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upsidedownwithsteve · 10 months

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Simmer #2

CH.2 Ice Box | The Menu [4.1K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

The first week at Jim’s went somewhat smoothly.

You figured out a bus that would take you out of town and to the diner when it was raining or too dark, a rusty old thing that rattled the entire journey but it meant you got there a few minutes before your shift started. The summer was still present, a growing thing that became hotter and bigger as June turned to July, the sidewalks baking, the skies an endless blue between storms that you didn’t really mind.

You got to meet the rest of the team that first morning, bumping into a girl as you made your way through the side door meant for staff. Robin was another waitress, a little blunt, really pretty and more than helpful. She took over immediately, waving away your explanation of having to report to Eddie, leading you into a back office that was crammed with a desk and a line of lockers. It took a while for her to find a key to one in a security box but eventually you had a locker, a name badge and a uniform that Robin promised was the cleanest one she could find.

It was a powder blue thing with red trim, a little on the short side for a dress and it had you pulling at the hem until it covered your thighs more. The collar was white, starchy, the apron that tied around your waist matching. Robin grinned when you reappeared with it on, straightening your name badge for you before handing you a new pad and pen.

“C’mon,” she tilted her head towards the kitchen, the smell of coffee and maple already pouring out of it. “I’ll introduce you to everyone else.”

There was Nancy, another waitress who helped Jim manage the diner’s taxes when she wasn’t back at college in Indianapolis. She seemed sweet, a little quieter than Robin, more eager to keep her head down and garner the best tips.

Argyle was the boy you’d seen in the kitchen the day before, a smiling boy with the sleekest hair you’d ever seen. He offered a fist bump and a warm greeting, telling you to let him know of any medicinal preferences that he could help you out with. He was on prep duty in the kitchen and Robin claimed he could chop a full onion in ten seconds when he wasn’t busy eating the product.

Then there was Jonathan. A quiet guy who mostly worked the coffee bar and helped on dish duty when the kitchen was busy. He made a mean latte, you were told, and if he liked you, he’d use his special coffee beans that he kept hidden in the back.

Steve was front of house, mostly waiting tables, sometimes sitting at the rarely used host desk. Handsome and polite, he waved at you from atop a kitchen counter, already chewing on a slice of toast that he ended up sharing with Robin.

Going by the staff schedule that was pinned to a board in the office, there seemed to be more employees you’d yet to meet. A Chrissy Cunningham, Jason Carver and someone called William although it was scored out and had Billy written next to it. There was Dustin too, pencilled in at the bottom as a weekend busboy.

All in all, the staff at Jim’s diner were pretty cool. There was a man you hadn’t met yet, someone called Murray that was supposed to be the kitchen manager but apparently, he preferred a more work from home type of schedule. Then there was Eddie Munson.

Line cook, although in a diner this size, he was pretty much the only cook. Territorial over his kitchen, you’d been warned that the boy tended to keep to himself, liked to communicate in grunts and grumbles, and was usually perpetually moody. He had a lot of opinions over music, over food, over the right spice to use in apple pies. And he didn’t tend to take to new people, much to your dismay. The morning you arrived ready to work, Eddie greeted you with a grunt from behind a coffee cup, dumping your uniform into your arms with a name badge that had “Chicago” written in permanent marker, a sure sign that Jim had forgotten your name.

So the first week went without much talking to Eddie, you keeping to your space between the tables and him keeping to the kitchen. Music blasted through most of the shift, with the boy working with his head down, curls escaping his bun, his apron tied right around his waist. Every now and then, when you came to the hatch to collect plates and orders, you’d hear him hum along to the radio, an upbeat tune that never matched the frown on his face. And if he happened to catch you staring, well, the lines between his brows only deepened.

And despite the sour faced regulars who only grunted and held their cups out when you offered more coffee, working at the diner wasn’t the worst job you’d had. Tips were okay, Jonathan made you a latte every morning you shared a shift and the sizzle of the stoves became a comforting background noise as you pottered around the tables, smiling shyly and taking orders with the utmost concentration.

It was fine, good even. Up until your first run in with Mr Creel.

The older man frequented the diner regularly, coming in early mornings and late nights, leaving whatever job he did to spend hours at a time at the end of the diner bar. He sat under the television screen, a dead eye stare on whatever it was showing, only holding his mug out for coffee refills.

He was particular about being left alone and even more particular about his coffee being black. So when you accidentally topped the caffeine up with creamer, you finally heard the old man’s voice. He yelled something awful, his voice croaky from hardly being used, a raspy, horrible thing as he uttered ugly words.

“Stupid girl,” he hissed, knocking over the cup of coffee until the insides ran along the bar and dripped onto your white sneakers. “Are you dumb? Huh?” The man glared at you as you tried to form words, mouth tripping over an apology you weren’t sure he deserved anymore. “How difficult can this job be?”

Steve came to your aid, brow furrowed and tongue bitten as he held back the things he wanted to say to the customer. But he saw the tears in your eyes, your gaze a little unfocused and glassy, his hand on your elbow as he coaxed you into leaving the situation.

“I got this,” he muttered, a rag in hand, ready to mop up Mr. Creel’s mess as he pointedly ignored the old man’s whispered insults. “Take a breather, it’s fine. Don’t worry.”

You didn’t hesitate, scampering away with coffee sodden sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. You’d have to thank Steve later, the tears were close to falling and you were adamant they wouldn’t escape while you were still on the diner floor. So you barrelled into the kitchen without much thought, not bothering to yell ‘doors’ or ‘corner,’ just desperate to get out of sight. It was a slow morning, a few pancakes on the griddle, some leftover waffle batter in a bowl by the stove, another one full of eggs beside it. Apart from the sounds of food cooking, sizzles, pops, the sound of the radio, it was quiet.

Pushing your back to the tiled wall, you weren’t able to do much to escape the heat that always filled the kitchen. The back of your uniform scratched at your neck, an itchy warmth that stuck to your skin and made the tears come a little easier as Mr. Creel’s words echoed in your head. You knew it wasn’t worth overthinking - everyone had warned you that the man was a perpetual thunder cloud, always gloomy, always looking for an excuse to yell. But still, you blinked one too many times and your glassy eyes spilled over, lashes sticking together with tears as you stuttered over a heaving breath. Your face scrunched, falling with too much emotion and you made a noise akin to a whimper, a wet sounding thing that you could keep in.

You didn’t hear someone come back in from the fire exit, the brief smell of cigarette smoke mingling with the heat and the fiery barbecue scent of lunch hours brisket cooking. Eddie scowled at the sight of you by his station, back to the wall, hip pressed to the stainless steel table. Your head was bowed, the heels of your palms pressed to your eyes and when he turned down the radio - just slightly - he could hear you sniff.

The boy frowned, somewhat uncomfortable, that crinkle that was always between his brows deepening. He used his wrist to sweep the hair out of his eyes and he gestured to the walk-in behind you, even though you couldn’t see. "Uh, normally we cry in the freezer."

You looked up, mortified. Your cheeks were red hot, a burn from the embarrassment of being caught and the frustration from the customer who was surely still at the bar, uncaring of the state he’d put you in.

You sniffed, swiping hastily at your cheeks. "What?"

The boy sighed, an impatient noise that Robin had already told you not to take offence to. He nodded at the freezer again, lowering the heat on whatever it was he was cooking in a comically large pot. "In there. That's where we have our breakdowns."

You stood, aimless, wondering what you were supposed to do with that information. The freezer? Wouldn't Hopper be looking for you?

The boy scrunched his face in annoyance and you thought he was going to return to his recipe, but he turned off the burner and rounded the station. He tilted his chin at you, signalling you to follow. "C'mon, come wi' me," he murmured.

It was the most he’d said to you since the day you’d turned up with your resumes and some hope in your chest. You blinked, watching Eddie stomp down the aisle between the stations, big combat boots a strange congrats to his chef whites. You ran a little to catch up, hip catching the corner of a cart filled with fresh fruit and a bowl of proofed dough, trying not to stumble into the back of the boy. You almost did when he stopped dead and pulled at the door of the giant walk-in, a wall of cold air hitting your both square in the face.

Stacks of frozen food sat on metal shelves, lines of cut meats, boxes of iced over vegetables, already cut and prepped. Eddie waved a hand inside, gesturing for you to enter. Your breath turned visible as the temperature dropped by twenty degrees, ice cold and raising goosebumps on your arms. You half expected Eddie to shut the door and leave you alone, but you were surprised when he walked in after you, the soft thump of the door closing after him.

Silence enveloped you both, the noise of the kitchen, the broken AC, the diner all disappearing. You breathed out a sigh of relief, breath crystallising between you and the boy who was eyeing you warily, wondering if you were going to keep crying. He didn’t say anything, he just leaned against a shelf and tugged a rag from his back pocket, wiping off his hands.

It was easier to breathe without the heat of the diner, the constant steam from the kitchen, the way the sun hit the windows and made the whole place too hot. The boy watched you, still cautious, waiting for your chest to stop heaving and you to stop sniffling. When you did, he peered at you through his bangs.

“Better?”

Still embarrassed, you swiped hastily at your cheeks and tried to pretend you weren’t crying, wiping the evidence of the apron that held your pad and pen- and now splashes from Mr. Creel’s coffee tantrum. “Yeah, m’fine. Thanks.”

The boy nodded, lips pressed together as if he didn’t know what else to say. Neither did you, still hot cheeked and mortified, staring wide eyed at the freezer door and for a brief second, you wondered if the rest of the diner would hear you from behind the thick freezer door if you just so happened to let out a yell. Maybe that’s why Eddie said this was the breakdown space. You guessed you’d find out sooner than you thought.

And just as you were getting ready to push the door back open, Eddie peered up at you from where he was busy inspecting a silver scar on his wrist. “Creel’s a real asshole, don’t let him get to you.”

Surprised, you stopped in your tracks and turned. The leftover tears on your cheeks weren’t quite ice, but they left cold trails across your face that felt too obvious. You pushed against the apple of your cheek once more, fingers digging in a little too meanly as you tried to get rid of the evidence that Eddie already saw. “I know,” you nodded. You sniffed again. “Just— took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Eddie nodded slowly, like he was thinking over your words. “You gotta toughen up, kid.” He swept by you, lemongrass and some cologne that was hidden behind the smell of basil and spice. His shoulder knocked yours. “Told you you wouldn’t last in the kitchen.”

—————

Some would call it stubbornness, others would call it spiteful, but you were more determined than ever to fit in and work hard at the diner. Eddie’s comment made a lasting effect on you and you tried every day to smile through the shit and be a little bolder, leaving the shyness behind with Chicago and every other failed opportunity. Plus, the tips came a little easier if you flashed a smile and some flirt.

You cleaned up the smashed burgers and soggy fries that were smeared into the floor after a family of tourists swept through the restaurant, you wiped down tables, refilled the salt shakers and when you collected orders from Eddie at the kitchen hatch, you made sure to use the towel to pick up the hot plates. The last time you’d suffered a burn, Eddie had rolled his eyes and scoffed. But when you came back for the next order a few minutes later, an ice pack was sitting waiting.

“You okay?” Robin’s side nudged up against yours in greeting at the cutlery station, familiar and friendly.

You smiled, nodding, wrapping napkins around knives and forks. Robin picked up a bundle to help and you could tell by her unsettled fidgeting, she wanted to ask something. “Are you okay?”

The girl made a face and squinted at you, all nervous charm and nervousness. “Yeah, yeah— I’m good. So good. It’s just, uh—”

You blinked, waiting, both of you moving out of the way when Jonathan appeared with a set of headphones over his ears, grinning at you both as he dumped more clean cutlery into the drawers.

“—you know how it was both of us on the late tonight?” Robin continued once Jonathan disappeared. You nodded, still sorting out the utensils, frowning when the freshly cleaned sets burned your fingertips. “Well, I kinda got asked on a date tonight and oh my god, okay, like, I know you’re new but I’ve been waiting on this girl literally forever and—”

It was easy to smile at Robin’s enthusiastic rambling, your shoulders losing the tension they usually held as you listened to her talk. “Who is it?” You asked curiously.

“It’s like, holy shit? She’s interested in me? I mean— oh.” Robin cut herself off after she realised you’d spoken. Her cheeks burned, pink covering her freckles and she covered her face with her hands, embarrassed at her own excitement. “Nancy.”

You beamed and nodded, already knowing about the flirting that went on during their shared shifts, the way Robin looked at the other girl, the way Steve rolled his eyes fondly behind his friend's back.

“That’s sweet,” you told the girl, happy for her. “You guys goin’ somewhere nice?”

“Uh, yeah,” Robin smiled, bashful, before she flicked her gaze to you again, nerves kicking back in. “That’s actually what I wanted to ask. Would you mind if I left early?” The girl gestured to the quiet diner, a little more peaceful now the dinner rush was over. “I know I was supposed to stay until close with you, but this show starts at like, nine? So I was just wondering if it’d be okay with you if I—”

You cut the girl off with a hand to her forearm, stopping her nervous gesturing. You smiled again. “Hey, it’s totally okay. I can handle it.”

She grinned, face lighting up with genuine happiness as she squealed and grabbed your arms, pulling you into a crushing hug despite the bundles of cutlery you held to your chest. But her excitement was contagious and you grinned too, happy to have made Robin happy, happier to feel like you had a real friend.

“I owe you!” She gasped, “thank you so much! You’re on with Eddie ‘til close, and maybe Jonathan? It’ll be fine! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She gushed as she pulled off her apron and rushed to the office.

The rest of the time went quietly, as did most of the graveyard shifts. Families and couples left after eight and as the evening headed towards night, the clock approaching twelve, the diner was empty apart from one lone trucker in the corner nursing an extra black coffee and a cinnamon roll. So you headed into the kitchen with the last of the plates, proud of the way you balanced all five of them over your forearms, only wobbling a little. You even remembered to call out as you pushed the door open, even though there wasn’t much happening.

The hustle and bustle had slowed to a lazy stroll, the radio still on but much quieter, another sixties song crooning from the speakers. Eddie was washing down his station, knives sharpened and put away, the stovetop grills seeping in the sink full of bubbles.

“Floors have just been mopped,” he told you without looking up. “Careful.”

You nodded, always startled when he spoke, his voice much softer than he looked. It was honeyed whisky, syrupy smooth. You managed to slide the dishes into an empty sink without much fanfare - nothing spilled, nothing smashed - and you were planning on refilling the ketchup dispenser when your stomach growled, unreasonably loud.

You clamped a hand over it, an awful flush crawling up the back of your neck that you knew too well. Embarrassed, you tried to laugh it off, avoiding Eddie’s gaze when his head shot up. Wide eyed, he appraised you, watching as you gave him a wide berth as you shot for the door. Before you could make a break for it, the cook dropped his cleaning rag and sighed.

“Have you ate?”

You stopped, almost tipping over your own feet as you spun back round to face him. You wondered if you misheard him, if he was maybe talking to someone else in the kitchen you hadn’t noticed but Jonathan was whistling outside of the kitchen hatch, cleaning down the coffee machine and no one else was on shift.

Still, you asked, “what?”

Eddie frowned, like he was upset about repeating himself. But he was already pulling a chopping board out from the racks underneath the workbench. “I said, have you ate? You sound like a dying whale.”

If you weren’t so mortified, you think you would’ve been offended. You hadn’t eaten though, not since you’d managed to shovel a bag of chips into your mouth between a bus load of tourists stopping off for a milkshake and Jim’s famous wings. But you weren’t sure why Eddie wanted to know so you shrugged, hoping your embarrassment wasn’t showing on your face.

The boy just sighed, like he always did, and gestured to a stool that sat across from his station. “Sit,” he ordered gruffly before pulling out half of a baked loaf from earlier. “You like mustard?”

“What’re you doing?” You hadn’t moved, standing shell shocked by the door, your stomach still yelling at you.

Eddie turned to you with that same frown, forever looking annoyed at your presence. Now he was brandishing a butter knife, more curls than ever escaping his bun. He really should wear a hairnet.

“What’s it look like?” He grunted. He pointed at the stool once more. “C’mon. Mustard?”

You walked over slowly, like you were approaching something wild and unpredictable. Maybe you were. The stool squeaked as it scraped across the tiles, and you eyed the boy warily as you pushed yourself onto the chair across from him. “Sure,” you mumbled, watching as he slathered slices of sourdough with mustard and a little mayonnaise.

“You should eat properly.” Eddie scowled. “You don’t eat nothin’, gonna make yourself pass out in this heat.”

You seemed to forget your shyness as you frowned right back. “How would you know?” You demanded.

Eddie scoffed and suddenly you forgot altogether that you and this boy didn’t really talk. He was rolling his eyes at you as he layered on some cheddar cheese and salami, not asking you before he added some prosciutto and lettuce. “Because you scramble in and out of here all day chasin’ your own tail. I watched you inhale that bag of chips earlier like a goddamn raccoon.”

You squirmed not loving the comparison but knowing that he probably wasn’t far off in terms of likeness. But still, your frown matched his. “I don’t scramble,” you murmured.

Eddie scoffed, a breathy, disbelieving thing that made him raise his eyebrows. He was moving around his station with a grace you couldn’t fathom, speedy and gentle with each movement. He drizzled a little honey over the second slice of bread before stacking it on top, an impressive display of flavour in each layer before he sliced it down the middle.

“Oh, yes you do,” Eddie shot back. “Like a squirrel.” He placed the sandwich on a plate Jonathan had already cleaned and pushed it towards you before deciding to add another little pot of honey beside it.

“I thought I was a raccoon?” You asked him before you could help yourself. “Thank you,” you added quickly, looking down at the plate. Your stomach grumbled again, your mouth watered.

Eddie shrugged, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. “Either rodent will do,” he told you. “And you’re welcome. Now eat.”

You didn’t argue anymore, tucking into your snack with a shy sort of wariness. You’d hardly spoken to the boy before now and yet here he was, preparing you food. Just a sandwich, but it took more effort than any snack you’d ever made yourself. You took a bite, eyes closing at the flavour and you hummed in appreciation. When you opened them again, Eddie was at the sink, his back to you but you could see from the tilt of his head that showed off how he watched you from the side of his eyes.

“Oh my god—” you cut yourself off, humming again, a delighted little noise that you couldn’t help let out. “This is amazing.”

You ate until Eddie was done cleaning, using your crusts to dip into the honey, mopping up everything off your plate until it was empty, your legs swinging happily from the stool. If you were alone, you would’ve danced. You were sure you saw him fight a smile as he returned to the bench, brows raised at your full cheeks, your happy eyes, the crumbs on his once clean station.

“Squirrel to chipmunk,” he noted, gaze trailing over your face. You swallowed quickly, cheeks heating up once again and you dropped your eye line to the table as you wiped your hands on your apron. “Good?” He asked.

“Delicious,” you told him with a nod. “Thank you. Again. You didn’t have to do that.”

Eddie swung a dish towel over his shoulder and ducked his head, curls falling loose around his face and you watched as he slid his clean equipment back into their rightful place. “Was just a sandwich, no big deal.”

It was just a sandwich. But you’d soon come to realise it was something so much bigger than you’d ever have thought.

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macfrog · 7 months

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heart, body, soul cowboy like me chapter thirteen

surprise! happy friday eve. here's some cowboy to get you through it. life has been a little tough on me lately. sorry for the terribly long wait. but the end is in sight, dear readers. tighten the stampede string on your hats. we're coming in to land.

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: you and joel are at an impasse. you resolve it the only way you know how

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing, alcohol consumption, mention of dr*g use, titty appreciation, face sitting, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, major fluff, major angst

word count: 14.4k (y’all ask. mother macfrog delivers)

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

You sigh. “I don’t want you…with…anyone else. I want you to…only want me.” His brows straighten. You sit in silence, staring at one another. Both daring the other to be the first to talk. But it’s his turn, and he knows it. So he swallows, and says – “I don’t want nobody else.” And that’s a thing. A great big, terrible thing.

It’s been a week since you last saw Joel. Blurred, tilting, pulling to-and-fro across your vision. A week since you last heard him; his low voice like the hum of an electric wire, tired acoustics drumming weakly through his chest into your heavy hand, laced through his own. Fingers draped softly across his swollen knuckles. You wonder if they’re still marked seven days later.

A week since you felt him. Felt your body lean towards him – gravity or dizziness or something stronger – as his weight dipped into the bed beside you. The way it has only a handful of times now, but enough to score it deep into your memory. Enough that you know the difference between him and anyone else, even with your eyes closed and your heart bleeding.

Enough to ensure that, for as long as you live, you’ll know and see each difference between him and every other person you ever meet. They won’t lower their head the way he does, or lift the corners of their mouth like him. Your name won’t sound the same, won’t sound as complete, coming from someone else’s mouth. Your body won’t magnetize to anyone, the way it does to him.

And that’s fine. The separation. The fact that he was a fleeting moment. The fact that it was over before you felt it leave, before you heard the door close behind it. It’s fucking fine.

Still, you let it hurt a while. Just a little while.

The gash on your calf has healed up, your hangover had subsided by Saturday evening. But your chest still feels tight, your hands are still restless. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, surrounded by the clothes you have of his; breathing in the ghost of his scent and breathing out pathetic, aching sighs. He’s all you smell, all you touch.

Except – he’s not anymore, is he? He saw to that well enough.

So you let it hurt. And you think you can just about make do with that.

“Hey, hon,” you dad gently calls, hanging on your doorframe. Your room is dark, drapes closed, the only light source the white light from your laptop.

“Hi,” you reply, with a break in your voice. Your eyes don’t lift from the screen. Jim just told Pam he’s in love with her, but she’s engaged to Roy. But she really loves Jim, she just won’t admit it. It’s cathartic, okay?

Dad steps into the room and awkwardly stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “Awfully, uh…awfully quiet lately, hm? Everything okay?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.”

It’s not a lie. You are fine. You’re so fine, you’re actually numb to it.

The problem is that for the last few weeks, you’ve been more than fine. The best you’ve felt in months – maybe even years. The most you’ve smiled, the hardest you’ve laughed. The warmest the blood has ever run through your veins.

And then you’re just – fine again. Back to nothing.

He shuffles between feet. Stares at the floor, where his shadow sprouts from his toes. “I was gonna head into town, grab a few things. You wanna come? Sit in the car with a book, maybe?”

“I’m good, Dad. Thanks.”

“Sure? Whatcha watchin’?”

“The Office.”

He nods. “Right, right. I, uh, I was thinkin’ of askin’ Joel and Sarah over for dinner tonight. You always have fun when they’re around. You and Sarah could spend some time together, y’know?”

Your heart nosedives straight from your chest into your stomach. The thought of seeing him again, this time crystal clear and not while under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or worse, sinks its sharp claws into your shoulders and sinks you deep underwater. His voice gets lost somewhere in the space between you. And when you finally come back up for air, back into the room, you gulp back whatever string of senseless words your empty chest initially offered up.

“Hm…” You pretend to consider the thought, then head straight for passive. “Whatever. Sure.”

Your dad’s mouth opens to respond, and you cut in again.

“I’m kinda tired,” you say, yawning. Trying to make him leave.

He’s not great at taking hints. “Kiddo, I am really worried about you. Weren’t you s’posed to be working this mornin’?”

“You ain’t gotta worry about me. I’m just a little tired, is all. Wasn’t feeling up to restocking tools and dealing hardwood to your buddies.”

It’s only the second truth you’ve told him since he set foot in your room. You never feel much like work, not Sal’s-fucking-Hardware-kinda work, anyway. But the thought of standing for seven hours with a bared-teeth grin plastered on your face, hands blistering from tearing open box after box of stock, shoulder slowly coming up in a bruise from the number of customers tapping on it…you figured Sal could do without you for one fucking day.

“You wanna look some more at other jobs?” Dad asks, and finally you look up. The blurry, luminous silhouette of Jim and Pam is strung in the dim air before him.

You shake your head. “Not right now. I have some bookmarked I can show you later.”

He takes a deep breath, unsure of which angle to come at you from next. Finally, with an air of resignation and defeat, he settles for, “You know where I am if you need me,” and closes your door as he leaves.

You’re staring intensely at the face of every character onscreen. The pixels burn into your eyes. You’re trying harder than anything to get him out of your head. It’s not working.

His hand through yours, his arms around you – warm, safe, protective; the way he smelled, sweet like whiskey, sharp like pine; the way he’d mumble, lips against your head, sweet nothings pressed into your hair; the feeling of his lips on yours, hungry for something only you knew how to give him. The look in his eyes, tender, knowing, loving.

And because he was the only other person fluent in your little secret language – a look, a nod, a tug at the corners of his mouth. His eyes settling on yours only for a nanosecond, one tiny moment in time laced with a thousand words that you translated as quickly as his glance moved across you. It all meant something. It all meant so fucking much.

All of it. You feel all of it as it sinks through your skin, through bone and into your brain. As it curls around your ribcage, holds tight around your heart. Every thought and feeling that flutters through on full display for him to read. And you’d let him, because it’s him. You trusted him. You – you might’ve even –

I mean, what the fuck, right? When the fuck did this happen?

Joel Miller. Joel fucking Miller.

Is this what you thought would happen that very first time you looked at him differently? Tidying up after pizza, leaning into you, telling you you’re nothin’ but trouble? Did he know then, that this was where you were headed?

Did you?

Your phone buzzes. You glance down at it through your tears.

Sarah: wtf is going on ???

You craft a reply as nonchalant as you can manage. Three little letters.

You: Wym?

Sarah: are u good??

You: Yeah lol. Why wouldn’t I be good

Sarah: idfk. weird. my dad’s on the phone to yours rn

That’s great. That’s just fucking great. He’s probably telling Joel right this second how miserable you are. That’s all you need.

You want to hold onto your pride, keep an air of casualness about you impermeable to even Sarah – but you desperately want to know what’s being said. What she’s listening to him say.

You: Yeah? What are they talking about?

Sarah: well now it’s just some andrew guy

Sarah: sounds like a loser

Sarah: we’re coming over for dinner tonight btw

You: Nice. See ya then

Sarah: u wanna come over here before? we can watch love island

You: I’m good. Gonna go for a nap

Sarah: you can nap here. come over!!!

You bury the phone under your pillow without replying. Sarah is like Joel in many ways, but her persistent nature is one avenue in which they drastically differ. Joel would – and has – give you space, let you mope; Sarah will probably text you all afternoon until she’s on your doorstep, takeout in one hand and a telling in the other.

