#the one where hes taking off his glasses is several months old
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fall into temptation | one
Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter! Reader
series masterlist l next chapter
summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56, i know, i know but this is self indulgent because my birthday is next month idk just let me have this one) canon language, canon violence, several mentions of religion, terms pastor and preacher are used interchangeably here and there, mentions of the bible and religious symbols (cross), innocent/virgin reader, very brief scene of attempted sexual assault, no explicit smut (yet). asshole Joel, protective Joel, hints of softish dom Joel (if you squint). reader has two sisters, the only physical description for them is their hair, which they can also braid as well as their style of clothing.
MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.
word count: 8.4k
Jackson, Wyoming
Fall 2024
Joel had seen him around the community before.
He’s an older man in his late sixties or possibly his early seventies with thinning, snow white hair and silver, wire rimmed glasses that always seemed to be perched on the tip of his pointed nose. He was a good, kind man from what Joel could gather—offering up warm smiles and friendly waves to anyone who happened to cross his path, stopping to greet and say hello to familiar faces. The hem of his starched white shirt is tucked into pressed black slacks and even from where he stood across the road near the horse stables, Joel noticed the book clutched in his right hand, old and bound in supple, worn black leather with the words Holy Bible etched into the cover in flaked gold lettering.
Jacob, he thinks his name is. Or was it Josiah?
Something biblical—a name fit for a man who was so fucking clearly devoted to the big man upstairs.
Joel knew his own name was a biblical one, but he was the furthest thing from a man of God. After all that he’d done in the past twenty years, there was only one place he was going and that place wasn’t exactly known for its pearly gates or sweet cherub angels playing harps.
Joseph? Was that it?
He couldn’t be certain.
Not that Joel really even cared to know his name.
It’d been a couple months since Joel arrived back in Jackson with Ellie after Salt Lake City and the truth of the matter was that he preferred to keep to himself whenever it was possible. Joel had zero interest in getting to know the people of this settlement, not unless he had to for the sake of patrol duties—and that’s only if he hadn’t been able to weasel his way out of getting assigned with a partner who wasn’t Tommy or Maria, the only two people in the whole fucking community Joel could stand being around. Minus his kid of course, but even he and Ellie could really only take each other in small doses lately. Perhaps it was their tense, strained relationship that was to blame for the fact that Joel Miller walked around this place with a standoffish attitude and a permanent scowl plastered on his face.
Most people were smart enough to scamper off in the opposite direction when they saw him coming. He was never offended by it. It’s what he wanted. He wasn’t here to make friends.
In fact, the closest thing he had come to a friend outside of his brother’s wife was Esther, the woman Maria and Tommy had tried setting him up with when he first got back to Jackson. He wouldn’t go as far as calling her a friend, either. That’s a little too generous. Friend? No, more like a good fuck when he couldn’t drown his bitterness with Seth’s barrel aged bourbon and he was in need of a different kind of distraction.
But there was a reason this particular man piqued his curiosity. Actually, there were three reasons he managed to garner Joel’s attention and all three of those reasons were trailing behind him in an orderly, single file line, each one more fucking gorgeous than the last. He was positive he’d never seen them around before—because how could he possibly forget the faces of the most beautiful women in this town?
They’ve gotta be sisters, Joel thought to himself, his hand resting on the neck of the horse that he’d ridden out to patrol that morning, a dark, chestnut mare named Willow. Although he was supposed to be walking her inside the stables and back into her stall, he found himself far too distracted. While the three women weren’t identical to one another, the similarity in their traits such as hair color and their skin tone confirmed his suspicions that they were related. They all styled their hair in neat halo braids and wore slightly different color variations of the same getup—pressed, long sleeved blouses tucked into knee length floral printed skirts and worn, leather oxford shoes.
Clutching the brown leather strap of his rifle in his opposite hand, Joel leaned himself against Willow and squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight in an effort to get a better look at them.
The first two were slightly on the older side. If Joel had to take a shot at their age, he would guess the women were in their thirties—a man of fifty six, he still had about two decades on them, easy. Joel let his gaze shift, his dark brown eyes flickering to the last one. His breath audibly hitched in his throat and part of him wondered just how fucking dumb he had to be to be drawn to the youngest one of the three. It couldn’t be fucking possible—you couldn’t be that much older than your mid twenties, if that.
Joel’s grip on the strap of his rifle tightened.
All three of you were beautiful beyond words—why the fuck did it have to be you who held over his interest?
“Take a picture,” Maria remarked with a tiny laugh. She dismounted her horse and peered at Joel over the black stallion’s back. “It’ll last longer.”
She’d led that morning’s patrol, her first time back on duty since she had given birth to her son in the spring. Joel had returned to Jackson right on time to meet his one month old nephew, Noah.
He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Just tryin’ to figure out what their deal is, that’s all.” He paused, then remarked, “Didn’t know polygamy was a thing around here.”
His comment must have struck a nerve in his dear sister in law—fiercely protective of the people who were under her leadership, Maria hadn’t found the sister wives implication the slightest bit amusing.
“Watch it, Joel,” she admonished, shooting him a warning glare. “He’s the town’s pastor and those girls happen to be his daughters. So let’s keep our wise ass cracks to ourselves, shall we?”
His daughters? He almost couldn’t believe it. Surely the girls must have taken after their mother because they sure as hell didn’t get their good looks from their old man. They hardly looked anything like him.
“Pastor,” Joel repeated with a small hum. He then remembered her pointing out an old church house back during the winter when she’d given him and Ellie the grand tour of the community. “So he ain’t got a real job like the rest of us?”
Maria rolled her eyes. “His job is a real job, Joel. It might be hard for you to believe, but there are still a lot of people of faith around here,” she explained to him. “He provides them with comfort and with hope—”
He snorted sharply through his nose. “Hope?”
“Yes, hope,” she snapped at him.
“Hope for what, Maria? That things will go back to fuckin’ normal? That the end of the world is temporary?”
Maria crossed her arms over her chest, jutting her chin. “Some people never lose hope, Joel. There’s a lot of people who need this man and he serves a much bigger purpose than what you’re giving him credit for.”
“And what about the girls? They have it easy too? Do they just stand there lookin’ pretty on Sundays while their old man reads verses out loud from the most useless fuckin’ book known to man?”
“If you must know, they work in the schoolhouse,” she answered, tossing him another glare. “They’re teachers. The oldest one, she teaches Ellie’s class. The middle one, she teaches the primary school aged children and the youngest? She takes care of all of our little ones. She prepares our preschool kids for her sister’s class by teaching them numbers and basic literacy. Shows them how to start counting, reading and writing, things like that. She also helps run the commune’s daycare.”
“At least they have real jobs,” Joel mumbled under his breath.
“What was that?”
He feigned innocence. “Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.” Maria pointed her finger at him. “Come on, let’s get these guys back into their stalls. It was a long ride this morning, I’m sure they could use some rest.” Taking her stallion by the reins, she started leading him over toward Logan, one of the stable hands who helped take in the horses coming back from patrol.
Joel took Willow’s reins in his hands—but before he could even think of moving another muscle, he glanced up and saw the preacher leading his three daughters past the stables and right past Joel. His self control faltered. All that he could do was stare at you, his eyes fixed on you so blatantly that one of your sisters had taken notice. Grinning, she turned back towards you and lifted a hand to her mouth. She used her palm to shield her lips from Joel’s view and whispered something to you over her shoulder.
Shit.
He’d been caught gawking.
He thought about making a beeline for the stables but it was too late.
Perplexed by whatever it was that your older sister had just said to you, you gave her an odd look, but then followed the subtle nod of her head.
Glimpsing over in his direction, your lips parted in complete surprise and you came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dirt road when you found your gaze meeting that of the much older, rugged man standing there with a gun slung over his shoulder.
Unsure of what else to do, Joel simply offered you a polite nod of his head. The gesture was innocent enough but it startled you. He could tell by the way you let out a small gasp and turned away from him, your eyes falling to the ground as you scurried to catch up to your father and sisters like a spooked little mouse.
Joel couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh.
“Is the preacher aware that his precious little daughters pay frequent visits to The Tipsy Bison at such late and ungodly hours?” Joel quipped. He gestured to a booth nestled over in a corner of the dimly lit bar with a subtle jerk of his chin. “S’gotta be the third or fourth time I’ve seen them here in the last couple of weeks.”
Tommy’s eyes followed his brother’s gesture. “Oh man, not again,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He shook his head. “Those girls, they ain’t got no fuckin’ business hangin’ around this place and much less at this fuckin’ hour. But the middle one, she’s a whole lot of trouble.” He paused, just long enough to nod at one of the three sisters, the one who was wearing her hair loose around her shoulders, twirling a lock of it around her finger as she made flirtatious fuck me eyes at the group of drunk patrolmen sitting a few tables away. “She’s somethin’ of a rebel, that one. Likes to drink a lot, get herself involved with things that she ain’t really supposed to be messin’ with. She’s the one who convinces the other two into sneakin’ out and comin’ to the bar when their old man goes to sleep.”
Joel chuckled in disbelief. “You fuckin’ serious?”
“As a heart attack. And then there’s the older one. I know she likes to drink too, but she’s a lot calmer than the other one. Ain’t gotta worry about her all too much, y’know? She tries to be the chaperone—it don’t always work out that way, though. Her halo ain’t exactly perfect either.”
“What ‘bout the youngest one?” Joel asked in the most nonchalant tone he could possibly muster. “Where does she fall on the scale between angel and devil?”
You’re carefully perched on the edge of the booth, your pretty features twisting in disgust with every sip of the rich, amber colored liquid in your glass. Unable to stomach the burning alcohol, you set it off to the side, abandoning it in favor of a glass of water instead.
“Her?” Tommy grinned, leaning back into his chair as stated, “Oh, she’s an absolute angel. She’s just ‘bout the sweetest fuckin’ thing you’ll ever see in your whole damn life, big brother. She’s gotta be the kinda girl who all the little birds and woodland critters sing to when there ain’t no one around,” he laughed. “She’s real good. Too good. Wouldn’t surprise me if the lord sent her down from heaven himself.”
Joel tossed him a skeptical look across the table.
“She really as innocent as she seems?”
“I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to hold another man’s hand,” his younger brother laughed again and reached for his beer, taking a generous swig.
Joel hummed softly and lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips. The mere thought of you being so pure and so innocent—untouched by anyone else—caused something to stir deep in his lower belly.
“She’s the old man’s pride and joy,” Tommy continued, breaking into his train of thought. “Kind. Polite. Behaves. Doesn’t get herself into any kinda trouble—I mean look at her, she can’t even choke down a glass of whiskey. She’s just too good of a girl.”
Joel proceeded cautiously with his next question. “Any of them taken?”
Surprised, Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Joel, don’t fuckin’ tell me—”
“No, I ain’t interested,” he interjected, rolling his eyes. “Just a curious motherfucker, that’s all.”
He didn’t seem too convinced by Joel’s answer. “They’re all single from what I know. To be honest, there ain’t a whole lot of men around here their old man would approve of,” he remarked. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice man and all, but when it comes to his daughters, he’s real strict. Not that controllin’ has done him much good, though.” He lowered his voice as a fellow patrolman walked past their table. “The middle one’s fucked her way through this entire town and then back again. She even made a pass at me while Maria was pregnant with Noah, if you can fuckin’ believe that.”
Amused, Joel snorted into his drink. Ballsy. “How goddamn drunk was she?”
Tommy ran a hand through his jet black curls. “Wasted. Oldest one ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, either.”
“And the old man doesn’t know?”
“Nope. Ain’t nobody gonna snitch on grown women in their thirties.” Noticing the amused expression on Joel’s face, he adds, “By the way, just in case you haven’t figured it out, this stays between us, Joel.”
He smirked. “Which part?”
“All of it. And take it from me, those girls? S’best you keep your distance from them,” he warned as he stood up from the table. He picked up the blue denim jacket draped over his chair, shrugging into it. “Don’t go gettin’ any dumbass ideas, alright?”
“Look, if the wild one makes a pass at me, I ain’t gonna turn her down. S’not like I’ve got a pregnant wife at home.”
“Joel, I fuckin’ swear. If you even think ‘bout it—”
He held up his hands to stop him. “Relax. Was just a joke.”
“Right. M’sure it was.” Tommy snorted. “Listen, I gotta get back home. Don’t wanna leave Maria on her own with the baby for too long.”
“How’s she been holdin’ up?”
“She’s been so tired. Jugglin’ motherhood, runnin’ this place, and bein’ back on patrol duty. I keep on tryin’ to tell her to slow it down, but she just won’t listen to me.” He let out a small sigh and waved a dismissive hand. “But anyway. If you’re all good to head out, I can walk you back to your place since it’s on the way to mine?”
Joel looked down at his glass, still half full. “I think I’m gonna hang back for a while longer. I’m on the roster for evenin’ patrol tomorrow, s’not like I’ve gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn.”
“Suit yourself.” Clapping him on the back, Tommy bid him goodnight and started towards the door.
As soon as he was gone, Joel looked over towards your booth. He watched as you whispered into the ear of your eldest sister who nodded her head in understanding. You stood up and said something else to her, then spun around on your heel, long skirt flowing along with the movement. Head down, you hastily made your way across the bar, being careful so as not to bump into anyone along the way.
You were leaving. Alone.
In the middle of the fucking night? While drunk morons poured in and out of the bar?
She’ll be just fine, he tried to convince himself.
Joel frowned to himself, gripping his drink tightly in his hand as he scanned the room.
Sitting at a nearby table was Kent, some idiot he’d been stuck with a time or two for patrol. He clocks the smirk that crossed the younger man’s face, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Leaning forward over the table, he whispered something to his buddies, his smirk widening. His comrades, all who looked and behaved more like teenagers rather than grown men, lifted their beers to him, nodding in encouragement. Drunk off his ass, Kent drained the rest of his own beer, slamming the glass bottle down onto the table before clumsily stumbling to his feet.
Joel momentarily froze as soon as he realized what was happening.
Kent was going after you.
Joel’s lips pressed together into a tight, thin line.
Setting his drink down, he stood up from his table and slipped on his jacket before following suit.
Joel stepped out of the bar and into the night, the chilly evening air nipping at his face. He took a look around.
You were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Kent.
That couldn’t fucking be good.
“Where the fuck did you two go,” he muttered to himself under his breath.
That’s when he heard it.
The sound of muffled screaming coming from the side of the building. Joel didn’t hesitate. Following your smothered cries for help, he whipped around into the dimly lit alley nestled in between the bar and the commune’s mess hall. You’re pinned underneath Kent with your skirt bunched up around your waist. One of his hands was covering your mouth while his other hand clawed its way up your bare thigh.
“Aw, c’mon now, sugar,” Kent slurred his words together. “It’d be a fucking shame to let someone as cute as you stay a fucking virgin. Don’t be coy—I know you’re just like your stupid slut of a sister. She’s got no trouble spreading her fucking legs for me, y’know.”
Red.
It was the color that flashed in Joel’s mind. It was all he could see as he went up behind Kent, letting his hands reach for fistfuls of his leather jacket. He lifted him off of you with ease, slamming him hard against the brick wall of the mess hall. Pulling him forward, Joel slammed his body into the wall once more, knocking all the wind out of his lungs.
“Miller, what the fuck are you doing!” Kent gasped out, frantically pawing at the older man’s hands in an effort to break free. “Get the fuck off me!”
“Takin’ advantage of an innocent girl?” Joel hissed at him, tightening his grasp on the collar of Kent’s jacket. “Think that makes you a fuckin’ man?”
Though he was still intoxicated, the sheer terror of being caught in Joel Miller’s hands sobered him just enough that he started sputtering an explanation. “I wasn’t fucking taking advantage of her! Her and her whore sisters were making eyes at me and the guys all fucking night! She fucking wanted it! She asked me for it, couldn’t even wait long enough to get back to my place—”
The lie came straight through his chattering teeth. The same teeth he would be picking up off the ground in the next minute or two.
Joel knew he didn’t need to ask. Still, he turned to you, his rage only intensifying when he took in the sight of you lying there on the ground, the hem of your light blue floral skirt hiked around your waist.
“That true?” He questioned you. “You wanted it?”
You stared at him with wide and fearful eyes.
A single tear slipped down the side of your face.
“Answer me, darlin’,” he prompted. “You wanted this?”
“No. I didn’t.” Your voice was small, barely audible.
But he’d heard it loud and clear.
“She’s lying!” Kent tried to tell him. “She’s—”
Joel delivered the first punch, a blow so hard he’d felt the younger man’s nose crack underneath his curled fist. He struck him again and again, the blows coming in harder and harder, turning Kent’s face into a bloodied pulp.
If Joel didn’t get a grip, he would kill him. Part of him wanted to fucking kill Kent for putting his hands you—and more so for accusing of you wanting it. Pathetic fucking bastard.
Holding Kent up by the throat with one hand, Joel pulled his switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans with the other. Fingers curled tightly around the hilt, Joel held up the knife into Kent’s view. He had left his eyes purple and swollen, but judging by the pitiful little pleas for mercy, it was clear that he could still somehow see the sharp blade being held an inch or so away from his face.
“If I ever catch you anywhere near her again, I ain’t gonna be so fuckin’ generous,” Joel growled warningly. “I ain’t gonna let you walk away next time, boy. That understood?”
He nodded. “Un—Understood.”
“Good.” Joel released him, stepping backwards as he fell to the ground. “Get the fuck outta my face. Now.”
Kent managed to scramble to his feet and staggered off, disappearing from the alley.
Chest heaving, Joel inhaled a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled it through his mouth before turning to you once more.
Petrified, you still hadn’t moved a single muscle.
You looked fucking terrified. Whether it was from Kent’s assault or the way Joel had nearly beaten him to death right in front of you, it was hard to tell.
Crouching down beside you, Joel caught your subtle flinch. He proceeded to move slowly as he reached for the hem of your skirt. Delicately, he gripped the soft, flowing fabric and pulled it down into place. Joel then held his hand out to you.
You hesitated for a split second, but accepted his hand and allowed him to help you up to your feet.
“You alright, little dove?” The nickname had fallen from his lips before he could even think to stop it.
“I think so,” you replied, nodding your head. You’d started to tremble and even though it had nothing to do with being cold, Joel took notice of it and he shrugged out of his camel colored jacket. He gave it to you, draping it over your shoulders. The scent of him instantly enveloped you—a mouth watering masculine mixture of clean soap, woodiness, and musk. It was far more intoxicating than the scotch you had tried back inside the bar. He didn’t utter a word to you as he wrapped his jacket around your body, both of his hands pulling gently at the lapels to bring them together in front of your chest. That was when you glanced down and saw he’d injured his hand. You gasped lightly. “Are you okay?”
Maybe it was the adrenaline, but Joel hadn’t even noticed that he’d split his knuckles wide open. Giving it a light shake, he assured you gruffly, “M’fine.”
Without thinking it through, you gingerly grabbed Joel’s hand, holding it in both of yours. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” you countered. You inspected it as best as you could in such poor lighting. “You’re bleeding.”
“Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse,” he deadpanned.
Ignoring his remark, you asked, “Can you move all your fingers for me? Just to make sure that it isn’t broken?”
Joel felt a strange warmth radiate in his chest.
Fucking hell, Tommy had been right about you.
You really were too good.
“Darlin’ I already told you m’fine—”
“Please?”
That word, and the way you’d said it, sent a shiver up the length of his spine.
Joel started wiggling his fingers in your palms. He winced slightly at the soreness. More than that, he knew his cuts and bruises would be all the fucking proof Tommy and Maria would need to know that he had been the one who rearranged Kent’s face.
“See?” He spoke after a minute as he continued to move his fingers up and down. “Ain’t broken.”
“Let me clean you up,” you offered. Looking up at him, you cradled his hand as if it were a fragile baby bird you wanted to take home and nurse back to health.
“That really ain’t necessary.”
“You just saved me from—it’s the least I can do for you,” you insisted. Seeing him open his mouth just to protest again, you cut him off. “Please?”
There it was again.
Christ. That word sounded too good coming from those plush, pretty lips of yours.
Joel sighed out in defeat. “Alright then,” he relented. “I s’ppose there ain’t no harm in lettin’ you clean me up a bit, little dove.”
Pleased that he had finally accepted, you carefully let go of his hand and took a step back, beckoning for him to follow you. “Come with me,” you said to him. “I know somewhere private we can go.”
When you came to a stop at the old church house, Joel shook his head and took a step backwards.
Puzzled, your brows knitted together. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
He backed away further. “I ain’t goin’ in there.”
You tossed him an amused glance. “It’s a church.”
“Yeah, I know that. I ain’t exactly a man of God.”
You couldn’t help but giggle. “So? What does that have to do with me taking you inside to clean your hand up for you?”
Shuffling his weight from boot to boot, Joel shrugged. “Just don’t think I belong in there, that’s all.”
“Do you think you’re going to melt if you step foot inside?” you teased him. After a minute, it became apparent that he was being serious about it. Joel’s discomfort about going inside the church wasn’t some kind of joke on his part, it was real. “Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a man of God. That doesn’t mean that you’re going to explode or burn into a pile of ashes for going inside, you know.”
“After all the terrible shit I’ve done?” He looked up at the building, shaking his head again. “I just might burn, little dove.”
You bit back a small smile. You’d already grown to be quite fond of his sweet nickname for you.
“There’s a first aid kit inside I can use to patch you up,” you told him. “It won’t take long, I promise.”
His lower lip rolled in between teeth as he thought it over. “I ain’t too sure about this—”
“It’s only going to take me five minutes to get your hand cleaned up and then you can leave. Okay?”
You were as stubborn as you were sweet. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?
Reluctantly, Joel finally agreed to it. “Okay.” He followed you up the creaking, wooden porch steps towards the double doors. He’d just started to wonder how the two of you were even supposed to get into the building after hours when you leaned down, lifting the old mat on the floor to reveal a set of keys. Unable to help himself, he scoffed, “Serious?”
“Doesn’t everyone keep a key under their mat?”
“Yeah at their fuckin’ house. Not their church.”
“Well to be fair, this is kind of like a second home. I spend quite a bit of time here,” you confessed.
Joel raised an eyebrow at you. “So much time that you’ve decided to keep a set of keys under the mat?”
Sheepishly, you nodded. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll come here alone and sit with my thoughts for a while.” You shrugged. “Maria let me have the spare set of keys. She knows I come here and so does the rest of the council. I trespass with their full permission,” you kidded with a small grin.
Unlocking one of the two doors, you stepped over the threshold and waited expectantly for Joel. But he stood there, making no move to join you on the other side.
“This place gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” he admitted.
You laughed. “It’s only the outside that’s creepy, I promise.”
Grimacing, Joel finally walked inside, his back and shoulders stiff with tension as he stepped into the place of worship.
You closed the door and flipped on the lights, then opened a second set of double doors with another key from the ring.
“Whoa.” He was pleasantly surprised. For as old as this place was, the interior of the church was quite nice. He could tell that it had been well cared for in its lifetime—the former contractor in him had little choice but to appreciate the high ceiling, the large windows, and the satin finish of the white paint on the rustic, wooden panel walls.
There were a total of twelve pews, six on each side of the church. There was an older, antique piano in pristine condition nestled over in one corner of the room and in another, there was a large chalkboard propped up on a wooden easel, biblical verses that had been the focus of the congregation’s previous gathering still scribbled across it in white chalk.
“See?” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “This isn’t so awful, right?”
“S’ppose it ain’t all that bad,” he muttered.
Your eyes twinkled with pure amusement, adding, “And you didn’t burn into a pile of ashes.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Joel grumbled out in response. “Can we just get this over with so I can get outta here?”
You tossed him a playful little eye roll then nodded towards the pews. “Go ahead and just have a seat anywhere,” you instructed him. “I’ll be right back.”
You disappeared down a short, dimly lit corridor.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel slowly made his way down the aisle holding his injured hand against his chest. Now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, it’d started throbbing with pain.
There was an altar at the front of the church—if he could even call it an altar.
It was a plain oakwood table with a white fair linen cloth draped over it and nothing else.
Above it, bolted onto the wall, was a wooden cross.
He averted his eyes, turning away from it.
Of all the shit to be intimidated by in this world.
A fucking slab of carved wood.
Joel’s attention shifted over to the chalkboard. He squinted at it, silently reading the verse to himself.
God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability. 1 Corinthians 10:13
“But with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it,” you recited the rest of the verse from behind him.
“No offense darlin’, but it sounds like nothin’ but a whole lotta gibberish to me,” he remarked to you over his shoulder.
“No offense taken, Joel.”
Whirling around on the heel of his worn boot, Joel blurted, “How did you know my name?”
“You’re Tommy Miller’s brother. Everybody in this town knows your name.” You held up the white tin box in your hands. A big, red cross had been spray painted onto the lid. You sat down in the first pew and patted the seat right beside you. “Come sit.”
He sauntered over and dropped down next to you, watching as you opened up the box and started digging through its contents. “You know my name,” he stated after a few seconds of silence. “Sure would be nice for me to know yours.”
Smiling politely, you told him your name.
Joel repeated it. It rolled almost too sweetly off his tongue.
“S’real pretty, little dove. Just like you.”
His compliment nearly knocked all of the air out of your lungs and for a split second, you have to remind yourself to breathe.
Cheeks burning, you murmured a small thank you and plucked a bottle of saline solution from the kit along with a piece of clean cotton. You tried not to think about the way his eyes were fixed intently on you as you unscrewed the cap and poured a bit of the liquid onto the cotton. “It shouldn’t sting,” you reassured him, reaching for Joel’s injured hand. It was rough and calloused, a stark contrast against your own soft and smooth. You set his hand down on your knee, a strange sensation fluttering in the depths of your lower belly when the warmth of his skin seeped right through the fabric of your skirt.
Comfortable silence fell over the both of you like a curtain as you started cleaning the blood off of his knuckles and his long, thick fingers.
“You really believe in all this stuff?” Joel spoke, his question echoing off the bare walls of the church.
You continued dabbing at his cuts, thinking it over in your head for a moment.
“I honestly don’t know,” you admitted.
Your answer took him by complete surprise.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I have always been taught to believe in God, Joel. It’s all that I’ve ever known. I grew up in a religious community,” you explained to him, making sure to keep your eyes focused on his hand. Tossing aside the bloodied wad of cotton, you picked up another piece adding more saline to it. “After the outbreak, things changed, of course. I couldn’t imagine how He could let something like this happen. When we lost our mother to infection about five years ago, I stopped praying. I finally stopped holding onto the ounce of hope I had that He would make the world right again. I refused to believe in God. Sometimes I still do,” you confessed quietly.
“You said you spend a lot of time here. Why come to church if you’re not even sure you believe in any of this shit anymore?”
“I’m always here because there’s still a part of me that thinks there’s a chance for me to believe again. When I told you I come here when I can’t sleep at night, it’s true. It’s my time to be here completely alone, the time that I use to mend my broken relationship with God. Or at least, I’ve been trying to mend it.” Taking a little glass pot of homemade antibiotic ointment one of the women in the town made and traded, you took off the lid and scooped out some of the salve with the tip of your finger. You applied it carefully to his cuts and continued, “But lately, the more that I try to pray and talk to Him, the more foolish I feel. It’s just not working. It hasn’t been working for a long, long time.”
“Then why keep tryin’ if it ain’t workin’ anymore?”
“Because I don’t really have much of a choice.”
“Your old man?” Joel guessed, wincing slightly as you went over a particularly sore spot on his hand, right over the torn up knuckle of his index finger.
“Mhm.” You nodded. “My father never lost faith in Him. He knows how I feel, but he refuses to let me give up on God. He won’t ever let me miss church or go to bed without reciting my nightly prayer. He won’t let me abandon our faith. Not until the day he is cold and buried in his grave.”
“So what I’m gettin’ is that he forces you?”
You finished applying the ointment and wiped the remnants lingering on your finger off on your skirt.
“Force is such a harsh word. I wouldn’t say that—”
“He’s forcin’ you,” Joel said, flatly.
“Joel—”
“You can twist it however the hell you want, sweet girl,” he cut you off. “But if you’re tryin’ this fuckin’ hard to make yourself believe in somethin’ just for the sake of appeasin’ your dad because he can’t or won’t accept how you really feel ‘bout all this, well I hate to break it to you, but you’re bein’ forced.”
Your eyes widened ever so slightly at his words.
You had never thought about it like that before.
Placing the lid back onto the pot of ointment, you put it back into the first aid kit and then set the tin box down onto the floor. You sat back and clasped your hands together in your lap, not knowing what else to say to him.
He was right, after all.
Joel’s fingers lightly squeezed your knee. “Hey.”
You brought your gaze over to meet his. “Hm?”
“Can I ask you somethin’ ‘bout your dad?”
“What is it?”
Joel chose his words carefully. “Has he ever—he ain’t ever done anythin’ to hurt you, has he?” he asked you, earning himself a perplexed stare. He continued to elaborate. “What I mean is, he ever put his hands on you or anythin’ like that?”
Oh. That’s what he meant.
“Never,” you assured him quickly. “He would never lay a single finger on me or my two sisters.”
He gave your knee another squeeze. “Just needed to make sure of it, sweetheart. Back in the day, I used to hear and see awful things on the news ‘bout—”
You were quick to cut him off. “Look, my father isn’t perfect, but he’s not like that. He’s a good man who only wants what is best for us. He’s strict and he can be tough, but it’s only because he cares. He just doesn’t want us running down the wrong path.”
“The wrong path?”
You shrugged. “Life here in Jackson is decent, but there’s a lot of temptations he doesn’t want any of us falling into. He wants to protect us.”
“By controllin’ you.”
It had been a statement, not a question.
Giving him a wry smile, you assured him, “Joel, it’s really not as bad as you’re making it sound. I could be a whole lot worse off than this, you know.”
There was another short bout of silence.
Joel’s dark eyes fell to your blouse, noticing how a couple of the top buttons had come undone.
He caught the slightest glimpse of the soft curves of your breasts—all it had taken was just a peek at them for his cock to twitch against the zipper of his jeans.
Don’t you get hard in a fuckin’ church, Miller.
His gaze wandered down a little further and that’s when he caught sight of the cross hanging from a delicate gold chain clasped around your neck.
Joel expected the sight of it to calm the straining in his jeans. Somehow, it only made it worse.
“Earlier, when we were standing outside,” you had started to say, “You said you might burn if you came inside the church because of all the terrible shi—things that you’ve done.”
“S’right.”
You peered at him with curiosity. “So what exactly have you done, Joel?”
Joel leaned back into the pew, shaking his head at you as he finally pulled his hand from your knee.
“You really don’t wanna know, little dove.”
“Why not?”
His answer was honest. “Don’t want you to be scared of me.”
Angling your body towards him, you placed one of your hands on his thigh. Your fingers burned right through the dark blue denim of his jeans.
Joel’s lips parted slightly, taken aback by the bold move and the sudden shift in your demeanor.
Were you the same girl who’d nearly had a fucking heart attack a couple of weeks ago when Joel had nodded at you back at the stables?
“I’m not scared of you,” you murmured, softly. You gave his leg a squeeze, pulling your plump bottom lip between your teeth. Between that and the wide innocent doe eyes that you were giving him, it was taking every last ounce of strength Joel had inside him to keep a straight face, to pretend you weren’t driving him absolutely wild with desire.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt such an incredible need to have someone.
Want, sure.
He had wanted Tess. He had wanted Esther.
But Joel didn’t just want you.
He fucking needed you.
And he didn’t know why.
“I’m not scared of you,” you repeated, trailing your hand further up his thigh, setting a fire neither one of you would soon be able to contain.
Joel leaned forward, bringing his face dangerously close towards yours. His warm breath fanned over your lips. It was still laced with bourbon. “You sure ‘bout that, darlin’ girl?”
You tried to answer him in the steadiest voice that you could muster, but it was impossible for you to hide the effect this man had on you.
You breathed out a shaky, “I’m sure.”
Lifting his uninjured hand, he reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of your braids behind your ear. As his hand fell away, the palm of it grazed against the silkiness of your cheek.
Though brief, the contact sent an electric current through each and every last single nerve ending in your entire body.
Exhaling sharply, your eyelids fluttered closed. You nearly whimpered out his name. “Joel?”
“What is it, babygirl? What do you want?”
“I—I want you to kiss me.”
Joel leaned in even closer, stopping only when his mouth was less than an inch away from yours.
You heard him chuckle softly.
“Y’know, I’d expect better manners from a good girl like you,” he tsked lightly, his nose skimming near the corner of your mouth. Closer. “What’s the magic word, little dove?”
“Please.”
“S’much better.”
Your heart pounded with anticipation.
It was almost too much for you to handle.
Joel closed the remaining gap of space, capturing your lips with his own. He remembered his brother talking about you at the bar—how he had told Joel that you had never even held a man’s hand before.
It occurred to him that he was giving you your first kiss. Him. Joel Miller. The town’s resident asshole and a man who was well over twice your own age. He was the one giving you your very first kiss.
The guilt suddenly started to creep in, sinking into his bones.
What the fuck had he been thinking?
And what about you?
Where the fuck had your common sense gone?
Probably ran off together with Joel’s.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling away slightly in an attempt to stop it from going any further. He tried again, mumbling against your lips, “We gotta stop. This ain’t right—”
You were having none of it.
None.
Clutching fistfuls of Joel’s denim shirt, you swung your leg over his thighs and straddled his lap. Your knees rested on either side of him on the bench.
“Please,” you nearly pleaded. “Just kiss me. I want it—I want this. I promise you that I do.” You placed both of your hands on his broad shoulders, sliding them around him as you slowly sank down further onto his lap. “I want this, Joel.”
Suddenly, he realized that you were asking him for more than just his kiss.
Now he knew for sure that all common sense had left that pretty little head of yours.
“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”
Desperate, you uttered one final, “Please.”
Joel bit back a groan. How could he deny you?
He couldn’t. Simple as that.
“You sure ‘bout this?”
Your fingers toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“C’mere then, darlin’ girl.”
Joel cupped the side of your face in his large palm and tilted his head up towards yours. Your mouths fused together and although he tried to be gentle, it was proving to be much too difficult—how could he be gentle when you were practically clinging to him? Holding onto him with fervor as if you’d been holding onto dear fucking life itself?
Temperatures rising, you quickly shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with a soft thud before wrapping your arms around him once again. You melted against him as your mouth molded to his in a perfect fit.
His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore the cavern even further.
Eagerly, your lips parted, granting him access. His tongue slipped past them, meeting yours in a slow and sensual heated dance.
You breathed him deeply into your lungs, a little moan vibrating at the back of your throat.
Joel’s hands went to your waist and he yanked the hem of your blouse free from your skirt.
“Can I feel you, baby?” he asked, breathlessly. His mouth abandoned yours and he began to trail hot, open mouthed kisses underneath your jawline.
Dazed, all you could do was nod in reply and utter, “Mhm.”
Joel’s hands slipped under your blouse and he slid them up the length of your sides. “Fuck, you gotta be the softest fuckin’ thing,” he cursed against the delicate, tender flesh of your neck. His lips latched onto your pulse point, suckling at the skin there as his fingertips dug into your hips. He needed to feel more, but he forced himself to wait. The last thing he wanted to do was make a wrong move or move too fast and scare you off.
“Joel,” you mewled his name. “Joel, I need—”
You trailed off, moaning when his mouth released your skin with a loud, wet popping noise.
“Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you,” he promised. “Anythin’ you need or want, I’ll give it to you. Just say the fuckin’ word.”
“You, Joel. I need you.”
His hips involuntarily bucked upwards and you let out a startled gasp the moment you felt his bulge, hard as a rock, brush against your clothed cunt.
Tearing away from him, it suddenly hit you. You’re in a church, straddling a much, much older man in a pew—and if that wasn’t sinful enough, the warm and slick arousal pooling between your thighs only proved that you were ready to fall into temptation, give into the lust and give your body to Joel. But it was none of those things that worried you. It was something else.
You pulled yourself out of his arms and jumped up off his lap, nearly tripping over your own two feet.
“Darlin’ are you—?”
You didn’t even hear the rest of his question.
Knees trembling, you somehow managed to make your way up to the altar. Heart pounding and head spinning, you planted both of your hands firmly on the table and steadied yourself. Part of you hoped that Joel would just get up and leave. But a bigger part of you hoped he wouldn’t.
Joel rose to his feet. “Listen, ain’t nothin’ wrong if you changed your mind, alright?”
“I didn’t,” you choked out. “That’s—that’s not it at all.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
Embarrassed, you tried to explain yourself. “I have never done anything like this before. I’m a—”
You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word out loud.
“You’re a what?”
Blazing heat flooded your face. “Joel, please don’t make me say it,” you groaned. “For the sake of my sanity, don’t make me say it.” You heard the sound of his brown leather boots as he walked up behind you, one heavy footstep after the other.
“Turn around, sweet girl.”
Joel’s command was firm but still gentle.
Swallowing dryly, you obeyed and did as you were told. He stood close and you found yourself at eye level with his chest.
“Look at me.”
You tried, but couldn’t.
“I said, look at me.” Joel gingerly took your chin in between his thumb and index finger. He lifted your face, forcing your gaze to meet his own, timid and submissive meeting bold and dominant in a sweet and tender exchange. “Never known the lovin’ of a man, have you little dove?”
He backed you up against the table, pinning you in between it and himself. Planting both of his hands on either side of you, he caged you in and brought his chest flush against yours, pressing your bodies together.
Close, but somehow not close enough.
Joel lifted his hand to your cheek, cradling it in his palm. His thumb swept over your quivering bottom lip.
