#who is on the same footing going into a new relationship.
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𝒞𝑅𝒜𝒵𝒴 𝐼𝒩 𝐿𝒪𝒱𝐸.
⸝⸝ ౨ৎ :: sukuna can’t accept that you’ve moved on. thinks you just need some dick to remind you where home is. ;)
warnings 𑄽𑄺 2.3k. fem reader, lowercase intended, she/her pronouns, black coded. dilf!sukuna, fluff + smut duh, jealousy, sukuna's a cheater n we're dumb, daddy kink, body worship, choking, body worship, dry humping if you squint, consensual coercion, cum play, toxic relationship, sneaky sex, minors aren't welcomed!
꒰ 𝑚𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑎'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 .ᐟ ꒱; this is very old, originally a self ship but i just wanted to post it bc i have a lot of old fics sitting in the drafts etc.
sukuna clenches his jaw whenever he notices the new love interest in your life, nearly causing a fight one day you threw a cookout for your family and the man you're currently 'dating' is playing football with your daughter, seeing the stranger pick her up and spin her around when she scores a touchdown. it boils his blood to see your daughter smile at someone who isn't her father. sukuna awaits at the doorstep of his home, or 'ours' as he likes to call it, still delusional about your separation, claiming it's a break when it wasn't . . hands tucked into his dark gray sweatpants pockets with a smile on his usually stern face as he watches your tiny daughter run to him with giggles and bratz dolls in her hands. sukuna crouches low to grab her with a purposely exaggerated grunt, commenting on how big she's getting with a laugh.
you slam the door to your car, retrieving your daughter's duffel bag filled with things she needed for the weekend at daddy's. sukuna holds his child at his hip. you smile at her as she constantly pokes at his cheek to grab his lost attention. he couldn't keep his eyes off you. looking you up down with that all too familiar glint in his eyes. you raise your brow, glaring down at yourself dressed in a black maxi skirt that touches your ankles and a white lace top, feet in black sandals.
"what?"
"going somewhere?" he questions with authority.
"my house and back. i can't look nice?"
"you look good," you ignore the way he licks his pink lips, your daughter tapping his shoulder for the millionth time, the four-year-old always wanting to be the star of the show.
"daddy, can we watch bratz fashion ‘ixies with mommy?!" the little girl screeches excitedly.
"mommy has to go, baby," you drain the light from her face, the child frowning. sukuna eyes you.
"why?" they say periodically. you stare him down with annoyance. now she's gonna question me. before you can even speak, she's at it again.
"but we haven't watched it in months," she whines. "we watch it every day with all three of us."
sukuna sighs, rubbing her back. "it's okay, honey. me and you can just—"
"i'll stay," you cut him off immediately, not fond of seeing your daughter cry. his puppy dog act was irritating. he grins mischievously.
your daughter cheers and you lean forward to pinch her chubby cheeks, speed walking to your car to pull into the driveway before entering the familiar home, feeling somewhat vacant. the vibe is off, but a little nostalgic. you haven't stepped foot into this place in months, unable to, the idea bringing back too many unwanted memories. your divorce wasn't pretty; finding sukuna messing with another woman when you searched through his phone one day to find the messages, his excuses replaying in your head, all bullshit.
she was just one night. one night over six years? they were high-school sweethearts, and he tore that apart for a one-time fling. didn't make sense, never will. it's awkward when you stand in the kitchen you used to cook your happy family meals every day to see him make your daughter lunch for her movie, combing at her curly hair with your fingers as she went on about how she ate dyed eggs for green eggs and ham day at school. the movie was the same as usual, both of you sitting adjacent to her as she ate her lunch and enjoyed the film, falling asleep on sukuna's shoulder thirty minutes in.
school must've taken it out of her. sukuna stretches his arms, breathing out a 'finally' which makes you laugh, standing along with him as he carries her and you shut off the tv, checking a text from the man you're currently fooling around with, nothing serious. just experimenting the dating life again.
you home today? i wanna see you.
you sigh, dropping your shoulders tiredly. you weren't in the mood to see him. he was a funny guy, enjoyable to be around, and made your daughter laugh . . .but he's obscenely clingy. you liked your space, and he didn't know the meaning of it. on top of that, the sex was mediocre. nothing compared to how sukuna fucked me. you dissociated with the world momentarily, chewing on your lip as flashbacks hit, zoning out the sound of sukuna's heavy steps approaching.
"she's tucked in."
your eyes lock onto the veins bulging out of his arms, the white tee he wore hugging his muscles, and the platinum chain swinging around his neck making your face hot. dammit, stop. your stare lingers longer than you expect, sukuna lowering his face to catch your attention with a smirk.
"hello? you good?"
"yeah, sorry," you clear your throat.
"check me out all you want baby, it's still yours."
"sukuna," you roll your eyes, locking your phone and finding your car keys, needing to be as far away from him as possible before you do something you regret.
"what? i'm joking," he furrows his brows when you begin strutting towards the front door, mumbling about how your daughter's ballet recitals on sunday and not to forget to monitor her junk food intake. his hand clasps around your wrist to stop you.
"stay. i wanna talk to you."
"there's nothing to talk about."
"are you dating him?" he's straightforward, watching the muscle in his jaw clench.
"that's none of your business."
"i have a right to know who's around my daughter. yes or no? or are you just fuckin' him?"
"why?" you yank your arm away, getting in his face, barely with your height. "does it hurt your feelings? well, guess karmas a bitch."
sukuna chuckles darkly, raising his arm to tug at his bi-colored hair with frustration. "man, you're still on that shit."
you raise your brow with fury. he's shitting me. "on that . . . are you fucking serious? you tellin' me i don't have a reason to say fuck you for cheating on me?"
"all she did was suck my dick, you're acting like i was in her shit," he rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulder with zero care in the world. "i've apologized a million times. it was one stupid night where we were at each other's throats and she just so happened to be around . . so."
"you know what." you scoff, not having time for this stupid shit. men always have bullshit excuses when trying to justify cheating. you didn't care if he kissed the bitch, cheating is cheating. you managed to bypass him, walking around the couch until he was back in your face fast once again.
you clenched your keys in your fists, ready to claw at his face with them. "what do you want?"
it's silent for a moment, the hard stare he has on you makes you feel small, folding your arms over your midsection, waiting for his response.
"i need some pussy," he whispers gravelly, slowly licking his lips and grabbing at your waist. you swallow, trying to ignore the sudden throbbing at your clit. chill out.
"text your other bitch. i'm sure she'll give it to you."
"only your sweet fuckin' pussy," now his hands are smoothing to your backside, smacking his heavy, veiny palm on your ass to draw you closer, squeezing the flesh between his long fingers. you gasp, eyes wide as you feel the outline of his dick against your stomach. his fingers are dangerously close to your pussy. "daddy misses it so much."
you inhale, shifting to try your best and break from his barricade, shoving him away which barely makes him stumble. "i'm leaving."
thinking this is your final attempt at actually leaving, that relief gets knocked down the instant his hand grabs the back of your neck and brings you back to him, his mouth pressed to the side of your neck where he breathes and kisses wetly. you freeze, the ache below never subsiding in his hold. sukuna's lifting your skirt before another word falls from your pretty little mouth, shoving his hand into your matching white lace, smirking from the ocean flowing on his thick fingers.
"you need some dick, don't you?" he whispers hotly behind your earlobe, rushing his tongue there at the same time he circles your clit, falling back into his warm chest, dropping your keys altogether. "he not hitting it right? doesn't do it like me, does he?"
shamelessly, you nod your head in agreement, giving up because you know he's right and this is what you need. you know he can give you things no other man could. it hasn't been the same ever since. any man you've been with aside from him hasn't met up to those standards. sukuna raised your pussy to only come back to him. trained to accommodate him. cum from him. fuck him. for any other man to take possession of what he crafted would be fucking fowl.
"you miss me?" sukuna hums, walking you both towards the black couch in the living room you moved too far away from your previous escape. your knees are dented into the seat, arms thrown over the back as sukuna groans low in his throat, pupils blown with lust as he tugs your panties to sit at the middle of your thighs. he presses his clothed cock to you, grinding slowly to make you feel it, let you know how much he misses you more. "you miss daddy, baby?"
you keen, face buried into your forearms shyly, rocking back onto him, feeling yourself soak his pants. sukuna hisses and smacks your ass again, pussy clenching from the attack. you whine. "yes. miss you."
"daddy misses you too," he's swift with his actions, already tugging at his dick leaking absurd amounts of precum, circling the angry red tip on your entrance before sinking in only halfway, wanting you to remember how to take him. you moan quietly, biting at your arm and taking lead by pushing back onto him, only to have sukuna retract his hips.
"don't be greedy, you'll hurt yourself." it echoes in your head when he says this, smiling cutely, loving that he cared, unlike other men. and he's kind of right. he's perfectly thick, long to the point where it surpasses his belly button. it was always hard for you to fully wrap your hand around it, towering your face whenever he stood over you, veins decorating up the underside. he draws his hips back, carefully driving into you, rolling his waist effortlessly to make you savor every ridge of his cock.
"doesn't it feel so fuckin' good?" he asks with his lip tucked between his teeth, rolling his eyes back once he starts it up, hooking you by your handles and yanking you back as he fucks you, fascinated by the jelly-like bounce your ass makes as you throw it back.
his wife was always one to never hold back her sounds, whimpering and moaning to your hearts delight. sukuna has your back arched with his other palm, reaching behind yourself to clutch at his veiny forearm, the two of you locking eyes as you glare up at him to see him slowly losing it. so much pent-up sexual frustration from not having you for months. not being able to touch another woman since so it pisses him off to know you could easily fuck another man without feeling the same. he's getting mad just thinking about it, clenching his jaw tight as he fucked you harder, deeper. you're clawing at his arm and crying his name, sukuna coming to his senses momentarily, forgetting they had a daughter who's asleep upstairs.
he moves your hand away, entwining both his large palms over your mouth and pulling you back to his chest where your head rests, sukuna standing straight as your back dips even more, cursing as your eyes switch white and you sing into his hands shielding the sweet symphonic tones.
"you forgive me?" he breathes shakily on your forehead, ruts becoming sloppy when that familiar heat twitches in his gut. this he could excuse; cumming too fast just to brush off the burning arousal for you. he'd savor you later on when it truly mattered. he'd make love to you to prove that he still loves you, that he's different now, that he'd never fuck up a good thing again. right now, he just wanted to fuck you so you know he's not letting you leave anytime soon.
your brown eyes are slanted softly, whines and delicate nods of your head are what takes him there, dropping his hands from your mouth, choking you lightly as he mashed his mouth onto yours, moaning with you as you tremble and orgasm. he stays inside you a little longer, fearing that warmth would dissipate if he stayed out too long. sukuna swallows, catching his breath and darting his attention to the way his cum flows out of you after you fall forward, taking his index and middle finger to collect it and shove it back inside. you laugh at him with a silent 'fuck off' and smack his hand away. he grins happily, massaging your backside adoringly. this isn't a pass that you're going back to him. but having you in his presence as of now was a start he could be satisfied with.
© 𝒮𝒯𝟦𝑅𝐵𝒲𝑅𝑅𝒴! all rights reserved. please do not repost, steal, or modify my work simply because it is mine. stealing isn't cute. i'll ruin your life ♡
#౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ ⋆ 𝑀𝒪𝒞𝐻𝒜’𝒮 𝑀𝐼𝒩𝒟. ✧｡˚#jjk#sukuna x reader#sukuna x y/n#sukuna x you#sukuna smut#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu sukuna#jjk sukuna#sukuna ryomen#sukuna ryoumen x reader#sukuna x black reader#ryomen sukuna
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c.s: You have finally returned to the red keep after over a decade. You see some familiar faces and,,, have the affections of more than one prince? what was going on...
w.c: 6.1k
c.w: not proofread, arryn!reader, basically a lot of set up, the boys just kinda being obsessed, men bickering... i think thats it
fic masterlist!
You stare at the large metal doors of the keep. You had been traveling on carriage fora week now, your back hurts, your legs hurt but you are finally here. for the first time in a very very long time.
The red keep. You remember the last time you had stepped foot in here like it was yesterday. It had been over a decade. You had been ten years old when you left but had been living in the keep since you were a babe. You made many lovely memories, and you had especially made some lovely friends. The children of rhaenyra and the children of alicent. You thought about them often as you were rather lonely in the eyrie with not having any siblings or there not being many other children there,
You were not invited to driftmark as it was purely a family affair and you remember them giving you hugs and saying goodbye, little did they or even you know that was the last time you would see them. You had stayed in the keep, trying to entertain yourself until they returned back until you received word from your mother to return home as she had heard of what had happened on driftmark and no longer believed the keep to be well suited for you.
You cried for awhile and begged your mother to let you go back, even if it was just a day to speak to them once more but she had refused and kept firm to her decision. Until a week ago when she received a raven hand written from rhaenyra herself stating that not only herself but her children had missed you and wished you would stay at court for awhile, at least until you find a husband. Of course your mother cannot refuse the queen so you packed up your things and you are now standing in the keep.
Your new home at least for awhile. It looks different. The area was very busy though that is not surprising considering probably everyone who has a title was in the keep today. You can see them hanging the signature sigil of house Targaryen all over the walls of the keep.
You can barely believe you were back here again.
Your mother hums at your side, hugging the shawl she was wearing closer to her chest. “It smells here. You truly had lived like this for that long?” Jessamyn, your mothers,,, ‘companion’ as she asked you to call her despite knowing the true nature of their relationship, shoves jeyne lightly with her elbow, “You should not say such things. She must be happy to be back in the keep for the first time do not ruin it.”
You do not get an opportunity to reply not that you would have anything to say before you are swiftly lead through the halls of the keep that you remembered and asked to stand relatively close to the throne. The hall is very full and very loud, full of chatting ladies and lords. You keep close to your mother, who glares at anyone who even tries to speak to her, she's not a very talkative women, very content with the small circle around her but she knows they do not wish to speak to her to keep friendly relations.
You are of marrying age, some would even say you are over due on getting married as many girls your age would already be having their second kid. Your mother never rushed your marriage, saying you are free to do as you pleased, she was trapped in her marriage and was more then happy when he died. She did not wish for the same fate for you and allowed you to pick your own husband, which lead to you rejecting suitors left and right.
You know one day you will have to marry, to continue your line, you are to be the next ruler of the eyrie as your mother states constantly. You need a husband, but you do not wish to worry about that now.
You had not expected the keep to be so packed but it is to be expected. Rhaenyra has officially named her heir and everyone had come to bend the knee. The room completely silences as rhaenyra is announced by a guard and you stand tall as she enters the room and greets the crowd.
You don’t mean to zone out, it is not her fault this whole affair is quite boring. Getting lost in your thoughts. You keep your head down until your mother swiftly smacks you on the shoulder and your head gets pulled up.
You freeze at the sight before you.
“Oh gods.” You find yourself whispering under your breath.
Jacaerys Velaryon.
Dawned in a Targaryen red cloak with a crown on his head he looked like a true king. With his long black curls and sharp jaw he looks like he was a statue come to life. A statue should be made of him in the finest gold as you believe that is the only thing that could even come close to doing him justice. He keeps his head held up high as people begin to get called up and they bend the knee without complaint.
You gulp. He is very different from the young boy you had known before. He was a man. A very handsome man. You two had been close when you were younger, he trailed around with you and would beg you to join him and his family for dinner. He was always sweet to you though you knew of his more teasing habits. You had not thought much about him when you were younger, only truly seeing him as a friend but him now?
You and your mother get called up to bend the knee. You try to keep your balance steady as you cling to your mothers arm the closer and closer you get to him. You two lock eyes and you swear you see a new glow in his irises as he gazes upon you.
His eyes widen as he does not take his eyes off you even when you bend down on your knee and lower your head. You try to keep your shaky breath in control as you close your eyes. If he was handsome from far away he was so much better up close. You did not know if your heart could handle this, the way it pounds as you stand and lower your head in a light bow to him. You expect to be dismissed and the next person to be called up but he instead takes a couple steps towards you and extends his hand out to you. You stare at it with wide eyes and look up at him, his expression is the same as before, but this time he has a light smile on his face.
You place your hand in his and he brings the back up to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on your skin his eyes never leaving yours before he lets his hand linger against yours for a moment before he slips from your grasp and takes the steps back. Before you can even process what had just happened your mother laces her arm with yours and walks you away, You can feel his eyes trail on your retreating form. Once you're far enough away from him you let out a shaky breath and lean against your mother who hums.
“He is certainly not subtle at all is he.” “Jeyne!”
Your skin heats and you cannot bring yourself to look at him throughout the rest of the ceremony. praying the ceremony will end swiftly and you will be able to retreat to a far corner far away from him.
Your dreams are crushed when the ceremony is finally over and you are quickly stopped while trying to retreat to a different room by a guard who requests you follow him, the queen had requested you.
You cling to your mother’s arm as you are lead through the halls, Jessamyn trailing to your right and places a comforting hand on your shoulder.
You were more so nervous about having to speak to them for the first time in a decade. You all have changed, you're worried you will not be able get along with them all as well as you used to.
You are now standing in what you remember to be one of the numerous lounge rooms in the keep. The guard tells you to wait here before he leaves the room. Your mom takes a seat on the couch and Jessamyn sits next to her. You however cannot stomach sitting down right now, you end up pacing back and forth, biting your nails lightly.
“Oh come on sit down. Do not worry so much.” Your mother pats the seat next to her and you shake your head, “What if i say something wrong?” “Im sure you could say nothing wrong to upset him i mean, we saw the way he was looking at you. You could murder his family and i'm sure he would forgive you.” “Oh definitely.”
“I was talking about the queen.” You grumble towards them and they simply look at one another and shake their heads.
Now you were nervous to see him even more. You would make a fool of yourself. But why do you care so much about making a fool of yourself in front of him? He was simply your childhood friend you were looking forward to seeing again, that was all.
Yet when rhaenyra walks in you all stand and bow you cant help the way as your head raises you look behind her to him.
“It is so wonderful to see you again y/n.” Rhaenyra walks over to you and gives you a hug which you are more than happy to reciprocate. “It is an honor to be in your presence once more my queen.” She smiles warmly at you as she pulls back, keeping her hands on your arms.
“How have you been fairing? Oh you have truly grown into a beautiful lady.” You bow your head to her and smile, “You are too kind my queen. I have been well. Though it does get rather lonely in the eyire. I am happy to be back.”
Her face changes at your answer. She seems very pleased with your answer. Maybe a bit too pleased, her face is laced with something akin to, mischievous? Like she is plotting something though you can’t put your finger on. But she pulls back away and eager turns to the side.
“Of course you remember my son.” “How could i forget.”
He smiles brightly at you and your answer as you bow your head to him. “My prince.” “Jace please, you are dear to me, you have no need to call me my prince.” You allow him to grab your hand lightly and watch as he brings it up to his lips once more. He puts down your hand but keeps it firmly in his grip. Not too tight but not loosely enough wear you could slip out of his grasp easily.
“I am so happy to see you Jace.” The grip he has one you tightens at your words, “Your words mean more to me than you know. I have missed you y/n.” When did he become such a sweet talker? He’s clearly been reading those books that he would always groan about getting assigned to by the maesters.
You notice that your mother and rhaenyra have entered conversation and you could see from the corner of your eye the way the three of them continue to eye the two of you. could they be any more obvious?
Well you will not allow them to stop you from conversing with Jacaerys. What was the harm? “Have you been well?” “Well enough. I find myself missing dragonstone sometimes. It is certainly odd being back in the keep after so long as im sure it is for you. But i am sure to be back on dragonstone in no time.” “Ah right, you are the prince of dragonstone of course.” He hums as he steps closer to you and you can feel his breath lightly breezing on your face. “You are not yet betrothed?”
His voice lowers into a whispers and deepens into a tone thats clearly only meant for you to hear. You take a deep breath attempting to calm yourself. If someone saw the two of you they would surely think he was about to kiss you. Maybe you did as well, but you should not think that.
“I an not.” “Is there any particular reason?” You hum, finally locking eyes with him to see his eyes already dead set on yours. “Maybe i have just not found the right man for me my prince.” You watch the look in his eyes darken at your words, the look on his face indescribably but almost more attractive than ever. “I am hopeful i shall find him during my stay at the keep.”
“I am rather certain you will, my lady.” He says with a certainty in his voice, like he is so sure he is willing to bet his life on it. You are not stupid you know he must be referring to himself. Yet the idea of the crowned prince, the heir to the iron throne, the future king of the six kingdoms, was willingly laying himself out in front of you like this. Many other men would simply be showering you in false affections to get you to spill affection for him but seems more than happy to show his hand to you early on.
“Maybe i will.” He continues to stare at you for a moment longer. The tension between you could be cut with a knife. You’re sure he wishes to say more but he looks over your shoulder before he pulls back, taking a step away from you.
You look back and notice the three women behind you seem to be finishing up their own conversation and turn to the two of you with pleased looks. “I am so sorry to cut this short but me and jace have a couple meetings to attend to.” You look back to him and brings your hand to his lips once more, allowing them to selfishly linger there as he speaks. “I shall see you.”
You grin. “I shall see you my prince.” He smiles once more and follows after his mother who left after a quick goodbye. You watch him leave, he gives you a final parting look before he leaves. You trying to quell the sound of your heart pounding in your chest.
The smile on your face does not drop until you look behind you and the two women are giving you amused looks. “What?”
They look at one another before they look back at you. “So when should i expect my first grandchild? Oh i bet it’ll have his hair,” “mother!” “Oh and my baby will be queen of the seven kingdoms, my heart hurts.” you groan as you watch her clutch her chest in mock agony and fall back into the couch. “You are being ridiculous.”
You do not wish to stay here and listen to them ramble about you and the prince so you swiftly begin to make your way towards the door. “I need some fresh air.” “Yes i would need some fresh air too if i was you. The tension between you two.” You let out another loud groan as you walk through the door and storm away, hearing their laughter as you walk down the hall.
You don’t know where you're headed. simply walking through the halls with no clear destination. You decide you will not think much about your interaction with him, or at least try to. You will just relax the rest of the day until you turn into bed. You have never thought much about suitors before what is so different about him? Maybe it is because you have known him for so long, you knew him at what was probably his weakest points of his life and he knew you at yours, maybe it is simply a mutual understanding of one another.
You are snapped out of your thoughts when you hear the loud commotion below you, finally looking around and noticing many people standing by the walls and leaning down to look. You grow curious and make your way closer, hearing the way the sounds of people in hushed chatter and the sound of metal clashing grows louder.
When you look over the edge and gain sight of the men a chill runs down your spine. You can simply only stare at the way his hair flows left and right while he dodges or the way he grips the sword he has in his hands so tightly you can see veins lining the back of his hands and surely up his forearm though its covered by the black outfit he dawns. You’re sure your mouth has been open so long you are catching flies. so completely mesmerized by the sigh below you.
The man he is against suddenly falls on his back and you see the smirk dawn his face as he points the sword to the fallen knights neck. The courtyard is filled with claps though you cannot even bring yourself to move, watching and waiting.
