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cowteapot · 2 years

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Boyfriend HC

Eddie Munson x Reader

Warnings: mentions of sex, swearing, drug use

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Eddie likes to read, he likes laying in bed with you, your head on his chest with a book propped up on your spine. He mumbles the words quietly and occasionally rubs your head

He likes to make you mixtapes, he loves putting songs you both love and songs you’ve never heard before. He especially loves cutting pieces of tape and writing in bright green sharpie little labels like “Y/N’s super rocking mixtape from their super rocking boyfriend” or “songs we should bang to????”

He’s a stinky dirty boy, like this man is greasy and sometimes it gets to the point that you can’t even be nice anymore. “Cuddles?” “No. Eddie I love you but oh my god please go shower” it usually ends with him chasing you around his trailer trying to make you sniff his armpit as you scream and run away

He can’t be serious for more than thirty minutes, he could literally be inside you and then just start giggling “what?” “Nothing, it’s just. Do you think the trailers rocking?” He’d go into a fit of laughs that would immediately make you start laughing and he’d have to pull back and regain himself

He’s hyper, like the two of you could be laying down, you asleep and then he’d turn and wiggle you awake “w-what?!” You’d be shocked, hair stuck to your face and eyes crusty from sleep to look up at the dark eyes and large grin “you wanna learn to play guitar?” Eddie’s ass would be jumped up and grabbing his guitar, throwing it in your lap before you could even process anything

He’s an open boy, he’s gives no shits. Two of you could be doing something so romantic and he’d be leaned it close to kissing you and then stop and go “you have a zit.” That would end with him straddling you as you wiggle around trying to push him away as he holds you down fighting to pop the zit he found

He tries to buy you presents, yes he has shoplifted a lot of things for you but he really wants to buy you things with his own hard earned money, he’d spend hours in Macys staring at jewelry. The sales lady would stand to the side glaring at him making sure he didn’t swipe anything (he did when she wasn’t looking) as he struggled to find you the perfect but affordable piece

He’s a child. Imagine this, the two of you are outside on the Fourth of July, all of the kids outside playing with Roman candles and he turns to you, getting real close making it look like you’re gonna get a nice sweet kiss before he reaches out and smacks you on the arm screaming “tag you’re it” and sprints off leaving you and all the kids running around as you try and tag them back

If you don’t play D&D Eddie will sit there for hours telling you about the game he recently played with Hellfire, in his terms it’s actually a quest he went on. You could be sitting there listening to him dozing off and he’d shove you’re shoulder “y/n hey, listen this is important” and he’d go on and on, if you do play you’re definitely apart of Hellfire

Eddie will roll the joints and you’d light, sometimes if he’s to lazy he’ll have you do it, he’ll pull out his rolling tray and place it in your lap before walking you through each step for the perfect joint. He will 100% celebrate when you finish, high fives and kisses and praises of “good job baby it looks so good!”

He’s disgusting. Cigarette butts in his bed sheets, socks with his toes sticking out the top, toilet has piss stains all over it, empty soda cans and beer bottles all over the floor, half eaten moldy sandwiches everywhere and you constantly have to remind him to brush his teeth

When it’s just the two of you he’ll pull his hair up into a bun and will even let you sit there and braid it or put it in pigtails. He loves when you play with his hair, he’ll let you straighten it, curl it, fluff it, braid it, put it in space buns, pin it back but he especially loves when you pull on ;)

He’s a fantastic cook! During his days off from work, School, D&D and practice/shows he likes to sit and watch cooking shows. Eddie also spends lots of time meal prepping for Wayne and himself

He’s an night owl, up late even if you’re not. He’s okay with you sleeping as he stays up entertaining himself. Eddie for sure has insomnia and just can’t go to bed, he knows you’ll try and stick it out with him but he prefers that you lay down and get your beauty sleep even if he has to sit and read you to bed, he appreciates the effort though.

For sure not a morning person, when he does finally fall asleep it would take a war to wake him up. You could hit him with the pillows, shake him, slap him, scream in his face but this man sleeps like the dead. His body tangled in the sheets, hair strewn about as he’s snoring so loud you wanna choke him out, when he finally wakes up he’s gonna need a smoke, two cups of coffee, maybe some head and just silence. He needs time to wake up and process the day ahead of him

For a metal head you’d expect him to like halloween? Hates it, he hates being scared and he hates all the kids dressed as zombies. He likes fall though, he likes pumpkins and the smell of the many candles, he loves the fallen leaves and cold crisp air, he likes the kids halloween maze and the fair

You’re his personal chauffeur, you’ll come pick him up and drive him around town. He obviously will try and shove gas money into the waist band of your pants like you’re a stripper but you’d pull it out and shove it down his shirt, you only accept heated kisses as your payment

Eddie is clumsy, you’re forced to keep a little first aid kit on you at all times. When the two of you are walking around town Eddie would trip over something like a little lip in the sidewalk and cut his hands open or he’d be climbing the two steps into his trailer and trip smacking his head into the door. You’re always patching his dumbass up

He likes to read to you, you buy him books and he’ll narrate, he does accents and waves his arms around, “he slashes the sword at the man’s throat, missing by mere inches!” He’ll sun wave his arm out like he’s slashing a sword, eyes wide open as he reads, his voice hard and loud as he speaks. Sometimes he’ll even stand up on the bed and act out the scene he’ll even pull you up and force you to act it with him

Eddie likes to burp in your face, i don’t know why but I feel like he does. He’s gross I just know it, you could be making out and he’ll pull back and belch real loud, before bursting out laughing “that was a good one Ed’s.” “RIGHT!”

You two always hang out at his trailer, just sitting around, playing guitar, banging, going out and terrorizing the trailer park kids, talking, reading, watching movies. He doesn’t really like your family, your parents make him feel uncomfortable, they obviously have heard the rumors of Eddie being a drug dealer which is true

Eddie cuddles in particular way. He just throws himself on top of you, shoved his head into the crook of your neck, places a knee between your legs and the other one thrown over your waist, his hands tangled in your hair as you have your arms wrapped around his midsection. Blankets are never needed because he warms you ip in a matter of seconds. If you’re sweating, suck it up cause he’s not moving

Eddie is clingy, out in public his hand is in yours, if he’s overstimulated he’s clinging to you with his head in your hair begging to go home and cuddle “y/n. Y/n/. Y/n.” “What.” “I don’t wanna be here anymoreeeee” Eddie is like a baby with a time limit before he’s on the verge of having a fit

Eddie’s in charge of music. Always. You’re driving, he’s choosing the songs. Cooking together, he’s picking the tunes, banging, he’s got a mixtape. Eddie is 100% a music snob and needs to be in charge of the music or he looses his mind

He was the first and last to say “I love you.

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson imagine #boyfriend headcanons

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angeli-marco-writes · 3 years

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Sherlock Holmes - Kiss Me, Mr Detective

A/N - Season 1!Sherlock, the cutie. And friends to lovers. Two of my favourite things. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the character, the universe, the adaptations or anything: this is a work of fiction set on the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. Did I still write 8.2k words (exactly) for it? Yes. I also don’t own the song or the lyrics used within, and if you fancy it, listen to ‘Kiss Me’ by Ed Sheeran while reading.

Warnings - Bad language. Mentions of murder and drug usage. Mild angst. Smut, loss of virginity, masturbation, oral m receiving, penetration, unprotected sex, so 18+.