You reached behind you, clutching at the fair linen as you tried with every fiber of your entire being to remind yourself that you were standing at the altar where your father preached and delivered all of his sermons to the faithful people of Jackson.
The very same altar where your father encouraged you to kneel and pray in effort to mend the broken relationship you had with God.
You couldn’t help but to think if you were to get on your knees tonight, it wouldn’t be for prayer.
“I asked you a question, darlin’.” Joel’s voice broke into your train of thought. “Need you to be a good girl and give me an answer, alright?”
“My father loves me,” you stammered out in reply. “He loves me and my sisters—”
“C’mon, babygirl.” He chuckled and shook his head at you, lightly pinching your cheek. “That ain’t what I mean and you damn well know it.”
Sighing softly, you finally answered, “No, Joel.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’ve never known the loving of a man.”
Joel slipped the tip of his thumb between your lips and leaned into you, his hardness pressing against your upper thigh. Even through all the clothes, you could feel every inch of him. “Do you wanna know how it feels, baby? What it feels like when a man makes you his own?”
You nearly moaned around his finger. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” he prompted, pulling his hand away.
“Yes, please.”
“I can show you.” Joel paused. “But not tonight.”
You stared at him in disbelief. Both of you were so clearly riled up and he was going to take a pass?
He almost laughed at your expression.
“C’mon, don’t give me that face.”
“But Joel—”
“Just don’t wanna rush it, not with you,” Joel said in a tone so soft it nearly threw you for a loop. “M’gonna need you to be real patient for me, just for a little while, alright? You think you can do that, little dove? Think you can be patient for me?”
Your answer came without an ounce of hesitation.
“Of course,” you breathed.
You would wait an eternity for Joel Miller.
#joel miller x you#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x reader#joel miller x y/n#joel miller smut#joel miller fic#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller series#joel miller story#joel miller self insert#the last of us fic#pedro pascal characters#fic: fall into temptation
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Heat wave with Eddie and he's watching you on the other side of the couch and he wants you so bad but it's so hotttt
thanks for your request lovey!! — the one where you and eddie try to make the most of the heatwave (established relationship, implications of smut, 1.3k)
bug's summer fic fest ♡
Metal heads hate summer. It’s an unspoken fact. Wild hair, leather jackets, and denim jeans don’t fare well in the heat.
And while there were many bonuses to the warmer season — the music, the ice cream, and you in a bikini to name a few — it didn’t quell Eddie’s personal vendetta with summer. Or rather, summer’s personal vendetta with him.
The month of August was hardly more than an incessant heatwave. One hundred-degree heat, statewide. Without a cool breeze to fill the seasonal silence, there was nothing but a low sizzling sound — like burgers cooking on a grill. The two of you got into his van for a Slurpee run one simmering afternoon and suffered second-degree burns from the pleather cushions and metal seatbelts in the process.
It was miserable. Eddie was far too pale and he liked the color black far too much to find any enjoyment in the summer months. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the power goes out.
And the only thing worse than a power outage during a heatwave is being horny during a power outage during a heatwave.
“The neighbor said there’s outages all over town—” Your voice comes muffled from where you pad around in the kitchen. “—So, we’ll probably be out for a while.”
You return to the living room wearing an old, white-ribbed tank top and a pair of Eddie’s plaid boxers, rolled at the hem to fit you better. You carry two glasses of lemonade in your hands, fogged with the cubes of ice you’d dropped into them before they could melt in the freezer.
You’re too pretty for your own good. Eddie’s suffocated by the sweltering heat as much as he is by the overwhelming urge to touch you.
“Fuuuck,” he groans in response, sprawled out on the couch across the room. He’s barely moved from that spot all day. He only got up once to tie his hair back and then anxiously pace back and forth for several minutes. A few ornery curls stick to his forehead, damp with sweat. “Should we just, like, get a hotel or something?”
“With what money?” you scoff in place of a laugh.
His scrunched brows go lax. “Oh, yeah…”
“We’ll be okay. It’ll only be out for a couple more hours— at least.”
“Hours?” Eddie whines, all pinched-browed, as you hand him his lemonade.
You scrunch your nose down at the boy with a sympathetic gaze. “Think we can survive that long?”
“I’m withering away as we speak,” he deadpans.
“You’re so dramatic…” you giggle. The unkind words come out coated in a layer of sweet honey. You love him too much for anything else.
You pluck your book from the coffee table and plop down on the other side of the couch. You curl your knees to your chest, not having much room left over from Eddie’s longer legs.
He’d tried to do the same an hour or more ago. He’d been too bored to read then. All the words melted together because his brain was swimming with heat. He doesn’t know how you’re doing it, honestly. All he knows is he can’t stop looking at you.
You’re a pretty little thing sitting across from him. So much of your skin is on display — arms, collarbones, ankles, and thighs. He wants to kiss every inch of you. He could if it wasn’t so damn hot. Now, all he can do is admire you from a distance and pray the power comes back soon so he can love you all over.
Eddie shifts on the couch for a few moments. He jostles the cushions beneath you as he twists on them, maneuvering so his legs are propped up on the coffee table and he’s slouching against the back of the sofa.
His underwear rides up his pale thigh. The white undershirt he refuses to take off is damp at the collar with sweat.
You pay little attention to his fidgeting. He’s often restless, but especially when he’s got nothing to do. You feel his sticky fingers curl around your stickier calf a second later. His touch is soft and slow, sweet like syrup, as he smooths his hand up and down the back of your leg.
You shoot the boy a look from over the top of your book. “You okay, Eds?”
“Other than melting?” he retorts with his head tilted to his shoulder. He shoots you a wide, fatigued grin through his reddened cheeks. “I’m peachy, sweetheart.”
“It’s a little too hot to be touching each other right now, babe,” you advise with your gaze turned back to the book in your lap. He keeps on caressing you, though, and you keep on letting him.
“I know…” he murmurs with a faint pout scrunching his features. His palm squeezes the top of your ankle before rising again. “I just miss you…”
“I’m right here,” you counter with a soft giggle.
“You know what I mean…”
“Yeah,” you concede with a sigh. “I know what you mean.”
If you had it your way, Eddie Munson would be touching you all the time. He usually is, anyway — but every second he’s not, it feels like you’re grieving. You’re made restless because of how underwhelmed you are, all grumpy because you’re so sticky with heat. You want so desperately to curl up in Eddie’s arms and hide there forever, but it’s already getting hard to breathe without the AC on. And the sweat’s making your clothes cling to your skin. The thought of physical affection right now makes you feel a bit sick.
He squeezes your calf again, this time to get your attention.
Your eyes peek at him from over your book. You find his flushed face curled into a tired, yet still mischievous smirk.
“And, you know, just for the record or whatever,” he lilts quietly with a twinkle in his chocolate syrup eyes. “If it wasn’t a billion degrees in here, I’d totally plow the shit outta you, sweetheart.”
Your eyes go wide at his words.
You might’ve laughed if you weren’t so immediately turned on.
You squeeze your knees together, clenching your thighs in hopes of soothing the ache that begins to pulsate between them. “Wow. That is… very forward of you, Eds.”
“I think the heat’s making me delirious,” he admits with his head tilted back against the couch. His pale, sticky neck is on display for you. You feel the sudden urge to sink your teeth into the milky white tendon there.
“Well, good thing about power outages in the summer — the cold water in the shower feels like heaven,” you tell him, feigning absentmindedness as you flip a page of your novel.
Eddie’s brows raise beneath his damp, curly bangs. He grins with a newfound light in his eyes. “Ooh,” he singsongs. “Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”
“I have… three more pages left in this chapter,” you tell the boy after flicking through the book. You shoot him a glance beneath your lashes — less obvious in your mischievous disposition but still sparkling with it anyway. You knock his thigh with your foot. “Go get undressed, loverboy.”
Your words bring him back to life.
He surges with an energy he lost sometime between the late spring and early summer as he leaps off the couch. He nearly trips over the coffee table on his journey to the bathroom. His hurried footsteps stomp, stomp, stomp down the hallway.
You hear the shower faucet hiss on from a distance. It’s music to your ears. You know you’ll be in there all day — or, at least, until the power comes back on. You’re left suddenly hoping it won’t come on for another good while yet.
Not until Eddie makes you forget your name against the shower wall.
#published by bug#eddie munson x reader#stranger things x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#stranger things imagine#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson smut#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson fic#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#st drabbles#eddie spaghetti drabble#bug's summer fic fest!
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WHERE'S YOUR PATIENCE? (7)
SUMMARY: You and Astarion finally have the conversation. Among other things.
PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader
WORD COUNT: 5,912
WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, teasing, little bit of hand stuff, vaginal sex, CONSENT IS SEXY, mentions of past sexual/physical trauma, potential spoilers for acts 1/2.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Say thank you to the 2 bottles of Corona and the tequila shot I took to loosen up my brain enough to write this smut. I couldn't have done it without them. (And also my bardic inspiration @imgoingtofreakoutnow)
CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER
-
The weeks following feel like an uphill battle —a never-ending course of constant information and action all tied into one long work month. Without warning, you find yourself overwhelmingly annoyed with the pace of it all. Not to mention the unwavering guilt, knowing that if you’re not fighting hordes of Absolute cultists or doing research on how to rip the Illithid out of your head, your time is essentially wasted.
Or at least, that’s what it feels like.
Considering the severity of everything, even when you’re resting from a long day's work, you always find your mind wandering. Picking apart texts from old books you’ve found during infiltration missions. Oftentimes late at night when Astarion’s come back from feeding, you spend a lot of your time together relaying said thoughts. Using the late-night silence to fuel the drive that’s been missing throughout the day.
By the time you get to the Inn within the Shadowlands, you’re surprised he’s not sick of you for it. Nowadays, just the mere thought of your own voice makes you want to rip off your ears, and although you know it’s crucial that you discuss things like this, you know there are other things that are important too.
Like your shared confession. And your promise to talk of the past when you were both ready.
Since that night you haven’t asked him about it. With everything happening so quick, it’s been pushed to the back of your mind —lost amongst the clutter of thoughts that you’re often forced to leave behind. Deep down, you imagine he’s somewhat in the same boat but still, there’s even more guilt that surfaces. Filling both sides of the spectrum like an overflowing glass of water —so much so that by the time you’re gifted a proper night’s rest in an actual bed you’re already too tired to care.
As soon as you enter the Inn after your journey through the cursed shadows of the forest you head straight to the bar, barely batting an eye at the barkeep who looks you up and down, horrified by the state of your dress.
“Whiskey, please.”
“And… whatever else you got back there that doesn’t taste of fermentation.”
You turn to see Astarion already standing beside you, moving his hand to the small of your back to usher you into one of the stools. Immediately, you oblige with a sigh, blinking back sleep as you rest your bloodied elbows on the countertop, earning yourself a look of annoyance that Astarion squashes with an unfriendly scowl, showcasing his canine teeth.
If you weren’t so exhausted you probably would’ve laughed at such a sight, but considering you are, you instead let out a soft hum and down your whiskey when it’s placed in front of you, signalling for another.
“I see you’ve already decided how you’re going to spend your night off.”
Nodding your head, you barely register his words, slumping your damp forehead down against the counter with a groan. “How the fuck are we even alive?”
It’s a fair question when you take into account all that you’ve been through. All the puzzles and battles and endless expectations to now save all of Baldur’s Gate just to get these damned Illithids out of your head.
At this rate, you and everyone else should’ve been dead ages ago. Either murdered and looted for your tadpoles and their powers or already turned into tentacle-faced beasts. Not sitting next to Astarion, covered in blood, sweat and tears, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to keep going. How you’re meant to keep this unrealistic momentum of burnout over and over and—
He runs his palm along the base of your spine, drawing his fingers up and down as he takes a sip of his drink. “Hells if I know, darling.”
Feeling a bit delirious, you laugh and raise your head to look between him and the new drink in front of you. “We should’ve been dead by now.”
“You? Perhaps. Me?” He pauses to dig his digits into your aching neck, making your head fall forward again in delight. “Well, I have far too much to do after all of this is over.”
“Yeah, like what?”
When he doesn’t answer right away you remember the conversation. That moment by the fire where you kissed and confessed and told each other you’d talk about it. Immediately it fills you with anxiety, clouding your features with a worried brow and frowning lips as you crane your neck to the side.
When you look at him you notice he’s not really there. His eyes sit in their normal position, staring back but there’s nothing. Not a thought or feeling; just two empty voids surrounded by bloodied dissociation.
It pulls at your heartstrings far too much —makes you let out a breath and raise your frame to slip off the stool and move to hug him. Despite the lack of attention, he manages to follow suit as it happens, wrapping his arms around your neck as you burrow into his chest, once again sighing, wondering if you should apologize and offer your ear or merely forget the exchange entirely.
Before you can even think to do either he’s standing up, keeping his hold as he grabs your other whiskey and proceeds to drink it down, barely batting an eye.
Raising your brow at him, you feel his fingers dig into your neck again, rubbing rough circles that have you resting your forehead against his chest, trying to form any semblance of a thought.
It makes him laugh and raise his hand to your hair, running his fingers through the roots. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
You’re already off and climbing the stairs before you’re able to answer. Pushing through the pain that radiates through your calves with every step. Leaning against him with tired eyes that eventually open up when the door creaks open in front you of.
Somehow you managed to earn yourself a private room. One that’s actually clean with a real bed and a tub —all of which almost have you in tears.
“Nice of them to give us some privacy, hm?” Astarion smirks down at you as he speaks, watching as you roll your eyes and finally pull yourself away, reaching for the clasps of your leather vest. Like the rest of you, it’s coated in a thick layer of dirt and blood. All of it dried and coming off in disgusting clumps that have you scrunching up your face. Brushing off the top few clasps, you try not to focus on the way it feels against your fingers. How it collects under your nails as you narrow your eyes, struggling to get the damned thing off.
It makes him scoff and pull you back in, pushing your hands aside to undo the first clasp. “I feel as though I recall a time where you claimed to be patient?”
As he moves down to the next one you shake your head and look away. “Emotionally, yes. Physically I—“
“I’d say you’re far more patient in that regard, actually.”
For a second you’re not sure what he means but then it hits you. He means sex. Physical intimacy. A line of which you hadn’t yet crossed due to several things. The main being your lack of conversation —your lack of focus to a promise you both said you wouldn't break.
Obviously, the lack of time hasn’t helped either, but as you stand there, watching his fingers pull apart your top layer, you find yourself visibly frustrated. Angry at yourself for not taking the time to offer the piece of yourself you desperately want.
After that night it was always your intention to go first. To tell him all about your past in order to open the floodgates. You figured if you were brave enough to do it —to be the one to bite the bullet— maybe he’d inevitably follow.
But then life got in the way and now nearly five weeks later it suddenly feels like you’re stuck in this limbo. One where you’re dancing on the edge, teetering with bated breath. Wondering if maybe the time is right.
As his hands move further and further you find yourself fighting your imagination. Brushing off the feelings that start to surface as you stare down at his hands, watching their delicate ministrations.
It’s apparent then that he's no stranger to the art of undress. As his fingers twist and turn to work the clasps apart, you have to stop yourself from giving in to temptation, knowing that it’s wrong. Remembering the promise you made.
Moving your hand to stop him, you clear your throat and watch his eyes. Noticing the way they filter through the air to eventually focus on you, blinking as if he wasn’t there to begin with.
“Can we talk now? Maybe?”
His hands sit against your leathers, gripping the metal with tightened fingers that still somehow manage to pale from their hold despite his complexion. “Course.”
Running your fingers along his knuckles, you slowly wrap your fists around them, bringing them up toward your mouth to place soft kisses despite the mess of battle that lingers. Then you drag him further into the room, placing him on the edge of the bed.
“Do you know who Beshaba is?” you ask, plain and simple, unsure how else to start the conversation of your past as you sit beside him.
“The deity?”
You nod, slowly, letting your gaze anxiously fall to your lap. “I grew up in one of her churches after my parents died. Learned everything I know about the world from a priestess named Hessa.”
As you try your best to further collect your thoughts, Astarion leans in, narrowing his eyes at the way your hands start to shake against your thigh.
“Is she the one in your dream?” he asks.
Without hesitation, you nod. “They thrive on infliction,” you explain after, watching him frown. Taking in the way his demeanour changes without warning to become something you’re not quite sure you've seen before. “Their doctrine revolves around fear. If you don’t participate you’re expected to endure only pain and misfortune.”
You remember growing up underneath all these women, listening to their cautionary tales of Beshaba’s terror. It instilled fear in you from the get-go —taught you that the only way to endure the horrors of this life was to devote yourself to her. To offer everything you could in exchange for peace, so you did. Unwaveringly so.
“As a child, I grew up listening to these women scare everyone for the sake of their goddess.” You pause to swallow, feeling the memories of Hessa’s knife each time you later disobeyed, slice across your skin. “Then, as an adult, I followed the cycle.”
“Willingly?”
You shrug your shoulders. “At first.”
You remember as soon as you were old enough you were sent out to recruit. To trick the minds of all the simple folk, weaving fabricated tales of disasters that were carried out by Beshaba’s hand. It was difficult to do. Seeing all those ruined minds come crawling to you for salvation —begging for forgiveness in the form of eternal loyalty.
Thankfully though, it grew old pretty quickly. The formula of travelling Faerûn, following the endless calamity and blaming it on the lack of faith was enough to pull you out of the fog. As each day passed, it became increasingly hard to pretend your faith was still intact, so you formulated a plan.
“When we arrived in Baldur’s Gate I tried to leave. In the middle of the night I abandoned my sisters —tried to run and never look back but…”
There’s a moment where your mouth just closes, trailing from the memories of your story; straying solely to the image of Hessa. To her hands and face each time she broke you apart and put you back together.
Without even trying you can feel her next to you, whispering her teachings in your ear —touching your scars with calloused hands. Her voice still has that icy hold on you even when you’re far away, keeping you still as she forces you down to kneel on the stone floor and await your punishment.
A punishment you’ll always feel you deserve. Even now that you’ve well and truly denounced the faith. Deep down you still feel the guilt of your exit. The pain of having to carry the trauma of an existence you never had the choice of living. To this day, it still eats away through the scars that line your stomach. Boring lines of betrayal across your skin.
The last thing you want to do is cry, but as the reminder of such abuse continues to penetrate your mind you find the tears falling anyway. Collecting at the edges of your eyes so quickly that you’re forced to close them in order to reset your vision.
As you do you feel Astarion wrapping himself completely around you. Pulling you into his chest with heavy hands that feel nothing like hers. Reminding you that you’re safe. That you’re here with him and nobody else.
“Is this wretched woman still stationed in Baldur’s?”
You feel his fingers on your chin, pulling your face up so that he can see you when you nod, holding back tears.
“Good. Then our destinations align.”
His voice sounds different. Instead of the usual softness or flirtation, it’s spoken through clenched teeth that strain against his throat, somehow feeling almost like a threat. An unspoken but well-articulated phrase of warning that has you sniffing and wiping your eyes. “What do you mean?”
At first, you figure he’s talking about the Illithid. The urgent need to get to Baldur’s Gate before time runs out. But then you’re ripped back to reality —to the moments where he’s briefly mentioned his desire to return home. To finish whatever business he has after this timely journey is over.
“The person who sent the hunter—“
He practically spits out his name. Cazador Szarr. A man you’re unfortunately well aware of given his reputation.
After arriving in Baldur’s Gate it was common knowledge to avoid him and his property. As awful as your church was about promoting the misfortunes of others, they made it very clear not to get involved. According to them, he was an unholy man —one that could never fully be understood due to the obvious seclusion of his person.
To this day, you've always wondered what lies behind those doors of his. What sinister things he was up to throughout the years.
However, when you look at Astarion —when you see the way his rage suddenly seems to know no bounds, you know it’s bad. Worse than bad considering Astarion hardly ever gets angry. Sure, annoyance and frustration often come out but anger —real anger— never does.
“When you told me that you wished I didn’t know what it felt like, I didn’t realize how similar our experiences were.” His fingers rub rough circles into your flesh, distracting his mind as he lets out a breath and continues. “I didn’t know the level of your pain.”
“I didn’t tell you.”
“I know.”
His voice cracks. Your heart breaks. Then, both of you sit in another wave of silence, letting the words previously spoken sit at your feet as you stare at one another, trying to gauge what happens next.
You don’t anticipate his hands moving to his armour. Nor do you retain any sense of restraint when you reach to follow them, both of you working to pry it off before he pulls his tunic over his head.
Despite being on the road together for so long you’ve never seen him bare like this. So open and willing to prove to you that he's here. With you, here’s here and ready to share whatever you think you need.
Embarrassingly, it makes you want to cry all over again, reaching for his face. Feeling that familiar coolness beneath your touch as he turns to rest both hands on your hips again.
“It’s been so long since I’ve willingly wanted this.”
“This?” You look at him confused.
“To be intimate.” His fingers tighten around your flesh, digging into the plush ever so slightly. “To share the act of sex with another rather than exploit it.”
There’s a small smile that creeps through then. An inkling of hope for the vampire’s happiness as you inch in closer, placing the softest kiss you can muster to his cheek. “But you’re nervous?”
“Terribly,” he admits with a heavy breath. “In the span of 200 years I’ve bed countless men and women —all of them willing. All of them happy to have enjoyed my body only to end up at death’s door.”
It’s a lot to take in —the admittance of his faults. As soon as the first detail is uttered it’s as if the floodgates open and he’s telling you everything. From the moment he was turned and forced to crawl from his grave to the years that followed luring person after person into the Szarr home for a master so cruel you immediately wish to kill him.
“I spent so long under that bastard’s thumb that… I don’t even know who I am anymore. How I’m meant to be now that I’ve attained even the slightest bit of freedom.”
You understand how he feels. Perhaps the levels are different but deep within there’s always been this nagging feeling of how you’re supposed to live your life. How you feel as though you should be travelling the world in search of a new purpose rather than once again fulfilling someone else’s.
But then you remember what’s at stake. And how even someone else’s fate can affect your livelihood. Then it’s as if the cycle repeats itself, constantly reminding you that if you don’t participate then that’s the end. Your freedom is null just as Astarion’s, leaving you to wonder what’s the point of it all.
“I think people like you and I are just meant to live.” Your hands move up to touch his hair. Carefully, you grip his curls between your fingers, pressing the pads into his skull as you run them down, hearing him sigh. “To enjoy what little time we have.”
“Little?” He raises his brow with a smirk. “Darling, I’m immortal.”
“True but you could still become a Mind-flayer like the rest of us.”
“Fair point.”
He seems calmer now. The usual persona of his overbearing personality coming through, making you grin.
Instead of tightly wound he’s relaxed under your hold, practically melting against your touch as he lowers himself to rest on your shoulder. As he does, you end up catching a glimpse of his back, fully seeing Cazador’s work in the form of rough, red etchings that coat his entire spine.
You have to force yourself not to ask about them until he’s ready, tightening the hold you have around his head as you riddle his face in kisses, letting your lips linger against his temple as you close your eyes.
“They’re not as bad as they look,” he says then, somehow reading your mind.
As painful as it is to admit, you know he’s right. Compared to other scars you’ve seen his look undeniably perfect. The way they paint the image of what looks to be some sort of sigil against his pale flesh. Despite the violence endured to create such a piece, it’s obvious that there was care put in too. A meticulous hand working away with the precision of someone borderline obsessed.
If it wasn’t the result of abuse you could even call it beautiful. But since it’s not, you only continue to hold him, gripping his face for dear life, wondering what kind of pain he had to suffer to earn such a massive reminder of his ownership.
“Do you know what it is?”
He lifts his head, looking at you like he’s seeking the answer himself. “A brand I’m guessing. Not that I can tell. Unlike you I can’t use a mirror. Nor can I very well reach to trace the damned thing myself.”
Your fingers twitch at his words, feeling the temptation to touch them grow as you remember your own scars. In terms of appearance, they’re much more rigid. Three jagged lines that cover the middle of your stomach, making sure you remember. Ensuring your mind that every day you live on this earth —every new moment spent thinking that you’re worthy of whatever this is between you— that you’ll never be normal.
The moment they dug that first knife into your gut you were marked for life. Branded just like him.
Swallowing hard you force yourself to slip away from his grasp, watching the confusion that erupts before the understanding starts as you shakily discard your leather layer and throw your tunic over your head.
It takes everything in you not to put it back on when you see the look on Astarion’s face. How it studies you with knitted brows and a clenched jaw that makes you want to hold him again.
“Mine are just… lines. They don’t mean anything.” As you motion to the thick slashes that have been carved over countless times you catch his gaze twitching upward, taking in the exhaustion.
“She did this?”
After you nod you feel his hand move forward, ever so gently grazing the top of the centre line with curiosity. “How many times?”
“I don’t remember.”
“But you remember how it felt?”
You press your lips together, breathing through your nose. Sucking in the Inn’s dusty air before blowing it out as you nod, forcing back the memory. Pushing through the pain as your tadpole squirms, asking to let him in.
Like all the other feelings you’ve shared as of late, it’s been so long since you’ve felt his presence like this. Even with the Illithid’s constant use outside of each other, when he calls out to you it’s completely different. The movement behind your eye doesn’t feel like an annoyance. It feels like a call. A tingle of hope that has you answering before you can even question what it is he might want.
When you answer there’s a warmth that hits your skin. Enveloping you completely, you feel the aching of the heat carry through your extremities, cascading down in anxious pools that have you breathing rather hard. Closing your eyes, you see the image of Astarion’s hands in front of you. Slowly he wiggles his fingers and turns his palms, taking in the fact that he’s safely under the sun, despite what he is.
You realize then that this is the first memory he has of freedom. Of a life where he truly believes the tether’s been severed. All the thoughts inside his mind are full of nerves. Building anxieties of the past and the future being interrupted by a present he never thought was possible.
It’s a memory that stirs you to move. To guide his hands to your waist as you crawl into his lap and grab his chin.
Touching his skin you feel that same warmth flow through to your core. Letting it take over all the thoughts of scarring and owners and the lives you’ve both lived to get to this point, it takes away your breath. Pulls from you the needs of anything but him.
In this moment, none of it matters anymore. Every experience is nothing more than a dimming shadow compared to the sensation of his breath wafting over your face as you angle your head down to look at him.
“Do you want this?”
His tongue darts out to line his lips. His hunger growing at the sight of you —at the feeling of you moulded to him like melting wax just cool enough to touch. “Yes.”
“So it’s okay if I—“
There’s a hand in your hair before you can finish, forcing you down to his mouth. It’s rough at first but quickly softens once he’s got you where he wants you. Firmly set atop his thighs and in his grasp. Allowing him enough access to reach up and touch the edge of your neck, his thumb lingering towards the centre to press a soft touch —reminding you that you have to breathe. That the usage of your lungs is no longer second nature but something you actively have to think about through the open-mouthed kisses that work to take it all away.
Your head dizzies at the feeling. All at once your vision blurs while your hands begin to roam, stretching over skin and bone, eventually hitting raised scars that make you kiss him even harder, knowing it’s what he needs. What he deserves after countless years of loveless encounters. After touches, empty of anything resembling the adoration you wish to offer him.
While laying waste to his bruising lips, you clumsily slide down his lap so that you’re standing on the ground, tucked between his open legs and bending forward.
Confused, you feel his face twist against your own, prompting you to pull away and lower yourself further, letting your knees gently come in contact with the floor.
“I was enjoying you where you were,” he muses then, cocking his head to focus on the way your hands begin to slide up over his knees, resting on each outer thigh.
“And now you’ll enjoy me over here.” You smirk.
“Cheeky pup.”
“The cheekiest.”
After that, you shuffle closer and reach for his belt, keeping eye contact every step of the way to make sure you aren’t stepping over any boundaries.
The last thing you’d want is to make him feel uncomfortable —to feel used in all the ways he used to experience. So you combat all that by checking in; offering him subtle glances every time you take the next step.
You can tell immediately that he’s appreciative. Whenever he nods there’s a faint smile that sits across his lips, offering you approval as your fingers knock against the metal clasp of his belt, shakily moving to open it up.
At some point he ends up doing it himself, leaning forward to kiss your forehead and laugh at the nerves that render your fingers useless. Nerves that only spread when you stare up at his face while his hands busily move the strap aside.
After tossing his belt aside he doesn’t let you go further. Instead, he drags you further between his legs, leaning down to cup your cheeks and kiss you all over again.
It’s distracting, to say the least. The feeling of his lips moving in tandem with your own as he reaches around to rid you of your bra with two quick swipes, leaving you just as bare as him.
It sends a shiver down your spine that makes him smirk, his upper lip quirking against yours before he gently bites down making you groan.
“Can’t let you be the only one with a view,” he mutters against you, making you awkwardly laugh as you watch his gaze lower to your naked chest. “Can I, pet?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Your voice sounds anything but confident as his hands continue their descent, matching your previous desires when they linger at your belt, waiting for you to give him the okay.
When you do he makes quick work, unclasping the belt with skillful hands before lightly smacking your ass, signalling you to stand before he carefully slides the rest of it down, thumbing the edges of your legs.
You have to force yourself not to cry out right then and there, feeling overwhelmed by the soft touch of his fingers. How they barely graze the outer parts of your already parting thighs, stopping at your knees when he looks up at you with a smirk.
“You seem nervous, darling.”
Rolling your eyes, you shove an open palm to his chest, pushing him back against the bed with a scoff. One that makes him laugh and watch as you kick off the remainder of the fabric, trying to appear brave. Something that proves to be harder than you anticipate when he swiftly follows suit, giving you a show of your own in the form of freshly exposed skin you’ve only ever imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.
In almost an instant, the fabric slips away, revealing more of him than you possibly could’ve expected, making your mind wander as the building arousal between your thighs twitches with desire. Telling you that you need this.
You open your mouth to ask for more only to be yanked upon his lap causing a yelp to fall from your lips that makes you both laugh.
“You really are a marvel, aren’t you?”
With a smile, his eyes scan your naked frame. Up and down and back, they linger at every part as if he’s studying you for future use. Taking mental notes with each passing freckle or scar that lines the length of bare skin. “I mean truly, look at you.”
As he speaks, one hand runs along your neck —over your shoulder and down your arm until it’s resting at your thigh, gripping you tight. “I’m not sure what God out there decided to make you but remind me to give them my utmost thanks after this is over.”
When he leans in you have to force yourself not to nervously laugh at his praise, once again feeling his lips find refuge on your own, driving you to take things further. Encouraging you to make him feel as good as he deserves.
This time though, instead of asking for approval with a glance you do so with a touch, reaching down to grip the end of his length with gentle hands that make him moan. Ever so quietly, the second you hear it you immediately strengthen your hold, using your free hand to grip his shoulder as you work him slowly, noticing him push. Feeling the subtle arc of his hips buck against your hand, wanting more.
For a moment you think about doing it. Letting your hand tighten further while you pick up the pace. It’d be easy. Nothing more than a simple readjustment but something mischievous stops you from doing it.
Remembering that night at the grove —the one where he relentlessly teased just to get a rise out of you— you find yourself smirking and pulling away, gripping his shoulder even tighter to keep him in place.
Almost immediately, he knows exactly what you’re doing. He can feel it in the way you languidly pull at his cock, barely holding on with each stroke.
“You think you’re clever, do you?”
You quirk your brow and bite your lip, massaging the apex of his shoulder. “I have to be if I’m going to be hanging around you.”
Furthering his torment, you then tighten your grip for a couple more pumps before returning to your previous pace, eliciting a hiss of disapproval that has him gripping both your hips and maneuvering you to sit against his right thigh.
“Oh really?”
Pushing up into your core, Astarion shifts you back and forth with his hands, making your breath catch inside your throat once you realize what you’ve done. How you’ve instantly set yourself up for a failure you know he’ll only revel in winning.
Considering he’s more than capable of making you fluster solely with words, you should’ve expected this —saw it coming from a mile away.
Continuing your ministrations as lazily as possible, he barely registers them as he glides your folds against his leg. Holding you down, he manages to apply the perfect amount of pressure to build the tension, making you press your lips tightly together, forcing back any sound that might be deemed a loss.
Even though it’s anything but a competition. A detail that’s reminded once he maneuvers one of his hands to cup your sex, rubbing rough circles into your clit.
It makes you lose all semblance of thought, forgetting the hold you have on his cock as you shakily reach for his other shoulder, steadying yourself against him.
“Doesn’t it feel nice when you give in?”
Despite the context, there’s surprisingly no snark to his words. No sarcasm or bite —just genuine thought. A question so true to its word that all you can do is pant through the building pleasure and nod; letting him raise you off his leg and station himself at your entrance.
It fills your mind to the brim with needs and wants you never thought you’d feel again. Having been subjected to abuse and then forced upon a journey you’re still not sure you’re ready for, the thought of attachments like this never once crossed your mind.
Even after everything you’d been through, you never thought Astarion was capable of such tenderness —of loving care and safekeeping. Of gentle touches that run across your aching skin as he looks at you and you at him, both of you deciding it’s okay.
As soon as it’s given, he’s sliding into you. Painfully slow, he uses the approval to grant you access to your shared pleasure, pushing through the tightness just as you open your mouth.
“Feel alright?”
Your fingers press against his neck as they slide up to cup his chin so you can pull your foreheads together. “More than alright.”
Through an unsteady breath, he laughs and guides you further down, allowing you both to savour the sensation for a moment before pulling back out again.
As soon as he’s missing you’re already longing for more. Desperate for the fill of his cock, prompting a whine to escape; earning yourself a tut.
“Remember patience?”
You do. More than anything in this moment you remember your claim and how foolish it was to think he wouldn’t forget it.
“I recall you saying—"
“Astarion, please.”
You’re not sure if it’s the anguish in your voice or the squirming of your hips that does it, but almost instantly he’s giving in. Once again offering you exactly what you need in the form of a push and pull so viscerally satisfying you’re left slumped against his chest, keeping hold of his neck. Forcing his hand to grip the back of your head to see the way he ruts inside of you.
It’s a sight that’s almost too much. One that makes you moan and close your eyes, allowing him to move your face to his. At which point you’re on the precipice of ruin. Both body and mind becoming a mess of everything and nothing, forcing your breath to falter.
You can tell Astarion’s in the same boat, struggling to maintain his starting pace the longer you mindlessly grind against him, unable to contribute much of anything else.
Together, the two of you try to move in unison, pushing and pushing —inhaling and exhaling. Anything you can do to share the burden of the building pleasure that grows and grows until—
When it hits, it feels better than you imagined. Deep within there’s a blooming that unfolds, petal by petal, opening to reveal unholy tremors that make you release a heavy plume of air through your closed lips.
Gripping you close, you can feel Astarion follow quickly behind, twitching inside before he inevitably spills out, making both of you groan and fall back onto the bed in a fit of nervous laughter before he cheekily suggests you make use of the tub.
-
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#where's your patience?#astarion#astarion bg3#astarion fan fic#astarion series#astarion x female reader#astarion x reader#astarion x you#summer writes
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Blood Soaked Cotton
Simon Ghost Riley x fem!Reader - part 1 of "soft spot"
Simon Riley finds himself oddly attached to the kind woman who works at the bank he frequents. He tells himself it’s just a friendly connection and nothing more. But the day he walks in and sees the marks, he realizes just how much of a soft spot he’s developed for her.
Warnings: Language, mentions of Ghost's past (trauma, brief mention/descriptions of SA, abuse), implied domestic violence (not graphically described), unwanted grabbing (not groping), alcohol, descriptions of minor wounds and bruises, soft/grumpy Ghost, reader is a bank teller, hurt/comfort, caring for wounds,
wc: 6k
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Really, it wasn’t supposed to happen at all. But things never exactly work out how we think they will, and Simon Riley wasn’t a stranger to surprises.
You had seen his face plenty of times before, though not in the way someone would expect. The low resolution picture on his ID was all you had seen of him, and he was very content in keeping it that way. Because of this, he made sure he always got into your line at the bank, as he didn’t really fancy showing his ID to every other teller there.
Besides not wanting to pass a literal picture of his face around, he might have had something of a soft spot for you. Or, at least as much of a soft spot as a man like him could muster for someone. The very first day he showed up at the bank, he knew almost every single teller there thought he was trying to rob the place. It wasn’t like he could blame them. His towering height and his partialness towards facemasks didn’t exactly make him the most inviting. But even with the normalization of masks after the pandemic, more often than not he was looked at with fear.
So when the first teller he went up to demanded that he take his mask off for ‘identification purposes,’ he was a little more than peeved. Every other bank he had gone to pretty much tossed his cash towards him without so much as a second glance. That’s what he got for moving into the big city, he supposed.
But then you stepped in. Told your co-worker that it was fine, that you would help him with his withdrawal, without the need of showing his face. She gave a little huff, and he knew you were probably breaking a million rules by doing that for him, but either way, he was thankful for it.
So there he was, once again, in your line at the bank. Simon wasn’t one to particularly enjoy using the more advanced forms of currency exchange. Debit cards were fine, but not his favorite, and he wouldn’t be caught dead using PayPal or any type of phone transfers. Cash was comfortable, familiar, and more reliable in his eyes. And tellers were more trustworthy than ATMs, despite the fact that they were still people.
“Hey there,” you greeted him with a kind smile.
With just about everyone else, if you knew it, you greeted them by their name. Especially if they were the old regulars you saw several times a week. But not with Simon. It wasn’t for the lack of knowing it, surely, as his name was obviously tied to the account, and he showed up just as often as the old geezers who were just as untrusting as he was. You didn’t seem scared to use his name, or really scared of him at all. Either way, it was just another small detail he appreciated.
“Hey,” he responded, feeling awkward speaking but knowing you deserved more than just an empty stare.
He tossed his items onto the counter in front of you, where they clattered against the glass covered wood with tiny tinks. You took the items in your hands, hardly glancing over his ID before sliding it back to him, face down on the counter.