He helps the man up who removes his helm and you can see his face now. Criston Cole who smacks his shoulder and says a couple words to him. You watch the interaction with eager eyes. Criston suddenly looks up and his gaze locks with yours as a look of shock graces his face. You suddenly get pulled back from whatever trance you had been in and meekly attempt to smile at him. He has never been anything but kind to you but you know of his past strained relationship with jacaerys and lucerys so you have always worried he does not like you much.
He looks back to him and gets closer to him, whispering in his ear as he looks at you once more before his gaze drops again back to the younger man in front of him. He suddenly turns around and his eye locks with yours. Aemond. You can barely recognize him, what had happened to the crying boy who would get teased endlessly by his brother and nephews? He looked like a warrior, with that sword in his hand and the shield in the other. You bow your head, not sure what else you are meant to do.
He walks closer to you and you place your elbows on the half wall, leaning over it to look at him as he looks up at you. “It seems the maiden has blessed me this day for she has brought down an angel to greet me.” You flush, when did these men get so romantic? “You are far too kind to me my prince.” A small smile graces his face as he continues to stare at you, you can hear the ladies around you whispering but you put on a smile and attempt to ignore it.
“I am merely stating the truth my lady, you have only grown into the essence of beauty itself. I am grateful to be graced with your presence.” “When did you get so charismatic?” “Maybe i have been practicing for the day you should return to me.”
You shake your head at him as you can’t help the grin that grows on your face. if you were being honest you were not as close as you would have liked to be with Aemond as a child, especially not as close as you were to Jacaerys. It was hard to be when all he did was push you away, though you did always try to apologize to him whenever the boys were picking on him but that's pretty much as far as it had gone. You had wanted to be his friend, even Alicent had tried to encourage him to talk to you but all he would do is run away or say something mean to you that he had not meant.
“You are a fine fighter my prince.” “Thank you my lady. Would you stay and watch?” “You wish to show off?”
You watch as he takes a couple steps back, yet he keeps his eye on you, “I believe with you cheering me on i shall win every fight.” “By the looks of it you do not need me, you would win these fights regardless.”
He says nothing more simply making his way back over to criston with a pleased look on his face. You watch as he turns his head every once in awhile to make sure you’re still there. You stay. You watch him fight with all the different white cloaks, winning every match. It reminds you of being back in the eyrie when the main source of entertainment was watching the knights of the vale train. Though he was much more skilled than those men, much more skilled than any man you had ever seen. You could wager he was the best swordsman in the keep.
As the sun begins to set a maid approaches you. “The queen has invited you to dine with the family tonight my lady. Would you like to freshen up before?” Of course you were being invited to dinner. An odd pit fills your stomach as you think about the fact this would be the first time you would be seeing all of them together the only people you have seen are jacaerys, aemond, rhaenyra, and glimpses of daemon, lucerys and joffery at the ceremony early today though you had not gotten to speak to them.
“Please.” You glance at the training grounds once more and see aemond and criston looking at you. You bow and aemond nods to you before you walk off with the maid.
When you enter your room you let out a gasp as you see another maid fiddling around with a large bouquet of flowers on the main table of your room. “Gorgeous are they not?” You approach the huge bouquet with surprise, “Who is this from?” “Prince jacaerys my lady. How romantic.” You stare at the array of red roses in front of you and allow your fingers to graze against them, bring your face close enough to even smell them. How did he have this prepared so quickly? You can even see that each rose has been dethorned.
Your heart swells at the gesture. “It truly is.” You will have to thank him.
You finally allow yourself to relax as the maids bath you. You could not believe today. You did not know how you felt. You think you are happy to be back in the keep. It is certainly odd to see these halls once more and it is even more crazy to be staying in the same room you were when you were a young girl again. In an odd way it felt like home, a lot more than the vale did. There is certainly more going on here than the vale.
You can help but let your mind linger on aemond and jacaerys. They both cross your mind in an odd way. You do not know what to think of either of them, they were both clearly trying to win your affection and this put you in a rather tricky situation. You think both men are nice, yet you do not know them anymore so you cant say who you like more. You suppose that's what the purpose of this trip is.
This clouds you mind and thoughts all the way up until you are walking into the dinning room. You are early, the only people in the room are alicent, rhaenyra and daemon who were seated at the table chatting with one another. They look at you and smile, “Ah you are here.” They stand to greet you and you wave your hands, “Please you do not need to stand up. I am merely a lady.” “Oh nonsense you are pretty much family.” You smile warmly at them rhaenyra urges you to take a seat.
You pull out a chair in the middle, allowing you to sit in direct eye sight of them who all look upon you. “You look wonderful.” You thank them and awkwardly fiddle with the fabric of your dress under their gaze. “I am hoping you day went well, i apologize again for leaving so suddenly.” You shake your head, “It had gone well my queen. do not fret. I spent it in the training yard.” “The training yard?” “Yes my lady, prince aemond had asked me to stay and watch him practice.”
You watch as a pleased look graces alicent face as she leans forward, “Did he now?” “Yes he seemed rather insistent i would be his good luck charm.” This has alicent beaning as she looks over to rhaenyra in almost what looks to be a challenge. You watch as rhaenyra stiffly smiles, “oh how wonderful.” Daemon shakes his head and picks up his goblet while chuckling. “That reminds me. You should join us in the royal box tomorrow for the tourney. Im sure my son would be more than happy about it.” You catch the way alicent eye twicthes for a moment and rhaenyra merely continues to smile at you. You look between the two women as you attempt to hide your horror. Were they trying to set you up with their sons?
“I would be honored your grace.” “It is settled then.” “Yes the royal box has such a nice view, im sure aemond will impress you with his skills.”
This could not be happening.
“He is very skilled from what i gathered. I am eager to see him on the field.”
As you begin to pray for a saving grace you get one as the doors open and you hear footsteps approach. The chair next to you gets pulled out and a body plops into it with a groan. “I am starving.”
His eyes hit you and his smirk dawns his face. “Ah lady arryn, the talk of the keep today.” “It is nice to see you prince aegon.” “You do not need to lie i know it is not.” You say nothing as alicent scolds him for his words but all he does is shrug, taking a long chug from his chalice. Helaena follows soon after and you greet her from your chair, remember her adversion to touch and she seems grateful for it as he takes her place next to aegon. Soon enough more and more people flow into the room, you stand to greet the dragon sisters and lucerys who all give you hugs and warm greetings, you feel your dread leave your body for awhile until you sit back down and the chair next to you gets pulled back and jacaerys fills the spot next to it.
“My lady, it is nice to see you again.”
“Always a pleasure my prince.”
He smiles and opens his mouth to speak until you feel a presence behind you and turn to see aemond place a hand on aegons seat, aegon looks up at him and grins, “brother.” aemond keeps a stoic look as he continues to glare at aegon. You begin to stand, “You can sit-” “No. Aegon get up.” The man in question groans, “But i like it here brother.” “get up i will not ask again.” You sit down slowly as aegon rolls his eyes and stands from his seat. Sending you a wink before he walks off, “We shall speak again my lady.”
You say nothing as he sits down, merely a nod of acknowledgement. You keep your gaze forward which just so happens to be staring direction at daemon who humorous looks between the three of you. You fear you might go mad.
The dinner starts with a silent prayer, you merely continue to keep your eyes open and look at the table. You have never been a religious person so you allow yourself to look at aemond for a quick moment who appear to be lost in prayer before turning your attention to jacaerys who is already looking at you. You weakly smile at him before turning away quickly just as everyone begins to raise their heads.
The table begins to fill with chatter as the food begins to get brought out. The three of you however stay dead silent. You are going to die. You look over to your mother to see if you can get her help but she is lost in conversation with alicent. You try not to groan as you fold your hands in your lap. Did things truly have to be so awkward?
As you somber in your despair suddenly a very family scent hits your nose and you sit up, looking over your shoulder and staring at the plate the maid drops at the empty spot in front of you amazed. It was your favorite, a dish that was near impossible to get in the reach due to the ingredients and how hard it was to even get food in to the eyrie in the first place.
“It is your favorite right?” You turn to your left in shock as he begins to speak, a light smile graces his face. “I had it requested for tonight.” You lightly open your mouth in shock, you hear a tsk from your right and a light groan. jacaerys is furious with himself how come he had not thought of that?
“It is my prince i am shocked you remember that. Thank you.” He shakes his head, “I would be a fool not to remember such things about you, my lady.”
You eager take some onto your plate and take a bit, letting out a pleased hum as you can’t help but smile. It reminds you of your youth here in the keep, many fond memories come flowing to mind. You were shocked he had even remember this about you as you two truly never spoke much. How much did he know about you that you had no clue about?
As the silence between you all is much more palpable you turn to jacaerys. “I wished to thank you jace.” He lightly coughs into the cup he was sipping from as he turns to you with wide eyes. “Whatever for y/n?” You do not see aemond glaring at jacaerys from behind you, he did not like that you two were on first name bases while you only called him my prince.
“The flowers, they are oh so gorgeous.” He beams, “It is the least i could do. I would have gotten you more but i was short on time.” “I am happy you thought of me no matter what my prince.” “I am always thinking of you.”
You ignore the light scoff from your left but you do not miss the way jacaerys eyes stray and he begins to glare behind you. You quickly turn to aemond, wishing to avoid them arguing. “I have heard you will compete in tomorrow tourney my prince.” His stoic face drops as he turns to you, he hums and nods taking a sip from his cup, “If you bless me with your favor i am guaranteed too secure the victory.”
“Has the queen already asked you about sitting in the royal box?” You nod as you glance quickly at jace. “Yes i will be joining you.” “Very good.” Aemonds face turns devious and your stomach drops.
“It is a shame you are not competing jace, what ever was the reason you gave again?” Jacaerys cluches the cup he has in his grip tightly as a maid walks over to refill it. He does not allow himself to look at aemond simply keeping his gaze onto you. “I am sad to say i have not picked up a sword in a while i am a bit rusty. Some of us have more important things to do then swing a sword all day. I am the heir after all.”
You wish to throw your head back and groan. The tension between the three of you was so noticeable but you tried to simply look at your plate and take a few small bites from it. You had basically lost your appetite. This was the last thing you wished to be happening. Suddenly a hand taps you on the shoulder and you turn around. A hand suddenly shoots out and you notice the band in the corner had begun to play a waltz.
You smile lightly and grab his hand, not sparing a glance to the two men who grow furious as they watch you walk hand and hand with lucerys who turns his head back and sticks his tongue out at them. Why had they not thought of that?
You both bow your head at one another and grab each others hand as you begin to dance the simply dance. “You are welcome.” You sigh at his smile, “Was it truly so obvious?” “to everyone yes.” “Well i shall thank you formally then my prince.” “Luce please. You are basically family. Well you are too be family soon i gather. Whether it be my sister or my aunt. Though i would much rather you be my sister.”
You shake your head, “It is too soon.” “But it is not too soon for them to be fighting over you like dogs?” You have no reply so you attempt to change the topic. “I have heard of your recent engagement to lady rhaena, congratulations.” At this a blush dawns his face up to his ears. He looked adorable. “She is very pretty.” “That she is.”
For a short while a silence falls over you but it does not last you feel the heated stares of the men at the table. “You have gotten much better at dancing.” “You do not need to say that i know i have stepped on your foot one too many times.” as if on cue he steps on your foot again causing you both to go into a fit of laughter. Lucerys looks over your shoulder as he lightly scoffs, “I am shocked one of them has not tried to cut in.” He spins you around and you are able to get a good look at the men who both cannot take their eyes off you. “Do you truly think they will try?” “No. They are cowards.”
You tilt your head at him and he continues to giggle. The song soon ends and they watch from the table as you two bow at each other once more and aemond tries to stop his eye twitching as he watches lucerys whisper into your ear and you double over laughing, lacing your arm with his as he leads you back to your seat.
“My feet are killing me after that.” They do not understand why the two of you bust out laughing at your words and lucerys walks away with a small wave. You continue the dinner with a smile on your face and neither of them say another word much to your surprise. It is not that you do not wish to talk to them if anything that's the only thing you wish for but not if they are going to be acting like fools.
The dinner soon enough wraps up and you stand. The two men quickly standing up after you.
“Allow me to escort you back to your room.” You stare at the two of them as they speak over each other and cross your arms over your chest. “I am more then capable of walking back myself. Though i appreciate the offer. I hope the two of you will be more well behaved the next time we speak. Goodnight.”
And with that you swiftly turn your back and walk off with a shake of your head. They were ridiculous this whole situation was absolutely ridiculous. You just pray that tomorrow will be better and you will be able to get your mind and your heart in check.
taglist (open!) @smurfelle @venmondiese @winter-soldier-101 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @councilofcastamere @tssf-imagines @atargaryenlover @possiblyafangirl @bibliophile221b
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I'm torn between liking anyone on a dating app even remotely mildly compatible for at the minimum a shallow friendship
Or being more realistic and only actually liking people I'd genuinely want to get to know romantically potentially
#rant#further complicated by the fact my brain is both Great at reading signs i am NOT compatible#and also great at making up reasons im not compatible when in fact i might be.#like... okay. see someone with zero in common and only mildly values in common? realistically im never going to want them romantically#realistically to like them and chat is procrastinating Real dating options. realistically its wasting everyones time.#but my brain will be like: wrll maybe they COULD be a friend and introduce me to someonr else id actually crush on.#vice versa? my brain sees someone i actually find mildly cute and with at least somrthing in common. and then goes#well they said short term/casual telationships. or theyre very skinny. they love going to bars which ur too sick to do.#i just dont think theyll want to date you given so many other Much More Compatible people for them. so you shouldnt even waste their time#and message them.#(and to be fair to me? the only cute ppl ive seen to Me in a year on dating apps have been poly partnered ppl#cause thats who the apps for some fucking reason match with me#and i just want someone to Like Me Back. prioritize maintaining a relationship with me if they like me.#since ive dated basically All people who used me as a placeholder until they found an actual crush to date.#so while a poly partnered person could in theory love me and prioritize me too? id rather not start#a new relationship with someonr whete i know them 2 months and if somrones getting dumped its going to be me#and not their married 5 years partner they have a home with. id rather just date a single person#who is on the same footing going into a new relationship.#so :/
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So for anyone who doesn’t keep up with nz politics, which i’m assuming is most of you, our new radical right government have decided one of their main aims of their term will be to re-interpret the Treaty of Waitangi.
The Treaty is an agreement between Maori and the Crown, now the NZ government. It is the founding document of new zealand and is recognised as a constitutional document today; it is the only treaty of its kind/time still honoured, and it is the steps we’ve taken through the Treaty to provide restitution and build an ongoing relationship with Maori and their iwi (tribes) that has allowed the relationship between Maori and the government to thrive where other indigenous groups have struggled to achieve recognition of their rights.
This is going to be entirely undone. Not only is this issue inflammatory and a threat to race relations in Aotearoa, leaked documents show the proposed “reinterpretation” wants to negate pretty much the entirety of the legal rights provided to Maori under the treaty. For example, the treaty article that guarantees land rights for Maori will be reinterpreted to guarantee land rights for “all New Zealanders”. Which means this article would be essentially meaningless for Maori.
By removing Maori from the context they are trying to put Maori on an “equal footing” with all New Zealanders; they are riding the idea that Maori have special rights and privileges above that of the average New Zealander. Obviously this is bullshit but it’s effective rhetoric and there’s a grain of truth to in that the extent of Maori rights hadn’t been clearly defined due to the ongoing nature of the process. So this has got a lot of people with a poor grasp of the issues very upset and baying for change.
There is a hui (meeting) being held today for all the iwi to begin discussions of how Maori will respond to this. New Zealand politics isn’t very interesting usually, but our progress on indigenous rights, until now, has been absolutely ahead of the field. If you care about indigenous rights globally, you should care about this, because in the same way Australia’s referendum loss has spurred on this action, the loss of rights here will spur other right wing governments to be similarly bold to their own indigenous groups.
Indigenous rights in New Zealand are under attack. They are meeting today to discuss it, and New Zealand will be listening, but I want the world to be listening. Because our government needs the shame of being called out by more than just the people who they’ve already decided don’t vote for them.
Maori have a long and proud history of fighting for their rights, and they’ll do it again here. And I’ll be on the pickets beside them, but there’ll be plenty of my own pickets to attend, because this government is radical in every sense of the word.
So please, even if you’re very far away, stand behind them in this. Keep your eyes on us. Amplify their voices. Don’t let the racism drown them out.
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Ahhhh I've been waiting for your requests to open, I've been following you since your first Price fic and never had an idea to request until like 2 weeks ago 😫 so, I've been thinking, what about being in a relationship with Keegan but getting separated when ODIN hits the earth and not meeting again until about 5 years later? 👀 Love your writing, hope you have a great day 🩵 :)
For The Weak And Weary
PAIRING: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: When ODIN struck you had thought he had died, sky alight with fire. It had taken years to accept it, much less live with it. But after Dallas falls, would you get a glimpse of your Lover's phantom again?
WORDCOUNT: 6.2k
WARNINGS: Angst, depressive thoughts, PTSD insinuations, gore, wounds, blood, death, canon-typical violence, (1) suggestive joke, alcohol, hallucinations, fluffy reunion, tears, verbal arguments, etc.
A/N: Just because I'm a sucker for sticking to the game timeline I made it ten years, lol. Enjoy, Anon! Very fun prompt.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
You could never make sense of what Keegan went through in 2005 during Operation Sand Viper. It would be pointless to try and wrap your head around it from what little you knew. All that mattered was that when he came back on leave, something in his eyes was…damaged. Hell, he’d only been sixteen—the both of you had known each other since you were kids, you knew when something was wrong.
And this was entirely new to you.
He smiled less and snapped more; got spooked when you dropped something in his family's kitchen like a grenade had gone off. Maybe, you reasoned, he thought one actually had.
But through it all, you could still see how much he cared about you. When you were old enough you’d both moved into a nice place in the suburbs and started a relationship—a life shared between the two of you.
You knew he loved you from the way he’d grip you close at night and breathe into your scalp. How when you were sick from the take-out dinner he’d brought home, Keegan would hold back your hair and rub circles into your spine as you threw up. He never shied away from telling you how beautiful you were; prided himself on it. Keegan loved to show you off.
But there were times back then when you wondered if the same Keegan that had been so fulfilled to join Ghosts had died, and, in fact, a phantom was instead puppeting his skin. He was so quiet now.
If you’d known that the world was going to end on July 10th, 2017, you’d have never let him walk out that door angry. You would have grabbed his hand and pressed your lips to his, whispered affirmations into his flesh and sobbed at the cruelty of it all.
“I can’t keep pretending that you’re okay!” You yell, tears in your eyes, at the man standing tense in the kitchen doorway. Blank blue eyes stare lifelessly. “Keegan—this is killing you.”
It was early morning by then, and the neighborhood was quiet. The house that the both of you had moved into years ago was littered with the remnants of a happy home. Pictures on the walls, dishes in the sink, and freshly baked bread on the counter. All you’d tried to do was give Keegan a hug, slipping your hands around his waist when you’d entered.
He’d balked back, jerking to the side and nearly elbowed you in the gut before he saw your wide eyes and stopped himself. The way he’d looked at you…how could eyes be so dead?
“You need to talk to someone,” you put your foot down, shaking your head. “I-I don’t know a therapist or…or someone who can get you proper help because I can’t keep acting like I can live like this.”
Every mission, every time he went away, it always got worse.
Keegan’s eyes get sharp, hands at his sides clenching. He speaks in a low growl. “I don’t need to talk to a shrink, alright? I’m fine, you just startled me.”
“Bullshit,” your mouth hisses, glaring. “You thought you were back in ‘05.”
The man points at you, strong jaw clenching, “Don’t.”
“Keegan,” you plead, “please, I love you! I don’t care about this, I just want you to be alright. To be able to live your life—”
“What you want is to try and change me!” The black-haired man barks. Your eyes blink in shock. Keegan rarely yelled. “I already told you I was fine, why don’t you get off my back all the time?” His eyes flash, pupils going to slits as his hands shake at his sides. Why did he look scared? Your breath stills, lips slightly open, with tears dripping to the tile. “Fuck, it’s like I can’t come home without you pesterin’ me ‘bout something!”
A stiff silence falls.
“Kee—” He snaps a hand to his mouth and rubs at his stubble, suddenly unable to look at you.
“...Forget it.” It’s low and shaky how he says it, eyes wide, before he darts into the foyer and slips into his boots. You listen to the sounds of panicked shuffling before the man wrenches open the front door and slams it shut behind him. One of the picture frames falls and hits the ground with a shattering of glass.
You flinch and tense, taking down a terse breath and sniffling tightly. Trying to get your lungs to work properly, your feet take you over to the picture as they feel weak and uneven; a stuttering mess of steps before you bend down. Your fingers bleed as they shift the glass away, taking out the image of you and Keegan on your hike through the mountains.
Smiling faces mock you, and you break at the bright and open affection Keegan wears as he looks down at you—eyebrows curved up and smirk like a knife to the chest.
You loved him so much it hurt to breathe when he was away.
He had needed time, you knew, but what you didn’t know was that time wouldn’t be available. Around noon the world had opened into a ball of fire and death. 27 million dead. Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, Houston, and Miami…all gone…at least, that was what everyone in Dallas was telling you.
When Keegan had been away taking a walk to calm himself, you’d been home alone. The earth caved, the ground shook; houses burst like balloons. By the time you’d crawled from the rubble of your home, all you had was the picture and the clothes on your back. People were screaming—you were screaming. But you knew that you couldn’t stay here if you wanted to survive.
And then you’d made it to Dallas by sheer luck and the few tricks Keegan had taught you; had thought that he had died in that first strike by the Federation. You carried that guilt and self-hatred for not holding your tongue for a few more hours.
So much could have been different in these ten years. Better. You never got over him for even a second.
But the reality was that you couldn’t think about all of that now, because if you didn’t focus on holding your breath you would be dead in the next three seconds.
Your hand is anchored to the body of your sniper rifle, finger hovering over the trigger as you hide behind the outcropping of rubble in the decimated cityscape; the air is hot and humid despite the weight of the night. It sticks to your skin in a sheen of violent sweat. Yet it’s still not as potent as the blood.
Teeth gritted, you hold back whimpers as Federation soldiers stalk the grounds, scores of them—legions. An entire army that had breached the walls and executed everyone insight, soldiers, civilians, if it once moved it didn’t anymore. The burning in your shoulder was agonizing, head smashing itself back to the rubble in an attempt to stifle your own ragged need to scream into the night as layers had peeled back to allow a bullet to pass through.
In the ten years you’d been here, you’d taken up the mantle of quite the sharpshooter; pulling on Keegan’s lessons when he was on leave and wanted to bring you to the firing range. You had even picked a rifle similar to the one back in your destroyed home—held in a plastic case and treated like royalty by your long-deceased lover. It wasn’t the same, but the jet-black Lynx made you steady like the picture in your breast pocket did.
A reminder of what was lost and why you had picked the knock-off up in the first place.
Footsteps get closer as the sweep of a flashlight cards above your skull, if possible you go even more still, lips pulled in and heart rampaging. There were barked orders and yelling, but no more screaming.
How long had you been unconscious after taking that shot to the shoulder? Fear was breeding with horror—was…was everyone dead?