Summary - After a fight with John leaves Sherlock feeling particularly down, he calls on the one person who is always there to support him. Only tonight, it’s different. Feelings come to a head, exploration ensues, but is this just a one time thing? That depends on whether she stays the night...

TO SHERLOCK, it’s just another normal day, whereas to John? He’d rather not admit how regularly these awful days roll around. Sure, the case didn’t go as well as it could’ve, and Sherlock admittedly could’ve made much more of an effort to comfort John after the apparent ‘heartbreak’ he endured. He just could not understand it. Why the hell was John so emotionally responsive to a case they’d been on for less than twenty four hours which turned out to be a bust anyway?

“You are absolutely unbelievable!”

“People die every day, John. You’ve killed people, as have I. It isn’t that great a surprise.” Sherlock deadpans, picking up his teacup, raising it to his lips, drawing a long sip from the warm liquid.

“Oh, yeah, of course. The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.” John mocks. “Do you not even care that people are still dead despite the fact you solved the case?”

“They’d be dead either way,” he reiterates, “at least we got to them before they completely decomposed. Will me caring about them stop them from being dead? No, Dr Watson, it will not.”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” He mimics.

John slams his hands down on the desk, shaking the wood and everything resting on it, surely sending the vibrations through the floor and notifying Mrs Hudson of their ‘domestic’ as she so likes to call them. The buffalo even begins to swing. John’s tea is long forgotten, but Sherlock’s is keeping him grounded, calm, as John waggles his fist in Sherlock’s passive, blank face.

“You-” he pauses, gulping down breath. “You are a fucking machine, I can’t even deal with you right now. How dare you be so cold hearted and untroubled by this. You’re a disgrace.”

As if he hasn’t heard that one before, Sherlock scoffs.

Placing his teacup back down with a clink, he stands, the darkness of the night, of the room, closing in on them both. Nights like these really are danger nights, any night John leaves him. That’s what's coming next, but there isn’t a thing he knows to say or do to prevent the inevitable. He’ll simply just text Her instead, she’ll keep him grounded.

“Why? Emotional context? Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow, whether raised at a puppet show, a funeral, or a battle, is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be always superior should be always apathetic.”

With a huff like a bull, John viciously turns on his heel, blaspheming under his breath, cursing Sherlock out. He reaches for his coat and snatches it off the stand, slamming the door open.

“MACHINE.” John screams before pulling the door shut with a great slam, seething, the coat stand still rocking in his wake.

John’s footsteps thunder down the stairs, but before he’s even gone, Sherlock’s phone is withdrawn, and he’s tapping out a message.

Can you come over? Please? SH

It wouldn’t usually bother him as much. The case didn’t phase him, at all, but John’s opinion did. It always does. But today was a particularly long day of being brutish and rude, cold and distant, his usual and true self, but John’s more and more impatient with him now.

Being called a ‘machine’ is, again, nothing unusual, but this time it stings a little more than usual, especially after his recent arrest, and a fallout with Molly. He only has one person left, right now, who doesn’t hate him. His longest friend, the one he keeps away from it all so as to not tarnish her life with his misdeeds; Y/N, the one he can always rely on.

He knows she’s arrived by the sound of his window crashing open. Crawling up the bricks, skimming the drainpipe, latching onto the ivy; it’s her usual manner of entry. She never uses the door.

Putting his cups and saucers into the sink, he makes his way through the house, opening his bedroom door to find her already sitting there on the bed, her coat hung up on the hook, her work clothes clinging to her body.

“Hey there Mr Detective, you okay?” she asks as jovially as she can muster.

The way he ambles across the room, his dressing gown floating behind him, and slumps down onto the bed, instantly tells her he’s not okay at all. She can’t help but to look upon him sympathetically, edging a smidge closer to him, until he’s prompted enough to wrap his arms around her torso, finding his rightful place tangled around her. She knows him well enough - his past, and his current life - to realise she’s the only person he’s ever felt comfortable enough around to do this with, and that brings her a certain swelling pride in her bosom, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock as he feels her skin heat up against his cheek.

It doesn’t take long, either, for his head to follow suit, burying into her chest. He’s always, always had a thing for her boobs, ever since they were in uni together.

That’s something so special about the two of them, he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he’s not okay the way he does with everyone else. And naturally, he can read everything about her in a split second.

“I’m here, bud.”

Above all else, he just needs to know someone is there for him in moments like these. The world is cruel to him, and Y/N wishes more than anything that it wasn’t. Upon instinct, her hands stray, one to his back, pressing against the silk of his dressing gown, the other cradling his long neck, fingers knotting in the dark curls there.

She isn’t sure how long she stays there, simply holding him, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every breath of his against her skin, but she likes it. Of course she does, every time she likes it. Sherlock brings her an inordinate amount of comfort at the best of times, today is no exception, especially with what the day has held. Even when she’s the one comforting him, he doesn’t realise how much he helps her too.

His flat is so familiar, his bed as comfortable as her own. She knows his sock index, she’s studied his periodic table over his shoulder more times than she’d care to admit, and she even has her own toothbrush in the bathroom in case she has to pop over for an emergency freshen up. Sherlock has, and always will be, her first port of call, and that she remembers as she shifts further onto the quilted bedspread, her phone on his oak bedside locker.

His head begins to stir against her chest, his curls tickling her collarbones, small hums escaping his lips as he pushes himself up, his elegant yet trembling hands still splayed on her waist.

“I could feel your heart beating weirdly, what’s wrong?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows.

“Just the usual.” she vaguely replies.

Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and scans her a little more. “You’re still in your work clothes.”

“Great deduction. I was hoping you’d go a little deeper, though.”

“You hate wearing work clothes longer than necessary, which means you had plans straight after work, considering you finished… five hours ago? That’s your usual time for today. Counting overtime, forty five minutes, walk to your car, another ten, but your umbrella wasn’t working, round that up to an hour, leaving at 6. You arrived home, no, not home, at your boyfriend’s house for dinner. However, you’re not comfortable enough with one another yet for you to use his shower, or perhaps you are, but you elected not to, and stay in damp clothes that only had seventeen minutes to dry with the heater on in your car for the journey there. You ate dinner, Mexican, had a glass and a half of five percent wine, realised you couldn’t drive, but you didn’t particularly want to stay. Nonetheless you sat and watched the telly with him for hours, football, I can see the dreariness in your eyes. I know how much you hate it, and frankly, same. You stayed for almost all of the match, seeing as you’re now sober, but something else happened.” She lulls her head to the side, prompting him, her smile not meeting her eyes. “As soon as the match ended, he tried to make a move on you, he pressed his mouth to yours, he tried to push his hand up your skirt;” his throat bobs with a vicious gulp; despising the thought of anyone else laying a finger on her, “you swatted him away, rightfully so.”

He pauses a minute, his harsh tone of voice and his sharp face softening. He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, her walls about to crumble. This woman he appreciates so much. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Smiling melancholically up at him, she brings her hand back to his hair, her fingers carding through the soft curls. His face buries back into her chest just as her voice offers a broken whisper, “I broke it off. I was the one who couldn’t commit this time.”

And as she lays her head on top of his, her breathing more shallow, resounding in her chest, he dwells over those very words. The way she said them, not to mention the words themselves, hold a myriad of meaning. What could she possibly-

Oh.

The subtext, yes, impeccable. She’s always had a way with implications and subtext, always knowing that the likelihood of him actually picking up on it is little to none. But now, now he’s become trained to her, her way of life, her way of thinking, her way of speaking. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If she means what he thinks she means, ever hopeful, then this is completely unfamiliar territory.