“The usual?” you questioned, typing away at your system. You sounded more like a waitress taking his order than a teller.
“Yeah.”
It was the same amount of cash out every week. Enough to spend throughout the week, which wasn’t much, and enough to save up throughout the month for things such as rent. Not that you knew that, of course. You never asked him any questions that weren’t absolutely necessary. You were straight and to the point, doing your work with a kind smile that he didn’t think he deserved.
He always felt like such a stain in places like that; around people like you. The people with bright smiles, wearing neat and clean clothes with a perfect nine to five. Those four walls glistened with power and wealth, something that he never really wanted to come close to. Even though being nice to him was quite literally your job, he knew deep down he didn’t belong there.
If it wasn’t for you, he probably would have switched banks long ago.
“There you go!” you said, your voice chipper as you held the envelope for him.
Large hands threatened to engulf yours as he reached for the money, yet his hands never did so much as graze your skin. He didn’t bother counting the cash before shoving it into the pocket of his jacket. It had been months since he had been with that bank, and you hadn’t ever miscounted before; he trusted you with that much, at least.
“Thanks.” It was short, gruff, and to the point. There wasn’t much time he was willing to waste on pleasantries. Not even to the bank teller who knew his face.
“Have a good one!”
Have a good one. It was always the same farewell you gave him. Of course the factitious answer that came to mind was ‘have a good one what?’ but he knew better than to be a smart ass. But really, the question truly was a valid one in his mind. Have a good what? Day? Afternoon? Life?
He was too far gone for that.
After that day, he didn’t see you for a few weeks. He was off doing what he did best; being a soldier. At times, it felt like it was all he knew how to do. Run. Shoot. Kill. Stab. Wash the blood from his uniform and repeat it all the next day if he even lived long enough to see it.
But he always did, even when he knew he shouldn’t have. Which meant he always returned back home to that small studio apartment. Some nights it felt all too cramped. Those grimey walls forever oozing nicotine from every single pore because of some asshole who couldn’t be arsed to open a damn window when they smoked. The wood floor that was scratched to all hell. That ugly nightstand he bought off of some old man at a yard sale for five quid. Everything, every detail, every crack in that damn apartment was just one more thing threatening to suffocate him, but he didn’t have the time or energy to let that get the better of him.
He had to go to the bank tomorrow.
Goddamn.
When he next returned to the bank, something was off. There was no sign of your usual chipper voice that you greeted your patrons with, and your voice had been replaced with something more hoarse. At first he thought you were maybe just sick, but once he was the next one in line, he realized he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Your clothes always looked nice. A simple blouse, maybe a nice blazer to go over it if the weather wasn’t too warm. Bank tellers always had a way of looking professional and put together, so it was rather jarring when he saw the state of your face. Not that you were particularly mangled or anything, but the split lip was glaringly obvious.
It tore the delicate skin of your bottom lip vertically, nearing the corner of your mouth. Dark, crunchy scabs clogged the wound up, and he could tell by the way your tongue kept prodding at it that it smarted something fierce. But it didn’t stop there. A slight bruise on the back part of your cheekbone, an even deeper bruise peeking out from underneath your blouse on your collarbone, a broken nail that chipped off uncomfortably close to your nail bed.
“Simon?”
Your voice pulled him out of his head as his eyes stopped wandering over your body and landed back on your face. He tried his best to keep his gaze from wandering to your busted lip, but it was difficult when your tongue kept swiping over it. It was so distracting he almost didn’t register that you used his first name.
“The usual?” you asked.
Your smile was lopsided, your swollen lip making it impossible to do it properly. And god, hearing that crackling tone in your voice was almost more off putting than the wounds. As if even just hearing the cheerfulness in your voice would make your state seem less serious.
“What happened?” he questioned, his hands digging into his pockets to pull out the needed documents.
A sour chuckle left you as you threw your gaze down at the counter. “Suppose that’s the question of the day, isn’t it?”
When you looked back up at him, his gaze was stony and unrelenting, as if he wasn’t going to let you sidestep it. You sighed as you looked at his hands. He had everything ready to go, yet he held it close to his chest, as if he wasn’t going to relinquish it until you answered him.
“Got a little drunk last weekend at the pub. Might have biffed it on the curb walking home,” you explained with a half-assed chuckle.
It was more than that. Simon knew those wounds all too well, and though he usually saw it on himself and other soldiers, there were rare cases he saw them on others. On civilians. And he knew better than anyone else that wounds like that were caused by more than just pavement.
But he wasn’t about to accost you at work over it, and so he set his items on the counter in front of you, gently sliding them closer to you. Those dark eyes of his didn’t leave you once. You had become a specimen. This interesting creature he suddenly found himself fascinated with.
He hummed in response to you as your fingers gingerly grabbed his items and you did your usual routine of retrieving his money. The bright pink Hello Kitty band-aid around your finger made you type slower than you normally did, and he couldn’t help but glance back at your lip as your teeth poked out to bite at it. It was never going to heal properly if you kept doing that, but he kept quiet.
In no time his cash was in front of him, in that simple envelope that you held out in your hands. Despite the obvious pain you were in, you still smiled at him, lopsided and all. For a moment he stared at you, eyes glancing over your wounds, the abrasions you tried to hide. But only for a moment before he took the envelope and shoved it into his pocket like normal.
Simon started to turn, ready to go about his normal boring civilian-like life. But before he could fully face away from you, a pit formed in his stomach. Something else was off. Maybe not off, but something was missing. Every part of him was screaming out, screaming for him to find it and put it back, and he found his eyes wandering over to you again.
You hadn’t said goodbye.
That’s when he noticed the blood dribbling down your chin. Whatever crusting scab that had formed on your split lip had cracked, sending a steady flow of blood from your mouth. Your fingers came up to touch the sudden wetness on your face, and he noticed how your eyebrows drew together and your jaw set tight as you blankly stared at the counter, blood trickling down your hand.
He should have turned. Should have walked away and left you to your own devices. You were a grown woman. You could take care of yourself. Just as soon as that thought had formed in his head, his hands were already reaching into his back pocket where he pulled out a handkerchief. The cloth sat between his fore and middle fingers, where his hand stiffly extended it out for you to take.
“Here.”
It used to be white, but had been stained by various things over the years he had it, and it even sported some fraying on the edges. It was clean, at least. Because of this, he was extremely surprised to hear your response to him.
“I’ll ruin it.”
Whatever lively tone you normally held had vanished. Distant eyes, a swollen lip, and a voice that seemed utterly broken. In the time it had taken for him to travel halfway across the world and commit acts that kept him up at night, you had changed. Changed in a way that left a sour taste on his tongue.
“Just take it,” he pressed, the cloth still hanging limply between his fingers.
You begrudgingly took it from him and promptly placed it against your face. Oxygenated blood stained the off-white cloth with a bright red. Every single fiber of it soaked up the liquid as if it was the soil drinking up water.
“Thank you,” you said, the words almost failing to leave your lips.
He paused for a moment. It should have been him saying those words. You gave him his money. All he did was give you a shitty handkerchief.
“Have a good one,” he said before fully turning around and making his way towards the exit.
He could practically hear the smile in your voice as you responded. “I’m trying.”
Once he got home, he tried to forget about it. There was no time or energy in his busy life for him to be worrying about you and your… situation. If he tried to care for every kicked puppy he found he wouldn’t even have the space to breathe.
But that night when Simon was sharpening his knives, trying to keep his hands and mind busy, he cut his finger. Nothing bad, hardly anything to wince at, but still bleeding enough for it to be a hassle. He reached his hand into his back pocket, only to find nothing.
“Fucking hell.”
This is why he hated soft spots. All they did was muddle things up. But what he hated more than that was how he kept trying to rationalize it. No, you weren’t a soft spot, it was just convenient. You were familiar. You were predictable.
Or at least he thought you were. It wasn’t until he came in the following week that he realized you were a bit different than the persona you wore at work. The very moment he walked through those doors, you were basically beaming. No longer lopsided, your smile was nothing short of a grin as he saw your hands instantly swim around in the pockets of your blazer. He approached you cautiously, a little putoff by how excited you were to see him.
“I got you something,” you said, grinning.
He stared at you for a moment as you pulled your hand out of your pocket. Though still extremely visible, your lip had healed up to the point where it probably wouldn’t crack anymore. The dark bruises on your collar bones had also begun to yellow, the blood that pooled there decomposing within you.
And then you showed him your… gift. A dark handkerchief that had tiny cartoon dogs patterned onto it. You held it out to him like a child showing their parents some shitty art project that they did in school.
“Figured you’d need another one after I ruined the one you gave me,” you said, wiggling it in your hands for him to take. “You also strike me as a dog person, so this seemed fitting.”
In a way it was almost cute. The idea of it certainly striked you so, anyway. Thinking about this large, somewhat intimidating man keeping something as dainty as a dog patterned handkerchief was certainly entertaining. Much to your surprise, and his own, he actually reached out and took it from you, though he did scoff at the sight of it before shoving it into his back pocket.
Getting straight to business, he handed you all the necessary items to make the withdrawal from his account, which you happily helped him with. The band aid that had been on your finger the previous week was long gone, revealing your still bloody nail bed. Dark blood pooled just under the nail, almost as if you had painted it with nail polish before giving up after one finger. Still, you were able to type faster than you had the previous week at least.
“Run into any more poles over the weekend?” Simon asked. His dark eyes glanced down at your finger before flickering to your collarbone and then your eyes.
Pausing, you looked up at him with eyebrows drawn together. “Huh? Oh, yeah uhm… not this weekend,” you answered with an awkward chuckle.
Simon hummed, crossing his arms over his chest, making him appear even more broad than he already was. For another moment or two he carefully watched you as you counted the cash. As you put it into the envelope, the sleeve of your blazer pulled up slightly, revealing an old bruise on your wrist he hadn’t seen last time.
“Good,” he responded as you slid the envelope his way.
The problem with lying wasn’t that it was seen as a shitty thing to do; it was that it was difficult to keep up the narrative. By the sound of it, you were out of practice, and Simon caught onto it almost instantly. Last week it was a curb you fell on. That week, you didn’t correct him when he switched it up. This only further proved his point; that only another pair of hands could do something like that to someone.
But he already knew that. And so did you.
“See you next week!” you smiled at him.
That was… different. Much different from your usual farewell to him, and not just in the change of words, but the change of tone as well. You still held that same cheerful tone, but there was another layer to it. Not quite a demand, but not exactly a request either. Perhaps it was…
A plea?
But you were right. He did see you the week after that, and the one after that. Each time he saw you, the bruises faded a little more, and your busted lip slowly mended. You talked more than just your regular customer service autopilot, and it was endearing. Of course you did most of the talking, and Simon mostly listened, but every now and then you would pull the ghost of a chuckle from his mouth, or maybe he’d force you to indulge in one of his rather dry jokes.
Even some of the other tellers, despite their still cautious glances at him, seemed to warm up to him a little bit. Perhaps he had you to thank for that, not that he was exactly trying to win their favor in the first place. Maybe a little comradery with strangers wasn’t such a bad thing.
Until it was.
“Would you want to go to the bar with me after work tonight?”
October brought in a sharp chill to the air that had you wearing a nice knitted sweater to help stave off the draft in the building. Its dark background with popping jack-o-lantern theme matched perfectly with your area of the bank. Despite it only being halfway through the month you had already prepared for Halloween with a bowl of candy sitting on the counter and themed jelly stickers on the window behind you.
He answered you with a hum, almost sounding confused. Pubs weren’t exactly Simon’s scene. He hated the scent of shitty IPA’s and the grumbling drone of music that hardly anyone listened to anyway.
“The pub on twenty-first just started selling their seasonal Halloween drinks. They make this super tasty mix with the theme of like, vampires or whatever, that I’ve been dying to try again,” you said, bouncing on your heels. “But none of the girls here want to come with me, and I really hate going anywhere like that alone, so I thought I’d ask you.”
He wanted to say no. He should have said no. Yet his gruff response left his lips before he had the chance to smother them, and later that night he found himself outside of the pub you described.
It was a bit nicer than most other bars he had been to, but the very moment he stepped foot inside he knew it was just like the rest. Sour, hoppy scented beer assaulted his nose similar to how it did when it clung to his father’s clothes as a child. Mugs clinked against the wooden bar at the back of the building, and someone was busy racking up a pool table somewhere to his left.
You stuck out like a sore thumb in your jack-o-lantern themed sweater, arms leaning against the counter as you hunched over your drink. The Friday night crowd parted for him as he made his way to the bar, grabbing the high stool and dragging it out a bit in order to seat himself next to you.
Meeting in a place like that, Simon had expected things to be awkward, or maybe even a little tense, but it was almost as if nothing could bring you down. Maybe it was just the alcohol (some dark red, fruity scented drink that made his stomach turn) or maybe this was just how you were like when you weren’t at work, but you had turned into an absolute chatterbox. Jumping from topic to topic, his mind was beginning to spin, but it came to a screeching halt once the focus landed on him.
“So, military, huh?” you asked. Your fingers lazily stirred your straw around in your drink. It was your second one, and he had a sneaking suspicion that the bartender might have made it a tad too strong for you to handle.
Simon nodded, his own hands wrapped around a plastic cup. You had insisted that he at least drink a bit of water, which he hadn’t done at all. The ice had long since melted in the cup, and the condensation had made a puddle on the counter.
“What’s that like?” you questioned further, your body pushing further into the counter as you tried to keep his attention.
He gave you a dull shrug. “It’s work.”
A slight pout appeared on your lips as you let go of your straw. “Oh, come on. It’s gotta be more interesting than that!” Before you could complain any further, you quickly snapped your fingers, a slight grin appearing on your face. “Wait, I get it! You can’t tell me because you work on high priority missions. Like secret agent shit, right?”
It took everything in him to hold back a slight chuckle at your childish dreaming. “Something like that.”
Leaning forward, your lips wrapped around your straw as you drew in a deep sip of your drink. The sugary liquid coated your tongue in an almost sickening way. You knew if you drank much more, it would make you sick, not exactly from the alcohol but just from how sweet it was. Still, you forced it down your throat before leaning your head against your hand.
“Must be neat,” you said in awe. “Despite all the military stuff, anyway. I bet you get to travel the world and see so many neat things. I’d kill for an opportunity like that… no pun intended.”
Your bluntness caught him off guard, so much so it brought a grumbling chuckle tearing out of his throat. The very sound of it caused you to grin; grin even wider than you ever had before. His eyes flickered to your lips, reveling in the way they curled upwards, almost as if proud of yourself. As if you had been trying to get him to laugh for ages (which you might have been). Yet he couldn’t help but focus slightly on the corner of your lip and that bit of raised scar tissue that was so faint you couldn’t really see it unless you knew what you were looking for.
“You should probably make that drink your last one for the night,” he said, his hands crinkling his plastic cup. “Don’t think I can stand your shitty puns much longer.”
You laughed a little as you looked down at your drink. It was nearly empty, and slightly watered down at that point due to the melted ice. Everything felt warm, somewhat because of the alcohol, and somewhat because of your knitted sweater.
“Right, of course. I forgot the bad jokes were your thing. Didn’t mean to steal your thunder or anything,” you teased.
After that, you quickly sipped up the rest of the drink before setting it back on the counter with a dull thunk. Things had only gotten more crowded as the night drew on, and he found whatever social battery he had quickly being drained because of it.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” you said softly, head returning to lean against your hand as you looked up at him. Even sitting next to him he was still so much bigger than you. “Honestly, I thought you were going to say no. Doesn’t really seem like your type of place so… just know I appreciate it.”
What gave that impression? His tense shoulders? Or his eyes flickering around the room at least twenty times every minute like he was constantly on edge?
“Don’t mention it,” he said, his voice low and rumbly.
You smiled something soft, something fleeting as your eyes dropped down to look at his hands clasped around the cup of water. He hadn’t taken a single sip of it the entire time the two of you sat there. Not that you had expected him to, anyway. Certainly not with that mask of his. Maybe some time in the future you’d ask him about it, but that moment wasn’t the right time.
“I’ll probably be headed out, then,” you said, pushing your empty glass towards the bartender who swiped it away almost instantly. “I’ll just make a quick stop by the bathroom. You can head out now if you don’t want to stick around.”
He sat there for a moment in thought. Mind wandering to the faded bruises that had once littered your body, your wrist, your cheek. How blood dribbled down your chin in a crimson river, nearly staining your pristine blouse. And for a moment he couldn’t remember when that image of you started to plague him worse than that of the death and gore he had seen out in the field.
“I’ll wait,” he said after deliberating. And then, “sure you don’t need a ride?”
“No, I’ll be alright. I walked here,” you assured him as you slid out of your seat.
Somehow that was worse.
You slipped away before he could protest that idea, and he grumbled as he pushed his cup of water towards the end of the bar. Shitty music filled his ears as he sat there waiting for you, and without your voice to drown out the commotion around him, it consumed him. Sharp crack of the billiard balls crashing together, the scent of greasy pub pizza, the ringing of a bell as the door opened, the chilling October breeze bleeding into the building, the stale scent of cigarettes.
A new loud, and frankly irritating, voice filled the bar, and it was so grating Simon found himself twisting in his seat to see the idiot for himself. He was a tall man, shorter than him but still enough to stick out in the crowd. By the looks of it he had already pregamed pretty hard before showing up, but other than being annoying, there was no reason for Simon to concern himself with the man.
So he turned back around, taking his dark gaze off of the man as he continued to sit there, waiting for you. Which was taking much longer than he had expected. Perhaps you had broken the seal and all the alcohol you had consumed was passing straight through you. Either way, he would wait all night if he had to. He had decided there was no way in hell he was going to allow you to walk home alone from a pub.
That’s when he heard your name. It felt odd hearing it come from such an ear-aching voice, and he couldn’t help but snap his head back over to the annoying patron that had caught his attention previously.
And that’s when he saw you, face flushed from the alcohol, standing hardly a few steps away from the bathrooms with wide eyes. He knew that expression well. It was something he saw a lot. On his mothers face when his father returned home from a night of drinking. On the face of an enemy he stood above, ready to deal the final blow. On his own face when he looked in the mirror as a child.
“Don’t talk to me.” Even over the dull drum of the music he could hear your voice. Despite how shaky you sounded, it was still surprisingly strong. But not strong enough to ward off the patron.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” the man pushed, his words slurring as he attempted to saunter closer to you. “I missed you, you know that?”
Before you knew it his hand was wrapped around your wrist and the stench of alcohol was hot on his breath as it fanned across your face. It sent Simon’s stomach twisting almost painfully, so painfully that he stood from his seat, boots thumping as they marched across the bar floor.
Then came the sound of flesh crashing against flesh as the palm of your hand slapped the man across the face. It was enough to grab the attention of everyone in the surrounding area, including the bartender who looked like he was one bad comment away from dialing 999.
“Get your fucking hands off of me,” you seethed.
Unfortunately for you, the slap hardly seemed to phase him, and his grip only tightened. The man’s jaw set taut as his other hand came up and grabbed your waist with bruising force, drawing you closer to him as he bared his teeth in a snarling grin.
“You fucking minx.”
It was disgusting. The very sight of that man with his hands on you like he had won a prize. Greedy fingers digging into your flesh like he planned to take, and take, and take. Simon had seen it all before. Seen it in his own flesh as unwanted hands clawed at him. Felt it on his face in the form of a vile, wet tongue swiping around his mouth. It was in the screams he couldn’t hold back as the hook tore through his flesh. It was in the blood that spilled down his body as he hung there while they laughed. It was in the maggots that he sat in as he was buried alive. It was-
It was the pain he felt in his hand as his knuckles collided with the man’s jaw, snapping his head to an uncomfortable angle. In an instant his body went rigid and then limp. Those revolting hands fell away from you as his body collided with the floor beneath him, and the only sound he was able to make was a fit of air leaving his lungs upon impact.
Everything fell silent except for the sound of that terrible, incessant music that blared over the speakers. All Simon could do for a moment was stare down at the man as the lights slowly flickered back on in his head, a low groan bubbling in his throat as his hands pawed at his surely aching jaw.
Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he quickly turned his head where he found you rubbing at your wrist. Yarn from your knitted sweater stuck out of the edge of your sleeve at odd angles, having been tugged on too violently to hold together properly. He saw the tears prickling the edge of your eyes, and that was the last straw for him.
Simon led you out of the pub after tossing some cash the bartender's way, leaving that shitty music and that asshole far behind the two of you. He walked you home just like he told himself he would, and a long stretch of silence sat between the two of you until you reached your front door.
It wasn’t until he helped you inside that you noticed his split knuckles. In a way, it reminded you of the way your lip had split with that tiny, vertical cut. He didn’t seem phased in the slightest, and yet you practically begged him to let you clean him up. Something that he begrudgingly obliged to.
As you led him into your living room, he tried to ignore the fist shaped hole in the wall by the entrance, and the discarded lamp on the counter that looked like someone had attempted to glue the shattered glass back together. He let you sit him down on the couch while you disappeared off into the bathroom to retrieve any first-aid items that you had stored away.
Blood soaked into the swab you used to dab away at the wounds on his knuckles, cleaning it with a little bit of rubbing alcohol. It caught him off guard just how gentle you were with him; with the hands that had just knocked the lights out of someone. His eyes didn’t leave you for a second as you held his hand, working with the diligence of a surgeon cutting someone open. And maybe in a way you were; cutting him open, looking at the soft parts of him that he hid behind his mask.
It wasn’t until after you put a few Hello Kitty band-aids over his knuckles that you explained just who that man was. He was your ex, and he was responsible for almost all the damage that had been done in your life. The hole in your wall, the bruises that had littered your collar bone, the broken lamp, your split lip.
Never before had he been so glad to harm someone. Any other time it was a necessity. Saving himself. Saving a comrade. Nothing that he ever took pleasure or joy in. It was just work. But that? Hurting that man the way he did? He took joy in that.
When it came time for him to leave, you walked him to the door, your head feeling fuzzy from the mix of alcohol and from the anxiety that had held your chest in a vice grip for the last hour. As Simon ducked out of the doorway, you couldn’t help but smile slightly.
“See you next week, Simon.”
That was the moment that he decided he liked the way his name sounded when you said it. You never barked it like an order, or screamed it in anger. He had hated his name for a long while, hated being called anything other than his callsign for work. But when it came from your lips, well, maybe it wasn’t all that terrible.
“Yeah,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. The band-aids pulled awkwardly at his skin as he paused on the porch of your apartment. “See you next week.”
He vanished off into the night and you shut and locked the door behind him before returning to the living room to clean up the mess you made patching him up. All you could think about while you cleaned up the blood soaked cotton was the tone of his voice, and the fact that you don’t think you had ever heard him say a farewell like that to you, if at all.
The very same thought plagued his mind as he made his way back to the pub where he had parked his car. His tone had even caught himself off guard. It was almost as if he was making a promise to you. Maybe he was.
A huff of air pushed through his nostrils, mask muffling the sound as he shook his head at himself. Fingers flexed in his pockets and he ignored the slight sting of the freshly broken skin.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all. And though Simon Riley wasn’t a stranger to surprises, he didn’t think he’d find himself making promises so soon to the only soft spot that had grown in his life.
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mistletoe [ s.r ]
Summary:
Spencer accidentally slips to the team that he doesn’t like Christmas, and you take it upon yourself to try and change his mind during one of your bi-weekly movie nights.
WARNINGS: mentions of schizophrenic episodes, mentions of divorce, slight miscommunication
pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader
genre: 99% fluff, tiny bit of angst, two oblivious idiots in love
wc: 4.6k
masterlist!!
a/n: watch someone who doesn’t like christmas, write about a reader who does like christmas 😭 thanks to ml @flowersfromautumn for beta reading this for me 🫶🫶
Spencer Reid was not a Christmas person.
The rest of the team found it a little ironic, especially considering his overwhelming love for halloween, but he wasn’t going to tell them that the reason he hated the holiday season was because his mother’s paranoia spiked during them. He wasn’t going to tell them that the last time he’d tried to do something with his family for the holidays it ended with his mother locking herself in her bedroom for three straight days and Spencer finding a copy of divorce papers half-hidden under his father’s work files.
He wasn’t going to tell the team that the whole month of December felt like a massive dissociation for him every single year to the point where - despite his eidetic memory - he couldn’t remember most of the Christmases of his childhood.
His younger years were enjoyable, at least, he thinks so; Filled with festivities and family-bonding. But as his growth was overshadowed by his mother's battle with schizophrenia, the jingling bells and festive lights brought memories of unpredictable episodes, turning what should have been joyful celebrations into overwhelming anxiety and stress.
The only Christmas he had a clear memory of was the one in 1990, the day he found out that his family was no longer a family at all. That’s a lot for a nine year old to handle, even if his mind preceded his age twice over.
“Spencer?” You knock - kick - at the front door of Spencer’s apartment, right on time for your bi-weekly movie session. “Spencer Reid? Hellooo?”
It takes a minute for Spencer to open the door, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses as he does so. “Sorry I was just-“
Spencer cuts himself off as his eyes meet the large cardboard box in your hand, noting how you’re leaning it on top of your thigh with your leg balanced in the air so you don’t drop it. “What’s that for?”
“You’ll see,” You give him a half-smug smile as you push your way past him into his apartment, dumping the box on his coffee table and shaking out your arms to relive them of the ache of carrying its weight for the last several minutes.
Spencer follows soon after you, pushing the door closed and tilting his head at the box like a puppy who’d just been presented with a ball for the first time.
Its oddly endearing, and you find yourself getting distracted from the box as you take in the way the warm lighting of his apartment cascades over the side of his face, leaving a soft shadow that accentuates his jawline in the most perfect way to make your stomach do a flip in your torso and stir a kaleidoscope of butterflies awry in its wake.
You’re thrust back into reality by Spencer speaking your name, his tone so sweet you’re sure it could give you cavities. “What’s in the box?”
“Oh- right, right yeah uh-“ You peel the tape off of one side of the box, peeling it open to let the two flaps at the top of the box loose. “Okay don’t be mad at me-“
You slowly open the box up to let Spencer look inside it properly. It was completely filled to the brim with a collection of miscellaneous decorations fit for the Christmas season, all neatly packed into smaller boxes and plastic containers, separated with labels on each.
Spencer says your name again as his eyes scan the contents of the box, this time with much less sweetness and much more apprehension.
“Why did you—“
Reid cuts himself off for a second time in the last five minutes as he reads the labels on the smaller boxes, getting caught on one lining the main box’s long side. “You brought a tree?”
It’s a small one,”
Spencer looks at you like you’ve just released a mischief of rats into his apartment.
He was expecting to be sat on his couch with you at his side, devouring cheap take-away pizza whilst indulging in multiple hours of re-runs of Doctor Who. Instead, you’d dumped a box of Christmas decorations on his coffee table which he can only assume you’ll hound him into putting up.
He’d been ambushed.
“You know I’m not really fond of the whole Christmas thing,” Spencer says, running a hand through the fluffy mess of brown hair that you would gladly spend hours with your fingers in if he’d let you.
“I know you aren’t Spencer, but this is the time of year where people are supposed to spend time with the people they care about, I’m not going to let you spend it hauled up in an undecorated apartment by yourself,” You begin to unload the boxes onto his coffee table with a soft sigh.
“It’s just another day,” Spencer’s voice is soft, appreciative of you going out of your way to do something like this for him but also not entirely sure of the point of it. “Besides, don’t you have plans with your family?”
“They’re on the other side of the country Spence, and as much as I love them i’m not taking that trip down, just in case something comes up with the team,” You unbox the artificial tree first, pulling it out of its box and tugging the flattened branches outwards to make it look more tree-like. “So i’m saddled up here for the holidays,”
You move the tree over to a side table next to one of the walls of Spencer’s apartment, the dark green complimenting the olive of his walls.
“Do we really have to do this?” Spencer’s voice is non-confrontational, not wanting to fight with you.
“It’ll be fun I promise,” You blink up at him with those eyes of yours and there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to say no to you.
Spencer sighs softly, dragging his fingers over his closed eyelids under his glasses before reluctantly opening a plastic container labelled ‘lights’, beginning to untangle one of the strings of lights from the others. “I don’t think I’ve put up a tree since I was around eight or nine,”
“You don’t think?” You raise an eyebrow at him as you continue to adjust the faux branches of the tabletop tree.
“I- don’t actually remember most of my Christmases…” Spencer’s pursed smile fills you with an overwhelming amount of upset sympathy that he can immediately read all over your face. “I was never exactly ‘enraptured’ with it anyway,”
That was a total lie.
Spencer tries to shrug off your concern as he successfully manages to untangle the lights. “Did you know that the first ever rendition of ‘Christmas’ as we know it happened roughly 5000 years ago?”
And there goes Spencer’s distraction technique. He’d always manage to turn the attention away from himself and towards something academic when he was becoming uncomfortable with his own vulnerability.
“It was originally actually celebrated on December 21st as a celebration of the mid-winter solstice, and the Neolithics, or new stone age people, would gather around Stonehenge to have feasts and exchange gifts with each other, even playing music associated with the holiday on bone flutes from the cattle used for the feast.”
A part of you wants to stop Spencer’s tangent, to bring the topic back to why Christmas was such a bad time of the year for him as a child that it caused gaps in his memory despite him remembering the rest of his life down to the most minor of details. But another part of you knows that if it’s that bad, maybe it’s best to leave it be. He’ll tell you when he’s ready to.
“So-“ Spencer rummages around for a few seconds in one of his drawers to pull out some batteries for the lights, then turning a warm yellow once they’re powered, twinkling on and off intermittently. “How do we know what goes where?”
He begins to carefully wrap the lights around the length of the tree down in a spiral, leaving the battery box in the small fake pot underneath the tree. He at least knows where to put the lights.
“We vibe it,” You shrug your shoulders softly at his question as you go back over to the coffee table to retrieve your box of baubles, a mix of red and off white, with a few of them covered in glitter.
“We- Vibe it?” Spencer furrows his expression slightly as he watches you arbitrarily place one of the baubles on the tree.
That was one of the things he remembered about decorating with his parents when he was younger. The tree was organised. And he remembers the arguments that spanned from what should have been a family-bonding activity.
The end result always looked more like one of those display Christmas trees in department stores than a Christmas tree put together by a loving family. But he supposes it makes sense considering the dynamic of his parents.
“Yep, we vibe it,” You pick up a second bauble to hang from the tree. “Just try not to put too many of the same colour in one area otherwise it can look a little dodgy,”
“Right- Okay…” It doesn’t take long for him to get a feel for where the baubles should be going, and he follows your lead in hanging them on the branches.
He’s a lot less stressed than the fragmented memories of his show him he should be as he decorates the small tree with you, and he’s sure it’s because the soft smile adorning your features as you pass him baubles of different colours and sizes houses some sort of black magic that just erases all semblance of negativity from his mind.
After a few minutes, Spencer takes a step back from the tree to look over his work, feeling pretty satisfied with himself, a small smile gracing his features that the warm light of the fairy lights only accentuates, casting a soft glow over his face. “Not bad,”
“Ah-” You hold up a hand as you rifle through the box, pulling out a very obviously handmade tree topper in the vague appearance of a fairy. “One more thing,”
“A fairy?” Spencer takes the topper from your hand carefully, as if he’s afraid of breaking it if he were to hold onto it too tightly. “Who made this?”
“I did-“ An almost unnoticeable flush covers your cheeks as you watch him examine the cone of white card with a painted styrofoam head and yarn for hair, wings cut out of translucent iridescent lining and haphazardly folded into shape over jeweller’s wire. “When i was a kid-“
“It’s adorable,” Spencer’s voice proves his genuinity. He feels somewhat touched by the fact that you still had it. “You’ve been holding on to this for years?”
“Yeah- I usually put it on top of my tree at home but I figured that you’d benefit more from it this year than I would-“ Spencer almost melts at your thoughtfulness. It’s honestly one of the sweetest things he thinks anyone has ever done for him. It obviously meant a lot to you, and yet here you were, surrendering it into Spencer’s care to try and make his holiday season more festive.
“That’s- really sweet of you…” He smiles fondly, gently placing the topper on top of the tree, rotating it slightly so it faces into the main portion of his living room. "It looks like you,"
You laugh softly at the statement, “Vaguely,”
The fairy-topped tree now radiates a cozy warmth in Spencer's living room. The soft glow from the lights and the sentimental touch of the handmade topper seem to transform the atmosphere, creating a space that feels more like a home than just a place to reside.
As you both step back to admire the decorated tree, a sense of accomplishment fills the room. Spencer's eyes linger on the fairy topper, appreciating the connection it holds to your childhood and the kindness behind your gesture.
"We’re not done yet,” You grasp both of his shoulders in your hands for a second, giving them a soft squeeze before heading back over to the box to continue decorating around his apartment.
He smiles at the sight of your enthusiasm. “You’re getting carried away,” Spencer’s tone borders a laugh as you start to scatter decorations around his living room.
You hang a line of gold tinsel along the mantle of his faux fireplace, drape a string of fairy lights over his bookshelf, and hand him small festive table toppers for him to scatter into spaces on his home office, and slowly but surely, his apartment radiates that festive energy associated with the Christmas season.
“You can never have too many decorations,” You shake your head softly at Spencer as he glances over the decorations you’d shoved into his hands.
“But do I really need any decorations?” Spencer sighs softly, slowly putting down the decorations flooding his arms down on his dining table, trying not to sound unappreciative of your efforts.
A little part of him wants to tell you that all of these decorations weren’t really making him feel any better about the holiday season; But he wants to see you happy, even if he has no desire to decorate the place himself.
“It’s just me here,” he adds softly.
“That doesn’t matter,” you tilt your head at him slightly as you retreat back to the cardboard box to retrieve more decorations. “Besides,”
Your eyes catch on a small sprig of mistletoe, and you adjust the wiring to flatten it out properly as you pull it out of the box. “You never know,”
“You expect me to bring someone over here?” Spencer laughs in a mix of astonishment and embarrassment. “Who would I even bring over?”
You respond only with a shrug of your shoulders as you pick up one of Spencer’s dining chairs, carrying it over to the front door so that you can stand on it to comfortably reach the door frame.
“This is way too extra,” he says, looking at the mistletoe that’s now being fastened above his front door as he stands at your side, one hand braced on the back of the dining chair to make sure that you don’t accidentally tip yourself over. “What if I bring someone back and it’s all awkward?”
“You just have an excuse to kiss anyone you think is attractive when they walk into your apartment, sounds like a win win to me,” You hop off of the dining chair once you’re finished, bringing it back to its rightful place under his dining table.
Spencer flushes slightly. “You do realize what you’re saying, right?” he asks. “Like you’re insinuating me going out of my apartment, bringing a random person in here, and kissing them immediately upon entry.”
You give him a pointed look that silently tells him that he’s reading too much into it as you pack up the rest of the box, satisfied with your work. “It’s about time you got some lovin’ Spence,”
It’s not like he doesn’t agree with your sentiment, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not extremely flustered.
“I’m not sure anyone is interested,” He says that like he hadn’t almost had a fling with a hollywood actress a few years ago, like he didn’t constantly have women fawning over him during cases, like you weren’t completely head over heels for him to the point where you’d gone out of your way to spend your saturday night decorating his apartment for Christmas to try and make his holiday season a little more enjoyable.
This man had to be the most oblivious profiler in the FBI; And it made you want to cup those beautiful cheeks in your hands and kiss those beautiful pink lips until his beautiful brain understood just how wrong he was.
Spencer clears his throat at his own awkwardness as he tries to move the topic of conversation away from his love life, his eyes flickering around the main room of his apartment. “I uh, you did a good job with the decor,”
“Thank you, thank you,” You oblige to his change of subject with a dramatic bow, fearing you’ll implode if you think about how obliviously attractive Spencer is any longer.
“Now we can watch a movie,” You move the, now thankfully much lighter, box off of the coffee table to give a clear view of the television from Spencer’s couch. “A Christmas movie.”
Spencer’s eyes widen a little bit as you mention watching a Christmas movie. “Is that something I can opt out of?”
“No?” You give him a look of mock offense as you push him over to the couch to sit down, and he reluctantly obliges with a sigh. “It’s a movie night, and it’s the middle of December, we have to watch a Christmas movie, it’s a rite of passage,”
He’s never been a fan of any of the cliche christmas movies, even if they’re supposed to be cheesy and fun.
He’s willing to compromise, though. For your sake.
“Can it at least be a good Christmas movie and not something that has a plot that was clearly written by the Hallmark Channel?”
“We’re watching the Grinch duh,” You furrow your expression as if the movie choice is obvious, handing him the remote as you grab your satchel bag and hurry off into the kitchen.
“I will be back in like two minutes, don’t even think of trying to escape from this,”
“I’m not going anywhere don’t worry,” Spencer sighs with a soft smile as he watches you disappear around the corner. Even if the Grinch movie doesn’t sound like his cup of tea, he’d do just about anything for you.
He scours through Netflix as you busy yourself in his kitchen, and you waltz back out a few minutes later with a small tray housing two steaming mugs and two plastic wrapped candy canes, placing it on the coffee table in front of him. “Et voila,”
Spencer doesn’t have to ask to know what the mugs hold, he can smell the chocolate from his seat. “Alrighty then, christmas movie time it is,”
Spencer watches as you make yourself comfortable next to him, crossing your legs and draping a throw blanket from the arm of the couch over your legs, and it’s hard not to look at you and think about how comfortable it would be for him to lie with his head in his lap with your hands running through his hair. The idea makes him all flustered, and he hides his flush behind his mug as he takes a sip of his drink.
“You’re sure that we can’t just watch Doctor Who like we were supposed to?”