Spanish is loudly called not five feet away, and the flashlight leaves as your breath does. You let off a quiet gasp and suck down air greedily. Eyes flashing from one shadow to another, you look for any opportunity to slip away from the city. In the wind, you could smell fire, and taste it on your tongue as you licked your lips.
All around you can see the limp shadows of bodies and the apartments, large skyscrapers were on fire deep in their frames. The city was entirely lost.
How the federation got into the walls you would never know, though there was concern about the enemy soldiers rounding up civilians outside the walls and executing them. Maybe one cracked before the bullet entered their skull.
You bite hard into your lip to force back your pain. Trying to shoot a rifle would be useless at this point, you might as well have lost the limb. Slinging the gun’s strap over your head, you look back and forth along your visible perimeter, checking for hostiles as you unsheathe your combat knife and cradle your limp arm to your chest.
If only Keegan could see you now.
Rounds of gunfire make the air burn with urgency, and you take the time to peek out behind as sweat makes a trail down your dirty face, dripping off of your chin as you breathe like a wheezing dog. Your wound needed tending, and you had the med pack on your vest with the supplies, but you can’t do it here.
Where’s safe? If Dallas has fallen…is there anywhere that’s still standing? A location hits your brain as your gaze darts from one abandoned street to another. You take a deep breath and whine as you force your legs to stand and move quickly, feet shifting as quietly as you’re able to make them.
“Fort Santa Monica.” Now a stronghold, you’d heard US soldiers here talking about the large presence of military power out in California—numbers so great they rivaled those that had lived in Dallas.
You stumble over a spasming body and slam your uninjured shoulder into the bulk of the building’s wall, groaning loudly like a wounded boar.
“Fuck!” If you made it out of the city, that would be where you would have to go; to warn them of what was coming. The Federation had found a way inside the Dallas wall, and that meant if they had enough tenacity, they could do it to them too.
Everything would be done if another city fell.
Holding your knife tighter, you push off the wall and grit your teeth harder, mind running on that edge of hysteria and forced calm. It’s in these moments where you have to pull on old memories to keep you going—even if they end up hurting more than the open wounds you carry.
Keegan had his bad moments, but you always got through them together. Years and years of knowing each other inside and out; memorizing bodies and thoughts like they were second nature. He would want you to keep fighting, tell you to get your ass in gear and go…and you would never let him down.
You owed him that much even if some days you wanted more than anything to join him.
Blade in hand, you hear muttered speech from up the alleyway and pause, feet splayed but still swaying as you come to a slow stop. Your ears ring at garbled sentences, foreign words spilling into one another.
Panting, you listen closely, limbs vibrating. More gunfire echoes over the air, screams and death that get ingrained into your head like a brand into sizzling flesh. Skyscrapers burned and buildings fell with great earthquake booms. Everything is under a sheen of distance.
Get out of the city. Get to Fort Santa Monica.
“Kill who I have to,” you slur out, itching at your neck as you leave a trail of blood behind you. A single pair of footsteps walk quickly forward near your corner and you hold your breath, bringing up your knife as pain pounds in your arm.
Deep blue eyes sit in the back of your mind, counting you down as they always did.
Keep your arm steady for me, Doll, a phantom tells you. Breathe...
When the first shadow of a Fed soldier graces your eyes, you strike.
—
It’s roughly nineteen days from Dallas to Santa Monica, and that was if you kept up at a steady walking pace. If the crude sling you’d fashioned from bandages found in your med pack was any indicator, it would be double that.
On the first day, you had hiked half-dead over the destroyed landscape of what remained of the USA, licking your wounds and counting your losses. You’d had your pick of abandoned houses, taking a red brick one just because it looked nice and you were about to pass out from blood loss. The only reason you’d made it this far was that the bullet had thankfully passed right through you, making sure that if you moved too suddenly no more damage was being done internally. You packed it with a sterile rag.
Sitting in the home, pictures gathering dust on the fireplace mantle, you tipped back a bottle of whisky you’d found in one of the bedrooms, grimacing at the sting. It was better to be drunk for what you were about to do.
Heating up your combat knife in the fire you had started in the hearth, you watched the metal grow an eye-flinching white as you stared off into nothingness.
“You remember when you showed me that scar, Keegan?” You always talked to him. Others had given you shit for it, but they knew the purpose. If you didn’t talk to someone, even a ghost, you would give up.
The guilt was eating you alive, and it would overtake you eventually. Hadn’t in ten years, but it would…you knew it, everyone did.
Keegan was everything, and nothing looked the same when you lost him.
“The one on your thigh?” Pulling the knife back, you turn to the leaking flesh of your shoulder, gushing blood as black desecrates the sides of your eyes. You’d taken off your vest and shirt. If you tried hard enough you could imagine Keegan standing in the corner, watching. Always watching. “You said you had to dig a bullet out and cauterize the wound—when I asked you said you barely felt it over all the adrenaline.”
The ghost tilts its head, eyes sad and lips pulling taunt. Your lungs take in a shaky inhale and your hand quivers; only you feel how your eyes burn with unshed tears.
“I never thought about it before,” right as you growl and shove the knife into your skin, you bark out in fear, “But I think you were fucking lying!”
On day two, you knew you had to avoid the remains of Fort Worth, so you decided to increase your distance and cut that landmark out entirely—too many remnants of Federation. They were everywhere now, and you needed to keep low; get out of Texas. You scavenged properties and took stock.
Four magazines for your Lynx, a pouch with five protein bars, one bottle of water attached to your belt, and your knife. Normally you’d have a pistol at your thigh, but you’d used it up in the firefight back home. When you’d woken back up, it had been gone.
And, of course, you had the picture. You kissed Keegan’s face and placed it back in your breast pocket, caressing the material softly before clearing your throat and addressing the obvious.
With what you had getting to California was a pipe dream.
You’d been on the radio all day, clicking through channels and pleading for anyone alive to reach out. Nothing. Static.
I’m the only one left. The thought was intoxicating, pounding in your skull like your hangover. Everyone is dead.
While you had become somewhat of a loner in the last ten years, especially with the few months you’d been by yourself in the beginning, Dallas had given you a chance to build bonds again. Ten years, and in an instant it was all wiped out.
It rang a devastating bell.
Somehow, you had cheated death where so many others had failed—not only in Texas, but back with ODIN too. You had survived, but somehow Keegan hadn’t.
Keegan, the one who never spoke about ‘05 and jerked awake from nightmares years later because of it. Keegan, who wanted nothing more than to stay at your side when he was home and keep you on his chest when watching movies. Keegan, the love of your life.
The only love of your life.
“I really wish you were here,” you mutter, grimacing as your arm gets jostled as you stumble over a piece of rusted metal in the empty street. “Who gave you the right to go away before me, huh? We were supposed to grow old together, Russ. You promised me that.”
Garbage gets blown over the road when a hot breeze shifts the air, bringing the scent of dirt and the noise of rustling trees. Nature has reclaimed the towns and suburbs—great patches of ivy and long grass that rise to your hips. But the silence was a curse.
The only thing keeping you going is the thought of delivering your warning to Santa Monica, from there…
Your lips thinned. What even was there left? How many times could you go from one place to another, starting over with stories of your past and having to brush the pitying looks off as you fake a smile?
Shaking your head, you recall memories from the better days as the light gets low in the sky.
“You’re doin’ too much, Sweet Thing,” Keegan mutters, and you turn from the stove top with a bright smile to face him.
He had just gotten out of the shower, towel ruffling through his dark hair as he stands in the kitchen entrance and watches you cook for him. The shirt hangs off of his wide shoulders, and gray sweatpants are loose over his formed hips—his strong brow line raises in a casual expression.
“Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it,” you tease, hearing his low chuckles as you turn back to your pan. “You look good, y’know.”
“Oh, yeah?” Keegan grunts, smirking, and his feet pad over to you, tossing the towel to the counter as his presence looms over your back. Large hands grab onto your hips and a nose burrows into your hair; inhaling deeply before gradually melting to the curve of your spine.
You smile and hum, pushing back so you can rest on his chest. A chin sets itself on your head, deep massaging fingers making you pur as they bunch your sleep shorts.
It was late—nearly two in the morning. Keegan had only gotten home a short while ago, but sleep wasn’t going to stop you from spoiling him. A wine bottle was on the island counter, two glasses, and the food was nearly done from what you could scrounge up on short notice.
“...Good to be back,” the man grumbles into you, kissing your head and slowly sweeping his arms around your waist as you sighed softly at the contact.
Your face gains heat.
“Well, I’d sure hope so, or else this would be awkward.” You huff to hide the bright smile in your voice. But like a moth to flame, you hear, as well as feel, Keegan chuckle against your spine. His grip squeezes you for a moment.
“How was it when I was away?” He asks as you move around the contents in the pan, nose brushing your neck as his lips travel to kiss behind your ear. He breathes against the flesh as his low rasp makes you shiver. “Any trouble?”
“Negative, Sergeant,” you raise a brow and smirk over your shoulder at him, seeing his blues spark as he gazes hard into your eyes. A faint twitch to his lips is what you get before his hand captures your cheek; anchoring your face as he descends to connect his mouth to yours.
He sighs into it, arm still around your waist—tight as if you were a pillow.
“Keep talkin’ like that and we won’t have to wait long for dessert, will we?”
Days three through seven were uneventful beyond the constant agony of your arm and tired legs, but on day eight amid a waterless walk in the sweltering heat was when the hallucinations began.
Keegan walks beside you, his footsteps mirroring your own as sweat pools down your forehead and drips off your nose. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you—he just walks, looking exactly like he did the day he died.
At first, you’d flinched back and blinked wildly at the sight, panting, but then he’d disappeared and your heart had shattered. It worried you with what you were seeing, but it was also a strange comfort to be able to ramble to…something, even if it wasn’t real. Hungry and with a dry tongue, you were on the verge of calling it quits.
So on day eleven, without a wild animal in sight to give you a proper food source and all the water having to be purified, you started talking to him while licking the inside wrapper of your last protein bar.
“But I never understood why you hated sleeping in shirts,” you licked your lips to get the remnants of granola off of your flesh, pushing away the greasy sheen from your cheeks. Your arm was burning up—every heartbeat was felt as it moved the skin around red and infected flesh up and down. Puss was leaking out from the crude stitches you had made of embroidery thread from that first house you’d found.
“And you always kept the room freezing.” Continuing, you drop the wrapper to the ground and then take the meat of your fingers and get what little flavor you can off of them, grunting through realization. “That was a ploy to have me use you for heat, wasn’t it? Jesus.”
The man in the corner of your vision smirks, tilting his head and chuckling from where he leans against a tree trunk.
“Yeah, that’s right. Knew it.” Glaring at nothing, you stand from your overturned stump and nearly fall right back over, stomach yelling at you as your vision swirls.
You dig a hand into your hair and grip at the strands, pulling and groaning. “...God.”
Keegan comes over and stands above you, your eyes staring down at his feet as you get light-headed. You focus on his shoelaces, counting the Xs and taking down shaky breaths. When you blink like a cat with dirt on its face, the shoes are gone entirely and you stand back up to your full height.
“...Keegan?” You ask after a moment, the words disappearing into the trees, but no one’s around.
Your sight goes to your wound and your jaw tightens, moments of clarity slipping in as a knife would into your consciousness before the curtain settles once more.
You bend over and vomit what little nutrients you had, spending day twelve sleeping through a fit of nightmares and fever-induced delirium.
Nothing about the remainder of the time you can recall to memory—bits and pieces always flash through on long nights, but they’re only walking montages. Dragging feet, looking at your hand as if it was a foreign object as you turned it back and forth; everything in a sheen of sickness. Days and days and days. Little food. Less water.
More than one-thousand miles.
But somehow, the Wall peels out in front of you as you crash through the foliage, your body giving out and collapsing down a large decline. Bouncing and getting jostled by rocks, you come to a stop without the strength to get back up, staring blankly ahead as your head connects with concrete. Your mouth is open in broken inhales, pain not even registering.
Shouts echo, the pound of rapid feet.
Green eyes meet yours, a youthful face with a beanie and stubble. He’s saying something to you, glancing over your gear and your obvious near-death situation—his hand jostles the side of your face. But your eyes shift behind him gradually, attention falling to someone more important.
Before you finally let yourself rest, you stare at the smiling face of your steadfast phantom.
—
The doctors and nurses at Fort Santa Monica were nice, if a bit secretive about the entire operation. Seeing as you weren’t an official soldier, no dog tags or patches—no name in the database—everyone was a bit hesitant to tell you anything.
Until you said you were from Dallas, of course.
But no one was eager to rush you in your state, even if the information was dire. You had been hooked up to an IV and bedridden for a week straight; talking to nothing on account of the dehydration and electrolyte imbalances. Some days you spend unconscious.
But what really pissed you off when you got back into it, was the fact that they had taken your Lynx and your gear—your picture.
You’d almost grappled onto the first nurse you’d seen when you’d woken without it. It was a beacon, your prized possession of damaged corners and taped tears. Water damage that may or may not have been from sobbing fits in the first five years.
In fact, that was the entire reason you had snuck out so late in the first place.
Stalking down the hallway in the white shirt and camo pants that had been given to you on the fifth morning you had woken up here, you pad along with no shoes, only plain gray socks. You limp with bandaged flesh all along your healing shoulder and your feet.
The doctor had explained that you’d entirely skinned the bottoms and your heels were a mess of blisters and open wounds.
“Take my property,” you grumble under your breath, shuffling along and rubbing at the back of your neck. “What gives them the right?”
You weren’t going to stop until you found it.
Reading the name tags on the walls, you silently wonder where they would have taken your stuff as you slip out of the medical ward, listening to the buzzing of the lights and frowning. As you’re limping along the next hallway, a man suddenly turns the corner on nearly silent feet.
“Woah!” You halt immediately, heart jumping in your chest. A hand catches your shoulder before you run headlong into him.
Green eyes lock with your own, wide and blinking quickly. Brows furrow and you’re quickly looked over before a slow, teasing remark enters the air, you listen with a growing heat on your neck.
“Y’know, I could have sworn you were supposed to be in bed, Ma’am. I miss something here?” The man who had found you.
“Wouldn’t know,” you say blandly, blinking up at him and taking a careful step back. This brunette had a casual air to him—still in his gear despite the time. He folds his arms and tilts his head at you, smirking. “If you’ll excuse me.”
You begin to walk forward, slipping past him and hoping you won’t get snitched on. Except it seems you’ll be having a shadow, as not a few seconds later a smooth chuckle meets your ears and the man walks beside you.
“I think I’ll be taggin’ along if you don’t mind. Security and all.” He turns to face you, sticking out his opposite hand. “Hesh.”
“That supposed to be some kind of nickname, Kid?” You raise a stiff brow but participate in the handshake nonetheless. His grip is firm but not hard.
Hesh blinks at you, eyes swimming with amusement before he shrugs in a boyish way and shakes his head with a laugh. “Hell, you remind me of someone, Ma’am.” A moment passes in silence as you study the area. The man huffs, “Where exactly are we off to?”
“Wonderland,” your lips grumble, tired and wanting to sleep but not until you find your picture. Hesh sighs but you can still hear the hilarity inside of it.
“Alright then…don’t know if you’re going to be finding a shrinking potion anytime soon, though. We’re in low stock.”
“Very funny,” your eyes send a dry look, but you relent when he prods you with his eyes, taking a corner. “I’m looking for my vest.” Hesh blinks at you in curiosity, letting you elaborate as you motion to your upper shoulder. “My pouch has some of my personal belongings. I don’t like being away from it.”
“Oh,” the brunette nods a few times, his beanie jerking along. “Yeah, that’s no problem.” A hand is waved and you stare in confusion as he pivots. “C’mon, I’ll get you there.”
Your eyes burn into his back before you immediately speed after.
“Why so eager to help?” Hesh smirks at your question.
“As I see it, if you went over nineteen days of hard hiking just to get to us, you should at least be able to keep your stuff on you, Ma’am.” Your lips flicker in a smile.
“You’d be the first.” You tell him your name and miss the slight emotion it provokes in his eyes, head lightly pulling to the side but ultimately saying nothing. Hesh shrugs with a grunt, leading you to a meeting room on the opposite side of the building.
Yelling is on the other side.
“Elias, how long has this been kept from me?!” The voice makes your head perk, evoking something inside of your chest. Hesh seems taken aback too, holding up a hand to you for momentary silence—not that you had to be told.
“Keegan, I can’t have that happen. She needs to recover and you being there could jeopardize that. We need what she knows about Dallas.” Your body stills to a near-frozen state, and it’s comedic how your entire face falls to a blank slate. Wait a second.
…Keegan?
“She belongs with me—I thought she fucking died and she’s been here for who knows how long?! Why wasn’t I informed?” Rampaging feet suddenly sound off, going to the door at break-neck speed.
“Son, that’s not a good idea. This is what I was worried would happen if you found out.”
“I didn’t exactly ask, did I? As far as I’m concerned, nothing else matters besides getting back to my Girl,” the bark is ferocious and violent, more of an animal’s than a man’s. “Now where the hell did you put her before I tear this damn fort apart and—” You shove at the door before Hesh can grab you, throwing it open and letting it hit the opposite wall with a great boom of wood.
Your wild eyes instantaneously lock into sharp blues, pulse pounding in your ears. It’s like all the air is taken from your lungs in a great punch.
Oh, he’s so similar to how you remembered him to be ten years ago.
Keegan stands only a few feet away, turned in your direction with his eyes so wide and small you might faint. There’s black face paint in his sockets, making the cerulean all the more bright and shocking to the senses. He’s still tall, still built, if only a bit more rugged than when ODIN struck—there are lines on his forehead and his scars are more faded. Small differences in the way he holds himself like the difference between a rabbit and a hare. Keegan’s black locks are shorter now, but still…his.
Lips part in silent shock, an entire halt of your nervous system.
The entire universe holds its tongue as you two stare at each other; walls and rooms blur into a mess of matter and reality—this couldn’t be real.
Keegan’s feet shift for a moment as if to steady himself as his fingers twitch. In his hand, he holds your picture, his body covered in gear and weapons. He blinks as you tell yourself he’s a phantom, simply that same ghost come back to haunt you as tears sting the backs of your eyes. But then he speaks, and it’s the same voice you had slowly lost the ability to remember in year three.
“...Sweetheart?”
His ghost never spoke. His ghost could not imitate the phonics of his speech or the rhythm of his throat. His ghost could not make you recall the memories you’d long since boxed up.
You jerk forward just as he does, bodies colliding into a feral grip of flesh and fabric, hands latching and faces burying. Sobs rip from you as Keegan’s shaky breath echoes right next to your ear—his chest hitching and arms snatching your waist and lifting you up as easily as he always had. He holds you up without any thought of putting you down, legging your legs dangle as Elias slowly exits the room and corrals a highly confused Hesh with him.
The door shuts, but neither of you notices.
“Keegan—” Your voice is high with emotion, hardly believing what you're seeing—what you’re touching. “Oh, my God.”
He had been alive all this time? Ten whole years and you’d thought he was dead. But by the way he was barely letting you breathe from in his iron clutch, you imagined Keegan had thought the same about you. It was…incomprehensible.
“Shh,” he whispers, his shushes cracking and flinching between broken gasps of your name. “Shh.” He sets you down on the floor only to have his firm hands travel to your cheeks, turning your head to each side in a desperate need to understand if you were really there.
Keegan’s eyes are wet, but no tears let themselves fall quite yet.
“I’m so sorry!” You hiccup and the man kisses your cheeks—your browline and nose. Every piece of you he can as you both stay so intimate you might melt into one another. “I thought you were gone, I-I should have stayed and looked for you, I didn’t—”
“You’re alive?” Keegan’s hands rub across your body, gripping and tugging you closer and closer. “My Girl’s alive?”
His tears drip to your face as he hovers above you, and you both shake with the weight of years.
“Me?” Your chuckle through sobs—you want to scream and wail at the same time. Blue eyes flutter and ragged breaths puff on your forehead. “What about you, you asshole?”
Keegan shakes his head, and you stare deeply into him, hands coming up to cup his cheeks as he sags forward. He had stubble now, spreading out to grate your flesh.
The man forces a weak huff.
“Christ,” is all he mutters before he presses his lips to yours in a kiss so unyielding you expect to have your air stolen. Ten years to feel him kissing you again—to feel his warm flesh under your hands and his heart rampage into you.
You’d do it all over if it still amounted to this.
Your body shivers and you reciprocate with just as much fervor; this emotion of relief is so overwhelming and all-consuming that it makes your head light. You suck down quick breaths between the sensation of your lips meeting, Keegan doing the same.
Unconsciousness was better than letting him leave again, your lover sharing that sentiment as chests slid against one another. Soft hair slips through your fingers as you grip Keegan’s hair, cascading through locks as he groans into your lips and tries to hide his tears from you.
He pulls away and immensely shoves his head into your neck.
“You’re here,” he whispers quickly. A hand quivers at the back of your head as your tears wet his gear. “You’re right here. You came back to me, didn’t you, Doll?”
You cry, “I’m here, Keegan.” The man sobs when he hears you say his name, his knees giving out as you both fall to the floor and not letting the other move beyond the caress of skin and lips.
“I missed you,” Keegan gasps, “so much. Don’t you understand? I was nothing without you. You took it all from me, everything. Every damn thing.”
You press kisses to his neck and racing pulse, healing him inside and out without even realizing it; it was only fair, he was doing the same back to you.
The picture lays long forgotten on the floor.
“Never let me go,” your voice forces out, as he rocks you back and forth like a child. “Never again, Keegan. Please, I love you too much to go through that again.”
“Never,” he immediately promises, pulling back and kissing your lips again—neither can stop themselves from this. Blues eyes blink quickly, cataloging your face and every little blemish he’d have to relearn and study; to find the story behind. Keegan had never been happier. He felt like he might break from it. “Over my dead body, I’m never lettin’ you out of my sight. You’re stuck with me.”
You laugh genuinely for the first time in ten years and say you’d like nothing better as he pulls you back in and plants his mouth to yours in reverent worship. His arms trapping you to him as yours do just the same.
Not to leave again anytime soon.
TAGS:
@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast
#cod#cod x reader#cod x you#call of duty#x female reader#call of duty keegan#call of duty x reader#call of duty x you#cod keegan#keegan p russ#keegan x reader#keegan russ#keegan x you#keegan russ x reader#keegan p russ x reader#call of duty ghosts#cod ghosts x reader#cod ghosts#cod keegan russ#cod fic#cod fanfic#cod x female reader#x fem!reader
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Holiday Season
pairing. obsessed 141 / polar bear-hybrid reader *scenario/headcanons
note. gender neutral reader. reader is physically described to be 6ft or over. common hybrid features such as animal ears, tail, nose, claws, and paw pads.
cw. unhealthy relationships/yandere themes, meat and blood mentions, a lot of eating from hands mentions, a weird type of infantilization, big bad bear is called cute a stupid amount of times, dangerous but passive reader, vague made-up base because i watch too many movies.
Holed up in the middle of fucking nowhere, Alaska, the white wasteland. That's how the 141 were going to spend the merry month of December. Endless snow in sight and no family to be found. A complete and utter joke of a holiday season.