Gathering all of his courage in one deep breath, he begins to pepper kisses on her skin. The faintest brush of his lips on the tops of her breasts, all that’s available to him with her shirt the way it is. He feels her heart flutter, her breathing stutter, but despite the chemical flush of her chest, he still isn’t quite sure she likes it. Not until he feels her grip on his hair increase, and he glances up to see her head thrown back. Her spine delicately arches against his hand, thrusting her chest further into his face.

His nimble fingers reach for her buttons, undoing the top two, giving him space enough to find the valley between her breasts. Lathering kisses there, licking the swells of her boobs, his tongue pulsates with the increased thrumming of her heart. The sensation is new, so unbridled, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the stirring in his loins right about now. That unknowing is only further amplified by the sound that rips from her chest when he involuntarily bites down on the supple flesh. It couldn’t be… a moan?

Sure, he understands the chemistry of it, the reactions that occur in the synapses of the brain, the pheromones and hormones released when one is aroused, but this is all new to him. And, from his embarrassingly basic level of theory, surely that doesn’t start until some more stimulation on other parts of the body commence? Nipples, perhaps something lower down… then again, what does Sherlock know?

Of course it’s an intimate moment, the closest he’s been to a woman before, and maybe that’s why he freezes, stops, and she tugs his head up by his hair, her gentle, pleasured smile with her lips softly parted deepening the look of bewilderment painted onto his face. Her eyes are twinkling, alight with an excitement he hasn’t seen for far too long.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

He shrugs his shoulders with a sudden force, his dressing gown falling off a little. “I don’t know. But now I feel like I read your pining words all wrong.”

She gasps, a wheezing sound, sucking the air from the room. She smacks his arm gently, muffled by his button-down and dressing gown. “I wasn’t pining! I was saying.”

“Hmm, same difference.”

Everyone must acquiesce when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “But no, you didn’t read them wrong at all, but I know you don’t see me that way, you don’t feel things that way.”

He pauses, his beautiful plump lips pursed, fidgeting on the bed. Brushing her hair off her face reveals the pain she expressed. However, her eyes glued on his, sadness is betrayed in every line of his young, clean-shaven face. His entire bone structure is taking a nosedive.

“For you, I’ve been feeling everything from hate to love to lust, and I guess that’s how I know I want to hold you close.”

“Sherlock...” she whispers, her singular word an inflection of surprise.

Never tearing his eyes from her, his hand comes up to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the slightly blushing skin, searching her face, with his big blue eyes, for a shred of reluctance. But, all he sees is her, so he elects to do what his heart is yelling at him to do for once, and kisses her breathless. His full lips holding hers, his one hand on her face, the other still wrapped around her back. Hers fly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.

It doesn’t take long, their movements steadily heating, for their previously slow, intimate kiss to grow into something more, Y/N pulling herself up from the bed and making herself comfortable on Sherlock’s lap. His breath hitches in his throat, a cute little hiccupping sound escaping his lips in between embraces.

As much as he loves just this, soft caressing and gentle petting, he just knows she wants more. He does too, that much is evident from the length prodding at Y/N’s inner thigh as she moves gently on his lap. She won’t make a move, though, he’s too inexperienced, and she’s too much of a sweetheart to corrupt him, so she thinks. Ever since he first saw her, she’s been corrupting him slowly. He didn’t realise at first, but over the years, he began to understand, and now he’s in too deep.

For Y/N? It’s always been him. Every breakup she’s had, she’ll come to Sherlock’s flat, full well knowing the real reason she broke up with them, because she couldn’t commit, because she was too caught up on him.

Skimming his hands beneath her shirt, he savours the press of his hands on her bare skin, warmth seeping from her body into his, his fingers dancing along her spine. Electricity shocks her in bursts, unlike anything else, from his touch alone.

“May I take your shirt off?” he asks.

“Fuck, yes.” she groans. “May I do yours?”

“Be my guest.”

In a tangle of limbs, a few buttons pop off, and eventually, two shirts make it out the other side, tossed from the bed and into the laundry pile. Aka Sherlock’s floor. He’s like that: sock indexes, yet he won’t get a hamper. A walking contrast.

His thumbs press beneath the band of her bra, savouring the pressure of the flesh that falls into his hands, but that’s as far as he gets.

“Never undone a bra before?”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “I know the theory. Just… you always wear peculiar ones.”

“I wear relatively normal bras, and this one is certainly bog standard. Had I known you’d be undressing me Mr Detective, I’d have worn something nicer.”

“Just do it for me.” He requests, chuckling.

She unfastens her bra, and allows her breasts to spill from the cups, into Sherlock’s awaiting hands. The gasp that erupts from him sends Y/N’s brain into overdrive. He’s cupped her chest through her shirt before, buried his nose into her cleavage countless times, but never before have they had such skin on skin contact. Her lips press to his neck, shifting her closer to him. Sucking on his pressure point, she receives a similar gasp in response, only this one is more guttural, more a sound of pleasure than surprise. He’s wilting from a single kiss to his neck.

“Has no one ever given you a hickey?” She husks in his ear, her voice alone sending tremors down his spine.

“N- fuck, no.”

“I’ll make it worth it. All of this.”

“I know you will.”

She fuses her lips onto his again, savouring the faint hesitations as he grapples with his breath, eager to get some control on his mind with all that’s happening. Never did she ever think Sherlock would be here beneath her, his rough fingertips brushing over her peaked buds, and his palms dancing over her waist. Never did she think she’d hear him whisper his next words, either, not in a million years.

“More.” he pleads. “Can we do… more? Whatever that entails?”

“That depends what you want to do.”

“Get me out of these damn trousers. They're rather uncomfortable.”

She snorts lightly, a piggy like sound, the one they bonded over all those years ago. “I can feel why.”

“I imagine you want out of your work trousers, too.”

“God, yes; they’re ghastly.”

“I don’t think so.” he hums. “You look nice.”

Her cheeks begin to burn, blood rushing to colour them, betraying her true feelings, but as he tweaks her nose playfully, the little snort escapes again.

They were in the dining hall, second week of university, almost ten years ago, and Y/N was sitting with her friends, downing enough coffee to sink a ship, eating her hangover away, when her friends decided to make her laugh with tales of last night's drunken events. Unbeknownst to her, one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century was sitting just a few seats down on the half-empty bench, watching her perceptively in his periphery. That’s when he first heard the sound. The cutest thing, and it startled him into action, beginning his deductions almost instantly. Admittedly, her student ID on the table aided him a little.

He shocked her from her haze, too, as soon as he spoke her name.

“Y/N, eighteen, jurisprudence first year, freshers week over with. You left a boyfriend back home, but you’re more sad about leaving your dog, as I would be. You don’t particularly care about law but know it’s a good undergraduate to receive anyway. Dyed hair, extrovert, killer hangover, and apparently there’s a little piggy living inside your nose. Sherlock Holmes, would you like some aspirin?”

“That’s weird; what are you, some kind of detective?” She asked, sans malice, a playful bounce to her words.

“Chemistry, going for a masters. But I do like the mystery, yes.”

“So you’re… bright. Nice to meet you, Sherlock, and it seems you know almost everything you need to know about me. But yes, I will take that aspirin, if you don’t mind. How was your weekend?”

He smiled at her, the first true smile he’d given in a long time. “It was nice, thank you.”

And thus a friendship was born, all because he heard her little piggy snort.

