreaming of silly things that definitely put an imperceptible smile in your lips. Too good to a washed up and spent you.
But the doctor's nasal voice brought you back within a few blinks. The chest hurt and itched, the urge to rub the pained area turned overwhelming, and that's when your senses came into clarity.
Finally able to discern between the abstract and intangibility from your secluded surroundings. White ceiling and walls, indistinct voices playing in the background.
Machines beeped, monitoring your heart, and so many other things you couldn't swot on even if you tried to. The stench of chemicals and sterile air permeated your tired lungs.
Phones rang unceasingly somewhere in the ostracised cubicle, fenced with a plastic curtain that separated you from the rest. Concealing your panic from prying stares. Mouth could be mistaken for the Sahara desert due the arid weather inside your crevice, swallowing was painful.
But not as painful at the look in Mary Jane gorgeous eyes.
"Hey"
She whispered as her hand squeezed tight enough for you to know she was there. That hwr presence wasn't a dream. A tired and meek hum rumbled in your throat, acknowledging her.
"Welcome back."
Her warm fingers left you for a moment, skin already missing her comfort, as yours lacked temperature, and even so in a clumsy attempt to raise your hand, you realized a bit too late that, your wrist were restrained on each side of the automated bed.
MJ disappeared for a moment to bring you a tall glass of water. She pressed a button and the bed's frame instantly bent smoothly to rise your torso upwards, transitioning your body into a lax sitting position.
Leaden legs by instinct spreaded a bit more at the uncomfortable pressure on your lower belly.
"Here." MJ brought the glass to your lips and poured gently the vital liquid, quenching slowly but surely the thirst you were oppressed into.
An elder man with salt and pepper hair entered your cubicle with a clipboard in hands, examining your state with a brief quizzical and medical stare.
"Hello! Sorry you wake up like that, but we had to sedate you. You were hurting yourself. "
It now explained the delicious high you didn't want to leave from.
"The baby is fine."
Oh
The baby. The creature you grew inside the now polluted guts, suffered no damage. But you had received all the aftermath. And something you had truly forgotten about.
People had left their cars, to certainly give you a piece of mind, but their approach changed drastically upon watching you crying, screaming and fainting. In that order.
Someone had called an ambulance as MJ bolted to your location. By the time the ambulance came, you were quanked and unconscious to recall anything.
MJ sat next to you as Mayday laid in her arms, tired, rosy mouth ajar, safe. Like she should. Like any child should.
None of you dared to speak, she knew you'd reach out when needed. And what you required was rest.
"It's alright, I'm right here."
The doctor called you by your name softly, explaining.
"Is there anyone in your family with mental illnesses?"
"My..." throat rasped, weak and broken words came out. You tried again after clearing the windpipe with a cough.
"My mother. All I know is that she had this Post-partum, uh... Psy..."
Eyes squinted, trying to remember the name.
"Post-partum Psychosis?"
"That thing."
A vehement nod from you.
"This gets a bit trickier then. You see. Right off the start, and I apologize for the sudden news. This will be a complicated pregnancy."
Shit...
MJ's face sobered, but her hand gripping yours never faltered.
"Complicated as in delivery or..." MJ inquired.
"The size of the baby, and the environmental stress only adds more weight to this. You're near the twelve weeks, and even so, passing them doesn't guarantee your baby's safety."
Your eyes squinted, confused. "Meaning?"
"The first trimester of the pregnancy is the most difficult and dangerous. Miscarriage is a higher risk."
You swallowed, hard. Free fingers crumpled the sheets underneath them.
"And I don't know what happened before you were brought here, but it was severe enough to trigger a panic attack. We had to sedate you for a bit so we could run some tests."
"Is she able to leave soon?"
"Until tomorrow. We have to monitor you and the baby responses to meds."
Fuck me.
"Meds?" The word familiar enough to recall those forbidden remembrances you always tried hard to bury for good.
"Zoloft. We still debating on it. It's safe, so don't worry. How often does these attacks happen?" routine questions really.
"It was the first one in months. The first while pregnant actually."
The doctor scribbled in the clipboard while nodding to then release your sore wrist from their confinements. A little bruising forming in them in the shape of fingers.
"Still it's an extra precaution we need to take. And some vitamins and minerals you need. Some of your readings came low, so to minimize the risk of miscarriage, I suggest you to seek a less stress inducing environment."
"I see."
In truth, you stopped paying attention after the last bit.
How and when on earth you'd find a new job in such short amount of time? Were the meds expensive?, Did your insurance even covered them or this barbed joke your body pulled out flawlessly?
Hospital night stays weren't cheap, and dread only slithered towards your head, constricting your brain in a myriad of questions that fought to be wondered first.
But one thing was certain. You needed rest and a new job. Since raise was out of the question. The doctor left, and you felt Mary Jane's burning oggling on your weakened frame.
"What happened?"
A simple yet complicated question. Reluctance once again showed up in your lips, sealing them momentarily.
"I need to know what's going on to help you"
"MJ..."
"I'm worried about you."
"I know..." Head hung, defeated, "I'm so sorry for being a burden, you were probably busy and-"
Your best friend chided your name, like she'd scold her own child.
"Darling, We've know each other for what? Five? Six years now?"
"Six when I pass the first trimester"
She chuckled, "Almost six years knowing our deepest secrets and you believe you're a burden for me. Don't be ridiculous."
Her soft hand squeezed yours tighter.
"You'd never be a burden for me, alright? I just wanna know what happened."
Her ever honest and see-through peer revealed nothing but unalloyed concern and care.
"Miguel happened." You heaved.
Her honeyed and caring look instantly hardened at the name.
"What did he do?"
"He found out somehow that I'd give the baby for adoption. And he didn't like it. Ambushed me in the parking lot and-"
"I need you to stop right there, dear. cause if you keep talking I'll call Alchemax myself and will report him for harassment."
"It wouldn't matter. He's like a god in there."
"And still, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And that man, is going down for sure."
It surprised you to see such viciousness in MJ's usual demure demeanor. Even though your only wish was to be left alone, deep down you hoped that Miguel reaped what he had sown.
And to your luck, universe was listening your heart's whims for once.
Taglist:
@miss-taura @serpentstarr @randomnobody187 @8xbygirl @del-ightfulling @iytatsworld @moonzuzuu @huehuehuehuehehe @ryk-mt @deputy-videogamer @sizeablysized @katitakenway @stealyourblorbos @beingdeluluisthesolulu @death-moth-art @obsessedwithromance @crybabiixo @spiderpapi2099 @tremendouswolfsaladranch @cherrycosmos392 @sbrn0905 @xylianasblog @elgatofx @eepiebeepie @vonev @tatatida @freehentai @scaryplanetdestroyer @minalovesyoubabes @emeloyy @migueloharastruelove @jdbxws @m4dyy @nyxzoldyck6 @fruitychae @francesca-the-1st @siidmm @ana-paulinathe-arts @artyanimi @damhanallagorm @lauraolar14 @what-is-your-wish @oharasfilipinawife @jellyboob @aockskcw @ittybxttykxttytxtty @smartyren @plumplum2099 @angel-of-the-moons
#t writes✨#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara x you#atsv miguel#miguel o'hara angst#miguel angst#miguel x you#Of Flowers and Hummingbirds
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Cruel Intentions | Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader
a/n: …so this is a thing that’s literally so old. BETA’D BY MY LOVELY @as-is-above-so-below
song: Cruel Intentions by Delacey & G-Eazy
LYRICS FROM SONG USED!
warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. mentions of ex-boyfriend john price, you and ghost are toxic, mentions of breeding kink/mentions of pregnancy. SMUT. car sex, fingering (f receiving). NSFW UNDER THE CUT. MDNI.
summary: After another shitty break up with your on and off boyfriend Captain John Price, you always seem to find yourself in the comfort of his Lieutenant’s car - and letting him do whatever he pleases.
I like sex, I like flowers, I like attention.
“You look good tonight.”
Don't ever put me second.
Hands settled on the door, and you peered into his familiar black Trans Am, nails tapped against the inside. “You say that every time.”
“Fine; would you like me to just say what I would if I wasn’t restraining myself?”
You chuckled, questioning going back into your apartment but you said, “Tell me.”
“Get in the car, baby, and I’ll tell you.”
I bet you won't find nothing feels this good this side of Heaven. So stop talking, pull my stockings down,
It wasn’t long before his hand danced up your thigh, under your skirt, and it wasn’t long before you were biting your lip, the feeling of digits inside of you made you already more attentive to your boy toy turned benefit. A hand on the steering wheel and the other massaged you, the small purrs from your pretty lips made him smile.
“Don’t waste your pretty little voice ‘til we get there.” He spoke with an almost bored tone in his beautiful accent, but you knew he was living in how he touched you; how he got you so high without holding a flame to anything.
“Fuck, Ghost, stop talking,”
You're my cruel intention.
I bet you won't find nothing feels this good, this side of, this side of, this side of Heaven.
He giggled and slowed his pace, the rings that sat at the base of his fingers now collided with your skin, warm to the touch and soaked in you. Did that matter? No, not to Ghost. “So good for me, always good for me.”
“Couldn’t you wait until we get there?” Your left hand grabbed his thigh, the right held onto his forearm as he kept going deeper. You bit your tongue and he laughed.
“What can I say? I am a man of taste,” he purred as the car slowed down at an empty stop light. You never worried about someone looking in; the windows were tinted and Ghost drove fast on nights like these. “It’s not like I could’ve; in that outfit, fuck, I jus’ wanna shred it.”