So you drag your phone back out and put it on Do Not Disturb mode. She’s already sent two more texts since her last.

Sarah: seriously. would you come the fuck over. im only on episode 5 i gotta catch up

Sarah: even my dad is worried about you

Yeah. Good one, Joel. Fuckin’ asshole.

----------

They arrive at six on the dot, armed with pizza and a crate of beer. The doorbell rings once, you lean over a degree to glance down the hallway, and Sarah’s stepping over the threshold, her shadow of a father at her heels.

He’s rugged. Hair amok. He kinda looks a mess, sorta looks how you want him to after almost two weeks of no you. But he’s here. He’s right in front of you. And this time, the shape of him isn’t swimming across your glassy eyes.

Your heart swells with relief to see him again, only until it twinges from the wound that he caused, and it hurts all over again. You turn back in your stool to face the kitchen island, making some noncommittal noise when Sarah’s hand presses between your shoulder blades in greeting.

“Tyrique and Ella are kinda cute, but I don’t trust him. Dude’s gonna fuck her over for sure,” she mutters, shoving the box over the counter towards your dad, who accepts the beer from Joel with a pat on his arm.

He’s standing across the kitchen – Joel – as far as he can get from you. You’re sure his eyes haven’t lifted from the floor yet. But you scan him all over, from the loose collar of his shirt down to the cuffs, rolled halfway up his forearms; from the rough hair of his beard down to the soft tufts decorating the skin just below his clavicle.

You scan him all over. The body you know just as well with the flannel and jeans over it as you do without them. The body you’ve squeezed, and scratched, and bit and kissed – and the same one you’ve thrown curses and insults at as it follows you through his house.

If he looked you dead in the eye right now, you’re not sure you could look away. You’re not sure you could stop.

That is, until Sarah presses a chilled beer to your arm, startling you, and silently nods towards the dining table.

She sits on your right, opposite your dad’s seat. She resumes chittering about Love Island. Joel and your dad are still in the kitchen, stacking plates, cracking the caps off their drinks. And then he pushes off the counter, and slowly wanders over.

You watch his every move. Study him, like you’re about to be tested on it. Which foot he steps forward with – always his left – and which chair he’ll pick once he’s at the table – the one opposite you, ‘cause it faces the TV for when he and your dad watch baseball while eating.

Two for two.

He lifts the chair, pulls it back, and angles it to face Sarah’s. He places his beer gently on the mat. When he sits, he doesn’t pull in any closer. Doesn’t risk your legs crossing paths under the table. You pull your knees up, let your shins rest against the wooden ledge. Your dad takes Joel up in conversation.

“So, this Andrew. He’s the brains of the operation?”

The pizza is slowly pulled apart over the course of an excruciating hour-long meal. Sarah puts the next episode of Love Island on while you eat, points out her favorite couples and nudges you to ask your opinion on the girls’ outfits.

“Wouldn’t have gone with those heels,” she mutters, chewing, pointing with her pizza crust to some six-inch ankle-breakers.

You lean past her shoulder every now and then to pretend you’re as engaged as she is. Pretend you’re listening. Your left ear is tuned into the conversation happening across the table.

Your dad thinks Andrew Curtis is fucking hilarious. Hoots with laughter when Joel tells him about his untucked button up. Says, Oh, jeepers, when he hears about the way the guy tripped jumping down from his truck.

The storyteller doesn’t sound so lively opposite. Your dad’s slapping his thigh with laughter. Joel’s shoulders are jerking at best. You dare a glance at him, and he’s already facing your direction. He turns away before your eye reaches his chest.

Soon, the episode ends. The atmosphere dies arm in arm with your dad’s attempt at another conversation. There’s a thick silence between the four of you. You haven’t opened your mouth the entire meal, but even if you did, the tension would clamp its heavy hand over your lips, blocking any words from making their way out of your windpipe.

Sarah clears her throat, manages a tentative, “I –” and then the phone rings, piercing through the awkward mist like a bolt of lightning.

Your dad pushes himself up and trots over, grabbing the handset a little too hastily. “Hello? Oh, hi, Rita. Hi. Yeah. Yep, Joel’s – Sarah? She’s here, yep.”

Sarah’s head drops, hand gripping her glass frozen in mid-air. “Fuck,” she whispers, and Joel shoots her a look across the table.

“She’s – oh, yeah? Well, let me ask ‘er.” Your dad covers the bottom of the handset with a huge palm. “Rita has some…cross –”

“Cross stitch, yeah, I know,” Sarah says, and thuds her glass down. “I said I’d help her out with it. I bet she’s seen your damn truck across the street!” She jabs a furious finger at her dad.

Joel shrugs. “Ain’t my fault the woman has eyes.”

Your body jerks as if to laugh. You don’t catch it in time. He notices.

“She’s on her way over, Rita,” your dad continues, nervously smiling at Sarah as she pulls her jacket over her shoulder. “She’s – oh, sure, I’ll let her know. Alright, now. Bye, Rita, bye. You’ve to bring your glasses. ‘pparently the pattern’s pretty small. You even wear glasses?”

She huffs in response. “I’m gonna be there all damn night. I’ll just get you at home.”

Joel opens his mouth to protest, goes to warn her that she ain’t walkin’ home alone in the damn dark, but your dad holds his hand out.

“We’ll give you a ride home. You come back here once you’re done.”

She nods gratefully and struts off down the hallway. The door slams shut behind her.

Your dad lightly chuckles, sauntering back over to his seat. “And then there were three…” he says, sitting back down.

But the loss of Sarah only cranes the spotlight over to you. Only you. No one else to split it with. No one else to lend it to. You can feel your dad’s eyes on you, waiting for you to make a move, some song and dance for your company.

He lifts his beer to his lips. Nods to you. Makes a song and dance of his fucking own, when he says, “Guess who’s been lookin’ at grad jobs?”

Joel stares at him for a second, like he’s waiting for your dad to reveal who it is he means. Like it can’t possibly be the only she in the room. His thumbs tap around his own bottle. “Oh – yeah?” he stammers, and throws a haphazard glance in your direction. He seems to mean to address you.

You sit forward, choke out a, “Yeah, uh – it’s – well. Kinda.”

“Film?” he asks, and you hear the rest of the question in the tone of his voice. Somethin’ you like, ‘n not just your dad’s suggestion?

You nod, but he’s not looking. He’s studying the label of his beer.

“Film,” your dad confirms. “Shut me the hell up, didn’t she? Came downstairs with her laptop the other night. Where is it, kiddo – New York?”

Your breath catches. The answer cowers at the back of your mouth, terrified to show itself. You force it forward.

“LA.”

Joel’s eyebrows lift.

“I said she might be better goin’ back to school. Reapply for next year, right?” Dad looks to you, and your lips pull in an awkward smile. “…but she didn’t wanna wait around. Told you the other day – this place is like prison.”

He chuckles, but Joel isn’t laughing. He’s staring at his beer, his brows slowly lowering from arched and curious to dark and furrowed. And you want to reach for his hand, want to shoo your dad off and spill your guts to his best friend. Want to explain yourself, show him the webpages and application forms you’ve spent the last few days surfing through – want to justify yourself to him.

But so long as your father is sat here, bumbling to himself about the prices of college courses these days – none of that happens. You simply sit in a stalemate opposite one another – a million thoughts racing through your head, a million and one racing through Joel’s.

“…might change her mind, but who knows? She’s skittish, this one, she –”

Another bleating ringtone cuts what you’re sure would’ve been an endearing compliment short. You say a silent prayer of gratitude for whoever’s at the other end of the line. Your dad sighs and heaves himself up again, swiping the phone from the kitchen counter.

“Hello? Hi, hi, Richard. No, I’m not – well, it’s – sure, sure. What’s –?”

His head falls in much the same way Sarah’s did ten minutes ago. He sighs.

“Right. No, that’s quite alright. I can be there in ten. Yep. Alright. See you in a – hello?”

He drops the phone back into its cradle and runs a hand down the back of his neck, growling.

“Kelman?” Joel asks, jaw turning to his shoulder.

“You bet. Misplaced the damn keys for his site. You two alright if I head on over there ‘n lock up for ‘im?”

“He familiar with Andrew Curtis at all?” Joel quips, and then waves your dad off. “Go on. I’ll be outta your hair by the time you get back.”

In a frenzied blur, your dad’s tying his laces, grabbing his keys, tossing a jacket over his shoulders. He apologizes a total of four times to Joel, thanks him for dinner, promises he’ll pay him back next time he sees him. And then he’s jogging off to the front door, and taking every ounce of comfortability with him.

And then there were two.

You slouch back in your chair, listening through the silence as your dad’s car engine fades down the street. When the quiet humming disappears, Joel’s head turns back to face you.

You’re alone again. For the first time in a week. This is the closest you’ve felt him, even separated by the dining table and a fog of conversation that you have no idea how to begin clearing. There’s more weight to the silence between you than words could ever bear, you know that much. More to be communicated between your eyes than your tongues know the language of. But still, you can see him through it.

Like a lighthouse, shining bright and beckoning you to the shoreline. You can feel him again, as if there’s an electric pulse radiating off of him. And you feel drawn in, like you always do; feel that magnetic pull in your chest, only ever satiated by the meeting of Joel’s.

You shift in your seat. His eyes flit up. Your heart jumps, like it’s a sign he’s really still in there. And then they drop back to his lap, and your chest sews itself back together.

Your eyes start to burn with fast-forming tears. Your throat tightens, tightens, tightens, pushing them higher and higher until they pool across your waterline. Blinking doesn’t help, just drops them onto your cheeks, to be quickly swept away by the sleeve of your hoodie.

All you want is for him to look you in the eye, whisper, C’mere, baby, scoop you up and hold you in his arms forever. Fuck everything you said about the distance being good. That was when he was in his house, and you were in yours. He’s here, right now. He’s sat across from you. You’re finally on your own again. And he’s not fucking looking at you.

You let your legs down and sit up straight in your chair. It’s small, but it feels like a necessary step to silently tell him that you’re in the room with him. You’re here.

It lifts his eyes again. Not to you, but to your empty plate. Then, to the wet stain on your sleeve. You hope it stabs his heart a little.

From the shaky breath he sucks in, it seems to hurt just enough. He clears his throat. Pulls his gaze higher, higher, a little higher, until you’re eye to eye.

A wave of feeling, either burning hot or freezing cold – you can’t tell the difference – stretches across your body. It’s unnerving, and yet calming. It’s soothing on your wound, and irritating all the same. He’s looking at you. You wonder if he can see you.

You stare at one another for a few moments, drinking it all in. You can see him clear as day. You can almost see the shadows of his thoughts as they dance across the frosted-glass windows of his hazel eyes.

He blinks. Breathes in deep through his nose. And then speaks.

“LA, huh?”

You scoff. You don’t fucking mean to, but it’s the opposite of what you expected – and kind of wanted – him to say. Your whole body relaxes, though – finally relieved of the tension of the last seven days, even if only for a moment.

You feel lighter, like someone kicked the door down and this is the first gulp of clean air in your lungs. It’s small, insignificant even, but it does what it needs to.

Which is – it gives you the energy to answer back.

“It’s not a concrete plan. Yet.”

“Yet,” he repeats.

“I’m not running from you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Get your head out of your ass.”

He wants to laugh. He should’ve expected it.

“I didn’t say anythin’. I think…I think it sounds like a good plan. ‘n you’d be close by to Sarah, so.”

This conversation feels like you’ve been left alone for ten minutes with your dad’s buddy. Sanitized. Surgical. Which would’ve been what it was little over a month ago, but it’s not now. Now, it’s totally different. There’s more than just that one neat string between you.

You’ve held his hand. You’ve kissed him. You’ve touched him, in ways you’ve only ever touched a handful of people. And even then – none of those times have been anything like the way you’ve touched Joel. You’ve tasted him, you’ve felt him as he climaxes somewhere deep inside you. You’ve pulled him into your body, over and over; you’ve let him have you in ways nobody else has.

There exists a complicated, messy web of history and emotion, woven tight between you. The weight of it bears down on the surface of the dining table.

And he’s talking to you about fucking grad jobs.

“Could you just – stop fucking with me?” you ask, sincerely. You’re not angry, you’re not hurt. Not anymore.

Joel lifts his chin. Studies your face. “I’m not fucking with you.”

“Yes, you are. You’re talking to me about some job, like there’s nothing else to talk about. Like there ain’t nothin’ else we might have to discuss.”

His response is resigned. Bored, even. “What else do you wanna discuss?”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh, um, I don’t fucking know. Last week?”

Joel takes a swig of beer. You take it as reply enough.

“I don’t have any clue where you’re at, Joel. You pick me up from Frank’s, beat a dude up for me, put me to bed, ‘n then when I wake up, you’re gone. Oh, but you left your fuckin’ shirt. By accident? Or for me? Who the fuck am I to know?”

He holds back a smile. “I had work.”

“Right,” you nod, “Andrew Curtis.”

“That guy’s an idiot. You’d probably like ‘im.”

“I bet. I’m fond of idiots, apparently.”

This time, he can’t hold it back. A smirk spreads across his lips, soft and shy, but there. Right there. You could reach out and fucking touch it.

And then he nods. Leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and nods. The smile begins to fade.

With it, goes the breathing space between you. The fog starts to thicken again. The web tightens some more. Your chest begins to ache. Things feel normal for all of two minutes, and then they’re back to awkward air so heavy that you can feel it on your shoulders, feel it forcing you into a slump in your chair.

This whole thing is built on lies. Lies on top of lies on top of lies. The only truth there has ever been has been between the two of you. Two lonely figures, wrapped in each other’s arms in the eye of a storm. So –

Fuck it.

You sniff. “I thought – that the most we were risking was my dad. I thought the worst that could happen was him findin’ out.”

Your voice is quiet. Unsure of itself. One word carrying you to the next, not totally sure where you’re going with it.

“I didn’t know I was risking losing you, too, and now…now, you’re just gone. Like, you don’t wanna talk to me, you barely wanna look at me. I don’t…I don’t have you anymore, and it’s all fucked up. Do you know, I – I wouldn’ta done any of it if I thought you’d go?”

Joel flinches. Tightens the hold on his arms.

“I want you to come back,” you say, stronger this time. Louder. Clearer. You’re ignoring the tears sweeping across your vision. “Just come back. You don’t even – you don’t even have to touch me or nothin’. We can just hang out and talk, we don’t have to…we don’t have to do anything.”

Your voice wobbles by the end. Your lips tighten around it, shutting it off before you can say anything more to embarrass yourself.

Joel’s still quiet. He watches wordlessly as you stand, pile the plates atop one another and make for the kitchen. As you place them gently into the sink, you feel the weight of him behind you, reaching over to set the bottles alongside them.

“I ain’t gone anywhere,” he murmurs, and you twist to face him.

“Joel. This is the most we’ve touched in two weeks. Putting dishes in the sink.”

He repeats himself. Adds, “I’m still here. I still care about you.”

You shrug. “Then – show me.”

He steps back. “Show you,” he scoffs. Your expression doesn’t shift. “Show you? Like I didn’t just almost break my damn knuckles defendin’ you? Take you home in the dead a’ night, deal with all your drunk bickerin’?”

Your head tilts. He’s right. But you want more than that. More than spitting threats and leaving flannels behind. You want his hands, and his lips, and his voice. You want –

“…Lord, mighty me.”

Your dad’s voice follows the sudden jolt of the front door opening. You and Joel are already five feet apart by the time his body appears around the corner, one hand leaning on the wall, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“How on Earth that man has his own construction company, I have no idea. Called me halfway to the site ‘n said he found the keys in his damn pocket.”

“Always the scatterbrains,” Joel says, leaning casually against the counter.

“Sure is. You ‘n me oughta start our own, show ‘em all how it’s done. Anyways. What’d I miss?”

Before you can answer, Joel’s speaking again. He sounds in a hurry. “Just tidyin’ up. We were talkin’ about graduate programs, actually. You know what,” he turns to you, “I’m sure Sarah has some old brochures from UCLA. Might have some stuff worth checkin’ out. You wanna come get ‘em?”

It takes a second for you to realize he’s talking to you. His eyebrows are arched, his thumb pointing over his shoulder. He came up with the lie so damn quick, you have whiplash.

“I – yeah, sure. Yeah.”

Your dad runs his tongue between his teeth. “UCLA. Huh. Well, don’t keep Joel too late.”

“I w…I won’t,” you reply, following at the heels of the swaggering figure towards the door. You dodge his eye contact and dip your head behind Joel’s shoulder, thankful for his protective stance in front of you.

Your dad doesn’t say anything more – instead, he stands back and lets Joel lead you out. You steal a glance back at him as you slip through the door. His face unreadable, his eyes stick on Joel; locked tight on the flannel wandering down the driveway ahead of you. The word loops in your head as though the phone’s ringing again. Guilty guilty guilty guilty guilt–

But then the night breeze is dancing across your cheeks, and you’re following at the heels of Joel again, and you feel light as air in the wake of him. You climb into the passenger side of the truck and watch as he settles alongside you with a sigh. He pulls out of the drive, and his right hand sits idly on his thigh. You think to take it. Joel reads your mind.

He sits it on the armrest between you, palm facing up. You stare straight ahead and let your fingers slip through his. He knots your bodies together, thumb rubbing gently on your knuckle.

Another pound of weight lifts from your shoulders.

----------

Joel drives for twenty minutes before pulling up in an empty parking lot across from a church. It’s pitch-black and deserted. There’s a single streetlight over by the corner, illuminating a trashcan and not much else. You’re shrouded in darkness, save for the soft glow from the lights on the dash.

He switches the engine off and sits back in his seat. Your hands are separated. The distance between you slowly starts to grow again.

“LA,” he says, for the second time tonight, staring at the ceiling of the cabin.

“LA,” you echo, staring at him.

He looks down to you. Smiles. There’s something behind it. You can’t tell what.

“It’s not a grad job,” you say, forcing something up. Your fingers are twisting around the drawstring of your hoodie. “I was lookin’ at grad stuff, but there wasn’t anything I was into. The LA thing is a six-month temp job I saw.”

Joel nods. “What’s that look like?”

“Production assistant. Lots of behind-the-scenes stuff.”

“Mhm. Sounds like your thing.”

Your brows jump as you pull the tie around your finger. The tip turns white. “Might be. Job ad closes on Monday.”

He sucks in a breath. “Better get applyin’, then.”

Your head cocks. “So eager for me to go?”

“Eager for you to do somethin’ you love,” he corrects.

“But it would get me outta your hair.”

“I don’t want you outta my hair.”

A smirk sneaks its way across your lips. You nod to the view from the windshield. “Why are we way the hell out here?”

“Because your dad bombed our conversation, ‘n I figured we weren’t done.”

“Then talk.”

He licks his lips. Folds his arms, settles deeper into his seat. He turns a little more to face you. The single light from outside catches in his iris, like that same lighthouse beacon you could see earlier. Distant, far off, but there. Still there.

“I owe you an apology,” he says. “I…I thought what we were doin’…What I was doin’…I thought I was causing you more hurt ‘n harm than good. I was scared it’d gone too far. Scared it wasn’t okay anymore.”

“Was it ever okay?”

He shifts again, uncomfortably. In the dim light, you see his face pull. He squints, wobbles his head in consideration. “No. It wasn’t. But we did it anyways, you ‘n me. We made that decision together.”

“Right. And then you went and made the complete opposite decision, alone.”

He’s nodding. He knows. And you think you know, too. It fucking sucked, losing him – but you get it. What was the big plan? How far were you going to let it go? Someone had to pull the plug at some point. Someone had to cut the thing loose.

You lean closer to him. “I just…I wish you’d let me fight back a little. Wish you’d heard me out more. I know what we’ve done isn’t right. I know that. But I – I fucking –”

You sigh. It leaves your mouth shaky and unsure of itself.

There’s something more. Something at the back of your tongue, itching to separate into the dense space between you. Bigger. Stronger. Heavier.

“I missed you,” you concede, shaking your head. “That’s all.”

Joel’s eyes fall shut with a wince when you say it, like it physically hurts to hear the words come out of your mouth. But he’s clearer, now – the fog is slowly shrinking away. The words behind his eyes seem to light them in a warm glow. Missed you too, baby.

His hand opens up on the armrest again. Yours falls into it instantly.

He clears his throat then, and says, “Also owe you an apology for – for the Lois thing. I know I should’ve explained a lot sooner, ‘n I’m sorry I had you thinkin’ what you were thinkin’. I didn’t – I didn’t know it was such a big deal to you. Thought you’d know I wouldn’t…do that.”

“I think I did,” you tell him. Your nails run up and down his fingers. “Deep down. Wasn’t so much about her as it was about me.”

“About you?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Me, us, this. It was more of a, Why wouldn’t he want someone like her?, y’know? No lying, no secrets. And she’s old, like you.”

“Easy.”

You smile. “She’s nice. I know she is. My dad went on for five whole minutes about how good you’d be together when I asked ‘im. So – why wouldn’t you wanna be with her, right?”

It’s rhetorical. Joel knows. But he answers it anyways.

“She is nice,” he agrees, “but I ain’t interested. To tell you the truth, darlin’, I was a little preoccupied worrying my ass off about you to even look twice at the woman.”

You freeze for a second. Stare at the outline of his jaw, the jagged bristles of his beard; the soft sweep of hair silhouetted by the moonlight outside. He’s still Joel – even in the darkness, even in the fog. Even when you can’t see, hear, or touch him – he’s still there. Thinking about you. Worrying about you.

“Well,” you sniff, “you don’t gotta worry anymore. I just…I didn’t like the thought of it.”

His head tilts. Beckons you to continue.

You sigh. “I don’t want you…with…anyone else. I want you to…only want me.”

His brows straighten. You sit in silence, staring at one another. Both daring the other to be the first to talk. But it’s his turn, and he knows it. So he swallows, and says –

“I don’t want nobody else.”

And that’s a thing. A great big, terrible thing.

“But,” he continues, almost immediately, “this has gotta be – I’ve gotta do right by you. Gotta be honest, now –”

“Wait,” you interrupt, “can you just – stop acting like it’s all you?”

Joel falls quiet. His brows knit together.

“Stop saying things that make it sound like you’re the only one in this. I’m in it, too. I want it. I want you.”

“Baby, it’s not as simple as –”

“Joel,” you take his arms and pull yourself closer to him, legs propped against the center console, “I want you. This. I want us. All of it, I want all –”

Your body is being tugged closer to him, lifted nearer, and his chin bumps against yours, and his eyelashes almost brush against yours when your foreheads link, and his breath sweeps hot and needy across yours, and he – he kisses you.

You stop breathing. You don’t care whether or not it ever comes back. Oxygen replaced by him. Everything replaced by him.

His tongue slips past your lips, his hand glides across your hair to cup the back of your head. He locks you into his body, lets you rest your arms across his shoulders. Your lips find a rhythm against one another; warm, wet, tender.

His free hand cups your cheek, holds your mouth to his just a second longer, before he pulls away, and gives you one last kiss. Softest of them all. Seals the fucking deal.

“We okay?” he mumbles, and you lift your head from his palm. You sit frozen for a second, just looking at him. Looking and looking and looking.

“We’re good.”

He smiles then. A genuine smile. “I thought,” he whispers, glancing around the quiet parking lot, “I could take you on a date.”

So that’s why he brought you out here.

“A date?”

“Mhm. Never been on one, have we?”

“Never could.”

He nods in agreement. “Just ice cream. For now. Thought I’d show you some of my moves.”

“You got moves?” you snicker.

“I’m a catch, darlin’. The ladies swoon for me.”

“Alright, never say that to me again.”

Joel laughs. “There’s a place right around the corner. ‘s go.”

He climbs out of the truck and wanders off towards the sidewalk, and you follow. He looks down at you as you walk. His cheeks swell with the smile on his face, dimples at the edges of his lips.

It’s quiet; quieter than you’d expect, not that you’re complaining. With the sun almost set, you’re doused in light only when you wander under a streetlight. So, it’s no surprise when Joel’s eyes quickly scan the street up ahead, and his hand reaches down for yours.

Your stomach flips. You’re doing everything you can not to let him feel your pulse in your wrist, but you’re pretty sure you can, because he leans his shoulder against yours and asks if you’re okay.

“Good,” you choke out, relieved to have just passed a streetlight that might give away the blush on your cheeks.

Approaching on the right is a sickly-sweet, pastel-painted store front; fairy lights decorating the window, wireframe tables and chairs dotted outside. A bell dings when Joel pushes the door open, holding it open for you to step inside.

It’s…dainty. Sweet. Everything is either teal or pink or white. There’s a giant ice cream cone stood in the corner. There’s a gumball machine opposite it. The lighting is a little garish – kind of reminds you of sitting in the dentist chair, eyes squinting up at the bright white light overhead.

You’re fucking surprised to be stood in here with Joel Miller, of all people. He sticks out like a sore thumb; his worn jeans and crumpled flannel against the minty gleam of the parlor like an earthy tree sprouting in the middle of that same dentist’s office. It makes you giggle, as he leads you over to the counter.

A boy with a teal uniform meets him over a glass case full of different ice cream flavors. His name badge reads Ben. “What can I get you?” he asks, scoop in hand. Your lips press against one another to stop your laugh from escaping.

Joel turns to look at you. He nudges you with his elbow when you don’t return his glance, too focused on Ben’s pink baseball cap, the logo of the shop printed on top.

“Uh,” you consider, glancing down, “I’m good with any.”

Joel sighs, lips thinning. “Am I gonna pick a flavor, ‘n then you decide you don’t like it?”

“Nope. Promise.” You smile innocently, and he turns back to the server.

“I’ll take one scoop of the cookie dough, and, uh…one of the coffee, please.”

When Ben dips to scoop the order into two little tubs, you mock gasp at Joel.

“What?”

“Coffee?”

He shrugs.

“I took you for a vanilla man.”

Ben stands straight and punches some numbers into the cash register. Joel hands him a ten.

“What about me makes you think I’m into vanilla?” he asks in a low voice.

You bat your eyelashes at him. A dark thought crosses your mind, but you think better of voicing it and save Ben the embarrassment of potentially hearing you.

Joel thanks him and takes both tubs in one hand. You make for a booth by the window, but his hand quickly slinks around your waist, diverting you back to the door.

“Nuh-uh.”

“What?” you ask, spinning around.

Joel continues walking, backing you out of the shop. “I am not sittin’ in here. Got a fuckin’ headache already from five minutes in the place.”