It scarcely matters, the food that's been stored, the dense furniture they've been given, even the solace they find in each other. It's miserable out here. The freeze is always licking at their skin, seeping through their layered clothes to cling to the exposed nape. It's their constant company.
Yet, something else bothers them. A hint that only their trained eyes could catch in their misery. An entity, perhaps, something that follows the men without rest. It's a shadow of winter, blanketing itself around the base and leaving its warmth with no trace to its next destination. Only something another human could pull off.
Dishes left strewn on the counter are returned to their cupboards, clean and scrubbed. Leftovers are consistently missing a bite more than what Soap remembers wolfing the night before. If a blanket or pillow goes missing, best bet it doesn't come back. It doesn't take much convincing for Price to round up his boys to find out the root of their question. Not when they've nothing else to do.
It's Soap who finds you first. Rummaging through the fridge with a plastic container in your hands, that adorable black nose covered in spaghetti sauce. He wonders how they didn't hear you sooner with the way you carelessly scarf down the contents. You remind him a little of himself...
Little round ears perk up at the sound of his gasp. Soap freezes in place as your head cranes back to inspect him. Eyes staring at him with indifference, a lone noodle stuck to your cheek and tomato red staining your considerably large teeth. Sharp and big, enough to poke out from your mouth and dig into your chapped bottom lip. A similarly large grayish-blue tongue swipes out to clean the damning evidence.
So. Fucking. Cute.
Johnny is thanking the names of every God he knows when you let him lead you by hand to his team. A new warmth flows through his body, lighting up his dormant nerves in the winter night, your thick black claws prodding into his rough skin. You must be a docile ol' thing, obediently following him to his buddies, though only after he bribes you with more meals to come. He'll cook up the whole damn kitchen if it means you trail him like this daily.
Ghost is sure that Johnny's the one hiding furry ears and a tail when he rushes over like a dog with a fresh new bone. That, and he's more crazy than he imagined dragging over what looks to be a six foot something polar bear hybrid right his way. Ghost doesn't forget things easily, and he's confident that said bears are known to be the most eager predators in the presence of flesh. Not just by circumstance, no, by nature.
A strange thought does pop up in head. That fluffy white tail you sport catches his eye for longer than he'd like to admit. He wonders. If he offered up a nice, raw chunk of seal to you, would it wag in anticipation? Would your ears twitch at the sounds of his boots crunching in the snow, bringing you yet another delicious catch? He could be the perfect provider for you, he thinks. Maybe even have you hunt alongside him, a bonding ritual of sorts. Blood all over your mouth, allowing only Simon to dab away at your chin with a towel. What a sight to behold. Two predators in the same room.
Gaz takes a step away before doing the exact opposite a minute later. You're not just some wild animal, and he's half worried he just disrespected you to your face (you didn't see it). Any bit of nervousness he had melts away when you gently push your nose into his warm hands. He was going for a handshake, but this is surprisingly preferred. Seems he missed wiping some the cocoa from a recent pot of hot chocolate. He hadn't expected you to be so... soft. If you want more, he's got a heap of cookies hidden away in his room. No issue with you visiting him for a late night snack. Christ, he'll even handfeed you if you're feeling lazy, no worries.
Captain Price nearly drops the flimsy cup of coffee held in his gloved hands. Fucking giant thing you are. He nearly drops it again when your nose takes a sharp turn to the smell of his beverage. Not picky, are you... He'll keep note of that for later. From the looks of it, you're adapting well to the chaos of his batch, sniffing and patiently waiting for Soap to release you from his iron grip on your paw pad. He also takes note of what your wearing almost immediately, Arctic grade parka wrapped around your waist in favor of standard workwear, more akin to a jumpsuit than winter gear. Unbelievable. However, that does explain it now. You work here.
It makes sense, considering you're one of the more volatile hybrids. So many people, including your bosses, are uneasy about the predators. It must've been particularly bad for you. Hiding you away in a big and lonely base to eat dinner at an empty table. The world unable to appreciate you for what you are.
Price on the other hand, he knows his boys like the back of his hand. They understand your type. Would take you in without judgement or fear. Indulge you. Feed you fat red meat from calloused palms and let you lap at the warm blood still dripping on the snow. Gladly clean the droplets that stain your pure white parka. Make you warm.
#btw i genuinely love winter. it is literally the only season that makes me happy. fuck you summer (is born in july)#mine#yandere#yandere cod
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I know this discourse is going to start flaring up again because Takes Off just released, and I've seen bits of it already, but the point of Scott Pilgrim as a series is not that Scott has to go through character development and stop being an ass in order to 'win' the girl of his dreams.
It's that Scott and Ramona are two fundamentally very similar people with a long list of exes who they hurt in very similar ways and they both need to stop that and grow as people in order to have a healthy relationship with each other.
This is highlighted mostly in Books 4-6. Volume 4, Scott Pilgrim Gets it Together, has Scott and Ramona's relationship hit a low point because they both mistake the other for cheating. Ramona thinks Scott is getting too chummy with Lisa, and Scott thinks the same about Ramona and Roxie, and they nearly fall apart because of it.
Volume 5, Scott Pilgrim vs. the Universe, contrasts Ramona finding out that Scott two-timed her and Knives and becoming outraged by it, and Scott being told that Ramona did the same thing to Kyle and Ken. In fact, Scott almost loses to the Katyanagis, and only manages to pull out a win because Kim lies about Ramona having off-screen growth to give him enough motivation to fight back.
And it's in Volume 6, Scott Pilgrim's Finest Hour, that this finally gets hammered home. In the aftermath of his and Ramona's breakup, Scott slips into a self-destructive depression where all he does it sit around the house and play old videogames, until Wallace convinces him to go into the wilderness to find his feet again. After Ramona returns, she reveals that she attempted to go into the wilderness and find her footing again, but all she did was sit around her dad's house and watch old TV.
They're so similar to each other that they even mope in the same general way.
They're both hot messes who did some dodgy stuff, the major difference between them is that most of the people Scott hurt were, y'know, relatively normal, while Ramona's exes are mostly crazy people who decided to join up with a "League of Evil Exes" whose main goal is apparently "Murder any of Ramona's future partners and take her back by force."
The books are relatively light on details for how the League actually worked, but it's clear from the second episode of Takes Off that all of them besides Gideon believed that whomever killed Ramona's new partner would automatically be with her again, and they're shocked when Matthew tells them that she rejected him. Meanwhile, Gideon's overall objective wasn't elaborated on in the show, but it's presumably the same as it is in the books: Cryogenically freeze his own seven exes, Ramona included, and use the Glow to brainwash them all into being his girlfriends at the same time.
In Takes Off, Ramona is able to mostly resolve her issues with the Exes herself, over the course of her investigation into who took Scott and faked his death, but the overall difference between the book timeline and the show timeline is that one spotlights Scott's growth, and the other spotlights Ramona's growth.
They're perfect for each other, and it's because they're both hot messes who need to grow the hell up before they can have healthy adult relationships.
#Scott Pilgrim#Scott Pilgrim Takes Off#Scott Pilgrim Gets it Together#Scott Pilgrim vs. the Universe#Scott Pilgrim's Finest Hour
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Guilty Pleasures ༓ jjk, kth (m) | chapter iii
✑ Summary: Three years of being Seoul's power couple earns you nothing but a big fat divorce settlement and your face plaster on every gossip column around town. You're angry, hurt, and desperately want to move on, but worst of all? You're still in love with the man who started the whole mess, even though the most he can ever see you as is a friend. The renowned actor you've hired to be your company's new endorser seems to have a soft spot for you though. He's easy on the eyes, you'll admit, but who actually wants a divorcee like yourself? It's unrealistic really.
pairing: ex-husband ceo!jungkook x ceo!reader, actor!taehyung x ceo!reader (not poly)
genre/AU: angst, smut, fluff, loverstoexesto ?, coworkers2?, unrequited love
Word count: 5.3k+
Warnings: some time skips (none too huge), oc and jk are both 30, Taehyung is 32, swearing, lots of introspection, tornado of emotions, morally grey characters, mentions of toxic relationships, mentions of broken home/families, themes of abandonment, mention of love bombing, reoccurring nightmares, sleep paralysis, mentions of therapy, struggles of self-blame, regret, guilt, etc., mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of sexism in the media and business world, death (minor character), life-threatening accident (major character)
playlist: Unkiss Me, Apologize, Hate That I Love You, etc.
a/n: ANGST ANGST ANGST...don't say I never warned you hahaha. Anyway, once again, I had an amazing time writing this! (although nervous af 👉🏼 👈🏼) Just FYI, there are some time skips as this starts a few weeks after the gala! So to clarify, it’s now 3 months since oc’s divorce was officially finalized, as in done (the process itself took way longer). The chapter continues from there and yeah, the pace is picked up. Okay, let’s go! Enjoy! 🥰
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Fresh linen. Warm breeze. The smell and sound of the ocean.
You know this place too well, like a memory you hoped to have forgotten. Why are you here now? You glance around, taking in the familiar details—the blank ceiling above, the soft comforter that curls around your body like silk against your skin, and delicate rose petals scattered at the foot of the bed. It’s exactly as it was before — it feels exactly the same; too quiet, too peaceful, and too good to be true.
The sunlight streaming through the window is blinding, yet it draws you in with a force you can't resist. Carefully, you stand up, your feet meeting the cool wood floor, and you shiver. Each step you take towards the window feels heavier, like wading through water. When you reach the window, you see the sandy beach below, the waves beating rhythmically against the shore. It’s beautiful, but the painful kind.
To the left, a young couple, not much older than yourself, their hands tightly intertwined, as if afraid to let go. To the right, an older couple sitting further up the beach, comfortably silent as they take in the horizon, reminiscent of their many years together. You always dreamt of achieving the latter, yet here you stand, having neither, and the chances of ever obtaining it growing dimmer with each passing day.
For many, this was supposed to be a place of happiness, a symbol of love, promises, and new beginnings, but not for you. For you, it was a cocoon, trapping you in a deceptive comfort. You close your eyes, trying to steady your rapid breathing, yet it doesn’t prove to be of much help. Images from your past that you’ve tried blocking out of your mind time and time again suddenly resurface — the arguments, the tears, the feeling of everything and nothing at the same time.
“You’re up early,” His voice startles you, causing you to spin around in a panic. At that moment, your heart tightens in your chest, and a cold sweat forms on your brow. You thought you were alone. You’re certain of it. Yet the sight of your ex-husband standing only a few feet away, his hair still damp from his morning shower, is enough to leave you completely speechless.
"Why are you here?" you whisper, your voice trembling.
"Why are you here?" he counters, his dark eyes piercing into yours. "Isn't this what you wanted? To remember us, to remember how it felt to be together?”
What? This isn't making any sense. Why is he talking to you as if he were a ghost? Your eyes search frantically around the room until you spot it—the wedding band on his finger. No, not again. You hear yourself plead, but the words don't leave your lips. All at once, the room begins to feel smaller, the walls closing in on you. You're stuck in another manifestation of your past, this time reliving your honeymoon, three years ago in Greece.
"I didn't want this," you say, your voice barely audible. "I wanted to forget this."
"But you can't forget, can you?" he says, stepping closer. “You remember this view. You remember the floors and the walls. You remember that we had our first time together here and promised our devotion to each other."
“That’s not fair, Jungkook," you reply, taking a step back, "it's not fair at all, you left me. You don't get to patronize me like this."
“We both know our marriage came with stipulations, __. So when did I ever give you a reason to stay? Or to love me?”
You’re back in the bed, the sheets now suffocating rather than comforting. The sound of the ocean is louder, more insistent, drowning out your thoughts. You want to scream, to run, but you’re paralyzed by the fear, the guilt, the regret.
"This isn’t real,” you say to yourself, tears streaming down your face. “I’m dreaming, none of this is happening.”
“You can't escape what we had, or what we lost. We’ll always be here, together __, in this place,” he says softly, reaching out to touch your hand.
"No," you whisper, pulling your hand away. "I need to wake up. I need to let go...of you."
The room fades, his figure dissolving into the shadows. The sound of the ocean becomes a distant murmur as you fight to open your eyes. Wake up, please wake up. It's your own pleads chanting in your head. Finally, with a gasp, you awake, the nightmare diminishing like vapor.
“Fuck,” you curse, fingers gripping your sheets, “just another damn dream.” Rolling onto your back, you take a deep breath before reaching out for the glass of water on your nightstand. Its coolness soothes your dry throat. You reach for your phone next, checking the time—4:47 AM. Too early to start the day, too late to attempt falling back to sleep.
Your thumb hovers over Jimin’s name in your text threads. It would be 10 AM where he is. You consider sending a message, but you find yourself at a loss for words. Forget it, you lock your phone and rise from your bed, you’ll go for a walk instead. Yeah, it’s brisk outside, but the fresh air will help clear your mind.
After tossing on your warmest coat and scarf, you head outside, the sun beginning to break over the horizon. At first, you wander aimlessly, lost in thought as you pass the odd person or two on the sidewalk. One individual accidentally knocks into you, yet he's quick to apologize. You easily understand their rush; perhaps they've just finished the night shift and are eager to reach the comfort of home.
You imagine their loved ones who must be waiting for them. You could be wrong, and maybe you're biased, but the image you depict is a future you once envisioned for yourself—one of laughter, love, and a warm family. It’s a dream you secretly carried as a child, amidst your unstable upbringing. But as the years passed, what was once a lifelong aspiration felt more and more elusive, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. It seems, in the end, it was just a dream…nothing more.
Of course, you've achieved other goals instead, success in your career for one. It's what you wanted most the more you became an adult. Even before Jungkook came in the picture you were thriving. Yes, you needed investors to expand, but you had already made a strong name for yourself, hence the reason his company even reached out to you for a partnership in the first place.
The second, and more formidable goal you’ve achieved was saving your company. You built your business with an earnest heart, good morals, and an ambition to serve a community. You couldn’t let it all be washed out by a larger, greedier industry giant. You had to do something. Too bad your judgment was skewed the day you saw a similar ambition in Jungkook’s eyes; he was just as determined as you to save what was his.
For a while you got what you wanted, stability for your business. But you got too invested, too short-sighted to anticipate that one day, it would all feel hollow without someone proper to share it with. Alas, your prior hopes, the ones you thought were buried long ago, began returning to you as if they were an overwhelming tsunami.
You wanted warmth.
You wanted intimacy.
You wanted a home.
You sought companionship with Jungkook but no, you read the signs all wrong. Once you dropped the L word, his attentiveness towards you skyrocketed. He began calling you while you were apart, surprising you with little gifts, and setting more time aside so you could both take Bam to the dog park on free days. But then it all stopped. After months of showering you with attention, his efforts exhausted him, so he looked for the first exit out.
You remember getting the text one afternoon— When will you be home tonight? We need to talk about something. Selfishly, you hoped he was going to tell you that you could take that trip to Fiji together. You had been hinting at it for the last two weeks. Of course, you were wrong because the last time you checked, trip itineraries didn’t come with divorce papers. At that moment, you realized that Jungkook didn’t try to love you in the slightest, he tried loving at you; love bombing 101. Your ties are now completely severed.
Yesterday marked three months since your divorce was finalized. You didn’t cry like you thought you would, but you did meet with Melody that day. As your therapist, she offered you her empathy, validation, and perspective. You feel you’ve gotten better since you started meeting with her, finally beginning to heal. Yet the unsettling dream that haunted your sleep last night shows you there are many things still left to resolve, feelings you need to confront, but where to start?
You love your ex-husband, but why?
Can it even be called love?
And do you really need him to love you back?
While you can only offer fragments of an answer for the first two, you seem to have a better-formed answer for the last.
No, you don’t need Jungkook to love you. He’s proven to you time and time again that you are not the one he can bear his heart to. He’s always reiterating that he wants you to find someone else, someone more deserving of you, whatever that means. Likely, it’s all projection. Out of the two of you, he’s the one more likely to re-marry.
As for you, you’ll always love him, at least a semblance of it. After all, he was once a part of you. But what was once a part of you, doesn’t need to be anymore. You have to let him go...though you wish you didn't have to.
You continue walking straight until you find yourself drawn to a small park overlooking the city skyline. It's fairly empty, with only a few people nearby. As you settle onto a weathered bench, you take in the view before you. It stretches endlessly. Sunrises have always held a special place in your heart—the amber glow breaking through the abyss of darkness as if a beacon of hope.
"You'll get through this __," you reassure yourself, “one day at a time.”
“Happy six months, boss!”
A goofy, boxy smile graces the man’s lips as he leans against the doorframe of your office. You take in his appearance: crème-colored sweater paired with dark brown slacks, the fabric impeccably tailored to his tall, lean frame. His ebony hair is perfectly parted down the center and feathered out to either side of his face, giving him a soft, approachable look. The glasses are new though, round with a hint of gold. Though a minor accessory, they seem to tie the rest of the look together.
Classy, yet cozy, you hum silently, it suits him.
Everything about the way he’s dressed today complements his features—not that it could be any other way, as Taehyung could never not look good in something. You learned that the hard way when you opted against a gaudy shirt and pant set your stylists suggested he wear for a commercial. Taehyung, being a free spirit, decided to try it on for kicks, and yeah, it strangely worked. He ended up shooting the entire commercial with it on. That video’s gotten your business the highest engagement rate across all your media platforms to this day.
“Mr. Kim, does six months of working together really merit a celebratory drop-in?” You lean back in your desk chair, arms folded as you narrow your eyes at the man. You're taunting him, not that he minds.
“Please,__,” he starts, stepping further into the room, his presence effortlessly filling the space. “The only person that still calls me that is the intern who works on set with us. Makes me feel old, like I’m double my real age.”
“Well, you are older than both of us.”
Taehyung gives you the look, a mix of amusement and mild aggravation.
“Two years is hardly considered older, but if you’re done trying to prod me, I’d like to ask you a series of serious questions.”
“Okay, what?” You straighten your back, curious to know what he’s thinking.
“Red or white wine?” He waits for your response, eyes seemingly hopeful. You're unsure where he's going with this, so you delay your response, suspicious of the spontaneity of the inquiry.
“Red,” you respond, cautiously. Taehyung seems pleased.
“Strawberries or blueberries?”
“Strawberries, though I prefer cherries most."
“Science or literature?"
"Literature." You surprise him with this one. "I like books, vintage ones."
"Do a lot of reading in your spare time?" he asks.
"When I get some, yes."
"Me too. Tolstoy?"
"Occasionally," you answer. "Where are you going with this, Taehyung?"
He shrugs. "Just making conversation." He pauses before continuing, “I also happen to know a place that offers all those things plus private bookings. How about you and I go for dinner tonight, as colleagues? If you hate the wine, I’ll drink it for you.”
The weight of his request hits you like a ton of bricks. Apart from a handful of social events, you and Taehyung haven't exactly mingled outside of the office. His sudden invitation to go out for dinner takes you by surprise, especially considering the nature of your professional relationship. However, you can't deny the subtle shifts in his behavior, the way he's been checking in on you more often, especially since the Winter Gala. Weeks have passed since then, but, no doubt, the memory of that night still lingers in both your minds—the shaming from a bitter business competitor, the unwanted press shining a light on your divorce, and your ex-husband who so easily approached you like it was nothing.
Taehyung suggested for you to slip away through the back door with him, offering to drive you home himself rather than leaving you with your limo driver. But you declined, feeling embarrassed that he wasn't merely a witness to the night's events, but also made to be a spectacle himself. You never wanted him to feel like he had to pity you or coax you through your personal trials. Being a good colleague is one thing, but he didn't need to go above and beyond.
“I don’t know if I can join you tonight, I'm sorry. I have a lot to do,” you say, your voice wavering slightly. It's not far from the truth with the mountain of business reports and budget plans to look over. Though your business remains functioning, it's a lot to maintain, especially with the number of investors having withdrawn their support once news got out about your marital separation. It's unfortunate how much a person's situation and the things they've built can change on someone else's dime.
“You sure?" Taehyung tries again, careful not to sound pushy. "The place isn’t overly posh, but we could go elsewhere if you’d prefer."
“I’m sorry, Taehyung, maybe another time?” you say, fingers fidgeting with a few documents on your desk, a nervous habit you developed ages ago. “I-"
“I understand,” he says, his expression softening, a hint of disappointment flickering in his eyes before he masks it with a gentle smile. "I have a film shoot that might go late anyway. Speaking of which, I'm expected on set in about half an hour so I'm going to head out, but if you change your mind, you know how to reach me."
You nod, recalling having his contact in your phone. The two of you agreed it would be easier to coordinate meetings and schedules this way. "I will, thank you. Good luck with your filming."
As you watch him leave, a twinge of guilt tugs at your conscience. Perhaps you shouldn't have dismissed him so quickly, considering how insistent he seemed. It's as if he was genuinely looking forward to the affair.
No, you can't entertain it any further. You have no way of knowing how far the night might've led—it's best to leave Kim Taehyung alone.
When you declined Taehyung's invitation to get dinner, you didn’t expect it to result in not seeing or hearing from him for the next week and a half. As an endorser, he doesn't work at the office regularly, coming and going as needed and since you hadn’t had any promotional projects for him recently, his absence seemed normal at first.
But this was Kim Taehyung. The same Taehyung who loved making spontaneous visits to the company, especially towards the end of the week. He often came in once, twice, sometimes three times a week to talk with Namjoon, your secretary, in particular. Somehow, the pair had become friends, and since Namjoon’s desk was near yours, Taehyung would drop by whenever he saw your door open. So, not hearing from him for 11 days straight was strange, like he'd vanished.
It was now Friday evening, the clock pushing 5 pm. You consider texting him to make sure he's okay, but wouldn’t that be hypocritical? You had agreed with yourself to leave him alone. Maybe he was on vacation, perhaps at a vineyard, or had taken on another film project. Being a highly talented actor, Taehyung had no shortage of casting directors contacting him for their movies and TV shows.
Embarrassingly, you hadn’t actually seen any of his movies. You enjoyed a good rom-com now and then, like the ones Taehyung starred in, but you usually opted for something more mindless when you had the time to watch anything.
You can imagine the loyal following he has though, as Taehyung was the epitome of a "dream boat" with his natural good looks and expressive eyes. He must be good at kiss scenes, which must be especially difficult for anyone dating him. You know you'd have a hard time accepting it at least, the fact that your flawless actor boyfriend was off making out with equally beautiful co-stars on set, that is. Anyway, as your endorser, maybe you should try supporting his films a bit more. There had to be one that would catch your eye.
Curious, you open a new tab on your phone and search for him.
"Holy fuck," the curse leaves your lips the minute the search returns. Dozens of articles display on your phone screen at once, all covering South Korean actor Kim Taehyung's recent motorcycle accident. You checked the publishing date—six hours ago. “Taehyung’s in the hospital. He’s in the fucking hospital!”
Panicked, you leave your office to speak with your secretary.
“Ms. __,” Namjoon greets you immediately, a trace of hesitation in his tone upon seeing your frazzled state. “Is everything alright?”
“Joon,” you refer to him by his pet name, “Did you know that Taehyung’s in the hospital?”
“What?” He seems as shocked as you, his eyebrows shooting up in alarm.