Uh, think you got me, but the problem is
I'm already hip but I see the play I just been watching this,
His fingers curled and your breath hitched in your throat, clutching his thigh as your head hit the headrest. You bit your tongue, trying not to give him the satisfaction of what he wanted to hear if he didn’t follow your clear directions - don’t drive and fuck me.
Well, it’s not like you haven’t done the same thing; missed him after a week and sucked his dick as he drove you back to his place. He fucked you good that night, and was the reason why you didn’t look at anyone else. You wouldn’t look at anyone else. He showed his love physically by fucking you better than he did last time.
Happy to see the way you call me everyday, it's obvious, plus it's 2AM you know what time it is, you just wanna have me come and chase you, boost your confidence
His hand became a little faster and you had to grip his thigh even harder to stop yourself from moaning; you couldn’t give him that satisfaction of breaking the one rule you had. You could see his smirk in the corner of your eye and your right hand slid from his forearm down to his wrist, forcing him to go knuckle deep into you. He grunted in annoyance and his thumb flicked your clit, a shaky breath escaped your lips and his smirk turned into a smile. Your eyes glared at him, seeing how his other hand curled around the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were white - the way his eyes were half-lidded as he watched the road.
“Come on babe, moan my name and I might fuck you good tonight.”
Shower you with flowers, give you all these daily compliments, yeah, careful if you fall in love, then it's gon' be a consequence.
“Fuck you.” You whispered and his hand stopped completely, your head rolled to the side, looking at your boy toy with an annoyed glare. His fingers curled inside of you and you almost purred, you were almost there. A few more moments of his fast and curling fingers made your head hit the headrest and groan, the first orgasm in the car of the night.
His canines shined in the dark and he retracted his hand, the addicting feeling was now gone and you were left high and not so dry. “If you’re gonna play hard to get, it’s only gonna be worse for you.” You groaned as you watched his fingers disappear into his mouth, sucking and licking all of your juices off of him. His tongue flicked around his rings and that’s when your hand let go of his wrist to make its way down to replace what he had taken away; but his almost clean hand grabbed yours. He took only a moment to look at you, saying, “Don’t.” His hand brought yours to his lips, kissing the back of it as you saw how the lights from the city were long gone.
We keep going - it's no turning back, it ain't no stopping us, Had you at “Hi. What's your name?" Burning in a flame, a little fling you turn into a game, and since we started fucking, it's never been the same,
Your eyes trailed to his face, a smile on your face as he kissed your hand again. His eyes glanced away as the car turned and slowed to a stop at a hidden cliff, showing the lights of LA. He kept the keys in the ignition as his eyes looked at you, glassy and knowing what he was going to see. A pretty little thing, one he gets to watch beg for him to make her choke on his cock.
The idea of stopping? I can't even entertain, you driving me insane, craziest I met. Drinking champagne, we started fucking on a jet, took you to the mile high, then we start to sweat,
I got you in a bag but you still play hard to get.
His hand let go of you and unbuckled both of you as your own hands grabbed his hair, crashing his lips to yours. Your body pressed into his chest and his hands grabbed your head, deepening the kiss so that way his tongue could taste you again; his drug. Your nails scratched his scalp and his tongue stuttered for a moment, you didn’t even notice. He pulled away for a moment, and your eyes opened and met his as he spoke, “Get in the fucking back.”
Yeah, when you over this is light work, love that when you put them heel ons with that tight skirt,
You both got out and pulled back the seats, allowing Lieutenant Simon Riley to sit down in the back, his legs spread out and his hands unbuckling his belt as he watched you in that skirt and the heels he loved to see you in. He licked his lips as his hands abandoned his pants and grabbed your hips, pulling your skirt down, and revealing his favorite pair of panties that made your ass look damn good. He smiled wide as you awkwardly stepped out of the skirt before he pulled you onto his lap. Your hands grabbed for the black tie around his neck, his hands gripped your ass. You glanced up at him as you began to untie it from his neck.
“Baby,” he whispered as his fingers found your warm hand, his eyes flicked up to your eyes, you were focused on that tie but his hand interlocked with yours. You looked down at him and he smiled, eyes twinkling as he spoke, “You really are beautiful, Y/N.”
You sat back on his legs and rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”
“At least I tell you more than Price ever did.”
You leaned forward a little as his other hand rested on your cheek. “You fuck me more than he ever did.”
He chuckled and your hands then sat on his jaw. “Better than he ever will.” And he was right - even with the on-and-off relationship with his best friend, you were always coming back to Simon like a dog. Of course, when you let Captain John Price kiss your feet and say sorry, you wouldn’t dare text his Lieutenant - you’d never cheat on him when you were together officially. The arguments only get harder to deal with, harder to see him leave for so long after saying horrible things and breaking it off, again. It only ever drove you back into the tattooed clutch of Price’s lap dog, fucking out the anger and hurt of your broken relationship.
Simon’s eyes sparkled and his hands rested on your thighs, gentle yet it still sent electricity through your body. “Do you want me to show you how much better I can get?”
Sleeping over almost every night, wake up in my shirt, if we make it official, I think maybe this can might work
Your ex-boyfriend’s best friend gripped your thighs and you went to work on his tie, quickly throwing it off of him as his fingers gripped your panties, he loved that set but he didn’t care; a rip sounded and you yelped, looking back to him as he tossed the ripped piece of fabric to his side. “Si!” He giggled as his lips connected to your neck, teeth pushing into your skin as his hands pulled your legs even farther apart. “That hurt, you know how much I spent on that?”
“‘M sorry, baby.” He mumbled as your hands made quick work of tossing his belt to the side and unbuttoning his nice dress pants. A touch to his crotch and he gripped your legs tighter, chewing on your neck harder made you whine. Your hands stopped fucking with his pants and carded into his blond hair, pressing a kiss to it.
Fuck the heavy shit, tho' we living in this moment, it's not even mine but I treat it like I own it
“You sure John still doesn’t know?” You whispered. He looked up at you with a sweet smile.
“He doesn’t even know I own a car in the States.” You giggled at that and his hands clawed at the bottom of your shirt. “Fuckin’ his off and on again girlfriend anytime while he can barely even keep up with his sleep schedule.”
He slid the shirt off your body and quickly raised his hips, tugging down his pants while you sat up on her knees - your head knocked against the roof of the car. His eyes trailed down your body then flicked back up to meet yours again.
Six missed calls, but ain't tripping, where your phone went? Ain't thinking bout that now, nothing matters now, got you so wet
Your hands settled on his shoulders as you slowly slid down his cock, he groaned as your nails scratched up his shoulders to his scalp, happy that he decided to ditch the mask again. “You’re so-“ he groaned as you finally bottomed out and he loudly panted, “tight tonight.”
“Shut up and let me fuck you.” You spoke and a hand slid down his head to his neck, pressing in your fingers to slow his oxygen intake. The man’s body buzzed with adrenaline; it’s been a few months since you had ridden him and it was the best orgasm of his life. To date, at least.
You rose up and Ghost moaned, missing the gentle touch of your thighs connecting with his but craved how slow you started to go. His hands crawled to your hips and you grunted in distaste. “Don’t make me tie you up, sweetheart.”
That turned him all the way on. His hands pulled you up and down, making you gasp loudly but after a few slow motions of your pussy up and down his cock, your hand on his throat jumped to his cheek. “Hands off.”
Ghost loved you like this, his hands moved away from your shirt and to the headrests in the back, pressing his arms against them hard enough to resist the intense emotion to fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk.
Light a couple candles in the room, pop some Moet, every single night I'm tryna go but we ain't go yet
Your hand moved back to his throat and your other hand dipped into his button down, as you began to rise again. Rise all the way up and off of him, touching his tip with your clit before going back down at an agonizingly slow pace to him but amazing to you. Being filled so well and the pain felt miles away while you kept going, slowly and Ghost was going to lose it if you didn’t pick up the pace. The faster you went, the faster he could reach that climax he only reached with you. The mind-numbing stimulation made stars in his vision for hours after.
“Pick it up, love,” he grunted as you slid back down his dick, starting to reach your second orgasm.
“I’m not- Fuck, I’m done with him,” you answered as the hand that was ghosting over his skin moved to your nipple, rubbing it between your fingers.
“Oh god,” he panted as his hands gripped the headrests. “Don’t tell me that, might ask Price to help me fuck you, love.”
You finally began to pace faster and you both groaned, low and high both blended to create a melody of love, whether you knew it or not. “God, I don’t think I can handle that, your dick is big enough- Fuck!” His hips thrust upwards and he hit the one place only he was able to, causing you to falter in your rhythm.
His right hand left the headrest and went right for your hair, your pace grew faster. “Fucking bitch- I- if I-“You slammed your hips down and grew double times faster, his hips began to roll as you kept going, faster and faster making him whine. “Fuck- fuck- God,”
“You just really like this, don’t you?” You purred as your high was so close, and as soon as he thrust his hips again, your eyes rolled back into your head, keeping your pace as you whimpered, “Like sitting here and getting fucked?” Your hands disappeared from your own body to lean forwards, placing your elbows on the top of the seats to hear the delicious moans coming from him.
“Yes-“ he began but your teeth skidded down his neck and that’s when his hands abandoned their place, grabbing onto your hips and pushing his cock even deeper into you.