“But it’s so cute,” you protest, giggling. “You don’t want your picture taken with the giant cone?”

“Get the hell out,” he mumbles, shoving you across the tiled floor back out to the sidewalk. He can’t mask his own grin, spilling out behind you, taking your hand in his.

You snort as he drags you back along the street. “Maybe I should forget about LA and get a job in there. Drive myself insane.”

“Maybe you should,” Joel agrees. “Least then you’d have an excuse for it.”

You slap his chest. “Where are we goin’?”

“’s just go back to the truck. Quieter. Less fluorescent lights.”

He unlocks it a few paces away, but you stroll past your door.

“What are you doin’?” Joel asks when you pull yourself up into the bed.

“C’mon,” you call back, settling against the back window, “it’s a nice night. Who are we hiding from?”

He tosses it over in his head and cocks one eyebrow. Fair enough. He climbs up and passes you the ice cream, shrugging his shirt from his shoulders. He throws it over your bare legs and sits down beside you, grunting as he does.

You smirk when he rests back.

“I’m almost fifty, darlin’,” he warns, reaching for his tub.

Your lips curve and you nod, digging the little plastic spoon into your dessert. You stretch your legs out and cross your ankles, watching in quiet contentment as the cars roll by, squealing to a halt at the traffic lights. Lights are coming on in windows, curtains are being drawn. Joel’s legs lie against yours, joined at the hip, shoulders brushing off one another.

This is the most peace you’ve had in a fortnight. Sat in the back of his truck, no eyes on you, watching the comings and goings of some back street in the city. You talk about nothing, for the first time in what’s felt like forever. You talk about films, and music, and all the stuff that seemed so unimportant before. Now, it all feels imperative. Feels like a life-or-death thing. What’s your favorite movie? You know my favorite movie, baby. But tell me again. Just so I know for sure. Just so that – if anything happens.

You listen when he answers. You watch his mouth as he says the words. For all the times you took it for granted before. For all the times you thought it was insignificant. It’s all significant, now. It all means something. It’s just more strings to the web between you, each one knotting you closer and closer together.

And you talk about what you’ve missed. The two weeks you’ve spent apart. You catch him up as if he was only gone on vacation. As if he was always meant to come back in the end.

“The guy with the weed – same guy you punched – he was –” gulp, “– what was his name again? Knicks? No –”

Joel snorts, spoon scraping around the edge the tiny pot in his huge hand. “Knicks?”

You close your eyes, waving your hand like it’ll urge him to remember the name of a guy he took no time getting to know before he floored him. “No, it wasn’t Kn…Knox! It was Knox, and he –”

“Kind of a fuckin’ name is Knox? Knox?”

“Are you gonna let me talk, or what?” you quip, and Joel brings his wrist up to his mouth to mask his laugh.

“Sorry, sorry, sweetheart. Go ahead. Knox had the weed.”

“Knox had the weed, and…he…Fuck, I can’t even remember where I was goin’ with that.” You shake your head and lean it back against the windowpane.

He laughs. For real. A Joel laugh. His shoulders jerk with the force of it. “You were gonna tell me about his friends, I think. Somethin’ about his friends.”

It sparks back up in your brain – the memory. “Right! Right. His friends – that dude with the glasses? That was Zack.”

Joel stares at you blankly, tongue in his cheek. “Zack?”

“Big guy, red face. Buck teeth. From Costco?”

His jaw slackens. He remembers. “I fuckin’ – I knew I’d seen that kid’s face before. That was him?”

You nod. Uhuh.

“Damn.” He chuckles. “He looked at me like I was a wild bear.”

You toss your head, roll your eyes. “Well.”

He laughs again. Knocks your legs with his own.

“Good call, by the way,” your lips mumble around the shape of your spoon, “cookie dough. it’s nice.”

“Wanna try mine?”

“Really?” Your face contorts, eyes screwing. “Coffee?”

“’s good. Here.”

He holds out a spoonful.

“Yeah, nice to you, who drinks, like, thirty of ‘em a day.”

Joel responds by pushing the spoon to your lips and you oblige, opening up and letting him feed you the ice cream.

It’s not bad. It’s ice cream, it can’t be bad. But it definitely isn’t good, and the way your lips purse and your neck jerks lets Joel know exactly how you feel about it. He scoffs, wiping a little from your lips with his thumb and sucking it clean.

“You don’t like it?”

“Why is it…bitter? Eugh.”

He laughs to himself as he loads up another spoonful. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“Well, I am not interested in acquirin’ it. You want some of the cookie dough?”

He shakes his head. “You enjoy.”

You both turn back to the street ahead. Joel’s arm is warm at the side of yours, his shoulder right there for you to lean your head on.

He places a kiss to your head when you do.

“What do you think he’d do if he found out?”

You’re not sure where it comes from. Neither is Joel, apparently, from the way he clears his throat and squirms ever so slightly. He knows exactly who you mean.

“I, uh…I don’t like to imagine.”

“It scare you?”

He takes a deep breath. “Naw. I just got better things to do with my imagination, is all.” He prods your arm with his. Picturin’ you.

“Ha. You reckon he’d kill you?”

“Probably.”

“He couldn’t kill you. Wild bear.”

“Well, I reckon he might try.”

“I think he’d call the cops.”

Joel’s head lifts from yours and falls back against the truck with a laugh.

“Help, Officer,” you mimic your dad’s twang,“my grown adult daughter is sleeping with someone!”

Joel’s shoulders slowly stop moving.

“Is that all we’re doin’?” he asks.

“Huh?” You lift your head and look at him. His dark eyes reflect the city lights in the distance.

“Is that all we’re doin’? Sleepin’ together?” His voice is gentle, honest. Genuinely asking, seeking out what you think.

You consider it, tryna sound casual. You know what he’s getting at.

“That’s all we’ve been doin’. Help, Officer, my daughter’s grabbing ice cream with someone? Better?”

He hums. Looks down at the empty tub in his hands. Looks back up to your lips. Draws nearer to you, holds your chin with one finger, looks you dead in the eye, and whispers,

“How about, Help, Officer, my daughter made someone fall in love with her?”

Your breath catches. Your hands fall limp into your lap. You blink away tears.

“You – No, that’s – You gotta say it. You gotta actually tell me, ‘cause I’m not – I don’t wanna misinterpret – We haven’t –”

You’re buffering. Your brain malfunctioning. Your tongue can’t decide which of the words at the back of your throat, all desperate to escape, to let through first.

Joel’s just smiling, watching you stutter and stammer your way through a sentence that leads you nowhere, desperately trying to compute what he’s just said because he’s finally fucking admitted it. He’s finally letting you know, giving you access to a part of him he’s been keeping from you for who knows how long.

Even though all this time it’s been the one thought running through your head that hasn’t passed your lips, it reverberates around your ears like it’s the last thing you ever expected him to say.

Joel’s hand moves to your neck, just below your ear. “Baby,” his thumb rubs your skin, “you know I love you.”

A gasp flees from your lips. Your ice cream is thrown to the truck bed, probably spilling over, and you don’t care. You leap into his lap, arms around his neck, and kiss him all over.

Joel’s laughing, returning what kisses he can, squeezing you with his big hands.

“I love you,” he says again when you come up for air, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard in your life. You sit your forehead against his, whispering breathlessly,

“Fuck, I love you, too.”

You two stare at each other, eyes scanning every part of the other’s face, mapping every mark, line, scar, like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen each other.

Guess it is, right?

This is the first time you’re looking at the man you love and you’re not afraid of it. The first time your chest swells and you don’t gulp it back, the first time you let him feel your heart pounding against the wall of your chest.

It’s the first time you look into his eyes, dark eyelashes and fine lines decorating deep warm brown, and think those three words…and know you can say them. Know neither of you will be spooked, neither of you will try to push them back down where they came from.

I love you. That’s all there is between you now. Your cards are flat on the table, Joel’s, too. Game over. You know everything there is to know about each other. You know each other.

You’ve sunk down his body, turned so your back curves into his chest, his chin resting on your head. Safely encased in his body, sat between his thighs. His hand runs up and down your thigh, lighting drawing lines and circles and writing words you don’t care to guess, ‘cause you probably already know ‘em.

Love hums between the two of you, keeping you warm; your bodies pressed together, hearts beating just inches apart. You blink your eyes open and the single streetlight sails back into your vision – bright as the moon, stirring you from your tranquil bliss.

“Do you,” you turn, and Joel fixes your hair, presses his lips to your forehead, “do you tell all the girls that on the first date? Was that just one of your moves?”

He snorts, and answers by pulling you in to give you a tender kiss.

No. Just you.

“You ready to go?” he asks when your lips part.

“Mhm. Take me home, cowboy.”

----------

His house is dark against the dusky sky. The headlights illuminate the garage door as he pulls up in the drive, squeezing your hand once as the truck comes to a halt.

“And then…” Joel says, holding a finger up to you. Wait right here.

He gets out of the driver’s side and you watch the shadow of him jog around the truck, stopping at your door. He opens it, and holds a hand out for you to take.

You choke on a laugh. “That is…”

“That is what?”

“…so cheesy. You really do that?”

“Uhuh. C’mon.”

Your fingers lace through his and you hop out of the truck. Joel shuts the door behind you and extends his elbow, and you link your arm through his. His hand warmly rests on top of yours.

You both wander over to his porch where he stops, letting you walk up the steps alone. When you reach the top one, only just taller than him on the path, hands still interlinked, you look down.

“Then I say, Thank you for a lovely evenin’, and,” he lifts your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, “then…” Joel holds his arms out. Voila. Just like that.

“Wow. I feel…honored.”

“You should.”

“Not even a proper kiss?”

“I just kissed your hand, baby. You didn’t like that?”

“You don’t ask to come inside?”

He scoffs. “Nope. What would I want to come inside for?”

You grin. Shrug your shoulders. Start walking backward to his door.

“Well, I am exhausted after our date, Mr. Miller. I do think,” yawn, “I should be gettin’ ready for bed.”

Joel lowers his head, eyes trained on you, smirk growing on his lips. “Is that so?”

You nod.

He starts to climb the steps.

“I’m sure I’ll be expectin’ a call from you,” you mewl, exaggerated Southern accent crooning to him. Your back bumps against the front door. Joel’s on the porch now. You bite your lip.

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he returns, his shadow creeping over you. He reaches your body and his arms come to rest on the frame right above your head.

You hook your hands around his shoulders.

“You really don’t wanna come in?” you whisper, and his jaw ticks.

“I wouldn’t want to be ungentlemanly.”

Leaning in, lips against his ear, you whisper soft enough to shake the breath as it falls from his lips.

“And what if I asked you, nicely, to take me inside and fuck me good ‘n hard until I can’t walk?”

Joel’s eyes pool black when you lean away, head resting back on his door. Your gaze is heavy with lust, eyelashes batting slowly.

“Hm,” he grumbles, body beginning to press against yours. His head cocks. “You don’t wanna be treated like a lady?”

“Nope.” You smirk, hand falling down to cup the bulge quickly forming below his belt.

“Want to be treated like a fuckin’ whore, do ya?”

Chest heaving, you nod, massaging him.

“So dirty, darlin’, feelin’ your date up on the porch,” he tells you, dipping his jaw to run his lips along your neck. “What ‘m I gonna do with you?”

You shrug again, and your fingers find the door handle at your hip. You push, and the wood behind you falls inward.

As you plunge into the dark house, Joel’s rough hands clamp down on your waist, taking you in his tight grip and throwing you against the wall. His lips find your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin, tongue caressing tenderly as he sucks a bruise into you. Heat spreads across your core. You clench your thighs around the feeling.

“Joel,” you whine, hands surfing through his hair. “Fuck, take me upstairs.”

He hums. He’s going to. He’s just not doing it quick enough.

You lift your leg to his hip, and his left hand scoops under your ass. He pulls your center flat against the swelling in his jeans, ruts slowly against your body. You hear a deep groan from his throat.

“Upstairs,” you say again, growing impatient, and he growls, taking you with both hands and lifting you two steps at a time towards his bedroom.

He kicks the door open, loosening his grip on you as he walks over to the bed. Light streams across the room in splinters, peering through the shades from the streetlights outside. Your legs drop and you dance along on your toes, turning him midway until his calves hit the bottom of his mattress.

Your lips part for mere seconds, allowing one reflected expression between you, before you’re pushing him by the chest onto the bed. His body springs when he hits the sheets, staring back up at yours between his legs. His breath courses from his mouth, thick with want and need.

You lay him flat on the mattress, knees either side of his waist, hands curved over his shoulders. His own find your waist, holding on tight as you straddle him, playing with the tie of your shorts when you settle.

You dip your head and brush your lips against his. One long, sweet kiss, and his hands are at the hem of your hoodie, pulling it free, lifting it over your head. You groan as it separates your bodies, let your tongue find his again as quickly as it was pulled apart from it.

“Let me see,” he whispers against your lips, hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shorts to rub circles into your hipbones.

You smile as you straighten, fingers dancing along the hem of your tee.

“Let me – see,” Joel grunts, when your core grinds into his.

You peel the tight fabric from your stomach, higher, higher, until it lifts your breasts, catching on the curve of them, and as you whip it over your head, they bounce back down. Joel groans from below, staring at the perfect peaked shape. He lifts one hand to cup your tit, runs his thumb over the quickly-hardening nipple.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby.”

“I know,” you tell him, watching as his thumbpad circles the delicate skin. Your back arches into his touch.

And then his hands sink into the mattress either side of his body, pushing himself closer to you. He wraps a strong arm around your back and pulls your chest to his mouth, lips pressing wet kisses to the valley between your breasts. His teeth graze across the round shape up towards your nipple again.

His tongue slips over the hard bud, swirling and soaking all over it. Your head falls back, fingers grip onto his hair. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes. Joel sucks harder.

“S– fuck,” you whisper, nearly voiceless. His tongue is flicking now, lips pulling more of your body into his mouth. “Fuckfuckfuck, I need you, I need you,” you whimper.

He releases your sweet skin, lips shining with saliva. “Tell me where.”

You writhe on top of him, hands pushing your shorts down over your hips. “You know where.”

Joel holds your body steady. “Tell me.”

You whine, trying to rock against him. He doesn’t let up. “Joel, fuck. Betw– between my – fuck.”

“Between your legs?” he taunts, pushing you harder against the hard folds of denim below his belt. “That where you need me? Between those pretty legs, babygirl?”

Your fists ball around the fabric of his shirt, clinging on to him. “Ye-ah,” you whimper, and his weight falls from your grasp.

You feel your shorts tug over the crests of bone by your hips. “Step out of ‘em, baby,” he instructs, and your knee lifts.

He pulls the cotton down one leg at a time, telling you to shift your weight as he curls a finger around the lace of your panties and tugs them down after. Before you can think about it, you’re naked, soaked cunt making a mess over the crotch of his jeans.

He looks up at you expectantly.

“What–?”

He flicks his fingers in a beckoning motion, a Come here, either side of your thighs. You hesitate.

“Darlin’. Up.”

“Joel.”

“Up.”

You take his open hands and shuffle up the mattress, knees pushing into the soft sheets either side of his head. You glance down at him.

“I don’t know –”

“’m not gonna tell you again.”

And he doesn’t have to. You steady yourself, locking your fingers through his behind your ass, and slowly lower yourself down to him. His jaw lifts to meet you, and you think about pausing again, telling him he doesn’t have to do this, asking instead to do something else, something he’ll enjoy as much, something you can both –

But then his lips open around the sweetest part of your body, and your lungs freeze. His tongue slips between, daring where you need him most, and your body sighs in equal parts relief and pleasure.

You’re so fucking wet. You can feel it, leaking onto his lips, spreading around your own as he kisses you, licks you, takes in every drop of you. Your back curls, lips fall open to the ceiling, breath comes in short wisps.

It’s been almost two weeks since the two of you felt like this. Hot, wet, needy. Two weeks of waiting for the other to come back, two weeks of reaching for the phone and deciding against it once the number’s dialed, two weeks of nothing.

And now – everything. Everywhere. Every part of your body ignited for him. You feel him fucking everywhere.

You lean all of your weight onto the palm of your hands, pushing all of it into Joel’s. He’s steady, strong, letting you rock and swirl your hips as he laps at your core.

“Right there,” you whisper, head rolling back. “Keep – keep – oh, fuck, Joel. What the f–?”

He slowly lowers his hands, letting you untangle your fingers and place them on the bed. His own come to hook around your thighs, clamping you as close against him as you can possibly be.

Two weeks of nothing. And now, five minutes of everything. The shards of light from outside blur across your vision; heat starts to prickle up your spine, tickling the back of your neck. You’re smiling, filthy and desperate.

“I’m gonna –” you breathe, and Joel hums. “’m gonna c– come.”

You can hear his response, though he doesn’t say a word. Then, come.

Your hips motion forward. Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Joel’s tongue slips between your folds, warm on the inside of your cunt. And you rock back. Unwind. Unfurl. Exhale. His bottom lip puckers against your clit.

“J-oel. Joel, I’m – you’re – fuck.”

He moans against your sex. His hips shift behind you. Buck upwards, carefully.

Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Tighten – inhale. Unwind. Unf-url. Ex-hale. Tighten. Inh– clamp. Fuck. I’m there. Unwind. Warm. Wet. Tongue. Exhale. Tongue. Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Joel –

Your fingers curl around his bedsheets, nails dig into the cotton. Your orgasm sends a flood of hot pleasure across your cunt, rains down over Joel’s lips, and sets fireworks off through your body which explode into the dark room in the form of a throaty moan.

You’re not sure when you come to. You’re not sure your arms can bear the weight of your body. But when your eyes blink open, he’s kissing the inside of your thighs.

His mouth is glistening. Moustache and beard covered in you. Soft lips pearlescent with your spend. Your body feels heavy, unbearable. You lift your leg and tumble onto the mattress by his side, pussy throbbing when you land.

“I love you,” you whisper, and not for any particular reason. Not because of what he just did. Not because you’re naked in his bed.

But maybe because it feels like this is what you were made to do. To love and to be loved – by him. It feels like this entire thing has been, from its genesis, an exchange. An understanding. Immediate and certain. Here are all the parts of me. You know what to do.

As if there needed no further explanation. No instruction, no tutorial. You just knew.

He pushes himself up, leans over your frame. His jaw lowers, and he licks into your mouth tenderly.

“Gotta be inside you, baby,” he says, and at the same time, your fingers find the buttons of his shirt. “Gotta feel you again.”

You nod against him. Fuck me fuck me fuck me.

Joel’s hands are on his belt, pulling it through the loops, dropping it to the floor. Your help him tug his jeans off when he undoes the button. The material of his underwear rubs against your sex; your creamy arousal smears all over the black fabric. You can feel the weight of his stiff cock beneath. It dizzies your head.

He lets your fingers sneak below the elastic, lowering it until he springs free, slapping against the bottom of his tummy. You could fucking drool at the sight of him – the pink tip, beaded with precum; the thick vein on the underside of the shaft; his balls below it, heavy and waiting. Your hands wrap around him and pump slowly as he drags his boxers down, kicking them off at the foot of the bed.

He groans, hips thrusting gently into your palms as you squeeze him. Your fingers slip between your folds, collecting your own slick, coating him in it as you fist him.

“So good, babygirl,” Joel breathes, leaning down to kiss you. “You gonna take it all?”

“Mhm,” you reply, tongue slipping against his.

“Yeah,” he says, “my girl can take it.”

You let his hand shadow over yours, the two of you guiding his cock towards your entrance together. It glides between your dripping folds, the head sifting effortlessly from your clit to your tight hole and back again. Joel laughs, teeth clashing with yours, as he dips in and out, teasing you.

Your ass lifts from the mattress, any movement to draw him nearer. “Stop,” you gasp.

Joel pauses. “Stop?”

“No,” you bleat, “don’t stop. Just – fucking do it.”

“Do what, darlin’?”

“Fuck me.”

And he sinks in.

You’d be lying if you said all you’d done for the last two weeks was cry, mope, and stare at the ceiling. That’d be discrediting everything that this little affair was built on. It’s impossible to forget how the thing fucking started – your hands between your legs, Joel watching from the doorway.

In the moments you didn’t feel the mind-numbing tsunami of heartache overcome you – you felt something else. Memories of his hands on you, the trail of his tongue between your legs, the swell of his cock deep inside you. You tried to replicate it a handful of times with your hands. But nothing – not your fingers, not two, three, or four – nothing stands a chance against him.

He pushes in slow at first, drawing out when he’s halfway, and then in again as he covers himself in the wet his tongue left behind. When he’s soaked, glistening and gleaming, he thrusts. Hard. His tip catches on your cervix, and your back arches in a mix of pain and delight.

Something throbs deep inside as he bottoms out. You feel your opening stretch around his base. You feel your legs widen as if by instinct, accommodating the size of him, the width of him, the pace of him.

You throw an arm over his shoulder, elbow hanging on the nape of his neck. His sweaty forehead sticks to yours, and your hand cups his cheek.

“Harder,” you tell him, and he listens.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, “fuck, you’re so tight. Oh, my – I ain’t gonna last.”

“Don’t – want you – to,” you cry, body jumping as he fucks you quicker, quicker, harder, deeper. “Want to – come – together.”

Your head tips back against the bed, and Joel’s lips attach to your neck. He’s moaning into your skin, teeth biting down, breath hot and quick. He’s not gonna last he’s not gonna last he’s not –

“F-u-ck, Joel,” you sob, your walls starting to close in around him, “feels so – f-fucking good, oh!”

“I know, darlin’, I know. C’mere.”

He takes your cheek and pulls your face back to his, lines his lips with yours and kisses you. It’s messy, haggard, fucking all over the place as your bodies bounce together, but he tastes like sweat, and sex, and you, and him.

“Missed this so fuckin’ much,” he grunts, hips pounding. “Missed bein’ inside you. You know how bad I needed you?”

“Tell me,” you slur, echoing his own words back to him.

He smirks. “Best fucking pussy I ever had, sweetheart. Best – I ever – had.”

“Don’t pull out,” you hum against his lips, and his jaw pulls back a fraction. “Don’t.”

“Baby,” he says, strained, and your head tilts.

“Need it,” you tell him. “Please. Need you.”

He nods, leaning back into you, letting you connect your mouths again. His lips shudder when you pull away, the thought translated clear as day from your mouth to his. And he knows, and he drives in harder, and he fucks the image from your mind. Who the fuck is Lois, when you’re under him and he’s this deep between your legs?

You look up into his eyes, and you find your answer. She’s nobody. There’s only you.

Your body feels liquid, your mind like fog. You pull him into your body, deeper and deeper, until you’re sure you’re one, and there is no place where he ends and you begin, and you’re sure this is what it feels like, this is what those words feel like, not just the sound of them, not just the way his lips move around them, but the shape of them on and in and around your body. Something deafening, something blinding, something screaming from the pits of your lungs as you come all around him, and you feel him come all around you.

His warmth spurts deep inside you, filling you up, dripping down your walls as he collapses into your shoulder, a loud moan drilling into your collarbone. He slows, thrusts in and out gently, pushing his spend deeper and mixing it with yours.

It's everywhere. The feeling. The pulsing, the humming, the singing. He’s everywhere. Him. In your brain and in your lungs and in your body and in your cunt. And you want to keep him there, hold him there, keep your bodies together for five more minutes, just five more minutes.

But then he’s panting into your skin, pressing kisses into that little dip between your collarbone and your chest, and he slowly slips out, come dripping from where he leaves.

He presses his palm deep into the sheets by your head, lifts off of you – but your arm is still around his neck, and you lean with him. Tilted on his mattress, holding onto him, letting him kiss your head; letting his hand move across the surface of your stomach, mapping the gentle slope over your belly button and scaling the tiny mountains of your hipbones. Kneading softly into the skin over which his seed sits, warm and snug, deep inside you. It’s new. You think you love it.

And he’s whispering, “Good girl, did so good for me,” and he nuzzles his nose into your hair, and he tilts your chin back until he can see your face, see your expression, and he smiles with relief when he clocks your doe eyes, your blissful smile, the sweet tinge of red on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he tells you, and you’re staring at his lips.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

You look up to his eyes. “Again.”

“I love you.”

You smile. It breaks into a laugh. “Again,” you whisper, and he kisses you.

Slowly, only once you pull away from him and your breath steadies, Joel takes your body and carefully shifts. He turns onto his back, settles you on his chest, your hips between his thighs. He runs a gentle hand over your hair and you lie against his sweat-shining chest, his heartbeat whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

Love and sex, as far as you knew, were always two different things. Separate. One, you weren’t even sure existed. The other, nothing more than a need to be satisfied. Something deep within you, something no one had ever managed to touch. And then Joel. And his lips, and his tongue, and his hands and his cock.

And suddenly the two – love and sex – begin to blur, their edges touch frantically. They bleed into one another, until there are no longer two distinct forms; instead, one big shape which has the curve of your hips and the cut of his jaw.

You love him. And he loves you. You’ve heard it translated between your minds longer than you care to admit, and now – you’ve felt it. Transferred between your bodies. You love him. Jesus, you love him.

It’s as terrifying as it is thrilling. Enamoring, and yet dangerous.

“So,” you sigh, “what’s next?”

He glances down, lifts his eyebrows and gives his head a shake. His hand lifts off of your shoulder with a shrug.

“Like, your next move. What happened with the other eight?”

“The other eight?”

“Mhm. Me, Sarah’s mom, makes two. There are eight others, right? What’d you do afterward?”

“Kicked ‘em out.”

You lift a heavy hand and slap his chest. He shudders with laughter.

“I dunno, baby. Wasn’t all like this.”

Your brows knit. “Like what?”

He takes a deep breath. Your head rises as his lungs fill. “Lyin’ in bed afterward. Talkin’.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“What?” he asks, smirking.

“Who even were they? I wanna know.”

“Why?”

“Just do. I wanna hear about ‘em. When was the last one, before me?”

Joel’s eyes drift off to the ceiling above you, thinking. “May.”

“M–?” You jump up, pushing yourself off of his body. “May?” you repeat, eyes wide. “That’s…so recent.”

“Recent?” He chokes back a laugh. “When’s your last?”

You furrow your brows, dropping his gaze. “We’re not talking about me,” you mumble, thumbs twiddling.