Her slender fingers work wonders with the fastener and zip of his suit trousers, and even manage hers too, all within the space of a few seconds, but Sherlock is reluctant to let her go, even just to get her trousers off.

“I need to sit up, just for a minute.”

“No.” Sherlock commands, insistent. “We can make this work.”

“Sure we can, but it won’t be very comfortable. Come on.”

She’s barely peeled away from him and wrestled hers off before he’s drawing her back in for a kiss, his trousers settled just above his knees.

“Sherlock,” she protests, mumbling against his lips, her hands on his heavenly, broad, muscular shoulders. “Sher!”

Her squeal at his sudden tug on her panties disappears, captured by his eager mouth. And in fact, her panties seem to disappear along with it, thanks to Sherlock’s swift movements and nimble hands. Maybe he’s had some experience to be so good at this…

“You sure you wanna go this far?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need you.”

He takes a deep inhale, dropping his forehead against hers, his breathing coming out in bursts as he tries to get a grasp on the situation. “Kiss me.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly getting to work on the waistband of his boxers as his tongue lavishes her own. His hips rise briefly, just long enough for her to tug the elasticated material from around him, slipping past her, and then he kicks it into their growing pile of clothes. His length falls into her awaiting palm, and-

“Wow.” She exhales in amazement. “If I’d known you were packing this much, I’d have jumped you long ago.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Absolutely not, until tonight I thought you’d just laugh at me.”

He pecks her lips affectionately, “Never. You’re bloody beautiful, I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Hmm, anything, you say?”

Stifling a chuckle against her neck, he recommences, “Maybe not anything.”

Yeah, that's definitely the right call. Still, she finds herself all but clawing at him, her breath hovering teasingly just over his lips, their noses touching, her hands clamped to his cheeks, feeling the building heat there. She must be making such a mess of his bed right about now, but for one night? It can’t matter.

This is a one time thing, it has to be. Sherlock just needs to release some tension, she just so happens to be there. Still, she can’t prevent the little glimmer of hope shining through at the possibility of this being a more-than-one-time thing. The moral compunctions of their friendship after this don’t matter anymore, because he’s leaving a fire in his wake, his delicious fingertips digging bruisingly into her bum before trailing lightly up her spine, skimming her shoulder, brushing her neck - arched for him to reach where he wants, able to mark her as his own - and finally slipping over her lips, taken obediently by her awaiting mouth. Christ, if there’s one thing she hopes for tonight, it’s that his actions never relent.

Whether it’s what he intends to happen or not, his fingers in her mouth give her an idea, one she prays he goes along with at least a little, so she pulls away. The dirty, telling smile on her face hints at what she’s about to do, lending Sherlock to shift a little more up the bed, his eyes following her every move. Hands splayed on his thighs, her small fingers gripping onto the fine hairs there, she begins to take his tip into her mouth, never once breaking eye contact with him. Yeah, this is what’ll drive him insane.

Inch by inch, she takes him into the welcoming heat of her mouth, pulling off slowly, only to go down again. She adds her tongue into the mix at some point, too, and her hand, on what she can’t reach, tickling his balls, but further than that, his mind is blank. Hot white, washed with pleasure. The sounds he emits are other worldly, so much that he has to muffle himself with his own hand; what would Mrs Hudson say? He’s always had such control over his mind and body, but this… he’s slowly losing all semblance of control, and he’s not even mad about it. What he does know is that there’s a building heat in his abdomen, a coil about to spring, and his cock is beginning to twitch. If she keeps going this incredible way, her teeth grazing him ever so gently, adding another new sensation into the mix, he’s inexorably going to finish before he can help it.

“As much as I adore your torturous ministrations, I think I need to be inside you…” He husks, his voice deep.

A smirk gracing her lips, she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mischief glinting in her pretty little mesmerising eyes for a second, before she hollows her cheeks and takes him wholly, allowing his length to slip partially down her throat. Her moan reverberates around him, and Sherlock begins to thrash above her, scrunching the duvet in his hands, not caring if it creases. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s creases. And being called a machine by his best friend. Right now, though, it seems as though every misstep in his day has led him here, into the welcoming heat of Y/N’s mouth, taking him so eagerly, her tongue lapping at the vein on the underside of his dick, a string of saliva remaining as she pulls away.

“I think you’ve got a couple of rounds in you, Mr Detective. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes.” He stammers, his head tossed back in pure ecstasy a moment later as she begins to work on the head with kitten licks. “But… can I s- fuck me, say something?”

“I plan on it.” she chuckles, “anything.”

She goes back to peppering kisses all over his member, tip to base, brushing his balls, working her way back up.

“Touch yourself f- for me.”

“What? Why?”

Her tone is more inquisitive than anything else, but upon that playfully rueful look in his lust-darkened baby blue eyes, she knows he’s going to get her back for this little display, and he’s just worked out how. It works both ways, she can prepare herself for what’s to come next while pleasuring him. And he gets to watch. It’s a win-win for him. Maybe he likes this sex thing a little more than he’s letting on.

“Are you sure you want me to? I’ll just make a mess on your sheets, Sher.”

She swallows him again, bobbing her head up and down on his length a few times while he grapples with literal reality. He’s teetering on the edge. One more move, and he’s a goner. His head is already against the wall, lolled there.

“I don’t care about the sheets, darling, I need you ready for me.”

She gulps, nods, and reaches one hand around her, skimming over her stomach, until it nestles between her thighs. She rubs her thumb over his tip, collecting the pre-come beading there, while she rubs over her throbbing pearl, pressing softly. Then, as she inches down on his cock, taking him in her mouth, she also collects the slick from between her thighs, and uses it as a lube to push a finger inside herself. Of all the times she’s touched herself, she never imagined, even in her wild Sherlock fantasies, that she’d be doing it with his dick down her throat. With every bob of her head, she scissors herself more, sinking back onto her fingers.

“I think I’m-” Sherlock begins to say, his words cut off by an utterly obscene moan splitting the air.

She hastily abandons her one post, and wraps both of her hands around his girth, working on what she can’t fit into her mouth with her increased speed, licking and suckling his head as he begins to fall apart, coming, with a scream, down her throat, his one hand clamped over his mouth, biting down harshly to silence his cries; the other buried in her hair.

His whole body falls lax, completely spent, meanwhile, Y/N savours every drop she’s been able to draw from him. He softens in her mouth, allowing her change to slip away from him, grasping a tissue from the bedside to wipe away any excess. That’s certainly something she never thought would happen…

He’s calm, though, smiling lazily through hooded eyes, his breathing regulated once more, making beckoning motions to her with his big hands. He’s placated, though, and sliding her hands into his, she’s allowed time enough to get into place, smiling softly at him, raking her fingers over his scalp in a comforting way. Even as she sits herself on his lap, she can feel him hardening beneath her ass, slowly but surely. She was right about him, he’s definitely got another round in him.

“Do you have a condom?” he asks.

“No, sweetheart, they’re in my other bag. I didn’t plan on getting any for a while… do you?”

“Not in here, that I’m aware of. John may have stashed some in my less favoured dressing gowns or socks, and he definitely has some upstairs, but I’m unawares.”

“I’m gonna sound crazy here, but do we need one?” She says hesitantly. His eyes widen, he cocks his head to the side. “I was tested after my last partner, I’m clean, and on birth control. You’re a virgin. There’s no point, is there?”

“You have a considerably good point.”

With that, energy rejuvenated a little, he wraps an arm around her body, flipping them over so he’s on top, shadowing her, looming over her, gazing down at every inch of her naked beauty.