All it takes is a small slump of your shoulders at his question and Spencer’s resolve quickly melts like snow in the sun.
“Alright, you win,” he sighs. “I’ll watch the Grinch.”
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to Spence,” You concede defeat at Spencer’s disinterest in watching the film. You’d already forced him into decorating and you were starting to feel guilty for forcing all of this onto him.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Spencer shakes his head softly at you. You’re sharing something that you enjoy with him, who is he to shut you down? Especially considering how many times he’d over shared about his own interests. “It’s only two hours,”
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
“Why did the Grinch’s heart grow three sizes?” Spencer asks, his eyebrow raised as the credits play. “I don’t get it.”
“it’s a metaphor Spence, it doesn’t actually grow three sizes,”
“I know it’s not literally growing,” Spencer dead-pans. “I’m just wondering if there’s a reason why they put three specifically.” He seems to be looking for some deeper meaning in watching this movie, even if he’s not really engaged with it.
“Like is the Grinch’s heart growing meant to be a sign of him becoming a better person?”
“Yeah, because at the beginning it was two sizes too small, so if it grows three sizes, now he has a ‘big heart’ that’s full of love and empathy and all that stuff,”
Spencer’s gaze burns into you as you explain the metaphor to him. It’s not an ‘i’m trying to really understand this‘ gaze, but rather a ‘I’m engaging in something you enjoy and trying to understand and you’re so perfect when you talk’ gaze.
“Like, he’s realising ‘hey Christmas isn’t so bad when you have people who love and care about you to spend it with’,”
“Is that what Christmas is to you?” Spencer asks, his tone genuinely intrigued. “A way of spending time with the people you love?”
“Yeah-“ You give him a small nod, joined with a yawn as you stretch your arms up above your head. “That’s the whole point of Christmas,”
Spencer smiles warmly at you, although he’s not entirely sure whether it’s because of how you describe what Christmas means to you, or because when you stretch you scrunch up your nose like a cat would. “What now?”
“I should probably head home and stop bothering you with my overwhelming desire for christmas to just happen,” You let your arms fall back to your sides with a satisfied sigh, glancing at the grandfather clock Spencer has against his wall. 12:25. Looks like you spent longer decorating than you thought.
“It’s pretty late,”
“Yeah, it is,” Spencer follows your eyes over to the clock, hiding his subconscious disappointment over your inevitable departure as you retreat to his front door to put your shoes on.
“Let me escort you to your car,” he says quietly, following after you. “It’s dark outside.”
You chuckle softly at his offer, leaning your shoulder against his apartment door and lifting up your legs one at a time to tie your shoelaces. “You really don’t have to Spence it’s alright,”
“I want to,” His tone is soft, and you can’t help but notice that he cuts off his sentence abnormally quickly as if his words got stuck in his throat, and as you drop your left leg back down to the floor and turn your head to him, you notice he’s not looking at you, but above you.
Your eyes follow his up to what he’s looking at, catching on the mix of white and green fauna directly above your head.
Oh-
You’d royally screwed yourself over. God damn it. The night was going so well.
As you follow Spencer’s gaze, he immediately becomes distracted by the way your eyes are looking up at the mistletoe above you, glistening softly under the warm lighting in his apartment, and he almost implodes because god damn is your face gorgeous when you’re all flustered.
“Did you know that mistletoe was originally used by ancient celtic druids as a symbol of good luck to protect against evil spirits?”
There’s that distraction technique again. Although, his tangent is much more of a ramble as his eyes examine the mistletoe above the door as if it’s an exhibit in a museum.
“The Greeks also used mistletoe as a medicine for almost every ailment you can think of, from cramping to epilepsy and even poisonings. The custom of kissing underneath mistletoe wasn’t developed until the 1700s when victorians-“
“Spencer stop.”
He does ask you ask immediately, blinking at you as his eyes snap downwards towards your face, his expression a mix of hurt and embarrassment. “Oh- I- I’m sorry I didn’t-“
“Just-“ You put your hand up in front you effectively halting his attempt at an apology. “Stop speaking,”
“Right… I’m sorry…” Spencer purses his lips together, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he’s sure it’ll bleed.
He didn’t want to make the situation uncomfortable. That was quite literally the last thing he wanted to do. God, what was he thinking? Why did he let you hang that god damn plant above his door?
“I’ll- you-“ He takes a sharp breath in, closing his eyes for a second. “I’ll see you on Monda-“
He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence as you again stop him from speaking, but not with a raised hand or a verbal signal.
No. Instead, his words are ripped of the chance to be spoken by a tug on the collar of his t-shirt and a gentle pressure against his lips.
Spencer can’t help the widening of his eyes as your lips press against his, nor can he stop the gasp that escapes his mouth as you effectively swallow his apology with your lips.
Those soft, perfect lips that Spencer had been dreaming about for god knows how long.
No, he knows exactly how long. 1,472 days, 6 hours and 15 minutes.
The sharp tick of the grandfather clock cuts through the soft silence between you.
1,472 days, 6 hours and sixteen minutes.
He effectively melts in your affection, the feeling of your hands sliding into his hair at his temples, the subtle taste of mint on your lips from the candy cane you’d been eating whilst watching the movie.
And the heat, oh, the heat.
He never knew one person could be this hot, this warm.
Spencer’s hands go to your waist as he gently pulls you further against him, his eyelashes fluttering softly as they fall closed.
You're kissing the man of your dreams. And enjoying every second of it.
And the best part? He's enjoying it just as much.
“Merry Christmas Spencer…” Your words are little more than a whisper as you mumble them against his lips, your thumbs tracing slow lines in front of his ears.
Spencer can’t help but gasp softly at the weight of your words, and this time not because you’d caught him by surprise, but because he's completely lost in you.
He’s starting to understand the Grinch metaphor you were explaining to him earlier, although his heart doesn’t feel like it’s growing three times over. It feels as though it’s growing ten times over. A hundred times over. That it might burst out of his chest with just how much he was feeling in this moment.
"Merry Christmas..."
He whispers your name softly, barely able to get it out over the slight quiver in his breathing.
This was the best Christmas present he’d ever gotten.
#criminal minds#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#erotomania#mgg#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds angst#spencer reid angst#spencer reid fluff#criminal minds fluff
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pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x fem!reader
plot: at a get together after the mission the dagger squad finds out some things about Rooster, causing Maverick to step up and try and help…
warnings: drinking, references to parental death and past trauma
notes: for K ♡︎, thank you for letting me bother you with this for weeks
words: 7k
It was a bittersweet evening at The Hard Deck but they tried to not let it show. After the successful mission it was time to dismantle their little ragtag group of pilots and for everybody to head back to their former assignments. Sadly Fritz had to fly out in the early afternoon but the rest of the pilots and backseaters had descended upon the bar and shuffled some tables around with Penny’s permission to make a large circle where everybody found a place for at least the next few hours.
It felt good to be back on solid ground. While being in the air was one of the best feelings in Rooster’s mind he was glad to be off the ship again. With the old jukebox playing music and the patrons of the bar talking and laughing together it was a little easier to forget about the events that happened just a few days prior.
“You guys are lucky,” Harvard pointed out after everybody except Bob was a few drinks in, “at least you guys get a few weeks leave.” The other aviators knew it wasn’t coming from a place of malice, had they been in the place of the aviators that didn’t fly the mission they’d probably think exactly the same way. Everybody craved the comfort of home while deployed.
“Yeah,” Omaha added, “Leave would be nice. I wish I could head home, see family. My sister had a baby months ago, never even met the kid and he’s already crawling.”
“Maybe Mav can put in a nice word with the commander. Make it so everybody can go home faster.” Rooster said after taking a drink of his beer, “Although with him there’s always a chance we’d end up shipped out overseas for a few months.”
A few nods and words of agreement greeted Maverick as he made his way back to the group after not so sneakily disappearing to the back of the bar with Penny earlier. At least he was smart enough to get a new beer so he could play it off as just getting another drink, even if none of the other aviators bought it. “What are we talking about?”
“Leave.”
The older man just took his place among his now former students, looking around. “That’s nice. What are everybody’s plans?”
Most of the others just answered with the basics. Going to see family, spending some time with their loved ones. Hangman wanted to use his time for a vacation and Rooster didn’t doubt that in a week there’d be pictures of Hangman’s abs at a beautiful tropical beach all over social media. At least that gave him time to prepare a witty joke he could send in the groupchat to roast the blond.
Realizing he was the only one of the lucky ones that hadn’t shared his plans, Rooster took another drink of his beer, finishing the bottle before putting it down on the table in front of him. “Don’t know yet. Probably going to spend some time catching up with Mav and after that head home to see the missus.”
Several heads whipped around to look at him with a speed that put fighter jets to shame. Rooster was sure he saw poor Bob get whipped in the face by Phoenix’ ponytail hard enough for his glasses to become crooked on his face.
“The what now?!” Multiple voices said loud enough to draw the attention of other patrons but the group skillfully avoided paying attention to them.
Hangman let out a fake cough to hide his reaction but he couldn’t hide the curiosity in his voice as he spoke. “Didn’t know you were married, Rooster.”
“Congrats.” Mavericks' voice tore him out of his thoughts about how Hangman had no reason to know his relationship status. His godfather looked at him with a certain sadness in his eyes that made Rooster mad for a split second before he reminded himself that they were working on mending their relationship and a missed wedding might have been another thing to add to the list of life events they didn’t share like they should have.
“I’m not married.” He paused, trying to find the right words to describe what the two of you were. “It’s an… inside joke with an old friend.”
“Oh that’s-”
“I thought about asking her once but… yeah no I’m not married.” He rambled on, unable to stop himself, almost forgetting about his fellow pilots as he looked at Maverick and the way his eyebrows knit up in confusion.
The rest of the group just looked at him before Halo slapped her knees before standing up, signaling she was ready to leave.
“And that’s our cue. Come on boys, let’s give the Daggers some privacy. You coming with, Coyote?”
“Nah, I’m Hangman’s ride. Can’t leave him with the bunch. He’d just say something to piss them off and they’d leave him here.”
It wasn’t a tearful goodbye but hugs and handshakes were exchanged alongside promises to stay in touch. But almost as soon as Halo led Omaha, Yale, and Harvard away from the table all heads turned to Rooster again. Great.
“Alright, spill!” Phoenix ordered. Bob behind her enthusiastically nodded his head to back his pilot up.
“Guys, maybe that’s not-”
“Ignore Maverick. Spill Rooster!” Hangman interrupted.
Sighing he looked at his empty beer on the table in front of him and wished he had a full one in its place. Or maybe a tall soft drink glass full of whiskey neat.
“Here.” Mav pushed over the beer he picked up earlier, opened but still full.
“There’s not much to talk about.” He tried to defend himself. “She’s a friend. A good friend.”
That wasn’t enough to satisfy the lot in front of him though. Phoenix was motioning for him to continue and part of him wished it was just her he was talking too. She had always been a good friend. A good person to talk to when he had the need to talk. Even if they rarely had the chance to just sit down and chat due to the nature of their work.
“Lives in the old house.” He continued in a low voice, hearing his godfather inhale sharply next to him.
“I wasn’t ready to let it go but I- I couldn’t stay there. Not alone. Not after mom died. So when I left and she needed a place to stay I told her she could have it. Tried to pay me rent for years but I don’t take it. If she didn’t stay there it would be empty anyways so why waste a perfectly good house, you know. I go back every few months and she keeps my shit around.”
He just focused on the bottle in front of him, thumbing away at the label as the stares of his friends bore holes into him.
“That’s….nice.” The hesitant tone alone voided the words, he didn’t need to see the unsure face on top of it. He didn’t even want to imagine what the group was thinking of him at that moment. Revealing his tragic backstory in the middle of a bar.
“It’s not really home but it’s… it’s a homebase. Someplace to retreat to in case I’m back stateside.”
“And how long has this been going on?” Bob asked from behind Phoenix, confused, and Rooster was suddenly reminded of the years he had on them. Years because Mav held him back.
Years because he tried to protect you - a soft voice that sounded too much like his mother reminded him in the back of his head.
“Fifteen years? Give or take.” He mumbled.
“And how long have you been fucking her?” Three arms reached across the table to swat at Hangman for his question, Phoenix getting him in the arm hard enough for him to wince loudy.
“Fifteen years. Give or take.”
The only thing preventing an awkward moment of silence falling over the group was the fact that Fanboy choked on his beer hard enough that for the next few moments all the attention went to him, their group making sure that the WSO didn’t die. It didn’t prevent an awkward pause that followed after though. It was heavy, only interrupted by muffled coughing.
“Wasn’t expecting that to be completely honest.” Hangman said after everybody had mostly calmed down. When Rooster looked over to him he saw that the usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found on Hangman’s face and for the first time in his life he wished the other man would make fun of him. Look at him with something more than blank surprise or maybe thinly veiled pity.
“Fifteen years is a pretty long relationship to have, Rooster. Even if you’re not married, that's still impressive.” Coyote tried to be uplifting, smiling at him across the table.
“We’re not dating either. Told you she’s just a friend.”
“But you’re fucking?” Hangman asked.
“Whenever I go back. Unless she’s in a relationship at the time which hasn’t really happened yet because she doesn’t really date but most of the time, yeah.”
Across the table Payback raised his beer to him before taking a sip. “I mean… friends with benefits isn’t bad. Me and my wife started out as fuckbuddies before I grew the balls to ask her out for real.”
A few of the guys around the table nodded in agreement while Phoenix rolled her eyes hard enough that Rooster was worried they’d get stuck, but nobody added on to what Payback said.
Another few moments of silence followed before Bob spoke up, all eyes on the quiet WSO. “So let me get this straight. You and this woman have been on again off again fuckbuddies for the past fifteen years. She lives in your house. You nearly asked her to marry you….. and you still insist that she is just a friend?”
It came out rather harsh and nobody really knew how to react, least of all Rooster. Nodding, he took another drink of his beer, breaking eye contact with Bob.
Pushing his chair back from the table Bob moved to get up from their table. “Jesus fuck I need a drink.”
“Bob, you don’t drink.” Phoenix pushed her chair back too, quick to back up her backseater.
“I’m starting now.”
Six pairs of eyes watched as the two walked over to the bar but the men soon found themselves returning their attention back to the conversation.
“That’s a long time to pine over somebody, Rooster.” Fanboy chimed in, the pilots around the table nodding in agreement.
Before he could defend himself that he wasn’t pining, Hangman decided to speak up again.
“Jesus dude I know you like to wait things out but that’s long even for you.” Putting his arm around his shoulder he continued, “Gonna make your move when you get back? You’re a hero now Rooster, that gets the girls hot. No way she’ll say no.”
Without looking at the other man Rooster just shook off his arm, not taking his eyes off the bottle in front of him. Half the label was missing at this point but scratching at it kept his hands busy at least. “She’s just a friend, Bagman. Just a friend.”
Before any of the others could comment on it, Bob and Phoenix made their way back over to the group, letting themselves fall into the seats they had abandoned before. Their little comeback thankfully drew the attention to them and off Rooster, something he really appreciated. Judging by the way Bob was looking, his first drink didn’t go over all that smoothly.
“How’d he do Phoenix?” Mav teased.
“Went straight for the tequila. I tried to tell him he should start out with a beer but noooo.” She drew out the vowel, interrupted herself with a short giggle, before continuing, “Doubleshot of the cheapest tequila Penny had, didn’t even pull a face.” Phoenix bragged while giving Bob an encouraging pat on the back as he kept quiet. She turned to Hangman, sizing him up before adding. “You can ask Penny if you don’t believe me, Bagman.”
“Nah screw that.” Hangman replied, jumping up in his seat and leaning across the table to get closer to Bob, and Rooster was glad that they seemed to have found a new topic to latch onto. “First time and he went straight for the kill. Atta boy Bobby. Mister B.O.B.”
Most people around the table joined in with Hangman who continued to go on and on like usual while Rooster just went back to focusing on the bottle in front of him. He continued to thumb at the label, using the nail to push the paper back little by little. Almost everybody had stopped paying attention to him but he could feel Maverick’s gaze burn into the side of his head. He just hoped the older man would let it go.
Maverick did not let it go.
Two days after the night at The Hard Deck he was pounding on the door of Rooster’s room until he had no other choice but to roll out of bed. Stumbling his way to the door with half closed eyes he cursed as he walked straight into a table, a hand coming up to rub over his thigh while the other one pulled open his front door.
“What?” The words came out harder than he intended but the other man didn’t react, instead pushing past him into the room.
“Great, you’re up. Come on get dressed, we need to leave soon.”
“It’s like…” He picked up his phone from the nightstand, dropping it onto the bed after he saw the time. “6 in the goddamn morning. Why are you waking me up at 6am on my day off, Mav?”
“I want to show you something but we need to hit the road soon unless you want it to become an overnight trip. So go and get ready.” Maverick picked up a shirt he had thrown over a chair a day or two ago and threw it at Rooster, catching him off guard enough for it to hit him square in the face.
Knowing full well he couldn’t escape this trip Rooster just sighed and gathered his things so he could get ready. Hurrying through the process of getting ready until he was standing back in his room, silently looking at Mav while the older man looked at the pictures Rooster had taped up next to his bed.
Most of his memories were kept in his phone nowadays but he still liked to keep a few physical pictures with him on deployment. An old strip from a photobooth the two of you had squeezed yourself into, you perched on his lap with his arms wrapped around your middle while you made faces into the camera right next to the picture of his parents with their arms around each other. Maverick was focused on the third picture that was taped up though, their last family picture from before the accident. It had been hard to bend the picture in a way that properly hid Mav since they were all crowded together, Mom and Dad and Mav with little Rooster in the middle. He didn’t regret not tearing it apart in a fit of anger though. Instead he had taken it down after the mission, carefully straightened out the picture until Maverick was no longer hidden behind the back of the picture and next to them again, before putting it back up with their family reunited.
Rooster watched as he reached out and trailed a finger across the crease. It felt like he was interrupting a moment so he just stood still for a few more seconds, giving Maverick a little bit more time. When the other man turned around he didn’t seem surprised to see Rooster standing in the middle of his room though, a small smile growing on his face.
“Ready to go, kid?”
“Yeah.” He replied, waiting for Mav to bring up the pictures or where they were going but nothing came in response.
“Great.” Maverick stepped past him, hand coming up to give his shoulder a firm pat. “We’re taking your Bronco.”
It wasn’t until they were out of San Diego and making their way down a highway out east that Maverick opened up a little. He had been designated to the passenger side, left to peruse through the handful of cassette tapes in the glove box and play navigator while Rooster drove.
“Good selection.”
Out of the corner of his eyes Rooster could see the older man’s hands stopping once he came across a familiar mixtape, his own illegible handwriting staring back at him. He had played the tape over the years, knew the songs by heart even. But he still wasn’t able to read the writing. Your daddy had the nicest handwriting - his mother used to tell him - always filling out paperwork for Maverick. It wasn’t until he was older that he understood why his mother continued to do the same after his father’s death. A small act of kindness towards the poor soul that had to deal with Maverick Mitchell, saving at least a little bit of their sanity by shielding them from his terrible chicken scratch. Mav could write legibly when he cared, Rooster had a shoebox full of cards and letters at the old house that proved this, but he never really cared for paperwork.
Still focusing most of his attention on the road in front of them, Rooster saw the older man opening the case and carefully putting it into the correct slot on the old car. It took a moment for it to start but he smiled as the intro to Danger Zone began playing. Mav was nodding his head along the rhythm and Rooster could feel himself being overcome by some kind of nostalgic sorrow.
He was young when his father died. Too young. That wasn’t something he ever tried or was able to hide. But he tried his hardest to shield the ones around him from the full truth and maybe lie to himself a little. Nick Bradshaw had been a good man and he deserved to be remembered as such by his loved ones. Which just caused his limited memories of his dad to be all the more painful. No matter how hard Rooster tried to find new memories hidden away in a far corner of his brain he was stuck with a handful of amazing but painful ones.
It must have been mere days before the accident. His mom was somewhere, he didn’t quite know where, but his dad and his uncle Mav were with him. He remembered that the radio was blasting Danger Zone and that the adults had been singing along. They had all jumped across the room wildly and his uncle had picked him up only to collapse onto a couch or bench or something similar towards the end of the song.
After their falling out it had taken him years until he could listen to the song again without getting overwhelmed by emotions. But sitting here now, side by side with the man he tried to hate for years, all that heaviness he’d been carrying around with himself seemed to lift. It would never be like that one carefree summer afternoon in San Diego again but Rooster was certain that they could work towards mending their relationship again and he looked forward to it.
They had been driving for hours and Rooster was starting to get tired of the scenery. While he appreciated the desert as a beautiful place in theory after driving through it for a while it started to become too monotonous for him. They had stopped at a diner in a small town around eleven and eaten what would probably be considered brunch although there was a distinct lack of mimosas. He had filled the tank while Mav picked up some things from a nearby store and they were on the road again before noon.
“There’s a dirt road up ahead, on the left side. No street sign but you’ll see it.”
It was easy to follow his directions, pulling the Bronco into the street and making their way down the road. He could see a building up ahead, far enough removed from the main road to not be visible to passing cars but now that they were on the smaller dirt road Rooster was able to see that they were heading straight towards it.
An airplane hangar. Maverick had taken him to an airplane hangar. In the middle of the damn Mojave.
He slowed down the car once they got close enough, coming to a stop near the access doors but off to the side so he wouldn’t block the runway. If it involved Mav and a hangar there would definitely be planes around and he didn’t want to be in the way.
“Remember the thing you talked about last time at The Hard Deck?” Maverick said, hopping out of the car and Rooster had to suppress a laugh at the sight before he exited the Bronco too.
He watched as Maverick walked over to the middle of the hangar and raised his voice a little so that the older man could hear him even as he walked away. “What thing? I talked about a lot of things.”
“About the old house and it being your homebase.” Maverick was fiddling around with the chain that hung in the middle of the giant doors but Rooster couldn’t see what exactly he was doing, even as he walked closer.
“Well….” The chain rattled as it fell to the ground but Mav picked it up before giving each side of the heavy doors a push. “Welcome to my homebase.” Maverick said before slipping through the gap in the door and disappearing into the darkness.
Homebase. The stupid word echoed in his mind as he hesitated to follow the older man into the hangar. He had said that, hadn’t he? Downplayed the significance of you, your home… his home. Expressing his feelings had never been his strong suit but part of him didn’t regret his selfish choice of words. He trusted the daggers with his life but he didn’t want to share your relationship with them, not when he wasn’t sure of things himself.
He couldn’t bare himself to them in such a manner. Not when he still struggled to come to terms with things himself.
Trying to shake those thoughts he followed after Mav. The inside of the hangar was significantly darker than the outside even with the slight opening in the doors letting in light and his eyes needed a moment to adjust before he could see but when they did he looked around the large space in awe.
Rooster knew that the older man had an affinity for all things speed -bikes and planes, even the occasional sports car- but looking around he was surprised by how many machines he could see. Just from a first glance he counted at least 15, half of which he somewhat remembered from his childhood, as well as an old P-51 and… random furniture placed in front of a trailer?
“What-” He started but didn’t finish his sentence. What would he even ask? What is this place? Homebase. Mav had already said that.
He looked around again, trying to find Maverick between the machines.
“Go sit down.”
He nearly jumped at the sound of Mav’s voice echoing through the hanger. He hadn’t seen or heard him coming at all.
“I’ll go get the bags from the car but you go sit. Or go look around. Make yourself at home. Just don’t touch anything.”
The way he said it sounded like an adult warning a small child. Don’t touch anything, you could get hurt. And for a second Rooster thought about all the years he had spent with Maverick and his machines. How they had fixed up old bikes and Mav had patiently explained what every tiny screw does before ruffling his hair and telling him good job buddy for handing him a wrench. How he had helped Rooster get all his licenses from bikes to cars to planes and then let him take out some of the machines for joyrides or to impress girls at his high school. How he knew what he was doing and if he wanted to he could touch because he knew not to get hurt. Because he’s not a kid anymore. Because Mav taught him how not to get hurt.
But instead he kept quiet and looked around.
Rooster spent a while looking at the P-51. That thing must have cost a fortune even if it was old and Mav did the repairs himself. It was a gorgeous plane though and he hoped that he could convince his godfather to take him up with it soon.
The row of bikes felt so familiar it hurt but he still ran his fingers over the polished metal with care. All neatly lined up along the side of the hangar.
When he was younger Mav kept a locker covered in stickers in their garage. He still had the same locker now in the hangar and the collection of stickers had only grown. He used to go into the garage to look at them all the time when he was a child. Stickers of the different squadrons in all colors of the rainbow. He had them all memorized before he had memorized all 50 states. This one is where Ice flies -Maverick would point out- and this one is the squad that has to deal with Wolfman and Hollywood. They had gone through all the different symbols and pointed out when one of Mav’s friends flew with them.
As a kid he often wondered which squadron he would be assigned to, what insignia he would rep. He slowly raised a hand and ran his fingers over the Golden Warriors sticker at the side of the locker when something past the locker caught his eye.
Pictures upon pictures taped to the wall, familiar faces staring back at him. He could see pictures of Maverick and his parents as he stepped closer. Iceman. Their class at top gun.
Himself.
One of the pictures he knew. It was taken the day his high school baseball team had won a state championship and he remembered feeling like he was on top of the world. His mom had already been sick at that point but her prognosis had been good. Mav had been home from deployment and was able to bring his mom and together they had cheered loud enough that they could be heard across the entire pitch. Other teens would have felt embarrassed but Bradley had felt nothing but love. They had taken him out to eat afterwards and he had talked their ears off while stuffing his face with fries. His mother hadn’t even scolded him for talking with his mouth full. He had asked about the naval academy and if they had a baseball team and if Mav thought he should join. They’d all been so happy.
Not even a year later his mom was dead and Mav had pulled his papers and he had found himself on the other side of the continent completely alone.
Mav had another picture of him as well although he didn’t know where he got it. It was a newer one of him in his uniform, taken before the start of his last deployment. Ice, he answered his own unasked question. There was only one person that held enough rank and love for Maverick to get a hold of his picture.
He should have reached out sooner. If not to Mav then at least Iceman. Even in his stubbornness he had to admit that the late admiral had never treated him with anything but kindness and now it was too late to apologize.
“There you are.” Mav’s voice came from behind him and Rooster was proud that he didn’t flinch at the sudden noise. He had completely forgotten that he wasn’t alone in the hangar.
Instead of speaking immediately he took a deep breath and swallowed down his feelings. One step at a time. First he’d mend things with Mav for the future, then he’d ask for forgiveness for the past.
“Quite the collection you got here.” He said instead.
“Yeah?” He could see how the older man’s eyes lighted up at the mention of his machines. “I got more up here and a few more back there.” He turned around to point them out to Rooster, taking a few steps away from the side of the hangar.
“I’ve put the bikes on the backburner for a little bit to focus on the plane but as soon as I get it back up and running I have a few that need repairs. Maybe you could come and help me out a little. Like old times.” Mav smiled.
“That would be nice.”
He watched as Maverick walked over to the sitting area and followed. He disappeared into the trailer for a moment only to come out holding two bottles in his hands and gesturing for Rooster to sit. It was almost as if he had set up a little living room in the middle of the hangar. With an armchair and a couch, a small coffee table all on a big rug in front of the trailer. Wait…
“Mav do you fucking live here?”
Mav just gestured to the couch. “Sit down Bradley.”
It felt weird to be called Bradley again. For years he had only gone by Rooster or Bradshaw, building it up almost like a second identity or an armor. To him it felt like he had left Bradley behind years ago when he left home. Still, he sat down.
He looked at Mav.
Mav looked at him.
“Yes Bradley. I’ve been living in this hangar for the past few years while stationed at a nearby air base.” He finally said.
“In that trailer?”
Mav didn’t say anything, just nodded while looking at him.
He shifted a little where he sat on the couch, trying to avoid eye contact. “So you’re just all alone out here in the desert?”
“You know I’m used to being on my own, Bradley. No wife, no kids.”
Nobody to mourn you when you burn in.
He should have known that he would end up eating his words. No matter how much anger and distress he was feeling when he spoke them, no words were said without consequences and he was about to be faced with his.
He shifted in his seat again, still not meeting the older man’s eyes. “Mav, listen…”
“No. No.” Mav took a deep breath and let in out loud enough for him to hear it through the distance between them. “You were right.”
Another silence fell over them, this one weighing heavier on him than the ones before.
“I fear we’re a lot more similar than either of us would like to admit.”
It sounded less than a statement and more like a confession or maybe even a little bit of an apology. Like it pained Maverick to admit it and he had to force himself to say them. As if it had been a shortcoming on his end that had made them this way and not just the universe playing a cruel joke.
“There are… a lot of things we need to talk about and a lot of things I need to apologize for but not now. We have all the time in the world to talk things out but that’s not why I brought you here.”
“Then why did you?” His own voice sounded strange to him but he couldn’t figure out why. His thoughts were racing but at the same time his mind felt emptier than ever.
“I don’t want you to repeat the same mistakes I made.”
“Mav…”
“People like us belong in the sky and when something comes along to threaten that things turn ugly. You think there’s nothing worse than having that freedom taken away from you but there is. Because we can’t… we can’t stay up there forever, Bradley, no matter how hard we try. Once that’s taken away you have to look around and see what’s waiting for you on the ground. And when you see there’s nothing waiting for you… That’s scary, kid.”
Although he understood every word coming out of Maverick’s mouth he couldn’t understand what he was saying.
“You’re allowed to put down roots without them chaining you to the ground. You’re allowed to build a home and a family without fear holding you back.”
And all of a sudden his words began to make sense.
No wife. No kids.
Just like him.
Somebody to mourn him if he burns in.
“I don’t think…”
“Don't think. Just do.”
That damn sentence had burrowed itself into his mind. Nested itself deep enough in his subconscious that there was no way he’d ever get rid of it again and Maverick repeating them now did nothing to soften the blow he felt.
“You love her, don’t you?”
Such a simple question. Such a simple answer. Yet it felt like he had to force himself to admit it. “Yes.”
“Then tell her.”
Sometimes home wasn’t a place but a person but there had to be some incredible luck involved for the two to overlap for him.
For years he had felt a certain type of sadness while driving up to his childhood home, reminiscing about all he’s lost, but as he pulled his Bronco into the little driveway all he could think about was what he was about to gain. His stomach was twisting and turning in anticipation.
Part of him wondered if he was doing the right thing, finally confessing to you. The friendship you had built over the span of more than one decade was too important and he didn’t want to mess it up. It had been easier when he was young and stupid and fell into bed with you the first time without consideration but now your time together weighted on him. He hesitated before exiting the car, mentally going over everything he wanted to say and repeating the words Mav had told him before sending him on his way.
She wouldn’t have waited fifteen years for you to get your act together if she wasn’t head over heels in love with you too.
Oh how he hoped that Maverick was right.
Taking one last deep breath he opened the door and got out, throwing it closed behind him. You had planted some new flowers in the front yard. Last time he had been here he was greeted by soft yellow flowers but now all he could see was a beautiful red. Granted it had been a few months since he last came by but he still felt a slight sting at the change. Not that it happened -he was glad that you actually felt at home in your house and comfortable enough to change the greenery- but the fact that he missed it. As he made his way towards the front door he thought about all the other things that could have changed since he saw you last. Did you get new pillows for the couch? Hung new pictures on the walls?
He had to search through his keys for a moment before he found the house key but as soon as he did he unlocked the door and stepped inside. There were noises coming from the tv in the living room and he had no problem imagining you curled up on the couch with a soft blanket and a mug held between your soft hands with one of your shows playing.
“Honey, I’m home!” He called out, hoping that you wouldn’t be able to hear the desperation in his voice and only the excitement.
Instead of a response he could only hear a crash coming from the living room and instantly became concerned. He couldn’t take more than two steps down the hallway though before you suddenly appeared at the other end of the small space. Messy hair and comfy clothes he didn’t have time to brace himself before you all but tackled him, clinging to his body while his arms came up to hold you up and against him.
Holding you in his arms again just made him feel so much more confident in his decision. His body still felt a little sore even a week after the mission but he’d never tell you out of fear that you would lessen your crushing embrace. The last thing he wanted right now was to be separated from you in any way. He could feel saying something against his shoulder but he couldn’t hear anything, the sound muffled by his shirt.
You must have realized that he wasn’t able to understand what you were saying because you pulled away a little so he could understand you better. “You’re home.” You almost whispered, voice airy and light and a big smile on your face. “Why are you home? You’re supposed to be overseas, why are you here? You always text me before you’re home or at least give me a call. Are you okay? What happened?”
He smiled as you took his hands between your hands, trying to see if he was hurt while rambling and he just couldn’t hold himself back any longer so he leaned down and finally, finally put his lips on yours in the softest, most loving kiss he could muster with the amount of desire running through his body. If he surprised you with his kiss you didn’t show it, instead your lips began to move against his, only for him to pull away once you try to deepen the kiss.
“I love you.”
The words didn’t feel foreign in his mouth even though it was the first time he said them for a long long time. He’s been running from his true feelings for as long as he could remember but now that he managed to spill them he couldn’t stop.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Realizing that he was still holding you up, he carefully lowered you down until there was solid ground underneath your feet. You looked so sweet just standing there and part of him just wanted to swoop you right up again. Instead he brought one of his hands up to cradle your face, carefully stroking his thumb over your cheek.
“Baby...” You started but stopped when his thumb brushed over your bottom lip.
“I love you and I’m sorry.”
He could see your brows furrow in confusion so he continued.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was scared and it took me fifteen years to finally admit it but I love you. I love you and I’m not scared anymore and I’m yours… in any way that you’ll have me.” It was a blatant lie. He wasn’t just scared, he was absolutely terrified. Not just about his confession but also the future and the past and everything in between. But he needed to tell you how he felt so desperately.
Your hand touching his brought him back from his thoughts, cradling his hands while he cradled your face and a smile so wide he couldn’t focus.
When you spoke your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Oh you stupid man.”
For an awful drawn-out second he couldn’t breathe before your lips met his again and he felt whole again. Deepening the kiss all he could think about was how he was never letting go of you again.
Lieutenant Jakob Middlename Seresin enjoyed the simple things in life. A cold beer, a light breeze, and a beach full of attractive people were paradise on earth for him. After the recent mission all he wanted to do was lay back and relax before he had to head back out for deployment so when two of his old academy buddies talked about their new house in Hawai’i he invited himself to crash in their guest bedroom for two weeks and so far it had been nothing but pure bliss.
Taking a picture of his current view he sent it to his parents before pulling up the group chat Fanboy had made for everybody involved in the mission. He had missed about 50 messages but just from scrolling past them he picked up that Bob had sent a picture with his family and now everybody was roasting him for how out of character it seemed. Apparently there were flannel shirts and horses involved and Jake was just about to scroll back up to take a look himself so that he could join in the fun when a new message was sent to the group chat that caused him to drop his phone into the fine sand with a bitten off curse.
Rooster 🐓
getting hitched in vegas this wknd, be there or be square
txt Mav for details
Before he could fully process what he just read the chat was blowing up again. Text after texts came in expressing various degrees of excitement but Jake just read over Rooster’s text again before putting his phone away. With a sigh he brought his half-empty beer up to his lips and emptied the bottle before getting up to make his way back to the house.
It was only Wednesday so he still had a little time to enjoy his vacation before he had to head back to the mainland and he fully planned on enjoying it. He just needed to ask his friends where he could buy some gaudy Hawaiian shirts first. Maybe he’d even find some Vegas wedding appropriate ones.
He wouldn’t leave his wingman hanging.
#Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw#bradley bradshaw#bradley rooster bradshaw#bradley bradshaw x reader#bradley bradshaw imagine#rooster x reader#rooster imagine#top gun imagine#top gun#top gun: maverick#top gun maverick#top gun x reader#top gun maverick x reader#top gun maverick imagine#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader#bradley rooster bradshaw imagine
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Danny at the tender age of 23, has had a bad month. He had just lost his job as an interpreter with his company due to rejecting the advances of one of the older female bosses and his landlord was trying to screw him over on rent.
It honestly surprised him when he woke up one day with his wrists bound in front of him and trapped in a tube. He had been out of the hero game since the portals closed up years ago and Vlad lost his powers, so it had been a while since the whole "kidnapping" thing had happened to him.
He looked out through the glass of the tube as he turned intangible to let the IV needles fall out of his arms. There luckly wasn't any glowing green goo in the tube with him, but he doubts it will stay that way long as the scientists outside his containment chatted happily about "the discovery of the decade!" Ick.
He waits till they're gone before turning intangible slipping out of his tube and heading straight for the computer. He knew how to hack, but he was low on time and needed to know exactly what was going on, so some ghostly meddling with electronics were necessary. Sorry Tuck.
It was at this moment he found out several things.
1. Danny had apparently been here for several months instead of the few days he had initially assumed
2. He was found somewhere in his own thermos, asleep. Luckily they haven't been able to replicate any technology from it.
3. Superheros were a very real thing now. How long had he been asleep?
4. He had been cloned. Again. But this time he had someone else's DNA mixed in with the clones to make them more stable and intelligent. Some guy named Red Robin. Huh. Was that his real name or...?
Danny took a deep breath before locating his new clone kids. Ellie would be thrilled...if she was still around that is. He could think about that later, right now he had to grab his babies-and oh ancients- they were babies! The oldest of the three looked four years old at most and the youngest looked only a few hours. He was still all pink and alien looking.
Luckily his children didn't fight him when he picked them up and flew through the walls with them. He made a mental note to teach them stranger danger when he came across a large red button.