Finishes, she clenches like she ain't ready to go yet. Yeah, I mean you crazy and you know that, yeah crazier than me, keep on playing mind games, I ain't got time for that shit, it gives me migraines
You let out a tangled cry, your sweet spot getting hit faster since your skin met together harder, Ghost groaned when he heard you. “C’mon, baby, fuck me,” he spoke and you tried to go faster, sloppy but it didn’t matter cause his hips met yours every time. “I got you.”
A myriad of moans and whines came from your mouth as the blinding white feeling of another orgasm hit you like a punch, your hands grabbed his hair and pulled his head back with that strength. “God, Ghost-“
“Say my name,” he whined as the growing pressure in his stomach began to make him want to fucking lay you down and fuck you so right, but God, his cock felt so good in her right now. He wouldn’t dare move from your body pressed to his, riding him like it was your last day alive.
“Simon,” You breathed and he smirked, faster thrusts from his hips and there were only broken gasps that came from your lips. The sound of his skin meeting yours over and over was like a melody, one you loved to hear.
Only the realness, it's what's running through my veins, and every time I'm in that, she always screaming my name.
Your stamina was gone, which made him slide your back to lay on the seats, he kept his pace the whole time. Your hands clawed at his shirt, and he groaned again. He went harder the next thrust, hitting your spongy spot and earning another cry of overstimulation from your lips, to which he met them with his own. The dance was one you have done before, deep and full of passion; you shouldn’t be loving each other like this but neither of you couldn’t stop. Addiction is hard to kick.
“I just want to make you mine,” he grunted as he kept going harder and harder; that high was so close but he wanted you to feel so much that you forgot about his best friend. Ghost truly loved you, and he couldn’t say if he wanted you because you were his best friend’s ex-girlfriend or because he was in love with you.
“If-“ You moaned as you could barely even ride your high down as you felt another one begin to bundle in the bottom of your belly. “If you promise to not be everything that hurts me.”
He wished he could’ve closed his eyes and not met your saddened eyes, but he met them with a trustful stare. He removed a hand that had held him up, only to lay it on your cheek as his thrusts began to slow to a stop.
“Y/N, I’ll love you until the end of time.”
“And I can’t hear that again,” You whispered, your hands cradling his face. “Don’t say you love me, this’ll get complicated and I lose everything.”
Ghost’s heart cracked, hearing the rejection with his dick still inside you made everything so much more confusing, but he knew he wasn’t your number one choice. He knew you had to love him, the talks and the time you’ve spent together and the hours you’ve spent getting fucked by each other had to mean something.
Simon knew this was all in his head and he knew he had made an agreement, to pleasure each other mutually without any distractions.
I like sex, I like flowers, I like attention.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered and his hands left your cheek as you winced a little.
There was only a moment of awkward silence before you spoke, “I hope you know that I am not leaving this car until I can’t walk.”
A silent agreement to not talk about it.
“But,” You closed your eyes as your hands roamed his face. “You can’t fucking cum in me, I don’t want to have to explain why I’m pregnant suddenly.”
He chuckled before he started to slow down again. “Just go fuck Price after this, or invite me to a threesome or something.”
You whimpered out a laugh as your stomach began to tighten again. “Then he’d know that you fuck me better and he’d get jealous.”
“He’d know that I would never put you second.”
Don't ever put me second.
His thrusts then became violent, skin slapping against skin like a song and your throat screamed melodies of moans and screams of pleasure. He bit his lip the whole time, trying to hold back his orgasm as he watched you writhe underneath him like a goddess. God, it felt like an eternity for him, watching how your skin moved and how your tongue curled when you orgasmed again.
You hit another orgasm in a record time and it was getting impossible for Ghost to not immediately cum when seeing your half-lidded eyes, he gripped the wall of the car while the other near your head now moved to your neck, squeezing tightly which made a smile appear on your lips as he went hard.
“Fuck, Si, I ca-an’t again,” You whimpered with what little breath you had, “I-I-“
“Come on,” he growled as his hips snapped so quickly you yelped. “Cum on me.”
They snapped again and you cried out, your hands went up to his shoulders, pulling him a little forwards as he finally let go. The feeling of release made him scream out your name, thrusting through his orgasm while you began to ride out your overstimulation. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-“
He stopped abruptly with his whole length in you, balls against your ass and you both panted.
I bet you won't find nothing feels this good this side of Heaven, so stop talking, pull my stockings down,
“Gimme my phone.” He panted and your hand moved to his pants on the car floor, digging around before you finally handed him the black phone. Your eyes closed as he took some deep breaths before making a call.
“Hey, Price.”
You're my cruel intention.
——
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a comforting discomfort
tags: armin x reader, NYE celebration, one bed, reader has nightmares, sassy armin, comfort, subtle pining
warnings: mentions of drinking
words: 3.5k
★ Exhausted and abuzz after a long New Year's Eve celebration, having tucked in the remaining members of your friend group, you and Armin find yourselves at a predicament: with no rooms left to sleep in, the two of you turn to the remaining, unnamed key to the last hotel room available to you.
★ It's fine, though, is it not? This is your celebration. This room is more than fitting, you both know this; have you not all spent such diligent time planning the rooms?
★ You see, there is just this one, minute issue. A hiccup, one might call it. A misunderstanding.
★ There is only one bed.
It had been a rowdy night. Loud, exuberant; so spirited that even now your head hurts, skin abuzz with this feeling that is still passing through you. Your ears ring, ever so gently, as you tuck the blanket around Sasha's shoulder, and you smile to yourself, watching the girl grin restlessly in her dream.
It's a difficult job, being the designated driver on a night such as this. It's an even more difficult one to nanny this bunch, with Armin as the only other person living sober through this mess.
"And we spent so much time settling on the rooms," you hear him now, grumbling quietly as he takes off Connie's shoes. You turn to him, watching him kneel by the boy's sleeping frame, and you can't help but chuckle in response.
"I told you," you murmur, taking a step closer, "I told you it'll all go to hell once the drinking starts."
He just sighs. Walking to him, even in this timid light, you see the exhaustion line his frame; shoulders hunched and hair tousled, Armin seems to use the last of his spirit to push Connie further into the bed. Then he sits there, watching the boy blankly. Soon thereafter he simply shakes his head, telling you: "..They can plan their own trip next time."
And you laugh. It's soft at first, weak from your own exhaustion, but then it titters indelicately, growing as you see the man give you a stern look. "Let's see you keep your word next time around, Arlert."
All he does is shake his head once more. He would glare at you, were it not for his fatigue, and yet you see it: this warm glint shines in his eye, and he bites, gently, the inside of his cheek; you watch him hold back a smile defiantly, and yours just grows bolder in response.
You watch him, then, as he drapes the remaining blanket over his friend, and soon you both turn to gaze over the mount of a mess your friends have created: pulled together against one another, the five lay listlessly atop the small beds, knocked out cold by the alcohol and excitement. They lounge without a care in the world now, and though you may be tired, you smile at the sight; it isn't often that the lot of you can allow yourselves such a celebration. And to Armin's chagrin, it did take a lot of planning: it isn't easy to take such a group over to the next city, or to plan a hotel stay on a limited student budget.
Still, watching them now, you feel, with your chest swelling, that you all have thoroughly succeeded.
"We still have one more key, right?" Armin asks you then, turning to you, and you dangle it in front of him.
"No clue whose it is, though," you tell him openly.
"At this point," Armin replies, another sigh leaving his chest, "Anybody's will do. There's no more space here, and I'm beat."
You hum in response, smiling weakly at the poor man. You reach over to him, rubbing at his back, and you note as his muscles ease beneath your hand. "Come on," you say then, turning to leave the room, and he follows.
The two of you slink through the corridors in the yellow-tinted light, looking for your number; feet heavy and dragging, you talk in hushed voices, and you giggle to each other, once in every while, at the long night's events. It feels peaceful like this, walking by his side, your own mind scattered as he looks and looks at the passing numbers by the doors; you two talk, and talk, and you can't help but feel taken, still, with the raw emotions of their celebration.
"There it is," he says eventually, his hand gliding over yours to take the key off your fingers. "I almost thought we wouldn't find it."
You yawn in response, a wordless acquiescence in its own right, and you are so tired, so bleary, you nearly miss the way Armin halts in his step, frozen in his place.
You think him dramatic – what else could it be? It must be the view by the window, or a gently furled towel in the shape of a swan, sitting boldly on one of the beds, and before you can poke at him for it, you, too, halt in your step. Then you, too, freeze openly in space.
There is, alas, just one bed. Not two, nor three. Just one.
You blink your eyes at it. Your lids are heavy, and your head swims, and you think, somewhere deep beneath your cranium, that if you were to just blink hard enough, long enough, another bed will materialise. And so you blink. And it does not.
Then you shake yourself of it. You are spent, and you are happy, and what is a stupid bed? It's just a bed. It's just sleep. You feel embarrassed, sure; there's this crackling, overwhelming prickling in your hands, and you feel a heat pooling in your cheeks, but it all passes quickly and with an almost effortless indignation. Soon, your legs are working – soon you are inside the room, hauling both of your packs to the chair within the corner.
Armin, in the meanwhile, seems to find a trajectory of his own. He slinks inside the room behind you, and then off to rummage through the wardrobe – far and away within the other side of the room.
You kneel, digging through your backpack, and you look for your toothbrush. It takes a while, because of course it does – when are you ever to pack diligently for a trip? And Armin is busy, that much you can tell; rustling and murmuring, restless in his task. You turn to him, wordlessly watching him: his frame is slouched over the wardrobe, tense and focused, and you observe still as he seems to find something within it.