Your last had been two nights before you flew home. You’d gone out with your roommates and dragged home Matteo, an exchange student who you’d worked with on a group project for your screenwriting class. He was three inches shorter than you. He bent you over your kitchen counter and fucked you until he came. Then he made himself some cereal, ate half of it, and left.

Joel doesn’t really need to hear about him, you think.

“Do I know any of them?” you ask in attempt to change the subject.

Joel pulls a face. His lips tighten, teeth clench. His eyes narrow to a thin line, looking at you through his eyelashes. He nods tentatively.

“Shut the fuck up. Who is it? Who?”

“I dunno if you know her, but she knows you.”

“What’s her name?”

“Your dad gave us a ride home from the bar. She ‘n him got to talkin’, and he said he had a daughter –”

Your fist lightly drops onto his chest. “Joel, if you don’t fucking tell me who it is, I –”

“She’s an elementary teacher. Long, dark hair. Good few years older ‘n you. Think she said her little sister went to your school.”

“Who – was – it?”

He makes the face again. This time his eyes close over, waiting for the penny to drop. His head shakes lightly.

“You –? No, Joel. Come on. Please don’t…Are you fucking serious? You don’t remember her name?”

“It was a long night, alright?”

“How did you forget her damn name?”

He shrugs. “I don’t fuckin’ know. I was drunk, baby.”

“Elementary teacher? I don’t know anybody whose sister teaches elementary.”

“Guess we’ll never know.” Joel shrugs, and you shake your head at him.

You’re picturing Joel stumbling out of Frank’s, arm in arm with a brunette, heavy feet dragging along the sidewalk while your dad chitters in his ear about the Rangers, or about some rude bartender, or about…you. The brunette turns, and her face is yours. Your features, your smile. Your hand linked through Joel’s. C’mon, baby. ‘s go home.

You chase the image away. It slips from your mind like dust cleared from a countertop. Would never. Could never. Should never.

You replace it with something lighter. Something to make you forget about the dust.

“Does…Does my dad ever go home with anyone?”

“What?”

You don’t answer. He heard you.

“That’s…No. I ain’t answerin’ that.”

“Oh, come on. If you’re takin’ women home left, right, and center, he’s gotta be seein’ that. Does he?”

“I was not takin’ home women left, right, and – No, darlin’, no. It’s inappropriate.”

“Yeah, you’re right. And I’m known for my appropriate behavior, y’know,” you gesture between your naked bodies, “I’m known for the good life choices I make.”

“This,” Joel hooks his hands under your arms and drags you up until your chin meets his, “is a good life choice.”

“Yeah?” you ask through a giggle, your nose bumping his.

Joel smiles softly, runs a hand over the back of your head. Looks between your eyes, a twinkle in his. Yes.

Your lips crash together like waves on the rocks. You’re the sea; he’s the stone. Two different worlds, suddenly married in some unforeseen twist of nature. And when you pour over him, your body lighting him in a twinkling glow of ocean, it’s as though you never existed apart from one another. It’s as natural as the waves on the shore.

“Alright, darlin’,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Speakin’ of inappropriate. I gotta get you home.”

“Why can’t I just stay the night?” you complain. “Like last time. Tell ‘im we’re watchin’ a movie again…”

Joel’s head rests on your arm. “He’s worried sick about you. Ain’t no way he’ll let you spend the night here. You know that. Plus, Sarah’ll be long done with Rita’s cross stitch by now.”

He sits up and you roll into his lap, head resting on the soft skin of his belly. He looks down at you, head tilted, eyes glowing hazel.

You stare right back. The dimples in his cheeks dig deeper when you whisper, “Kickin’ me out right after we finally make up. I see how it is, Miller.”

Joel’s shoulders hunch. “Happens to all of ‘em. Warned ya.”

He shifts off the bed and begins gathering his clothes. You sit up and watch as he pulls his boxers snug over his hips, swipes his tee from the carpet at his feet. As he drapes it over his scruffy chest, your half-naked form meets his at the foot of the bed.

His fingers knot in your hair. You lean into his arms, legs giving as he kisses you gently, breathing you in, stealing any more words of protest from your tongue.

“I love you,” he whispers when he pulls away, tip of his nose brushing off yours. “You know that?”

“Somebody told me somethin’ to do with that, yeah.”

He smiles. “Get dressed.”

You pull the rest of your clothes back on in silence, tossing socks and jeans across the room to one another, giggling like a pair of kids. After all you just did, the palpable pleasure you just sent hammering through one another – this is the part you wish you could bottle. The laughter, the love. The attempts to keep holding onto him, even as he tries to pull his arm through the sleeve of his shirt, even as he links his belt back through his jeans, as he bends to tie his boots.

The fun of it. The hope of it.

The foolish, foolish hope.

“Hoodie.” Joel flings it up towards you, crouched as he tightens his laces.

You pull it on over your bra. Flatten your flyaway hairs, stand straight before him.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“You got your phone?”

Your hands instinctively pat your body down. “Oh, nah,” you realize, “musta left it at home.”

Joel nods and heads into the hallway, you at his heel. At the bottom of the stairs, you glance around his house, like it’s the first and last time you’ll see it wrapped into one. It looks different; two weeks of absence and you notice things you hadn’t before.

His coat hanging by the door, probably untouched since early spring. The bowl on the side table where his and Sarah’s keys live. The guitar in the corner of the room, the books in the shelves above it. All him. Every little piece of it. He’s reflected in every object in the room. He’s reflected in you.

You drive back to your dad’s place in silence. Comfortable, sweet silence. Your fingers ghost across his palm the entire time, watching out the window as the dark neighborhood soars by in a blur of porch lights and mailboxes. All too quickly, you’re back in front of your own house.

“What do we do now?” you ask, and through the darkness you see Joel’s smile fall.

After a moment’s silence, heavy and contemplative, he looks back up. Softens when his eyes land on you.

“We’ll be alright,” he tells you, and you believe him.

You lean forward and press a quick but tender kiss to his lips, and your fingers latch around the door handle. Joel’s hand finds the back of your head, keeping your mouth on his.

“Gotta – let me – go,” you mumble between kisses, and he hums a laugh in response. “Joel.”

“I know,” he whispers, finally pulling back. “I know.”

You smile, head tilting into his palm. “I’ll text you.”

He nods once. “See you, babygirl.”

You slip out of the truck and wander past to your front door, twirling as you click the handle. Joel laughs, and the truck reverses back onto the street. You wait for it to disappear before closing the door, and step into the unlit hallway.

The TV lights the living room at the opposite end. You stop by the kitchen, feeling the grumpy rumble of your stomach. Your dad’s armchair is sat facing the screen. You lean over to double check he’s not sat in it, fast asleep while Rangers highlights play on loop before his eyelids.

When you swivel the plaid pattern towards your knees, its only occupant is the remote. You flick the TV off and pad back over to the kitchen, filling a bowl with some chips. You’re hunched over at the refrigerator when his footsteps clunk slowly down the stairs, and he materializes like a specter around the doorway.

“Hey.”

You straighten up, lit in a nervous blue hue from the fridge. “Hey, yourself.”

“Joel gone?”

“’bout ten minutes ago. Where’ve you been? You left the TV on.”

“Just…y’know. You get those brochures?”

Fuck. You were at Joel’s under the premise of picking up fucking UCLA pamphlets – and you’ve come home empty-handed. The lie doesn’t form on your tongue as quickly as Joel’s did earlier. Something else on your mind.

“…sure. Some…interesting stuff.”

Your dad nods. “Good. Good, I’m glad. We can take a look in the mornin’.”

Your eyebrows flinch. “Yeah. That’d be – yeah. I’m…gonna head to bed, alright?”

“Sure,” he says, nodding.

With a can of soda under your arm and your bowl of chips in the other, you nod and cautiously shuffle towards him. His lips are a thin line. You duck by him and trot upstairs, and make it as far as the landing before he’s calling out again.

“Oh, hey.” He holds a hand out, and disappears in a jog towards the living room. You drop back down a couple steps, watching him swipe something from the dining table and pace back over. “You left your phone.”

He’s presenting it like a jeweler shows a Rolex – or maybe more like an investigator handles evidence. Holding it out in almost trembling fingers, afraid to mark it with his fingerprints. Your eyes flit from the phone to his, unsure which of the two frightens you more.

That’s not where I fucking left it.

You lean over and take it from his palm. “Thanks…”

“I think maybe you got a text, just then. It was lit up. Maybe I’m seein’ things.”

You force the corners of your mouth upward. Your cheeks inflate with nerves and shame. “Thanks,” you repeat, and then: “Everything okay, Dad?”

“Everything’s fine, kiddo. Sleep well.” He makes back for the living room.

As you turn, you unlock your screen.

Joel: Left your shirt here, and your bikini from last week. This mean I get to be the one wearing your clothes now?

Panic spills over your head, a wave of freezing cold washing over you when you read his words. Did Dad read them, too?

You continue walking, feeling the weight of your dad’s strange voice on your back as your feet drag you one by one up the stairs. When you make it back to the landing, your cool flees you, and you take the rest of them two at a time until you’re leaning against your bedroom door, panting.

You: Problem. I think my dad saw that text

Joel: How so?

You: When I got home my phone was next to his chair, and he’s being so weird

You: Joel I think he knows something

Joel: I’m sure he doesn’t. He wouldn’t read your phone baby.

He’s trying to reassure you, telling you he wouldn’t even know what it means, maybe he’ll think you spilled something on it, but no matter how many ideas Joel comes up with, none of them slow your heart rate.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, and the anxiety bubbling in your stomach forces you straight back up. Pacing doesn’t help, knowing your dad is directly below you probably hearing the floorboards creak with every step you take.

Your head dizzies with doubts, fears, worries, all frantically throwing themselves against the walls of your skull. You lean your forehead against the cold glass of your window, eyes screwing shut, stars in your vision. Nothing is calming you down.

Joel takes too long to reply back, whether he’s running out of explanations or just fucking forty-eight with an iPhone, but every time your phone buzzes with a new attempt at comfort from him, it only convinces you even more that – no, it wasn’t a stain, it wasn’t a joke, Joel has your top because you took it off for him an hour ago, and then let him fuck you in his bed.

And your dad fucking knows it.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #dad's best friend #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller #cowboy like me #smut #fluff #angst

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cultofdixon · 6 months

Text

Matchmaker Grimes

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • Carl Grimes’ Older Sister!Reader • Carl saw how close you and the archer were getting and thought he (with a little help from dad) he can get the two of you together • SFW/Smol Angst • TW: Anxiety

Requested by: Anon

“Y/N, mind doing me a favor?”

“If it’s something stupid I won’t do it Carl” Y/N scoffs in a playful manner to show her brother she wasn’t serious about turning down whatever it may be. Even if the silence wasn’t going to get her to do what he wants of her. “Dude. Spit it out”

“Shit, sorry. Mind checking the snares? Dad asked me to ask you”

“Then why did you phrase it in wanting me to do you a favor?”

“I panicked and forgot that dad asked me to ask you. I just remembered that it was him asking—-“

“You’re scrambling. But yeah I’ll go take care of it” Y/N shooed him away so that she could get ready in private, even if the blanket curtain for a cell door wasn’t enough privacy.

As the eldest Grimes sibling made her way outside the gates of the prison to check the snares for her father. She noticed the archer setting up new ones after re-setting up the old ones.

Daryl looked up when he heard a throat clear, finally noticing Y/N as he straightens up. “Uh. Rick asked me—-“

“Oh, funny. My dad asked me to do it…too” Y/N tried not to be so nervous around the archer when talking to him.

“I could use a hand though, so you’re perfect—-“ Daryl himself was nervous around the eldest Grimes sibling. “I-I mean it’s…perfect. You…you can help. Yeah”

While that was happening, Rick was currently on watch as he had a pair of binoculars checking the parameter from his tower and more specifically watching the two take care of the snares. They were getting quite a bit of game and while they were out they took care of a few walkers that threatened the fence.

“Anything?” Carl questions the moment he arrived as Rick handed the binoculars to his son.

“Yea know I can’t hear anything right?”

“No shit dad!”

“Language”

“Whatever. I just wanna know if they are talking to each other. I don’t gotta hear what they’re saying” Carl states looking into the binoculars checking on the two himself.

As Y/N finished setting up the last snare she noticed Daryl staring into the prison but more specifically the watch tower. She brought herself to stand beside him curious to what he was looking at.

“Why does your brother have binoculars?”

“Cuz he’s a weirdo. I don’t know” Y/N watching Carl put away the binoculars by shoving them into his dad’s side.

“It’d be weirder if he had one of those…uhhh…”

“A listening device? Aren’t they called bugs?”

“I was thinkin’ the microphone things cops had in old cop films. For spyin’” Daryl adjusted his crossbow on his back as Y/N crosses her arms watching her family scramble in the watchtower.

“I miss movies”

“Yea had a favorite film?”

“Guess” Y/N smiles at Daryl watching his expression soften while in thought.

“Were yea one of them twilight girls?”

“Ew no” She laughs at the guess as Daryl felt a twitch of a smile Grace his face when hearing her laugh. “Lori was obsessed with the books. But as for my favorite movie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”

“Jim Carrey fan?”

“No, I just really enjoyed the film. I could probably recite it by heart I’ve seen it a lot” Y/N started to make her way back to the main gates with Daryl following shortly behind while carrying the catches the traps caught.

“Uhm…think yea could recite it to me like…sometime or whatever”

“Sure, after dinner?” Y/N’s smile he will take to memory. She watches him nod with a hint of his smile peaking out. “Cool”

The night came in and dinner was made with the rabbits they’ve caught in the snares. It was put into a stew with some of the vegetables they grew in the gardens. Some of the people were eating outside and some were inside…Carl found himself sitting outside at the table with his dad and baby sister with the Greenes and Rhees. He was watching Y/N talking to Carol at another table with Daryl sitting with them.

“Carl”

Carl quickly snapped back to the table he was at seeing a few laugh at his attention being elsewhere.

“Sorry what?”

“You gotta eat, son” Rick laughs a bit as he held Judith giving her a bottle. “We’re running out of formula”

“She should be able to start takin’ solids soon but in mush form. We do have carrots coming in” Hershel adds his input as he enjoys the dinner.

“Think we should have a run set up. Just a quick one to see if there’s anymore formula out there before weening her off”

“Glenn and I—-“

“Y/N and Daryl don’t have morning watch tomorrow. They can go on a quick run. I’ll go tell them” Carl quickly got up from his seat making his way over to their table.

Glenn couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him catching everyone’s attention at their picnic table. “Sorry sorry”

“What it’s cute that he’s trying to set them up” Beth was quick to add as that caught Rick’s attention instantly.

“Y’all know what he’s doing?”

“It’s obvious”

“And boy are those two oblivious” Maggie smiles at the two before turning back to her table failing to contain her laughter. “Glenn and I have tried before. But we honestly thought you’d have a problem with it”

“Or it’ll blow up in our faces because it’s the apocalypse and locking the two in an abandoned house can lead to a walker being shoved out a window” Glenn avoided eye contact as that would explain the time Y/N had to get stitches. “Ruined the mood”

“I don’t have a problem with it.“ Rick states setting the bottle down and getting up from his seat to take Judith inside. “I’d only have a problem if he hurts her”

A few hours passed and everyone was inside for the night, Daryl was getting off his watch about to light a cig when he noticed Y/N sitting alone outside. He quickly discarded the cigarette while making his way over to her in the fields.

“Hey”

Y/N looks up from her lap giving Daryl a tired smile before returning her attention onto the book she had in her lap.

“You okay?” He asks bringing himself to sit with her hearing a ‘Mhm’ as a response. “Mind if I sit with yea?”

“Not at all” she smiles watching him the best she could given the barely any light from the solar powered lantern she found from the last run.

Daryl brought himself close bringing his attention to the pictures she was fiddling with hidden in the pages.

“Who’s that?”

“My mom with Lori, then this one” Y/N handed one over to Daryl as he brought it more toward her lantern to get a look. “Carl and I when I was moving out”

“Yea look happy…how’d these manage to survive this long? If yea don’t mind me askin’”

“I know how to take care of my shit” Y/N laughs dryly being handed the photo back as she put it back in a small copy of Flowers for Algernon. No correlation, just know her dad or brother would pick up the book. “My coat has an inside pocket big enough to hold the book I keep them in. Only take it off to sleep so it’s always on me”

“Smart. Kinda like the vest I’ve got. It’ll stay intact as long as it’s with me.”

“The wings suit you by the way. Being a guardian angel of sorts” Y/N smiles listening to him scoff followed by a short lived chuckle. “Ever gonna trust someone to wear them? You do trust Carol to clean it”

“Eh she just showed me how to take care of it. To avoid the wings tearing off…but yeah I’ve got someone in mind, I’d trust to wear’em”

“Oh yeah?” Y/N smiles at the archer not getting an answer of who as the silence grew slightly between them before she took a risk bringing herself beside him resting her head on his shoulder. “They must be pretty special”

She is Daryl tensed at first contact but relaxed after a second watching her curl into his side.

The morning came and Y/N stepped out of the watchtower from taking over Maggie’s morning shift ending just in time to go on the quick run with Daryl. He sat on his bike listening to what they needed to look for from Rick as he brought his attention to Y/N approaching.

“So you know what to—-“

“Get. Now you get” Daryl gestures with his head for Rick to leave as he gave him a confused look before turning to his daughter coming over and left with an amused chuckle escaping him.

Daryl straightens up gripping onto the helmet in his hands as Y/N instantly beams at the archer.

“You look ready”

“Oh I—If you ain’t I can—“

“No I’m good. I’m ready” She continues to smile as Daryl handed her the helmet. “Now why do you have this for me but not yourself?”

“You’re sitting behind me, sunshine. Can’t have yea getting brain damage falling off”

“Hey this isn’t my first time riding yknow”

“Oh?” Daryl smirks bringing himself forward so that Y/N can hop on once she got her helmet secured. “Wouldn’t have pegged yea to be the rebellious type with a dad like that”

“Mm I got away with a lot” Y/N giggles to herself about to wrap her arms around Daryl when she turned back to find Rick looking at the two. “CAN YEA GET THE GATES OLD MAN?”

The archer couldn’t help himself by laughing at her words as his mind drew a blank instantly when she wrapped her arms around his torso.

“Old man really?” Rick comments with a bit of a snicker while passing to get the gate.

Soon the two were off and Carl brought himself to the gates once they closed.

“I’ve got a plan if this doesn’t work”

“I bet yea it will given it’s just them”

“Yeah well. I’m still gonna do my plan and it’s about tonight’s night shifts. Daryl is right after Y/N’s.”

“I’m listening” Rick started to walk back to the prison listening to his son’s plan, knowing part of it will probably not matter given these two being alone now?

Gives them enough time to say something

Do something Daryl thought as he follows Y/N through a mini grocery watching her take everything that would benefit their group. Still keeping an eye out for what Rick asked Daryl to find.

“Hey uh Y/N I—-“

“I love you” Y/N blurted to Daryl as she was taking her own chances but when he didn’t respond right away, she decided to scramble and head further into the building. “Sorry!”

“Nah wait” Daryl quickly followed after her through the market as she always managed to get further ahead. “Y/N Damn it! Stop runnin’ from me please” he finally managed to cut her off as it led to her practically running into him.

“Shit sorry—“

“No I’m sorry, Y/N. Shit yea caught me off guard a moment ago—-“

“Yeah I get that and I totally get it if you don’t—-“

“Stop!” Daryl snapped, murmuring a few apologies when it caused her to flinch. He held her shoulders watching her eyes avoid his as he gently held her chin with his right hand making her look at him. “Yea caught me off guard. I-I was gonna say the same…just Uhm. Never thought you’d feel the same way”

“I…” Y/N exhaled a small laugh before bringing her hands to carefully hold his face. “I just wanted a moment alone with you to tell you and felt that something has been pushing me to this.”

“I felt that too” Daryl brought his hands to rest on her hips bringing her close. “I…fuck, you beat me to it earlier” he chuckles lightly smiling, simply enjoying her laugh and feeling her hands move to behind his neck. “But god I love yea. I love you so much”

“Kiss me then, Dixon” Y/N smiles as the archer didn’t hesitate to bring his lips against hers loving every part of her even more keeping her close.

“Yea think they’ve gotten into some trouble?” Rick asks Hershel as it’s been hours. What was supposed to be a quick run, turned into them being gone for hours.

“Are you worried about your daughter? She’s proven to be strong enough to care for herself, Rick. And Daryl’s with her.”

Rick continued to pace the gardens while Hershel kept the upkeep on their veggies being a listening ear to his friend’s concern.

“I should go out there”

“Yea shouldn’t. If they don’t surface tomorrow, then a few of us can go look for them.” Hershel grabbed some mulch from his bucket and started to place it in the soil when he brought his attention to the familiar roar of Daryl’s bike. “Don’t have to send a party out” he states watching Rick sprint over to the gates.

“The fuck happen to a quick ru—-Where’s my daughter, Dixon?” He only ever used Daryl’s last name when he was pissed and the conversation included Y/N.

“Are you blind?” Daryl scoffs bringing his bike to its usual spot as Rick quickly turns to the car coming through having Y/N in the drivers.

As the car pulls in and Y/N stepped out after parking it, Rick instantly grabbed her into a hug out of sudden anxiety for her safety as she awkwardly pats his back wanting him to stop.

“I didn’t die”

“You gotta stop saying that” Rick sighs pulling away and checking her for injuries as she gently pushes him back. “Sorry”

“You worry too much, old man. But look at what we brought back” Y/N gestures for him to check out their findings in the trunk and as she listens to Rick being grateful that they decided to stick outside the walls longer to get more of what they need, she looked over to Daryl seeing him crouched by his bike checking it out after the ride looking over to her.

The archer shot her a smile as she returned it followed by a wink before turning to her dad talking about the blankets they found and giving them to the kids they have at the prison. While all that happens, Carl who stood by the entrance to their cellblock from the outside, noticed their small exchange and quickly went to Daryl knowing his sister wouldn’t hear what he’s about to say.

“You break my sister’s heart and I end you” Carl suddenly stated to the man who gave him a confused look before he could fully take in what he said.

“I’ll never break your sister’s heart”

“You better. Cuz I’m fucking serious” Carl crosses his arms. “I will end you”

Daryl scoffs as he removes one of his knifes from their slot handing it to Carl and with his normal serious tone.

“If I ever, EVER, do wrong by your sister? You know exactly what to do with that”

And on that note Daryl went to help his girl and Rick with unloading the goods from the “new” car they brought. Carl stood there watching and fiddled with the knife in his hand. Knowing he’s never gonna have to use it.

#cultofdixon #the walking dead #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction

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imfinereallyy · 1 year

Text

Father Figures

pt. 2 here, and full version on ao3 here

The first time James Edward Hopper meets Steve Harrington is when Steve is thirteen years old. It is back when he is still pushing everyone to call him Chief Hopper, or at the very least James to sound more professional. It is mostly a lost cause, as he has just returned to Hawkins after his daughter Sarah's death and most people can't help but call him Jim and Hop in familiarity, in sympathy.

It didn't mean they didn't take him any less seriously though. In fact, his cold, grieving demeanor gave him quite the reputation around town. Made assholes like Lenny Byers and troublemakers like the little twerp Munson turn in the other direction when they see him. So Jim doesn't try to push the professional name too much. He knows people around here respect him.

They respect him enough to follow his word, they respect him enough to turn a blind eye when he takes an extra pill or two.

Jim doesn't think too deeply about his reputation until he meets Steve Harrington for the first time.

He gets a call from Benny. It's directly to his line at the station, instead of a general 911 call. He doesn't think much of it when he answers, most likely it was a non emergency from an old friend from high school. That's the only reason people call him most days.

"Chief Hopper. Make it quick."

"Jimmy." A deep, worried breath comes from the phone.

Jim immediately straightens. "Benny, what's wrong?"

Benny usually only calls for a laugh, or to invite him out for a drink. The guy doesn't care about too much, or ask too many questions. Hearing concern in his voice was alarming, to say the least. "Listen, Hop, there is a kid here. And normally I don't care, cause business is business, but it's two in the morning, Jimmy. And despite the kid wearing the most expensive pair of sneakers I have ever seen, he only has two dollars on him for a meal. He got all skittish when the plate landed too loudly. And I don't know..." Benny takes a deep breath before he continues. "...I just don't want to be at fault if this kid's trouble and some fancy parents come looking for him."

Jim can tell Benny wants to say something else, he doesn't push though. Jim Hopper tries to never ask too many questions.

"Alright Ben, I'll be there in ten."

———

When Jim arrives at the diner, Benny notices him and nods in the direction of the corner booth. And there, sitting with his head low and scarfing down a plate of fries is Steve Harrington.

Jim has never met the kid personally, but he knows his parents. Cold, calculating, and pretty much owns half of Hawkins. Jim is starting to understand why Benny has called him.

Jim slides into the booth across from the young boy. He's prepared to take the kid by the back of his shirt and drag him out of there. He doesn't need these kids to be causing hard-working people any trouble. But when Jim makes a thump in the booth, the Harrington kid's face snaps up in fear, and Jim's plan for an angry monologue just drops.

Because there, on Steve Harrington's jaw, is a bruise the size of Indiana itself. Jim's face remains gruff, but his body language softens. "Hey, kid. What are you doing here so late?"

Steve's posture remains stiff and small. "Sorry sir, I was just hungry and it was the only place open. I wasn't—I wasn't trying to cause trouble."

It's then, for the first time, Jim thinks that his reputation isn't one of respect. Instead, his reputation might something worse. Fear.

"Didn't think you were. Just wondering what a rich kid like you, is doing on this side of town, at this time of night." Jim doesn't say it like a question, just fact. He tries not to take it too personally when Harrington turns his bruised side in on himself.

"Would have uh—gotten something from home but we—I didn't have any food left. And by the time I was able to eat, everything else was closed."

"Able to eat—kid what are you rambling about. Let me call your parents to pick you up." Jim makes his way to stand but Steve grabs his wrist to pull him back.

"No! I mean—" he clears his throat "—not necessary sir. My parents left for a work trip tonight. I uh—don't have a number for you to call them anyway. They call me instead, they never have a solid line to contact. Nothing bad happens in Hawkins anyway, so it isn't something to worry about." The last line sounds practiced, like it is something repeated to Steve religiously enough it's become his own mantra.

Jim is starting to put it together. The waiting all day to eat. The bruise on his jaw. The lack of money for food. God, the kid probably walked six miles to get here.