You won't believe what it was labeled as. Yep. A self destruct button. How cliché. Whatever. He pushed it and sirens immediately started to go off and he continued flying them through walls before exited into a dark gothic city he knew Sam would immediately love.
Somehow he managed to immediately land a job as a linguist for Wayne tech. Probably thanks to the three small kids he had and the panicked look on his face. Bruce was a really chill dude.
Batman however, was a prick. He met the guy weeks after his run in with Bruce and he kept popping up after he found out the clone babies were partially from one of his birds and trying to take custody away from him or convince him to give them up. Danny retaliated by spreading the rumor/truth that his kids where Red Robins from creepy cloning scientists that kidnapped him before immediately moving out of Gotham and into Fawcett City to work for a competitors company. This way Red couldn't legally go after him for custody without revealing his identity :)
This is how Red Robin, at the tender age of 25, learned he had kids with a man named Daniel Nightengale. Not only that, Bruce knew about them and didn't tell him.
Danny made it clear that if any of the Gotham Rouges tried to follow him and harm his kids they would come back missing a hand. Joker found out the hard way that he wasn't bluffing.
Shazams old guy mentor almost has an aneurysm when he senses the freaking GHOST KING living in Fawcett. Danny is also much more powerful then ever before and accidentally made the power go out in half the city when he got truly angry with Batman.
#fanfiction prompts#prompts#danny phantom#danny fenton#dp x dc#time drake#red robin#poor tim#the nightengale idea wasnt mine#but i love it and believe it should be the fentons go to for identity problems#tim wants to meet his kids#danny is superdad#ever listened to Mr. mom?#danny is the mom from that song and i fully support him#the batfam all lose thier minds#shazam doesnt know what to think of danny#danny is worlds best dad#long post
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tangle of strings
pianoteacher!anakin x student!reader
synopsis: mr. skywalker has been your piano instructor since you were fourteen years old. from the moment you met, you knew he was the one. he never expressed his feelings for you vocally, despite all the time you spent together. but after you turn eighteen and prepare to leave for college, he changes his tune.
w.c: 6.9k
warnings!! {minors dni}, dark content, grooming heavily featured, sexual content occurs after the reader is 18, p in v, fingering, oral, fem!reader, gentle dom!anakin, sub!reader, "loss" of virginity, jealousy, religious themes
the content you consume is your responsibility ♡
The piano is the only thing Mr. Skywalker told you that he loved.
He was never spotted with a girl or anyone for that matter in a romantic sense. He was always single, which never made sense to anyone in your small town because he is handsome. He’s always been handsome. His yearbook pictures from high school proved it.
When you would go over to his house for piano lessons, he would show you many things from his life, like his award cabinet, filled with every trophy and certificate he’s won from piano competitions or his yearbook photos. Those photos were one of the first things he showed you. It was one of your first memories of just you and him.
Mr. Skywalker takes a big stack of books off the shelf in his library all at once. Using his strength to balance the dusty books on his arms, he brings them to the reading table where you sit. He takes off the top one and opens it up before you.
Eventually, you find his picture. You cover your mouth as you giggle. He had thick glasses making him look like a nerd. But he was cute. So, undeniably cute to you. You wish he could be the same age. You would want to be his friend. You would want to kiss him.
If you were the same age, he could be yours.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he muses, his large body looming behind you as he looks over your head to gaze at the picture. “I used to be the kid everyone picked on. When I’d get home, I would write a song about how I was feeling. Some of those songs inspired the ones I play at my shows.”
When he talks, you gush. His warm voice is safe. He’s the kind of person you could tell all your secrets to.
And you did tell him everything you couldn’t tell your parents. You’d tell him your deepest secrets. Like the boys you crushed on. Or your new feelings of lust towards them that caught you off-guard as a teen. He understood you like no one else in the whole world. He was the first to know about your first kiss when you were sixteen. And he seemed… jealous when you told him.
“I don’t know how it happened,” you say. “One moment, we were talking and laughing. And the next thing I know, Drew is pushing me down on the bed to kiss me!” you squeal. “But don’t tell my parents. They’ll think I’m a whore.”
Mr. Skywalker pats your shoulder. “Don’t worry. I always keep your secrets. Drew is the boy in your history class, correct?”
You nod, amazed that he would remember. The last time you spoke of Drew had been several months ago. But he always pays attention to even the smallest details. That’s how you know he cares.
“I don’t know if he’s good for you,” he mutters, noticeably bitter about something. “Does he really know you? I think… he doesn’t. He’s probably just trying to use you.”
Mr. Skywalker is much older than you. And wiser. So you take his advice to heart. Maybe you shouldn’t see Drew tonight after all.
“How many times have you been kissed?” you ask him, your voice all innocent. Although your motives were anything but pure. While you might have just shared a kiss with Drew, there is one man who is truly the object of your greatest desires. You just haven’t found a way to tell him.
He shakes his head. “You know I’d rather talk about you.” That’s what he says when you pry too deeply into his private life, which only adds to your secret obsession
Anakin has always been the one thing that rivals your obsession with your instrument of choice. And it’s the only secret you kept from him all through high school because you knew he couldn’t possibly feel the same way about you.
Even if the small touches, the secret looks, and long hugs seemed to indicate otherwise. You were too afraid to ask him what it all meant. He never gave that kind of attention to anyone else.
And as an awkward teen, you were furious that you couldn’t express your love to him directly. You kept telling yourself that you would when you’re older. When you turned eighteen, you would confess to him.
Since you couldn’t tell anyone, even him, about this secret, you’d use the piano to share your soul, to put your feelings out into the atmosphere. When you play, no matter where you are, you feel him sitting on the bench beside you, watching over you.
He taught you everything you know now. He’s the reason you chose to major in Piano Performance in college to the great horror of your parents. But what did they expect? They watched you sacrifice your youth for excellence in your craft. The nights were filled with pools of tears, cries, and screams as you played until you got the part, section, or note just right.
When your fingers rest on the ivory keys, you feel him and nothing else. He’s your muse in every song you write.
The piece that won you a full scholarship to your dream university, you wrote it while thinking of Anakin. Your beloved piano teacher. Your closest friend. Your secret love.
He’d been in your life for so long, giving you lessons when you first showed an interest in music. How could you not love him?
He went to the same church that your family attended every Sunday. He played piano sometimes during worship service if the music minister was out on vacation or fell ill. Church was how your father met him, and they became good friends. He often came to your Sunday lunches.
Your mom always cooked fried catfish or fried chicken because that’s what your dad wanted. Mr. Skywalker, as you called him back in your high school years, would eat two plates of food. He’d say things like “I haven’t had a home cooked meal in years,” even if he was at your house just last week. You would laugh the loudest at his jokes. As you think about them now, you realize they weren’t funny, but you’re in love with him so it doesn’t matter.
After lunch, your parents would take care of the food and dishes, giving alone time with him. Like a young pup, you’d follow him outside on the back porch where you’d sit side by side on the creaky old swing.
“Do you cook or bake?” he asks you.
You haven’t the slightest idea of why he’d ask such a thing. You still lived with your parents. Your mom does most of the cooking. Your dad grills sometimes. “No. I get scared that I’ll burn myself.”
Suddenly, he reaches over for your left hand, the closest one to him, from your lap and holds it between his great palms. “Cold,” he whispers. He massages your fingers to revive them. “I wouldn’t want you to burn your hands. They’re so perfect… for playing.”
Anakin looks down at what he’s doing to you and his expression sours. At the time, you don’t know why. You wonder if you said or did something he doesn’t like because the mood changes instantly. He drops your hand and pats your thigh.
“You have piano hands, remember?” he reminds you. He smiles at you, and you feel secure again.
That’s exactly the thing that you always tell him. His hands spread out further than a whole octave, while you struggle to hit the two octave notes simultaneously without pulling a muscle. His fingers are long, and his palms are wide. You can’t compete with that.
You wonder what other things he’s good at with hands like those.
For the entirety of your high school existence, you pined and pined after him. He was always on your thoughts every minute of every day. You never grew sick of daydreaming about him. And on occasion that was reflected in your grades though you maintained a high GPA regardless. Every week was just your going through the motions of life mindlessly, only waiting for two short hours out of the week on Friday which was when you took lessons with him.
You lived solely for those two hours in which he gave you piano lessons free of charge. He said it was because you had such potential, but still to this day, you like to think he reciprocated some of your feelings even before he actually made a move on you.
For those two hours, you would sit right up against him on the leather cushion of the piano bench and play for him whatever pieces you were working on or things he assigned you from the previous week. He was never harsh with you even when you weren’t getting something.
You throw your hands on the keys, striking a dissonant chord that makes you both wince. Mr. Skywalker instantly pulls your hands away.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said with concern. “I promise you’ll get this. It just takes time. I know you practice too much as it is.”
“I want to be good! I want to be a star!” With that, you break down instantly and cry. He never minds when you cry in front of him.
“One day, you will be. I believe in you,” he soothes you, rubbing your back and kissing the top of your head as if you belong to him. He hugs you. “We can try again when you’re ready.”
“Okay,” you say, leaning against him to hear the echo of his heart. His heartbeat is sensual to you, even at sixteen. You can’t explain it. These stupid hormonal feelings you have for him are so wrong. But when you look up into his passionate eyes, you see the man you want to spend the rest of your life with. You have to marry him. You have to.
From the time you were five, you were afraid of thunder and lightning. Terrified by it actually. The fear is still with you today. But it was so much worse in middle school and high school. You started taking lessons from Anakin when you were fourteen years old. And you were still such a child then. You remembered the time it stormed so hard during your lesson that you had to spend the night at his house because it was too dangerous for your mother to come pick you up. But that also meant you couldn’t hide your abnormal fear of a thunderstorm from Anakin.
He had this giant plush rug under the piano. When you asked him about it, he said that it caught the sound. At the tail end of your lesson, the night you had to stay over, lightning struck close to his house and spooked you so much that you shrieked and slipped under the piano, curling up on that soft rug like a scared puppy.
Anakin was such a sweetheart because he followed you there.
“Hey,” he whispers, rubbing your back, “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
You cry into your arms, hiding your face. “I know! I know it’s stupid of me. I just—”
“It’s not stupid. We all have different fears.” After he says that, he lies on his back beside you. “But I won’t let the storm hurt you, okay. We can stay here all night.”
And that you did. You cowered under the grand piano in his parlor all night long. That was the first time you ever cuddled with a boy, only he was a man almost twice your age. But that didn’t bother you. And it seemed not to bother him. He let you hold onto him through the night and squeeze him a little harder when you heard thunder. It has been one of your most precious memories of your piano teacher.
You had always known Anakin could be a little jealous. Any time you would mention your school friends the air would get tense, as if he didn’t want you to have anyone else in your life but him. He never said that, but he didn’t have to. There was always rage somewhere beneath the still blueness of his eyes, but his rage was never directed towards you until you told him that Drew wanted you to be his girlfriend.
You were seventeen. And you were so excited to have your first boyfriend even if you weren’t in love with him. At least people might not tease you for still being a virgin because it wouldn’t be so obvious. Anakin never did make fun of you for your innocence. He always said that it’s okay to wait until you’re ready or for the right person.
Immediately after you share the news of your official relationship with Drew, he freezes and closes the lid to the piano keys.
His jaw is tight. His voice is tense. “Maybe... we should be done for today.” He doesn’t even acknowledge what you said, as if he’s afraid to.
But you have no one else to celebrate with. Drew is a secret you keep from them because he’s not involved in church. “Did you hear me?” you press.
He grinds his teeth hard, and you hear bone against bone. Anakin nods. “I did.”
You nudge his arm. “Well?”
“Well what?” he snaps bitterly. He turns slightly to glare at you. “You know how I feel ab—about him.”
You roll your eyes. Anakin is a dramatic guy sometimes. “Drew isn’t that bad. He can be sweet. And he’s going to take me to prom!”
Anakin rises off the piano bench and pats down his black slacks. “So, you don’t care what I think then?” He’s staring down upon you with overwhelming disapproval. The muscles of his arms bulge when he crosses them over his chest.
Palms against the leather cushion, you hold yourself up. You notice yourself trembling when you realize that he’s not teasing you. He’s very upset... with you. Why would he be—does this mean—does he feel something after all?
“Of course, I do, Mr. Skywalker.”
“I told you not to get close with him!” he shouts. You’ve never heard him raise his voice at you. “He has bad intentions. He’s just a dumb kid. What does he know about loving you?”
You start to sob. “I’m sorry. I thought you might be... happy for me?”
He scoffs. And it sounds like you disgust him right now. “I don’t want to hear about him ever again. I don’t want to know anything about your little boyfriend. Do. You. Understand?”
Having him speak to you that way made you feel like a little girl. And you hated that feeling more than anything else. You knew that you were innocent, and you hated yourself for it because it made you feel inadequate to love the man you really wanted.
But now you’d do anything to have that innocence again. You didn’t realize at the time how free you once were. Growing up was harder than you thought it would be. It almost broke you.
You were lucky to have someone like Anakin to build you back up again, even if he was the one that tore you down that time.
After he yelled at you, you rushed out of his home as quickly as you could. The silence lasted a day. And then he drove to your house and knocked on your door. He held in his hands a bouquet of white roses and on his lips was the apology you were waiting for.
Nothing changed between you after that. Until your next birthday came around.
Up to your eighteenth birthday, your interactions were mostly harmless. But when you turned eighteen, an official adult, the tension between you had changed. The energies you both entertained shifted and became... dare you say... sexual to a degree. Anakin seemed to treat you a little differently now that you were fair game.
To celebrate your eighteenth birthday, he was there. In fact, he was the only one you insisted that mother invite. Not Drew or any of your school friends. Just Anakin. And he had to be there because he really was your one true friend. You couldn’t imagine celebrating your birthday without him. He was always a guest at your birthday parties, but he gave you a special gift this year, one so unforgettable that sometimes you hear it clear as day.
Anakin wrote you a piano solo. One that was simple, sweet, and addicting. You told him to play it again and again. After cake and presents, you made him teach you how to play it. You were very proficient now, and often could play things just by hearing them once. But the chords he chose for your song were unique and shouldn’t have meshed so well together. But they did. Just like you and him. Unlikely friends. Star-crossed lovers in your head.
The two of you stayed at the piano all evening, messing around with the song. By the end, you both had figured out how to layer the notes and chords in an even more perfect duet. Playing piano with him was almost the best birthday gift in the world to you. But it was not what you wished for.
You wished for a kiss.
But that would mean you’d have to tell him how you felt. And you were terrified. As an adult, now you could. It was more empowering than you thought it could be.
But you never did find a chance to tell me on your birthday. You were too afraid to ruin your night with a love confession. You know he would do the right thing and reject you, but that didn’t stop you from dreaming for the impossible.
When you walked him outside to his car—you insisted—your secret birthday wish came true. Not in the way you expected. But a kiss did happen. Your piano teacher kissed you on the cheek. Your face burned the whole night through. You couldn’t sleep because you wanted to know what it meant. He had never used his lips to touch any part of you before.
Physical contact had always been an important part of your bond with Anakin since the beginning. There were always the hugs that lasted just a little too long. And he seemed to always find an excuse to hold your hand. But he was your piano teacher, and the hand-to-hand contact always felt necessary and never strange.
But following your very special birthday, you found him staring at you a little longer, a little more deeply, and he seemed to always find an excuse to touch you, not in a sexual way but in a way that led you to believe the attraction wasn’t one sided.
He’d tuck your hair behind your ears, brush the side of your arm, and sit impossibly close to you that you swore you could almost hear his heartbeat. Anakin had never been hesitant to touch you before, but if there were any boundaries before, they were forgotten by him. And you enjoyed it. His new attention made you feel special and wanted. And that was all you ever wanted.
You began to touch him too. And seek physical attention from him. You would nuzzle his arm. Slip your fingers between his. Tap your shoes against his. He’d always notice, and he always hugged you or kissed your cheek in response.
You two were getting closer than ever before. Sometimes... you would barely touch the keys, getting lost in conversation. At this point, Drew and any other boy you were interested in before might as well have been dead. There was only room in your heart for Anakin.
And you had discovered a way to tell him without using your fragile words.
You sit on the bench waiting for him to get off the phone with his mother. She called him shortly after he let you in. About ten minutes later, he comes back.
“Sorry. I was worried she was in trouble,” he says, taking his spot beside you. “Now, where were we last week?”
“We... didn’t really go over anything.”
He bites into his full lower lip with a mischievous look in his eyes. “What are you paying me for then?”
You laugh because you’ve never once paid him for his time. You nudge his thigh with yours. “Honestly, I don’t really think there’s much more you could teach me.”
He raises a brow. “Oh really?”
You nod. “Actually, I’ve been writing something for you.”
His jaw lowers, and his mouth hangs open slightly. “How long have you kept this secret?”
“Since my birthday.”
He slips his arm around your back and rests his hand on your hip. “I’m impressed. Show me?”
You gulp heavily. That had been the plan today. It is ready for him. He’d never judge you even if it were bad. But you know that it’s not. You know that he’ll know what this piece means. He knows you too well. He’s too perceptive of everything. You wrote it in his favorite key, C minor.
With your hands a little shaky, your fingers glide softly across the piano and press down powerfully in chords. Through music, you profess your love. Anakin sits beside you and waits for you to finish. When you do, he’s waiting, staring with tears thickening his dark eyelashes. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything, but you know... he knows how you feel.
You tug on his shirt, drawing him closer. A war of heart and mind reflects on his face. He’s doubting what he wants. His resistance is half-hearted. It isn’t long before he scoops you up in his arms and kisses you. This time his mouth is on your lips, wetting them, and tugging them apart to fill you with his tongue.
Drew was never this good. His mouth was sloppy and tight. Anakin kisses like he’s done this a thousand times before. And he kisses like he wants you. Like he’s wanted you for such a long time, despite how wrong you both know that is.
He holds you down in his lap, and you hug him tightly, carding your fingers through his dreamy hair. You start to feel lightheaded because you haven’t been able to breathe, but you don’t want to stop him. If you stop him, he might think and realize that he doesn’t want you anymore.
But you’re dying. Turning blue. You tap his shoulder. And he stops devouring you. His lips sparkle when he smiles. “Too much for you, baby?”
You sharply inhale, finally catching your breath. You shake your head. You want more. You need it. More isn’t even enough.
You spend the whole lesson entangled with one another until your mother comes to pick you up.
For the next month, that’s all you did. Kiss and kiss and kiss. Breathe and breathe and breathe. And kiss some more. You wondered why he was waiting to take you to his bed. You wanted that with him, but he never asked you to go that far. He seemed afraid. Even when his affection was overflowing in passion as you always knew it would be, it was clear that he was holding himself back. Did he need you to tell him what to do?
Your make out sessions extended beyond just your lesson time. Whenever he would come over to your house, he would go upstairs with you to your bedroom, and you’d end up tangled in the sheets. Though with every item of clothing on. Your parents never suspected anything was happening to their young, virtuous daughter. They trusted him completely. And so did you. You would have done anything he asked of you no matter the risks.
Even at church, he’d find a way to get you alone. In the girl’s bathroom. During the preacher’s sermon.
Anakin lifts you onto the sink and spreads your legs out so that he can fit between them and get close to you. Thumb under your chin, he tilts your face up to his. He grins before going in for a kiss.
Your lavender baby doll dress rides up your thighs as he inches closer. He presses up against the crotch of your panties. The dampness is cold against your tender flesh. His erection only grows as the friction between you builds, your bodies rubbing against each other in a clothed attempt to satisfy yourselves sexually.
And now you’re glad you waited and didn’t mess around with Drew like he wanted when you were together. Because that means Anakin could be your very first.
He freezes up when you try to unbuckle his big belt. Anakin looks at you strangely, almost disturbed by your actions.
You lean to his ear and whisper, “I. Want. It.” You had thought your seductive voice would be enough to cast him off the edge of all hesitation, that he’d bend to your will and give you what you want.
But all you did was kill the fire.
Head shaking, he backs away. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
And you didn’t see him for nearly a month after that. But you don’t regret what you said. You were tired of just endless make out sessions. It seemed so immature, and you knew you were ready for something real.
All of those memories, those beautiful capsules of your favorite times with Anakin, are the reason you find yourself on his doorstep, a quarter till midnight in the pouring rain.
Complete desperation.
You took your moms car without permission just to drive over despite the threat of a storm. And you’re still deathly afraid of them. But you came anyway. Because tomorrow, you’re leaving for college. You might not get another chance to fix things. Death would be better than living another moment without him.
“You haven’t been answering my texts or my calls, Anakin.”
The door is barely cracked open, just enough that you can see his pale face. Dark circles surround his rainy eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, not even making eye contact.
Thunder echoes behind you. The wind blows your hair around. Leaves rustle, filling the silence between you both. It’s going to storm soon. You had been stupid enough to drive to his house just before a storm. But you couldn’t take not knowing what had happened to him and why he was dodging your calls.
The eyes that used to linger a little too long won’t acknowledge you even as you stand in front of him.
“Why are you being like this? This isn’t you!” you nearly scream. You’re so afraid that he’s not only pushing you away but also ejecting you from his life completely, as if the memories you share can be erased. He’s engrained in almost every memory you have.
“It can’t happen. Go away.”
He tries to close the door on you, but you stick the toe of your right shoe in the crack before it shuts.
“Please… please don’t do this.”
Anakin’s eyes are bloodshot as if he’s been crying. “What I want isn’t right. I can’t do it. I don’t know if I could live with myself after.”
Does he really hate me so much? Is that the truth? Perhaps it’s your naivety, but you won’t let him go so easily. You have suffered in silence for nearly a decade, pining after him, waiting for him to reciprocate the depth of your feelings. Your hands shake as you reach out to him. If he would just… hold your hand like he used to, then maybe everything would be alright.
Your fingertips brush against each other. You feel the spark instantly, and it travels down your spine, leaving you wanting to touch him more.
“What about what I want?”
Anakin blinks several times before he speaks. It’s as if he didn’t consider your feelings in this decision. “You’re… not in a position to see things clearly. You’re—”
“Don’t say it!” you exclaim, squeezing your fists. “I’m not a child. I’m all grown up. And you know it. You see it.”
Anakin sighs a long time, his eyes scanning down your body. “Of course, I see it. But that doesn’t make it okay.”
Though you can never overpower him, you still try to force the door open. “Just let me in. We can talk. Just let me talk to you.”
Anakin’s frown is firm, and his stillness enforces that he’s not backing down. “I don’t know. If I let you in… if you cry… I’ll want to hold you. Then things might happen. I don’t know if I can control myself around you.”
Hugging yourself, you gaze upwards, into eyes that finally meet yours. His eyes reveal his mourning, his grief, his lust. It’s the latter that sends shivers through your body. The knowing that he wants you is more than you can take.
“I don’t want you to.”
There.
You said it.
You have told him exactly what you want. And if you hadn’t made it painfully obvious before, he knows now that you’re no longer thinking like a little girl.
Following a sigh of defeat, he backs away from the door, and you move in.
All the lights are off in his home. He must have been sitting in the dark like a vampire. The piano lid is open. He never left it open unless he was actively playing.
Anakin strides across the room to seat himself on the piano bench. He taps the spot next to him. “You’re right.... We should talk. Talk. Nothing more.”
Sitting beside him here feels like the most natural thing in the world. Here, you’re not afraid to speak from the heart. He’d never judge you even if he disagrees. But you’re not so sure he disagrees this time.
He wants you too.
“I couldn’t let you go back. I can’t believe you drove in the rain.”
You shrug. “It’s just rain. The storm hasn’t—”
The windows flash like they would in a horror flick, and thunder comes after. With a whimper, you grab onto his arm.
“I can drive you back home once we talk,” he says emotionlessly, gently pulling you off him.
But you double down and grab his arm, tugging him back again. “Don’t push me away.”
He doesn’t do it again. He stills. And sighs. “That’s the last thing that I want to do.”
With your chin resting on his sleeve, you look up at him, wide-eyed. “Just kiss me like you always do. And don’t think about it.” You stretch your arm out and fiddle with the top button of his dress shirt. “I’m not thinking.”
His chest rises and falls with his breaths. He doesn’t stop you as you unbutton his shirt.
When you rise on your knees, you’re at eye level. He’s so much bigger than you even now. He makes you feel so small. Holding onto his arm, you lean close and peck his clean-shaven cheek. He winces as if you pricked him with a needle.
“Angel, I shouldn’t.”
You kiss him again, closer to his lips, almost tasting him. “It’s me. Don’t you want me?”
Finally, he turns and looks in your eyes. Then at your mouth. “Don’t tell anyone. You... understand how this might look. What they might say about—”
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” you whisper. “What’s one more?”
You finish unbuttoning his shirt for him. Taking care of him feels good. You run your fingertips down his chest and his abdomen. His bare skin. It’s soft and warm. Suddenly, he grabs your wrist.
“Cold hands,” he murmurs. He takes your hands between them. He rubs his hands over your fast to warm them with friction.
“Sorry.”
Still rubbing your hands, he stands and leads you to the back of his grand piano near the flashing window.
Any other time, you would be trembling in fear because of the loud storm, but tonight you’re trembling because of the new feelings bubbling inside you. You’ve never been so aroused before.
“Can I hold you?” he says as pulls you into his embrace.
You can hear his steady heartbeat and feel it pumping right against your sensitive ear. Your piano teacher holds you against him and tangles his talented fingers in your hair. He sniffs your neck before taking a bite. His teeth pinch your flesh, and his tongue soothes you. The pain he leaves in several spots along your neck means that he’s marked you as his.
Your own heart is racing at lightning speed. You can’t think. In his arms, you’re helpless to his whims. You need him to tell you what to do. All you want is to please him.
“I’ll do anything,” you whisper to him so weakly you question if he hears you.
Anakin slowly unzips the back of your dress. “Consider this a teaching moment.” His voice doesn’t sound like it usually does. The undertones are sultry and possessive. “I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to—” He stops to pull down your dress, and his eyes wander over your pretty body. You wore transparent lace underwear and a matching bralette. He can see everything you hide from the rest of the world.
And he tells you, “You’re perfection.”
That makes you want to kiss him so badly. You try to lift yourself to reach his lips, but he’s too tall.
“Be patient,” he chides. “I want you to lay down first.” He guides you under the piano.
You lie down on your back atop the giant rug. Instantly, relaxation takes over as you remember all the times you used to lie here with him, hiding from the storm. Never did you think this would be the place where you’d give yourself to him. This must be meant to be.
He follows you after fully undressing. His body is every inch a man’s. His size makes you feel so small. He runs the risk of crushing you with his weight.
Lying on his side, he looks down at you, watching his own fingers running under the elastic of your lacy panties. “Take these off and spread your legs.” He whispers kisses to your cheek. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”
Nodding, you do as you’re told and wiggle out of your underwear. He snatches them from you and crunches them in his hands before throwing them over his shoulder. You proceed with fanning your legs open. The air is frigid as it touches you.
Anakin is looking where no one else has. “I��m so proud of you for waiting. Saving yourself just for me.”
You gasp as he kisses you between your legs. He kisses you there for a long time. It feels strange and wonderful. The feeling building inside you makes you moan and your toes curl. You feel so good your body aches. You hear your own heartbeat. You breathe but can’t find relief. Nothing soothes the need inside you but his mouth, his lips, his tongue. And before long you hit the breaking point, pleasure storming through your body from your place beneath him. Your cries are dampened by the thunderous sounds outside, but he hears you. He stops to look at your face. Making eye contact with him heightens the vulnerability of the situation. The intense way he looks at you burns. He notices every little change in your expression.
Anakin knows he made you feel good, but he still asks, “Did you like that?” He brushes the wild strands of hair away from your face. You know you’re precious to him. He sweetly kisses your forehead. “I like your taste.”
Your cheeks are seared by that comment. You cover your eyes, not wanting to let him see how he’s affecting you. “I did like it.”
“Do you want to do more?” He kisses your lips this time, and you taste yourself. “I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready.”
“I am ready!” you lift your head up and cup his cheek. “Don’t make me wait longer. I’m leaving tomorrow.” You bite your lip, knowing how dangerous what you’re about to say is because of who you’re saying it to. “Do you really want some college guy to be the one who gets me first?”
As if trying to reject the image you gave his mind, he closes his eyes and tightens his jaw. “No,” is his short answer. From the way his lips are pressed together, you know he wants to say more, but he’s saving you from his own selfish anger.
“Me either.” You rub his cheek with your thumb. “Anakin,” it feels right to call him by his first name instead of Mr. Skywalker, “I’ve waited for you. I always knew this would happen.”
He chuckles lightly. “I never gave you permission to use my name. Don’t forget—” he grunts as he slides two of his fingers between your slick folds and pushes them inside, “your manners, young one.”
These same fingers were the ones that rested atop yours when you were first learning to play piano. They pointed to the right key when you played the wrong note. They pointed to the sheet music to guide you along for all these years. They held your hands when they were cold.
And now he’s using them to teach you something new. But he’s just as skilled at fingering you as he is with music. You’re like his new instrument. He’s plucking all the right strings in just the right way to make you cry out for him. With your body pliant, he controls when you come. He doesn’t make you wait for it. He uses his thumb too and nudges until you come. It’s wetter than the last. And he instructs you to lick his fingers off when he’s done.
“Do you want to keep going?” he asks again. “Don’t hate me for asking.” He hangs his head a little.
What he doesn’t understand is how insatiable he’s caused you to be. There were so many times you thought you might explode from how desperately you wanted him. But now it’s okay if that does happen.
“Keep going. Please,” you beg. You’re not ready to stop. You’ve waited for this moment since you were fourteen years old. If it were up to you, you’d live here forever.
“If that’s what you really want,” Anakin moves from lying at your side to settling himself between your legs.
“It is,” you reassure him. Holding onto his neck, you pull yourself up a bit. “Can you kiss me too?”
He grins before pushing you down, his large hand spread out over your soft stomach, and he chases your lips as you fall. You’re partially distracted by his mouth as his cock slides inside you. You had expected it to be more of a challenge, all things considered. Throughout high school, your friends always complained about how much it hurt their first time. Some girls bled too. And that had scared you, which is one of the reasons you never took Drew up on his many offers of a “good time.” Deep down you knew he wouldn’t treat you right. But Anakin clearly is experienced with having sex. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as you thought he had been all those years.
This being your very first time, it does sting when he fills you completely, his bony hips pressed against yours. You feel the tightness and the stretch. But you enjoy how it feels. You’re so close to passing out just because this is as close as you can get to someone.
Anakin rocks in and out slowly. Maybe he can feel that you’re tired. He’s being gentle with you despite how much he wants to rail your cunt to shreds. You can tell when he’s holding himself back. He has that weary, pained look in his rainy eyes. A part of you wants to tell him that it’s okay. Let go. But you both know that you couldn’t handle the full extent of his lust.
“Can I come inside you?” he asks before sinking his teeth into a bruise along your neck.
Short of breath, you answer, “I said... anything.”
“Okay,” his shaky voice whispers. He buries his face into the curve of your neck and moans your name into your skin. He pulls your hair gently as he finishes, his heat spreading through your core. It’s so much that you feel it leaking out.
After, he holds you there all night long. He doesn’t let you leave. And you wouldn’t want to escape.
The three words he says to you as you leave his house the morning after, you realize that he’s lied to you all the years you’ve known him.
The piano isn’t his only love or his only obsession.
It’s an outlet, and yet a mask for his sin nature which you understand more deeply than any other girl ever will.
He’s kept his real obsession hidden from everyone but you.
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say that you miss me | eddie munson
summary: a birthday party brings eddie reluctantly back together with an old high school flame he hasn’t seen in two years.
word count: 7.7k
warnings: minors dni, smut, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie (?), swearing, afab reader, slight angst, hurt/comfort, reader initially doesn’t come off very well, use of drink and mention of drugs
a/n: i’m actually a little nervous about this one as it’s really the longest fic i’ve ever written and i haven’t really written like much in this way so please be kind to me! any feedback is really appreciated :)
“Du-ude!” Steve cries out in despair when he opens his front door, both voice and face riddled in disappointment. “I told you to comb your damn hair when it’s wet! What is this shit?”
Eddie blinks deadpan, standing frigid with a large box full of an assortment of black market priced alcohol (it was half spiced rum, clearly not much of a demand for it) with his little box of the good stuff buried deep. “I think you mean to say: Hey Eddie, thanks so much for bringing hundreds of dollars of merchandise to my party.” He replies, thick with sarcasm.
Eddie could barely hear himself speak. He had only arrived a whole twenty minutes after the said start time of the party that Steve had announced to the group (and repeatedly after for the last several days leading up to it), deemed by young person status as way too early, and yet Eddie could barely make out any other sounds apart from the dreaded sound of the popped-up excuse of rock that was overplayed on every radio station booming thickly through every wall of the (quite frankly) colossal hunk of a house Steve lived in. People were bustling in and out of rooms and collecting in rooms like it was New York City, and it immediately put Eddie on edge. He arrived early to make sure he could be scarce, not the centre of attention.
Steve rolls his eyes, taking the box of beverages from Eddie’s hands. He made sure his drug box was taken out before it was no longer in his possession. “I’m just saying man, you complain time and time again about how frizzy and knotty it gets, and when I offer you sound advice, you disregard it.” Eddie is following his friend blindly through the open plan grandeur of a home Steve finds himself lucky enough to live in, half not listening because he thinks he’s never seen a house this big before, let alone been in one. He bumps into person after person, recognising them all from high school, and it’s only a few seconds before the lump in Eddie’s throat grows ever bigger as he realises this was just an excuse to throw an informal high school reunion. It had only been months for Eddie compared to years for everyone else; he wasn’t sure he was mentally prepared for this to be thrust upon him.
“And you still don’t listen!” Steve quips harshly, and the tone gets Eddie’s attention after a long while, making the metalhead roll his eyes with minimal care.
Eddie shrugs lightly, an end destination in sight as Steve sets down the worn cardboard onto a spacious wooden table, placed against the wall where an assortment of other drinks have already been placed in their regiment.
People are looking, and aren’t really making it subtle, either. They were probably just as surprised as Eddie was - what was he doing showing his face in Steve Harrington’s home? - but it seemed that, by some miracle, they were friends, so it was a heckle-free zone. As much as Steve’s reputation had dropped since he left school, he was still much more well-known than anyone else in this house. The shouts of murderer and satan worshipper were hung up at the door for one night only.
It was packed beyond belief, but when Eddie looks around him, he notices the entire bottom floor of the house is rid of personal photos, glass and anything that exceeds the value of ten dollars. Apparently, even at the ripe old age of twenty-one, Steve is still deathly afraid of getting his ass handed to him by his parents. Eddie knows he wouldn’t want that from Wayne, even if he were forty.
“When’s Robin getting here? I rarely see her without you.”
Steve seems to relieve himself of some of the party hosting stress that evidently seems to have piled on top of him throughout the day at the mention of his best friend’s name. “She came from work with me this afternoon, she’s just running an errand for me.”
Eddie’s eyes widen, more in disbelief than shock, it was quite on brand for Harrington to get the whole gang involved for something so trivial as a party that will probably be filled with people he’s been dreading seeing since the day he graduated — everyone he went to high school with. Worse, people who finished high school before he did.
A small snort leaves Eddie’s nose, mindlessly fiddling with a small bowl of gummy bears that sat lonesome at the edge of the drinks table. It lay practically untouched, and he could only imagine that Robin had insisted some sort of food would be provided at the bash. Eddie was growing uncomfortable; he rarely spent time alone with Steve Harrington, and it’s never exceeded the point of awkwardness. It was teetering on the edge of such.
“I dread to think what you got that asswipe Henderson to do for this.” Eddie laughs, and it seems to have avoided the edge of that awkward ledge, as Steve chuckles along just as the door goes.
“He got home from college only last night and is currently hauling ass, borrowing speakers from Family Video to bring them here. Little dude can barely carry one of those things, will probably need Mike or some shit to help him.”
Steve opens the door to Robin, who looks annoyed as per with her friend, holding up several sheets of fax-printed paper. She walks through without even greeting the birthday boy, something that ignites a stifle of laughter from Eddie under his breath. That earned him his own greeting from Robin, throwing him a quick wave as she slams the paper down on the table.
“Did you print it all? That fax machine is crap at the best of times.”
She rolls her eyes, throwing a pointed look at Eddie as if she were asking for help. “Why did I just walk in with three sheets of paper, dingus? To hand in a college essay?”
As Eddie’s smirk gets wider, Steve’s scowl deepens, snatching the paper to his own hands, scanning it momentarily.
“Honestly, I don’t even know why you need a list to this stupid party, anyway. Everyone’s already here, this town hasn’t had a party in years.”
Hold up, now Eddie’s curiosity seems to be piqued. His head whips to where Steve stood on the other side of him, taking the paper for himself and carefully dissecting every name that was typed in several long columns.
His eyes stop tracking on one name, head whipping up to Steve. “You invited Y/N?”
Steve furrows his brows, taking a swig from a beer he had picked up from the table. “You, Eddie Munson, know Y/N Y/L/N?”
Eddie swallows thickly, eyes shifting to the floor, uncharacteristically nervous, the paper being shoved roughly back into Robin’s hands. Seeing that name gave him such an immediate rush of butterflies he thought he was going to barf, and he was sober.
“I need a drink,” Was all Eddie could respond to the question posed to him, taking the nearest liquor and pouring a quick shot. It was unfortunate, he realised as the liquid burns layers off his throat, that it was tequila, but anything to take the edge of what he was feeling right now.
Robin widens her eyes, shifting the tequila bottle away from her friend by a few metres, worried the whole bottle would be demolished before long if Eddie carries on like this. “How about we start slower, hm? Like a beer,” She replaces the shot glass with a can quickly.