“It happened this morning around eleven or something. It was a collision, a motorcycle accident. Oh god, he’s—he’s been taken to the ER,” you choke out the words, struggling to maintain your composure as you try recalling one of the articles you skimmed. “We have to go. I have to go right now.”
“I’m coming with you.” Namjoon leaps from his chair, grabbing his keys from his desk drawer. “I’ll drive.”
“No,” you stop him, “I don’t know how long this’ll be and you usually work until 5:30, so I don't want you to have to be stuck at the hospital with me. I want you to be able to call it an early night if you want. We'll take separate cars over.”
“Okay,” he nods. “I’ll meet you over there then?”
“Yeah.” You nod back, clutching your keys harder in your palm. “Yeah, sounds good.” You turn around to head for the nearest exit, but your secretary stops you mid-step.
“__,” he calls you by your name, having known you for the past decade permits him to do so. He softens his eyes when he sees the worry in your own clear as day. “He’s gonna be okay. We have to believe that. Please drive safe.”
“You too,” you say, then disappear from his sight.
When you arrive, it’s a madhouse. Sirens blare as ambulances rush into the hospital parking lot, doctors and nurses race from room to room, and fans—so many fans—crowd outside, all waving signs of comfort and support.
“I'm here to see Kim Taehyung,” you say urgently to the charge nurse. She recognizes you immediately and throws you a look of distaste, but you’re too focused on the emergency at hand to care. “I’m sure you know who I am, but I need to see him. We work together, we're colleagues.”
“Ms. __,” she replies, surprisingly calm and collected amidst her obvious dislike of you. “I’m afraid he’s currently receiving serious medical attention and won’t be able to have any visitors at the moment.”
“I’ll wait,” you blurt out the words faster than you anticipate. You feel like you're eating your words from earlier about leaving him alone, but this is different—his life is on the line. "I can wait for him.”
“Visiting hours are only until 8 pm. I really don’t think—”
“Please,” you interrupt, your voice stern and urgent. “He's part of my team. He's my...friend. I have to know if he’s okay.”
The nurse hesitates, her expression softening slightly as she sees the genuine concern in your eyes. “Alright,” she finally says, her tone firm but kinder. “You can wait in the family lounge, but I can’t promise you’ll be able to see him anytime soon."
“Thank you,” you say, relief flooding through you. She directs you to a quiet room down the hall, away from the commotion where you're better able to calm your racing thoughts. You find a seat in the far corner immediately and send a quick text to Namjoon, letting him know where you are.
As you wait, the minutes drag by painfully slow. You can’t stop replaying the articles in your mind from earlier, the words “motorcycle accident” echoing like a mantra. How did this even happen? How bad was his condition? How much strain is this going to put on his acting career? You wish you knew.
A handful of nurses enter the lounge occasionally, calling out names and providing updates, but none of them are Taehyung’s. You find your ears burning every time the door opens, heart racing, only to sink back into your seat when it’s not about him.
Finally, you catch sight of Namjoon, his face mirroring your concern. He spots you immediately and rushes over, taking a seat in the chair beside you. “Any news?” he asks, his voice low and urgent.
“Not yet,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “They said he’s receiving serious medical attention and don't know when we'll be able to see him. We have to leave by 8.”
Namjoon nods, his expression grim but unwavering “We’ll wait together.”
"If you need to leave sooner than—"
"I know," he interrupts. "I appreciate it, but please let me be here too."
You sit in silence from then on, exhaustion beginning to weigh heavy on both your shoulders. It's not until 7:35 when a doctor walks into the lounge, his tired eyes scan the room until they land on you and Namjoon.
“Are you here for Kim Taehyung?” he asks. "I'm Dr. Min."
You nod, your heart in your throat.
“He’s stable for now,” Dr. Min explains, “but he's still in critical condition. We’re doing everything we can.”
“Can we see him?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
He sighs. “Only for a few minutes. And you need to be prepared—he’s heavily sedated and has sustained significant injuries.”
“I understand,” you reply, mentally preparing yourself for what’s to come.
Dr. Min leads you through a maze of hallways until you reach the ICU. As you enter Taehyung’s room, the sight of him hooked up to machines and covered in bandages nearly breaks you. You take a deep breath and step closer, Namjoon right next to you.
“Taehyung,” you whisper, but he remains motionless, his breathing steady and rhythmic. The severity of his injuries is evident in the way he lies.
“We're here, Taehyung,” Namjoon continues, noticing your slightly frozen state. “We’re both here for you. Please, fight through this. You and I, we're good pals, remember? Like brothers. You have to—"
Although the more collected one before, Namjoon begins to struggle with his words. You place a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. Having known him for 10 years, you know that despite his strong exterior, he has one of the softest souls you know.
"I think I have to go, __. It'll be better if I see him when he's awake. I want to stay longer, but I just don't know if I can."
"I understand, we can't stay much longer anyway. Go home and get some rest. Dr. Min will call us when he's awake and able to talk."
After you give him a hug, Namjoon leaves the room, leaving you alone with Taehyung. You end up pulling up a chair beside his bed and slowly reach out to touch his hand. It's instinctive for you, the need to feel his heartbeat overpowering any other thought.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you, Taehyung," you start, your voice a mere murmur. "You'll push through this, right? Like in the movies you film. I confess I haven't seen any of them yet, but—but I will! That's how I found out about all this actually. We hadn't seen you for nearly two weeks, so I searched you up. Not in a weird way though, okay? Not like...anyway, I'm sorry I said no to you that day. When you asked to go for dinner, it threw me off. This whole thing with my ex-husband just has my mind in fifty million directions, so I promise it wasn't you. I hope you didn't think that."
"You've always seemed to show up for me, whether it's for the good of the company or even a little emotionally in some aspects. With the reputation I have these days, I'll always be grateful that you chose to work with me. You have a good heart, Taehyung, so much that I think if we ever got close, I think it might be unbearable for me," you pause, a couple of tears slipping down your face.
Just then, a creaking of the room's door momentarily pulls your attention away. Dr. Min stands a few feet away, clearing his throat—a gentle but firm signal that it's time for you to leave.
"I have to go soon, but I'll be back tomorrow, okay? Even if you're still asleep or not, I'll stop in and sit with you for a while because...because I need to be sure that you'll be alright. Namjoon will come see you too when he's ready. But I'll see you in the morning, alright Kim?"
You squeeze Taehyung's hand gently before heading out of the room, thanking the medical staff along the way.
When you get home, the first thing you do is head straight for the bathroom. Your whole body feels riddled with stress and exhaustion, and you know that the only thing that can offer even the slightest amount of solace is the warmth of water.
Yet not four minutes after immersing yourself in your tub does your phone ring, demanding your attention. Being this late into the evening, you figure it has to be Jimin.
But you're wrong.
When you reach to answer the call, it's actually an unrecognizable number that's flashing on the screen. You hesitate for a moment, debating whether to answer or let it go to voicemail.
"Hello?" you answer cautiously, curiosity getting the best of you.
There's a brief pause on the other end before his voice comes through, words slightly muddled. "Hey, it's me," he says, his tone soft. "I've been...I've been thinking about my life, you know? About everything.
"J-Jungkook?" Your heart sinks as you quickly decipher the owner of the voice, but then it hardens. It's obvious from the slurring of his words that he's been drinking. "Why on earth are you calling me? And at this godforsaken hour too."
"I told you...I've been thinking about my life."
"I'm hanging up."
"No, please, stay on the line for five minutes. Please, I have to tell you...what I've been thinking."
"You have three minutes," you sigh, ready for anything (except what he was about to spring on you).
"I wanted to save my company," he continues, his voice wavering slightly. "For my mom's sake, you know? My dad owned it and stuff but she was the one who was behind all the technology...and that's why I married you. You...reminded me of her."
Your breath catches in your throat as he reveals the truth behind his actions, the raw honesty of his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. You knew very little of Jungkook's mother, too, as he didn't speak of her often.
"And then...then there's the real reason I divorced you," he admits, his voice breaking slightly. "My parents had a terrible marriage, you know? My mom...she had to manage my dad's temper for years...he didn't love her at all. He just married her because she was smart and could make him rich. It made her so unhappy, but you know she loved him so much. She...she passed away when I was 16, and...and I didn't want that for you. I didn't want you to be trapped like she was, because I'm like my dad you know? My feelings are...weird... I never know what the hell I'm...feeling. I'm probably not making a lot of sense am I?"
"I'm trying to understand." You want to hang up here and now but every time he speaks, you cant bring yourself to do it. The pain in his voice cuts through you like a knife, and it's a side of him that you've rarely seen before.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice thick with regret. "I'm sorry for being such a dumbass that day I got my stuff. That was like, six months ago and I still hate myself for it. I shouldn't have made an advance on you like that. I was...I was immature, and I wasn't thinking."
"After the gala," he continues, his words becoming more coherent as he speaks. "I...I felt even more guilty, you know? Because, I still have a photo of you and Bam on my dresser. It's small, but I've tried to put it away over and over and over again, but I can't do it. I don't know what's wrong with me...it's almost a year since we lived under the same goddam roof and I can still smell your perfume, I can still remember how you laugh with both your lips and your eyes...the way you scrunch you nose when—"
"What are you trying to say Jungkook?" You interrupt. "That you're sorry and can't get me out of your head, so you need my forgiveness to move on?"
"No! That's...that's not it at all. I mean, I do want your forgiveness but—"
"Well, what the fuck is it?" You hate how aggressive your voice is sounding, but the obscene amount of incoherent information he's revealing to you is overwhelming. "It's 10 freaking pm at night, I had a long day, I'm sleep deprived, and Taehyung's in the fucking hospital which is so distressing, so I'm sorry, but I can't handle any more of your cryptic messages!"
"I think I might love you," he finally says, his voice raising as well. "I know I'm...I'm being a dumbass, but I...I think I love you. I love you __, fuck!"
a/n: So....how are we feeling about Jungkook rn? Also, my darling Taehyung is taking one for the team here 😭 🤍 LMK what you think! Lastly, I understand the timeline of events is a bit tricky to follow, so if it helps I can put something in the series masterlist to help. Vote for jjk or kth!
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Being Joshua Hong's passenger princess
Synopsis: The privileges you have being Joshua’s passenger princess.
Joshua x gn! reader | fluff, established relationship | 1.68k words | warnings: car crash, reckless driving, alcohol (you’re drunk not him), slight possessiveness (joshua gets annoyed when people flirt), petnames (darling)
A/n: this is my dream honestly… me when? Also uhm I got carried away…
❥︎ Being Joshua Hong’s passenger princess means you will be treated like royalty. You’ll be accorded privileges no one else has. You’ll be given the white glove treatment, waited on hand and foot (by him).
❥︎ Let’s start off by talking about the car itself. The car might be his, but he’s yours so by extension his car is your car? That makes total sense right? In fact, the model he bought was one you said you really liked. You can bet the car has been customised to your wants and needs.
❥︎ Joshua basically gives you free reign over how you want the car to be decorated. You can be a minimalist and keep his car fairly empty except for some car hooks and necessary car cleaning supplies. Or, you can go crazy and make his car look like a plushie store full of plushies and ornaments. Just make sure he can reach the spare tire easily (duh! So that if he needs he can show off how he knows how to change a tire… he’ll look absolutely gorgeous doing it too)
❥︎ He keeps several items in the car just for you too. There’s a little throw blanket just in case you get cold. There’s an extra pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment just in case the glare from the sun gets too much. There’s even a special headrest or backrest or plush cushion on the passenger seat for your comfort. He goes the extra mile to remove it when the rest of the members sit in his car. The members are messy okay? He doesn’t want your stuff to get dirtied because some member decided to sing karaoke at full volume while drinking coffee.
❥︎ The height of the head rest and the position of the passenger seat is tailored to suit your height and needs. No one is allowed to adjust your seat. He actually (gently) smacked jeonghan and DK when they tried adjusting the seat. It’s just too bad if the other members feel uncomfortable. That seat is yours, and yours alone. Actually, you know what? Maybe the members should just sit at the back seat and leave your seat empty…
❥︎ The same thing happens with the radio. If you like it at a certain channel or have it preset to a certain playlist, no one is allowed to touch the radio. In fact, he’ll keep the music off most of the time so that you’ll be able to start listening to the playlist from where you left off.
❥︎ Technically, the passenger should be the person who navigates the map. You try your best, but sometimes you get mixed up even with the gps. Joshua never scolds you, he’ll just laugh it off and tell you it’s okay because it’s a new adventure with you. When he’s with the members though, it’s usually poor Dino getting nagged at about how he can’t read a map to save his life.
❥︎ Obviously, Joshua is going to drive you everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Just because you have the option to take a cab or public transport or drive yourself (if you have a license), doesn’t mean you should have to resort to those options. His schedule be damned, he’ll find a way to make time just for you.
❥︎ Don’t you dare say you don’t want to trouble him. You might be a troublemaker in your own right, but you’ll never, ever be a bother/ trouble to him. He wants to drive you around. That’s his choice, and his love language. It’s acts of service and quality time all rolled into one. He’s not going to turn down an opportunity to spend time with you.
❥︎ All you need to do is let him know where you need to be, shoot him a text (he only answers your texts let’s be honest), or call him. He’ll finish up whatever it is he’s doing and then he’s on the way to you.
❥︎ When he arrives, Joshua, being the menace he is, he will 100% use a bicycle horn to signal his location to you. It’s fun! Plus, he likes the way your face morphs from momentary confusion to recognition and then happiness and love. You’ll quickly turn your head his way. He swears your face lights up (and makes the sun jobless). The way you smile at him and shoot him a wave while bounding over to him like a little bunny? It warms his heart and makes him giddy.
❥︎ The times he doesn’t use a bicycle horn are the times he either yells out your name or uses the car horn. He does it when you’re in a crowded location, drunk, or when there’s someone flirting with you. You see, in the first two situations, it’s practical to use the car horn. The last one? Oh that’s just him being possessive. He thrives on the disappointment on the other person’s face when they realise you’re taken, and by someone who drives a sleek, well-designed car. Bonus if Joshua gets to get out and pose next to the car while wearing his dark, expensive, sun glasses. He immediately wraps his arm around you and places a kiss on your cheek when you happily run towards him. See that? You’re his.
❥︎ Being Joshua’s passenger princess means you’ll never have to lift a finger right? So that means he’ll open the door for you. If he can, he’ll get off and open the door on your side like a butler gentlemanly boyfriend would. If he can’t get out, he’ll open the passenger side door from his seat. He always tilts his head upwards and looks at you with that adorable crescent shaped eye smile. Always says “Hi darling! How’s my darling today? I’ve missed you~”
❥︎ When you get in the car, he’s taking your bag/ belongings and helping you to store them at the side or in the back seat. He wants you to be comfortable. He’ll also help you with your seatbelt. He wants you to be safe. He refuses to move unless you’re safely belted up. Who cares if he’s holding up traffic. To him, your safety comes first.
❥︎ When you’re both on the road, he’s extra careful of reckless drivers because he doesn’t ever want you to get involved in a car crash. His arm instinctively shoots out across your chest/ torso when he needs to brake the car harder than normal, or when you both drive across some car crash at the side of the road. Your safety is the most important thing to him. It’s basically wired into his brain that he needs to protect you from all these horrible reckless drivers. In the event you really get involved in a minor car crash (eg, a fender bender), Joshua’s first instinct is to ask if you’re okay. The damage to his car, and the exchanging of details with the other driver (if they bothered to stick around) isn’t important. You come first. Always.
❥︎ Moving on from that more serious point. Joshua can and will drive with one hand. He knows the action makes you swoon so he does it on purpose. Also, that means one of his hands is free! Joshua will put one of his hands at the back of your head and lightly stroke your nape. He also likes to either intertwine your hands and have your intertwined hands lay on his thigh, or he likes to have his hands resting on your thigh/ lap. You get the privilege of playing with his fingers and gripping his hand tightly as you continue your journey. He’ll definitely randomly raise your hand to his lips. His eyes never leave the road, so it makes his actions even more attractive.
❥︎ Joshua is definitely the kind who will reverse with one hand with his arm on the passenger side headrest. He like smirking at you when he does that. His actions drive you crazy. You think you’re about to combust every single time.
❥︎ One of the best things about being Joshua’s passenger princess? You get to watch his side profile. His eyes that are intensely concentrating on the road. The curvature of his nose and lips, the way his hair falls down the side of his face, the piercings he always wears on his ears. Oh even the way he might bite his lip in concentration or tilt his head to stretch his neck. Everything about your view is so delicious. You could have the most beautiful scenery outside and nothing could ever compare to the view you have right next to you. Sometimes you get caught staring and the heat rushes up your face. All Joshua can do is chuckle in adoration. You’re sometimes way too cute for your own good.
❥︎ How does he know? Well, although his eyes are locked on the road, he does take momentary glances in your direction. It’s both a conscious and subconscious thing? People normally subconsciously pay attention to their loved ones even if it doesn’t register in their head that they are doing it. But he does look at you consciously to make sure you know he’s still paying attention to your conversation, he wants to ensure you’re feeling okay, and yes, he wants to catch you in the act when you’re literally drooling over him.
❥︎ At red lights, he will shift his body to face yours. This menace. This tease. Sometimes he’ll even lean over to place a kiss on your cheek, or he’ll demand you lean towards him to give him a kiss on the cheek. It leads to him getting horned at but were the kisses worth it? Totally.
❥︎ I’ve covered a lot here, but you know what the best part about being Joshua’s passenger princess? It’s the fact that you’re Joshua’s passenger princess.
taglist: @weird-bookworm @wonijinjin @babyleostuff @wishing-fieshes @kwanienies @mayashu @megseungmin @porridgesblog @haecien @mirxzii @scoupsofcherries @eightlightstar @brownsugarbaybee @zaggprincess2 @nonononranghaee @hrts4hanniehae @treehouse-mouse @vcutparis
#seventeen#caratsland#k-labels#illuminated ocean.net#seventeen scenarios#seventeen fanfic#seventeen imagines#seventeen fluff#seventeen x reader#seventeen headcanons#svt fluff#svt x reader#svt headcanons#joshua hong fluff#joshua hong x reader#joshua hong scenarios#joshua hong imagines#joshua hong x you#joshua hong fic#joshua fluff#joshua x reader#joshua imagines#joshua scenarios#shu's archive ✎ᝰ.
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Panna!
Not my best work, but it was fun to write nonetheless. FYI: panna means nutmeg, but it's also a playground/street football game where it is either a 1v1 or basically a huge free-for-all and you had to get as many nutmegs/pannas as possible - great memories :)
Living with Leah was a much different experience than you thought it would be.
The first time you met her she was a little shy but the more you got to know her, the more enamouring she was and before long you had completely fallen for her, as had she for you. Each date, you peeled back another layer of each other's personality and you saw a side to her that was inexplicably softer than the sometimes rather grumpy, stoic demeanor she had for her career. It was easy to like her, adore her, and eventually love her, and you made sure to offer her a safe space for her to let go in when she was away from the view of the public. She did the same for you, allowing you to switch off when you needed to in her presence. Ultimately, the relationship was so rewarding and comforting, it seemed almost too good to be true. In moments of self-doubt and insecurity, you felt like you were just waiting for the shoe to drop.
And when you moved into your new house together, that shoe did indeed drop, but in a way you didn't expect.
As time went on of you sharing the same space, an extremely irritating side of Leah came out in full force. You had seen glimpses of it so far of course, and it never failed to make you laugh, but living with her? It was next level.
Leah seemed to embody the nature of that of an annoying younger sibling or a tiresome teenager who had a maddening addiction to just being absolutely infuriating. When she was in a certain type of giddy mood, this habit seemed to reach new heights. You loved it, but sometimes it felt like you were going to explode with the aggravation you felt towards her.
You know that saying of if you don't react, they'll get bored and stop? Yeah, that didn't apply to Leah.
"Leah, I'm trying to cook dinner, put the football away please." You started out by asking her politely as you manned the pasta in the pot on the hob, your girlfriend doing kick-ups by the fridge.
"I'm alright here, babe. I won't get in your way, swear. Just wanna be with you, and I am bored." That's kind of sweet, you guess.
Deciding that the pasta can survive without constant surveillance, you step away from it to unload the dishwasher but clearly Leah doesn't agree with that.
"Nah, forget that, I'll do it later. Come here, one versus one." She grins, quickly flicking the ball between each foot.
"And why would I do that as someone who doesn't even know which foot to use?" You raise an eyebrow and stand across from her with your hands on your hips.
"Bit of fun, babe, lighten up. Let's do a game of panna." She teases, passing the ball to you. "You first."
"What is panna?" You frown, confused.
"Just try to nutmeg me." Leah rolls her eyes, though she knows your knowledge of football lacks compared to her as someone who lives and breathes the sport and has done all her life.
You squint your eyes sceptically at her, before slowly inching towards her and attempting to dribble the ball the way you've seen her do it probably a million times. However, as soon as you get close, she removes any gap between her feet and instead stands like a penguin.
"How am I supposed to nutmeg you when you stand like that?" You scoff, but she just smirks smugly at you and shrugs.
"No one likes a quitter."
"No one likes a stubborn girlfriend that forces her girlfriend to play a game that's impossible to win." You hit back, and a smile tugs at your lips as you see Leah suppress a laugh.
"Fine, let me go against you." She steals the ball from your feet in the blink of an eye, and now the cards are stacked impossibly against you.
"Right, 'cause this is totally fair."
You roll your eyes but nevertheless prepare to defend your pride against the decorated footballer that stands before you. This little stand off lasts all of two minutes as Leah performs as many standing tricks as she can - it's hard not to laugh because, despite the talent she's portraying, it just looks like the result of a button-spamming FIFA player.
Finally though, you gain the confidence to lunge at her to get the ball back, but Leah of course spots this immediately, and flip-flaps the ball straight between your legs.
"Panna! You just got your shit rocked, baby." She celebrates as if her performance wasn't as easy as stealing candy from a baby. You watch as she cheers quietly to herself under her breath and dances like a fool. If the world could see her now, you think.
Feeling slightly humbled, you go back to your place at the stove, finding comfort in your cooking skills at least.
...This oddly felt like you were playing into some kind of stereotype.
"Put the ball away now, please." You tell her once more, but as ever her ego takes no prisoners.
"Aw, is someone's ego hurt?" Leah pouts pitifully at you, her hands falling to your waist when she stands behind you. You weren't having it though, not when she had humiliated you purely for her own ego.
"No, I just have many dangerous weapons in my arsenal here and I wouldn't want the leader of England to come to any harm." You return the patronising pout on her face, swatting away her hands and wagging the pasta ladle you had just pulled from the boiling pan in her face.
"Alright, message heard." She walks away with her hands surrendered.
For the next five minutes that the spaghetti spends boiling, you both exist civilly in the same area whilst doing different things. You're preparing for dinner as Leah is of course dilly-dallying with the football again. Each punt against the ball as she does kick-ups or ridiculous little tricks slowly grinds your gears, until she eventually begins occupying floor space in the kitchen that she obviously knows you'll use.
"Move, please, I need to drain this pasta." You say initially, a bit of bite to it but not as much as you easily could reach. However, she doesn't move, and instead gets in the way even more. "I have a pot full of boiling water here, move!"