"Aha," you hear him murmur, and you see it then: he drags the comforter out of the wardrobe, the corners of it dragging across the floor. He stands, swaying just ever so slightly, and still you watch, entirely perplexed, as he plops the comforter onto the ground with not an ounce of ceremony. He sidesteps it – just barely, the poor thing – at which you then observe him take a pillow – a singular pillow – off the bed. This, too, he throws down to the floor, next to the sad, lone comforter.
"What are you doing?" You ask finally, nearly speechless at your incredulity. Armin looks at you, eyes wide, so big; he looks as if caught in the headlights, as if caught in an act of some sort, his gaze swirling with an indescribable indignation.
Then, all at once, he seems to perk up; to bristle, in a way, eyes bright with a sudden realisation. "Oh," he begins then, tone so uncertain, "I'll sleep on the floor. Don't worry."
You blink at him. He blinks at you. The both of you stay like this, still as rocks, for this odd, prolonged moment.
And then you frown, his words slowly, slowly settling in your mind. Your eyes flit between them: the comforter, laid so carelessly onto the floor, and the man, stood so uncertainly by its foot. "You're not sleeping on the floor, Armin," you tell him.
And he seems lost, for a moment. Conflicted, at that. He frowns with you, shoulders straightening with a delicate certainty. You watch, quietly, as the man crosses his arms over his chest. "Well," he begins, "You will certainly not sleep on the floor."
Once more you stare at one another. Quiet and defiant, you clash heads wordlessly; then you just shake your head at him. You turn your back to him, looking for your pajamas, his indignation be damned. "Neither of us is sleeping on the floor, ‘Min. It's a two-person bed, for God's sake."
And then there's this little sound he makes. Like a gasp, stuck painfully in his throat. Like he’d choked on something; like he’d choked on your words. "Yes, but.." He says, words so swiftly trailing back into an uncertainty. You turn back to face him again, concerned at the tone of his voice. You find him just standing there, eyes cast downwards with a hesitancy; a ghostly pink sheen dances across his cheeks.
"Okay," you backtrack, standing up – eager to meet him at equal height. "I'm sorry. If you're uncomfortable, we can figure something else." You watch, then, palms nearly sweating as he rubs the back of his neck. As he thinks through your words.
His eyes jump to yours for seconds, and then just as quick he avoids your gaze. "No, it's fine. Really," he says.
"Armin, it's okay."
"And I mean it – it's fine."
You watch him; you watch him as he kneels to the floor, collecting so tentatively the comforter and the pillow into his arms. "Armin," you call to him, recognising, by the line of his shoulders, that he hears you. "Look at me."
And he does. Eyes wide and cheeks crested red, he looks at you with his lips pursed. "I need you to tell me if you're uncomfortable,” you ask him earnestly, and as you do, your mind fills with a worry over this new strange tentativeness you're seeing in the man before you, “Or if you're just being shy.”
A beat passes. It stretches, just a little, as the red reaches to his throat. Then he turns his gaze away once again, grasping as the comforter and the pillow. "I'm just shy," he tells you sincerely, standing so still, and he does not meet your eyes.
It eases something. Something tangible. You feel your shoulders letting go, and then you just stand there, watching as the man lays the items in his hands onto the bed. You think to say something, anything; you think, in an almost desperation, that if Jean were here, he would tease someone in this room – he would ease you both off of this embarrassment, washing it away as if it were never here. And you think to do so, too, for a moment; palms twitching and skin hot. And then he looks up at you again. His eyes big. Vulnerable. It marks your mind blank; it, too, somehow, drops the awkwardness out of them, and so instead you tell him, as softly as you can: “It’s just a bed, Armin.” And he just looks at you. Stare blank, or perhaps discomforted – you can’t rightly tell at this point. “I mean, you’ve shared a bed with someone before, right?”
He pauses, just briefly. Then he looks so incredibly sheepish when he asks: “Do sleepovers count?”
"This is a sleepover," you tell him, laughing so suddenly it startles even you, and you don't miss this oddly bashful look he gives you; it’s short, so short, but you see it, just before he turns his gaze away.
He busies his hands then, your conversation quickly growing to a lull at that. He folds out the comforter across one side of the bed, and you try to stay busy, too; watching, carefully, as he takes the time to fold the other comforter and making, it seems, a space for him, and a space for you. You feel a certain bashfulness of your own at the sight; with how careful his hands are at the task, with how concentrated his face seems – it feels domestic in a particularly peculiar way, and though it is sweet, though, in a way, it is comforting, something about it makes you, too, quite shy.
So, really, in the end, neither of the two of you look at each other as you ready yourselves for sleep – not until you stand side by side once more, eyes meeting in the mirror reflections of each other, toothbrushes in hand.
He does not look away this time, and yet still, here in this low bathroom light, you can see the gentle blush creeping on his skin. "You know," you say, passing the toothpaste to him, "We could call the desk. See if they could change the room, or something."
He just frowns at you. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "It's four in the morning, Y/N. On New Year's Eve." Then he turns towards you, as if pointing with a look alone.
"Well, excuse me," you say, "I'll be damned if I attempt at a solution for your predicament again, Mr. 'I'm shy about sharing a bed.'"
"No, it was a good attempt," he says, his grin flipped and crooked to the side within the reflection. "I'd dare say one of your best ideas this year."
"Screw you," you say, mouth full of toothpaste, and he laughs.
They stand there, muscles easing by the trickling seconds. His shoulder bumps into yours carefully, once, twice, and you catch his gaze each time he does it, humming at his reflection in the mirror.
That slow, pink tint still lay steadfast on his skin, and though you decide it proper to not tease him for it any longer, you can't seem to look away from it, either. It is odd to see him like this now, bashful despite the exhaustion clear in his bones, frame smaller than you are used to by now. You’d thought, before this, that you were used how shy he’d come to be, but this, you know now, is new. Entirely new.
Despite it, however, Armin seems to not mind it much. He smiles languidly at your reflection, cheeks dimpling with a delicate curve, and your heart seems to flip at it, thrumming uncomfortably loud; you look away this instant, turning the faucet to a stream far too strong. He, however, seems to not notice; instead he bends to wash his face, telling you: "I'll be sleeping on the left side."
"That's fine," you tell him, washing your mouth; you wash your face then, cold, sobering water clinging to your skin. "Left side's closer to the door,” you tell him, grasping at the towel he hands you, “I'd wager you need a quick escape if anything."
He flicks water at you, his eyes fiery with an unspoken retort. You giggle, and in the midst of it you see that look transform; defiance grows in there, and with it – a warmth spreads right after, blooming like a nyctigamous flower. "You guys are so planning your own trip next time," he says, pouting just ever so lightly, and you think of it again – that smile; the thought is brief and sudden, and you push it down so quickly it nearly has you lightheaded.
Instead you laugh, and you are laughing still when the two of you leave the bathroom, steps heavy as you both reach for different sides of the bed. "Come on," you say, watching him, almost warily, from your corner, "Don't pout."
"I'll think about it," he tells you, his hand reaching for the light switches, and you step closer, standing at the foot of the bed. You watch almost listlessly as Armin shuts the lights off, one, by one, by one.
You tense, then, sudden and all at once: mulling over the sudden outburst within your thoughts, pulled tight to one and the other. It’s so quick, this time your head does grow dizzy, and you watch in a slowed breath as his hand reaches for the small lamp on the nightstand; the last light within the room. The worry rises furthermore, and then it surges into you, and then it all comes out of you: "Oh," you gasp, the remaining words agglutinated treacherously on the tip of your tongue. Armin freezes in barely an instant, his large eyes right on you.
The two of you stare at one another, unspeaking. Your palm twitches reflexively by your side. Distantly, you begin to feel a nervous thudding in your chest, and you try to find the words as Armin tries to see them on you, his eyes flitting back and forth between your eyes and your hands.
"Should I," he begins gently, plaintively, and the words finally break through.
"No," you say, "I just. Well. Don't laugh, okay?" You watch as his shoulders straighten, and something softens in his gaze, and whatever it may have been, it takes you by your heart, easing your own discomfort in an immediate instant. "I have a hard time sleeping in the dark," you admit quietly, "I have nightmares and stuff. Is it okay if we.." You wave your hand in the direction of the lamp, its light gentle and unobtrusive within the room, and he looks at you so gently that you feel almost stupid for having felt anxious about it at all.
"Of course it's okay," he says, stepping away from the lamp. "We'll keep it on, okay? Don't worry." Then he simply watches you, eyes still searching, reaching for something that lay unspoken within you. You think he may have found something – you're not sure what it is, but you see it, the way his gaze lights up in an indescribable way. "Come on," he says, urged by that whichever he sought in your eyes, "Lie down. It's okay, let's rest."
And you do – rendered sheepish and silent, you climb and crawl beneath the covers without a word. And as he does the same, he watches you with a cautiousness; and as you lay side by side, you know he will ask it before he utters the words – you can see them, swirling hesitantly within his gaze.
"Would you like to talk about them?" He asks then, of course he does; his tone is soft and quiet, and for a moment you just watch as he turns to lie on his side, his entire body turning to attention for you. For a brief moment, you are overcome with that feeling again; of a domestic quietude, of something so inherently comforting as the two of you lay in this bed, beneath two separate covers. "The nightmares. I had no clue you had them."
You do not notice it, your body following his – you find yourself on your side, facing him like he faces you, and your hand lays itself flushly upon the soft pillow. "Yeah," you say, "I've had them for a few years. Stubborn things."