Steve narrows his eyes suspiciously at Eddie; he knows his fair share of the feeling a drink could fix instead of facing a past flame, but the pairing of Eddie and Y/N doesn’t fit at all in his head. “When were you two a thing?”
Eddie screws his eyes shut; he knows he can’t really avoid this subject for long. “Senior year. My first one.”
A small but triumphant cheer leaves Steve’s lips, clearly already on the edge between tipsy and slurring, his hand coming down to clap proudly on Eddie’s shoulders.
“Didn’t take you for goody two shoes to be your type man, but then again, how I ever dated the smartest girl in Hawkins beats me.”
Cringing and deciding he was officially too sober to take part in this conversation about his past love life, he takes his belongings, eyes drawn to the garden door.
“Surely someone needs some weed by now right?” He asks rhetorically, but turns to Robin with pleading eyes, who just shrugs bemused.
So much for these new friends.
Thankfully for Eddie, half the people at this party who were already drunk and looking for a little boost to keep the night going had somehow remembered Eddie was the drugs guy, not the accused murderer guy, and a small queue had formed at the bottom of the garden as he got on with what he was used to doing the whole of highschool: living in the darkness dealing the bad stuff to the angels of society.
It was such a monotonous process, asking what was needed, sorting it out into the numerous small translucent bags, opening his hand and waiting as the exchange was made. His head stayed down the entire time, so over the game of which Hawkins sweetheart wanted an experience of the dark side. It also depersonalised it for him, made him feel less guilty for doing what he did. He knew the risks of these things, but he didn’t have a choice. Being working class and only having a minimum wage job at The Hideout meant he was the lowest of the low. Not many options are handed to a young man with no savings and only a highschool diploma to his name.
“I had always hoped that something better for you would come along apart from this, Eddie.” Lulled a sweet tone, almost dripping with it, dancing into Eddie’s ears. His head snapped up. The sweetness was all too familiar to him, something he had occasionally dreamt of in the last few years.
And yet, dreams don’t really amount to the feeling of seeing you again. Except, it wasn’t the exact replica of the young woman he had seen leave Hawkins for college. You were rougher on the edges, a cigarette balancing between your index and middle finger, the smoke of it wafting up into your hair and around your clothes.
Eddie stifles a chortle, and he can’t help the smirk line his lips like he was seventeen again, “And I had never hoped to see someone like you smoking cigarettes when you berated me for doing the same.”
You roll your eyes, flicking the thing out of your delicate fingers, letting it fall into the damp grass. It sits there on the ground for a few seconds, burning into the green until your boot comes to crush it. Now the cigarette lays limp and surrounded by the ash of its former flame.
“It’s social only. I’m not addicted.”
The adjective almost felt like a small jab at Eddie, but he brushes it off, deciding instead with a polite smile. It was all he could manage when the beating of his heart thumped heavy in his ears and throat.
“It’s nice to see you again, Y/N.” Is what he settles with, but the thing is he actually meant it. It was nice to see you, however belated it may have been. And while there was a roughness he seemed to have never seen in you before, he was pleased to see that you had finally grown into your character. You were the woman you had always strived to be in highschool: unapologetically yourself, and it almost made him swoon in admiration.
Your face softens at that second, the first bricks of the wall you had built up around herself removing one by one. It was then that Eddie sees that you hadn’t really changed, no matter how grown up you had become. That same excited and slightly naïve sparkle of your eye appeared, just as you whisper back, “You too, Munson. It’s been a while.”
A wide grin began to line Eddie’s lips, and just as he were to open his mouth again, ready to dive into a nostalgic conversation and settle into memories that he cherishes so dearly to his chest, you get a fierce tap on your shoulder - more of a jab really - causing you to turn around and face whoever was disturbing Eddie’s time with you.
Another girl, someone who looks familiar but not enough for Eddie to care, along with Nancy Wheeler, who flashed Eddie a knowing little smile, eyes shifting to you, bounced up beside Eddie’s ex, grabbing onto your shoulders enthusiastically. The move almost made you fall from the surprising weight added to her back.
The unknown friend speaks first, her jaw constantly moving up and down, a fluorescent pink piece of bubblegum the one to blame for the jarring movement smacking in Eddie’s ears. “Hey, we’re about to play some poker in the basement if you wanna join,” She whines, and Eddie sighs to himself quietly. He had only managed to have forty-five whole seconds of you to himself, and you were already in high demand for your attention. It was something that harkened Eddie back to when he was coupled with her all that time ago. The girl notices Eddie sigh, her sharp gaze shifting to him, scrutinising everything about him in just a split second. “Who’s he?”
Suddenly you grow bashful, your cheeks darkening across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose, averting your eyes down to the patch of grass where your cigarette lay lifeless. Your mouth opened and closed again, the speechlessness overcoming every sense in your body.
Despite the flash of hurt that pangs Eddie’s chest, he speaks up, “I’m just the drugs guy.” He informs her with fake sincerity, one she didn’t notice as her eyes light up slightly at the opportunity struck before her to turn the party up a notch.
You flash Eddie a grateful smile, turning to your friend. “He’s not just the drugs guy,” You begin, and a match of hope lights itself in Eddie. Just say we dated, say we were a thing, a fling, anything, he begs in his mind. “This is Eddie Munson. We…We um- We went to school together. His mom used to clean my house.” You say bluntly, and the match in Eddie dies out quickly.
Suddenly Eddie is reminded why he and you never worked out in the first place; not only did you ever manage to admit to one single person that you and Eddie were together, no, scrap that, in love, with one another, but it reminded him of a time more peaceful than what he’d been through in the years since you. His mother no longer being around was the hardest pill to swallow.
Seeing the disappointment fill Eddie’s eyes, you attempt to reach your arm to Eddie, and he’s letting you, showing no signs of resistance to the attempt of comfort, but you stop yourself just short of his bicep. The hesitation is all too clear all throughout you, body and face and all, and Eddie isn’t sure how much longer he can take this. He doesn’t need to be reminded by the first (and so far only) person he ever loved to tell him through everything but words that he wasn’t good enough.
Eddie lets in a sharp breath of the late autumnal air, the release of it creating a pillow of cold air that wisps around his face. “I best clock in a break, it seems custom has dried up for now.” He announces, as usual with an air of humour laced in with it, but as his eyes shift to avoid yours, he catches Nancy’s instead, who frowns with a level of concern that was equivalent to pity, and Eddie was certainly not in the mood for that.
“Hey Eddie, come play po-” You begin to ask, but Eddie was fast leaving the garden, which has slowly become unbearably stifling despite the chill creating thousands of small goosebumps underneath the leather protection of his jacket.
That drinks table was most certainly going to be raided.
-
You were glad to see Eddie again, you really were - you felt like after so many years being lost and bewildered, trying to find your footing in this weird world, seeing him again felt like she became grounded slightly again. You were really home now.
“So, that’s the infamous Eddie Munson,” Mused Wendy, a friend from college who’d come home with you for the weekend, sharing with you and Nancy an exciting wide smile, almost dying to hear the words that you wanted Wendy and Nancy to play matchmaker.
Wincing, you push her animated friend off of yourself, traipsing slowly back to the house where Eddie had well by now disappeared into. It would be near impossible to find him again in all this space with so many people in it.
Nancy pulls a puzzled face to the pair of friends, “Wait, you liked Eddie too? I just thought he had a massive crush or something.”
“Huh! Liked? The girl was in love with him, Nance. Spent her entire first semester in freshman year wallowing in our dorm for no reason until I finally got it out of her.”
Nancy was even more confused by the statement, and the journalistic instinct in her begged for more information, linking her arm through yours as they carried on their walk back to the loud wall of sound. “What happened between you guys?”
You sighed, looking down at a small chip that’s appeared in her nail polish since coming to the party. As much as it was nice to see Eddie again, reliving the mistakes of your past, and making them again wasn’t something that screamed 21st birthday to you, even if it wasn’t your birthday.
Still, you knew if you weren't going to say now, Nancy would be bugging you until she gave all the details and more. At least now she had control over how much you could reveal. You hadn’t even told Wendy everything, just the basics. “We dated in senior year. I was…concerned with how we’d look together. To everyone else. I knew it wouldn’t help my social status, basically.” You admit guiltily, and you knew that Nancy was smart enough to put the missing pieces of the jigsaw together, and her eyes widen with shock and a slight disappointment when she eventually does.
It made you sting. Yeah, you weren't proud of what you did either.
“And you just…what, haven’t spoken to him since then? Senior year of highschool?” Nancy exclaims out loud, and you try not to notice the sharp daggers Wendy points at the eldest Wheeler sibling, but you shrug it off, the guilt swimming in your lungs.
It was going to drown you.
Shrugging your two friends off your shoulders, you turn to them, a fierce look in your eyes, switching between them and the sight of the dozens of college students all crammed together dancing to whatever was playing. “Will there be lots and lots of booze at this poker game?”
Wendy smirks slightly, grabbing your hand and yanking you back inside the house, the once barely distant thumps of the music (you swore it was quieter before she came out into the garden) now distinctly deafening, feeling your organs jump with you in your body in time with the beat of the tunes. Nancy wasn’t far behind, more cautious than the impulsive actions of your freshman roommate and much more aware that there were other people attending too, but the busyness of the atmosphere has you not thinking straight.
That and the fact that Eddie Munson was at any given place in this house right now.
Approaching the drinks table where they earlier dropped off a polite bottle of wine (it had already been drunk), Wendy grabs three clean plastic shot glasses, reaching for the half-empty bottle of tequila standing nearest to her.
Nancy screws her face up, waving her hand in near total dismissal.
“Oh my God Wendy, you’re trying to kill me. I need a chaser if I’m gonna be forced to shot that.”
Laughing with an almost cynical undertone, Wendy raises the shot glass right under both Nancy and your noses. Both of you share the same look of dread.
“I know none of these small-town Indiana dorks apart from you two, so if I’m gonna have a good time, you’re gonna get wasted with me and we mess around, ‘kay?”
Well, you couldn’t really disagree with that doctrine.
Flinging back shot after shot, the music went from thumping and slightly unbearable beat of the music to danceable and you were even almost starting to enjoy it. You danced with your friends, well, it was dancing in their eyes, squashed among the dozens of people that amalgamated in Steve Harrington’s living room, and although the three of you were panting as you danced, the back of their necks collecting beads of sweat that eventually dripped down your necks, tickling your spines. It had been nice, for once, you thought as you waved your arms around in the crowd, grinning madly at your two friends, that you were able to fully enjoy yourself without consequence. Usually, you had practice in the morning, or study group, or you wouldn’t even be out, writing an essay until the early hours of the morning instead.
There was a slight sadness in your eyes as you danced, too. You might have been drunk and dancing like no one was watching, but she still felt the trickles of dread as the regret you had felt for the whole of freshman year for Eddie had returned in full force.
You were feeling small tears prick the back of your eyes; it came on suddenly, like a big wave at sea that looked small at first but was actually going to swallow you whole, and the dancing came too to a sudden stop.
You swallow thickly, patting your purse around your shoulder to make sure her cigarettes were packed away. “I’m um— I’m going to go for a quick smoke break, ‘kay?” You shout over the throbbing bass, and luckily your wave of emotion came at the right time, both Nancy and Wendy agreeing they’ll meet you in the basement game of poker Jonathan, Robin and Steve were at.
The lighter came in contact with the cigarette as soon as you had stepped outside, and you had never been so grateful to take a puff from something you tolerated at the best of times, walking over to a step at the side of the house, letting the cool air gently penetrate your burning skin.
When holding the stick of tobacco between your two fingers, your mind once again goes to Eddie. How he brought up the fact you told him off as much as you could whenever he smoked one of his own, and how much it was true. The memory brought a bittersweet chuckle past your lips, slightly curved from the nostalgia.
You heard the sound of feet dragging against the pebbles of the driveway behind you, and you weren’t very surprised to see Eddie approach you, his trademark smirk painting his mouth, but it was more subtle than usual.
You throw him a wobbly smile, suddenly feeling the need to put the cigarette out again, so desperately insecure of doing anything remotely bad around him. Eddie, of all people, but you knew it was because these were all things you never would have done in highschool.
He was going to walk past you, step over her tight-clad legs and carry on his journey to what looks like his van, just a few metres off in the distance, but a thought bubbles up in your mind, and you knew it would bug you forever if you didn't ask there and then.
“Do you have regrets?” You ask, just above a whisper but not quite talking at a normal volume. You were nervous to ask.
Eddie turned around, furrowing his eyebrows in curiosity at you. He likes to think he still knows you well enough to know that this isn’t brought on from random drunk thoughts, but he also knew he couldn’t just ask outright what got you asking questions like this. Not anymore, anyway.
He begins to walk back, standing over her just centimetres away, his eyes studying your face, which was turned down to the ground, your lips pursed desperately around the cigarette that was nearly out, looking at you drain everything you could out of it. He decides to perch next to you, leaving a big enough gap that it was considered appropriate. “Regrets about what? Mine are sorted into categories, you know.”
You smile, puffing out a laugh from your nose. “I dunno, like…Do you ever regret not going to college? For not passing senior year first time? All those little things that you could have changed, could have altered to make that slight little bit of improvement, but you just…didn’t?”
Eddie thought about your question, lighting a cigarette of his own while he pondered. “I could’ve, yeah. I could have done all that shit, got a degree, left this town, maybe studied something I knew I would be good at. But, ah, I don’t know. I don’t think there’s any point in wasting my energy on the what ifs. I have shit I gotta deal with now, today, and that takes up enough as it is,” He inhales deep, getting lost in his thoughts while looking at you. He had never seen you so troubled, not even when you two broke up. “I feel like I could have done better, a lot of times, but do I regret it? Rarely.”
You don’t really respond, just sniff and look away again, your hand drawing through your hair delicately, but it was like it was bothering you. Everything seemed to look like everything was bothersome in a way.
“My turn,” Eddie declares, feeling like this was the only way to find out what was wrong with you. He wasn’t even thinking about the fact that he hadn’t seen you in two years, or that forty-five minutes ago he wanted to be anywhere but around you. The need to act like your support dial had overwhelmed him like an instinct. This was natural. “You have never felt the need to feel regret once in your life, sweetheart.”
“Not a question.” You point out.
Eddie chuckles, holding his finger up to you, “Patience, I’m getting there,” And suddenly you turn to him, your body strong and straight, but eyes are full of worry for whatever he could possibly ask. He hopes you know him well enough to still guess it’s probably to get to the bottom of whatever was bothering you. “So you’re obviously regretting something, what is it?”
You huff heavily, and Eddie could sense your walls were going up, defending yourself from the vulnerability and insecurity you once gave herself willingly to with Eddie. You shuffled away one inch. “I haven’t seen you in two years, Munson. You can’t expect me to tell you all my worries and fears like we’re still together.”
Eddie feels the need to remind himself to be patient, swallowing thickly. He can’t help but trick himself into thinking this, looking at you, the moonlight twinkling in your eyes, making you look so ethereal with your beauty.
“You asked first, sweetheart, don’t pretend you don’t miss talking to me.” He replies, but it just seems to have frustrated you more. Eddie knows it’s not frustration directly at him, your frustrated with herself.
You look at him, eyebrows crossed, a crease diving the two of you. “So what? I— ugh! Everything is so fucking complicated!”
“With me?”
“Yes!” You cry, and you’re stood now, pacing up and down the little alley created at the side of Steve’s house. “But no, too. I…seeing you tonight has just thrown me off, that’s all. I…I can’t think straight.”
“Ah, so that’s why to your friends I’m still Eddie, a friend whose mom cleaned for your mom?” He asks, and it was petty, he knows, but the stings of pain just couldn’t help but trickle their way into the conversation. All he ever wanted from you was to just admit that you were both in love, even if it was once upon a time.
You crumple your fists as if you were containing all your anger in there, but when your head throws up to look at Eddie, who’s also stood up by now, your eyes are full of nothing but apology.
“Come on Eddie, you know I never meant that. And…And you always meant more than that to me. So did your mother. She was like family to us.”
Eddie huffs, and the dread returns to him like a bad sickness. He realises tonight, seeing you for the first time in months and months that really, he never got over you. You matter as much to him now and as you did when you were seniors sneaking around, but the insecurity fills his chest when he explores the thought that you could ever have felt the way he did.
Maybe he was too drunk. God knows you were too.
“I think I’m just gonna conduct business from my van for the rest of the night. Enjoy the party, Y/N.” He says defeatedly, walking to his van and expecting his old flame to walk in the opposite direction.
But you didn’t. You didn’t walk away, not this time.
“Well what do you want me to do, Eddie? Take back the past?! That’s impossible!” You ask as you follow him to his van, your hands flying around your face wildly. There were tears glassing over your eyeballs, and no matter how mad at you he is for hurting him, for making him feel every bit like he didn’t deserve to be loved, Eddie’s chest still tightened when he saw you like this. You run your hands through your hair again, practically ruining it, sniffing roughly. “I loved you, I loved you like I’ve never loved anyone else before…and yeah, I couldn’t say it out loud when I was seventeen, and I’m sorry, I really am,” You’re looking at him dead in the eye now, any hesitation or resistance he had seen earlier in the night now completely gone, and Eddie feels a change in the electricity around the two of you when he looks back, “but you can’t punish me forever. I’m done being punished, Eddie. If you wanna move on so badly, do it.”
He thinks you’ve said this because you know deep down that the daring words that drip from your tongue edge Eddie to stay, do the complete opposite of what you’ve offered him. You’re not dumb, you’ve probably noticed the way that ever since you asked him that question at the side of the house that he’s inched closer to you with every word shared between you, nice or not. You can probably smell the mix of musky wood from his cologne and the ashy taste of cigarettes that permanently linger in his mouth, just as he can smell the sweet floral tones of your perfume, a mix of flowers and soap.
You have seen to finally have given him an out. It should have felt relieving.
Yet Eddie just couldn’t back away. He hesitates a scoff, low and scowling, tired of arguing but he has no other way to talk to you right now without wanting to just take your face in his hands and kiss those plump glossy lips of yours. “You still couldn’t even admit we were even together. We’re twenty now. Hell, almost twenty-one. Three years on and you can’t admit it!”
You’re bashful, looking down to the concrete driveway. “I don’t want them to give any more excuses to constantly pick at you.”
“Them?”
“This batshit crazy town, Munson! What do you think people will do when they find out we dated, huh? They’ll tear you apart, think you corrupted me or put your bullshit claims of satanism onto you, and I can’t help you! I’ll be in Emerson!” You say, the tear falling loose from your eye and trailing down your cheek.
Eddie blinks at you, the act of anger slowly washing away on his features. “You heard about everything then, huh?”
“I think I spent my whole summer telling people to go fuck themselves for thinking someone who likes metal and plays a kids fantasy game was capable of murder.” You says with a nervous chuckle, and Eddie’s heart rises to a flutter, staring at you with contentment, and a reminiscent reminder of the way he used to look at you when you were together; with total infatuation.
Suddenly Eddie was stuck.
He was stuck because he had finally been given an opportunity to move on from you, try and forget your face as he lived your life and you carried on with yours in Boston, but he doesn’t think he had ever imagined a more beautiful thought than thinking about you telling a stranger making comments about Eddie the murderer to do one.
He stays stuck while looking at you, leaning against the back door of his van, head staring at the cold night sky, exposing your neck, your chest heaving up and down from the exhaustion of their argument. Eddie couldn’t stop staring, momentarily parting his lips and wetting them with his tongue.
He steps closer to you. It was only one small step, barely stretching his legs before your thighs touched his. You look down again to look him in the eye once more, but differently than before, you’ve noticed the change in air, too. You noticed the way Eddie has his lips slightly parted, his chocolate doe eyes are blown open, pupil swallowing the colour almost entirely. His hand is inching closer to your cheeks, and when his palm eventually comes into contact, you feel singes of his burning hot touch, almost like fire, and it alights a small gasp from your lips, a sound that roars Eddie’s determination to life.
His thumb lowers, tracing delicately down your cheek until it reached the corner of your lips, slightly chapped and the gloss drying in odd places, all the while keeping the fierce hold of your eyes that made you soften and pant harder in anticipation.
A small smirk quirks one side of Eddie’s mouth. He has you right where he wants you, ready for him to launch onto you and get back to what you used to do in highschool, but he wasn’t going to give it to you just yet. “I would kiss you,” He begins, voice low and grumbling a little with the whisper, “But you might not want everyone else to know your pretty little mouth likes kissing the freak of Hawkins.”
Immediately you roll your eyes, your own hand cupping Eddie’s cheek. You take the majority of the leap, their lips in contact but not kissing when you ever so slightly take your back off the van door.
“You kiss me right this second, Munson, or I tell everyone that you cried watching Grease.”
He stifles a snort, smirk only growing wider. “We can't be having that, can we? I have a reputation to think about.”
When their lips finally connect, Eddie feels like he’s truly on fire everywhere, the touch of your lips igniting a burn that’s travelled through every vein in his body. It’s like his body has woken up again after years of being asleep, a jolt of energy surging through his nerves, and he wasn’t going to waste it.
Eddie’s hands instinctively slide onto your waist as the kiss deepens, your mouths open, tongues playing with one another desperately. It was messier than Eddie had ever imagined, and definitely less romantic, but when you settle your arms around his neck, pulling on the hairs at the nape, any coherent thought about his dream reunion with you goes out of the window.
It’s possibly minutes before you finally disconnect, silently making out at the edge of a party like the teenagers they once were when you were together, but you never lose contact, your lips peppering kisses constantly on his lips and around them. Eddie is distracting himself putting his hands under your top, the cold of his hands against the warmth of your belly eliciting a high-pitched whine from you, and it’s a noise Eddie is familiar with.
It had been too long since he heard that heavenly sound.
You seemed to have kicked your thinking brain in, taking Eddie’s face between your hands and taking his lips off your neck. “Do we really wanna do this again? I…I don’t want you to beat yourself up for this.”
Eddie throws her a lust-filled smile, but the question of concern has his heart fluttering. “What did I tell you about me and regrets, darling?”
You throw him a grateful smile, but you still hold him with hesitancy. Oddly though, it’s a different kind of hesitancy than what he’s used to. He throws you a questioning look, and you sift his chocolate waves through your hands when you give in. “I want you to know that I always regretted the way I handled things with you. Because the love I felt for you…the love I feel for you, I never went about it the right way.”
Now the insecurity and fear has left Eddie, because as he looks at you, his hands enveloped in yours and flush against your sternum, trying not to think about those tits he’d missed so much swallowing half the conjoined hands as they squeezed together, he’d finally felt like he understood her side after all this time. You were just as insecure.
“Let me show you then, sweetheart,” He pleads quietly, pressing kisses to each corner of your mouth, “Let me show you how much I missed you.”
Happily relenting, you flush your lips against his, connecting once more, but this time it felt more comforting to the both of them, like coming home at long last. It wasn’t long before your mouths opened for one another, Eddie’s tongue in your mouth and sucking your bottom lip as you mewled in response. His cock twitches when he hears you make those noises, thinking he’d never hear them again yet here he was, against the back door of his van with his lips attacking yours, and your hips pressing into his crotch, making him grunt in response.
“Fuck Eddie,” You pant, already breathless when your lips aren’t on Eddie’s for three long seconds, and Eddie wants to throw his head back if it weren’t for your hands tangled in his hair. “As much as I’m happy to show everyone how much I love me a bit of Eddie Munson, this is a bit public for me.”
Eddie feels himself smirk into your neck, travelling down and he feels his chin touch the top of your tits, and he tilts his head down to kiss them gently. The traces of fingers and fiddling of clothes that so desperately want to be taken off but can’t in the open driveway with random people walking in and out of the house. Your touch feels like feathers along Eddie’s skin, and it makes him just want you more with every growing second.
He accidentally bumps your temple as he grabs onto the back door handle that stood beside you, opening it roughly. “Get in the back sweetheart,” He says lowly, taking his hands and putting them on your waist as he gently hoists you into the back. It was a place of small haven for the both of you, and the reason why Eddie always kept his van so clean compared to everything else he owned.
When you’re in you hold your hand out for Eddie to get in himself, giggling when he shuts it and takes hold of your waist again, finding it impossible to stay away from it, his fingers dancing delicately up your top, slowly making its way up your ribs and to the underwire of your bra. Your small gasp of surprise only encourages Eddie further, his hand reaching to the top of your bra and pulling your tits out, taking your nipple between his fingers and rubbing slowly, your head throwing back to the side of the van as you moan with more vigour, mouth open agape as you breathe heavily.
“Fuck sweetheart, you’re always so noisy for me,” He groans, pinching your nipple for a high-pitched cry, which you gave him with no resistance. His cock lays stiff in his jeans, and he’s not sure how much longer he’s able to wait before he cums in his pants, so his other hand snakes down to where your tights and knickers scantily cover your pussy, rubbing over your clit and hearing you cry out into the crook of his ear.
He does that for a few seconds, switching between making sure each breast sat peaked and awake for him while running your clit, the wetness of your pussy quickly bleeding through the thin layers that protected you, his hips rutting against your thigh as he groans in every rhythmic motion of his hips. Your lips are always on him somehow, and just as Eddie feels like he’s going to burst, feeling his orgasm starting to bloom, his hands travel to your ass, cupping your cheeks in his hands and squeezing before he huskily asks you to jump, your legs wrapped around his waist while you work on getting your tights off, leaving them stretch just below your knees.
Eddie drags his lip between his teeth when he looks down to your panties, the large spot of wet ever so distinct to him, even in the pitch black darkness of the night.
Finally deciding to relieve himself, Eddie uses the one hand he’s not using holding onto you to take his belt off and undo his zipper, moaning with volume as he takes his cock between his hands, squeezing at his base lightly, all the while staring at you, your eyes filled with intense arousal.
“Fuck me, Eddie, please,” You whisper, your forehead resting against his in a sweet manner of intimacy in the heat and sweat of the activity you were both partaking in.
He drags his cock slowly against the thin layer of panties, your moan making him twitch even in his hand.
“I— shit, I’ll fuck you, sweetheart, if you say that you miss me,” He says thickly, his fingers toying with the edge of your knickers.
Forehead still on his, you kiss his cheek gently, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth and then to his lips when you reply, that twinkle in your eyes returned and brighter than ever in the darkness of the back of Eddie’s van. “I miss you Eddie. Jesus fuck, I’ve missed you every day. Not one day I didn’t think about you.”
He seems satisfied with the answer, kissing gently on your lips while he puts your panties to one side, delicately prodding your hole with his finger, and you clenched around him perfectly, dripping wet and waiting for his cock to fill you up all the way.
You both moan loudly when Eddie ruts his hips up, thrusting all the way. He swore he’d never forget how perfect you feel, how you managed to always fit him just perfectly, the right fit for him, but with him inside you once again for the first time in a few tears, it’s like a memory that had come to life once more.
He thrusts with a consistent confident pace, your mouths conjoined to silence the sounds of panting and morning as the van rocked back and forth as he fucked you against the sound of the van, your hands occasionally pulling on his hair when he ruts deeply to your sweet spot.
When you throw your head to the side, your moans getting more pant-like and heavy, and Eddie remembers your queue that you were close, and he was determined not to cum until he had satisfied you entirely.
“Come on baby, I know you wanna come for me. Miss me—fuck, miss me so much you’ll be such a good girl and cum just for me, yeah?” He grunts, his speech coming in time with his thrusts, and your loud moan in response tells him you’re close, really close, his thumb coming to massage circles onto your clit once more.
You moan again, tugging on Eddie’s hair, “I’m gonna cum Eddie.”
He presses a sweet kiss to your cheek, “Cum then, sweetheart. Make me proud,” And it undoes your knot, your orgasm washing over you like a tsunami wave, Eddie feeling himself come undone just when he feels your juices drip down his cock and onto the thighs of his jeans, riding out his high with you by rocking gently, slowly coming to a stop when your moans run out and you tiredly hang your head into Eddie’s neck.
Kissing you once again when he pulls out, a whine of sensitivity leaving your mouth, he pulls your knickers and tights back up, stuffing himself back into his jeans before taking your hand and sitting you down on the small black loveseat he had bought for the band whenever they had practice.
Your head rest against his shoulder, hands mindlessly playing with the zip of his leather jacket while he strokes the top of your hair, pressing occasional kisses into it.
“I meant what I said, you know.” You whisper into the silent air, the van thick and muggy and smelling of sweat and sex that should have been enough to get Eddie out, but he was too tired to care. “I miss you everyday. And I-I fucked up, I know, but I wanna try again, with you,” You sat up now, looking at Eddie straight in the eye. “If you’d let me.”
Eddie smiles, full of love and adoration, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles as if they were made of gold. “I’d be stupid if I let the love of my fucking life get away from me like this again.”
tagging some people i love!
@will-on-the-internet @prettyboyeddiemunson, @benedictscanvas @indouloureux @lilacletter
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson smut#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson ansgt#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson x afab reader#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson one shot#eddie munson x fem!reader#stranger things#stranger things fanfic#eddie munson x gn!reader#stranger things fic#ruby writes
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a charles drabble with love language/s pls.... its all i want its all i have ever wanted
real love baby – cl16
You express love differently, but it’s love all the same.
genre: fluff
auds here... i hope you enjoy it! this is a scheduled post – my brain is so wonky and i absolutely needed to get back into writing before my hands atrophied and i wasted away into dust …. so i worked on a months-old req that i previously scrapped. am i happy w this? well i’ll answer that honestly and say
It happens first when you’re still friends.
Charles gets off a late meeting that’s wormed its way into the late hours of night, costing him hours of rest or training, and the paddock is empty save for staff members setting up for Sunday. He’s still got Sauber merch slung over his arm when he clicks on his car keys—when the lights flash, he notices a shadow by an adjacent car. “Hello?” He calls out, apprehensive. They let anyone into the area these days.
“It’s me,” says your voice, amused at the clear nerves his voice exhibits. “Why’re you leaving so late?”
“I couldn’t leave without making sure everything was set for tomorrow.” There are circles under your eyes, obscured by the lens of your glasses, the ones you wear when you’ve been staring at text or a screen for hours too long. You work a lot in the crux of a season, coordinating investors for Mercedes and making sure money is where it’s supposed to be every single day. “We’re getting budget breach accusations.”
“I planted them,” he jokes half-heartedly, leaning his side against the trunk of your car. You laugh, rolling your eyes. It’s not the funniest joke in the world—it wouldn’t pass at all if he did that at an open mic—but something makes it easy to do so, to throw your head back and affirm his attempt at comedy.
Charles is so tired—from driving in the morning and results in the afternoon to a meeting that lasted hours and discussed basically his entire fucking future—but he enjoys having you laugh at something he’s said. He doesn’t really know why, just savors the way your necklace glints in the dim light of the parking lot and the leftover lighting from the paddock several metres away.
“Funniest joke I’ve heard in a while,” you say mutely, sarcastic. Your car is on but you’re not getting in.
“Does Henry not entertain you with jokes of his own?” He asks lightly, smiling. “Henry? Harry? Or is he busy with… what was it, an online rap career?”
“Harvey.” You’re not laughing, and in fact displaying some expression that’s half amusement/disappointment, but he can spot the beginnings of a smile on your lips. “You knew that. And he’s not an online rapper.” Anymore, you leave out.
“Oh, that’s good. Was worried he was out to get Drake’s career.” You raise a hand to threaten him playfully, a genuine laugh escaping your lips. Your teeth flash and your eyes crinkle and his head doesn’t hurt so much anymore. “Appreciate the jokes while you still can,” he says anyway. “My migraines lately have made me very sluggish.”
You blink, reaching into your patterned handbag and producing a tiny bottle of Advil. “Take it,” you tell him, lips pursed. “Can’t have this year’s best rookie having chronic headaches.” You push it into his hand and smile tightly.
“Thanks,” he stutters, his throat dry. “I’ll see you around. With Harvey, maybe. You could introduce us.”
“Hah. Not sure that’s something I’d… I’d really want,” you dismiss quietly, watching him round the space to open his car. Louder, you add, “Let me know when you’re okay.”
He looks at you then downward. Then at you again, smile on his face. “I will.” He raises the Advil and gives it a shake. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you,” you say, grinning.
—
The next time it happens (the next time you can both remember well, at least) you’re in the sweet little in-between of being friends and something else. He calls it his courting stage; you, your begrudgingly allowing it stage. At that point things had gone awry with Harvey, since he’d decided to jump back into his pursuit of Soundcloud fame.
“Hey.” You duck into the gym room, your head just in between the door and the frame. Seb sees you, bumps his teammate to catch his attention further; Charles jogs to you and leans against the wall, crossing his arms to hear you continue. “I’m leaving early today. No money issues.” You nod squarely. “Parce que I stole the funds.”
“I warned you. If you keep talking about embezzlement I’m going to have to kiss you,” he whisper-jokes, smiling.
He watches you hide a laugh, visibly flustered and stuttery, and he swears his chest hurts from how much it affects him, how strong his attraction is to you. He’s almost terrified of it, comforted only when you open your mouth to respond: “Are you gonna be in early tonight?”
“I, uh—” He turns to Seb. “We’ll be done in an hour, but I’m driving so I’ll wait around ’til later. Just… I’ve been too sore to properly get these moving for long so I need to rest for a bit.” He wiggles his arms and fingers. “It’s, well. The price you pay for being very muscular.”
“Jokes write themselves with you,” you scoff, cocking your head. “Okay, then. Um—I’ll see you.”
An hour later he leaves to take a piss and dick around while waiting for the dull ache at the nape of his neck to relax, and instead finds you in the Ferrari motorhome, close to sleeping. Your eyes snap open when they hear the pad of his sneakers against the floor. “Oh.”
“Oh?” He smiles, his heartstrings tugging. “What’s… what are you doing here?”
“Waiting.” You mirror his expression with quiet grace. “I can drive you back, Charles. It’s—you shouldn’t be driving yourself in this condition. I got Andrea to drive your car to your hotel.”
Despite his protests, he does end up becoming the passenger, and by extension the navigator and deejay, queuing up songs for you both to sing along to. In the unfamiliarity of the city and the dull exhaustion seeping into his bones, though, he’s asleep to a Police song before long. His hand rests softly on the centre console.
At the red light right before the hotel, you interlock your pinkies to wake him up. “Mmmff?”
“We’re near,” you notify, smiling at his sleepy expression.
“Thank you,” he yawns. Then for good measure, “Didn’t know I was in such good hands.”
“You ever gonna stop with the jokes?” You ask amusedly, turning right.
“Not if they make you laugh.”
“They do,” you murmur, fond. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you,” he says quietly, holding your hand fully.
—
Life became a blur of little moments like those after that night.
Sure touches, words of assurance from Charles; little deeds from you. Whispered in French or Italian or English while he wrapped you in an embrace on bad days. A spout of cheers on the better ones. A water bottle with a Post-it: Finish before noon!!! when he’d gone to bed mouthing off about being thirsty. A cup of coffee on the counter the way he liked it on days you both had the time.
Sometimes it would switch: that time you were sick and he showed up to the Mercedes motorhome, Evian and meds in hand every six hours to make sure you were up to sched with your cold medication. That time you wrote him a letter for your third anniversary and watched him wipe tears off his face before he even made it halfway. Another time he organised your flat’s entire bookshelf according to all your standards (only to ask you to move in a week later and redoing the organisation at his place). And another time you gave a speech on Charles at a gala and he accepted the award, again, tearily.
But every action, every word, every joke, every hug, has always been motivated by love. The kind of tender love, that was unfamiliar in the same way it felt so much like home. The kind of love you read about or your parents would send you off to sleep talking about. Love so foolish, but so sure—neither of you have ever needed to doubt for a second. The kind of love so big it should be confusing, but you’ve both come to find it’s anything but, that you always seem to be on the same page, or at least capable of getting there. Closeness, intimacy, friendship—that’s all it’s ever been.
And everything, punctuated with the same sentiment, the same words, ever since the first time:
“Thank you,” he says in one breath, his voice heavy with love, with overwhelm. “Thank you, thank you.” He finds your ring finger and slides the diamond atop it.
“Anything,” you say, smiling in-between kisses, “anything for you.”
#f1#charles leclerc#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc drabble#f1 x reader
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Closed Doors
yan secretary! zhongli x ceo! reader
Lantern Rite was fast approaching. From the glass windows that extended from the ledge at the bottom to the expanse of the ceiling, you could see that every corner and alley was alight with crimson silk and flowers, couplets and ribbons, lights flashing incessantly even in the mind’s eye. Your own office building had some, sporting of the festivities despite the heavy workload the staff have been burdened with recently.
A hand on your shoulder, a whisper of your name, by your ear.
“You have worked hard. Would you care to chat over dinner?”
“...I’m busy, tonight.”
Zhongli pulled back, gently, as if he had taken the rejection well. When has he ever, in this one-sided… situationship… thing?
“Then let me drive you home.”
“No, I’m fine.” You feel like throwing up, even though you had not eaten in many hours. The last time that occured…
No words. He is displeased, and it strikes a hot bolt of guilt through your veins. He did only mean the best for you, your trusted secretary.
“I mean, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“I can assure you, my dear, it is no hassle at all. Do you not trust me to keep you safe, after all these years?”
You sigh. He speaks much like a doting grandfather. Your eyes trail to the two long red strips on the office door.
“ ‘Longevity like the highest West mountains, blossoming relationships akin to the depth of the Eastern sea.’ Isn’t the second part a bit out of place, Zhongli?”
The man in question leaned in, lowering his glasses and scrutinising the words on the couplet. “So it is.”
“Nothing more to say?” That was uncharacteristic of your secretary.
Zhongli coughed, as if to distract that. “I find the emphasis on interpersonal relations between persons agreeable. Is that not something you wish to have in your life, [Name]?”