“Take your time. I’ll be your safety.”

“I know.” he whispers, a tearful smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you.”

He needn’t say more, because she already knows why she’s being thanked. For her kindness, for making him so comfortable, for accepting the fact he’s still a virgin in his late twenties and, if he’s being honest, has no damn clue what the practicality and reality of sex is. Sure, he’s seen porn. He’s also looked at John’s laptop. But that doesn’t prepare one for when the moment comes. It’s like all of that goes out the window, and he simply remembers the first time he opened a biology textbook at secondary school, pictures of flushed organs staring back at him, desperately waiting to be relieved. That’s what his own coock is like right now, already hard again, virtually pulsating with hunger in his palm. He strokes himself a couple of times, glancing down at Y/N’s wide eyes.

“Are you okay? Can I…”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she chuckles, “whenever you’re ready.”

Now, he thinks. He rubs two digits through her folds, gathering her wetness, enamoured with the way it glistens on his fingertips. Tentatively, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get a taste. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he moans. She’s better than any cup of tea he’s ever had.

His cock slaps against his lower stomach pleadingly, so he grasps it in his hand, and begins to enter her, pushing gently, feeling every flutter of her walls. Her arms fly out, hands grasping his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake at the delicious stretch. It’s nothing like they’ve ever felt before.

“Can I move?” He asks, balls deep inside her, their pelvises flush against one another.

“Please.” She all but begs.

Before doing anything else, Sherlock hooks one strong arm around her body, malleable in his hands, and holds her chest against his. Her breasts push into his skin, her nipples gaining friction from the dusting of hair there. Her one hand cups his slender neck, the other, his sharp cheek. Their eyes meet in a fierce gaze of burning intensity, and he begins to move. Slow, calculated, sharp thrusts punctuate her core. With every heavenly stroke, he can feel the ridges in her velvet walls, squeezing around him unwittingly.

“Jesus,” she cries, her clutch increasing.

“Hmm, not quite.”

The smirk in his words is quite literally audible. He’s so cocky, so full of himself, and fuck if she can’t feel another gush of arousal coursing through her, drenching his cock. How does he manage to be so attractive when he’s so dishevelled?

“Is that good?” He asks, unsure.

“So good.”

She brings her legs up, skimming the clenched backs of his thighs, until they wrap around him, drawing his hips into her at a new and improved angle. Heels digging into the base of his spine, he begins to move with a new purpose, his thrusts more passionate as his breath is drained from him by her kisses, his eyes alight with a new flame.

“Oh my God, Sherlock.” She pants, pulling him in for a kiss he greedily returns.

He drives his hips deeper, squeezing his fingertips into her supple waist bruisingly. It’ll be a mark that she belonged to him once, even just for one night. That’s when he reaches that special spongy spot that makes her entire body buckle. She all but screams, pressing into him wholly.

The coil is building, ready to break. He seems to be nearing the edge, too, his member twitching inside her when he buries himself particularly deep. She’s oh so fucking close… She licks into his mouth filthily, desperately clashing her teeth with his, eager for his kisses to tide her over. Silence her. Shifting his supporting hand, he trails one dextrous finger around to circle her clit, adding the faintest pressure for a moment. She mewls as he groans into her hot skin, clawing at him, entirely at his whim. Now he knows where to press, he settled his grip back around her, and draws her in close. This time around, he bends his knees a little more to measure his movements more carefully, ensuring that he ruts up and brushes her sensitive bud with his pelvis, helped by the extra friction of his neatly trimmed pubic hair on every thrust within her, his tip just scraping her g-spot.

“I- Sherlock, please tell me you’re- oh sweet mercy- close.”

He grunts softly in her ear. “So close.”

Their lips meet tenderly, passionately, in what they acknowledge to be a final kiss, moans mixing between them, savoured by the other.

His thighs clench, her legs tighten around his waist, and finally, her sweet walls flutter, squeezing him as she reaches her climax, his not following long after, spilling inside her, painting her soft walls white, marking her.

“Y/N,” he cries in ecstasy as his orgasm reaches him. “Sher…” she repeats, her saving grace as pleasure washes over her entirely.

Their whole bodies wind up pressed together, bound together as one, skin on skin completely, becoming one another.

He lets her down gently, unravelling his grip, unsurprised when their sweaty skin sticks together. Her long legs unfurl, splaying in a butterfly. Sherlock tumbles ungracefully away, somehow landing with a certain gangly elegance on the space of mattress beside her, his arm instinctively flying over to place on her stomach, the skin hot and flushed red. Her chest moves hastily up and down with the thrumming of her heart, while his barely shifts despite his shallow breaths, his white skin glistening in the moonlight.

“Are you okay?” He huffs, turning on his side. “You look pretty fucked out.”

His baby blue eyes train instantly on her nipples, hard in the open air. This is the first notifier, the first inkling she has to feel self conscious, so she draws the sheet up around her as best as she can. Sherlock’s not having any of it, taking a stronghold on her arms, and pulling her until she’s lying on him, naught to separate them.

“I’ve never been this close to anyone physically and y'know.” He hums tiredly. She’s never heard him sound tired before…

She smiles up at him as best she can, “Are you glad?”

He begins to hold her ever closer, squeezing her tighter, feeling every ridge of her body.

“I’m so glad that you were my first, in so many ways.”

Praise from Sherlock is a rarity, and she’ll take it as and when she can, savouring every moment, this time by holding him like a koala, her grip not wavering.

“I’m glad too, Mr Detective.”

He brushes a kiss to her cheek, “As much as I like this, we need to get you cleaned up.”

A supporting arm beneath her bum, he picks her up, and unsteadily ambles into the bathroom.

“I don’t know much about this, but I know you should probably use the toilet, should you want to avoid a UTI, so if you’d like me to leave…”

He sets her down on the loo seat, cupping his hands over his nether regions, and he hurries to grasp for things, until she puts her hand on his arm, squeezing in a conciliatory manner.

“You do remember the camping trip, don’t you? You really don’t have to leave just because I have to pee, you never did before. In fact, you frequently annoyed me with it if you had a particular point to make, steadfastly refusing to leave the bathroom after following me in there when I went to pee. Why does this change anything?”

He shrugs, dropping whatever was in his arms, “It just doesn’t feel the same now, though.”

“Ooo, and now Mr Detective feels things.” She jokes, poking at his ribs.

He recoils, chuckling with her, “Only for you.”

As Y/N washes her hand, Sherlock begins to wrangle with a floorboard, clattering about until he eventually pulls out a small lock box, from which he withdraws a packet of brand new marks-and-spencer's ladies briefs.

“Why the fuck do you have these? Anything you wanna tell me?” she asks, eyes wide.

“John’s idea. He has plenty of girls over here who frequently stay the night, simply a precautionary error.” He takes a beat, gargling with some mouthwash, “they’re clean, new, I just don’t like the idea of you in dirty underwear, and I know how reluctant you are to go without them whenever you’re not in your own bed. I stayed with you enough nights in university to know that.”

Those nights were awfully painful. She’d take the floor, he’d take the bed, and every time she’d have to wash the sheets. He’d sweat and vomit, shake and cry, plead for the pain to be over. He wouldn’t go to hospital, he wouldn’t call his brother, he’d just turn up on her doorstep, high as a kite, almost in tears, knowing he’d gone a little too far. And each time, it was a little farther.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

She takes them from him, and begins to shimmy them up her legs, only prevented by Sherlock moving to grab a handful of her arse.