"I'm sorry," he says earnestly, and you know he means it; you can see it, this gentle, eager thing blooming in his expression, the way it does when he sees a friend in trouble. "Can I help in any way?"
And you shrug at him, the gesture helpless as you lay beneath the worry, slowly growing in his gaze. "They've been here so long, I'm not really sure what to do about them myself," you admit, "You should wake me if I talk in my sleep or anything. I don't want to bother your rest."
"You would never," he tells you then; it’s a little quick, a little forced, and you can't help but laugh weakly.
"Okay," you say, giving him, if anything else, an earnest smile. He smiles back at you. "Tell me something," you tell him then, the muscles of your shoulders easing into the bed. "Anything."
He does. The both of you do. You two ease into a gentle conversation, talking in soft, tired voices with your hair tousled on your pillows. He tells you many things; small things, inconsequential things, and you find yourself easing, and easing, smiling happily at the restless way with which he does his best to distract you. And you can’t help but think of how tender it is.
Eventually, with your eyelids drooping and chests rising with yawns, he pauses a little, just briefly; just to look at you. He smiles warily, and then he asks you: "A little better?"
"A little," you tell him honestly. "I think I'm ready to sleep now."
He smiles again. He takes a moment, between your words and this, and you can almost see the deliberation pass through him; then he shifts, reaching towards you, stopping right there, just a fraction shy of your hand. "Let me hold your hand," he whispers, quiet and so gentle it nearly melts into the room. "It might help."
You hesitate. You do. It is brief, but it is there: you lay looking at his hand, palm up and warm and inviting, and it feels almost daunting for you, the thought of taking his hand. Then he says your name, urging you to take this kindness, and you do. You reach for his hand, closing this meagre distance between them, and you feel a strange shyness come for you as they clasp together. His hand in yours feels warmer than you anticipated, but softer, too; therein you look at him, finding him with this gentle, encouraging expression on his face, and for the briefest second you find yourself wishing, almost desperately, to experience this again, and again – perhaps for the rest of your life.
"Okay?" He whispers, sleep heavy in his voice. He squeezes your hand.
You squeeze back. "Good," you say, closing your eyes. A heavy breath leaves your chest. "It's good."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
"Goodnight," you say, his hand in yours, "Armin."
dividers by cafekitsune
tag list: @arlerts-angel @sukunascrustyfinger @supersupper @levistealeaf
reblogs are welcome and would be very helpful 💗
#armin x reader#armin x you#armin arlert#armin fanfiction#armin fluff#aot fanfiction#aot headcanons#armin aot#attack on titan x you#attack on titan#aot x reader#attack on titan x reader#aot fluff#armin x y/n#snk#aot#shingeki no kyojin#armin headcanons#my writing
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everything's falling apart (CL16 x reader)
everything’s falling apart (CL16 x reader)
part 2 (everything fell apart) | part 3 (everything's gone)
series masterlist- everything (you're losing me)
synopsis: you can't find a pulse, your heart won’t start anymore. you and Charles’ relationship go downhill!
“I don’t understand!” Charles waves his hands in the air, infuriated.
“I know you don’t.” You say, holding back the tears threatening to spill out all at once.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
pairing: charles leclerc x reader
word count: 1135
a/n: i sure do love some angst. was meant to be a ‘you’re losing me’ based fic but gave up on that lol!
masterlist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I love you.” Charles says.
“I love you too.” You reply, with a wide smile on your face.
Who knew how quickly that would fade, like a lost moment in time, gone with the wind. Within weeks of your newly found love (or so you thought), reality came crashing down, swinging at you in full force.
Love wasn’t easy.
It never was.
--------------------------------------------------
“You really cannot be expecting me to do all this.” Charles says, leaning on the couch.
“All I’m asking is you try to be nicer when talking to me.” You rephrase your thoughts for the millionth time.
“Why?”
“Because some of the things you say hurt like hell.”
“I thought you were a phoenix rising from the ashes.” He quotes you, almost mockingly.
“Well, I try.”
“Try harder.” He deadpans.
“What?”
“I try hard too. I try hard to get where I want in life. You’re expecting it to be served on a silver platter.” Charles says nonchalantly.
“I try really hard too.”
“To do what?”
“Get a career? Be the perfect love?”
“It isn’t working then.”
“What?”
“You’re jobless and a hopeless romantic.”
You hesitate responding, nothing comes out. You try saying something else, but it doesn’t want to be said. The cat’s got your tongue.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” He scorns.
No. The words refuse to come out. A wave of sadness washes over you and you feel extremely horrible, your throat is getting clogged.
You would give everything for Charles.
-------------------------------------------------
“Are you ready?” Charles says coldly, adjusting the tie in the mirror.
“Yea.” You reply, putting on your rings and adjusting everything.
He turns to look at your outfit, giving it a really cold glare.
“What? Is it not nice?” You worriedly ask.
“Change.” He doesn’t answer your question.
“What? But I like this-”
“Change… now.” He says, pointing to the closet.
“Why?”
You didn’t know why Charles was being so rude about it; it wasn’t like him, but he’s changed, so what even is ‘him’ anymore?
You and Charles stare into each other's eyes, his eyes cold and unreadable, as if he never wanted to be here. You look at him, not breaking any eye contact whatsoever.
“You have to change.” He says, sounding a bit more agitated this time.
“Why?” You repeat, increasing in frustration as well.
“Just please, go-” He says, looking away, his fingers rubbing his forehead.
“I won’t. I like this.” You stand your ground unlike most other times. You’re done with this. You’re not going to be pushed around.
“It’s… because… this outfit has too much… skin showing.” He says unconvincingly, “People will do weird things.”
Bullshit.
You look at the time, you two are already on track to being late to the most important event of both of your lives. After a long pause, a sigh, you change out and quickly put on another outfit.
You hate this. You were supposed to stand your ground, but here you were, giving in again.
You would give everything for Charles.
But would he give you everything?
-------------------------------------------------
“I don’t understand!” Charles waves his hands in the air, infuriated.
“I know you don’t.” You say, holding back the tears threatening to spill out all at once.
Both of you stand in the living room with a fair distance in between you two, it’s ironic, how much you loved this room. The warm orange-yellow light latched onto the wall was turned on behind him and it made him glow as if he was in the evening sun . You used to love it, seeing him smile while the light made him glow. He was perfect. Everything was perfect.
Now, there’s nothing perfect or beautiful about this. The light made him flash an angry glow, painfully dark red. His eyes glowed in fury, the lights made it ever so obvious.
“Mon Dieu!” He says, throwing himself onto the couch, “I think you’re being dramatic.”
You might’ve bothered listening to what he had to say, if he didn’t proceed with a loud, disgruntled sigh and burying his face in his hands, letting out more grunts.
You’re done with this.
You turn around and storm into your room. It’s dark. You don’t bother turning the lights on and just sit on the edge of your bed. The tears start streaming down.
It’s dark. It’s cold.
His hands wrap around your body, filling it with warmth. The tears don’t slow down, still streaming. He hugs you tightly, holding you in.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers into your ear, wiping the tears from your cheeks.
“I’m really sorry.” He says again, much softer this time. You feel his warm breath on your skin.
He continues hugging you tightly, keeping you within his embrace as you sob quietly.
“I didn’t mean it.” He says again for the 100th time.
Does he mean it?
You don’t know and it’s eating at you. He says this all the time after every single one of his outbursts. The pain doesn’t go away, it never does. He could hug you and shower you with gifts but the ‘you’re useless’ and ‘you’re being dramatic’ never leaves you.
He’s sorry.
But is he?
-------------------------------------------------
“Again?” You ask, trying to give off a little bit of disappointment.
“Yes. Again.” Charles says, adjusting his suit.
“You’re going out again? For the fifth time this week?” You ask, attempting to bring across a point.
“Your point?” He shoots it down almost instantly.
“Stay at home? Maybe spend time with me?”
“I see you all the time. I see these people too little, I’m seeing them more.” Charles says.
“Yea but-”
“It’s a special time for me.”
“I know… it’s just I was hoping we could spend some time together.”
“Next time.”
“But-”
“I promise.”
“Fine…” You reluctantly say.
“Call me if you need.”
He says and gives you a quick smile before kissing you on the cheek.
You love Charles. You really do, but lately it’s disappearing. It’s fading.
You can’t lie to yourself anymore, this definitely isn’t going to work out and there’s only a matter of time before your relationship implodes, but you love him so much, you can’t let him go… not yet.
You love Charles.
You’re on borrowed time.
He doesn’t love you back.
It hurts. Your heart and mind conflict, you would never think in a million years you’d have to be thinking about this. Charles was supposed to be your prince charming, your Mr Perfect, your everything but here you were, on the brink of tears because of him.
------------------------------------------------
You needed someone right now, maybe to come over and hang out with you. Someone to share your sorrows with or someone to cry on; seeing as Charles had no intent of giving you the necessary attention, you turned to your next best source.
“Hi.” He finally picked up.
“Hi Arthur.”
#f1 imagine#f1#formula 1#formula one#f1 fandom#f1 fanfic#f1 fic#f1 x reader#f1 x male reader#f1 x female reader#f1 x y/n#f1 x you#angst#f1 angst#charles leclerc#charles leclerc x you#formula 1 x reader#charles leclerc imagine#scuderia ferrari#cl16#not beta read#cl16 x reader#cl16 imagine#cl16 x you#cl16 angst#arthur leclerc
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[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]
𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: After a particularly rough case, Reader starts acting distant. Lockwood thinks giving her space will help.