“I… suppose?”
You knew he wrote it, and dare not remove it from the front doors of the company. You had to settle with unmatching couplets for the next month.
“Speaking of which, [Name]...” he said, tailing behind you at such a leisurely pace that you always had to stop several times for him to catch up. “The, ah, schedule for the company celebration on the second day of Lantern Rite has been updated. I have assigned your seating arrangement near-”
“Oh, right. I forgot to tell you. I won’t be around next month. I’m going back with my family to celebrate.”
…
“Zhongli?”
Why is he…disappointed? It is perfectly fine and common, for the overworked CEO to take time off to visit their loved ones for the holidays. Zhongli still feels an ache in his rustic heart as you said that.
You wouldn’t be spending Lantern Rite with him.
Last year, and the year before that, and the year before as well, you had; too busy slaving for the survival and growth of the company to take the journey home. He doesn’t know what to do with the chip at his feelings knowing you will not be around this year, even if it only consists of the two of you working late nights at the office, and him replacing your lukewarm cup of tea from time to time. By the time he replies you have arrived at your private office.
“... I see.”
After all he’s done for you, as well. Do you view him as nothing but a subordinate?
Zhongli chided himself, shelving these thoughts for later. His younger self would succumb to petty, childish musings like these, and he would imagine he has matured.
He sees you falter, perhaps noticing the shift in mood. “Are you going anywhere for Lantern Rite?” you asked.
He smiles, not too broadly, making sure to keep his eyes still.
“Where has an old man like me to go, except for work?”
To the untrained eye, you seem unphased, but your secretary knows better. With a little observance, he can detect your uncomfortable twitches, fidgeting, wandering eyes. And, contrary to public belief, Zhongli can be very observant. How do you think he picks out the gem amongst stones? To him, you are that very diamond he so desires.
“Please, you are hardly half the age you act. You could… take a trip somewhere south, escape the cold…”
How intriguing. Before you can blink he towered over you, arm brushing against your shoulder. Zhongli looked you directly in the eyes, without a hint of warmth or the usual wise whimsy he conducts himself with.
“A most interesting suggestion. However I do not intend to go holidaying off by myself.”
You had no response to that, still recovering from the apparent change in attitude of your secretary.
“Not to mention, I would… how do I phrase this… find myself missing you terribly.”
For a moment, you think you see the amber in his eyes morph into a disgusting, bloody red. It could easily be passed off as reflection from the hanging lanterns.
He continues, when you don’t speak. “So, when you return to your, ah, loved ones, partake in the wonders of tradition and communal gathering… please think of me as well.”
A sweet statement turned sinister. Was this how he had gotten you to stay for the past year, and all the Lantern Rite’s before that?
Come to think of it, you don’t know why you were so busy back then either.
“After all, [Name]...”
He would do anything to keep you here, under his watchful eye and within his clutches.
“What is a poor old man to do, without you?”
He tried to play it off as a joke, a light-hearted statement made meant for mild amusement. You seemed to take it well, offering a hesitant chuckle. If you find this off-putting, he would hate for you to discover what he did to earn his position as your secretary. When he was young it would have been much more… how to put it? Physically forceful.
The bloodlust from them has since faded. How would you feel seeing him slathered in crimson? Cringe in fear and revulsion, or praise him for his devotion?
He finds violence by his own hands unnecessary, now. He can do just as much and more with the influence he currently wields.
The manager who tried to seduce you, the owner of a rival company’s snark comments, all the scathing words of Internet users who think it so clever to be cruel to you behind a screen… one way or another, he has taken care of them as a good secretary would.
All that has paid off. Now he is your most trusted staff, the one who understood every quirk and minute action. No one had been through every high and low, seen you inside and out like he has.
He caresses you so gently, as if you were the most delicate petal or the most fragile diamond. As if all this was right and normal, for a secretary to do.
Who would suspect Zhongli the gentleman, collected, distinguished and composed of such depravity?
“Good morning, dear. Happy Lantern Rite.”
You trusted him, wholeheartedly.
But when you eventually wake up in his arms, in his bed, to the sound of firecrackers and joyful festive cheers, even after he promised the last time that it was a one-time mistake and would not happen again, you’re not quite sure you do, anymore.
#yandere x reader#yandere genshin impact#yandere genshin#yandere genshin x reader#tw yandere#leos works#yandere secretary#yandere zhongli#yandere zhongli x reader
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Make You Feel My Love (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Sized Female Reader
Summary: “I will tell you everyday how much I love you and how perfect you are to me. If you can’t believe it for yourself, I’ll believe it for both of us.” When the reader is having trouble loving herself, Bucky tries to remind her.
Warnings: Angsty beginning with happy ending; talk about gaining weight/slightly negative body talk; slight allusions to smut (blink and you'll miss them); mentions of past injury (gsw, passing out).
Author's Note: For me, being plus sized can be great and sometimes not so great. So I wrote this story for me and I hope that you like it. Comments and reblogs always appreciated!
************************************************************************
“I’m not going!”
Bucky leaned his head against the door to the bathroom and sighed.
“Doll, please come out so we can talk?”
“No! Bucky I’m not going so can you please leave?”
“Baby, please I just want to talk to you.”
Bucky waited, and he could feel his heart cracking when he heard the muffled sniffles coming from the bathroom. He glanced over to the doorway into his room and shook his head at Steve and Wanda, who were peering into the room. They slowly backed away as he continued to knock on the bathroom door.
There was a September Foundation gala happening in just over four hours and the compound was buzzing with preparations. Tony had been at the tower all week, waltzing around and telling a team of interns and designers to move decorations three inches to the left (with Pepper following close behind to move them back to their proper place). The team was in full glam mode with stylists and makeup artists running from room to room.
Which is why when he’d heard the slam of the door to Y/N’s room and a personal stylist huffing angrily down the corridor, he had poked his head into her room to see what the matter was. Only to catch the tail of her robe disappearing into her bathroom. He’d knocked, only to be denied entry with a firm refusal to open the door. Which is where he was now, standing barefoot in front of her bathroom begging her to let him in.
“Can you at least tell me if you need me to track down that stylist and put the fear of God in them?” he tried.
“Please don’t, Bucky.” Y/N whimpered and Bucky sobered immediately.
“Baby, please let me in because I’m starting to panic and I will break down this door if I have to. Especially if someone hurt you.” he said gravely.
“No one hurt me, Buck! Please I just need you to leave me alone!” she insisted. Bucky sighed, turning from the door to sit beside it. He was trying really hard to not let the rejection sting, but there was a part of him deep down that was still bothered.
He and Y/N had been together just a little over 8 months. She had started working at the compound a few weeks after he’d joined the Avengers as an analyst and had become an integral part of the team. He’d never known mission briefings to be as interesting as they were once Y/N had come aboard. They had flirted, a glimmer of the old Bucky breaking through the trauma and insecurities, and he’d been toying with the idea of asking her to dinner.
But then a mission in Versailles threw a wrench in the plans. It was supposed to be a quick in and out reconnaissance mission: Steve and Nat with Bucky for backup. But Y/N needed to also come to decrypt the files Nat was retrieving from the museum. Nat was on lookout, but the guards were too quick and before she could take them all out and before he had reached the threshold of the office, one had gotten off a shot. Dr. Cho had told them later that a millimeter closer and it would have severed Y/N’s carotid. Instead it had fractured her collar bone and sent her careening into the window behind her, shattering the glass. Bucky had felt a glimmer of the old soldier, long dormant since Shuri’s reprogramming had been successful, take over and the remaining guards were dead before they could draw another breath. Steve ordered him to provide cover as the four of them escaped and flew home as fast as they could. All Bucky remembered from that night was holding Y/N’s hand as she sobbed in pain and whispering assurances in her ear until she passed out from the pain and blood loss.
He hadn’t left her side the two days she was in the med bay. When she woke up after surgery, he was there. He had tried to leave her once, to give her space, but she had already tugged him closer and pulled his lips down to meet hers in a gentle but passionate kiss.
“Sorry it took me so long, but getting shot will do that,” she’d murmured. He’d laughed and kissed her again. And he hadn’t stopped for 8 months.
Now though, he worried that something had happened. Maybe she had finally realized the Soldier and his actions were too much to excuse and she couldn’t bring herself to break it off gently? Maybe she’d found someone with less baggage?
“Y/N. I just…I just need you to know how much I love you. You are the most important thing in the world to me and your happiness is priority number one for me. I…I would not be alive now if it wasn’t for you and you are the reason that I wake up in the morning.”
He heard some shuffling and then he could feel her body lean against the door. He got up and rested his head against where he knew hers would rest.
“I love you too, Bucky.” she whispered. Bucky felt the hole in his heart mend itself and he sighed in relief.
“Baby, I know you might not want to talk about it and if you really don’t want to go tonight, I will respect that. But I really do need you to open the door. Please, because I never want you to feel like you have to shut me out. We’re partners and when something bothers you, it bothers me.”
“I know Buck. It just…ugh I hate this feeling!” she groaned. She sniffled again and Bucky waited.
“My dress doesn’t fit.” she whispered. Bucky felt his heart skip and he sighed in defeat.
Y/N was plus sized. She was a beautiful, confident woman who embraced her curves and never let archaic societal expectations get in the way of loving herself. Bucky was enamored with her confidence and considered her the sexiest woman he’d ever met. But there were days where clothes fit tighter or sitting in a theater was uncomfortable, and Y/N was reminded that the world was not created for people who looked like her. Bucky would try to listen to what she needed in the moment: space, righteous anger, ect. And he was always sure to worship her body when they were alone. He loved all of her, every single part, and he tried everyday to tell her.
The stylists had received strict instructions from Nat and Pepper (and him) to provide more than enough dresses in her size to give her a wide range. She’d had a ball trying them on and modeling them for the girls and she’d promised him that he could have his fun getting her out of the dress (with a slight preview that night).
“Baby,” he murmured sadly.
“I know that I haven’t been eating super well and my shoulder was bothering me so I haven’t been to the training gym in a couple weeks but… I just thought… it hasn’t been that long! And the dress wasn’t snug the last time I tried it on…” she sniffled again.
“Y/N, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved that dress.” he said into the door.
“It’s dumb,” she said, tearfully. “I shouldn’t be crying over a stupid dress but…it’s just one of those things, y’know?”
“It’s not dumb, Y/N.” Bucky said, vehemently. “Nothing you feel is ever dumb. And you never have to minimize what you’re feeling, especially with me.”
“I know, baby. And I love you so much. I just…I don’t want to feel like this. I’ve worked really hard to love my body and all it takes is a stupid dress for it to all come crashing down.”
Bucky stood silent for a moment, wishing he could take away the hurt she was feeling. Even for a moment.
“Doll? Can you open the door for me? I want to see you.” he murmured gently. He heard Y/N sigh before the lock twisted and the handle turned. He waited as she gently swung the door open.
The dress was a cobalt blue, tea length dress with pleats in the skirt. The bust had molded cups and was held up by thin spaghetti straps. Bucky’s eyes ran up the dress to meet Y/N’s frustrated glance. Her eyes were swollen from crying and she looked frazzled and defeated.
“It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn, and it won’t freaking zip,” Y/N grumbled, turning and showing Bucky the gaping back. Sure enough, the clasps of her strapless bra and the top of her shapewear showed from between the teeth of the zipper.
“The stylist tried three times to get that zipper to work and they finally gave up. Bucky, this is humiliating!” Y/N’s lip trembled and her eyes began to glass over with tears.
“Hey, hey look at me,” Bucky insisted. He took her face in his hands and met her gaze intently.
“First thing is: I love you more than anything on this earth. You are the single most important thing in my life.” he began. Y/N choked back a sob as Bucky pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“The second is…” he turned them to face the full length mirror sitting in the corner of Y/N’s room. Bucky’s arms wrapped around her waist and he rested his head on her shoulder. He could feel the smooth fabric of the dreaded dress in his flesh hand and the warmth of her skin underneath. How many times had he held her this way, reveling in the feel of her surrounding him? How many times had he traced patterns on her soft skin? He didn’t think he would ever tire of it.
“The second is that you are perfect no matter what you wear. You could be wearing the most haute couture outfit or my old t-shirt that mysteriously keeps finding its way into your laundry basket and you will still be the most beautiful, most radiant woman that I have ever had the honor of calling my partner.”
Y/N bit her lip to push back the tears as her arms came up to cover his around her waist. He could feel her melting into his embrace and he kissed her shoulder beside the loose strap of her dress.
“I know that there will be other days like this ahead, and while I wish that there won’t be, all I can do is promise to always tell you all the ways that you are so much more than the dress size you wear. You are sweet and kind and smart and hilarious. You never let Sam and Tony get away with the bullshit and you are fiercely loyal to the people you love. And I have never seen someone be able to reconnaissance a three floor HYDRA warehouse faster than you can. You are the glue that holds our team together, Y/N. You have saved our lives more times than I can count.
“And there are still days that I can’t believe you even glanced in my direction, let alone chose me to hold your heart. You saw through the darkness and destruction in my soul and you helped me let the light in. I will spend everyday making myself worthy of your love, but you never ever have to shrink yourself to a box to make others love you.”
Y/N turned in his arms and pulled him down to meet her lips in a searing kiss. Her arms wrapped around his neck to tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, and his hands traveled from her hips and around her back to pull her closer.
When they pulled away, lips swollen and breathless, he cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb across her face.
“If you don’t want to go to this gala, I will happily tell Tony to fuck off and we will do whatever you want to do,” he promised. Y/N sighed, looking away briefly.
“I want to go so badly, but the dress…”
“...has arrived!” came a voice from the doorway. They turned to see Nat and the stylist from before striding in with a garment bag slung over their shoulder. Bucky remembered suddenly that their name was Zo.
“What?” Y/N asked, confused. “What are you talking about? I’m currently wearing the dress and it does not fit.”
“You’re currently wearing that version of the dress,” Zo said, unzipping the garment bag to reveal an identical dress to the one Y/N was wearing. Y/N stared at it, dumbfounded.
“I was told this was one of a kind,” she murmured, reaching out to feel the fabric.
“Well as far as the stylists knew, it was. But I know this designer and she is working on expanding her plus size brand, so I had a hunch she had some sample sizes stashed somewhere. All it took was a quick phone call, a police escort thanks to Tony Stark, and now you have your dream dress that I will happily tailor to you. But I am not a miracle worker so say buh-bye to your hunky arm candy and let us work our magic! We only have three and a half hours to make you dazzling.”
“She already is,” Bucky interjected strongly. Zo rolled their eyes and motioned to Natasha, who grabbed Bucky and began hauling him out the door.
“Hang on a second!” he protested, pulling out of her grasp. He turned back to a bewildered Y/N and kissed her deeply.
“Could I at least help you out of this one?” he teased cheekily. Y/N laughed as Nat groaned in disgust and pulled him away.
“I swear to God I will kick your ass, Barnes,” Nat grumbled, “Now go get yourself pretty while we pamper your girl.”
She promptly launched him out of the room as a team of makeup artists and stylists filed in and slammed the door behind her. Bucky grinned and made his way back to his room to put on his tux and grab the surprise he’d been waiting to give Y/N.
Three and a half hours later, he was back waiting in front of Y/N’s door. His short, dark hair was styled back, and the cobalt blue pocket square tucked into his classic black tuxedo jacket matched the color of Y/N’s dress perfectly. His vibranium hand, encased in a black glove, fiddled with the box in his pocket and he tapped his shiny polished dress shoes nervously. Just as he was about to knock, the door flew open and Zo appeared, looking positively giddy.
“She is a masterpiece!” they declared, ushering him inside. When Bucky made it through the door, he froze at the sight of Y/N’s figure in front of the mirror.
The dress, now zipped and tailored perfectly to her body, seemed to shimmer in the light as it accentuated her curves before flowing from her waist, around her hips, and stopping at the middle of her calves. She wore two inch high, black block heels and her hair was styled down and loose around her face. Her makeup made her skin look luminescent and her eyes bright. When her gaze caught Bucky’s, she smiled widely and Bucky knew the storm had passed.
She was absolutely ethereal.
“What do you think, Y/N?” Zo asked, moving past Bucky’s prone form to pick imaginary lint off of the dress. Y/N smiled brilliantly at them and took their hand.
“It’s perfect. And I cannot thank you enough for everything, Zo. I feel…”
“Gorgeous,” Zo finished, squeezing her hand. Y/N nodded and Zo discreetly stepped aside as Bucky’s breath returned to him.
When he took a step towards her, Natasha’s hand flashed out to stop him. She had changed into her figure hugging black gown with a sweetheart neckline and long side slit and it made her look even more dangerously beautiful than she was in her widow suit.
“If you even think about messing up her makeup, I will take you down. Behave.” she murmured. Bucky rolled his eyes. He had been to enough events with Y/N that he knew to never kiss her directly on the lips or cheek when her makeup was that flawless.
Instead he approached her and took her hand in his, stooping down to plant a gentle kiss to her knuckles. He heard Zo and the other stylists swoon behind him, but he only had eyes for Y/N.
“Hey handsome. You clean up nice,” Y/N teased. Bucky stood up straight and pulled her closer.
“Ни на одном языке нет слов, чтобы описать, насколько ты прекрасна,” he whispered in her ear. Y/N shivered and he grinned. He knew how much she loved hearing him speak Russian.
“I love you, моя любовь” he murmured fiercely. Y/N smiled and smoothed her hands across his lapels.
“I love you too,” she murmured back. He chuckled and she cleared her throat, remembering their audience.
“Shall we?” she asked. She moved to step around him before he gently pulled her back.
“One second. I was waiting to give you this until tonight.” He handed her the box as Natasha herded the stylists out of the room. She glanced up at him in confusion before opening the top of the box. She gasped in surprise and delight.
“Oh Bucky,” she breathed. Bucky reached in and pulled the necklace out, letting it shimmer in the light.
“The sapphire is from an old brooch of my ma’s that Steve helped me track down. My dad saved for a year to buy it for her and she wore it to church every Sunday. And I had it set with a couple of the diamonds from your mom’s ring.” Y/N reached out and held the pendant of the necklace in her hands.
The sapphire was set in the center with two oval diamonds on either side. They touched at the bottom before fanning out away from the sapphire.
“I remember that brooch from a picture you showed me. Bucky, this is the most amazing gift you could have ever given me! Thank you, my love,” she said, reaching up to kiss him. She turned and let him place the necklace around her neck and fasten it before he pressed another kiss to the clasp at the nape of her neck. She turned back to him and wrapped her arms around him.
“Thank you,” she murmured. Bucky smiled.
“For what? The necklace?” he asked, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Well that, of course. And for loving me when it’s really hard to love myself.”
“I meant what I said,” he insisted. “I will tell you everyday how much I love you and how perfect you are to me. If you can’t believe it for yourself, I’ll believe it for both of us.”
“Back atcha, baby.”
With one last quick peck, she turned and took his hand to lead him into the hallway. They made their way through the hallways until they reached the main elevator.
“Wait…weren’t there two sapphires on that brooch? What are you going to do with the other?” Y/N asked as they entered the elevator. Bucky grinned.
“I have something special planned for that one,” he said slyly, pressing a quick kiss to her left hand ring finger.
************************************************************************
“Ни на одном языке нет слов, чтобы описать, насколько ты прекрасна,”= “There are no words in any language to describe how beautiful you are.”
"моя любовь" = "My love."
Thank you everyone for reading! Let me know what your thoughts, feelings, ect.
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x plus size reader#the winter soldier#captain america#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes fanfiction#james buchanan barnes#bucky barnes angst#bucky barnes fluff#b's fanfics
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my mariposa -> w. rojas
WARNINGS: sappiest shit in the world, new dad warren and secondary godfather eddie
SYNOPSIS: just a little domestic snapshot of you and warren as new parents. A follow up to this fic.
word count: 1,324
You awoke to peace and quiet. Sleep left you in degrees, until you were laying on your back in bed watching the bright morning sunlight stream through the open window and onto your quilt with a quiet kind of content. For a few blissful moments, you just soaked up the sun and slowly warmed up to the morning.
And then you sat bolt right up in bed.
The quiet was too good to be true, too unnatural, considering you were in possession of a two month old baby, and one that seemed to really enjoy crying, at that. You threw the blankets off your legs and stood up, stumbling your way to the door to go to the room next door, which used to be Warren’s until he officially moved into yours (as if he wasn’t already spending most nights in your bed) and was now your daughter, Mariposa’s nursery.
When you reached the nursery’s doorway, you paused. Warren was standing in front of the crib, your tiny daughter held in front of him as he gently bounced her, softly singing the lyrics to The Rolling Stones’ She’s A Rainbow. Her eyes– perfect carbon copies of Warren’s own warm brown ones– were wide open, staring up at him, and he was staring down at her just as enraptured. You leaned against the doorframe taking in the scene, feeling your heart swell with so much affection you thought it would well and truly burst.
As Warren finished singing to her, he shifted slightly and caught sight of you in the doorway.
“Mornin’, mama,” he said softly, grinning over at you. You padded across the room and pulled his face down into a kiss before leaning your head on his shoulder, both of you looking down at your baby girl.
“Morning you two,” you responded, reaching down to brush a finger against one of Mari’s chubby cheeks. “When did you get up, baby?”
“Oh, maybe twenty minutes ago,” Warren shrugged. “I came in here and this one was already awake, laying there just looking around. She’s so curious, isn’t that right mi reina?”
Mariposa gurgled in response, and Warren nodded seriously as if she just imparted upon him some sage wisdom. He shifted her until she was laying against his chest, nuzzled safely in both of his arms. It was his favorite way to hold her; he said it was the best way to feel her breathing and her heartbeat and, of course, that there was no place safer for his little girl than right there in his arms.
“What do you want for breakfast?” you asked.
“I’ll have whatever you’re craving,” Warren responded. You nodded, kissing his cheek and then the baby’s before meandering your way down to the first floor of the house.
On your way down the stairs, you could already hear somebody, or several somebodies, clanking around in the kitchen. When you reached the room, you saw Eddie at the stove, flipping pancakes, and Karen sitting at the table, staring into a glass of orange juice and looking like she was still mostly asleep.
“Good morning,” you chirped, “d’you need any help, Ed?”
“Oh, morning!” Eddie said, turning around to you. “Where is she?”
“I’m assuming you mean the star of the show?” Warren asked, coming into the kitchen behind you with Mariposa.
“Yes! (y/n), watch the pancakes,” Eddie demanded, departing immediately from the stove with his hands out towards the baby. “Come to your godfather, Posie.”
Warren handed Mariposa over to Eddie, who held her in the same protective position that her father did, as you took over the job of flipping pancakes. Warren made his way through the kitchen towards you, coming to stand behind you and snake his arms around your waist, resting his chin in the crook of your neck.
“Hey, lady,” he said quietly into your ear.
“I swear we just did this upstairs,” you remarked, amused with your fiancè.
“Yeah, but I was holding Mari so I didn’t get to hold you,” he protested, tightening his arms around you to emphasize his point.
“You’re gonna make me burn the pancakes, Rojas,” you said, struggling to maneuver the pancakes from the pan and onto the serving plate that Eddie had put out.
“I’m okay with burned pancakes, Rojas,” he retorted, and you could feel his cheek lift into a grin against your skin. With the last of the pancakes on the plate, you turned in Warren’s arms, slinging our own around his neck.
“You’re very needy,” you said, leaning in to kiss him.
“You love me for it.”
You hummed. “Yes, I do. I think you’re cute when you’re needy.”
“Oh yeah?” Warren asked, brow arched. “Guess I better start following you around more often.”
“I don’t think it’s even actually possible for you to follow me around more than you already do. Now go sit so you can eat.”
“Yes ma’am,” Warren nodded, backing up to take a seat at the table. You took the pancakes and the syrup over to the table and set them in the middle of your three bandmates.
“Okay, Ed, you want me to take her now so you can eat?” you asked, hand on your best friend’s shoulder. He looked up at you, scandalized.
“Absolutely not,” he shook his head. “I can eat and hold a baby at the same time, thank you.”
You laughed, shaking your head at him. “Okay, if you insist. Then I’ll sit and enjoy a meal that I can eat with both hands free, in that case.” You moved around the table and took a seat next to Warren, who had already fixed a plate for you.
“So, I was thinking,” Warren said, turning to you. “We have a free day, so I thought we could take Mari down to the beach? Camila gave us that picnic blanket, we could pack lunch and stay out for the day.”
Camila had gifted the two of you the large orange picnic blanket the other day, saying she’d taken Julia out for the day to the flea market, and when she saw it, she immediately thought of you. You didn’t expect Warren to get as excited about it as he did, and he’d been planning for the three of you to get out and use it the next free day you had.
Really, you thought it was incredibly sweet. All those months ago when you had first told him you were pregnant, he had promised to be there for you whatever you wanted to do, and you had never doubted that. But as your pregnancy progressed, you found yourself worrying more and more about whether or not he would take to the dad life. If he would want to take to it. You wouldn’t have blamed him if he didn’t; you found yourself scared that you wouldn’t take to motherhood all the time, so it only made sense to you that he was probably having the same fears. And, well, you knew it just as well as anybody else that fathers had a much easier get-out-of-jail-free card when it came to checking out of parenting.
But that hadn’t happened. Warren had fallen in love with Mariposa the minute you told him about her, that much was clear. He talked your ear off every single night about all of the things he was excited to do when the baby came. And when she was born, that love was only solidified tenfold. He held her for the first time, and you’d never seen anyone look so in love with anything before in your life. That love only seemed to grow every single day he spent with her. You marveled all the time at how lucky you were, to have gotten yourself into this situation with a man like Warren.
“That sounds perfect,” you told him, “We can dress Mariposa in that teeny tiny bathing suit Graham bought for her!”
taglist: @eonnyx
#daisy jones and the six#djats#eddie roundtree#eddie loving#warren rhodes#warren rhodes x reader#warren rojas#warren rojas x reader#graham dunne#karen sirko#karen karen#billy dunne#camila dunne#daisy jones
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but then…Gigi
Part 4 - A Big Daddy Elvis Fanfiction
Previous chapter link for context, picking up where we left off
I owe so much thanks to my friends for all their help and input and the joy they bring me, thanks to them and my precious followers this fluffy/wacky little universe even exists. I’ve never had so much fun on a collaboration before in my life, I love y’all so.
Warnings: 18+, sexual content and heavy themes… ok so this is smutty and fluffy, right? But still there are some things that might be offensive regarding narrator’s voice so I want to warn about those and distinguish them from my own opinions. For much of this part we are in Elvis’ head and, due to it being summer of ‘77 -it’s a bit of a rollercoaster in there. Please be warned there are throwaway lines reflecting poor self esteem, depression, misogyny, severe health issues and the use of the word fat to describe oneself negatively.
Enjoy
💄💄💄💄💄💄💄💄💄💄💄💄💄💄💄
Elvis feels a pang of sympathy for his boys’ hysteria when he runs into a crowd of fans as he himself sits panicked in the Stutz, engine off and his shades on, watching Gigi check that the coast is clear on the sidewalk and buzz into her apartment building -in just his jacket and panties. Her sandals are gone somewhere, too, probably back at Graceland. Only that anklet left on like some harem jangle.
Her sooties must be burning on the sunbaked concrete, maybe that’s why she’s skipping everywhere she goes like a damn foal. His blood pressure feels like it’s skyrocketing just watching this show and the fact she looks like she’s in her element terrifies and excites him and -getting to know Gigi is a dangerous hobby.
As shameless as a toddler that one, and every bit as unpersuaded about needing to give a shit about things like flashing her butt cheeks for all of Memphis.
Her tanned butt cheeks.
Which brings up all sorts of questions he’s too scared to ask and will have to address with Tammy. He’s sure she’s to blame for nude sunbathing, he just hopes that wildcat has enough decency to do it privately. Very privately. Hopefully in a bullet proof bunker if Gigi is with her. This girl has been directionless and fatherless for too long; Elvis’ mouth dries out in anticipation of being that guiding, molding, firm hand in her life -the rest of his body too sedated to respond normally although he feels that weird ass dribble his pecker has recently started to do when it’s very much willing but can’t physically swell to poke a gal. He thoroughly regrets not wearing underpants to catch some of this… horny… pre-cum…incontinence…the baby blue of his tracksuit showing a small stain on his leg. Just the size of a penny. Maybe a quarter.
He takes his glasses off and rubs at his sweaty eyes.
Gigi is standing in the opened doorway, waving him in with a huge, expectant smile on her face, and feeling something he hasn’t felt since 1955 sneakin’ into Barbra’s room, he lumbers out his side of the car and doesn’t even bother to make sure no one’s looking, even though she whipped her head around to clock their surroundings like top paid security for his sake. If someone sees and thinks he’s going into a college girl’s dorm to corrupt her then they’d be right, and it'll make far prettier gossip than what’s coming out in Red’s book next month.
He slips past her and she runs her hand along his chest as he goes by, giddy and fond. She waves to someone behind his back,
“Hey Paolo! Good afternoon!” Elvis turns just in time to see an old shriveled man in an undershirt waving wildly at her as the door shuts.
“Who’s that?”
“Our repairman. Sweetest little man.” Gigi gushes and Elvis motions for her to lead the way up the stairs while speculating with nauseating surety on what Gigi might be found wearing -or not wearing- when dear sweet shriveled perverted Paolo makes up a problem with her sink and comes into her apartment. “He’s taught me how to make Limoncello jello! You won’t find anything more refreshing!”
“How very epicurean for a regular, ole handyman.” he can’t help but grumble, usually highly self-aware and unbiased for the potential learnedness of common folks. He knows he’s one. But right now he wants to make a carpet from Paolo’s nose hair.
“What does epicurean mean?” Gigi doens’t without missing a beat as she unlocks her own front door.
Now they’re back on solid, Elvis-worthy ground, he can smile indulgently as he enters her space and explain, “Somebody who likes to in-duuulge in the luxurious and the sensuuaal, it was a whole philosophy.”
“Oooh, that explains why I didn’t understand.” she giggles, “I’ve flunked philosophy twice and I’ve got a whole pile of papers over there that’s supposed to be homework but a hero of mine invited me to go swimming at his place so, there they sit!” she shows off a rather alarming stack of papers next to the poorly made up bed, half hidden by the swim suits and cut offs strewn about the carpet. “Sorry for the mess, a lotta the girls got ready over here and wrecked it. Half of it is mine though, you should’ve seen the things they suggested I wear for you! Thongs, Elvis! Actual thongs! And here I was unsure if you felt just fatherly towards me or what so I- I didn’t wear a thong.”
Elvis takes a seat on her bed since he figures they’re now past being modest about what they’re gonna do and asks, “What’s a thong?”
“You don’t- it’s this sorta thing.” Gigi is a little shocked that this man of the world doesn't know such a thing and spins around a few times before finding a very small scrap of fabric and bending over, she picks it up. Elvis forgets what she was getting off the floor for a few minutes before she starts spreading the fabric strings apart and pronouncing, “This is a thong!”
Elvis squints his eyes as if trying to see a ship on the edge of the horizon or something, “I don’t get it.” he says at last, “How’s it work? Go around your neck?”
“No, silly!” she giggles even harder in shocked exasperation, “It’s panties.”
“No way in hell.” he sounds awed, “No way, how in tarnation does that work?”
“They’re like…very little, small, tiny panties!” she explains with a hyped tone as if the more enthusiastic she is the quicker he’ll get the mechanism.
“That -those ain’t gonna hold or cover nothin’.” he insists, “Now you’re the one pullin’ my leg.” he notices there’s a magazine with his face on it stashed under the teetering bedside lamp and makes mental note of that before leaning back against her massive stuffed bear.
“They’re not supposed to work, they’re supposed to be sexy?” she tries again before playfully putting them on her head and striking a pose.
“Sexy, hmm?” he rumbles, his eyes twinkling and she knows she’s got his interest at least, whether he’s fibbing ignorance on knowing about thongs or not, she can’t tell. Suddenly it strikes her that Elvis Presley himself is lounging on her bed, leaned against the stuffy she grinds herself on to the thought of him pretty regularly. Suddenly having his jacket zipped at all feels oppressive from the rush of heat that sight floods her with.
“If they were for comfort we’d just go without.” she laughs, “They dig up into your…” she looks about before dropping her voice and taking a couple steps closer to him, “butt crack.” she blushes furiously at having to name it and his fingers itch to do unspeakable things to this little girl.
“Show me.” he says, low and steady and a little removed, just cool enough to be commanding, just warm enough to make her feel (very) admired. He sees her sweet blush turn into droopy lidded arousal before his very eyes and with meek acceptance she hooks her fingers into her swim bottoms without a pause.
They drop to the floor in a nylon puddle between her legs. Just like that. Simple as that, her bare little pussy lips are peaking out from his jacket at him and she smiles gently at his shock as she hooks her legs through the thong’s leg holes and shimmy’s the stupid excuse for lingerie up her stems. “It’s just you, daddy.” she explains in a confidential whisper that melts his heart.
“Yeah, jus’ f’me, baby girl.” he makes a pronouncement of his own, hushed and boyish and her own heart feels too big for her chest at the way his blue eyes somehow soften in wonder at her exposed self. She had expected something rougher, ravenous, impetuous. Not this revenant appreciation that bends his whole frame towards her with open mouthed puffs of longing. He aches, wishing he’d brought his Polaroid to snap this memory forever, add it to his collection. A little something tangible he could thumb at it in the future and remember this night when an terribly hot, painfully young, big tittied woman had wanted him.
“Will ya do a lil spin f’me? Wouldn’t want that wedgie to go unappreciated, now would we? So sweet to try it on for me.” he coos and then hums deep and appreciative as she does a couple slow spins for him, that humm she’s only ever heard in amplified concert footage sending sparks to her very toes.
“You like them?” she asks, toes curling in nervousness for his verdict.
He lounges back and strokes his mouth a few times while cocking his head to the side. She’s breathing so heavy he thinks if he even blew on her she’d come. “They’re practical.” he decides definitively.
“Are they?” she sighs with relief.
“Mhmm,” he mumbles soberly, “quite. For what we’re up here to do, they’re practical.” he adds this slowly and doesn't miss her shudder or the way her eyes light up in relief that they’re getting to the point. He likes that she’s letting him lead, she’s a good girl. “Step closer baby.” he stays lounging so she does all the work and when she gets to the edge of the bed he keeps motioning with his fingers until she’s kneeling on it herself, clambering forward over his lap. “See, when a man makes a meal of a lady’s lil garden, s’real important to have unrestricted access.” he proves his point by slipping his index finger along that abominably small seam of fabric that’s poofy and filled out with bare labia lips.
“Daddy.” she wails at the contact, shaking apart already and that along with her little place has his head thudding some kinda way. She’s gripping onto his neck, near clawing whatever part of him she can grab, close to tears again like a child not getting what she wants. The art of the tease seems lost on her, she’s so hungry.
He’s gotta ask. “Honey, y-yo- honey you ain’t actin’ younger for my sake, are ya?”
“Oh no,” her face turns down again and he’s done it again, insulted her somehow, “you find me immature?”
“No!” he shouts and then tries to moderate himself, “No, no it’s jus’ that -you’re a baby, thas all.”
“Well,” her grin is guileless, “you’ll just have to bear with me, big daddy, I’m all so excited I’ve got Elvis Presley in my room! Elvis Presley! You’re Elvis Presley.”
“I-I-I am.” he admits, perturbed, “What’s wi- why Big Daddy?”
“Cause that’s what you are!” She says it like she’s assuring a pageant queen she won the prized title. “Elvis Presley’s about to eat my pussy.” she murmurs to herself as she kicks her feet and he recalls yet again that he is sat down on her fluffy pink bed for a reason. He tips her over into the sheets.
“So uh, you’ve thought of this before, hmm?” he smirks slyly and reaches out to clasp an ankle in his big, ringed hand, his tanned digits encircling it entirely and he thumbs at the veiny soft spot beneath the ankle.
Gigi moans at his slight pressure.
“That’s a pressure point for the reproductive system, did you know that sir?” she is as eager about information as he is, and clever too.
“So that’s why all the girls lose it.” he hums with a laugh, “No, Gigi, I didn’t know tha’, you like gettin’ rubbed?”
“YES!” she sighs so loudly it’s like a little wind tunnel through the room, “Though it doesn’t happen much.” That makes his heart hurt in sympathy and he adds his other hand to knead her toned calf, those legs of hers spreading jello, just like he calculated they would, “I love to rub folks though! Love givin’ people rubs.”
“Who do ya rub?” Elvis is cross at this new information.
“Oh, anybody who needs it!” she makes it worse.
“Lotta demand for that at Uni?”
“Yeah, so many sore athletes after games.” she is perfectly sober about it, while so enthused he wants to murder every person those sweet hands have descended upon in soothing kindness. “But I think you’re the best I have ever had do it to me, oh Lord you’ve got magic in those hands.”
He’s tempted to tell her how true that statement is but he can’t bear her laughing at him right now so he leans further across the bed and inches towards her knees with his squeezes and tries to elicit more of those moans.
“Oh god I can’t believe Elvis Presley is rubbing my legs.” she gasps again to the ceiling and it’s this youthful narration of her life happenings that makes him think of his Yisa and if he could he’d put both of these little darlings back into their fragile eggs to keep them away from the cruel world.
“So, you done thought of this before, baby girl?” he asks, casting a little smug look over at that ponderous stack of his records and the TV set stationed right at the foot of her bed. He knows the answer already, thanks to Tammy, but it nags him, the question of which Elvis she was touching herself to after her first visit to his house. Her closed eyes and near drooling mouth give him the idea that if he’s good enough at this, puts enough effort into being what he used to be naturally, she can keep those pretty eyes closed and he can morph back into whatever daydream she’s once had. He could give this pretty little girl a little time capsule and before she’s fully awake, slip away again, leave before she recalls it was the gift of an old man, his potency gone to seed but his love for women and their secret parts just as strong.