You shoved past her where she was messing around with the ball near the sink, a shit-eating grin on her face which its only purpose is to infuriate you more. She does move out the way though, lifting the ball up into her arms with the foot, but she only steps so far away.
"What are we having?" She asked in an all too innocent voice, watching as you drained the pasta - the aggression you did this simple task with probably should have been a warning sign to her. But that had never stopped her before.
"Spaghetti, what does it look like?" You shake your head at her. "And you will eat it this time."
You were yet another unfortunate victim to Leah's limited and fussy palate.
"Not my fault you used a rank sauce last time. You better have gotten a new one." She grumbled like a picky toddler, starting her kick-ups again right in front of the next cupboard you need to get into.
"Put that fucking ball away before I stab a knife into it." You snap, pushing her out of the way with one hand and getting out the aforementioned new sauce. "See? Is this better for you, princess?"
"Oh, you're gonna pay for that, sweetheart." Leah smirks, referencing the sassy tone and mocking pet name you used for her as you shoved the jar into her face to prove a point.
"I'd like to see you try." You scoff, heading back over to the stove.
She falls suspiciously silent as you put the spaghetti and sauce into the pan. You try to pay no notice, watching out of your peripheral vision as she slowly makes her way back over with her hands behind her back.
"What are y-"
You're disrupted by her kicking the ball in between your legs, it clunking scarily loud against the glass door of the oven.
"Another one! Call me Ronal-fucking-dhino!" Leah laughs giddily, scampering away like a naughty child.
You took a deep breath, composing yourself so that you didn't chase after her with one of the multiple weapons within reach around you.
However, sticking true to your threat, you grabbed a knife from the draining board beside the sink and sunk it into the ball that had been the bane of your existence for the past however long it's been in Leah's possession. It wasn't a sentimental object, you wouldn't do that to her, thankfully it was just a ball she had picked up from the supermarket one day she had been determined to tag along as you did the grocery shop. The poor thing let out its final breath as the air puffed out of it, a sign you had won the battle. With a slightly manic grin, you went on making the rest of the meal as if nothing had happened.
Luckily you were able to cook the dinner without any further childish interruptions, though you did have half a mind to pour the whole shaker of salt onto her portion. But no, you can rise above this kind of behaviour. A household prank war against this woman-child could lead to an unfortunate break-up. Though you did just get an adrenaline rush from murdering a harmless football, so maybe it was already on.
"Leah, come here and sort your cheese out." You shout into the apartment, not a clue where she had gone off too.
Although, you forgot the scene she would walk into, only realising when a sharp gasp sounds through the room.
"What... the hell did you do?" Leah whispers in a dramatically heartbroken voice, kneeling to the ground and delicately picking up the punctured ball. You turned and rolled your eyes at the sight that met you, forever astonished at the theatrics this girl pulls off.
"Better a ball than your head." You mutter under your breath. "Sort your dinner out, I'm not being blamed for ruining it this time."
You took your bowl and walked past where she was still on the ground, nudging her shoulder with your knee as you went by to push her over. Okay, maybe you did have tendencies similar to hers.
Leah joins you on the couch a few moments later, an embarrassingly scarce amount of parmesan in her bowl as she slumps down next to you with a groan.
"I'm not watching this right now, I don't want to participate in a fucking reading lesson whilst I'm eating!" Leah complains at the choice of TV show you'd picked for this evening: Narcos.
"Tough, I cooked so I choose." You shrugged and pressed play, the characters immediately talking in thick and fast Spanish that, despite the English subtitles, is too much for your poor girlfriend to deal with right now.
"That's not fair, you always cook." She grumbles, stabbing her fork aggressively into her food. You pause the show at that statement, turning to look at her with a face that conveyed pure and unfiltered rage.
"Did you seriously just complain that I always cook?" You question in a frighteningly passive tone. Leah glances at you from the corner of her eye, not daring to turn away from her bowl. "Really, Leah?
She grimaces at the use of her name when you probe her for an answer. All day, she had been toeing a fine line, pressing all the wrong buttons, and pushing her luck with you. This time though, she'd really done it.
"Watch whatever you want, I'm not eating with you." You stand up from your seat on the sofa and storm away to the bedroom, leaving a glum and regretful Leah in the lounge who does in fact change the show on TV.
Was it an overreaction? In an hour, you'll probably think so. But right now you couldn't bear to look at the woman downstairs. You both eat, sad and alone, in your separate rooms to think over your actions.
In fact, no, you didn't overreact. You were entirely in your right to get angry over a throw-away statement that Leah had made just to win one back against you. Her immature attitude and competitive nature took over and she made an unnecessary comment about an action you not only enjoyed doing anyway, but enjoyed doing for her. So, whilst Leah thought back on how she should have behaved better, verbalised herself better, you were satisfied with your actions.
When there was a quiet knock at the bedroom door twenty minutes later as you lay in bed on your phone, bowl on the floor and meal happily consumed, you gave no answer. Leah came in anyway, a sheepish and guilty look on her face.
"May I come in?" She asks shyly, only her head in view.
"As long as you promise to not be a complete arsehole to me anymore." You grumble, not looking at her.
"I promise, love. I am sorry. I have things to make up for my utterly stupid behaviour." She says, and that does pique your interest.
You grunt in affirmation, and the door opens to reveal her holding a few items: your favourite candle from the lounge, a hot chocolate, your favourite cookies, and the oil you often used to massage Leah whenever her muscles were giving her some discomfort.
"Maybe I could give you a massage, babe? I am sorry. I appreciate all you do for me, I was just being an idiot before who didn't know when to stop. I love that you cook for me, and eating dinner with you at the end of a long day is one of my favourite things, genuinely. I'm really sorry for making that stupid comment, I am." Leah tells you softly, an air of desperation to her voice. Through all the times she loves to piss you off, nothing made her feel worse than when you truly got angry at her.
"You must really be sorry if you're letting me eat in bed." You comment quietly, referring to the pack of cookies in her arms. She smiles and nods, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed beside you.
"I am sorry. Get crumbs everywhere if you want, get your revenge." She replies and a weight lifts off her chest when you giggle slightly. "I love you, truly, madly, deeply. I'm so grateful for you and everything you do."
You reluctantly smile up at her from where you lay, then roll your eyes and hold your arms out for her.
"Come here, you massive idiot." You mutter, watching amused as she rushes to put her things on the bedside table before diving on top of you. "You're a wanker, number six."
Leah laughs into the pillow at the reference, nodding her head in agreement. She turns her face into your neck and places a few light, apologetic kisses there.
"I am." She murmurs, sighing a little and causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. "I wouldn't appreciate it if you started shouting that at my football games though."
"I don't appreciate you reciting a ninety's song in your apology though. Get some original material next time." You hit back, a smug grin on your face as she laughs again.
"I'll sing it for you if you want." Leah offers, voice slightly muffled by your neck as your body shakes with laughter.
"I think that would reverse all your efforts." You say, her humming in agreement. "Now, did you say something about a massage?"
The next morning, Leah believes all is forgiven from the previous night. But just to be sure, she hops out of bed since she's the first to wake up and decides to bring you a coffee in bed before you both were due to go out for breakfast with friends. It's a delight you welcome immediately, sighing contently when the hot mug is placed into your hands as you sit up against the headboard. Leah joins you in bed again, copying your position, and wraps an arm around you as well as kissing your forehead. She mumbles a few more words of apology into your ear as you drink, ensuring that you know how grateful she is for everything you do. You also welcome that with open arms, happy to hear her feelings towards you when she's not being an irritating little pest.
She watches you the whole time you get dressed for the day, and there's a soft smile on her face as she stood in the bathroom doorway whilst you put your earrings in, the finishing touch of your outfit. You mirror the smile she wears when she steps forward and wraps her arms around your waist, murmuring endless compliments into your ear that send shivers down your spine. It's a sickeningly sweet moment, it would rot any witnesses' teeth had they been there to see it, but it's perfect and it's the couple that you recognise rather than the bickering one from the previous night.
You exit the bathroom together, your fingers intertwined as Leah leads you down the stairs. Though, just as you're about to leave, you spot a smudge mark on your cheek from your mascara in the mirror by the door, so you stop to fix it. Leah, with the patience of a toddler, somehow finds yet another ball and it's one you can't stab this time since it's a Euros 2022 ball. Even though she has just done her hair, begging you to straighten it for her, she starts doing headers. And that's where the morning takes a turn for the worst.
When you'd finished fixing your makeup, you head to the downstairs bathroom to quickly wash your hands. Then you hear a panicked shout, followed by a loud bang, and lastly the sound of glass smashing. Instinctively, you rush out the room to see if Leah's okay, thinking the worst, but it seems that the only damage she has is to her ego. And, subsequently, to her relationship.
The sight that greets you fills you with more fury than you'd ever felt in your life. Your mirror, the antique one you had been adamant at buying when decorating the house, lay broken on the ground. The frame was cracked, it was surrounded by glass, and the ball laying next to it was very clearly the offending weapon. The culprit cowered in the corner of the hallway, looking at you and waiting for a reaction.
And boy did it come.
The walls of the house shook with the scale of your voice as Leah flinched like she was physically impacted by each punch that your words delivered. Nothing offensive or harmful was said of course, but your language was certainly colourful and impactful. Each word was spat with a lethal amount of venom, and Leah wasn't sure she would ever see the light of day again; living a life banished to her house, individually glueing each piece of the mirror back together as you endlessly lecture her. Eventually though, you did have to take a breath. Leah took one at the same time, though she was a shell of herself as you glared at her.
Composing yourself, you stepped over the mess and opened the front door before turning to Leah with an unnerving smile. She smiled anxiously back at you, and it took everything in you not to laugh at the nervous, apologetic look on her face. At least she knew she had messed up.
The next time you speak, it's like nothing had happened, and that fills Leah with more fear than she'd ever felt in her life. She knows she's in for it when you get back later.
"Come on, my love, we have a breakfast date to attend."
#leah williamson#leah williamson x reader#leah williamson imagine#leah williamson one shot#woso#woso x reader
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psyche and cupid | one shot
happy valentine's, beautiful people. i love you with all of my heart. xx
shoutout to @familyvideostevie for putting joel's slutty little thigh holster into my head and, well. yeah.
pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader
summary: valentine's day with joel doesn't go to plan.
warnings: part two never happened!!!!! abby who!!!, established relationship, cursing, half joel pov, unspecified age gap, hints to reader having a sliver of ptsd, jesse is alive and well because he is my prince and i said so, reader has dark pubic hair, masturbation, somnophilia (not discussed in this fic but she is a-ok with it) and therefore dubcon, sprinkle of praise kink, oral (f!receiving), someone comes in his underwear, these two goofballs are big in love
word count: 5.5k
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It’s not in his nightstand.
Not hung over the newel post, either.
He said he left it on the kitchen counter yesterday, right after he got home; said he woke up this morning and it was gone. And then he muttered something of an accusation that someone had tidied it away and forgotten where, and that started a whole new argument.
You know what, Joel? You’re following his tall figure as it sways down the hallway, his strides longer and considerably smoother than your flurrying shadow in his wake. Maybe if you weren’t going out today, we wouldn’t be having this problem.
His chin tilts upward, salt and pepper scruff angled to the ceiling with a ha slung from his throat. Yeah, he tosses a glance over his shoulder, we’d just be havin’ it tomorrow, instead.
You scoff in response, stepping where his boots lift off from, following the heavy thud thud thud like a cat at his heels until he’s rounding the corner towards your bedroom.
You pass over the messy trail of your jeans and Joel’s pajama bottoms, your underwear and his leading in a trail to the unmade bed – sheets like a rippled wave painted golden by the dawn.
The two of you split off – Joel lifts the cotton and watches it float back down over the flat of your mattress. Nothing.
You take the closet – the squeal of metal on metal harsh in your sleepy ears as you shove the hanging clothes aside, swiping around at the floor. Also, unsurprisingly, nothing.
Deflated, you straighten, stars peppering your vision and a tatty sleepshirt pinched in your fingers. Led Zeppelin – some band Joel was into before everything went to shit. You’ve listened to him out on the porch before, plucking strings in time with the record wobbling on the turntable inside.
The collar torn, sleeves pecked with holes, print lost to the years and the dryer – but each time you drape it over your shoulders, he smiles and hums some song from a world you’ll never know.
It’s sweet, when you’re in the mood to be wooed.
Which, incidentally, is not right fucking now.
His eyes flit down to the peeling, grayscale image – and that same smile attempts to bloom on his lips. That’s cute, but it ain’t my holster, pretty bird.
His smirk dampens quickly when he looks back up, snuffed by your stony expression.
You whip the tee down to the foot of the bed. You are a piece of fuckin’ work sometimes, do you know that? you growl, storming by him for the en suite.
Joel’s rough hand slips around your wrist, tugging gently but letting you drag him through to the bathroom.
Just go, Joel, you groan, the chill of the room prickling goosebumps on your naked legs. Give me some peace and quiet. ‘s not like I’m gonna be seein’ much of you today, anyways.
Is that what this is about? His voice echoes in the morning blue, round in your ears as you hang your head over the sink. Pickin’ a fight ‘cause you’re pissed I’m goin’ out?
I didn’t start the fight, you protest. You’re the one who lost his holster.
Didn’t lose it… he mumbles, lips closing around the sentence when he catches your glare in the mirror. He crosses one ankle over the other, toe of his dusty boot on the cracked tile, and sighs. What do you want me to do, baby? I gotta do my job.
On Valentine’s Day? When I worked extra to get it off, and you can’t even get your brother to swap one shift?
Joel’s expression seems to stiffen, tense with a realization that you know, and now he knows, too – he should’ve had days ago. A weighty breath falls from his nostrils, admitting some kind of defeat, and then he’s wandering carefully over to you, two hands curved over your shoulders.
He lowers his forehead onto the nape of your neck, a slow breath which flutters the loose collar of the flannel you’re wearing and sweeps down your spine. I’m sorry, pretty bird. I didn’t know it meant that much to ya.
It doesn’t, you admit, adding, usually. I just thought we could have a day to ourselves, for once.
He’s nodding, sweep of his fringe tickling the slope of your skin. It’d be a lot more romantic than spendin’ it with Jesse, that’s for sure.
Your bodies fall together with a shared laugh, a bright and charming thing in the dull bathroom light. Joel kisses the soft cushion of your shoulder and hooks his chin over, beard grazing your skin.
I’ll be back before you know it. ‘n then we can do whatever the hell you got planned for us, hm?
He’s steady behind you when you lean back, turning to place a damp kiss to the hinge of his jaw. A reply, a plea – a promise.
In the echoing dripdripdrip from the faucet, Joel pulls apart from you, two fingers pinching the hem of your shirt to pull you back into the bedroom.
You wanna walk me to the gate? he asks, pulling the zipper on his jacket.
What about your holster?
He smiles. I’m sure I’ll survive without it. C’mon. Put some pants on.
February is bitter even by Jackson’s standards – a bite of ice in the air which numbs the tip of your nose and stings the helix of your ears. The chill slips a long, sharp finger down the collar of your – Joel’s jacket, and you wrap the baggy canvas tighter around yourself.
Told you to wear som’ thicker. Joel sighs, grip light around the strap of his shotgun. His elbow nudges into yours, a wide arm wraps around your shoulder and draws you flush against his side. Head on back if you’re cold, he says, rubbing until the friction warms your upper arm.
I’m fine, you lie, eyeing the line of horses up ahead. The eager crunch of their hooves in the frozen ground, the pinkish light on their backs from the sky flooded crimson overhead – a warning from the horizon, you think.
It seems to agitate the animals as much as it does you, their heavy heads tossing nervously, ears flicking and inky eyes blinking.
Jesse meets you by the paddock, slipping Joel the reins of his horse with a curt nod, before hoisting himself atop his own.
It bleats from your lips before you can hold it back. Be careful.
Your frozen fingers claw around the zipper of his coat, tugging it upwards until it brushes against his bottom lip. The weather gets bad, you turn back. Okay?
He’s nodding, paying half his attention to your words, the other half to the little crease between your brows. Sure could use my holster against the cold, baby, he mutters, smirk lifting his cheeks and folding similar creases at the corners of his eyes.
Your eyes narrow, palms landing flat against his strong chest. Home soon?
He hums a little laugh, lips ghosting across your temple as he shifts by. Home soon, he mutters, breath steaming against your cold skin, and he leads the mare off towards the gate.
There’s a lot about Joel you admire.
Each part of him like a pebble stolen on a hike; some more jagged, a little more weathered than others, some well-rounded and smooth to the touch. Each one turned and turned and turned between your fingers until you’re fluent in every pore and vein, then dropped into your pocket alongside the others you’ve collected.
Clacking against one another until you arrive home, coat heavier with the happy burden of how much you love him. The same weight you feel behind your ribcage when you think too much about it.
He takes good care of you – has done since you first happened across one another. As if hanging his hunting jacket over your frail body was a wing over your shoulders; as if, from then on, you would never make a single move again without your grizzly bear of a man making it first.
Quiet about it, sure. Subtle. Opens the crook of his elbow for you to hook your wrist around as you wander through town together, and waits until you’re under the cover of nightfall or behind the close of your front door to do much else.
Asks with little more than a fleeting glance if you’re okay; a squeeze of your knee under the table in the dining hall. A conversation shared between closed lips and the meeting of his honey-flecked gaze, and yours. A language which lives and dies with the pair of you.
He’s guarded – and for all that he’s been through, you figure you can allow him that. Allow him his private peace. For all that he says without saying, all he does without making some big song and dance of it – there hasn’t been a second since you arrived here on the back of his horse, that you haven’t known he loves you.
It’s in him like it’s in you. A fever which broke at the first touch of his hand and yours, the first meeting of his warmth and your chill. Two opposites – cooling the painful sear in his heart, warming the barren frost in yours. Something sewn deep into your flesh, carved right through to the hollow of your bones.
And Jesus, if it doesn’t drive you fucking insane.
The front yard needs tidied up after winter, you notice, as you scuff your way up the path towards the porch. Once the last of the snow dries up, you two can get to repairing the damage done by the blizzards and the gales: fitting new shutters, planting new bulbs.
A cycle you’re still getting used to: the upkeep of a place called home. The strange feeling of having someone you call the same thing.
Your extra shifts at the stables and Joel’s long mornings out on the trails mean your home has gone neglected for a few days. Dishes and cutlery left in the sink, a pile of laundry slowly sprouting to new heights like a wild plant each time you cast a wary glance at it.
It’s not like you’ve much else to do, given Joel won’t be home for at least another couple hours. So you shuck off your jeans, letting the tail of his shirt dangle from your behind, and pick your way around each room – wiping counters and dusting corners, humming along to the crooning old records as they spin in the background.
Playing house at the end of the world. Pretending to listen for the tired exhale of a yellow school bus, mimicking the electrified babble of radio presenters between each track.
The bedroom is arguably the worst offender. Bedsheets used a few days too long, clothes strung across the floor – the relics of a late one at the Tipsy Bison. It’s no wonder you’re so fucking tired.
Echoes of stumbling footsteps and hushed, drunken giggles loop your ears, the groaning bedsprings and blunt thud of the headboard. You pluck the underwear and socks one by one, your body wincing around a satisfied ache still lingering, and shuffle over to the laundry hamper, lifting the lid to –
The dopey smile on your lips dissolves instantly. You gotta be fucking…
The buckle glints in the light, silver blinking up at you from its bed of dirty laundry. The tan strap coiled and neatly slung through its fastener; the pouch empty. Awkward and ashamed, lying there in front of you. Apologetic, almost.
Your eyes roll closed; a short, hot breath seeping past your lips. A silent promise embedding beneath your tongue to take him by the sleeve as soon as he crosses the threshold, force him to lift the lid himself. An I told you so already brewing in the pit of your stomach.
The holster’s actually pretty heavy when you lift it up in the light. Leather a little worn, stitching frayed where it should clip around his belt.
It’s the size and width of him: a thick, toned thigh slotted inside the loop of leather, fixed by fingers long void of feeling when he’s been riding to the outpost, chasing infected, plunging his knife deep into their necks.
Patrol was never your thing. Joel took you out just once – but there are cracks in your past which threaten to split you in two, it seems, the longer you spend outside the settlement walls. Phantoms which follow close behind in the form of snapping twigs, of the wind rustling in the trees overhead. Shadows living in your periphery with curled sneers and spits of filth.
You lasted twenty minutes, that first and only day, before Joel had your horses tied together and your body shelled in his own, taking you straight back home.
But the thought of this around his thigh, the thought of him adjusting it to the waistband of his jeans; his hand floating down to settle gently atop it when he’s listening for danger approaching, two fingers slipping into the trigger guard.
It…stirs something.
You pad over to the bathroom, hopping as you step into the strap. He wears it on his right leg, right? You pull it past your ankle, ball of your foot slamming clumsily back down on the tile.
Adjusting it to fit your thigh, you bunch the hem of his shirt in one fist and stare back at your reflection. Her nervous stance, hips swaying left to right as she peruses the figure opposite.
Who is she, this mirage – naked thigh decorated with her man’s leather, fingernails tracing the messy stitching and imagining the weight of his gun, keen in the pouch?
A strange aura of possession about it, like a part of him locked firm around a part of you, from however many miles away. You swear you can feel the ghost of his warmth on the inside of the strap, wrapped around your sensitive skin.
Yeah.
Stirs something, alright.
Joel’s been gone little over an hour. He’s probably at the outpost by now, logging All clear and pretending to let Jesse take the lead. Wide shoulders swaying as he wanders from room to room, a careful scope of the valley from each window, tongue tracing the bottom of his teeth.
Ridges of his knuckles white around the grip of his shotgun, squinting down the barrel. Lines drawn between his brows and at the corners of his eyes like scores on parchment, focus and concentration tight on his face.
You sink back into the cradle of your bed, that divot where his body and yours meet each night. Each part of you intertwining with a part of him: the place where you become one. His smell and your touch, your giggle and his teeth.
A sudden, powerful thing which hammers through your veins and jumps your body for a few seconds – you pull the first orgasm from between your legs within a matter of minutes. The sight of his shirt disturbed over your stomach, the feeling of blood squeezing past taut leather enough to throw you under by itself, never mind the fast snap of your fingers deep inside your body.
Another – slower, lazier, still vibrating from the first – then almost a third, but the crinkle of sheets at your ears, the pillow-soft landscape beneath your heavy body, begins to sweep you off somewhere.
And in as little time as it took to entice you into the water in the first place, you slip beneath the waves.
The house is quiet when he finally makes it home.
Jesus, Joel thinks, what a shift.
Not one infected the entire run, he can’t quite believe – but Jesse caught his palm on some warped sheet of chain link fence, then almost passed out when he looked down and saw the scarlet seeping from his shredded skin.
The pair sat for half an hour, unsheltered in the unforgiving wind, waiting for the kid’s head to stop spinning and the cold to rob the feeling from his hand.
All Joel wanted was to get home to you. You, and your hips swaying as you stand by the stove, and his hands kneading into the velvet plush of your waist, and the smell of burnt sausages and spatter of angry oil from the pan.
He’s so late. He said he’d be as quick as he could, said you’d barely know he was gone, and he’s so fucking late.