Jim isn't stupid, he can connect the dots. But Jim also knows when not to push things. When not to rock the boat. When sometimes, even if it pains him, helping someone would be a lost cause. He thinks of Sarah briefly.

It's even worse when that lost cause is just a kid.

Jim decides maybe the best thing he can do for Steve at that moment is to ignore the obvious problem and offer him a bit of kindness. "Well, I can't have ya here this late. Could look bad for Benny. And we don't want to get Benny in trouble do we?"

Steve shakes his head immediately. "No Sir."

"Didn't think so. Why don't I drive you to the station? Don't worry I'm not arresting you. But we got a nice cot there, and you can get some rest. Then I'll drive you back in the morning when I clock out. Cause I'm still on duty and all. Can't be driving you back Loch Nora quite yet." Jim doesn't mention how he can see bags under Steve's eyes. He doesn't mention how it would be quicker to his house than to the station either. Jim maybe, just a little bit, wants to keep an eye on him. Even if it's only for a short time.

"It's okay I can walk—" Jim levels Steve with a look "—actually that sounds great. Thank you, Sir."

Jim nods with finality and starts to stand. "Oh and kid? Enough with that sir crap. I ain't Mr. Harrington." He almost says I'm not your dad. But that felt wrong somehow, giving Harrington senior that title.

"Okay, sir—I mean Hopper. Okay, Hopper."

---

As the years go by, James Edward Hopper keeps an eye out for Steven James Harrington (Yes he looks at his file for his full name. Yes, it makes him feel some sort of way he has his name as his middle name and not his father's. Richard would make a horrible middle name anyway). At first, it's drive-bys to see if anyone's home. Giving the kid a ride if he sees him walking. Swinging by a basketball game or two, to see how he's playing.

Then it turns into busting his ragers. Hauling him in for the night not to arrest him but to sober the kid up. Pulling him over for driving while intoxicated with that dumb Hagan boy.

Jim wants to be mad, he does. He even yells at Steve sometimes. But he can't find in him to be mean to him, not really. Not when he's pretty sure the only thing Steve has consumed in days is alcohol. Not when even though he has gotten much bigger, and the bruises are less visible, Steve never ceases to flinch when Jim grabs him.

So mostly, Jim either just drives him home or brings him in, giving him a sandwich and bed for the night.

Around when Steve is sixteen though, things get worse for Jim. He becomes more frustrated, with Steve, with his job, and with this town. He takes more pills. He neglects his job. He forgets Steve.

Then the Upside Down happens for the first time. Jim tries to better himself for Joyce and the kids. He mainly though does it for El. His second chance, his new reason for trying, his daughter.

Jim knows it's okay to get a little lost in taking care of her. That it's a good thing, and she deserves his full attention.

He does feel a bit of guilt though, after round two of the Upside Down. When Steve Harrington sits in Joyce Byer's living room, looking like he went ten rounds with a semi.

The kids are all over him (including Mike which shocks the hell out of him). Dustin is trying to stop the bleeding on his face, Lucas is holding ice against his head and even El, who Steve met for all of five minutes, is sitting beside him on the couch, holding his shoulder up. There is a look in El's eyes as she stares up at Steve. Like she can see through him, like she knows him. Like she understands him.

Jim feels his heart break a little.

He approaches Steve in a crouched position. "Hey kid, I think we better take you to a hospital. You look like shit." He is sure there is a better way to say it, but Jim Hopper is a blunt man and that was never going to change.

The redhead, Max, snorts. "That's honestly the nicest way to put it."

Steve glares, Jim can't decide if it's at him or the kids. "No. I'm okay."

Dustin shouts, "Steve you are most definitely not okay. Hop's right you look like shit—"

"Language."

Dustin ignores Steve, "—and that's just externally. Who knows what's going on internally."

"C'mon kid, I can drive ya." Jim moves to help him stand.

Steve bursts with anger and pushes Jim away. "I said no. And you're not my dad."

Jim's jaw tightens and he resists the urge to scream back: and thank god for that.

El speaks before he can yell back. "You're hurt." It's soft, it's demanding and it's so very El. Jim watches Steve crumble back into the couch.

His voice is rougher than before, but much more gentle, "No hospitals."

"Okay. At least let Joyce look at ya. She used to be a nurse." Jim puts a hand on his shoulder, careful not to jostle him.

"Okay, Hopper. Okay, Hop."

———

After that, for a little while, Jim tries to look out for Steve again. It's harder this time though. He's more independent and harder to catch sight of. When he does see him, one of the gremlins is around him, and he can't check-in. And Hop has El, and he can't neglect her in favor of Steve. He tries to balance it out, but in the end, Steve isn't his kid.

Jim finds a small loophole though, which is El herself.

He worries about her every she since she ran away and he didn't even notice. And he knows Steve, like him, has a soft spot for the kids. So under the guise of babysitting, Jim gets Steve in his cabin once a week. So someone other than Joyce or Jonathan (or horribly, mike) is spending time with her. Sure, he's not there to keep an eye out for Steve himself, but it's the closest he's going to get.

Besides, biological daughter or not, El is just like Jim. She has a habit of collecting strays. If it's not going to be him looking out for Steve, he can't think of anyone better for the job than his little girl.

———

After Starcourt, somewhere in a Russian prison, Jim thinks of Steve.

Every day, Jim thinks of El. Misses her. Longs to hear her laugh even longs to hear her yell back at him. Every day, Jim thinks of his daughter and mourns what could have been. But Jim knows she's being taken care of. Knows Joyce and the boys will love her, and take care of her. Make sure she knows nothing else but kindness.

He worries though, between those moments, about how there is no one there for Steve.

———

Months later, in Hawkins Memorial, Jim Hopper finds Steve Harrington in a hospital chair next to Eddie Munson's comatose body.

Jim has a lot of questions but doesn't get any of them out because suddenly Steve Harrington is right in front of him, sucking in a harsh "Hop," and then collapsing in Jim’s arms.

Jim holds him close, says nothing, and cries silently with him.

———

During the summer that follows, James Edward Hopper notices a change within Steven James Harrington. Despite the obvious PTSD the boy suffers, and the scars that litter his body, Steve is visibly happier than Jim has ever seen him. He laughs more, he openly cries more, and he loves more.

Steve's now living with Robin in a tiny two-bedroom downtown. He comes to family dinner with the entire party every Sunday. He shares a cup of tea (no more beer for either of them) and a cigarette every Thursday evening on the Byers-Hoppers front porch.

Most noticeably, the biggest difference Jim sees in Steve is Eddie Munson.

Jim once again isn't stupid. And despite being an ex-cop isn't a bigot (he couldn't find himself back at the force, the corruption is too much for him. And he himself, was never very good at his job). So he can easily come to the conclusion that Steve has a massive crush on Eddie Munson.

Dear. God.

It's not that he has a problem with Eddie being a boy, but it's the fact that out of all people he can choose from, Steve had to go and fall for the twerp who used to trip over his laces when running away from Jim for the third time.

Jim feels, after all the years of neglect that Steve faced, he could do so much better.

Steve is happy though for once, and Jim doesn't say anything at first. But it becomes so painful to watch. The lingering touches. The longing gazes. The nicknames (sweetheart, honey, dear god did he just say big boy—).

Nothing ever comes of it though, it's August and neither of them has done anything but pine. And Jim seems to be the only one who notices.

At first, he thinks it's cause everyone is being kind, and giving them room to explore themselves. But with everyone making jokes about Robin and Steve (from the kids) or Steve and Nancy (from Eddie), it seems like no one notices the excruciating flirting between the two.

(Except for maybe Robin, but Jim isn't quite sure Steve and she aren't one organism. He doesn't count her)

Still, Jim ignores it though. He has learned his listen from Mike and El. Getting involved makes everything worse.

That is until, the second week in August right before family dinner, when he finds Steve and Eddie early, sitting on the couch, with Eddie dabbing the blood off of Steve's face.

"What happened?" Jim is over on Steve's other side in an instant.

"Nothing Hop, it's stupid." Steve tries to shrug off, and he looks towards Eddie briefly.

Jim's vision, for a brief brief moment, is filled with unclear rage. It's enough to consume him and makes him impulsive. Jim can't help but think he got it wrong. Maybe the two are together, and Steve had fallen into a bad relationship. He knew that Eddie was trouble, but he didn't think about it being that kind.

And though he is being irrational, and being for once a little stupid, no one can really blame him when he hauls Eddie up by the collar and into his line of vision.

"Munson, did you put your goddamn hands on my kid?"

Jim can hear Joyce, El, and Will (the only other people in the house) all run out into the living room at the sheer volume of Jim's voice.

Steve sits frozen, Joyce and El yell at him to "put him down, oh my god."

And Munson? He starts to ramble.

"No. No! I would never, ever hurt anyone. Haven't we learned this by now? I can barely kill a spider. I have to put them in a cup and put them outside." Eddie chuckles nervously, waving his hands around frantically.

Jim's grip tightens and pulls him closer. He's pretty sure his vibrating at this point.

Suddenly though, Eddie becomes deathly serious. As if he just realizes what Hopper has said.

"Hop, I would lay down my life before I ever hurt Steve. There is no one in this world that deserves kindness more than him. And if I ever do hurt him, whether it be emotionally or physically, I give you full permission to beat me up. Hell, I'll probably throw myself at your fist."

Jim doesn't let go but stays silent as he listens.

"You see, Steve here decided to pull a you when some jerks wouldn't leave me alone at Family Video today. They were throwing around a bunch of slurs. Nothing I haven't heard before. And even though I could handle myself—“ Eddie gives Steve a look “Steve here always has to be the hero and decided to defend my honor. And of course, it just had to turn physical. And Steve decided to take on three guys on his own. Got to say though, he held his own. It was kinda hot honestly—"

Jim hears Steve choke a little beside them, startling him out of his frozen state.

"—And he only got a cut on his forehead from one of the dickwads class rings. I'm a little worried he has another concussion though. Believe me, Hop when I say, I am just as pissed at those guys as you."

At the end of his speech, Eddie calms down and even holds eye contact with Jim. He still doesn't let go of the twerp, despite being considerably less angry. Well, at least at Eddie.

It's Steve though that finally gets him to let go. "Dad, please put Eddie down."

Steve says it like it's nothing. Steve says it likes its the easiest thing in the world. But to Jim, to Jim it's the best thing he's gotten since El.

Instantaneously, Jim drops Eddie back on the ground and scoops Steve into a bone-crushing hug. "You got to stop scaring me like this kid. Can't lose you again."

Steve's almost his height now, so he tucks Steve's head into his shoulder and lays his head on top of his hair. He hears a muffled, wet "I'm sorry" against him.

Jim chokes back tears as he says, "No, no you got nothing to apologize for. Just be more careful. Okay?"

Steve releases himself from his hold and looks at him. "Okay, Hop. Okay, Dad."

Jim ruffles his hair without jostling his head too much. He thinks he would do anything for his kids. Including pushing along this nightmare of a pining contest.

"And if you like him I like him too."

"Huh?" Steve says confused.

"Eddie here. If you like him, then he's okay by me."

Steve goes to stop Jim, but he's already one step ahead. "But if he hurts you even in the slightest, you're watching me dig the grave I'm going to bury him in. Understand?"

Steve blushes from head to toe and nods frantically, knowing if he protests it will only make the conversation longer. The room is silent until Eddie speaks.

"Don't worry Hop, I'll dig the grave for you." Eddie's voice, despite the threat, is filled with delight, wonder, and hope.

My work here is done Jim thinks as he gives the boys one last nod and leaves the room.

And if later, if Jim sees Steve and Eddie holding hands at the dinner table he doesn't comment on it. And if he sees Eddie give Steve's knuckles a light kiss, and whisper something that almost looks like "I love you", he only smiles at the two boys. Because if one more person loves his boy, it's a win for him.

Because James Edward Hopper, thinks his son Steve deserves that and so much more.

———

okay I spent waaaay too much time on this (as per usual) but I wanted to dive in a little more on Steve and Hoppers relationship (and how it impacts Steve and Eddie). I feel like a lot of fics makes them distant friends (which is canonically correct I guess) or surrogate family with no explanation. And I like the idea of them slowing building a father son relationship. Really leaning into you choose your family. I know people have mixed feelings about Steve calling him Dad (honestly sometimes I too think it’s cringey) but sometimes I love it and that boy deserves a good father figure. Even though steddie doesn’t come in until the end, I think it all really blends together nicely. Also in my head either the boys are both out to each other, is at least it’s heavily implied or is a known safe space they are in. We do not support outing people in the house. It’s probably a one-shot, but maybe I’ll add more snippets later on. For now it felt like a good place to stop.

As always I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I just zoned out for like two hours as I wrote it. It kinda made me emotional I’m not going to lie.

part 2 here and the full version on ao3 here

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rainydayathogwarts · 6 months

Text

Caught - Billy x reader, mom!Joyce x reader

Byers!Reader wc: ~1.4k Summary: reader sneaks out to meet her boyfriend Billy but bumps into someone unfortunate on her way out. More focused on the reader x mom!Joyce than reader x Billy.

You almost grinned, tiptoeing to your window in the dark room, purse in hand, careful not to trip over any of the clothes haphazardly thrown on the floor. You winced as you opened the window, careful not to make any sound as you pushed yourself up on your arms, throwing your legs over the ledge. You landed on the opposite side on the wall with a crunch of the leaves under your feet, quickly making your way up the street.

You had gotten used to this routine. Usually, if either you or Jonathan had plans, you'd both go, telling your mom you'd stick together when you actually snuck off to see Billy and Nancy. The plan was foolproof. You both understood each other and would head back home together, ensuring your mom that you were safe. But every now and then when Jonathan didn't have plans, you had to find your own way to go see Billy.

With everything that had happened the past two years in the Byers household, the last thing your mother was going to do was let you go out - especially alone. Especially to meet the boyfriend she didn't know you had. You spotted Billy's car a couple of houses down, waiting to drive you away when you froze, eyes widening.

Staring right back at you was Jim Hopper, the chief of police in Hawkins, Indiana. Standing behind him were Nancy, Steve, Robin and of course, Eleven, who were making their way to your house, inevitably for another meeting.

Hopper took the cigarette out of his mouth, throwing it on the floor and stepping on it, his eyebrows raised and you physically cringed, tugging your low cut top up your chest. He definitely knew what you were up to, especially in that short blue skirt you wore, specifically to give Billy easy access. Your eyes wandered behind him, looking back at the other teenagers who all looked equally as confused as each other, with the exception of Nancy who grinned widely at you.

The silence was deafening.

The sound of the front door opening averted Hopper's gaze back which gave you the perfect opportunity to run back to the side of the house, where your mom wouldn't see you. "We saw you guys standing out here, what are you doing?" You heard your mom say, and prayed Mr. Hopper would keep your secret, just this once.

You didn't hear his answer, the door closing behind them. You had two options, you decided; either you could sneak back in and leave Billy hanging, or you could make a run for it. You sighed, looking through your window one last time before sprinting up to Billy's car down the street so that your mom wouldn't see you leaving.

You slammed his car door behind you, lowering yourself in the passenger seat as you caught your breath, whisper-yelling "Go, Billy, go!" He chuckled, having seen the entire exchange and stated calmly "Well that was a close one wasn't it?" When you were far enough from your house, you straightened up, leaning over the controls to press a glossy kiss to Billy's cheek. He put a hand on your thigh, heading in the direction of the forest, where he parked and you both headed straight into his back seat.

It was an entanglement of sweaty bodies and humidity, causing Billy to reach behind your head to open the window, the awkward position causing you to whine at him. He pounded into you, your skirt bunched up at your waist, your top laying on the floor as he mouthed at your tits, leaving hickeys everywhere he could. Your nails scratched at his back, causing Billy to hiss as he quickened his pace, getting you both closer to the edge. It was blissful, both of you giggling and exchanging wet kisses when you were done, catching each other up on your day, oblivious to what was awaiting you at home.

It was only when you were standing in front of the house with the curtains open, making direct eye-contact with an angry looking Joyce Byers that it suddenly hit you that if the others were here for a meeting, they probably would have needed you too.

You picture it in your head, your mom opening the door to your room, her heart dropping when she sees you're not in bed. Hopper wincing when she yells your name, reassuring her that you're fine, you're not alone. You just headed out. You can imagine her livid during the meeting, worried yet furious because all this time she wanted you to be safe, you'd been betraying her trust to meet a silly boy. Jonathan feeling guilty, but he doesn't want to throw himself under the bus just so that she can be angry at the both of you. It's not his fault that you got caught and he didn't.

You see heads turning to look at you through the window, wanting to see what's busying Joyce's gaze and you put your head down, walking towards the front door. You push your key into the keyhole, twisting it once, twice, and you hear the door unlock each time. Your other hand comes up to rest on the doorknob, and you hit your head on the door, taking a deep breath. You pull your key out with a groan, pushing the door open, avoiding your mom's gaze to the best of your ability.

"Y/N Byers. Look at me right now." The room is absolutely silent at the tone of your mother's voice and you look up with a sigh, seeing Jonathan's eyes widen. He starts shaking his head at you from behind where your mother is now standing, walking towards you. You swallow once, knowing that there's something wrong - more wrong than just sneaking out, but you can't wrap your finger about it, and Jonathan certainly wasn't helping you guess.

It's only when Joyce's hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind your shoulder that you realise, jerking away from your mother as you rush to your bathroom to desperately cover your hickeys, knowing fully well that she's already gotten a good look at them. There's three aggressive knocks at the door "Y/N I've already seen, come out now."

Embarrassment tugs at your chest and tears start to prick your eyes, but you forcefully wipe them away. You put your makeup brush down, looking up at your half covered hickeys. You still had three on the opposite side of your neck that were on full display and one was half covered by your top, leaving the rest to the imagination. When you open the door, Joyce is sitting on your bed, and she pats the spot next to her. You trodded over to her, keeping enough space between you as you let her talk, keeping your head down.

"Now under regular circumstances, I'd be happy for you and ask who this young man is, but I'm really disappointed Y/N. I thought we had a deal." You sigh, picking at your nails, knowing that if you said something, it would come out louder and angrier than you'd meant it to be. "Is this the same boy who snuck in last month?" You furrow your eyebrows, finally looking at her. Despite everything, you laugh whole-heartedly. "That was probably Nancy, mom. She basically lives here."

You watch as her jaw drops. "Nancy as in Nancy in my living room Nancy?" You nod "Her and Jonathan are-?" She doesn't finish her sentence, sitting there silently instead. "Do I need to have a talk with you and your brother about using protection with boyfriends and girlfriends?" She asks genuinely, frowning slightly. "No mom! God no!" You yell, shaking your head. "So... You're using protection with this guy?" "Billy." You confirm, nodding at her. "-Because at least Jonathan could decide to not be involved, but you would have to carry it." Your face flushes red and your hand comes up to scratch the side of your head, hiding your face from her.

"If I show you a photo of Billy, will you please stop asking me humiliating questions?" You ask, already getting off the bed to retrieve a box of polaroids. You open the box and gasp, desperately trying to cover the photo of you and Billy making out on the top of the pile, accidentally pushing it away from you and sending all the polaroids flying. Joyce laughs, shaking her head as she mutters something about you embarrassing yourself.

You lean down, pulling some wholesome photos from the floor and handing them over to your mom, who observes them closely. She hums, going through them, and finally says "But even if you didn't use protection...You two would have beautiful babies."

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strangesthirdeye · 5 months

Text

Little star (Ineffable husbands x toddler! Reader)

Summary: Just two celestial beings taking care of their toddler who is bored.

Warning: toddler, sweet, Aziraphale in shock, Crowley is chill, The age of the reader may be in 1 or 2 years, two hubby is romantic, fluff. Plants. Pretend that ep 6 never happen, Az and Crow is married!

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"She shouldn't be near any books here.. It's- It's dangerous!" Aziraphale reasoned with a worried expression on his face. Well, he tried to give an excuse so that his book wouldn't be damaged by you actually because he loved his book more than himself. Huh.

Crowley groaned. "Ngk- she wants your attention, Angel. You're always devoted to reading books. Just let her spend time with you if you don't want her near your books" Crowley picked you up from behind.

Your expression changed to stunned then you happily cheered as your daddy picked you up. You like it when your daddy picks you up. He is very tall and the moment he picks you up, you can see the view at your daddy's height. It is quite different from your papa. Papa usually hugs you tightly and it's quite comfortable and warm for you, making you always sleep in his arms. It is very comfortable like sleeping on a cloud.

"well, you see, Crowley. I have work to complete but not only just reading, but I need to settle a little message from Maggie about the black disk I ordered from her. It seems like the things I need will take a long time to arrived. Why don't you umm.. take care of her for a while after that we can enjoy hot chocolate together after I finish this work." Aziraphale suggested to his husband.

Crowley grumbled then adjusted your position in his hand that was about to fall. You smiled widely in Crowley's hand and rested your head on Crowley's shoulder.

"I'm bored" you said flatly then sighed with boredom.

"You better finish your work quickly, angel." Crowley muttered then walked into the living room of the bookshop with you in his arms.

Aziraphale just shook his head a few times then put on his glasses and continued writing a message to Maggie.

As soon as the two of you arrived in the living room of the bookshop, Crowley sauntered over to the couch and placed you on the couch. You sat up straight looking at your daddy with innocent eyes. Crowley just grumbled and slumped into the seat in front of you lazily.

You blinked a few times then grumbled like your daddy and slumped onto the couch lazily mimicking the actions Crowley was making. Crowley noticed what you did in front of him.

"You sure as hell are bored aren't you?" Crowley stated at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Papa doesn't want to play with me and you just sit on the chair. I am so bored" you complained in your small voice.

Crowley was silent for a moment. It's true tho. Crowley just sits around all day while Aziraphale is just busy with his book leaving you alone to play in the bookshop. No wonder you start showing your behavior to show that you need the attention of both of them. You are bored and they have no time at all to play with you. They were busy with their own affairs after Jim's case was over or should I say Gabriel's case. You love Jim not Gabriel. He's fun and a bit weird but fun to play with. He always treats you like a friend and sometimes Jim is a bit naive to follow whatever you say because to him you are a great friend. But after Jim's case is over, you have no friends to play with.

Crowley straightened himself to look at you with sympathetic eyes under his tinted glasses. "oh, Star. come here" Crowley opened his hand to you.

You quickly ran into Crowley's arms and hugged him tightly. Crowley's hands then hugged tightly around your small body and stroked gently. Crowley leaned his head and kissed your hair softly.

"Fancy a quick journey to the plant room?"

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Yell at them, Star. They're just stupid plants that don't know how to grow well" Crowley encouraged you, who was held by him facing the plant.

You grumbled angrily while swinging your arms in the air. "IS DAT A SHPOT?! IS IT? HUH?! YOU'VE MADE DADDY DISHAPPOINTED!"

"again, Star. Now they're afraid of you. Good!" Crowley grinned proudly. You are still in his arms facing the plants with a furious face.

"No more SHPOT OR I WILL BURNT YOU!" your face turned red with how angry you were.

Yup, you are indeed the daughter of Crowley and Aziraphale but more to Crowley when it comes to plants or how lazy you are. But your interests and things you like are the same as Aziraphale. Sometimes you are friendly with people you know and sometimes you are grumpy with strangers. So basically you are a mix of demon and angel as a result of Crowley and Aziraphale's miracle. Tadaa.

The plants there trembled in fear. You sighed heavily and looked at the plant with sharp eyes. If looks could kill, the plants there would have withered and died long ago. Crowley chuckled and turned your body to face him. Crowley then hugged you tightly and kissed your head.

"Good job, star" Crowley complimented proudly.

You looked at your daddy with emotion and pressed your face to his chest tightly with a thousand 'thank yous' to him.

"Crowley? what's that noise?"

Crowley turned and looked at Aziraphale with surprise. "well-"

"please don't tell me that you encouraged her to yell at the plant again." Aziraphale massaged the bridge of his nose.

"She's bored, Angel. It's not wrong if you want to spend time while she's bored, isn't it?" Crowley responded as he walked closer to his husband with you in Crowley's arms.

"no it's not wrong, dear. but you shouldn't encourage her to do that. It's enough for you alone to yell at the plants but not with Y/n. She should encourage the plants properly and not get angry at them all the time"Aziraphale advises Crowley.

Crowley grumbled and walked away with you in his arms. You leaning your head on your Daddy's shoulder lazily. Aziraphale sighed and followed Crowley from behind.

"it's seems to me that this little poppet is a bit bored, isn't she?" Aziraphale poked your cheek with his finger.

"No shit, Angel" Crowley cursed lowly.

You gasped and patted your daddy on the shoulder with your small hand. "Papa! Daddy said bad words!"

Aziraphale looked at Crowley with an unpleasant look on his face then took you from Crowley's hand and hugged you tightly to his chest.

'come on!" Crowley argued.

Aziraphale ignored him and cooed at you. "now then, Y/n. How about we go relax and drink hot chocolate while listening to classic songs.. what do you say?"

"Can I have marshmallows too, Papa?" you asked for permission while looking at Aziraphale's face with stars in your eyes.

"What's the magic word, dear?" Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at you.

"Can I have some marshmallows too, please?" you corrected.

"yes you may, my dear.. Good girl. let's go" Aziraphale praised you and walked towards the kitchen leaving Crowley there to make hot chocolate before he snapped his fingers and automatically the classic song started playing.

Crowley just stared. Then started following Aziraphale from behind.

"Can I have hot chocolate too? with marshmallows." Crowley said.

"magic word, Crowley" Aziraphale replied.

"oh, come on.." Crowley paused. "please"

Aziraphale looked at Crowley and approved. "very nice"

#david tennant #good omens #good omens 2 #crowley good omens x reader #good omens x reader #aziraphale x reader x crowley #aziraphale x reader #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale #azicrow #ineffable husbands x daughter reader #ineffable husbands #michael sheen #prime video #crowley x reader #crowley #aziracrow #good omens x child!reader #Spotify

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eupheme · 2 years

Text

Sweet Summer Lemonade

Jim Hopper x F!Reader

Rated E - 7.8k

Tags: dub-con (because of sex pollen) (but with very mutual attraction), use of alcohol and cigarettes, age gap, mentions of death, fingering, oral sex (f rec.), size kink, PiV, mult. orgasms, grump + sunshine, mutual pining, loose pov

Summary:

“So… you and the chief, huh?”