He bends over, gut digging into his diaphragm and knocking out his wind, presses a kiss to the inside of her knee. “Tell’me ‘bout when you thought of me.” he murmurs into her warm skin. He notices he leaves goosebumbs in the wake of his touch.
“Mmm?” she’s goners with just this firm kneading of her limbs, breathing heavy and sedated from lust.
“Have ya thought of me when you’ve played with yourself?” he’s a little sterner than he should be, just because he knows the answer and wants an honest reply.
“Oh yes.” she gives it, unabashed.
“Is it my movies? Ya watch my movies when ya touch y’self?” he prods, working up to that baby soft stretch of inner thigh that still seems like the most fragile of all God’s creation, like cotton Candy holding ligament and muscle together by some miracle. “Or ya prop up that record right there?” he pulls his head up long enough to point at the foremost record cover in the stack -Live From Madison Square Garden, it reads, and features him silhouetted against black, crouched in a white jumpsuit.
A more mature option; interesting.
Gigi opens her eyes and cranes her head to see what he’s pointing at. “Oh, yeah, sometimes that one,” she nods, “it’s the closest thing I could find.”
“Closest to what, the genuine article?” he snickers in judgment, “It’s goddamn cardboard, at least watch a movie like a normal pervert.”
“The closest to how you are now!” she pouts adamantly, “You’re so…smooth… in all your movies. Nothing like how I know ya when you drive past on the street.”
Well, that’s something else, even if Elvis doesn't quite get what that something is. It’s absurd, the fact she existed all along on some sidewalk he sped past. “How’s that now, honey?” he asks.
“I couldn’t find anything closer to what you are now!” she explains, “Nothing since Aloha and -well I like that one, don’t get me wrong but I,” she bites her lip and a skittish flinch settles into her eyes.
“What about that one, darlin?” he begs softly.
“Well I like how hairy and strong ya look but,” she doesn’t look down or away when she gets to her point, instead she bends forward to be nearer to him, to hold his hands as they lay on her legs, to peer into his eyes gently, “you seem too sad in it for me to -to use it like that.”
He’s touched, so much so he swallows hard and dips his head to kiss her knobby little kneecap. “T-that were a rough time in my life.” he admits and his voice has gone wrecked. It is odd beyond words how he feels like she’s a child to be protected but just like a child at a sleepover he can duck under the covers and admit his worst fears to her.
It all goes back to being proportionally heartbreaking as Gigi leans forward and makes him lean back, clambering methodically back into his lack as if she owns the damn space, holding his furry cheeks tenderly as she licks those luscious lips and slots them against his. This he is familiar with, nothing odd at all about this age old ritual of him being seductively depressed and a girl soothing it away with her tongue and hands in his hair.
He allows himself the liberty of stroking her bare back beneath his jacket, figuring if he’s gonna lick beaver he might as well do a little seducing beforehand, cherish her like she deserves, give them both the works. As much as he can give with this dull headache and the meds making him feel so leaden he could fall asleep in seconds. He takes a breath and tries to clear his head, focusing on kissing her well, kissing her better than any of those stupid young jocks ever managed.
Back at making a case to her that he could make her happy. He doesn’t know why he keeps trying that argument when a couple decades worth of broken hearts and homes behind him suggest otherwise.
“Wanna see what I used to pretend it was you?” she tempts against his lips as they surface for air, sounding so demure yet utterly unrepentant even as she confides, “After you petted me and sent me home I needed you so bad, couldn’t find anything that felt like you now, so I shut the tv right off. Grabbed my stuffy ‘cause he was fuzzy and had a belly like you and then I grabbed…here, wait here, don’t you move now!“
Her little butt is already bouncing out the room into the en-suite before she finishes the sentence and he is left to sit on the bed and await her return, processing the fact she had wanted hair and a corpulent figure.
Bizzare taste, definitely dealing with father issues, painfully sweet.
He groans in recognition that she’s entirely to his own taste.
She comes back holding the most bulbous bottle of shampoo he’s ever seen in his life. The size of his damn fist easily, bright yellow and shaped at the top like like a lemon an- hell it’s even named “Lemon-Something-Or-Other”.
“I used this!” she proclaims with a giggle that jiggles her whole body.
Elvis just stares, torn between impressed and horrified. “You’re tellin’ me that…thang…fit up your lil cooch?”
“Well, no,” she admits, mood immediately deflating in disappointment with herself, “but I’m working on it! Or maybe I don’t have to, now that I’ve got the real thing, as you call it!”
Gigi bites her lip and winks in an attempt to be seductive and it’s the most ludicrously jarring thing Elvis can imagine, he roars with laughter at her art of being a cock tease without trying and a total clown when she does try.
Oh fuck he’s in love. Yeah, already established that awhile back but, it’s just, it’s hitting him again.
“I think you’ll find the real thing a bit disappointin’ by comparison.” he wheezes, too amused to be insecure.
“Oh really?” she perks up in palpable relief, “Oh thank jesus! That thing’s huge and I was gonna try for you but- but -but it’s huge! And I was just gauging from what I saw floppin’ around in your tracksuit that night and I was trying to not be obvious, so I couldn’t exactly clock it real good but it looked awfully wide, like a paper towel roll when it’s halfway gone and this was the only thing I could find like it, I wasn’t going to use anything of Tammy’s and besides they weren’t fat either so I just…” She trails off with a shrug, still standing there before him holding the fuckin’ Lemon Drop Shampoo.
She’d tried not to be obvious, she says, but he’d caught her staring well below his belt half a dozen times in two days. “So,” Elvis is still wiping the tears of amusement from his eyes, “so ya used a shampoo bottle and a teddy bear.”
“Yeah.”
“And did it work?” his eyes darken at the prospect of hearing her tell him this naughty story.
“Sorta.”
“How can it ‘sorta’ work?”
“I came,” Gigi sighs, “but I felt so empty..after. Cried myself to sleep” her embarrassed giggle does not deceive him from the certainty that she’s telling the truth.
“Oh baby, what’re we gonna do with you?” he asks her and God Almighty all at once.
“Hold me, please?” she whispers.
“Course, baby. Nothin’ I’d rather do, get over here,” He holds out his arms and she cruises in at a deceptively fast speed, colliding back into his chest and tucking her face into the crease of his neck, she’s pressing kisses there into that sweaty fold and he rubs her back, traces the dip of her waist, the slow curve outwards of her hips, thumbs at the flimsy material of her panties. Feeling her soft skin and treasuring it. Wondering what she’s thinking and not knowing she’s thanking God she gets to be held by him.
“You make feel so safe.” her breath ghosts over his face and he’s not sure how it’s so fresh and lovely after scarfing down burgers and cherry coke but he can’t get enough and he grabs her face as gently as he can manage with this much wonder filling him in a rush.
He’s pretty sure she ain’t ever had a chance to kiss with tongue, she’s eager to slip hers in but she’s got that petrified immobility of a gal who’s never gotten the chance to give and take, just give while some stupid rash boy slobbers and knocks her teeth.
Elvis is quite good with his tongue.
He flicks at her tongue, he waits, taps her butt until she gets his prompt. She flicks. He trails it alongside her own, he waits. He taps. She mimics. They get a good commerce going and soon she’s squirming and writhing in his lap while he stays put, his patience and experience a buoy for her as she flounders with so much desire she doesn’t know how to cope beyond undulating against him and tugging at his hair, their mouths wide and uncaring, devouring.
It’s fun with a girl leveraging down on him from his lap, one might think it would put him at a disadvantage but it doesn’t, he turns her silly head with a firm hand at the nape of her neck, and she’s just a dolly up there for him to work against his mouth. Rather like how he’s gonna work her pussy if they make it that far. For now, there’s this age old dance and her pretty breaths.
He sucks her tongue and she lets out a cry that’s distorted by the absence of any control over her own tongue and suddenly he can feel her move more frantically, fumbling between them until he hears the zzzz of the zipper as she undoes her jacket front and frees her full breasts like the thin cloth was suffocating her. It becomes clearer what she needs when she continues to fumble between them, unsatisfied, until he feels his own taught closure opening and the fan air hits him and goosebumps spread and shame flares and then it’s unity. Their chests meeting, pressing, soft and warm and she shudders against him like she just touched a force field.
She mewls into his mouth again and traces his puffy lips with the tip of her tongue while he breathes. “Feels so right.” he realizes in a mumble.
“Mhmm.” she says as she presses more kisses to his panting mouth. Gigi reaches between them once more and he watches cross eyed from the closeness as she hefts one boob up and presses it between them more firmly, before repeating the procedure with the other until, until they are smashed to her satisfaction. Then she starts grinding, those fat titties of hers, against him with the rest of her- against his hairy, saggy man boobs, she’s dragging her nipples across him and worrying them red with his rough texture, her toes curling from the friction. Her nipples are pebbled and she’s crying out, can’t stop moaning or calling for God because he feels so good against her. Cradling her boob her fingers press selfishly against one of his own nipples and lil Elvis wants to fight against his induced state, desperate to twitch for this pretty girl’s attention. “Oh god, you’re so hairy, like a nest! So perfect and manly and, I’m gonna, let me, let me please, please oh god, feels so good!” she’s working herself up to a squealing frenzy going over one particular patch of ratted curls… from…rubbing her pretty nipples on his chest hair.
Elvis just sits there and computes, watches, like a green boy, Gigi’s cradled boobs, her gaping mouth, her long throat and her cramping widdle sooties. God, what he’d give to suck those curling little piggies.
He’s hot as a furnace, this man, and those coarse, wiry curls are zapping her already throbbing nipples until Gigi can’t seem to breathe, so much sensation crowding her senses but not where she needs. She grinds down on him, where they’ll join so perfectly, and she feels that perfectly fat cock of his wedged on top of his thick thighs that he can’t manspread for once with her on top of him. She reaches down and positions him through the silky track bottom until she can slide along, feeling the width of him parting her pussy lips even with the thong’s fabric obstructing. His pants are sticky to touch, even though he feels too heavy and floppy to be fully hard.
Elvis should kiss her again. Warn her he ain’t good for nothin’ before she gets her hopes up and he gets to humiliate himself like some useless old fuck.
“Daddy, daddy fill me up, daddy.” she beats him to it in the prettiest little beg he’s ever heard.
“Oh Gigi.” he groans compassionately before grabbing her hand and bringing it up away from his messy lil pecker, “I’s gone lick you, don’t you recall?”
“Yes but I’m past that, I need you inside me!” she gasps, grin growing by the second.
“Ah, yeah, well baby it’s a big deal, takin’ innocence and uh-“ he scratches the back of his head and she escapes his hold and her hand is back to it, squeezing his cock and it really does feel nice, in a head scratch sorta way. “Look, Gigi, honey, I’m sorry but lil Elvis is shy tonight.” he holds his breath as she slowly processes this.
She doesn’t retract her hand as she registers what he’s saying. “Aww, but I can kiss him!”
“M-m-maybe some other time?” he pleads like he’s asking a child to please let him get away with just five bedtime stories. Six is overkill and Daddy has work tomorrow.
She pouts briefly before bringing her sticky hand up to her mouth and licking her fingers like a barbarian. That sight alone almost fixes his damn ED. Gigi likes the light taste of him, humming in approval at the first taste like a baby trying candy for the first time.
“T-t-that means he likes ya, though.” he assures her like an idiot and she smiles around her digits.
She’s very sober and a little mournful, the way she keeps looking at him, not at all petulant or even the slightest bit contemptuous, just concerned and it primes some pump inside him to explain more than he ever should but he can’t seem to stop the words as they come out, “Had a migraine this mornin’ before ya came over and I wanted to be in ship-shape for some fun -fun with you- so I had to take some lil helpers for the head and they, well, they, they mess with…that.” he motions to his lap.
“Awww,” she laments, heartbroken as if he had to endure having his head sawn clean off, “you had a migraine? And you still had us over? Oh poor, sweet daddy!” she shifting in his lap to rub at the back of his head and into his hair and he tries to mumble assurances that it’s better now but they get lost in the glorious blubber of her frankly unnecessarily huge breasts that happen to be smashed in his face as she attends to his head. “I’ll put some oils on it- I’ve got a bathtub, we could put you in tha-”
“-Baby girl,” He laughs, excavating his chin from her cleavage, “it’s better now, I was just explainin’ the faulty mechanics. I ain’t always so stove up, didn’t want you thinking-“
“Oh I wouldn’t care!” she gushes intensely and he’s very worried that streak of the insane fan in her is larger than he thought but it’s too late, she’s caught him in her big tittied, huge nippled, anklet wearing trap, “I’d lick you and suck you and wiggle you inside me soft no matter what, all my days! I don’t care!”
“T-that’s real touching.” he murmurs in a daze. She’s perfect, every man’s wet dream - and he’s the damn lucky bastard that gets to have her. And he can’t even make full use of her.
“I’m gonna give you a back massage with some marjoram oil-“
“No, no you’re not.” he grabs at her to keep her forcefully on his lap, “I don’t need no hippy potions, I ain’t no witch’s experiment or an ole man. I’m here to eat beaver. Or…baby seal, with that bald thing.”
“You sure? I-“
“Gigi, be good.” he puts his finger to her lips and she freezes like a chastised bambi. “Good baby girl. Now you lay back f’me and spread those pretty legs. A man needs room to work his magic.”
“Ok.” she agrees in an excited whisper and tips out of his lap sideways onto the sheets, giving him a full view of her -nearly- naked self for the first time, completely serene and without artifice. He knew she'd be even worse without clothes, worse for his obsession and his indulgence and everything else but this -this is an Angel.
God, he really adores women. Best idea ever to make ‘em, and to make them with fat boobies and lil holes to rub peckers into and sweet faces to paint slimey and cute widdle toes to rub your balls against.
“Ok, let’s see what we’re workin’ with here.” he smirks and gets on his belly with a grunt, heaving himself up the bedsheets and in between her long legs, taking his fingers and moving aside that stupid little string they call underwear these days. “Oh lord, look at that.” he appreciates the pretty pink beauty of her and the smooth pale skin of her kitty, so delicate and girly and -he’s a little smitten. More than he expected. Which was an oversight with the way she keeps blowing his hopes out of the water.
“You’re the prettiest thing I ever did lay eyes on, sweetheart.” he swears with his whole heart, shuffling in closer and kissing her thigh.
Gigi cranes her neck and unsatisfied with the narrowed visuals says, “Wait, lemme prop up.” and stuffs a few pillows behind her back and sits up, legs spread wide and her smile pleased like she’s about to watch her favorite film, “Ok, now I can watch you. Go ahead, daddy.”
“Umm, alright.” he clears his head once more at the thought of her wanting to watch and dives in. Somehow he gets the feeling if he doesn’t go for it she’ll come in seconds anyway she’s so high strung and then he’ll have barely gotten his taste.
Furry, silky, warm -that’s how his hair and head feel beneath her hands, his fuzzy sideburns and his hair so little styled after the pool fluffs and tufts adorably and his cheeks puff out with his vigorous exertions and his sideburns chafe her thighs and his hands are everywhere at once -Gigi watches all these things and marvels in her heart at it. He’s very voracious about it while still having a great deal of -nuance- to it. Like a man who is in a watermelon eating competition, he may look rabid but if he’s won a few then he must have a calculated method down amid the mess.
The predominant feeling is comfortable intimacy. They are both surprised by it, she by the naturalness of watching the most famous face on planet earth smeared from her pleasure and rapturously content with her taste, he with the pleasant rightness of her legs squeezing his shoulders snuggly and her hands petting his hair away from his sweaty forehead. His scalp sweats the more he works and she rubs his neck as if mindful of the lurking migraine, as if she can only thank him for his touches by returning them.
She praises his tongue in breathy awe, “so long and pink and wet and oh-“
Nose buried in pink and wet and sweet womanliness Elvis hums his agreement. Peeking up through his lashes he can see the one hand not cradling his head is industriously tugging on those dark, large nipples of hers. He grinds himself against the bed on pure instinct. Another day, another night, he’s gotta get those large nipples of hers in his mouth.
She calls him beautiful. Again and again. “Beautiful, you’re so beautiful, worse in person, more than I ever imagined, in my wildest-“
Again and again. Beautiful, she says. More than dreams. More, he’s more and more till Gigi’s praise dissolve into shrieks and pants, screams that whimper out into the low apartment ceiling as the afternoon sun dims, as he keeps going until they build again. And again, her hips are nothing if not insistent on grinding up against his mouth. The room smells of sweat and pleasure and sun-in. She’s vocal in her gratitude, persistent in returning his touch, petting him to say thank you when she finds she can’t form coherent sentences.
Eventually there is no more.
Just peace, and him, heaving back his breath against her thighs in a pussy-drunk stupor, and her shaking from seizing one too many times. His scalp is burning beneath her hands, his neck too. Inflamed and angry, she thinks of how much he loves to give. Wished she’d looked at the clock, something to tell the girls about. Just how many minutes, hours, days? he’d spent pleasing her.
“Good?” he asks in a hopeful little slur and the pink of his cheeks and the shiny glimmer on his nose is so childlike and content in his pouty snooze that her heart melts and she curls over him as best she can and squeezes.
“It was everything.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she breathes into his burning ear, “I’m hooked.”
His laugh rumbles the whole bed, “Me too, baby girl.”
Their skin is sticky and tacky, they adhere to each other in their embrace. He is soothed by such a clasp as theirs while the longer he lays on his stomach the more keenly aware he is of how it hurts. Now’s the time to roll over and mention something about needing to get back. Now would be it, but for some reason the words don’t come and he lays on his knotted gut, suppressing winces and biting his lip against the pinches, trying to recall the sweetness of her, what made this worth it. Her breath fans his neck, wafting across his cheek -cuddle bug, he thinks, fond. Home, he should go home, but never has it felt so utterly foreign. Like a figment of what he wants and needs, like Christmas morning without your mama. A house is just a shell without heart. He wonders if his boys have got the front den cleaned yet of barbecue and would-be-in-laws.
“Do you need to get off your…head?” Gigi whispers softly and it startles him. She’s got a point, all his blood is rushing to his brain the way he’s laying.
“Probably should.” he grunts and slowly, like a pair of cats, they uncurl from around each other to be face to face for the first time since they shared such pleasure. They’re both a little pink and their smiles are too wide. He wonders at the happiness she’s releasing, marveling that he put it there. He’s got to be careful or it won’t be too long before this little girl realizes she’s got him wrapped around her finger already.
She rubs her nose against his. Another way to kiss.
She asks him if he needs a drink.
“I’ll help you with your philosophy homework.” He promises instead, it’s a reason to see her again. And soon. A reason to see her again and a hint it can’t be tonight.
Tonight he needs his pills, his bed, an enema and god knows what else just to make it till morning. He could cry from how badly he wants to be spontaneous, to go to a girl’s place, make love, cuddle like this and when he says he has to go and her eyes well up with tears at the prospect of his absence -he’d like to be able to say he can stay.
“Hush it’s alright, I’ll stay. I’ve got you, no one’s gonna ever leave you cold again.” something like that. Instead he says he can help with her test. Instead he tries to fool himself into being something less than heartbroken at how even the simplest thing in his life has to be a big production.
“Will you really?” Gigi’s face lights up at his piss poor offer.
“Promise.” he repeats.
“And will you promise me you’ll let me repay you?” She presses slyly, her hand petting down his chest and over the swell of his gut. Some childlike weariness in him wants her to rub it better. He remembers feeling the same way as a child regarding his mother’s touch and despite the fact that Gigi’s a baby girl - his baby girl - he trusts she’d make one Gladys Love Presley proud, doing her best to take care of him.
“Mmmaybe.” he looks down at her with playful suspicion.
“Promise me!” she demands, kicking her feet and flipping over to look down at him, swinging a leg to straddle him again.
He can’t help the wince his face flashes at the pressure of her hands from that high vantage. She flings them off him like she’s been burned, likes she’s the one who got hurt. “Oh shoot, sorry, sorry.” she gasps, her eyes wide and blue and tearful, “It’s bad, huh?”
As if not being able to get it up weren’t chastisement enough for his ego, now there’s this. “Uh huh.” he grits and the stab passes for the moment.
“Do you have something for it?” she hopes, “Do you need to go home?.”
There’s the out he needs. Didn’t even have to say it himself. Melancholy descends like fog over his soul but he reminds himself it is what is, he’s better off than most. So what if he can’t have sleepovers on whim or shit like a normal human or skip having his blood pressure checked every goddamn morning -he has a lot, and he got to eat Gigi’s silky smooth bare pussy. Today was a good day. Not even a wash, it was a good day, she made it a good day.
“Yeah, I need to get home.” he sounds every bit as despondent as he feels about it and he hopes she’ll take that as the compliment intended.
“Ok!” she chirps without missing a beat, jumping up in nothing but his open jacket, skipping out the bedroom door, left turn into what seems to be the kitchen.
Well, she handled that better than expected. Elvis almost hopes she’s still orgasm-happy and it doesn’t reflect her readiness to have him out of her place. He idly flicks at the stack of papers to get some impression of where the test is stumping her. He fidgets with his zipper and closes his jacket back up, coloring at the memory of letting her expose him like that.
She comes bouncing back within the minute holding a glass of water and presenting it with authority, “Now you just drink this daddy, it’s got fennel tincture in it and will help your stomach. You just drink that while I pack my bag. I’ll be fast, don’t worry,” she goes on as he tries to compute what she means and sniffs her concoction warily, “I pack light anyways and we can always come back for the rest of my stuff later.”
Come back. For her stuff. Don’t worry -she packs light.
The fennel wafts around him, the smell of licorice and fairgrounds and his mama’s hand in his and daddy winning him that stuffed tiger. Fennel, for his stomach. He shakes his head. His tongue feels fuzzy.
Come back. For her stuff. She packs light.
She is coming with him. That’s what she must mean, he realizes as he drinks her awful drink and watches with teary eyes her bare ass bend over to grab jeans from a dresser and throw them in a duffel bag. Like Graceland is summer camp.
Come back for the rest later, she’d said. She is coming back with him, just knowing she’s welcome. He didn’t even have to beg, to ask, to suggest, to hint. Send a limo, nothin, just eat pussy and now she’s gonna live with him. Let her press her skin against his own just once and suddenly, he’s never gonna be lonely again.
She bounces into the bathroom and comes out with the damn lemon shampoo, to match the lemon conditioner abandoned on the floor.
Cheap drug store shit.
“Hell no, you’re not bringing that stuff into my house.” he lays down the law, his one condition and the first time he’s vocalized any acknowledgment of her entitlement to his hospitality, “You’ll use mine till we get you sorted.”
“I like the way you smell.” she admits, dropping the bottles there in the middle of the floor. That's that sorted.
It’s still not sunk in fully as Elvis drives his quite recognizable beast of a car through Memphis’ now dark streets, while Gigi sits beside him with her white stack of papers catching the street lights glare as they pass. His giddy joy at her willingness and her entitlement to stay with him is overshadowed by the cold lump in his throat, panicking about how to keep a shred of dignity intact or retain an iota of her attraction for him when she becomes aware of his routines.
“You’re gonna teach me how to help, right?” she asks very soberly from her side, as sober as he’s ever seen her.
“Whatcha mean, baby doll?” he tries to keep his tone light.
“You’ll teach me and show me how to care for you, right?” she presses again, “I wanna take care of you, like you take care of me.”
Simple as that -for her. He grunts out something she mistakes for a yes.
Elvis puffs harder on his lit cigar and feels like he’s gonna choke, ends up rolling his window down, gulping in fresh air as Gigi does it on her side too, hanging her head out the window and whooping into the night. He wonders what might distract her while he slips away this evening, maybe a movie or maybe the hot tub or maybe the horses. Maybe Tammy is still there like a bad penny and will keep her distracted. Tonight Elvis would welcome that. Only tonight, and his hand tightens on the steering wheel in frustration over his own worn out body and how it just can’t walk this stuff off anymore.
She’s still hanging out the window, she looks so young like that. His vision blurs.
Somehow Gigi’s feet have ended up in his lap by the time Sam’s letting them into the front gate. She wiggles her toes under his belly, rubbing at the soft skin. Grinning at him suggestively, like a fat man’s belly is the most sexy thing imaginable. He wants to snort.
“Think they saved us any barbecue?” she grins.
“No, it’s all in Gingersnaps’s hair and I ain’t touchin’ that ever again.” he allows himself to be a bit of bastard, it can’t be wrong when it makes Gigi giggle in maniacal glee in the passenger seat, secure now in having her Daddy’s attention. “I’m in the mood for peanut butter anyway.” he retorts.
Hope y’all enjoyed! Your “bugging” and “screaming” is music to my ears, fuel to my fire and keeps me writing, please never hold back -this is a safe space for feral little Elvis loving rodents…like you and me.
If you’d like to be tagged in this particular series please drop a note below. I’ll admit I’m disorganized and have trouble keeping all the requests sorted when they’re scattered, what I do check regularly are the requests in the notes for chapters -and I do manage to get those added. So, if you’ve put in a request and I’ve failed ya, or if you’re new and would like to be added, please pop a note below. Xoxo
@prompted-wordsmith
@parodsal000
@ab4eva
@stylespresleyhearted
@presleyenterprise
@kendralavon7
@coolgirl462
@colahola
@lillypink
@stephthestallion
@vintageshanny
@landmermaid12
@ashtag2887
@notstefaniepresley
@butlersluvbot
@steph-speaks
@eliseinmemphis
@lookingforrainbows
@dkayfixates
@ellie-24
@memphisflash1935-1977
@marriedtopresley
@powerofelvis
@thatbanditqueen
@elvisabutler
@butlersxbirdy
@heartbrake-hotel
@fav-fanficssss
@austinbutlersbaby
@freudianslumber
@kxnnxy
@kingdomforapony
@be-my-ally
@crazymadpassionatelove
@that-hotdog
@missmaywemeetagain
@fallinlovewithurlove
@richardslady121
@lilycherries123
@18lkpeters
@xenaspace3-blog
@lil-mamas-obsessions
@father-of-2cats
@helen06dreamer
@returntopresley
#elvis fanfiction#elvis presley#elvis fanfic#elvis imagine#elvis x reader#70’s elvis#Elvis#elvisaaronpresley#elvis photos#elvis the king#70s elvis#elvis fans#Elvis smut#austin elvis imagine#big daddy Elvis#big daddy elvis fic#but then…Gigi
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prompt: horror au where soap is dishonourably discharged/falls on hard times and he's forced to move into this really creepy apartment building because it's the only thing he can afford. and ghost is his weird neighbour and soap's not completely convinced that he's not a serial killer.
(ghostsoap)
-
Misery takes him to a place covered in litter and dust, and old dirt.
Maybe he thought it couldn’t happen to him. Famous last words. Anything can happen to anyone; lightning has to strike somewhere. Johnny makes the mistake of driving once under the influence and they throw the book at him when he’s caught—bad conduct discharge stamped on his record for the rest of his life. Through the investigation and trial and the subsequent stamp on his record, Johnny goes through the motions numb, head buzzing like there’s a fog that he just can’t get out.
It takes a while for Johnny to admit that he might not have wanted this outcome in the slightest, but actions have consequences. In the first few weeks, the shame warps him into something unrecognisable. He sleeps on his sister’s couch until she all but begs him to get his own place. The month passes like he’s in a fugue, the bags under his eyes dark and his hair matted down, unwashed.
The apartment building in North Barlanark is the best he can afford on his meagre savings—not much squirrelled away over the years, always the thought that the well would never dry up. Now it’s dry; now it’s standing on the embankment staring down into nothing. The bad conduct discharge stamped on his record also means that he isn’t entitled to VA benefits and it’ll show up on every background check going forward when he finally finds the energy to get off his ass and apply for jobs.
From the outside of the building, there are cracks in the stone walls, window panes red with rust. Black scorch marks climb up the walls like someone tried and failed to burn this place down. Stone chipping away in other places; there are air conditioners hanging from several windows that look dangerous close to falling out.
When he moves in, there’s no one to help carry his bags up the long flight of stairs up to the seventh floor. Johnny hadn’t bothered to ask either of his sisters, not too keen on being in this neighbourhood himself, never mind inviting them over.
The elevator’s broken, of course. Each step creaks under his weight as he lugs the garbage bags filled to the brim with his only earthly belongings up the stairs. An uneven, loosened tile nearly makes him brain himself on the stairs. It would be a depressing, but fitting end.
The corridors are lit by an ambient yellow light, the walls at the far ends a dusky blue when they ebb into darkness. Johnny’s stared down gun barrels raised to his face plenty of times before and still he stands at the other end of the hall vaguely unsettled. Gut clenching over nothing.
This whole endeavour feels inauspicious. Living, that is. He toys with the thought like a delicate glass bauble, staring at it indifferently as it rests in the palm of his hand. He might still break it.
Some nights his heart feels so heavy that he thinks it’ll sink right out of his chest, through the mattress and onto the floor below. Melt through the floorboards until it trickles down into the bowels of the building, down into the entrails where the furnace roars and there’s a damp cold that pervades everything it touches. He hasn’t cried since he was a boy, but his eyes hurt when he blinks.
Johnny doesn’t see a single other person in the building the day he moves in, nor any of the following days during his first week in the building. He doesn’t have it in him to grieve the loss of his former life anymore—he did that over the month that he lived on his sister’s couch and barely showered or shaved. There’s a factory within biking distance where he gets a job as a die cast operator and spends his days making carburetors and engine blocks. It’s not glamorous work, but it’s better than what he expected.
There are signs of life in the building though. The sound of a door creaking open when he’s sitting on the couch in his flat, only to peek out through the peephole to an empty hallway. Passing a door on his way home from work and pausing at the sound of someone groaning from within. Trash bags out in the hall when there weren’t any earlier.
It makes his skin crawl. The suggestion of occupancy that never materialises. People that live like rats in the walls.
He hurries home with his head down in the evenings, walking straight past the other flats. No one needs to know his business just like he doesn’t need to know anyone else’s business. If he hears the rattling of dishes or feet shuffling along the floorboards, what’s it to him?
There’s only so many times he can tell himself that though.
The coming of winter deepens the night, dragging it further into the day. The sky has long gone black by the time he leaves the factory after his shift, pulling his hood up to seem marginally less appealing to anyone wandering around at night. Hardly anyone wanders with good intentions. At least, that’s what Johnny’s taught himself. He’s still got all of the muscle mass from his years of service, but he’s not interested in fucking around and finding out, so he speedwalks to his bike and pedals home as fast as possible.
There’s something in the air. He sees only a single light on from outside when he reaches the front doors and it quickly shuts off when he dismounts the bike. A curtain rustles like someone was just there. It turns his blood to absolute ice; something in him is hissing at him to stay out, but there’s little else he can do. He rolls his bike in and up the seven flights of stairs.
He rolls the bike down the hall as always, only the squeaky sounds of the wheels echoing down the length of the corridor. The exhaustion eats away at his bones; he’s so tired that it’ll be a dream even to collapse on the bed with the weird stain on it that he inherited from the previous tenant.
Something makes him pause in the hall.
There’s a scratching sound coming from the door to his left. The faintest rasp of a fingernail against steel. Johnny goes so quiet that even the sound of his blood disappears. Just staring at the door.
It comes again like someone’s standing there on the other side of the door. Scratching softly with a single fingernail. When he glances down, there’s a slight shadow just under the doorframe, no wider than a person.
His vision tunnels in on the shadow beneath the floor.
“What are you doing crouched there?” a deep voice growls from behind him.
“Steamin’ Jesus!”
When he whips around, his heart about jumps into his throat. A man in a skull balaclava stands not two feet from him, a wall of muscle and bone. The eyes that stare down at Johnny seem almost hostile in their hollowness at first, the darkest blue he’s ever seen.
Johnny freezes for a second, old instincts taking over. Something feels deeply wrong. He’s never seen the man before and he takes up space like no one he’s ever met. Even in a black hoodie and jeans, Johnny can see the muscle definition just barely visible underneath. The mask makes it worse somehow, obscuring the only part of him that might’ve been comforting.
“Sorry, mate,” he says with a grin, sheepish. Wary. “Lost my train of thought.”
The man stares at him. “Go back to your place.”
Johnny furrows his brows. “Excuse me?”
“Back home, puppy.”
There’s a second where Johnny thinks he might do something rash. The anger that rises up from his core is swift and sudden, furious at being ordered around like a dog. He pauses though. There’s something wrong here. The man angles himself towards Johnny like he expects a fight, and it’s there in his eyes for a split second, so fast that Johnny almost misses it. Anticipation.
He’s lived long enough to know his limits. He gives a brittle smile instead and nods, backing up a few paces before turning around, wheeling his bike home. He doesn’t hear anything from behind him, but the next time he looks around before stepping into his flat, the man is gone.
#dont talk to me about “that wouldn't have gotten soap kicked out” I KNOW#I MADE IT UP#cod mw2#ceil writing#ghostsoap#ghoap#soapghost#john soap mactavish#soap mactavish#soap mw2#soap cod#soap call of duty#simon ghost riley#cod simon riley#ghost cod#ghost x soap
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The Papas vs Technology Headcanons
Ask and you shall receive! @ivyanddaisies
Prompt here
Primo
Ok Peepaw has no use for social media or technology. He’s still marvelling at his vintage tube tv, because he’s old and he was around before the tv <3 And he’d literally rather send a raven with a message rather than text. You pushed him to give it a shot, and being the sweet elder goth that he is, he gave it the good old college try just for you. Alas, he grew frustrated easily. He kept having to whip out the reading glasses to read what was on the screen, and he couldn’t tell if that vibrating in his pocket was the iPhone or if he was having a seizure. Not to mention, he accidentally activated Siri on several occasions and he thought the spirit of a demon was speaking to him and apparently telling him the weather forecast. The only thing he really found a use for was the gardening stuff on Pinterest, but he has plenty of books in the library for that anyway. And as for nudes? He has a Polaroid camera for that. Our sweet old man much prefers the feeling of answering calls on his candlestick phone, and he’ll gladly leave the selfie-taking to you ♥︎
Secondo
Alright, Mr. Worldwide tries to be hip and cool, so he definitely owns the latest iPhone. However, he’s had to replace it several times because when he gets frustrated, that thing goes flying across the room. He tried to use the voice dictation one time and his entire text came out hilariously wrong so he threw his phone out of one of the ministry windows. He texts with one finger like an old man, never uses emojis (he calls them hieroglyphics), and he keeps telling you that he wants to “duck your brains out”. He genuinely tries to take selfies, and that can be hit or miss. Sometimes it’s a typical old man selfie where you can see all the way up his nose, but he did execute this fantastic shirtless selfie one time,,, Bone Daddy starts an Instagram where he makes a few adorably lame posts trying to be edgy and dark. But he mainly uses that to post selfies (ones you’ve taken of the both of you) to show you off. He loves when you send him dirty pictures and he’s also found that FaceTime is perfect for some,,, fun activities 👀
Terzo
Oh my god, the biggest social media whore. He’s only two months younger than Secondo, but he’s somehow overcome his oldness and mastered the art of the iPhone. He has an Instagram, where he posts pictures of the two of you on dates or in bed together covered in rose petals and lip prints. Dude even has Snapchat, where he updates his story with some chaotic videos every now and then. He can text with his thumbs, but he does make some really hilarious typos which are exceptionally frustrating when he’s trying to sext with you (this man demands nudes from you constantly). He actually knows what most emojis mean- he will literally text you the eggplant emoji next to everything 🍆- and only has to ask for your help to decipher some of them. He rubs it in his brothers’ faces as much as he can, calling them old men because they don’t know how to use tech as well as he does. And Secondo finds his use of emojis really irritating because he has no idea what the fuck ‘🤪😝🙃🫠🥴🙄🥸💀’ means
Copia
Oh, Copia. Sweet pitiful Copia. He tries, he really does, but this man has no idea how to use emojis. He types with one finger, makes plenty of typos, and always uses the rat emoji for no apparent reason. Also, he disperses emojis into sentences so his texts always read like this:
Ciao 👋🏻🐀 bella 😚 I am going 🔜 to feed 🧀 my rats 🐀 want to come 😀 with me?🤝🏻
He’s such a dork and you never ever correct him because it’s just too charming. His selfies are often painfully awkward, because he thinks that just staring dead-eyed into the camera and snapping the picture constitutes as a selfie. And he’ll post those on Insta too, sometimes with captions that he got off Pinterest. Or sometimes the captions will be about rats for literally no reason. However, he does make awfully sweet posts about you that have your heart melting when you read them. This sweet man LOVES when you send him naughty pictures and rile him up via text. It gives him a thrill and makes him feel so special. Copia also surprisingly uses Pinterest occasionally, because he finds it relaxing. He’s such a gentle soul, and he enjoys saving things about pet rats, aesthetic things that he’d like to show you later, or even some recipes that the two of you could cook together. However, he doesn’t use Pinterest correctly. He doesn’t pin things, he just screenshots them (because you taught him how to take a screenshot). So even though he isn’t the most religious social media user or the best at working technology, he tries and has a good time ♥︎
#my headcanons#thoughts about copia <3#thoughts about papa <3#copia my beloved#copia is my husband#ghost headcanon#the band ghost headcanons#ghost band headcanons#copia#secondo#papa secondo#terzo#papa terzo#primo#papa primo#popia#copia headcanons#ghost bc headcanons#secondo x reader#primo x reader#terzo x reader#copia x reader#papa i#papa ii#papa iii#papa iv#papa emeritus#popia copia#Cardinal copia#cardinal copia headcanons
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