When he's woken by the phone ringing, George doesn't need to know what happened to know it's probably Lockwood's fault.
ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: Mature/Explicit.
𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Alcohol consumption, strong language, sexual content (second base with intent to go further), anxious avoidant Reader, Reader is shorter than Lockwood, drunk Reader, Reader is harassed at the bar, brief touch without consent, no use of y/n.
𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Fuck I love playing with different kinds of dynamics. I've had this sitting partially drafted in my writing folder for a year now, and the brain-goblins wouldn't let me keep working on SM until this was done lmao
Please let this be the year I finally get a handle on my creative flow fml
𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.1k
The first time the phone rings, both inhabitants of 35 Portland Row manage to remain deep in a well earned slumber.
The second time the phone rings, it successfully rouses one George Karim. Muttering a string of colourful insults under his breath that - had he been in his family home - would have earned him a smack over the head with his mother’s slipper, he reluctantly drags himself from the warmth and comfort of his duvet. Letting out a long suffering sigh that lasts through the entire shuffle from his room to the phone on the floor below, he lifts it from the receiver and greets the caller with a noise somewhere between ‘hello’ and ‘fuck off’.
“Evening, sorry to wake you. This is James, calling from The Royal Oak. Is there a, uh-” Even over the numerous voices and the clinking of glass in the background, George can hear the gruff sounding man being interrupted by a woman’s voice mumbling incoherently before all sound is muffled by a palm being pressed over the mic on the other end, “-sorry, did you say…? Really, sweetheart? Alright, but don’t try to blame this on me tomorrow when you sober up.”
Then the phone is back to full volume. “Sorry about that, I’ve got a young lady here who says she lives at this address? She’s too drunk to get herself home and this is the number she gave for someone she trusts to come get her. But, uh, she-” James seems like he’d rather not say the next bit, “well, she just keeps asking for ‘that selfish wanker’? Won’t give me a name otherwise.”
There’s not a lot in this world capable of rendering George completely speechless, but that… That does it. He allows the phone to drop from his ear for a moment, resting it on his shoulder as he attempts to compose himself and reply to the nice man on the other end of the line.
“Uh… Yeah, she- she’s ours. Probably talking about our boss, then. I’ll, uh… I’ll go wake him. I’m sure he’ll be there very soon.” He has to speak up over the sound of James choking and sputtering in surprise to say a polite ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’, before slamming the phone down and jogging up the stairs to wake his friend.
He pauses for a moment halfway up, considering heading back downstairs to grab a boot to throw at the door. Unfortunately his need for immediate answers outweighs his urge to be petty, so he settles for pounding loudly on the door instead.
There’s quiet rustling and not so quiet cursing on the other side before it’s ripped open.
“What?!” A dishevelled Anthony Lockwood snaps, blinking sleep from glaring eyes and leaning on the doorframe in an endeavour to keep himself upright.
“Just got a call from The Royal Oak, down on York Street? Turns out they have a resident of this address drunkenly calling for a ‘selfish wanker’ to come pick her up.” George crosses his arms, raising a challenging eyebrow at the taller man.
Lockwood’s expression shifts from its existing irritated frown into confusion, then straight to alarm. He wastes no time flipping the light switch beside the doorway, bathing the room in light as he crosses it to tug one of his dresser drawers open.
“Can you call me a Night Cab, please? Offer them double fare to prioritise.” He calls over his bare shoulder, searching for a t-shirt and hoodie to toss on. His researcher says nothing as he complies, deciding to save the interrogation for later.
Anthony is properly worried.
Their third roommate had come back from their last job acting distant. They’d been separated by a pair of particularly nasty Spectre’s for close to an hour, but she’d succeeded in securing the Source’s and they’d all made it out in one piece. He’d been so caught up in pride for his team he hadn’t noticed the effect it had on her until days later. When he tried to approach her with his concerns, she clammed up and looked as though she was about to cry before excusing herself to her room. None of the members of his agency, himself included, had seen her exit her room for two days after that.
He hadn’t asked about it since, and while giving her space seemed to be working by way of not making her cry, he was starting to wonder if it had been upsetting her in a different way.
Even taking all of that into consideration, there’s still no way he could have seen a phone call like this coming at 2:56 AM on a Tuesday.
All he can find is a sleeveless black undershirt. With a huff of frustration he pulls it over his head, kicking the drawer closed simultaneously, then pulling open the one above it. The joggers he fell asleep in are fine enough, so after a fit of undignified hopping across the room to cover his feet with pink socks he grabs a random hoodie off of the armchair by the window, shrugs into it, and zips it on his way down the stairs.
George is waiting for him at the bottom, staring at his watch.
“Your cab should be here in three minutes, mine should be here in thirteen.” He looks up from his wrist, meeting his boss’s confused look with an exasperated one. “I’m heading to Flo’s for the night, so whatever you fucked up, mate? Fix it.” Karim claps him on the shoulder, walking past him to pack an overnight bag. It might not be conventional, but Anthony knows it’s the closest thing to encouragement he’s going to get.
The next several minutes pass in a blur of waiting and worrying, until finally it’s 3:14 AM and he’s slipping the cab driver an extra twenty quid to wait for them, swearing to be no longer than fifteen minutes. The ungodly-early morning air is sharp and cold, cutting to the bone as soon as he steps out of the comforting warmth of the vehicle. It’s plenty enough encouragement to hurry his way to the building, pulling the door open to slip into the soft golden warmth and loud ambiance of the pub.
He hesitates on the doormat, catching sight of the other patrons. Thankfully it isn’t a particularly highbrow establishment, but it's nice enough for him to feel noticeably underdressed in black joggers and a grey zip-up. And then he lays eyes on her, and all insecurities are immediately banished by the sharp knife of shock burying itself in his gut.
She’s balanced on a table, wearing a little black dress he’d never seen before. Her arms are raised above her head, fingers combing through her hair as her hips sway to the bass of the music in a way that probably would have had his mouth watering if it wasn’t for present circumstances.
He isn’t the only one noticing her. There’s a group of men standing around the table, watching her with hungry eyes that make his skin crawl with disgust.
A tall blonde man pushes his way past the rest of the crowd, deep set ice blue eyes chasing up her legs. She seems to either be unaware of his presence, or too lost in the music to care. Even from his position across the room he can see her eyes are out of focus, drifting away for split seconds every few beats from the speakers on the wall.
The man raises a hand and grabs her thigh, using enough pressure to leave visible fingermarks.
Lockwood finds himself frozen in place, blood boiling as he mentally considers how challenging talking his way out of a murder charge could really be. Surely not that much harder than talking his way out of an arson charge, and he’d done that often enough to be confident in his abilities.
Before his sleep deprived mind can break free of its indecision, the girl spins around abruptly and slaps the lecherous limb away from her. The slime of a man attached to it is none too happy about that, making a move to grab for her arm. Her normally impeccable reflexes are slowed by the alcohol, she can’t move fast enough to avoid the attack. When his fingers close around her wrist, he pulls. Hard.
She teeters on the edge of the table, her short cry of pain audible even over the music.
Huh. He’d always thought the whole ‘seeing red’ thing was entirely turn of phrase, but as it turns out, there’s actually a modicum of truth to it.
He’s halfway across the bar by the time he realises he’s in motion, but he’s not about to stop. Closing the remaining distance in a few purposeful strides, he grabs the creep’s arm in a vice grip. The blonde releases his hold on her immediately, instinctively trying to pull away from the pain. Lockwood lets him stumble away in surprise, wasting no time placing himself in between his friend and the threat to her safety. At first he’s optimistic he might have a chance to vent some anger when the wanker locks eyes with him, but whatever he’d seen in Anthony’s was enough to make him back down and stumble off with an insincere apology.
Reminding himself to focus his attention where it belongs, he turns to look up at the girl on the table. Her face lights up with delight when she recognizes him, then swiftly sours the longer she looks at him.
He feels like an absolute prick for not noticing the dark circles around her eyes sooner. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he reaches up to offer her both of his hands, palms up. She sways in place for a moment, scowling pensively at the proffered appendages. He studies her face while he waits patiently, trying to find any hint of what could be bothering her enough to take this approach to forgetting.
With a tiny hiccup she finally caves, placing her hands in his and allowing him to help her to solid ground. Once both of her feet are securely on the sticky floor, he offers her his arm for support. She gives him another little glare, but just like before, she eventually accepts his help.
Scanning the other tables and chairs around her makeshift stage, he sees no sign of a purse or jacket that he recognises in the slightest.
“Did you bring anything with you, sweetheart?” He asks her directly, leaning closer to her ear to be heard over the noise. If he didn’t know any better he’d say she looks almost flustered; eyes glazed, cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink, looking through him rather than at him as she tries to filter his words through the haze of liquor clouding her mind.
Although he’s prepared to wait as long as it takes for her to answer, he can’t help but feel a touch relieved when the bartender waves him over holding a familiar leather clutch. Gently taking her by the arm, he guides her to a nearby chair to sit and wait for him to collect her belongings. Giving a final warning look to the remaining crowd for good measure, he leaves her side to approach the bar.
The man behind it is average height, with mid length dark hair as well kept as his perfectly trimmed goatee. He abandons the glass he’s polishing, tossing the white cloth he’d been using over his shoulder and offering Anthony a calloused hand. “I take it you must be-”
“‘That selfish wanker’? Present and accounted for, though I also answer to ‘Anthony’.” He replies, accepting the handshake.