“Oh!” You clear your throat, fingers covering your mouth, “No, not really. I don’t think he sees me that way.”

“Uh huh.” Murray answers dryly, his legs crossing neatly at the ankles as he leans next to you, “Are you sure about that?”

(Or - when you go to Murray’s for some help, you end up with a little more than you bargained for)

Your nose crinkles as the truck finally slows to a halt on the packed-dirt path, just outside the industrial-sized garage door. Debris lines the concrete building, a busted office chair, turned on its side - mechanical parts cushioned against the tall, barbed-wire fence by overgrown tufts of knee-high grass.

“You sure this is the right place?” Your words are directed slowly at Hopper, throwing your shoulder into the door as you open it - the old hinges creaking with the effort.

He’s already out of the truck, the piece of paper crumpled in his hand, shoving it into the back pocket of his light jeans, “This is it.”

Here goes, you think, making for the door, but a hand is catching your elbow, dragging you back. Glancing back at the frown on Hopper’s face, as he leans down to your level, letting you go so his hands can brace on his thick thighs.

“You stick close to me,” His voice is low and hushed, a rough edge to it, “And don’t touch anything inside unless I say so. Got that?”

Annoyance prickles at you - you were in the tunnels last year, same as the rest, and you had come out just fine. Whoever this man was had to be a cakewalk in comparison. He didn’t need to pull the macho-cop act, you weren’t a teenager like the others.

“Nancy said he was nice.” You counter, lifting your sunglasses, perching them on top of your head as you fix him with a look.

The crease between his forehead deepens, the edges of his lips turning down, “Just do what I tell you, okay?”

Your head tilts, his eyebrow raises in response. And fuck - the way he’s seeming to loom over you, big and broad, prickles at you in a different kind of way.

“Fine.” You blink, averting your eyes.

“Good.” He straightens, giving you one last weary look before heading to the front door.

Secretly, you had been hoping this trip would be a little more... interesting. For weeks now, the two of you have been exchanging lingering looks, finding half-hearted excuses to move just a little bit closer.

And when this short trip had come up, you had jumped at the opportunity. Because of the reason it was being taken, of course - and selfishly, for the chance to spend a little more time with him.

But so far today... nothing.

Unless you count the brush of an elbow against yours as it sat on the armrest. Not exactly the steamy encounter you had daydreamed about.

His fist raps a pattern on the rusted metal door, once - twice. Finally, a face peeking out as it cracks open, the room behind dim, curtains pulled tight.

The man’s face pulling downward when he sees who it is, eyes narrowing behind glasses, mouth twisting, "Oh, not you.”

Hopper's foot quickly jamming in the space, preventing it from shutting all the way, “We need to talk to you. It’s about what happened.”

There’s a long pause before the man nods - Hopper’s foot pulling back so the door can shut, the chain latch undone before it opens again.

You follow behind into the house, the inside not a far cry from the outside. But it’s fascinating in a way, the wall of televisions, the man himself - an old robe worn open like a cardigan over a tight white tank, grey sweats.

“Thank you, Mr. Bauman.” You step around Hopper, your hand extended, “We’re hoping you might be able to help us, please.”

Murray’s eyebrows lift when he sees you, the downturned edge of his lip kicking up, “And who is this?”

His handshake is firm, and you smile as you give your name, explaining, “One of Hopper’s friends.”

“Hm. Didn’t think the old grump had any friends,” He gives Hopper a sidelong look, Hopper’s hands jamming in his pockets as he scowls back.

“Just in case you were wondering, that is how you ask for help,” Murray tells him, amusing himself, before he turns back to you, “What can I do for you, sunshine?”

Throwing a look at Hopper for confirmation, you start, “Well, we wanted to see if you still had the original copy of the tape Nancy and Jonathan brought you.”

“Something is happening again,” Hopper cuts in, easing himself into the circle of conversation, arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe with the gate, maybe with El. We wanted to see exactly what they said.”

Murray shoots both of you a puzzled look, “Why’d you come out this way? Can’t you just ask them?”

You fidget, the same thing already discussed in the car. Hopper handles this one again, ”We don’t want to cause any… unnecessary panic. If we ask either, it’s going to spread. We want to do our own digging first.”

Murray thinks about that, plucking the glasses from his face, polishing them slowly on the edge of his robe.

“Please Mr. Bauman?” You ask, your hands clasped in front of you, the sound of your words drowning out Hopper’s annoyed grunt.

“God, please - Mr. Bauman was my father. It’s just Murray.” He looks back up after a long pause, slowly nodding, “But, fine. I can make you a copy. Have to find it first, but I will.”

Your answering smile is relieved - how long could that possibly take?

———

The three of you have been searching for hours now, sifting through beat-up boxes of hastily-labeled tapes in one of the side rooms, taking turns checking possibilities.

It’s slow going - you were quickly relieved of checking duty after you found a tape that leaned towards the illicit. Gasping as Hopper moved in front of you to shut off the high-pitched, recorded moans as he growled out a “Jesus Christ Bauman, she doesn’t need to hear that.”

“It was research for a story!” Murray had insisted, rolling his eyes, hands spread wide.

Now, you were on sorting duty, making stacks for Hopper to check, sweat beading on your brow as you dug through the piles. Even with the drapes drawn, hiding the summer sun, it was warm in the stuffy house - the nearest fan just out of reach as it rotates slowly.

Finally giving up, your arms stretching over your head as you rise, winding your way over to where Murray was working on his own stack.

“Murray, is it okay if I grab something to drink?” Your palm fans your face, the slight gust of air barely soothing the heat.

“Sure, sunshine. Help yourself,” He wipes his own brow, glancing up from his place on the floor. “I’m almost done. Grab a glass for me, too.”

The single bulb flickers in the kitchen, an ancient fridge tucked between two countertops. You revel in the blast of cool air as you open the door, stooping to peer inside.

It’s relatively clean, the shelves clear on one side, jars and condiments lining the other. There’s some beer cans half-way back and you reach for one, dragging it out. When you go to grab another, your fingers knock against a rounded glass bottle, the label curled and worn.

It wobbles dangerously, the cap loose on the narrow neck. The liquid inside - a thick, viscous pink - sloshes onto your knuckles as you catch it with the back of your hand. Trapping it between another container before you carefully nudge it upright.

Your hand withdraws, setting the second can on the counter before you bring it to your nose. The bright residue smells like summer, fresh fruit. Sticky sweet and cloying.

Without thinking, you taste it, licking up the drop that tracked across your knuckles. It seems to soak into your tongue, the taste almost familiar. Reminding you vaguely of the prickly pear lemonade you had on vacation a couple years ago.

Bright and sweet as bubblegum, the tart bite tickling your throat as you swallowed. No worries back then - just summer and sunshine ahead.

You blink, a funny tingling on your tongue, the rest rinsed off in the sink - dried on the dingy dishtowel.

The crisp crack of the can opening is music to your ears. The beer is cheap but you’re not complaining, it’s cool going down your throat - the can pressed against your forehead after you swallow.

Murray joins you a minute later, and you offer him the second can, but he shakes his head.

“Should have specified,” He tells you, dragging a bottle from the freezer, filling the bottom third of a glass.

Drinking the vodka like it’s water, nose scrunching as he swallows. You side-eye him, as you against the counter, elbows pressing against the stained laminate.

Taking your own sip much more slowly, his head turning to look at you.

“Helps me think.” Murray offers, though you weren’t about to ask. There’s a long pause, before his head tilts, “So… you and the chief, huh?”

You choke on the mouthful, coughing as you swallow. Hopper had warned you that he was blunt - a good guy, but not one to mince words.

But it’s almost refreshing, after the passive aggressive tip-toeing around you so often get at work. Right to the point, nice and neat.

“Oh!” You clear your throat, fingers covering your mouth, “No, not really. I don’t think he sees me that way.”

Facing him, you miss the way Hopper’s head tilts in your direction as he listens to a new tape, eyes dragging slow over the cocked curve of your hips - but Murray does not.

“Uh huh.” He answers dryly, his legs crossing neatly at the ankles as he leans next to you, “Are you sure about that?”

You wonder if he’s teasing you, or if he knows something you don’t.

The prospect makes your heart thud, a wishful anticipation in your chest as you answer, “Well, I don’t really know. Sometimes I think there’s something, and then other times he doesn’t notice me at all.”

Not telling him that a part of you thinks he’s hung up on someone else. And the worst part is you get it, it makes sense - they have all that history. And you’re just tripping after him like a lost little puppy.

“Jim’s a pretty direct guy.” Murray interrupts your thoughts, and your answering nod is slow, a little unsure of his meaning.

A pause - before he pats your shoulder, draining the rest of his glass, “Just something to think about.”

Okay, I guess, you think - finishing the remnants of your own drink, finding what looked like a recycling bin for the empty can. After a moment, taking the extra beer you had grabbed over to Hopper. Offering it to him wordlessly as you lean over the back of the couch, next to his shoulder.

He takes it, a thankful curve to his lips, fingers overlapping yours as his hand wraps around the can. For a second, you almost forget to let go - too focused on the way your skin seems to buzz under the brush of his fingertips.

“Thought you forgot about me.” He nods towards the kitchen, cracking it open with a hiss.

You watch the bob of his throat as he swallows, a curl of heat creeping up your neck, your cheeks. Trying to keep your voice from sounding too much like a sigh when you reply, “Never.”

Clearing your throat, trying to keep on track, “Any luck?”

“Not sure. Think we’re getting close though, these are from the same time.” He sighs, leaning back against the cushion, arm trailing along the back - swapping the tape out for another.

The voice that plays from this one is familiar - the recoding caught mid-sentence.

“-you mean without shutting us up?-”

You’re grabbing at his arm, swinging around the edge of the couch to take the seat next to him. Leaning into him to listen, “Wait, wait, that’s it!”

His eyes flash to yours, the recording playing just long enough to confirm it. A relieved smile flashing across his face, before his arm drops to curl around you - a squeezing half-hug of victory.

The tape is handed off to Murray to make a copy, and you stay selfishly seated on the couch. Nothing to do but wait until the copy is made, the edge of his arm still brushing your shoulders.

But the more you sit - the denser the air feels, humid and sticky hot. Your pulse seems to thud in your ears, a steady, dull pattern.

“Is it warm in here?” You ask idly, fingers plucking at the neck of your sundress, peeling it back to get some air against your skin, “Like, more than before?”

He frowns, his eyes averting when you glance his way, his legs shifting, “It’s warm. But it’s cooler than outside, that’s for sure.”

It doesn’t seem that way to you - you’re not sure how he’s able to wear jeans in this heat, even with the beachy, button-up shirt. The sleeves stretch tight across his biceps as his arms cross, your eyes slow to pull away as he adds, “Maybe you just need some fresh air.”

You nod - that makes sense, and you silently wish for Murray to hurry up, as much as you’re enjoying the current seating arrangements.

Now that the tape has been found, copying it goes quickly, the audio conversation as short as it was. Hopper tucking the tape into his shirt pocket, patting his chest as you push yourself to your feet.

It takes an effort, your limbs feeling not quiet coordinated. Your mind a little fuzzy, skin buzzing and tilting towards oversensitive. Maybe the beer wasn’t as cheap as you thought - maybe it was your empty stomach.

Hopper’s eyes narrow when he notices the slight sway in your posture, as Murray not-so-subtly herds you towards the front door. You still manage a thank you, and even a hug that you’re surprised that he accepts, “Thank you for helping us, it means a lot.”

“You’re both welcome back anytime.” Murray tells you cheerfully, the words almost cut off as the door shuts, the latch chain sliding into place immediately.

Leaving the two of you alone, blinking into the sunlight - the slight breeze welcome on your face. You’re still looking dazedly at the door when Hopper’s hand brushes your back, a gentle nudge towards the truck.

His words slow, eyeing you as you start to move, “Let’s get you in the truck”.

You’re compliant, unprotesting as he opens the door, climbing in. Slumping against the seats rolling the window down as he gets in on the other side.

The truck roars to life, reversing out of the lot, dirt kicking up from the driveway as he pulls back onto the main road.

Time seems to lose its meaning as the miles tick down, you’re not sure if it’s been minutes or an hour - the heat in your face and neck starting to feel like it’s moving downwards.

It should be a moment to remember, just the two of you, a beautiful summers day. A warm breeze on your face as the radio rolls through favorites - Springsteen, Rolling Stones, Tom Petty. Songs you know by heart sounding faded as thoughts you kept buried deep inside push to the surface.

Sideways glances that linger a hair too long, eyes drifting over his light, patterned shirt. The extra couple buttons popped at the neck, the coarse hair beneath.

The thick muscle of his arms, large hands that you think would span the space between your shoulder and jaw. The perfect size to cup your face. Fingers drumming absentmindedly on the steering wheel.

You like looking at his hands, thinking about what they could do. How they would feel. On you. Maybe even in you.

The path of your gaze slowly shifts downwards-

You blink - catching yourself, eyes facing forward again. Going rigid as you recognize the curl of arousal in your guts, where the heat has settled. Stronger than you’ve felt before - the aching need for pleasure so sharp it almost hurts.

“You okay, kid?” He breaks the silence, “You’re usually talking my ear off.”

The nickname is unintentional - it’s one he’s picked up from his time looking after El. You know this but it still bristles at you, a dull ache in your stomach causing your words to come out snappish, “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh,” he draws the word out with a scoff, “What, would you prefer ‘sunshine’?”

He’s being petty, defensive - glancing your way with brows pulled low, expression changing when he sees the way you’re sitting, tense and uncomfortable.

You flinch when his hand reaches across, the back of his palm brushing your forehead. Something blooms in your stomach, and you have to fight back a moan at his touch, the feeling between your legs almost like a pulse.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” He’s frowning, eyes darting your way, “You’re burning up. We need to get you home.”

All you can do is nod, your face pressing against the glass again - trying to ignore the instinct to press your thighs together.

———

It’s become almost unbearable by the time you find yourself among familiar roads - the long winding dirt path through the woods to the cabin. Somewhere along the drive, Hopper had offered to take you home, but his was a good 15 minutes closer.

You just needed some water, to sit down for a moment. You were sure it was nothing.

He shifts into park, legs taking him around to your door before you can fumble with the handle. Almost knocking the old wooden door off the hinges as he ushers you inside - the water still lukewarm from the tap as you gulp it down from a glass.

It soothes some of the heat that warms your face, but not the one that roils in your guts. You can’t hold back the groan that wracks your chest, hand splaying across your lower belly.

His hands almost feel cool on your cheeks as he cups them, worry clouding his blue eyes as he angles your face up to look at him.

“How are you feeling? Talk to me, baby.” He coaxes.

“Hurts.” You manage, blinking as you try to concentrate.

“Where?”

Silently, your hand slips lower, until it’s all but cupping your mound. The slightest brush of fingers making your eyes flutter shut, a soft needy groan falling from your lips.

Hopper goes still, unable to breath. Not even knowing what to say for a moment - trying to come up with something, anything, to help figure it out.

“Uh- did you take anything today? Try anything funny this morning?” He stammers, and your eyes flicker open.

A small shake to your head. And then, you pause, remembering.

“At Murray’s. I-It was pink. I didn’t mean to.” You tell him, and he’s nodding - it’s not much, but it’s something.

Leading you to the couch, your body slumping onto it as he heads for the phone. Digging through his pockets for the scrap of paper, silently hoping that Murray will actually pick up.

Your hands wander on their own, brushing across your thighs, up, and then up. A pad of your finger pressing against the thin cloth covering your clit, and fuck - it feels good. Maybe the best you’ve ever felt.

But somewhere in the fog, you know the couch is not the place to do this. With an effort you push yourself up, his eyes flicking worriedly to your wobbling gait as the phone rings.

The bathroom door creaking shut behind you - the wood muffling your moans as your fingers press against yourself again. Easing the ache, just for a moment.

His fingers wrap around the phone cord until it hurts - eyes trained on the closed door, foot tapping as he waits for answer.

“Hello?” Finally there’s a voice on the other end, and Hopper feels like he could strangle him.

“Murray? Jim.” He barks out, not waiting for a reply. “Something is wrong, she’s not doing well. Said she had something pink at your house.”

There’s a beat, before he’s cursing - his questions not quite making sense, “Jesus Christ. She didn’t, right? When did-?”

“What was it?” Hopper interrupts, his voice firm and low, one that he always seems to pull out during his interrogations.

“Let me think. I need to make sure.” There’s a crackle on the other end, the words chosen carefully. “How is she? What are her symptoms?”

Hopper blinks, “Uh, hot. Forehead is really warm. She seems distracted.”

“She um, said it hurts.” Not knowing how to word the next part, heat creeping across his own face, “Down there.”

He makes a face as he waits, scrubbing a palm across his forehead, and there’s an agonized groan on the other end.

“Okay. Can you ask her how much she had?”

His patience is running thin, worry and anger making his chest feel tight, “What the hell was it?”

Another beat of silence.

“It’s an… aphrodisiac. I was doing a story on it.”

He had the phone pressed so close to his ear that it creaks in his grip, “A what?”

“You know…” Murray hedges, and then sighs. “The tape you heard? The one that pissed you off so much? That was part of my research.”

Hoppers mouth feels dry, remembering the lewd, rhythmic moans. The word clicking into place in his mind, things starting to make a little more sense.

“Does it go away?”

“That’s why you need to ask her.” His tone turns serious, “You need to, right now.”

With a frustrated sigh, he sets the phone on the side table, crossing the room to the bathroom. Knocking, then calling out for you.

Listening, not meaning to hear your panting breaths, the stifled moans sliding out from between your teeth. He doesn’t mean to picture what you’re doing either - but the images pop into his mind, his fist tightening around the door handle.

Inappropriate. Get it together.

“Sweetheart?” He calls out, and he hears your sounds stutter. He hopes your listening, “The pink stuff. How much did you have?”

A moment as you think, the words slow from your lips, “Just a bit. It spilled on my hand.”

He’s back on the phone a second later, “She said just a little bit.”

“Thank god.” There’s a sigh on the other end, but Hopper doesn’t know what there is to sigh about, “I didn’t want to tell you, but the reason I was doing the story was a couple guys took too much. It uh, turns out it can cause cardiac arrest.”

The implication hangs in the air - he wants to ask more, but fears the answer. Murray presses on, “But if she just took a little, she should be okay. She needs to…”

There’s a pause as he sucks in a breath, “She needs to work through it to make it go away.”

“Work through it?” He echoes, brows furrowing.

“Yes. If she doesn’t, it hurts like hell. I tried it myself, just once.” Murray confesses, his voice low, “Drank some like a shot. It took twelve hours to go away. I was chafed red, Jim. Red.”

Hopper makes a face at the overshare, lips pulling down over clenched teeth, “That’s disgusting.”

“That’s what happens.” Murray answers firmly, “I’m just telling you, you might have to help her. Or find her help - don’t let her go through that pain.”

He doesn’t know what to think about that either. Doesn’t even want to think about it, helping you. Not like this, not when you’re not in your right mind.

The next call is quick, just to cover his bases - a call to the school. A message for El, asking is she can spend time with Max tonight. Hopefully you didn’t need the twelve hours, but he had no idea what to expect, or if he could move you.

Then the back of his knuckles are rapping on the door again, three short, sharp knocks. He calls your name, listening - his mind going a mile a minute. Opening the door when he hears you say his name, the two syllables drawn out in a soft whine.

Even with what he knows now, he’s unprepared. The bathroom in his cabin had always been small - barely enough room to squeeze in a tub, a toilet, the chipped sink with a mirror.

Small enough that he’s hit with the scent of your shampoo, perfume. Then, the sweet musk of your arousal, completely unmistakable. Combining into something that made his pants feel tight, his breath catching in his throat.

Pheromones, maybe - something he saw once on a nature documentary. Murray didn’t warn him about that part. His back sags against the door as he closes it.

Fuck, he can’t do this.

He’s already thinking things he shouldn’t be - because he knows you don’t see him the way he sees you. That your sugar-sweet smiles and nudges are the same you give everyone else.

Trying on occasion to put some distance. An act of self-preservation - he’s always been shit at love. Always on the wrong side. But then you drag him back in. Bright and stunning and blinding.

Sunshine in human form, after all.

You’re sitting, back against the wall - tucked in the far corner, opposite the tub. Elbows resting on spread knees, your dress dipping down between the soft curves of your thighs. The navy blue flash of panties as you shift, the light glinting off the wet gleam of your fingers has his eyes darting away - flushing as he clears his throat.

Your eyes glassy as you look up at him, the way he fills the doorway - even bigger and broader than usual from your spot on the floor. Another sharp throb shoots through you, and you moan out loud.

His brow furrows, and then he’s moving, crouching down to your level. Fingers reaching out to brush your forehead again, your skin burning hot against his fingers.

“Talked to Murray. You drank some experiment he’s been working on. Says you need to, uh-” His hand rubs the back of his neck - lacking the eloquence of his new friend, completely out of his depth. “Finish. To get rid of the uh, symptoms.”

This close, the throbbing increases, twisting in your guts into you ache. The smell of leather, tobacco, aftershave sending another pulse down your spine, your thighs pressing together in an attempt for release.

Your nod is sluggish, the fingers twitching again, “I tried, Hop. I can’t-”

“Is there… someone I can call for you?” His voice is gruff, trying as hard as he can to think with his brain and not with his cock, “A…boyfriend, an ex?”

There’s a thud as your head tilts back against the wall, as you fix him with a long look.

“Is my flirting really that terrible?” You ask, with a huff of a laugh that borders on delirious.

There’s a long pause as Hoppers mind trips to catch up, to interpret your words.

“Nevermind.” The smile that stretches your lips is resigned, your chest heaving in a panting breath as your hand waves dismissively, “That wasn’t fair of me to say. Just forget it, I’ll be okay, Hop. Really.”

“Wait, back up.” Hopper’s hands raise, his voice taking on an edge, “What the hell does that mean?”

Each word feels like an effort now, your tongue feeling heavy, your heart thudding between your thighs, “It means-, it means the person I’d want to call is… you.”

There’s silence for a long, agonizing moment.

“You don’t want me,” He rasps out, eyes flickering between your half-lidded ones, the glossy sheen of your parted lips where your tongue had flicked over them. “It’s the drug. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Jim.” The name punches out from your chest, your eyes locking onto his, the pretty splash of blue, “It’s not. I’ve always wanted you.”

Realization making him sway - the wooden floor crashes into his knees as he rocks forward. His head ducking down as you push yourself up to meet him.

A whimpering moan that shoots straight to his cock when your mouth meets his, one of his thick arms curling around, a palm pressing flat against your back. Your tongue already swiping at his lower lip, pressing closer until your breasts are crushed against the wide barrel of his chest.

His hands dropping, as he groans in response - cupping the globes of your ass, your thighs opening further for him as he yanks you up and onto his lap.

Fingers fly to the meat of his broad shoulders for balance, the fabric of your dress bunching under roaming hands. A clashing of teeth and tongues as you devour each other, your panting gasps as your core bumps into contact with the thick curve of his jeans.

Electricity flickering down your spine, a seam catching on your clit. The burning in your core turning into something closer to relief. Your hips jerk again to chase the sensation, just as a hand comes up to palm at your breast, the tight peak of your nipple.

“Hopper,” You’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers fisted in his shirt, trying to tug him even closer. Hips rolling, grinding down against the thick curve of his jeans, “Please.”

His last ounce of self-control leeching from him as he accepts what you’re asking. What you’re needing from him.

Begging, even - something he’s only ever dreamed about.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He promises, shifting - your thighs wrapping around his waist, a low whine from your throat as he tries to move.

Hopper gives up on untangling your limbs, instead pushes himself unsteadily to his feet; your arms encircling his shoulders. Lips dropping to his neck, pressing against skin.

Walking you through the door, until he can drop you onto his bed. You scoot backwards to make room for him as he lowers himself down next to you, crowding you closer to the cabin wall.

Fingers trailing up your shin, your thighs falling open, just as your eyes shut with another cramp of discomfort. Halting at your thigh, at the curving hem of your dress.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” He asks, leaning over you, letting you call the shots the best he can.

“Touch me.” You beg, hand reaches for his, dragging it up between your thighs. Hips rocking into his fingers when they press down against your core.

“Fuck, baby.” He groans, feeling the damp cotton, your own hand going limp at your side as his flatten, rubbing at the fabric.

His other hand pushing your skirt up to your hips. Letting himself look now, the dark, wet stain of your panties under his fingers. Realizing they were never navy in color - the soft fabric cutting across your hips a light, sky blue. So similar to the shade of his eyes.

Your hips buck again, and his fingers slide beneath the fabric, slipping against soaked skin and soft curls. Another fresh wave of relief, pleasure curling over the pain, your fingers twisting around the pillow behind your head.

“Jesus. You’re soaked, sweetheart.” He grits out, fingers sliding up until they bump against the swollen bud of your clit, your response no more than a whimper.

Stroking against you, again and again - his fingers slick with your arousal. Sliding easily over your skin, making small, messy circles that have your breath catching in your throat.

A litany of pleas and moans falling from your lips, soft “oh, god-” mixing with his name. The sweet build of pleasure barreling down as his fingers touch you.

He’s impatient, the tight fabric limiting his movements, blocking the pretty sight of your pussy from his vision. The thumb of his other hand hooks on your waistband, tugging it down your thighs - your hips grinding into his hand as they rise to help.

A rough exhale of breath, the word “fuck” ground out through gritted teeth. Torn between wanting to keep going just like this - and knowing if you wanted more, that he’d have to use his fingers somewhere else.

His hand shifts, thumb rubbing over your clit, the middle sliding down, pressing against your entrance. Glancing at you for your nod before it sinks in, his fingers so much thicker and longer than your own.

Pressing down to the knuckle before withdrawing, starting a slow thrust that stretches you out. He’s so fucking hard, cock straining in his pants as he watches his finger disappear into you, your pussy so warm and tight around him. Thinking about how you’d feel wrapped around his fat cock, how good you’d feel coming on it.

Biting back a groan as he adds another, your own low whine as they press deep, finally itching at the ache of needing to be filled. Your words are slurred with drunk pleasure, your brain a messy fog.

“Make me come, Hop. Please-“

Fingers curling, each thrust of his wrist a loud, wet squelch in the small cabin. He shines with you, coating his fingers, leaking onto your inner thighs.

“I will baby, I promise.” He coaxes, trying to remember how it goes, fingers dragging against your inner walls until he feels you clench down around him, a ragged gasp in your throat.