“Hmm, I like this. Fancy another round?” He smirks.

“I’m too tired, babe. Give me a bit.”

He can see the lazy smile on her face, the tiredness in her pretty eyes, so he wets a flannel, and begins to clean her up with gentle movements between tender kisses.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” She asks, inquisitive more than anything.

“Instinct, I suppose. I never read or learned about it, seeing as I never thought it would happen.”

She snaps the waistband before moving her hands to his waist, leaning up onto her toes to reach him, kissing her softly.

“Look at you now.”

After brushing their teeth in an amicable silence, their pinky fingers overlapping on the porcelain of the sink, he aids her back to the bedroom, settling her on the bed. She has things here: deodorant, toothbrush, moisturiser, and yet somehow she doesn’t have underwear, even after all these years. Perhaps that's one too many things to explain…

With superfluous extravagance, he throws her his shirt, offering her a wry wink. She finds a blush clawing its way onto her cheeks, dumbfounded. It smells like him, just like a forest glade if it was rained on by tea and cigarettes. Maybe he’ll let her keep it as a memory.

In such a short amount of time, she’s learnt that he has a very sensitive neck. Very. A single kiss there has him biting back a moan. A low one at that, considering his deep voice also drops almost an octave when he’s aroused. His nipples are almost as sensitive as his neck, and he rather likes it when she tugs on them unwittingly.

His first orgasm comes quickly, but his refractory period is astonishing, and it takes longer to achieve a second high, long enough to make her come more than once, she assumes, though her first orgasm was mind blowing enough for two. Perhaps that’s just because it’s his first time, but it’s impressive nonetheless.

What’s the point in learning all of this if, once he comes around from his post-orgasmic haze, he’ll pretend like it never happened, in typical Sherlock style?

The shirt, though a small gesture, means a lot, and her vision begins to cloud as she looks down at the black cotton.

“You mean you want me to stay?” She croaks.

Sherlock turns to her from his set of drawers, his face full of apparent obviousness, brows furrowed in that cute bewildered way.

“Of course I want you to stay.” He states, like it’s the plainest thing in the world, like it’s stupid for her to even ask. But she’s silent, and when she says nothing in response, he launches into a long winded explanation: don’t show sentiment. “I- I just mean, i-it’s midnight, I’m not having you out in London alone. You stay with me. Only if you want to as well...”

She nods eagerly, “Yes. Yeah, course I want to stay.”

He all but leaps access the room, jumping onto the bed, before planting a proper smooch on her lips, grinning down at her. He slips into his usual side of the bed, and she takes hers, rolling to look at him.

“Don’t get cold.” He warns, tucking the duvet up around her shoulders. She giggles like a child, that small snort sounding again, prompting Sherlock to press his thumb to her nose like a button. “How are you… feeling?”

“I’m fine bub, really. That bloke doesn’t matter to me at all. Bit of a scumbag if I’m honest. You’re the one I’m with, the one I wanna talk about. How are you feeling? Must’ve been a pretty big blow up with John for you to call me and be so... teary.”

He sighs, crestfallen, “He called me a machine.”

Her gasp pierces the air, her hand flying to his hair, stroking in consolation, cooing senseless reassurances to him. She’s done this innumerable times, but now it feels different, like there’s no barrier.

“He’s done it so many times that it needn’t bother me anymore, but the way he looked at me, like I was this abhorrent monster, especially after the day and the disappointing case we had, it got to me. I hate having feelings.”

“You don’t have to hide them with me, though.”

He hums gently, burying into her chest. “I know. That’s why I treasure you so dearly.”

“That means you also have to trust me, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.” His chest heaves, shifting her whole body. That’s his way of giving in. “Please just talk to John. You know that whenever he leaves, he’ll come back, and try to pretend it never happened. He needs to know you’re human and that he upset you, but also that the case upset you as well. No one’s superhuman, and once you let John in on the fact that you’re not a machine, things between you will be so much easier, because you might agree for once.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He grumbles.

He pulls her into his warmth, hooking her leg around his as he snakes his arms around her back, breathing deeply from the crook of her shoulder. She begins to pepper kisses on his salty skin, savouring the taste with every small swipe of her tongue.

“Your heart’s against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck,” he breaks off with a faint whimper when she sucks a little harder, “I’m falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.”

“Of course they do,” she whispers brokenly, hoarsely, “they’ve always known you.” She swallows thickly, “Does that mean it’s a feeling you’ll forget?”

“No, I don’t think I ever can.”

The silent words that pass between them both are so special, too special to be spoken aloud. ‘Think I’m in love now.’

“Kiss me like you wanna be loved.” He begs.

And really, who is Y/N to deny him? They just stay that way a little while, revelling in their lazy kisses, until she begins to fall asleep. It isn’t the first time she’s fallen asleep in his bed, not by any means, but it’s the first time she’s fallen asleep in his arms. She isn’t mad about it.

“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. You were made to keep my body warm.” She smiles into her words, and embeds herself into him, entirely covered by the duvet, spattered in his kisses, safe in his arms. Sherlock feels safe with her legs around him, her fingers in his curls, holding himself against her. Amicable silence is how they drift off, Peaceful.

John re-enters 221B at a respectable hour. He got a fair amount of sleep on Greg’s sofa, having no girlfriend in the picture right now, but not enough to deal with Sherlock just yet. Not before his coffee. He expects to see Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot as when he left, perhaps just with a refill of tea, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed yet wide awake. Instead, he arrives at a seemingly empty, considerably clean flat, with no Sherlock in sight. Perhaps the unsleeping man must actually be asleep, he thinks, so he quietens down, and toes off his shoes before wandering farther into the flat. Even if the man does piss him off extraordinary amounts, perhaps he should just check he’s okay…

He gives the bedroom door a quiet rap, listening in momentarily before pushing it open. Frankly, he’d rather have found Sherlock with a cigarette in hand and the whole flat torn to shreds for the level of surprise he gets upon reaching the bed. His first idea is to scream bloody murder, but that might annoy Mrs Hudson, and upon stepping closer, even in the sliver of daylight through the curtains, he sees the duvet riding down a little. The last thing in the world he ever thought he’d see: Sherlock in naught but boxers pressed against a half naked woman, his palm splayed on her bare thigh. Sherlock? Spooning? It seems so, his entire body pressed to this woman. John feels himself go rigid, his feet glued to the floor, his gaze unmoving from shock.

It takes his phone to buzz in his pocket to get him moving, and when he does, all he tries to do is balance precariously on his tip toes in a wry attempt to get a birds-eye view of the whole thing. He’s not disappointed, or disturbed, once he does, though, his army agility proving useful. Sherlock’s hand is holding her, fingers entwined, just next to her chest. He wonders how comfortable it is, but if they’re staying this way, it can’t be too bad. Maybe all Sherlock needed to loosen up was a good shag.

She’s wearing his shirt, too; Sherlock’s black dress shirt from the previous day. And Sherlock? He never seeps in anything less than a full set of pyjamas, he’s weird like that .

This girl begins to stir, her lips parting gently, small hums escaping. Next, her eyelids flutter, and her hair shifts on the pillow. He didn’t make any noise, did he? John was specifically careful not to, just in case. He doesn’t fancy Sherlock’s wrath just yet.

One eye opens, and she whispers, almost incoherently, “Hi John.”