The other man’s grip is firm but friendly, and he throws his head back in merriment at Lockwood’s unexpected introduction. “James, pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from your little Songbird over there.”
Lockwood winces. “Not all bad, hopefully.”
“No, not all bad.” James soothes before leaning in conspiratorially, “Just don’t tell her I said that.”
He shoots him a wink as he settles back, and now it’s Anthony’s turn to laugh. It’s decided then and there; they like each other.
He reaches behind the lip of the bar, grabbing the clutch he’d tucked out of sight until he could determine Lockwood’s identity. “This is all she brought with her. You’ve got a safe way home?”
Anthony takes it from him with a grateful smile. “Yeah, paid the driver to stick around. I consider myself pretty good at multitasking, just not ‘keeping her upright and not getting ghost-touched’ good.” James lets loose a hearty laugh in response.
The screech of wood against the floor draws their attention back to the woman formerly in the chair, now standing unsteadily a few feet away.
“And that’s my cue. Pleasure to meet you, James. And, uh-” He glances back at her involuntarily. “Thank you. For keeping an eye on her, calling us, the lot of it.”
The bartender smirks, quirking an eyebrow and giving him a knowing look. “It's what any decent person would do. Don’t be a stranger now, either of you.”
Lockwood departs the bar, clutch in hand, with a salute and a promise to be back another time.
She seems confused at first when he tries to get her attention, switching to stare at him reproachfully when she recognises him again. He sighs, trying to tuck away his own feelings of exhaustion and defeat.
“Let's get you home, love.” He murmurs, offering his arm again. She takes it without hesitation this time, leaning heavily against him as they make their way to the exit. Pausing on the doormat, he carefully extracts his limb from her grip, soothing her little noise of protest by assuring she’d be using him as a crutch again momentarily. The metal of the zipper is cold against his bare arms as he shrugs his hoodie off, blatantly ignoring her attempts to argue with him and draping the grey fabric over her shoulders.
The cold breeze cuts into him once they’re outside, but he carefully schools his expression to avoid showing her it's affecting him at all. Despite having paid the man extra, he’s still pleasantly surprised to see the black cab still waiting at the curb.
It’s easier than he’d expected to load her into the comfortable back seat. She doesn’t even try to swat his hand away when he places it on top of her head to prevent her bouncing it off the roof in her attempt to get in.
Once she’s scooted to the far side, he climbs in after her. She seems lost in thought, staring absently at the headrest in front of her. He leans closer slowly, giving her ample time to move away if she doesn’t want him in her space. When she remains stationary, he reaches across her body to grab her seatbelt, gently buckling her in and tightening the belt over her hips.
She finally looks at him, expression blank as she studies his features. It’s clear her mind is elsewhere, and she returns to staring at the black leather so quickly he wonders if he’d imagined the whole thing.
He gives their driver the all clear, directing him to drop them off where he’d first picked him up before slumping back into his seat for the uncomfortably quiet ride home.
They’re half-way there when he can stand to ignore the elephant in the room no longer. The words slip out before he can think of a more tactful way to ask; “What’s going on with you?”
She turns to look at him so slowly it’s almost unnerving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She answers bitterly, her voice laced with the same steel as her eyes.
“That’s bloody horseshit!” He scoffs, far too tired to hold back. “If there was nothing wrong, I wouldn’t have gotten a call tonight.”
Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly for several seconds, seemingly overwhelmed by the number colourful insults she’d like to hurl at him.
“Like you care.” She finally mutters, shaking her head and turning away from him to stare pointedly out her window.
“...What?” He manages to put his frustration on hold for a moment, making room for his growing concern. “Of course I care, what makes you think I wouldn’t?”
She laughs darkly, shaking her head. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” He cries in exasperation.
She whips around to face him. “You knew I was struggling! You knew, and you ignored it because it was easier than dealing with me!” Her eyes are wild, chest heaving as she draws in air like she has to fight for every breath.
All hostility drains out of him in an instant, leaving him uncomfortably hollow in its absence. He’s intimately aware of her eyes searching his face, trying to gain some kind of insight into his mind.
He feels like he’s just stumbled into a minefield, and in a way he has. If his next words aren’t carefully chosen, he could detonate one and destroy his friendship with someone he can’t live without.
Organising his thoughts and taking a deep breath, he plunges ahead.
“I’m sorry. I thought by giving you space I was giving you what you needed, but I should have just talked to you. And you’re right, I was being selfish, just… not in the way you’re thinking.” She looks like she’s about to interrupt, but he ploughs on. “I was afraid if I pushed too hard you’d shut me out. I thought it would be safer to stay silent and let you come to me when you were ready, but it was my responsibility to communicate that to you, and I failed.”
They sit in stillness for far longer than he’s comfortable with, his words hanging in the air between them.
When she finally puts him out of his misery, he has to strain to hear her over the rumble of the car. “It wasn’t two Spectres.”
It feels like someone’s poured ice down his back. “...What?”
“The last job? We thought it was just two Spectres, but it wasn’t. It-” Her voice shakes, then dies. She has to stop and breathe, looking like she’s about to be crushed by the weight of the words on her tongue. “One of them was a Fetch.”
Staring down at his hands, he searches for the right words to say. Is he supposed to say anything at all? If he interrupts now, will she shut him out? If he doesn’t, will she think he doesn’t care?
A point of personal pride for him is being able to read people, to shape himself into whatever role they need him to fill, but… he has no idea who she needs him to be right now.
She hesitantly continues. “It was you.”
He looks up at her only to find her eyes already on him. “It wasn’t.”
She laughs sadly, but doesn’t look away. When she tips her head to concede the point, the light catches at the corner of her eye. “Right. It did use your face, though.”
“Whatever it said, it isn’t true.” He can’t resist the urge to reach across the seat between them, wiping the tear from her cheek and hoping she can feel the truth in his words when he says; “A Fetch will find your worst fear and exploit it. And I swear to you, I will never allow anything to make you feel afraid like this again.”
Silence stretches on between them, becoming heavier with every second passing them by. His thumb continues stroking her face slowly, absentmindedly. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think her eyes had drifted to his lips.
“Kiss me.”
His hand falls from her face.
For a second, he thinks it’s him that’s said it. When he realises it wasn’t, the potential implications of her words make his heart stutter. There’s a chance this is just a drunken impulse, a need for comfort in a moment of vulnerability. If it is, what the hell is he supposed to do about it? If he gives in to her, will he be able to carry on working beside her once he’s had a taste of the life with her he doesn’t even allow himself to dream about?
On the flip side, there’s a chance that this is an actual confession. The Fetch had chosen his face to torment her, and as horrifying as that had been to hear, it only would have done so if she felt something for him. Maybe she feels the same as he does. Maybe the reason he can never figure out what mask to put on for her, is that she’s only ever needed him to be himself.
Hope fills every inch of him as he stares at her, enraptured.
Then, he realises he’s been quiet for long enough for panic to fill her eyes.
“Ask me in the morning.” He breathes, feeling as perplexed as she looks when the words come out of his mouth. She’s confused that he hasn’t directly shot her down. He’s confused that he’s capable of this kind of restraint while sleep deprived.
“What?” She frowns, blinking as her eyes lose focus for a split second in her bewilderment.
Feeling more confident in his decision, he smiles softly at her. “Ask me when you’re sober, and when we’re not in this nice man’s cab.”
The driver laughs, trying and failing to cover it with a guilty cough.
Once they reach 35 Portland Row, Anthony covers the fare and slips the man a generous tip for enduring their antics before exiting the cab. The emotional intensity of the ride home had been enough to partially sober up his companion, but he still isn’t sold on her ability to climb stairs without assistance.
He keeps his arm wrapped tightly around her waist until they reach the door of her room - formerly Lucy’s - on the top level of the house before reluctantly removing it. She wobbles for a moment, but it seems to be more from her leaning to chase his touch than any serious instability. They stand there for a while, neither willing to walk away from the other, until a large yawn overtakes her.
He chuckles, suddenly remembering James’ nickname for her. “Goodnight, Songbird.”
“That’s a stupid nickname.” She complains, scrunching up her face in distaste. When all he does is laugh some more, she sighs and carries on. “Goodnight, Anthony. Sweet dreams.”
He disagrees completely, of course. From her lips, his name is the sweetest song he’s ever heard.
Turning away from him, she places her hand on the doorknob but doesn’t make any move to twist it. He’s about to ask her if something is wrong when she turns back to him swiftly, closing the distance between them and standing on her toes to brace her hands on his shoulders as she presses the ghost of a kiss against his cheek. By the time he’s raised trembling fingers to the tingling skin, she’s already in her room with the door closed behind her.
He spends his early morning dreaming of the flutter of wings, and birds gently pecking him on the cheek.
When he’s woken by persistent knocking on his door once more, Anthony Lockwood finds himself wondering what precisely he had done to piss off Hypnos in a past life.
Still on high alert from his unusual evening, he’s out of bed and across the room without a second thought. When he pulls the door open he’s entirely expecting another emergency, not to find the girl of his dreams standing there staring steadfast at her feet.
“I am so sorry about last night, I should have told you what was going on instead of going on a bloody bender. That was incredibly immature and irresponsible of me and I completely understand if you want to fire me.” She starts slow, but by the end of her apology the words are flying out of her mouth. Despite her best efforts, the misery in her voice as she says the last bit is tangible.
Why would he want that? Still not entirely awake, the first thing out of his mouth is the first thought in his mind. “Please don’t leave.”