His eyes flickering up again to yours, doing it again, again - watching the way your breaths grow shorter, tension coiling in your thighs.

The small rocking of your hips as you chase the movements of his thrusts, fucking yourself on his fingers, the soft pants of breath as you moan out “please” again and again.

Hopper shifts, pushing himself up - though you’re too close, too far gone to notice. Your eyes shut are shut, concentrating, when there’s the swirl of something hot and wet and soft against your skin.

Better than his thumb, eyes cracking open to see the way he bends over you, the pink flick of tongue as it presses against you, a low groan as he tastes you.

The scratch of his mustache, sending goosebumps across your skin. When his lips kiss against your clit and then suck, it becomes your undoing.

Unable to form words as the blinding pleasure peaks, instant relief flooding your system as you find your release. Soaking his fingers and tongue with a hoarse cry, limbs trembling with the effort.

The sounds you make when you come are prettier than he’s ever imagined - loud, panting moans, the heave of your breasts, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut in concentration.

Tight as hell around his fingers, he swears he can feel each pulse, the thud of your heartbeat in your clit as his tongue presses against it.

Devouring you until you finally go limp, before sliding his fingers from you. Bringing them to his mouth, unable to resist tasting the release that coats his fingers.

The sweet tang of your cunt as he sucks them clean, a low groan as his hips shift, pressing against the mattress.

“Oh my god,” you sigh, the fog starting to wane with each throb, though the desire still remained. The immediate pain quelled, but the deep ache of want and need was still burning in your veins.

Pushing yourself up, grasping at his shoulders until he’s hovering over you - your mouth tilting to meet his. His mouth tasting like you when your tongue darts against his, the rumbling groan as your hips shift up to rub against him.

“Thank you,” you moan into his mouth, and he almost wants to laugh, if the situation hadn’t been so disconcerting.

The thought about being thanked for something he’d dreamed about doing, never thinking he’d get the chance to bury his face between your legs.

He kisses you until you feel dizzy, until your hips are moving again, the damp spot darkening on the front of his jeans.

“More,” you break the kiss to beg, plucking at the buttons of his shirt, revealing inches of skin, greedily soaking him in.

“You need more or you want more?” He asks, hand curving to cup your jaw - a perfect fit, just like you imagined.

Lips feeling kiss-swollen as they scrape against the stubble of his jaw, down to his neck. Feeling the thud of his own pulse, “Both.”

He groans, loud and low, letting you tug at his belt, fingers working open the button. Hips shifting into your hand as you cup the hard bulge, your other hand tugging at the zipper.

A noise of disappointment as he rolls off you, the smallest hint of a smirk as he rids himself of his pants, boxers, “I’m right here. It’s okay.”

And he is, your fingers skating over his thick shaft, barely able to circle around it. It’s big, the fat head glistening with a bead of precum, and it smears across your thighs as he settles between them.

You wiggle against him, lining your hips up, but his hands are gripping onto your waist to hold you still.

“Easy, baby. Gonna hurt yourself.”

Taking a moment, his fist wrapping around the base. Sliding himself against you, you body flexing against the hand still holding you as he lines himself up.

Making sure he’s soaked with you before he starts to press in. Eyes bouncing between your face, trying to see if it’s too much, and unable to resist seeing the tip disappear into you, stretching you wide.

Your moan breaks his concentration, the feeling of him splitting you open almost too much. He feels even bigger than you imagined - making room for himself as he nudges into you. Stealing your breath with every small flex of his hips.

So much of him still left as he carefully thrusts his hips forward, the delicious slide of his cock against your walls before he withdraws. Breath heavy as he does it again, each time sinking a little deeper into you.

Almost flush now, his hands on your hips again. Keeping you pressed to the bed so you don’t try to take too much. Perhaps also to keep himself in check as well.

It’s overwhelming, how warm and tight you are around him. Squeezing him already, even with your come coating his cock, slicking him up. He’s afraid to move, thinking that if he starts thrusting, starts fucking you - that this will be over before it’s started.

His lips part as you wiggle against him again, trying to ignore your pretty pleas. The rough gravel of his voice drowning your sighs out, “Hold on, baby. I just need a minute.”

Fingers flexing against your skin, where the flesh pillows between them. But you need more, and you take matters into your own hands.

Your hand slides down, one lingering at your breast, cupping and squeezing the soft skin, pinching at a nipple. Sending a jolt racing down your spine as your other hand follows, drifting until you’re brushing between your thighs again.

Some of your wits now back, maybe enough that you can get yourself off - just like this.

Eyes on his, watching him watch how the tip of one circles your clit. The small rock of your hips that just barely causes him to move, buried in you. But it’s enough.

Your head tilting back as you set a pace, rolling your hips, again - again. Touching yourself, his name peppered in with the panting of your breath.

“Hopper, oh my god-“

And finally he finds his voice, fingers so tight you think they’ll leave bruises. The words skittering across your skin, as his head tilts up to yours, words coaxing, “That’s right sweetheart. Take what you need.”

Eyes fluttering open as the pleasure builds again as pressing your fingers harder, circling faster.

He’d been worrying about you dying earlier - just for a moment. Now he’s worrying about himself, heart pounding in his chest, listening to each little mewling gasp from your lips as you use him.

Fucking yourself with shallow thrusts on his cock, your pretty face screwed up in concentration. Each breath growing shorter and shorter - he can feel you starting to tense underneath him, the clench of your pussy around him as you squeeze in anticipation.

Keeping himself still, letting you get off on him - thinking that he’ll throw you off your rhythm if he moves, desperately wanting to see how it feels when you come on his cock.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Your eyes all but roll shut as your release hits you. The heavy shudder of your body, surprising him with the sharp jerk of your hips. Taking him even deeper - almost all the way as you flutter around him.

Even better than how you felt on his tongue, better than he’s imagined. The sounds you make louder and rougher when you’re stuffed full of him - as he lowers himself down, hands easing off you.

Letting you wrap your arms around his shoulders, face buried in his neck as you drift back down. Holding you until your hips stop moving - waiting until you relax before he slips from you.

You frown, not understanding until he rising up, nudging at your hips. Giving you room to flip over, his palm warm as it slides down your back.

“Hands and knees, baby.”

Wobbling only a little as you push yourself to your knees, back curving as your torso slips back down, pressing against the mattress.

Shifting until your ass rests flush against his front, letting you feel the thick curve of him pressing against your swollen lips.

“You want more sweetheart?” He asks, a thrust of his hips nudging his cock against you. “Or are you all worn out?”

Again putting the choice in your hands, though he wants nothing more to bury himself in your tight cunt again and fuck you proper.

“More.” You sigh, pressing back against him. Feeling and sounding more lucid - the desire more firmly situated in your thoughts, feelings, rather than chemical stimulation, “Want you to fuck me, Hopper.”

“Yeah?” He growls out, thumbs digging into the curve where your ass meets your thighs, spreading you wide.

“Yeah.” You confirm, the word turning into a moan when you feel the tip press against you again, and then he’s slowly sliding back in.

It’s still a stretch, even though you’ve already taken him, the angle so much different. He can see so much more like this, the tension strung tight in your back and shoulders, your fingers fisting in the sheet.

“Relax, sweetheart.” His hand smooths across your hip, thumb rubbing across your skin, easing forward until his thick thighs are pressing against yours, the curve of his stomach flush with your ass.

His first thrust is experimental - shallow, fingers gripping onto your waist. Rocking you with his movements as you groan, so sensitive that you think you can feel every vein, each ridge.

Again, and then again - until your cheek presses against the mattress so you can look at him, your eyes heavy lidded.

The peek of pink tongue between teeth as he concentrates, a hitch in his chest when you clench down around him. Shoulders flexing as your lips part, the words moaned out - a plea, “Harder. I won’t break.”

Fingers digging into your skin, as you add a soft, “Please.”

It tips him over, hands jerking your hips back - all but impaling you on his cock. Sinking himself deep, filling you completely.

Your gasp is low and loud, head tilting back. Urging him to do it again, and so he does. Gripping your hips as he starts thrusting, your panting moans mingling with the wet squelch of your pussy as he pounds into you.

Shifting, his thighs bumping into yours, lifting your hips, pressing you further into the mattress.

Changing the angle, his cock dragging along your walls. His forward thrust nudging against a spot that makes you cry out, muscles clenching, pleasure flooding your senses.

“Yeah?” He asks through clenched teeth, voice like gravel.

Finding it again, and then again. Your fingers gripping the sheets, lips parted as the moans are pushes out of you. Hurtling towards the edge, your hips rocking back to meet him the best you can.

And when his hand moves, fingers pressing against your slick, sensitive clit, it only takes a few flicks of his wrist until you’re trembling, your words a jumble of begging pleas.

“Oh god yes, Jim, please, please-”

Soaking his cock as you start to flutter, tight and hot and almost overwhelming him. His name sounding so goddamn good on your lips as you chant it, the little jerks your hips make as his fingers keep moving.

Your eyes shut as you ride out the waves, your body relaxing into his grip. Realizing he’s still thrusting, drawing your pleasure out, still pressing against your clit.

“Come on honey, one more.” You just catch the rough rasp of his voice, raising goosebumps across your skin, “Let’s get it out of your system. I want to be the only one helping you.”

Quickly working you up again, until his own thrust starting to stutter. Your tight heat too much, he’s not going to last much longer. Trying to hold himself back a little longer, but it’s he thinks he already too far gone.

“Fuck baby, I’m close,” Hopper pants, and thinking about him coming makes you moan. “Where do you want me?”

“In me.” You beg, already close again - from his touch, his words.

“Fuck.” He repeats, “Goddamn-”

His groan low, hips snapping forward, the slap of his balls against your pussy before he grinds himself deep. The sharp thrusts sending you over with him, your own orgasm washing over you as you feel the hot pulse of his ropes painting your walls.

Basking in the sweet feeling release as he ruts against you - until you’re filled - until his hips finally start to slow.

Chest heaving as he catches his breath, fingers carding through his hair, brushing it back. Your thighs burning in a nice, used way - your head pressing against the mattress so you can peek up at him.

Taking a long minute, and then another. Until your breathing finally slows, until the tension melts from both of you. A hand rubs your lower back, above where you are still joined.

“More?” He asks, his gaze heavy as he meets yours.

You clench down around him, squeezing him as his release gets pushed out, dripping down your thighs. He twitches inside you.

“More.”

———

Evening has fully settling in when the two of you finally collapse - his head hitting the pillow with a heavy, satisfied sigh. Your body going limp against his, pressing yourself flush against him.

Your cheek scrubs against the hair sprinkled across his chest, your movements slow and sated. The fire - finally, completely - quenched, the only warmth now coming from your sweaty, sticky skin.

The humor returning, now that the danger has passed. A rumble of laugher beneath your ear, the click of a lighter, his voice a low rasp before he takes a drag of his cigarette.

“If you wanted me that badly, sweetheart, you could have just asked. No need to go through all that trouble.”

Unbelievable.

Your head tilts upwards as you fix him with a glare, “You’re lucky I’m too tired to move.”

His hand lifts to cup your chin, thumb scrubbing tenderly across your cheek. Another breath that takes you with it, rising and falling as you sag against him.

“‘Lucky’ is goddamn right.” He tells you, his teeth flashing with his smile.

And with that, you find yourself smiling, too.

#please mind the tags!#been working on this for a bit - hope you like it! 💕#jim hopper x reader #jim hopper x you #jim hopper imagine #hopper x reader #hopper x you #jim hopper smut #jim hopper

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notinmyvocab · 8 months

Text

Conference Call

Summary: It's VECNA week: the Vermont Educational Conference for the Northeast Area, and Larissa is bored and lonely. A few clicks online and she hires a... friend for a few hours.

Warnings: Smut, smut, smut g!p, dirty talk, mommy kink, teacher/student roleplaying, swearing, unedited

Author's Note: Ummm so this kind of got away from me. Sorry not sorry.

P.S: Caiohme is an Irish name pronounced "Kwee-va"

It was that time of year again: VECNA week: the Vermont Educational Conference for the Northeast Area. If it weren’t for the fact that she was out of town at the most boring conference ever, she never would have considered even looking up the company. But the Vermont Educational Conference for the Northeast Area didn’t exactly inspire.

It had been a week, and she was homesick, and lonely, and sad, and perhaps a bit drunker than she’d care to admit.

And this hadn’t been the first time she considered doing something like this. It was just the first time she actually went through with it. And it made her feel sick, if she were being perfectly honest. Technically it was legal, but Larissa couldn’t help but let shame weigh down on her shoulders. Was she really so undesirable that she needed to buy someone else’s company?

That was all it was, she assured herself as she sipped her cocktail of Jim Beam and diet Coke. She was paying someone to come and be her friend for a night because no one at this conference was worth her time. And no one seemed particularly interested in interacting with an Outcast from Nevermore Academy. At least this way, she was guaranteeing conversation; guaranteeing companionship, if for only an evening.

Larissa sat on the edge of the hotel bed, which she had remade, and then remade again so that the corners were tighter and the sheets appeared crisper. Not that it mattered. It was a hotel, not her home. And this person was probably not going to be judging her bed. Still, Larissa had a reputation she liked to uphold, even with strangers.

She was starting to grow anxious as the minutes ticked by. She already put through her credit card information, so surely there would be no issue? Unless it was a scam. Oh dear, had she fallen for a ploy?

There came a sharp knock at her hotel door, the sound so sudden that Larissa nearly jumped out of her skin. Was that…? Larissa took another sip of her cocktail and set aside the glass before standing up and smoothing out the skirt of her dress. Her heart thudded uneasily in her chest. Maybe if she pretended she wasn’t there, then she could forget about the whole thing?

Larissa went over the door and opened it.

Before her stood a young woman with hair that she clearly attempted to straightened, but still tried resisting, certain sections insisting on creating a wave. It was a slightly imperfect detail that actually made Larissa relax. The woman in the doorway wasn’t perfect. She was a dream, but she wasn’t perfect, and that helped put Larissa at ease.

It wasn’t until she met the woman’s eyes that Larissa realized she probably should’ve shifted her appearance; kept this more anonymous. But it was too late now.

“Larissa?”

A fake name also might’ve been a better choice.

“Yes. Um, come in.” Larissa stepped aside and watched the young woman marvel at the hotel room as if she had never seen anything so nice. It had to be part of an act. Someone who did this line of work surely saw a lot of hotel rooms in her lifetime.

“So um, how has your day been?” Larissa asked, immediately cursing herself for sounding like an idiot.

The woman turned and smiled at Larissa, apparently finding her endearing. “Long. VECNA tends to get busy for me.”

“Is that so? Why?”

The woman raised her eyebrows, wondering if Larissa really wanted her to answer that. She gave the nicer. vague answer. “Lot of lonely teachers in an unfamiliar place.”

“And um… what shall I call you?” The website Larissa found didn’t actually give names, just pictures.

“What do you want to call me?” the young woman implored, and it suddenly became clear why the website didn’t have names. She saw Larissa’s uneasiness and gave a warm smile. “I answer to a lot of things. But tonight you can call me Kitty.”

“Kitty…” Larissa said slowly, tasting the name; testing the name. “Is that your real name?”

“Is Larissa yours?” Touche. It was, but Larissa did not do anything to confirm this. Kitty went on, “It’s short for Caiomhe.”

Larissa frowned faintly, not following the explanation. “I don’t quite see how Kitty is short for Caiomhe.”

Kitty grinned, giving a soft, embarrassed laugh. “It’s not. But you can’t go through middle school with the name Caiomhe.”

“Of course. Students can be cruel.” Larissa certainly knew about that. She also didn’t doubt that customers liked such a soft sounding name. “Would you like something to drink?” Words came a little easier to her now; knowing Kitty’s name certainly helped to soothe the nerves.

“No, thank you. I don’t drink on the job.”

Job. Right. Because that was what this was. She needed to remember that.

Kitty sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs. She was so simple in her plain black cocktail dress, yet exuded elegance.

“So, what did you want to do tonight?” Kitty asked, her eyes imploring yet mischievous, head tilted to the side.

“Oh, I’m… I’m not really sure,” Larissa replied sheepishly. That was a lie. She knew exactly what she wanted to do, but now, suddenly faced with the question, she couldn’t bring herself to answer. How could she possibly voice to this stranger what she wanted?

Kitty saw the struggle in Larissa’s eyes, and gave a small, sympathetic smile. “Most people just want to talk,” she said.

“Really?”

“I mean sure, I get some people who want to take me out to dinner; pretend I’m their girlfriend. But most just… want someone to listen.” That was what made it legal. If sex happened, then it happened. But as far as the records were concerned, she was paid to hang out.

Kitty narrowed her eyes slightly as she studied Larissa, trying to guess what her mental roadblocks were. The woman just seemed so tense. “What brings you to VECNA?” she asked. Maybe conversation was the key.

“I’m a principal,” Larissa answered. “I run a boarding school… for Outcasts.”

Kitty perked up in recognition. “Nevermore?”

“So you’ve heard of it.”

“I used to be obsessed with it when I was younger,” Kitty confessed. “A boarding school for the strange and unusual; I wanted to go so badly.”

Larissa blushed, pleased and flattered that someone actually said a kind word about her dear academy. She sat on the bed next to Kitty, one hand holding her drink and the other hand resting on the bed.

“Okay, so you’re the headmistress of an elite boarding school…”

“Principal,” Larissa corrected.

“I think, tonight, you should be Headmistress.”

And like magic, Larissa’s shoulders relaxed. She downed the rest of her drink and set the now empty glass aside. She stood up and smoothed out her skirt. “And do you know why you’ve been sent to my office?”

Kitty immediately fell into her role. She sat on her hands, knees together. “Because I got caught touching myself in class.”

“Because you can’t help being a little slut, isn’t that so?” Larissa folded her arms across her chest.

She didn’t think she would slip into the fantasy so easily. She thought she would be trembling with unsteady nerves. Instead, Larissa slipped into the role as if she were slipping on her favorite heels.

Kitty pouted. “I’m sorry Headmistress. I couldn’t help it!”

“You never can. Tell me: did you slip your fingers in and out? Taste yourself when the teacher wasn’t looking?” When Kitty nodded, playing along, Larissa gave a wolfish grin. “And who were you thinking about when you were toying with your sweet little pussy?”

Kitty looked down, as if ashamed though Larissa saw no blush upon her cheeks. In fact, the corners of her mouth were curled upward; she was enjoying the game. Good.

Larissa tucked a finger under Kitty’s chin and forced her to look up. “Be a good girl, and tell me: who’s tongue were you imagining?”

“Yours, Headmistress.”

“Oh? Well, I suppose that puts us in a bit of a conundrum.” Larissa dropped her hand and stepped away from Kitty. She folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head to the side, as if she hadn’t already decided her next move. “See, you ought to be punished. Yet…”

“Yet?”

“I find myself at a crossroads. You should be bent over my desk; you should get a lashing for being so crude. But I think spanking you would just turn you on even more. Is that true?” Larissa leaned down over Kitty, hands planted on either side of the woman. “Maybe you’d like it a little too much.”

Kitty’s perfume was hypnotizing; she smelled like an azalea. Kitty could smell the Jim Beam on Larissa’s breath and she couldn’t help herself; she leaned forward and gently pressed her lips against Larissa’s. It wasn’t like she never kissed clients, but it was the first time she actually enjoyed it.

Larissa broke character, stunned by the small, affectionate gesture. She stared at Kitty, lips parted as if to ask why. Instead, she placed her hand on the back of Kitty’s head and pulled her in for a languid kiss, every movement of her tongue deliberate and precise.

And oh how Kitty relished in the attention. The kissing became hungry as Kitty craved more, needed more. She had never felt so… wanted.

Other clients pretended to want her. She knew the drill and it never bothered her. This was her life, and it paid damn well. But when they kissed her, if they kissed her, she could tell that they were imagining someone else, or just glad to have a warm body. It had never been about her.

This was about her. Larissa was kissing her.

Kitty pulled back from Larissa, and whispered, “Let me take care of you.”

“No,” Larissa said. For a brief moment, Kitty’s brow furrowed and she looked confused and even partially worried. Larissa pressed a kiss against the younger woman’s forehead, soothing her worries. “I’m going to take care of you.”

She put a hand against Kitty’s chest, guiding her to lay down on the bed. She wasted no time in getting on her knees.

Kitty’s heart fluttered, both with anticipation and adoration. She gasped softly when she felt Larissa press a kiss against her bare calf, then her knee, then her inner thigh. God it took so much strength for Larissa to go even this speed.

Larissa tucked her fingers into the waistband of Kitty’s black thong, taking a second to admire them.

“Adore Me,” Kitty said, propping herself up on her forearms.

“Pardon?”

“The panties. I get my lingerie from Adore Me. They have like a monthly subscription where they send you stuff. That’s probably my absolute favorite thing I got from them. Though I gotta say, I like it a lot better in your hands.”

“Is that so? Because I think it looks best on the floor.” Larissa tossed aside the thong and placed her hands on Kitty’s thighs, digging her nails in slightly. “Tell me what you like.”

“I’ll like whatever you do to me.”

That answer apparently wasn’t good enough. Kitty jolted as she felt a sudden, sharp slap against her cunt though she was immediately soothed by long strokes of skilled fingers. “Be a good girl, and tell me what you like.”

“That,” Kitty gasped. “I like… I like it when you call me a good girl.”

“I see. That’s unfortunate because you haven’t been a very good girl, have you? Touching yourself in class isn’t something good girls do.” Larissa slipped back into the roleplay, finding she did quite enjoy it and while she did ask Kitty what she wanted, Larissa was the one paying for the night. Give and take.

“I’m sorry, Headmistress,” Kitty whined. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Because you’re a little slut.”

“Because I’m your little slut,” Kitty corrected, daring to hold Larissa’s gaze. “I just kept imagining your fingers inside of me, making me so, so wet.”

“Oh darling, you don’t need my help making you wet.” Larissa lowered herself back down between Kitty’s legs. She inhaled deeply, basking in the woman’s arousal. She couldn’t stand it any longer. Larissa dragged her tongue along the woman’s glistening slit, tasting Kitty’s desire.

Kitty gasped at the contact, swallowing her moan. She didn’t want to admit how good Larissa made her feel with only one swipe of her tongue; she wasn’t used to this. Some clients were clumsy. Some were terribly sweet and affection. But Larissa was something else entirely.

Larissa nipped at Kitty’s clit, making the younger woman yelp. “Don’t you dare keep quiet.” She returned to devouring Kitty’s pussy, and Kitty certainly did not hold back. She let herself moan and whine and beg for more.

“Please, god… fuck, it feels so good.” The feeling of Larissa lapping at her clit was divine; Kitty wrapped her legs around Larissa, holding her close, needing more. “F-fingers. Please, fingers.”

At Kitty’s request, Larissa pulled away, chin glistening. “Do you think you deserve my fingers?”

Kitty only managed a whine. God she needed Larissa so badly. Her lack of words earned her another sharp slap on her pussy, and a commanding, “Answer me,” from Larissa. “N-no,” she choked out. “No, I don’t. But I need them. I need you. Please.”

Larissa paused, pursing her lips.

Immediately sensing Larissa’s hesitancy, Kitty sat up. “Is everything okay?”

“Can we… do you mind if we try something?”

Normally she was uneasy when a client said something like that. But Larissa was… different. Even though it sounded corny as fuck, Larissa was special. So Kitty said, “Anything you want. Name it.” For a moment, Kitty worried that she sounded too overeager. That fear was allayed when she saw Larissa relax a little.

“I’m… I’m a shapeshifter. It’s what makes me an Outcast.” That obviously wasn’t what Larissa was worried about. Kitty could see in her blue, blue eyes that there was something more; something deeper. “And… well, I’ve never actually tried it before. But I… I find myself wanting to have you be my first. If you’ll have me.”

Kitty tilted her head to the side, not quite following what Larissa meant. Her first? The woman was clearly no stranger to sex; what was there possibly to take?

Then she added it all up, and when the sum made itself apparent, Kitty inhaled sharply. Not in disgust, or even shock, but in pure desire. She nodded, eyes practically glowing in excitement.

Larissa stepped away from the bed and turned her back to Kitty. She breathed deeply as her fingers fumbled with her dress, feeling Kitty’s eyes on her.

The moments passed agonizingly slow; Kitty had sat up at this point, rubbing her thighs together to feel some sweet friction without pushing herself over the edge. And as much of a cliche as it was, her jaw did indeed drop when Larissa turned around.

Every inch of her was perfect: the swell of her breast, the curve of her waist, the place where her thighs met. And right there among it all…

Larissa stepped closer, her cock hard with desire. Kitty didn’t even hesitate to get off the bed and down onto her knees. She took hold of the throbbing member, her touch curious yet gentle. She lips ghosted along the shaft, and Larissa swallowed a moan, the sensation more intense than she ever imagined.

“Can I?” Kitty whispered against Larissa’s tip, and when she saw Larissa nod, she immediately took the cock into her mouth.

And oh god what a sensation it was. Larissa immediately threaded her fingers through Kitty’s hair, making sure she kept her pace slow and steady. This was completely new to her and it was almost overwhelming. She already wanted to cum, wanted to see thick rivulets of white spill down the side of Kitty’s perfect hot mouth. Just imagining such a sight nearly sent her over the edge, but Larissa held back.

Then Kitty dared to take Larissa’s cock all the way down her throat and made a gagging noise. Was it real or just part of the show? Larissa didn’t care, she loved it all the same.

“Good girl,” she cooed. “Take all of me; choke on Mummy’s cock.”

Larissa’s voice faded as Kitty continued to take all of her, slurping and slobbering. Finally, right when Larissa was certain she would lose control, Kitty pulled away, spit dribbling down her chin. She planted one more kiss against Larissa’s cock before getting up and bending over the bed.

For just a moment, Larissa relished in the sight of this young woman spread and dripping for her.

She slid her cock into Kitty’s wet pussy and both women groaned in pleasure.

“Fuck,” Kitty hissed as Larissa started moving in and out. She reached down between her own legs to rub her clit as Larissa kept thrusting. “Fuck, Mommy, your cock is s-so good.”

Larissa thrust harder, feeling bliss in a way she had never felt before. She could barely hear Kitty’s whines, so consumed with her own pleasure. “That’s it, take Mummy’s cock,” she growled, hand finding Kitty’s hair and pulling.