How she knows his name and who he is, he’s not at all sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this face in his life. The hair is familiar, and maybe, if she were more awake, he’d recognise her smile, but he’s never seen a woman in Sherlock’s company beside Molly Hooper. Speaking of…

Before he can even say anything, though, before he can ask who she is or if she wants tea or if she date-raped his roommate, she’s mumbling, and detaching her hand from Sherlock’s, rolling over. Dumbfounded, John just stands there and watches her cuddle into Sherlock’s chest, her arms wrapping around his torso like second nature. Even in his sleep, not consciously thinking about his actions, he grips her back - one hand resting just above her bum, and buries his nose into her neck.

John can’t help but smile to himself. Maybe their fight was for the best if Sherlock now has a girlfriend, someone he turned to for solace. So, he grasps for the top of the duvet and pulls it up over both of their figures, reaching their shoulders, and leaves, staring wistfully for a brief moment at the seemingly happy couple.

The weight of the duvet of what startles Sherlock, though, stirring him a little, inviting him to him against Y/N’s skin, smiling with eyes barely open. This is really nice, he thinks to himself, not waking up alone.

She smiles back blearily, and in her morning voice, whispers to him, “Kiss me Mr Detective.”

1K notes · View notes

chaoticgeminate · 2 years

Text

Can't You See

Javier Peña x fem!OC (Phoenix Brooks)

Rating: M

Non-Spoiler Warnings: Yearning & Angst. References to drugs, sex, and rock n' roll. Minor character deaths mentioned.

Word Count: 3K

Masterlist

Notes: Written for @writer-wednesday

Phoenix had never been so nervous in her life.

Which was stupid, it wasn’t like she was going on a date or anything, but she couldn’t help the way she ran her hands down the skirt of her dress and prayed for some sort of magic to work its way out of the seams and lace. It was probably going to be her only chance to get Javier to notice her and see her as something more than his tomboy friend; her hands were shaking with nerves as the little pink corsage sat innocently on her bathroom counter with the matching boutonniere beside it.

He had asked her to help him make it for Lorraine, months back, since his girlfriend (ex, Phoenix reminded herself with a flicker of hope) had known the exact color and shade of her dress by then. The cut-out from the craft store magazine was small but she’d done a good job recreating it, the pink flower with a shiny bejeweled brooch Javier got from the pawn shop as the center, and now it was hers to wear so she’d slapped together his boutonniere as fast as she could.

Like always Javier and Lorraine got into another fight, this time over him missing some cheerleading thing, and in her anger Lorraine had dumped him and decided to go to prom with the linebacker Mark Thomas instead; Javier had tried to refund his ticket but couldn’t and in the end Phoenix had asked him if he’d go with her since she had a ticket and planned to show up on her own.

Phoenix had ignored his playful remark about helping her rent a suit –her love of fixing up cars and the fact that she knew how to shoot made her an anomaly in this part of Texas where the girls rarely wore pants and preferred to gossip and give each other makeovers all the time- and her mother had let her borrow the station wagon to drive the weekend trip to Dallas where her Uncle David lived to pick up her cousin Maria’s stored prom dress.

With her parents choosing to deviate from the strict roles of military provider and housewife, which had been sort of a slap to the face of both her mother and father’s families, none of the rest were really keen on helping her parents in any capacity now. Preferring to just call them “those damn hippies” and ostracizing them.

It wasn’t something she’d always seen as fair, that she was invited to spend time with her grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles but her parents weren’t, but neither her mother nor father really seemed to mind. It wasn’t until she was in her early teens that Phoenix figured out both of her parents were usually stoned or high on something.

Phoenix couldn’t afford a full-priced prom dress on her own so Maria had offered to give her the navy blue dress instead, that way she could save her money for a car of her own and to get out of Laredo if she wanted to when the time came.

Loud knocking on the door jolted her from her pity party, sliding into her suede heels and sending one last prayer to anyone that tonight could maybe he her Cinderella moment, and Phoenix grabbed the corsage and boutonniere from the bathroom counter with a thundering heartbeat and tight chest. Maria helped her find some fairly inexpensive make-up –and taught her how to put it on- but Phoenix opted away from a full face and went just for mascara and lipstick.

The rosy pink shade of lip make-up was just noticeable without being too much and she tried to make sure her eyelashes didn’t look clumpy, her hair was done up in a very tamed bun sock bun –her grandfather had made sure she knew how to do it citing that she might choose to join the military one day- and around the base of the bun she’d braided a long section of hair to wrap around it. With one long fringe of hair left out to fall with her natural cowlick, draping down the right side of her face, Phoenix felt pretty for the first time.

Despite having dark hair and freckles all over her face and shoulders, with skin paler than milk on a good day leading to sunburn galore if she wasn't careful, she felt like she was finally pretty enough to be noticed.

“Phoenix Feather will be out-“

“I’m right here, sorry about that Javier.” Stopping her mother from one of her long stories, heat rushing to Phoenix’s face hearing her middle name used so freely, she dared a look at Javier and felt that heat grow tenfold. He looked good in his powder blue suit, she knew it was a rental but the color just went really well with his skin tone, and his eyes raked down her form as his lips parted in surprise. The very scattered dark hair that were supposed to be a mustache and beard had been shaved off today, his curls were tamed and she knew it was all Chucho’s doing, but the biggest surprise was the polaroid camera.

“Pops wanted- he wanted pictures.” Javier’s smile returned and Phoenix dutifully moved to the only clear wall of the trailer after pinning his boutonniere in place, letting his arm slide along her side to cup her waist, and her mother snapped a few before relenting that they had to get going. As they stepped outside Javier paused, hooking one arm under her knees and the other along her back, hoisting her up in his arms carefully.

The ground was dustier today, she realized, from the recent wind storms, and he was saving her shoes.

“Such a charming man, Javier.” The playful remark made him grin back, letting her grab his keys to open the truck door so he could set her down on the running board after the door was opened, and only after she was settled in the seat did he close the door and walk around to the driver’s side.

“You look- I’ve never seen you in a dress Phoenix. You look nice.” They definitely looked odd wearing blue garments and having pink flowers but it was a nice and subtle touch, in her eyes, rather than being blue and white head-to-toe.

“Thanks Javier, you clean up good too.” He chuckled and they turned on the radio to hear the newest songs playing in honor of the school’s prom night, mixed with the classics of course, but Javier switched it to the Spanish radio instead and Phoenix watched him mouth the words to the song playing.

They sat in comfortable silence before Javier reached out to take her hand gently and link his fingers with hers, a silent thank you as they pulled up to the gymnasium where balloons and streamers and the big fancy sign outside looked like some sort of tacky beacon. Making sure to hand over their tickets and step into the red-lit auditorium with disco balls and spotlights like some sort of cheap disco club, spotting Katherine and Nancy from the yearbook committee with polaroid cameras of their own snapping pictures already, she and Javier avoided the punch table as Jacob Weimer emptied several flasks of clear liquid into it.

No chaperones noticed but Phoenix opted to avoid the spiked punch, or tattle about it, and instead she let Javier lead her to a less crowded segment of the gym to avoid being crammed in the sea of bodies. Lorraine’s arrival came with a noticeable hush, her very opulent pink gown was fresh out of the local Sears catalogue and brand new with tiers of ruffles decorating the glittery skirt and the ruched bodice was strapless in a way that showcased the cleavage she was desperate to display.

Mark was in a white tuxedo and they looked very much like a match, the linebacker’s hand very low on Lorraine’s hip, and Javier looked away before gently tugging on Phoenix’s hand and leading her to the dance floor.