But he’s here now, at least.
He’s home.
As he kicks off his boots, snow sprinkling from the soles onto the doormat, he notices the absence of your arms around his waist. The missing weight at the back of him, no ear flat against his spine and hands interlocked above his belt. No relieved, I missed you, no nuzzle of your head under his arm.
The house is still and dim. The turntable spins in the corner, a dead crackle playing nothing for no one. Joel sniffs, eyeing the room and its new, orderly form: the books slotted neatly on their shelves, the rings of coffee wiped clean from the table.
Lifting the needle from the record, Joel calls out, Baby?
Maybe you’re in town somewhere. Maybe you’ve gone to spend the morning with the horses. But then, you would’ve been watching for his arrival. Would’ve skipped out from the stables and swung around his body, a gleeful smile and an outstretched hand. Take me home, cowboy.
And you wouldn’t have left the lights still burning, the player still turning. Your coat is still on its hook, smaller and brighter and where it belongs on the right of Joel’s. The cushions on the couch are fluffed and smooth, perched contentedly in place; the curtains draped in their tie backs.
You’re home. You’ve been home all morning.
So where the fuck are you?
Joel crosses over to the bottom of the stairs, blinking up at the painted cowboys and horses staring down from the landing. Calls your name, a faint singsong as he slowly ascends the stairs. You up there?
Down the wintery dull hallway to the bedroom door, figuring he knows the answer. And he’s right, isn’t he, when he nudges the door open and peers inside, spots the tiny lump of you in your double bed. Sunk deep into the mattress – covers you’d come in here to change, swallowing you whole.
A crooked, exhausted smile pulls across his lips; his thumb hooks around a belt loop, knee cocking.
You’re so…perfect. So heavenly, so still like this – stretched out on your front, breathing in the scent of his pillow and breathing out little puffs of air.
Joel leans over you, a heavy hand pushing into the mattress above your shoulder, and runs a featherlight knuckle over your cheek.
Pretty bird? he whispers, lighter than the long breaths from your sleep-swollen lips.
You don’t stir. No movement, save for the rise and fall of your shoulders wrapped up in his flannel.
Joel feels a pang of guilt, numbed only by the chill still through his body: he woke you this morning, before even the sun had lifted her head. Had you hunting all over the house with him, for some dumb holster that he wound up not even n–
His eyes trail down the shape of your body, draped in the sheets like white marble carved into the round shape of something beautiful, hands following the curve of your thigh. His wrist freezes when it meets the odd bulge of something, an awkward bump beneath the cotton.
He peels the sheet back, lifting it from your shoulders, your waist, your hips – until your angled thigh lies on full display for his feasting eyes.
His fucking holster…wrapped tight around your fucking thigh.
A disbelieving laugh at first – a She told me so, before he notices the indents in your skin, the stretched leather snug around your leg, riding higher than it should at the doing of your slumber.
Christ, baby, he breathes, stare glued to the folds of plaid hooked around the belt loop. Following the tatty hem down past your hip, along the underside of your ass – riding up some, right where your legs part.
And between them, all sheer and thin, twisted around itself and slipping between: your underwear. The threading of pubic hair peeking over the frilled hem of it; the sight filling Joel’s mouth with saliva.
A heavy heat forms in his jeans, an irritable weight which aches when he moves; which hardens when he pictures the image of you in his bed, his shirt, his holster wrapped around your thigh – playing with yourself while he’s been gone.
Fuck. Fuckin’…shit.
He lowers, running lips he knows are freezing cold along the burning surface of your skin, tongue slipping past his teeth to drag a wet trail along your thigh.
Your leg shifts under his touch, the startle of his chilled fingertips behind your knee, nuzzling of his nose where the holster sits smugly on your thigh. Smelling like leather and salt, the sticky sheen of sweat still glowing on your skin.
Joel takes your waist in two hands – he can’t fucking help himself, can he? – and turns you, patiently, watching as you roll onto your back so he can drag you further down the bed. Tongue flicking at the corners of his lips, thirsty for something he only wants you to feed him.
Slow, slowly. Every effort put into not waking you, to keeping you in this peachy haze between asleep and awake; your movements long and staggered, held firm against the mattress by the weight of your doze.
With a sigh, your jaw turns to one side. Joel pulls you in, kneeling at the edge of the bed with your socked feet resting on his shoulders. His shirt gathers around your waist; your hips and the thin twine of your underwear spotlighted by stripes of weakened sunlight spilling in through the blinds.
Oh, pretty bird, he groans, slipping his open palms under your ass, rough and squeezing the pillows of flesh in his hands. This all for me?
A moan wrapped in a hefty breath twists from your lips. Your knees fall limp; legs open almost eagerly, like your body inviting him in. And he accepts, takes it with eyes blown black and hungry lips parted – leans in and nestles his nose against the thrumming heartbeat pounding through your clit.
Such a good girl, he whispers, closing his lips in a kiss over your clothed mound, and your hips jolt.
You’re so fucking warm. So wet; sticky and so ready for him. He kisses your folds, suckling gently and letting his tongue dart along the inseam of your lips in flicking movements – collecting the taste of salt and feeling his cock throb against rough denim.
Off? he asks – you and the room and himself – fingers hooking around the underwear rolled on your hips.
When your back arches, body feeling the loss of his tender kiss, rolling like a wave seeking to crash against the steady rock form of his – he smirks to himself.
Joel nods. Off.
He takes his time peeling them from your body, watching as more and more of his paradise is revealed. The waves of your folds, the sheer glisten of arousal along them; the dark hair peppering either side as damp and slick as the skin beneath it.
Your panties drop from a hooked finger without a sound and he turns back, hovering over your waiting cunt with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Out front, voices call back and forth to one another – some neighborly greeting and affable conversation – but Joel doesn’t hear. Deafened to anything but the sound of your sighs and his own blood hammering through his ears.
It’s a little rushed, a tad rough, the way he presses his lips back to yours. The way his beard grazes against your most sensitive spot, and the gasp he swears he hears lift from your tongue.
But fuck, he’s missed this, the way he always does – without knowing, without actively thinking about it, without knowing it was even at home waiting for him. If his mind weren’t on an entirely different planet right now, he’d curse that goddamn chain link for holding him up, for keeping him away longer than thirty seconds from the sweet little angel resting in his bed, and the sweet little pussy between her legs.
He parts your thighs wider, tongue dipping lower and deeper as he laps at your core, almost fucking panting against it.
You squirm lazily beneath him, shoulders tensing and untensing, a half-limp wrist lifting to pet his hair and an attempt at his name between your lips. Joel, you whimper, thick with sleep and something more dangerous.
I know, baby, he’s telling you, I know, and his tongue slips inside again. His hips grind into the mattress, cock an agonizing stiff against the sturdy edge. He can feel the wet in his boxers, the precome sticking to the inside of the cotton.
Fuck, he wants to be inside you so badly, so desperately.
Another gasp sputters across your lips, cut short in your throat when his teeth bump against your clit.
Too hungry, too brash, he thinks. You’re too soft, too open for him to let it go to waste. Not like this.
He pulls back, a filthy thread of arousal and saliva between his open lips and yours, and places a sodden kiss to the inside of your thigh.
But you whine, you poor little thing – your head twisting to the other side, a second hand now blindly surfing across his shoulder, past the brush of his beard and sifting through his still-chilly hair. The loss of attention to your pussy aching between your legs; your hips lifting weakly to meet the scratch of his chin again.
And that same sound – that same Jo-oel – a sound like song, like saccharine dripping over his shoulders.
So, he lifts a hand – two middle fingers coming together to push open your cunt, instantly sliding in knuckle-deep. Sucked in by the wet mess left behind by his lips, stretching you out with slow, round movements.
You’re slowly stirring, blossoming from your sleep and turning slowly back into this world. The cold edges seeping in, the warm flush of pleasure sharpening at their meeting. He’d do anything, he thinks, to keep you here; keep you teetering on the edge, tangled up between your world and his.
J– oh, fu-uck, you whine, and he can tell you’re still blinkered by sleep. But you grind on him again – a long, languid movement which seems to spatter out at its end when the coarse hair of his beard catches against your clit.
The breath stops in your throat, punching out in a shuddered moan. Joel could come just from the sound of it.
You gonna give me one, baby girl? he pleads, forearms clamping down on the underside of your thighs. Desperate – desperate to feel you, hear you, taste you as you come undone. Just one.
You’re writhing around beneath him, as needy as he is. A winding which matches his, coiling at the bottom of your stomach; a feeling which pulls at the corners of your lips and shocks them into a smutty, half-conscious smile. Your eyes roll back, fluttering open and then snapping shut when the light floods in.
There, you say, clearest so far, movements the strongest he’s felt. Your fingers root in his hair, rough over his scalp. Keep – keep doin’ that.
Joel smiles against your mound; a cocky thing, emboldened by the sound of that little Texan twang, the curl of an accent which doesn’t belong to you. Rather, a result of your years spent with him, watching the way his mouth shapes the words, learning the low swing and swirling melody of his tongue.
As if he’s as alive within you as he is within himself; every little thing Joel knows is him, injected into your bloodstream – his dry wit, his blunt honesty, his thick fingers and his insatiable tongue.
He slips in a third, flicking them perfectly inside of you. Beckoning your release; tongue sitting in wait, a resting point for you to grind your clit against.
And he wants it as much as you do: wants to feel the clamping of your body around him, wants to taste the flood of your orgasm as it shocks through every bone in your body.
Wants to pull three soaked, pruned fingers from your pussy and slip them over your tongue, letting you clasp your fingers around his wrist; watching the half-dozing flutter of your eyelashes as you suckle on them and make those pretty little sounds for him.
Your hand knots tighter in his hair, pelvis circling steady against his suckling lips. He can smell it on you: smell the need seeping from your pores. The sleep spilling from the corners of your mouth, the happy whimpers and quiet cries for more, more, Joel, more.
And – Shit, he breathes against you, feeling a sudden rush of electricity he knows all too well between his hips. Not now, not now not before he’s been inside – Shit, baby, gotta let me go.
You whine in refusal – a petulant sound, all stubborn and greedy. ‘m so close, I –
Pretty bird, he groans, lifting his jaw. He places a messy kiss to the crease between your core and your thigh, wrist stammering with his sudden movements. You gotta – you gotta let go, you’re gonna make me come –
You’re echoing him, mumbling the words gonna, gonna come – fuck, Joel, ‘m gonna –
Shit.
Not – Fuck – not right n– Christ, baby girl, you’re gonna – you’re –
Your walls spasm, clamping and relaxing, squeezing around his huge fingers. But it’s not that – it’s not the gush of warm fluid which seeps from between your legs, coating his knuckles and dripping into his palm.
It’s not the arch of your back, the way your breasts lift to the ceiling and his shirt slips below one nipple. Not the way your head rolls back against the mattress, a broken moan tearing in shards from your throat.
No.
It’s the way your hands leave his hair in an instant, and grip around the leather on your thigh. Skin stretching thin over your knuckles, thumbs between the strap and your sticky skin; hips still riding out your high as you ground yourself, holding onto his holster.
And it makes Joel come. Hard.
Harder than he knew possible, grinding against a mattress and the inside of his fucking jeans.
He falls forward, breathing a guttural moan into the soft swell of your stomach below your navel, fingers hooking into the baggy shirt around your arms.
Shitshitshit, he pants, feeling the warm ejaculate spurt from his cock and all over the inside of his boxers. Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck me.
His hips shudder a few more times, pressing hard into the edge of the mattress before he’s coming down, slowing to a stop – still a leaden weight on your stomach. His cock almost painful, overstimulated and oversensitive.
But then – something gently tittering. A bird singing, cooing above his head. The ground beneath his temple shakes, tremors with laughter. The dust twinkles in the sunlight, now brighter, golden, streaming through the window.
You’re awake.
Joel drags his gaze upwards, bleary and glazed with sex, and catches your eye.
Feel good? you ask, sifting hair away from his damp forehead. When was the last time that happened? Fourteen?
I don’t wanna talk about it, he mumbles into your belly.
Your chest jumps, a laugh which echoes into Joel’s ear. Tastes that good, huh?
It takes a mighty effort for him to push up on his palms, slowly crawling up the length of your body until his elbows plant firm into the mattress either side of your head. He groans as he lowers his lips, parting them to let you slip your tongue inside.
The kiss is slow, tender. Your bodies melding together, teeth clacking and jaws moving in sync. A sharp taste, sweet with a singe of bitterness to it. Perfect, you think, smirking against Joel’s cool lips.
He pulls away, lips tickling the tip of your nose deliberately.
With a giggle, you push on his chest. You should shower. You smell like patrol.
Joel cocks an eyebrow. You comin’ in with me?
Nope. I got even more laundry to do now, old man.
He entertains the quip with a subtle smile, a thing which softens the creases on his face and lights a twinkle in his eyes. Quietly, genuinely, in a way which makes your heart ache a little, he whispers, Sorry I was workin’, pretty bird.
You shrug. ‘s okay. You made up for it. And – I found your holster. You lift your knee, letting the buckle shine in the sunlight.
You did that, Joel agrees, nodding and glancing down at the thing. He hooks a finger around the strap, giving it a little shake. Maybe I oughta lose it more often.
Hm, you shrug, or I can just keep it safe for ya. Looks good, don’t it?
He feigns a disappointed smile, a resigned sigh before he looks back up.
Better ‘n when I wear it, he admits, and his lips crash down to yours again.
#same universe as 'wish you were here' - if you want#joel miller#jackson!joel#joel miller fic#the last of us#tlou fic#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller smut#tw somnophilia#tw dubcon
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[[and then I met you || ch. 17]]
Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit
Summary:
A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.
pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16
Words: 4.3k
ao3 link
banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen
“No.”
Minnie plants her little feet firmly on the sidewalk and pulls her hands out of your and Matt’s grips so she can make her point by crossing her arms over her chest. A pout starts forming on her face and you have the feeling this is as far as your daughter will be going.
Across the street looms Clinton Church and you can understand why your daughter does not want to go anywhere near it. The building is as imposing as it is grand with its traditional architecture half shadowed in the morning sun. There is light reflecting off the many windows, casting little glares that you are sure Minnie can interpret in multiple ways - including eyes looking down at her.
Try as you might, you can’t imagine what else your little one must be picking up from the building. Is there someone praying inside? Or chanting? What sort of terrifying noises is the building making? How many rats are scurrying around the grounds, hissing and eeking and becoming unseen monsters?
How many real monsters are there?
Right now, the only monster you know of is the one in your chest named Anxiety. It is roaring inside you and causing all sorts of ruckus.
You know Minnie can pick up on your upset, and it is probably influencing her, but no amount of breathing exercises or chamomile tea is going to relax you.
Meeting someone’s parents is always going to be nerve wracking under any circumstance - but meeting the mother of the man who fathered your child? Who already has a unique and slightly estranged relationship with her son?
Frankly, you’d rather give birth again.
To make matters worse for your over analyzing, Matt's mother is a nun.
You have never interacted with a nun before, and your mind has been nonstop screaming that you are going to make an absolute fool of yourself. You are convinced you are going to say something dumb - like Jesus is stupid or some other blasphemous thing.
You don't even know what counts as blasphemy, but you know your mouth will find a way to make you want to sink into the floor and disappear forever.
You are on the same page as Minnie and don't want to take another step toward the Church.
“No?” Matt questions, tilting his head down towards his daughter. He looks a bit baffled, like he can’t understand why she’s taken such a stance. You know he is nervous about the meeting as well, having told you such earlier, but you don’t think he realizes how much his nerves, on top of your own, are affecting Mouse and her fear of the new big building.
“No.” Your daughter repeats, giving a tiny stomp of one foot to emphasize her point.
“No, what, sweetheart?” He kneels down to be on the same level as her, but you have a feeling that isn't going to help much. Minnie has made her decision and trying to sway a determined, upset toddler is a near impossible task.
“I don't wanna,” she tells him, her voice starting to get whiny. She turns away from him to press herself into your leg, her pout growing even bigger.
Matt knits his brows together, confusion clear, “You don't want to go to the park?”
Technically, you are supposed to meet Matt's mother in the Church park that is between the main building and the orphanage but as far as you are concerned, all of the grounds are Church. Apparently, your daughter feels the same.
“No. I don't wanna,” she declares, which quickly turns into the chant of, “I don't wanna, I don't wanna, I don't wanna!”
You can feel the tantrum coming and intervene, scooping Minnie up and hugging her to you. She instantly clings to you, burying her face against your neck with an additional almost screech of, “I don't wanna!”
You start to gently rock her from side to side and rub at her back to try and soothe her. You kiss her hair and promise, “We don’t have to go, baby. It is okay.”
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel like a grade A asshole.
Matt’s face crumbles into heartbreak and you totally deserve to walk into traffic. He had opened up to you about his mother - about how she had left him as a baby only to end up raising him after his father had been killed - but not telling him who she was. He told you how he only recently learned the truth - less than a year ago - and how hard it was for him.
But now he had you and Minnie and maybe, just maybe, you could all learn to be a family together.
Anxiety overdrive kicks in and a potential solution tumbles out of your mouth, “What if we go somewhere else instead? Somewhere we’ve been before?”
Matt lifts his head up at you, so you see yourself in his glasses, and for a second you think he's going to argue - insist you go to the Church playground - but then he tilts it towards where you don't want to go. You don't know what he is listening for, but after a moment, he stands again. He steps closer, a hand going to sit on your waist and trapping Minnie between the two of you. She stays nestled against you, little fist tight on your shirt, but you find yourself breathing a little easier at his touch.
“Would the office be okay? Foggy is out meeting clients and Karen is at the Bulletin today, it will just be us.” He offers quietly. Relief washes through you at the suggestion - you think the office would be a much easier meeting place.
But it is not your decision to make. You gently bounce Mouse to get her attention and ask, “Do you want to go to Daddy’s work?”
She doesn’t respond right away, but you feel her twist your shirt in her hands. You can tell she is thinking over her answer, so you wait, trying to focus on your daughter instead on how firm Matt’s hand is on your waist. It takes about twenty seconds, but Minnie finally nods into your shoulder.
“Okay, We’ll go to Daddy's work.”
To reward her for being so brave, you press a kiss to your daughter’s hair and Matt quickly mimics you. Minnie clings tighter to you at the affection and you think she is going to remain tense and upset until you are far away from the Church.
“Okay. Wait here, I'll go tell Sister Maggie about the change in plans,” Matt tells you and you wonder if it is really okay with him.
You know you and Minnie meeting her is important to Matt, but is the location important as well or is it just convenient? You are too wound up to ask and fearing you won't like the answer, you keep your mouth shut and focus on rocking Mouse.
Matt gives Minnie another kiss as he tightens his grip on you just slightly. It isn’t painful, but you get the impression he does not want to let go. You want to lean into the touch, your overactive mind telling you it might be nice if he never let you go, but before you can process those feelings, he is pulling away and crossing the street.
You step to the side, so you don’t impede foot traffic, and watch as he navigates past the cars and disappears around the side of the large building. Once he is out of sight, you look down to your daughter.
You want to ask her why she doesn’t want to go to the park at the Church, so you can better understand how she sees the world, but you also don’t want to put too much pressure on her. She’s already clearly upset, and you think trying to get her to answer your questions will just make things worse.
So, you focus on making things better for her.
“Would you like your headphones, Minnie?”
That gets her to lift her head up to look at you, squinting like she’s trying to determine if this is some sort of trap. Eventually she gives you one curt nod before hiding her face again.
You are a pro at being able to maneuver to get into your purse while carrying a toddler and soon enough you are handing over neon blue headphones. She needs no help in unfolding them and situating them over her ears, and once they are on, she snuggles herself back into your arms. You have no issues or complaints with the action - you simply begin to rock her again and hope this mood subsides once you are at Matt’s office.
You think about ways to get Minnie to interact with Matt’s mother as you wait for Matt to reappear. You think this might be the perfect time for parallel play - you’ve got a few coloring books stuffed in your purse, along with some small toys. You think it may be best to let her do her own thing while the adults talk, and that she comes over when she’s ready.
You hope that Sister Maggie understands that would be ideal - you know she helps to raise children, so she must understand that some kids are shyer than others. Pushing Minnie to interact when she’s fussy will only result in tears.
Possibly your own.
A few more minutes pass before Matt returns to the sidewalk followed by who you assume to be his mother. She's dressed in a gray and blue smock dress and matching habit, which is far less intimidating than the all black look you were expecting. She has an air of authority about her, holding herself tall as she walks, and you have the feeling she is a no-nonsense person.
You pray to a God you don’t really believe in that this meeting goes better than you fear it will.
You move to meet the pair as they cross the street to you and offer what you hope to be a warm smile. The smile, though not as overtly friendly as yours, is returned and Matt does the honor of introducing you. You adjust your hold on your daughter so you can shake the woman's hand.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Matthew has told me wonderful things about you,” Sister Maggie says before directing her attention to her granddaughter. “And who might this little one be?”
To no surprise to you, Minnie attempts to burrow into you more at the question, smushing her face hard into your neck. You rub her back, trying to let her know everything is okay.
“This is Minnie, she's a little shy right now.”
Sister Maggie gives a knowing nod, “New places can be intimidating.” She drops her voice just slightly, in what you guess is an attempt to be comforting, and addresses Minnie, “Did your father tell you this is where he grew up?”
He did - you and Matt explained the outing to your daughter, but you don’t know how much she understood. You do know no amount of sweet talk will change her mind, even if it is about her new favorite subject - her Daddy.
“I don't wanna go,” Mouse mumbles against you defiantly. You aren't sure if Sister Maggie can hear her, but you know Matt can. He steps forward, once again boxing in Minnie between the two of you and leans down to kiss the back of her head.
“We're not going there, princess. We're going to Daddy's office, remember? You've been there before,” he whispers into her hair. She shifts around in your arms a bit before giving another nod. You can feel her jutting out her bottom lip against your neck and part of you thinks you should call this all off and reschedule - but you aren’t going to do that to Matt.
Sister Maggie is watching your little family’s interaction, and you can’t bear to look in her direction to see what her reaction is, if she has one. Your anxiety has only prepared you for the worst.
“Perhaps we should start heading that way instead of saying where we are not going,” the nun advises after a moment and instinct and rational has you agreeing with her.
“I think that would be best.”
Matt pulls away from you and Minnie and you watch with downcast eyes as Sister Maggie offers her son her arm. He seems hesitant to take it, but he does, and your little group starts moving away from the Church and towards Nelson, Page, and Murdock.
The walk is quiet and you use the time to try and desperately calm your nerves, if only for the sake of your daughter.
You think about Matt and what kind of person he is - he is full of love and care. He got those traits somewhere, and whether you argue Nature or Nurture, Sister Maggie has certainly influenced that. Did she encourage his Goodness? She must have had some sort of positive influence if he is not only wanting her to be in his life, but his daughter’s life, as well.
You know some people believe family comes before anything, even if they treat you horribly, but you also know that if Sister Maggie was not a Good person, Matt would not allow her near Minnie.
He wouldn’t risk losing his relationship with his daughter.
That is something you have no doubts about.