She wasn’t going to last long like this. The dirty talk thrilled her, and Kitty too.

“Please make me cum, Mommy,” Kitty begged as Larissa’s thrusting picked up speed and she kept furiously rubbing at her clit. Her legs were shaking as an orgasm unexpectedly rocked through her body.

The sight of Kitty’s quivering form and the feeling of her orgasm tearing through her sent Larissa over the edge. She gave one final thrust and held herself inside of Kitty, filling her up.

Both women breathed heavily as they slowly came down from their high. With great reluctance, Larissa pulled out of Kitty and cum dripped out of Kitty’s sopping cunt, trickling down her inner thigh.

Unable to resist, Larissa lowered herself and dragged her tongue along Kitty’s slit, tasting their mingled cum. It was divine.

Neither of them said a word for a few minutes, hearts hammering too loudly to hear one another.

Larissa lay down on the bed, feeling her lower half shift back to her usual form. She watched Kitty slip into the bathroom to clean up. She closed her eyes, her mind completely blank for once. No worries, no cares, just darkness. How wonderful.

The sound of a lock grabbed her attention and she sat up to see Kitty about to slip out the door.

“Wait,” Larissa said without thinking. But then she remembered what this all was: a business transaction. The fantasy melted away.

But to her surprise, Kitty did indeed hesitate at the door. The young woman turned. She’d been booked for the night, and sleeping over wasn’t part of the deal. But maybe… maybe an exception could be made. Just this once.

“Will you stay?” Larissa asked softly.

“If you’ll have me.”

Larissa nodded, and Kitty relocked the door. She shed her dress and slipped into the bed beside Larissa. And as Larissa pressed a kiss to her temple, Kitty wondered if she had allowed herself to cross over into forbidden territory: falling in love with a client.

-----------

@winterfireblond @zillahofviolets-bayolet @scream-queenlover @kaymariesworld @barbarasstar @yourlocaldisneyvillain @finnja555 @milfsloverblog @opheliauniverse @lvinhs @h-doodles @lilfartbox1

#my writing #larissa weems #fanfiction #wednesday #gwendoline christie

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aurumacadicus · 8 months

Text

"Did it hurt?" Tony asked softly.

Carol paused in sorting his meal, Jell-O still in hand. Finally, though, she set it back on his tray, deliberate, focused. "Did what hurt?"

Tony blinked at her slowly, then turned his gaze out the window, silent. Apparently, that was all he had the strength to ask. All the guts to, maybe.

Carol looked back at his tray, straightening his spoon next to the bowl of broth that served as his main entree. Soft foods. Easy on the stomach. It was easier to look at his food than it was to look at his scarred face, his blind eye, the bandages where his arm should have been but wasn't anymore. Things he'd lost while doing her job, protecting the earth, and doing it better. She hadn't been able to kill Thanos. Tony had.

"It hurt a lot," Carol finally said, because it had--all that energy forcing itself into her body, burning, bright and hot. It had hollowed her out, left her feeling cold. She didn't remember much from immediately after she woke up, except that it had still hurt, excruciatingly, and it had been a mercy when Yon-Rogg and the Supreme Intelligence had muffled the power coursing through her. Perhaps that was why it had been so easy, to believe that she needed to have her power restrained until she could fight without it.

Perhaps that's why it had been easy to fight the Supreme Intelligence, when her heartache at all she'd lost and regained overpowered the pain her body felt.

"Does it stop?" Tony asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Carol didn't know. Sure, her pain had eventually stopped, but her power wasn't the same as even one of the Infinity Stones. Tony had held all of them. Had succeeded where others failed. She supposed the only ones who would know even a fraction of what he felt were the so-called Guardians and Bruce Banner, and even then, Peter Quill was half-Celestial, and they'd shared the power over their entire crew, and Banner, well... He had the Hulk.

She didn't know anyone else who had held the power of the universe in their hand.

"They didn't have any cherry Jell-O, the nurse said," Carol said instead.

"I fucking hate lime and if I turn and see that green freak on my tray I'm going to flip the entire thing," Tony replied, apparently allowing her the out.

Carol grabbed the Jell-O cup and chucked it over her shoulder. She heard an outraged spluttering instead of it bouncing over the floor and turned to see Jim, outraged to be covered in green goo.

"This isn't my fault," Carol said, and Jim shouted, "WHO ELSE THREW THE JELL-O, CAROL," and Tony quietly started eating his soup, as if nothing had even happened.

#ideas #tony/rhodey brotp #carol/tony brotp

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bougiebutchbinch · 4 months

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this morning we are plagued by thoughts of free-use Izzy, of the flavour where the Trauma Crew are all supremely stressed during the Kraken era, and Izzy started off as being an absolute fucking monster in the aftermath of The First Toe.

Jim, still spitting furious over the marooning of the rest of the crew and the loss of Oluwande, eventually snapped. They tried to go for Ed, but Izzy got in the way. So, Jim got in a huge bloody fight with Izzy that wound up with Izzy pinned beneath them, panting and bucking for leverage with his legs wrapped around Jim's waist but unable to roll them. They leant in to hiss threats in his ear, Izzy accidentally whimpered and went limp, and things... escalated from there.

(Adults only under the cut!)

Anyway, that first time was rough and brutal and more about Jim being angry than anything else (as much as Izzy thoroughly enjoyed it). But the nasty, humiliating shit they did to him earns the whole crew a reprieve from Izzy's nitpicking and yelling at least (though they're all still fucking terrified of Blackbeard, who has gone batshit, and even though he's taking out most of it on Izzy, still isn't afraid to let any crewmate who interferes become collateral).

At first, Jim was ever-so-slightly guilty, thinking they took things to far. But Izzy's kinda... not flinching away from them, or anything. Not like he does from Ed (though he tries so very fucking hard to hide it). He seems dazy and happy and calm, and actually runs the ship well in Blackbeard's absence. But it only lasts a few hours before Izzy gets called to Blackbeard's cabin and comes out worried and tight-faced and with bruises around his throat that Jim didn't put there, and immediately starts screaming himself hoarse at the crew again.

Jim hums. Considers the evidence. Then gathers the rest of the Trauma crew for a little confab...

Which is to say: the Trauma crew figure out that nothing calms Izzy down more than having his choices (consensually) stripped away and roughfucked for a bit, followed by lots of aftercare to make the effect last. Man has a hard reset button and it is up his ass/cunt. And the trauma crew all just swap nods like. Yeah, we can work with this.

Anyway, the Revenge crew gets back together, Ed stops blatantly abusing Izzy and the rest of them, and everything's sunshine and daisies. Until the first time Izzy snaps at Lucius or Pete or whoever.

Next moment, Frenchie and Jim are there, grabbing Izzy and shoving him face-first over a barrel and wrestling down his trousers while Lucius is frozen like. What is happening?? What the fuck is happening right now?????

(Izzy does freak out and safeword because these 18th century dolts have minimal BDSM knowledge, and never thought to establish new boundaries when they met up with the other crew. But after a lot of profuse apologies from Frenchie and Jim, Lucius (slapping a hand over Pete's mouth to keep him from saying whatever unthought-through-thing was about to come out) is like 'OH WE'D BE VERY OKAY WITH WATCHING. WOULDN'T THINK LESS OF YOU AT ALL. VERY HARD KINK POSITIVE, WE ARE', all while Pete's nodding enthusiastically. Izzy looks a tiny bit nervous, but he's been getting on with Lucius way better after the shark thing and the Calypso singalong, so he straightens up, raises his chin, glares at Jim and Frenchie, and snaps 'get back to it then')

(and THAT'S how he becomes the unicorn of the entire crew polycule sfhgldfksds. Just one more ship's duty. You swab the decks, you reef the sails, you scruff the first mate and fuck him when he gets mad.)

#ofmd jim #ofmd izzy #izzy hands #ofmd frenchie #our flag means death #ofmd fanfic #ofmd ficlet #ofmd lucius #ofmd black pete #ofmd blackbeard #IT'S WHAT WE DESERVE!!! IT'S WHAT HE DESERVES!!!

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tieronecrush · 9 months

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꒰ა ONLY ANGEL ໒꒱

javier peña x f!reader

chapter one: sweet temptations

series masterlist

rating: E (18+ only, MDNI)

summary: After his return to the US, Javier is trying to settle back into a normal life without the pressures of Colombia and the DEA, but he finds himself feeling isolated with no one to spend his nights with. Now a newly appointed criminology professor at Texas A&M, he is drawn to you, a post-grad student in one of his classes. You’re intelligent and witty, sweet and kind, and he can’t get you out of his mind. To cope with his growing loneliness and to rid himself of thoughts of you, he signs up for an “arrangement service” to connect him with somebody—a sugar baby—he can care for. After he is matched up with Angel, he finds himself developing feelings quicker than he ever expected, but what happens when he finds out Angel is really you?

series warnings: power imbalance (prof and student), sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship, discussion of money, criminal activity, judicial systems, graduate school, smut, daddy/papí kink, praise kink, degradation, self deprecation, discussion of self worth, multiple sexual or romantic partners, sex work, cursing, use of spanish, likely more warning so read at your own risk!

word count: 3.8k

a/n: first chapter AHHHH!!! hope you all love, i am not sure if i am doing a taglist yet cause it’s a lot of work tbh so will keep y’all posted <3 and a special thanks to bestie @northernbluess for helping me with this brainchild and always screaming about javi with me. love ya sister wife <3

“Professor Peña! Welcome back, sir. So glad we have you on for another year,” the voice of the Dean of Faculty, Jim Banks, booms in the empty hallway of the Sociology department, a cramped space on the top floor of one of the, luckily, newer buildings on campus. With a large donation made to the university last year, specifically directed to the Sociology department for their ‘advancements in the field and hiring top talent’, the department was moved out of the basement and into a space that actually saw the sunlight. And had a decent view of the quad, too.

Javier stops in his tracks in the middle of the hall, turning over his shoulder and giving the man approaching behind him a strained, polite smile. He hikes the strap of his chestnut leather messenger bag further onto his shoulder, the itch of his brand new button-down scratching against his skin.

“Dean Banks, good to see you,” he sounds clipped, but Javier has always had a hard time hiding his impatience and annoyance.

“Please, Peña, like I’ve said, call me Jimmy! No need for formalities, buddy.” The dean slaps Javi’s shoulder when he reaches him, and Javier clenches his fist at his side. The whole buddy-buddy Southern thing never roped him in, and certainly not after he was made privy to what a boys’ club the academic world was.

Javier has been a professor for 6 months at Texas A&M University, based at their San Antonio campus, and has taught primarily undergraduate classes for the first semester and summer session that he was on the faculty roster. Hired into the Sociology Department after job-hunting for something to fill his time after retiring. Well, he technically resigned after the nightmare that was Cali, but he negotiated to keep his extremely cushy government pension. Never needed to work another day in his life, but damn he was getting bored. Even his Pop nearly kicked him out to get him to do something other than roaming the field of the ranch and camping out to watch the boats.

Those damn boats.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Dean Ba—Jimmy?” He takes one step back, out from under the man’s hand on his shoulder, and straightens up, grip tightening on the strap of his bag.

“Well, I do gotta favor to ask you, Peña. See, Professor Harrison has had some…extraneous circumstances that have kept him from coming back to the department this semester, and likely next semester. So, I was coming down here to ask if you would be willing to take on his graduate-level course for the semester, and possibly his next semester too. It’s Sociology of Deviance, and by god, you were the first person I thought of to fill in, ya deviant!” Banks gets a good laugh out of his own joke, the effort falling flat for Javier. He waits out the man’s reaction to his own humor, clearing his throat to attempt to egg him on and end the conversation earlier.

“So, what d’ya say, Peña? Think you can manage instructing that course? Syllabus and everything is already planned, just have to have someone actually teach the material and grade everything.”

“Uh, yeah, that would be fine. I’ll check in with Beth at the department’s front desk to get access to Professor Harrison’s material for the course,” he nods to the dean and starts to turn away, ready to retreat to the peace of his private office when Banks’ voice catches his attention again.

“Can’t thank ya enough, Peña. And, uh, try not to get yourself into any of those extraneous circumstances that will be on the class roster, yeah? Don’t want to have to replace you too. We can’t have A&M losing the Big Man on Campus, hey?”

His brows furrow as nods in response, calling out a ‘yes, sir’ as he finally starts toward his office again, stopping at the front desk of the department and requesting the materials for the graduate course, complimenting Beth’s nails with a playful wink.

At the click of his office door, he sighs and sets his bag down on the desk, turning around to face the large window overlooking the campus quad with his hands on his hips.

What the hell kind of extraneous circumstances was Dean Banks getting at? Javier’s a professional, his days of bending the rules in his career are over.

The morning goes by quickly and suddenly it’s two o’clock, fifteen minutes until the new lecture he’s been assigned to instruct. He gathers the syllabi that Beth had dropped off an hour earlier, taking his bag with him as he weaves through students in the halls and slips into the lecture hall, descending the wide stairs at the side of the rows of seats. At the start of every class, he prefers to spend the minutes before gathering his thoughts and laying out everything he needs to get covered. Today’s an easy day, the only goals are to hand out and review the syllabus, and to have the students introduce themselves.

At the prompt time of 2:15 pm, Javier clears his throat and quiets the chit-chatting down, looking up for the first time and meeting a set of eyes that dry his throat immediately. Soft, supple lips are quirked up into a smile, tendrils of short bangs framing her face. Her skin looks like velvet, with baby pink rouge on her cheeks, and a swipe of gloss across her bottom lip. His eyes combed down to her open chest, the scoop-neck baby tee emblemed with some band’s name that he didn’t know. When you smile at him, he feels his heart pound and his cock jump, suddenly grateful for the pretentious podium that he is standing behind.

So those are the extraneous circumstances Dean Banks was getting at.

It was the second semester of your two-year Master's program, and you were honestly excited for the first day of classes. Over the summer session, you had taken a couple of courses to get ahead and worked as a Teaching Assistant for one of your old undergraduate professors. It was about four years ago that you graduated, working in Corporate America before deciding to go back to school and pursue your found passion in Criminal Psychology. The Teaching Assistant job paid pitifully, as you should have expected, so you had turned to an external opportunity that quickly, and easily, became profitable for you and allowed for you to quit TA-ing and focus on your studies for this semester.

The first class of the first day is Sociology of Deviance, a class that is scheduled for Monday and Wednesday afternoons. When you registered for the course, the instructor was listed as “To Be Determined” but as a required credit for your degree, you signed up for this semester anyway.

And holy shit, you’re glad you did.

A few minutes after two o’clock, the lecture hall door opened and slowly shut, the man in a baby blue button-up and tailored slacks stalks down the stairs to your right, headed for the desk in front of the green chalkboards. Underneath the tiny laminate surface that swings out from your chair, you cross your legs and sit up, eyes trained on your professor. His dark hair is clean cut, but not too cropped, swept to the side and up away from his face. A strong, full mustache adorns his upper lip, perfectly groomed along with his clean-shaven, sharp jaw. Wide, expansive shoulders strain under the material of his shirt, the top button near the collar undone and his tie slightly tugged down. The silver belt buckle sitting at his waist glistens in the fluorescent lights, one glance given down his legs and then to his muscular arms when he turns around to write his name on the board.

Professor Peña.

No fucking way, you think to yourself, immediately more engaged than his looks had you. The Javier Peña was teaching one of your courses, a name buzzing around campus over the summer, one that you had read about over and over for the last few years while focusing on the World News section of the paper. The DEA agent not only had a part in taking down Pablo Escobar, but he was also the agent who found and arrested Gilberto Rodriguez, a godfather of the Cali Cartel, and eventually took down the rest of the whole organized crime family.

Finally, someone who actually had some experience with crime outside of a courtroom.

Uncapping the ballpoint pen laid in front of you, you tap it against your chin as you listen to Professor Peña recount his philosophies in teaching. According to him, he prioritizes ethical and principled practices in the field, noting personal experiences he had with the opposite. You vaguely remember a story from the Miami Herald about his involvement with Los Pepes during Escobar, and you could never forget reading about the corruption of not only the Colombian government but the US government during the Cali days. That case — that scandal that he exposed was a big reason you dove back into criminology. You wanted to be a person who would better it for the people under the jurisdictions of the judicial system, as naive as it may sound.

A thick, stapled stack of packets gets dropped onto your desk, eyesight zoning back in to look to your side and face your professor standing next to your chair. He gives a tight smile, nodding his head to your left.

“Please pass these down that way after you take one for yourself.”

Even from that simple statement, his deep, raspy voice has you sucking your teeth, shaking your head to yourself as you pass on the stack of syllabi, and turning your attention to the outline of the semester. As you study the required readings, Professor Peña returns to the front. Another clearing of his throat turns your eyes up, sitting up straight again as you watch him lean back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

“At the beginning of each semester, I like to have everyone go around and introduce themselves. Now, I know you’re all adults and probably don’t want to do this, but it helps me to remember you when I’m grading all your shit,” he gives a closed smile to the room as a rumble of gentle laughter erupts and quickly fades.

“Anyone want to volunteer to go first?” Professor Peña scans the room, interrupted by a brunette guy that looks to be around your age, an eager smile on his face.

“I’ll go first, Professor. My name’s Alex, I’m in the first semester of my first year of law school. Planning to focus on Criminal Law. I went to UT Austin for undergrad. Go Longhorns!” The exclamation gets some applause, you note the lack of reaction from Professor Peña and smiling to yourself.

Thank god he isn’t one of those insufferable college sports obsessed men.

A handful more of your classmates take their turns, and you politely pay attention to each of them, but unable to shake the feeling of eyes on you. One glance toward the front and you catch Professor Peña’s eyes, darting away toward the student speaking and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

If you could read his mind right now, you surely would be dropping the class. Javier can’t seem to keep his eyes off of you, entranced by every angle of your face that he’s given, your head turning to face each of your classmates as they speak. It’s endearing how engaged you seem in learning about your peers, and it snaps him out of the daze for a moment when he realizes that he is really the one that needs to be paying attention to the names being spoken.

The only reprieve he seems to get is when you take your turn to introduce yourself, giving your name to the room and each detail you offer, he automatically categorizes into his brain to remember. In those thirty seconds that you are solely speaking, his gaze is trained on you, watching the pout of your glossy lips as they move together and apart, your tongue hitting behind your teeth and the softly shadowed eyelids that crinkle at the sides when you smile. Something you’ve said makes you laugh a bit, the sound ringing in his ears and pumping his heart faster.

The focus moves from you to the next student to volunteer, but Javier can’t help the lingering of his eyes across your collarbone, sloped shoulder and pen bouncing in between your fingers.

Enamored. Infatuated. Bewitched, even.

God, he shouldn’t be thinking about his student this way.

But you are so fucking gorgeous. And clearly kind, with the way you focus on everyone speaking, gentle smiles given to everyone. You have to be intelligent, pursuing a Master’s degree. And you seem so delicate, so sweet.

What do you taste like?

Nope, not going there Javier. Sure, he’s lonely, but with a student? After another professor just got caught with one, allegedly?

Before he knows it, every student has given their name and random facts about themselves, and he can finally turn his back to the room to begin writing out the required, upcoming assignments and go over the material that will be covered over the next few months. In the blink of an eye, class is wrapping up and he lets out a long exhale, longing for about two fingers of the whiskey that is sitting in the bottom drawer of his desk.

He leans over the table in front of him, shuffling the extra syllabi together and organizing them into his briefcase while the students funnel out of the lecture hall. Brows furrowed, he sighs when he hears footsteps approaching, glancing up to see that little band t-shirt he noticed before, now the view of a dark evergreen, black, and hints of yellow plaid and pleated skirt with legs extending from the mid-thigh hem, and suddenly he’s standing up a bit too quickly to acknowledge your approach.

“Excuse me, Professor Peña?” you ask, saccharine and well-mannered.

“How can I help you?” he responds, not managing to hold back the grin that ticks up one side of his mouth.

“I wanted to properly introduce myself to you,” you give him your name with your hand stretched out, “I know it sounds kiss-ass, but I am really excited to be able to take a course from you. It’s cool to have a non-lawyer professor in criminology courses.”

“I appreciate that,” he slips his palm against your outstretched hand, shaking it and noting your firm handshake, “Hopefully, I live up to your expectations as a professor. Not sure if I will have as good of a grip on the material as Professor Harrison would’ve, this is my first time teaching this class.”

You drop his hand and wave off his concern, a smile still plastered on your face. It’s not forced, by any means, he can see it’s a genuine expression which has his insides stirring again.

“I’m sure you will exceed expectations, especially if the reviews from my graduate cohort have told me anything.” The statement is punctuated with a faint laugh, echoed by Javi as he tilts his head in questioning.

“Glad to hear that I am… well-liked?”

“You could say that, Professor Peña,” you raise your eyebrows with a curl of your lips, nodding slowly, “Well, I should let you get back to your office. Looking forward to the semester.”

“Nice to meet you,” he repeats your name, “And be sure to read your syllabus.”

You turn around as you climb up the stairs of the lecture hall, wide smile, “Oh, I always do my homework, Professor Peña. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Luckily during syllabus week, Javier’s workload is light enough to stay on top of his emails and be able to plan ahead for the next few weeks when things will start to ramp up and assignments will be due.

In his office the next morning, he’s in the midst of slowly working through his short to-do list before his class at one o’clock. With a familiar chime from the clunky machinery on his desk, he turns to the screen and clicks open the tab with his university email address. A new message is in his inbox, one from a student. He starts to skim the message to look for questions asked, thinking to himself as he shakes his head with a disbelieving scoff.

A student already emailing? It’s the first fucking week, c’mon kid, let up and have a little fun during syllabus w—

Oh, wait, it’s you. From his graduate course yesterday afternoon. The student off to the left, with the sweet smile and doe eyes, tight t-shirt and juicy lips.

What would they look like around him?

Jesus Christ, Javier. Get your shit together. A student. That is what you are, and all that you can be.

At least until you graduate.

Shut up, Peña!

He argues back and forth with himself, the angel and devil on his shoulders both making convincing arguments. Physically shaking himself out of the thoughts, he focuses back on your actual message, fully reading it now and chuckling to himself when it’s simply a message about a mistake in the syllabus.

One of the readings is listed with the wrong author, but of course, with how amiable and courteous you are, it’s phrased as a question rather than flat out telling him it’s wrong. Something along the lines of “Sorry Professor, but did I get this wrong…”

He’s not offended, he didn’t write the syllabus, and even if he did, he still would feel no qualms about being corrected where it was due.

There’s a flash of something in his chest, the smallest bit of anger when he thinks about you drafting this email to him, likely nervous you’d get a shitty response back. He knows the type of shit his colleagues say to their female students, and it grates on him every time. Typing up a reply to you, he answers the question concisely. The cursor blinks for a minute on the screen, deciding whether or not to finish off the message with some words of encouragement or not.

Quickly, he adds ‘And please, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. Clearly you know your stuff, and I could use some help with navigating this new course.’ Adding his signature, he hits send before he can give it another thought.

Exiting out of the window, an ad pops up onto his desktop. Javier moves his mouse to hover over the ‘X’ button, the baby pink banner catching his attention.

Sweet Temptations.

Curiosity gets the best of him and he clicks through to the website, licking his lips when he’s greeted with a logo design that features the silhouette of a woman as the ‘T’.

Javier is lonely.

He moved away from Laredo, where his father resides on the family ranch, the only familiar piece of the US that he was eager to return to. That excitement for the slow life burned out quickly, angst settling in and keeping him on edge — those damn boats.

Chucho encouraged the move, the job, the lifestyle change. Something busier to keep his mind and body occupied, left active enough to forget about the news from over the border, the runs happening right behind his family’s land.

Sure, Laredo is a short drive away, but the distance from family and the few friends he has at home, plus no informants to spend his evenings with, Javier has become decidedly lonely. And these days, he is open to any means of companionship.

For a few minutes, Javi pokes around the site, reading about the matching process for men “seeking arrangements” that “avoid the complications of traditional dating”.

From what he can gather, it’s a place to find a sugar baby. And as a man who was — honestly is supportive of sex work (if this even counts as sex work?), he isn’t above paying for an arrangement that will work for him. Traditional dating hasn’t given him much luck, too many expectations put on him upfront, and too big of a jump to be made that he isn’t quite adjusted for.

All of this logic is leading him to the sign up tab, filling out his information. He creates a new email address for this purpose, choosing a simple ‘[email protected]’. The rest of the form is a simple questionnaire, looking to get the gist of what he’s looking for out of this arrangement and what kind of woman he typically goes for.

He hovers over one question: ‘Are you looking for a relationship that will be sexually active?’. It’s a check of ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and suddenly the back of his neck is burning with a hint of shame as he selects ‘yes’.

After the rest of it is answered, he submits it.

If this goes nowhere, hey, at least he tried.

In the exact same spot a week later, Javier is slumped in his chair at his large desk, the sleeves of his button up rolled up to expose his forearms as he does the reading for his own class, preparation for Sociology of Deviance tomorrow afternoon.

Last week, at the second meeting of the cohort, he was impressed by your analysis of the first reading assignment, joking with you after you hit all the key points that ‘you could come up here and teach and give him a break’. That same jolt of energy from last Monday passed through him when you smiled bashfully at him, actively listening for the rest of the lecture. Before he could pull you to compliment you again, you were up the stairs and out the door, a tiny piece of notebook paper left behind. He stalks up to the desk you were at, picking up the scrap and grinning to himself when he sees a doodle of yours. It’s him, it has to be with the prominent ‘stache and eyebrows, his characteristically accurate head floating on the page. He tucks the drawing into his pocket and leaves for the day, stowing the art piece in the top drawer of his desk.

Today, he flicks the paper around in between his fingers, studying the fluid line work when his computer sings again with an incoming email. With nothing in his work inbox, he checks his new personal one, greeted with an excitable subject line:

YOU’VE GOT A MATCH!

JaviP & TheOnlyAngel

tagging some peeps that requested it but not sure if i will have a taglist for this series lol: @northernbluess @swiftispunk @joelsversion @mrsquill @yazsos @cartoon-garbage04 @sugadolly @ilovepedro @lovers-liability @deathwife @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @undrthelights @atticrissfinch @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin

#javier #writing #only angel #javier peña x reader #javier peña x female reader #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña smut #javier peña series #javier peña fic #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fanfic #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena fic #javier pena x female reader #javier pena series #javier pena x reader #javier pena x f!reader #javier pena smut

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