Phoenix felt like maybe this was her moment, she had Javier’s full attention and he hadn’t even looked at anyone else the whole night, she wondered if maybe her hand-me-down did have magic woven into it.

They were getting ready to announce Prom King and Prom Queen, the yearbook committee had a table up for voting all night, so she had no reason to think it wouldn’t be Lorraine and Mark since the two had been going on and on about their obvious win.

Honestly she almost asked if he wanted to leave, since this was the last real big moment of the night, she just wanted to have him to herself maybe a little bit longer.

But when Mr. McManus called up Javier and Lorraine it made Phoenix feel the first stirrings of resigned heartbreak, it was too familiar watching them stand side-by-side and even as the crown landed on his head and pictures were taken Javier’s smile was soft when he looked at his ex. He still loved her, Phoenix knew that love didn’t wouldn't have just disappeared but she’d hoped he would finally see that he and Lorraine were not a good fit if they kept breaking up all the time, and as the King and Queen danced their obligatory solo dance of the night Phoenix saw the pair of them talking quietly the entire time.

It was as the dance came to an end that Lorraine kissed Javier, he kissed her back, and they very clearly got back together again on the same merry-go-round of make-up and break-up that Javier didn't seem to care he was even on.

Phoenix felt a nudge and Nancy gripped her hand gently, a sad smile on her friend’s face, but they both knew that if Javier and Lorraine were official again that he’d probably end up taking her home after they stopped off at their spot along the highway.

Phoenix watched the two of them move to a quieter corner of the gym to talk and caught Javier’s eyes, offering him the best smile she could muster up, and then turned to leave through the exit before he could see her cry.

“You’re leaving Laredo after graduation, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am! This is a great opportunity for me Javier. The Navy and the Army both want me.”

“Do you hate it here or something?”

“What reason do I have to stay, Javier? Lorraine told you that you can’t hang out with me if you’re going to go through with marrying her, I’m not going to come between you and your fiancée.”

“She can’t tell me who I can and can’t be friends with, Phoenix.”

“Can’t she? Ever since the two of you got back together you’ve hardly spoken more than ten words to me a day, you don’t let me fix up the truck or the tractor on the ranch, and any time I come by you’re always gone. You picked Lorraine, Javier, whether you meant to or not. The only female friends you can have are the ones she likes, that’s just how it is here in Laredo. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be the reason you and Lorraine have any issues in your marriage.”

Twenty years.

Phoenix looked around the run-down trailer and sighed, her parent’s life of drug use had finally caught up to them, now it was her duty to clear and clean this place out for sale. Laredo had changed but it also hadn’t changed, she’d been welcomed back with warm smiles from Chucho and a few others and given dirty looks by plenty, and her chest felt lighter with Javier’s clear absence.

Even when she just thought about him the man could make her chest ache and butterflies swarm in her stomach.

Throughout her military career she’d heard rumors, people in the Navy mentioned the DEA agent that somehow got things done in Columbia, and Chucho had confirmed that he’d never shown up at the altar on the day of his almost wedding when she asked. It was unfair that after all this time he still made her heart wind up in knots, she hadn’t ever found anyone able to fill the void that had been created when he chose Lorraine and she chose to leave.

Phoenix had tried but there was not a single person that made her feel the way Javier had and she felt guilty at the idea of choosing someone who would always end up being the second choice. Maybe she was just stupid, maybe she was just stuck in the past, but she knew she would always pick Javier if he even gave her the hope of a choice.

But the news about her parents had come during her retirement process, finally leaving the Navy and hoping that maybe she could move on if she did something else.

The funerals had been at the same time, her parents used the same dirty needle and got infected from it and died in the clinic, but nobody else in her family had shown up and most of the town hadn’t really seemed to care. A few had appeared like Chucho and Nancy, Katherine and her husband Grayson had been there with their two kids, but that was really it.

But Phoenix was more guilty that she wasn't crying, that it didn't hurt at all, she loved her parents but after enlisting it had become exhausting trying to keep in touch with them since they never reached out to her. As if they didn't care anymore, always either tired from work or strung out on something, and eventually the calls had stopped and the attempts at keeping them close stopped.

The trailer was like a museum of her life before the military.

The first thing she managed to unearth was a scrapbook, her old scrapbook, and Phoenix flipped through the pages of polaroids and stickers and magazine clippings that had followed her since her late childhood and early teen years from Ohio to Texas. Eventually she froze, the page before graduation, the prom page, and she let her hands drift down over the clippings.

The magazine pages had been cut out and taped carefully before she left Laredo, a reminder that for one night she’d almost had everything she wanted, and the polaroid of the disco lights from Nancy made her smile. The tape on it was worn and older, like it had been pulled off and re-taped a few times, and the lyrics from Love of my Life were written out in her handwriting and taped to the pages too.

Phoenix laughed at how dramatic she'd been back then.

Low knocking made her pause and leave the book open on the table, she half expected Katherine or Nancy to be here, but when she saw that all too familiar face her heart stopped. Javier was handsome as ever, she’d seen the more public aspects of his work when his role in Escobar's takedown was made public, but seeing him in person felt different.

“Javier?”

“Hi Phoenix.”

He had a mustache now, a proper one, but no beard; the powder blue blazer and white button down made her think of prom and she still thought the color looked good on him.

“What- what are you doing back?” He followed the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, the awkward tension she’d always felt around him returning, and Javier shifted a little to run his hand through his hair. It was definitely unfair how handsome he was, still, how Javier Peña could make her heart beat like a war drum and twist her up in knots after all this time.

“I’m home, for good, I’m done with- with the DEA, Cali is handled and Pops should slow down so I decided to come home. Are you- I heard about your parents, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” Phoenix knew what he was asking, what he wanted to know, and she searched his face carefully. Back when she left she’d asked if she had a reason to stay and back then she didn’t, he’d gone pale and twitchy and looked nervous when she’d asked him.

The expression was almost a mirror of that day.

“I don’t blame you, Javier, for not being here. We both made- we both made our choices and it’s been a long twenty years for the two of us. I have to do clear out the trailer and clean it up before I can sell it, so I’ll probably be here for a while since I’m not going to hire anyone to help. I retired, officially, so I have plenty of time.” Javier’s eyes followed her face, traced her eyes and cheeks and mouth, and his own tongue darted out to lick his lips.

“Time to- to catch up?”

“Plenty, want to come in? I have cold sweet tea and you can just talk with me while I start sorting through things, God only knows how many pipes and needles I’ll find.” The dark joke made him huff out a soft breath and Javier followed her into the trailer, the windows in every room thrown wide open to air the place out, and Phoenix poured him a glass of tea before hanging his blazer up on the coat hook beside hers.

Navy blue and powder blue, the colors still looked good together.

She sat down and handed her scrapbook to Javier when he looked at it and he scanned the prom page with regret in his eyes.

“Hey, none of that, we were young and stupid back then. Now we’re old and stupid.” Phoenix’s remark made him laugh again, at least, the darkness in his eyes starting to fade just a little bit.

“Are you- going to stay? After the trailer is sold?”

“Do I have a reason to, Javier?”

“What if I give you one, Phoenix?”

His tone was hopeful, a challenge, and Phoenix tilted her head as she considered him playfully. He had looked at her left hand, where no ring sat, and she winked when he looked up at her face again.

“You’re welcome to try, Javier.”

#chaoticwrites #writer wednesday #javier peña x fem!OC #javi p x fem!OC #narcos fanfic #javier peña fanfiction

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