“...What?” Not even remotely prepared for that response, she finally looks up at him. As their eyes meet, reality sets in and time seems to slow.
When he takes a proper look at her, he completely forgets the entirety of the English language. Her hair is mussed from sleep, remnants of last night's makeup smudged under her eyes. She’d apparently had the mental faculties to change into her pyjamas the night previous, and while he’d seen her in those shorts often enough to control the urge to stare, something about her wearing his hoodie zipped over them was making him feel like a moron. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.
On the other side of the doorway, she’s having a very similar crisis. His sleep tousled hair only doubled her ever present urge to rake her fingers through it. And not only had he been in such a hurry to answer the door he hadn’t bothered to slip on a shirt, his joggers were also sitting dangerously low on his hips.
Their eyes snap back to each other's faces in tandem, both flushing almost comical shades of red.
“Did you mean what you said last night?” He asks hurriedly, heart pounding in his throat.
“I said a lot of things.” She wraps her arms around herself, laughing nervously. “Which part?”
He keeps his eyes fixed on hers, searching them for some clue to tell him what comes next.
Mustering more courage than she thought she was capable of, she answers honestly. “Yeah, I did. Every word.”
Mimicking his actions from the night before he extends both of his hands towards her, palms up.
She tilts her head quizzically, but places her hands in his. He uses them to pull her close enough their bodies are almost touching, guiding her arms to rest on his shoulders, releasing them to place one hand on her waist and the other on the side of her neck. She inhales sharply when he leans in, his thumb lightly stroking her jaw while her gaze flickers between his eyes and lips.
He’s studying her face like he never wants to forget a single detail, but he doesn’t get any closer. She’s lightheaded and pretty sure she’s going to die if he doesn’t kiss her soon, which is probably why it’s not until she sees the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile that she realises what he’s waiting for.
“Kiss me.” She breathes.
He doesn’t need to be told a third time.
He leans down and kisses her like he’ll never get the chance to do so again, like the world is falling to pieces around them and the only thing that can save them is the feeling of her lips against his.
The hand on the side of her throat slides back to bury itself in her hair, cradling the back of her head to take the strain off her neck from their notable difference in height. Her hands wander the expanse of bare skin across his back, mapping every muscle and scar like it’s the braille translation of his life story. He shivers under her touch, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her body tight to his in a desperate attempt to fill the yawning pit within him that had grown larger with every day he believed he’d never get to hold her like this.
As she runs her hands down his sides to his hips he gasps involuntarily, deepening their kiss with enthusiasm. Driven by curiosity, she lets her nails graze his skin as she retraces her previous path. The noise he makes in response is downright sinful, but so is the feeling of his rapier-calloused skin against her back as he slips his hand under the hem of his hoodie. Her breath catches as his fingers trace featherlight patterns up and down her spine, feeling him grinning between kisses when he notices she’s not wearing anything beneath the grey material. When he nips at her lower lip, she drags her nails down his back, and the last of his restraint abandons him.
Both of his hands drop, fingers dimpling the flesh of her upper thighs. As in sync as they are in the field he’d never dared to imagine the same would apply to the bedroom, so he’s a little blown away when she understands his intentions immediately, jumping as he lifts her up to wrap her legs around his hips without breaking from each other. Now he’s the one craning his neck to capture her lips, the floor creaking beneath his feet as he crosses the short distance to the wall, pressing her back against it and groaning at the restrained whimper that slips free from her.
“Please don’t hold back. I want to hear you sing for me, my little Songbird.” He urges, adjusting his grip to slide his hands up her sides under his hoodie, palming one of her breasts and swiping a thumb experimentally across her skin to carefully catch one of her nipples between his thumb and the side of his forefinger. She finally breaks, back arching away from the wall, head falling back against it as she moans unabashedly. All of his strength threatens to leave him when she rolls her hips against his, dropping his free hand to grab at the plush of her ass and pull her impossibly closer as he whispers praise between frenzied kisses pressed to her throat. She buries her hands in his hair, gasping for air as his ministrations travel to her collarbones then slowly down the centre of her chest, placing an open-mouthed kiss to swell of her breast-
The front door slams open, startling them apart. There’s the sound of shuffling beneath them as someone kicks off their shoes.
“OI, MATE!” George’s voice calls from the base of the stairs, “Did you fix it?”
They look at each other, dazed and drunk off each other. A confused frown decorates her features, mouth falling open to ask him what the hell their other roommate is talking about. He shakes his head in exasperation, shooting her a look that reads ‘I’ll fill you in later’ and dropping his head to rest on her chest. They take as many seconds as they dare like that, her fingers combing through his hair soothingly as he wraps his arms around her back, basking in the warmth of her body against his. Reluctantly, he lifts his head and steps away from the wall, gently setting her back on her feet and pressing a kiss to her temple. She seems hesitant to move away from him at all, back to staring at her feet instead of looking at him. He’s known her for long enough to know she’s overthinking.
“Hey, look at me.” He slips his fingers beneath her chin, gently lifting her face to meet his concerned gaze. “What’s on your mind, darling?”
“I don’t-” She starts strong but stops suddenly, shifting anxiously. “I really don’t want this to be a one time thing, or - or just a way to blow off steam-”
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, cradling her face and pressing a brief but searing kiss against her lips. She softens, melting into his touch.
“Good,” He murmurs as he pulls away, tucking her hair behind her ear and giving her a peck on the cheek like the one she’d given him the night before, “because I don’t think I can survive another day of not being able to kiss you.”
George chooses that moment to begin his ascent of the stairs. They break away from each other, struggling to make themselves presentable before he makes it to the landing. Anthony rushes to grab a shirt from the foot of the bed, throwing it over his head haphazardly She squeaks when she finds the zipper of his hoodie down to her navel, shooting him a teasingly chastising look when he snickers and crosses past her to greet their researcher in the hall, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it. She yanks the zip as high as it will go, trying to smooth her own hair as she approaches the bookshelf and grabs something at random. She throws herself into the armchair in the corner of his room just in time, flipping the book open to roughly the halfway point and staring intently at the page as George reaches the top step.
“Good morning!” Anthony greets him far too cheerfully, leaning against the doorframe in an attempt to obscure the other man’s view of his room.
“...Morning.” George replies, not even trying to disguise his attempts to peer around his boss. “How’d it go last night?”
“Um - fine! Yeah, just fine. Perfectly fine. Everything is… fine.” She closes her eyes, letting out a slow quiet sigh at his obvious nerves.
Adjusting the book to make sure it’s in his line of sight, she grits her teeth and bites the bullet. “Morning, Georgie!”
Lockwood looks over his shoulder at her in alarm, but at her reassuring nod he steps hesitantly out of the way so she’s in clear view.
George inspects her with narrowed eyes. “You are significantly less hungover than I’d expected.”
She winces, not able to fault him in the slightest for the disappointment in his voice. “Yeah, pretty sure it just hasn’t hit me yet. Sorry about that. It won’t happen again, Scouts Honour.”
“Why are you in Lockwood’s room?” His brow furrows almost imperceptibly.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I was so drunk last night he was worried I was going to fall asleep on my back and choke on my own vomit, so he made me sleep in this ridiculously uncomfortable chair.”
Both men fix their eyes on her. Anthony looks horrified, while George looks strangely impressed. The bespectacled man studies her for another moment and she holds her breath, hoping he’d bought it. Shrugging a ‘fair enough’, he bids them a temporary farewell and walks into his own room, closing the door behind him.
She huffs a sigh of relief, closing her eyes and slumping back in the chair as the tension drains from her body. When she cracks an eye a few long moments later, Anthony is still standing in the doorway with the same look of horror plastered across his face.
“What’s wrong?” She asks, worry laced in every syllable.
“I didn’t even think of that! I could have let you die!” He seethes, throwing his hands up in annoyance at himself.
She has to fight the urge to laugh at him, focusing instead on gathering her strength to stand and walk over to take his hands in her own.
“I appreciate the concern, my love, but I wasn’t that drunk by the time you got me home.” She smiles fondly at him, lifting his hands to press soft kisses to each knuckle. When she glances up at him even his ears are flushed pink, looking at her with a lovesick smile.
“Call me that again?” He implores, pulling her against him.
With a quiet laugh, she drapes her arms over his shoulders before replying. “My love.”
They lose themselves in each other for another several minutes, only parting grudgingly at the rumble of his stomach and the threat of another interruption.
George waits until later that morning when Lucy, Kipps, and Holly have joined them and they’re all in the kitchen eating breakfast to comment on Anthony’s inside out shirt, and how impressed he is that the sixth member of their agency has learned to read upside down.
As Lucy slowly turns to look at them, eyes wide and jaw seemingly aiming to touch the floor, Anthony lets the red-faced young woman beside him hide her blush in his shoulder. For some reason, he can’t even bring himself to be annoyed. Grinning proudly, he winks at the Listener, causing her to shriek loudly and demand to know the full story.
When his girlfriend looks up to shoot him a warning look, he mimics zipping his lips. “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Luce.”
Lucy’s demands are finally met five years later when James taps the side of his champagne flute with his knife, drawing the attention of the room full of guests to tell his favourite story about the bride and groom.
⤛⊹ 𝔣𝔦𝔫 ⊹⤜
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𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]
#aislin writes#anthony lockwood x reader#lockwood and co#anthony lockwood#lockwood & co#lockwood and co netflix#lockwood x reader#lockwood x you#anthony lockwood fanfiction#anthony lockwood x fem!reader#x reader#reader insert#x female reader
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