As you arrive at Matt’s office building, Minnie lifts her head up off your shoulder. She wrinkles up her nose like she’s thinking hard before pointing to the plaque that state’s the firm’s name. You give her a warm smile, proud of her for recognizing it, but that only makes her squirrel away again.
This is the behavior you are used to seeing from your daughter in public - overly shy and not wanting to interact. You aren’t sure if the nerves and uncomfortableness from the church still linger, but you hope that once you are upstairs, she will start warming up a little. You won’t push her to do something she doesn’t want to do, but for Matt’s sake, you would like her to at least try talking to her grandmother.
Matt leads you all into the building and up the stairs. Sister Maggie runs a finger over the banister as you climb the stairs, giving a pleased hum, “Franklin did an amazing job cleaning this place up. Tell me that nose of yours helped in getting rid of all the mold.”
Matt huffs at the comment, “The property manager hired someone to come do that.”
“And did they get it all?”
Matt’s mouth presses into a thin line and you already know the answer.
“No, we spent a weekend getting the rest of it.”
You stop in front of the Nelson, Page, and Murdock office, and as Matt fishes out the key, you look up and down the hallway, mulling over what is implied.
“You cleaned the whole building?”
“Oh no, we couldn’t get permission from the other businesses to do that, but we did what we could to the public space and our offices. People feel comfortable here now.”
The door is opened and as you all file in, Matt suggests hanging out in the conference room. It has a nice window and plenty of space to sprawl out, so you have no objections.
You set Minnie down as Sister Maggie and Matt head into the other room. She instantly clings to your leg, practically hiding behind it. You pet her hair a few times before pulling her away just enough so you can kneel down to talk with her. As soon as you are at her level, she is trying to get into your arms again.
You let her hug onto you as you let her know what is going on, “Hey Mouse, do you remember earlier when I told you we were going to meet Daddy’s Mommy?” She nods but says nothing, so you continue on. “That is her. She wants to talk to me and Daddy and you and get to know us so she can be part of our family, too. But you don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, okay? I have your coloring books and you can color while we talk.”
That gets her to pull back just a hair and peek up at you with big brown eyes, “What are you gonna talk abouts?”
You smile at the question and gently run your hands over her back, “All sorts of things, but we’re going to end up talking about you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. If you don’t want us to talk about you, you can tell me, okay? We’ll talk about something else.”
“But I don’ gotta talk?”
You nod, and let your bag fall off your shoulder. Minnie’s new zoo themed coloring book and crayons are easy to pull out and you offer them to your daughter. She lets go of you to greedily take her toys and hug them to her chest.
“You don’t need to talk,” you confirm. “Do you want to sit at the table, or do you want to sit on the floor?”
Minnie considers the question, and you take advantage of no longer being hugged onto to stand up. Your little one peeks towards the conference room, then back up to you, and declares, “I wanna sit on Daddy’s lap.”
You feel so much pride over your daughter making such a bold decision.
“Okay, let’s go ask Daddy if you can sit in his lap.” You know Matt would never deny her, but you do want to drill in making sure Minnie asks permission first.
She waits for you to lead the way before following you into the conference room. Matt and Sister Maggie are sitting opposite each other, and Matt has already scooted his chair out and is holding his hands out to help Minnie into his lap.
“Daddy!”
She hurries to him and gets scooped up and crushed into a hug. She hugs back best she can while holding her coloring book.
You take the chair beside Matt and finally allow yourself to look at the nun across from you. She’s watching Matt and Minnie with an almost unreadable expression, but there is something soft behind her eyes - like she’s been keeping it repressed for years.
But then she catches you looking, and the softness is gone, replaced by that All-Knowing Nun look you’ve seen in movies before.
“How old is she?” Sister Maggie asks, and you can’t help but flush at her directness.
“Almost four, her birthday is on the 28th,” you reply, forcing yourself to not completely avert your gaze and hideaway.
She raises her brows before turning her sharp gaze to Matt, accusing him with, “You did not mention her birthday was coming up.”
He has the decency to look a little bit ashamed, “There were a few other things to cover, first.”
The older woman shakes her head, “Priorities, Matthew. I may be new to being a grandmother, but you know well I have raised plenty of children and we have never skimped on birthdays. We may not always have the money to spoil someone, but we do well to make sure they know they are loved.” She looks back to you, “Do you have plans for the day?”
“Oh, um, the zoo. We’re going to go to the zoo,” you tell her.
Beside you, Minnie has slipped down into Matt’s lap, so she is sitting. She has started to flip through her coloring book, examining each picture before making her decision about what to color. At the mention of the zoo, she quietly mimics you, “Going to the zoo.”
Matt breaks into a smile at the words, looking proud as can be that Minnie spoke around his mother. He wraps his arms around her middle and you have the feeling he wants to crush her to his chest again but is resisting.
Sister Maggie seems to know Minnie isn’t speaking to her, but just in general, and keeps the conversation to you, “That sounds like a lovely birthday. Zoo trips are always a delight with the kids.” She tilts her head slightly to the left before continuing on, “Matthew said you do not have a support network.”
“That isn’t what I said!” Matt quickly says, before turning his head towards you, “That isn’t what I said.”
Sister Maggie scoffs, “It is what you meant, and it is not a bad thing. You more than anyone know what it means to have a support network. Now,” she says your name gently and offers you a somewhat kind smile, “You are welcome to come to the Church and use any of the services we offer, and you may come by anytime you need, day or night. We will always have our doors open for you.”
You stare across the table as you process the words she has said. Shame and embarrassment course through you at the idea of Matt talking about you. You know you’ve never really had anyone to turn to, but the thought of others discussing such matters makes you want to crawl into a hole and cry. Yet, on the other hand, the mere offer of being welcomed at the Church has you spiraling in all sorts of good and overwhelming ways.
But of course, instead of being thankful, the words that tumble out of your mouth are, “I’m not religious.”
“That changes nothing,” she says simply and somehow, sits up straighter, “I have been given a second chance to know my son and through this a blessing of a granddaughter. I will not run from these responsibilities again and -”
“Daddy,” Minnie suddenly says, cutting Sister Maggie off while pouring all her crayons out on the table, “Pick a color!”
Matt’s cheeks turn pink at the interruption, and you try to not slide down in your seat. You know you can’t expect your daughter to sit there quietly, even if she’s being a little fussy, especially if Matt is around. She’s a toddler.
Matt clears his throat and asks, “What colors are there, sweetheart?”
“There’s green, and blue, and purple, and red, and orange, and yellow,” she lists off, holding up each crayon as she does.
“Let’s go with red.”
“Okay!” Minnie picks up the chosen crayon and begins to carefully start coloring in a gorilla.
Since she spoke up on her own, you try to engage with your daughter to bring her out of her shell, “Can you tell Daddy what animal you’re coloring?”
You expect her to answer happily - after all she loves explaining things to Matt and she’s been learning all her zoo animals.
So of course, she does not do that. She whips her head around to look at you, and with the sternest little voice you have ever heard, barks out, “I don’t gotta talk!”
Your first instinct is to laugh at the outburst, but you bite down on your lip to control yourself. The urge passes quickly, and you decide you should praise your daughter for setting her boundaries, “That is right, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’m sorry.”
She narrows her eyes at you for a moment, clearly judging you, before turning back to her artwork.
Only then do you allow yourself a chuckle.
To your surprise, Sister Maggie laughs as well. “Well, she is certainly a Murdock.”
That gets your attention and you and Matt both let out a curious, “Oh?”
“That little glare was all Murdock. I have seen it so many times from Matthew, who got it from his father,” she says and there is almost a fondness in her voice. “I expect the hands on the hips pose is genetic as well.”
Your eyes go wide at that. Matt’s father has never been brought up in depth before - you read the news article about his death in an online archive, and he was almost brushed over when Matt told you about his mother. You assumed, like your own parents, it was a sensitive topic.
“I..didn’t know that,” Matt starts slowly, and you can practically feel the emotion bubbling inside him. Without considering it, you reach across the small gap between your chairs and take his hand, squeezing it. He instantly squeezes back. “I don’t remember him ever doing that.”
“I suspect he tried to not let his frustrations show around you, but it is something I remember clear as day - Jack with his hands on his hips, glaring at the refrigerator because it dared to lose power during a blackout,” Sister Maggie tell him, before she motions to her eyes, “They may not be the same color, but that look is the identical.”
The room goes quiet, save the noise of Minnie scribbling. You keep your hand around Matt’s, trying to communicate you are there for him in his love language. He starts to roll his bottom lip between his teeth, and you wait for him to react before you do.
“You…,” Matt starts after a few more moments, voice almost warbling, “don’t talk about him. You don’t talk about him like that - what he was like.”
“Yes, well, I’ve never had reason to,” Sister Maggie says. She places her hands on the table in front of her, clasping them together, and she looks like she is about to give an interview. “But that has changed, clearly.” She looks from Matt to you, “Matthew said you were looking for family history. I do not have much from Jack’s side, but I can tell you what I do know, and I keep my own meticulous records. I believe reviewing these things, medical and non-medical, together, will…help us heal.”
You look to for his reaction. His mouth is parted, and he looks like he is going through his own emotional rollercoaster. You know how important family is to him and how dear this information must be to him, so you make a decision.
You lace your fingers with his and smile at Sister Maggie and ask, “How did you meet Jack?”
“Ah, yes, now that is a colorful story…”
a/n: maggie is v hard to write
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𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕭𝖊𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑
Summary: After your night with Farleigh, you wake in the morning to deal with the new, altered state of your relationship. You know for certain that you want more with him, but you have no idea if he wishes the same.
Warnings: 18+ content, minors DNI. AFAB, usage of 'good girl' . Sex in front of a mirror, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering. A bit of fluff. American reader. Not proofread.
Notes: 12.1k words. This probably won't make sense if you haven't read the first part. A big shout out for those of you who commented on the first part of this. Ya'll really slutted me out with all of the compliments and motivated me to write this second bit. Banner by @saradika-graphics
𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦 - 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦𝔦
Everything is warm. Cozy and inviting with a soothing, syrupy kind of heat that saps into your bones and flesh. You don't want to move. The possibility of having to seems like the worse possible inconvenience that you could even face. Your mind is slow to gather itself, caught up within the hazy drag of sleep, reluctant to wake up - outright fighting of the surge of consciousness, in fact. And irritably, you wonder why you're gradually being pulled from the dredges of slumber. Why the comforting threads entangling you is beginning to slip. What could possibly be waking you up right now?
And that's when your hazed over brain notices that band of light glaring into your eyes; bright and tinged orange from behind your eyelids. It's awful. Horrible even. Where is the light even coming from? You never leave your lamp on, and you always make sure to draw your curtains shut every night before sleep.
But despite your curiosity, you can't bring yourself to open your eyes. You know that it'll be game over if you do. There's no way that you'll be able to fall back asleep once you get up to check the origin of that offensive glow. But you can't fight the low, tired groan that erupts from your chest in annoyance while you blindly grab at the comforter snuggled around you, sliding it up higher until it's draped over your face and blocking out the light.
The relief is immediate, and you find yourself shifting in an attempt to burrow yourself deeper into the plush support of the mattress, breathing in a satisfied, deep drag of air. Taking a lungful of something sweet and earthy with hints of something spicy too. It's familiar; comforting and it has you subconsciously drawing in another breath. It smells like Farleigh, you think contentedly.
That does have you perking up a bit. Some small part of you becoming hideously awake, like it's trying to remember something that you've forgotten. But you're still actively fighting off the urge get up. You just aren't ready for it. There's some tension in your skull and your mouth feels dry and dehydrated. It's not the worse hangover you've ever had. But then again, the one that you had woken up to on the night after graduation had been near crippling. Honestly, you hadn't thought that you were ever going to survive it. It felt like someone was striking down on your skull with a hammer, trying to split it down the middle. This one was more than manageable, nothing a glass of water and an aspirin couldn't clear up.
But even then, the urge to get up out of bed to shuffle around in the bathroom was less than thrilling.
You shift around again, rolling from your back and onto your side, hoping that maybe this position will actually help you in falling asleep again. But you pause when you feel your knee brush against something firm and warm. And a curious nudge from your foot has you coming to the realization that you're prodding at another leg. Someone else's leg.
It makes your stomach jolt, and the shot of adrenalin combined with the cloud of sleep still seeped across your mind has you squirming in place, while your arms jerk uselessly. It feels like minutes have passed before you're clumsily tossing the blanket from over your head and propping yourself up to look at whoever is lying across from you.
It's the head of dark curls that you notice first before your gaze lowers, tracing over a pair of closed eye lashes and the set of a familiar pout peeking out from the cocoon of the comforter. It has your brain chugging along sluggishly while it scrambles to catch up. And then last night is rushing towards you in waves. Of running into Farleigh, your shared whispered confessions up on the balcony, and the fervent, relieved fucking that came after it.
Heat prickles at your skin at the memories. Of the desperate, broken moans that had left his shuddering chest, the feel of his writhing body underneath your thighs, how he had pressed his face between the apex of your legs and -
Nope, not right now. The last thing you need to be is hungover and horny.
But that was right, you weren't in your room. He had invited you to spend the night with him afterwards. It had been sweet, and domestic. The two of you had spent the first twenty minutes just soaking in the bath together. And a decent majority of it had been the both of you just leaning into each other. The actual bathing that you had done had been somewhat rushed and done out of necessity so that you could spend the rest of your time leaning against the cradle of his chest. Enjoying the feel of skin-on-skin contact and the other's presence. You stayed in the water until it had gone cool, and the only source of heat was coming from your bodies. And even then, you both were reluctant to leave the tub, basking in conversation and gossip, catching up on the few years where you had never really allowed yourselves to just talk to each other.
And once the water became too chilled to bear you were quick to get out of the tub and slip into the comfort of his bed. He had been quick to tug you into his arms once you were settled down underneath the blankets. He was practically glued to you since your entanglement on the balcony - not that you were complaining.
You had all but melted against him for the entire night, laughing and scolding him with no real scorn whenever he had judged or quipped at the movie you were watching in between the kisses he was scattering across your neck. It was disgustingly soft, and light years away from anything you ever imagined yourself doing with Farleigh. If you had told the past version of yourself from yesterday morning that you would be lying his bed and actually enjoying - wanting - to be near him, you would have scoffed. You would have passionately denied the sheer possibility of it.
But now here you are, admiring the way that he looks underneath the soft pale champagne glow of the morning sunlight with nothing but fondness in your chest. He looks peaceful like this. Relaxed. It's somewhat strange to be able to see him like this. All vulnerable and soft while he's unable to dish out sarcasm and insults.
"I can feel you staring, you weirdo," he speaks suddenly without opening his eyes. His voice is low and a little raspy from sleep, and the way that it affects you is entirely unfair. A full body shiver runs down the notches of your spine at the smoky quality to it and you try to subtly shift to hide it, but something tells you that he may have noticed with the smirk that's begun to perk at the corner of his lips.
"Admiring, " you correct, and you shuffle onto your back like you're lifting yourself to get out of the bed, shrugging the blankets off. "But if you don't like it then I can just leave."
He moves way too quickly for someone who just woke up, slipping his arms around your middle and tugging you back into the warmth of the comforter. But you don't put up any semblance of a fight. You let him take you and you can't hold in the laugh that breaks from your chest when he settles you with your back pressed against him, keeping you trapped with the strength of his hold.
"You're not allowed to leave, " he grumbles pettishly. It's so different from all of the interactions that you two usually share and a part of you still hasn't caught up to the sudden shift in your dynamic. You feel just as lost as you do happy, but as much as you'd like to start firing off questions you still can't bring yourself to. Not yet at least. And luckily Farleigh is speaking, pulling you out of your thoughts. "Why are you awake so early?"
"Because someone has very thin curtains that he decided to leave open," you grouse with no real bite.
He tucks his chin over the crown of your head and hums tiredly. You can feel that way that his abdomen vibrates against your back with the sound. The heat radiating from his bare skin is soaking into yours from the barrier of your borrowed shirt, and combined with the scent of his body wash and the left-over remnants of his cologne it has the temptation of sleep beginning to weigh down your limbs. "You could have closed them."
"Hmm . . . I'm kinda glad I didn't," you admit, snuggling back into his chest as much as you can. "You're so pretty when you're sleeping, and your face isn't all twisted up in a scowl."
The reprimanding bite that he nips at the junction of your neck catches you off guard, making you jolt with a small, surprised yelp. You can't find it in yourself to even mildly irritated, but you kick at his shin regardless in a playful warning of your own.
"I'm always pretty," he scolds.
Then a silence falls across the room. Not uncomfortable but still. Peaceful and light, and the buttery summer breeze pouring from the open window just amplifies the sense of calm. And you smell the dulcet, earthy scent of pollen and fresh morning dew on the air. There's a bird singing from somewhere outside, declaring the rise of the early sun in a gentle coo. And for a moment, it almost sounds like a mourning dove.
You just allow yourself to relax and lounge in the tranquility of the moment. Idly scanning the contents of his room from the comfort of his bed. Glancing over at the shelf in the corner, stocked full of novels; everything from old literary classics like The Portrait of Dorian Gray, Dracula, The Great Gatsby, a couple of books on mythology, a few Harry Potter novels and you even spy what also seems to be a copy of one of the Sex and the City stories. A few of shirts were discarded in the corner near a small laundry basket like he had thrown them and missed, forgotten on the floor.
And it suddenly strikes you that this is the first time that you've actually been inside of Farleigh's room. You've gotten glimpses of it of course, typically during brief confrontations while standing in his doorway. Usually, when Felix or Elspeth would send you to his door in their stead to retrieve him or remind him of a mandatory affair. And it's a reminder of the step that you had taken last night. The way that you both had singlehandedly altered the trajectory of your relationship with each other.
Not even the uncertainty in your gut is enough to disrupt the ease in your bones. But is still there. Unignorable. It isn't awkward or uncomfortable, but it is foreign. This entire situation is new and fragile. The ground that you're treading is something that you've never even grown close to traversing with Farleigh, and with it there is a sense of something delicate and brand new, like eggshells. And a part of you is worried that if you handle it too harshly that it might break.
But you know that despite your hesitance that a conversation needs to be had. Boundaries and intentions need to be laid bare and the more you hold it off the more confused and distressed you're going to become.
"Farleigh?" You say softly, and for a moment you think that he's fallen asleep again, but then a questioning hum is purring out into the air in response; you feel it more than you hear it.
And now there it is. That awful nervousness fluttering at your gut like a ball of panicked, nauseating butterflies. "What are we exactly?" You nearly wince when you ask it. The dryness in your throat doesn't help anything, and your words nearly catch on their way out. "I know we were both drinking and partying last night, so I just want to make sure that we're both on the same page. That I'm not . . . assuming anything."
There's another bout of silence. But this time it is distressing, and you wish that he'd just speak. Even if it's just to reject you or say that last night was just a one-time thing. At least, it would be ripping the band aid off. Setting a boundary and cutting you off. As much as it would hurt it would give you closure and let you move on to pretend that it never happened. It would be awkward, tiptoeing around the estate and pretending as though last night - this morning, didn't take place - a beautiful, haunting dream - but you could do it. You would have to. You could still fake all of those old glares and scathing remarks if it meant that a sense of normalcy would remain intact. You could pretend to forget all of his soft touches, and the way that he had called you gorgeous. How he had held your gaze and looked at you like you had hung the moon up into the night sky. You could forget all of it, you swear you could.
But it's just quiet, and the anticipation is killing you. Letting you choke on your own worry.
Farleigh shuffles back from you and for one terrifying moment you think that he's leaving the bed, too irritated or indifferent to even try and have this talk with you. But instead, he's softly nudging your arm to guide you to twist around onto your opposite side; making you face him.
There's something gentle is his eyes, something vulnerable too. And it makes you hopeful that he feels the same way as you do.
"Well . . . " He starts but then a pause takes over like he's trying to collect himself and find the proper words. You can feel the way that you subconsciously begin to clam up, seizing and waiting to be torn down and told the ugly truth. You brace waiting to have to put on a fake smile and nod before you have to slip from his bed and head to your room in a walk of shame with rejection stabbing inside your chest like glass shards.
"I was hoping that you'd be my girlfriend."
The relief that floods through you nearly makes you breathless. And for a moment you think that this is what it feels like to be engulfed in the sun; swaddled in a warmth that reminds you of the nostalgia of a fond, distant memory. It's the joy of a day free at the beach, the repose that comes after holding your breath for a long stretch of time, the exhilaration from finding the answer to a mystery that's eluded you for years. But you can't articulate any of that, can't find a single word that properly conveys your emotions while under the cloud of sleep.
"Okay," it isn't an eloquent response, by any means. Even just saying 'yes' probably would have read better. But that didn't mean that it wasn't said with any less intensity and enthusiasm. And you can tell that Farleigh must be able to pick up on the true scope of your emotions bleeding through because he doesn't look offended or disappointed. But his eyebrows do lift as he levels you with a look that's purely amused and a little happy.
"Okay?" He echos with a light chuckle.
"Okay, " you reaffirm, sliding closer until your noses touch. "I'd love to be your girlfriend."
The look in his eyes is soft and relaxed, and they're shimmering lightly in the morning glow with hints of amber and a rich brown. And then he's peppering kisses across your face like he's mapping out your features with his lips, trailing them across your forehead and cheekbones and jawline. It's unrushed and slow, like you both have all of the time in the world. Like the sun is permanently fixed in the lavender horizon and isn't due to rise up and give way to a full day. But here and now, it's just you and him, curled up in the covers and one another.
It's still so strange to be the object of his affections. It's a complete one-eighty from the way that you've interacted for years. Sure, now that you've had your little epiphany last night, you've been able to realize (and come to terms with the fact) that there's always been a kind of attraction and even fondness brewing underneath every one of your little spats and encounters. But never would have thought that you could say that that want, and affection went both ways. That there had ever been anything thing other than animosity and annoyance on his end.
"What are you thinking about?" Farleigh ask, nuzzling against your cheek to get your attention before he pulls away to hold your gaze.
"I guess, I'm just a little surprised, is all." You admit, though it is a little cryptic. "I just never got the impression that you liked me all that much."
Something in his expression sobers, and for a moment you worry that you've said something wrong. That you've accidentally nudged something that he wasn't ready to disclose.
"That was the point," he confesses, making your eyebrows pinch in confusion. "Of all of the teasing and fighting. For the most part." He pulls back, settling back against the bed and you settle on the flat of your stomach, supporting yourself on your elbows to observe him easier. "Though, I do just genuinely enjoy teasing you. You always get that cute little furrow, right here whenever I do."
He lightly pokes at the point between your eyes with a smirk. And you swat at his hand, playful and relaxed before his features smooth back into that serious look. You can tell that he's briefly deflecting, trying to drag his explanation out more than it needs to be, and as much as your curiosity is burning at you like a hot ember, you don't make any means to rush him. His gaze skitters around the room with something akin to defeat and exasperation while he tussles with whatever conflict is warring around inside of him.
Your fingers hesitantly reach for his own, clasping lightly just in case he wants to pull away, and you take it as good sign when he doesn't. Instead, he's threading your fingers together and squeezing, stroking at your knuckles with his thumb. "Felix, " he says suddenly with something like a grimace. "They always pick Felix. The golden boy. And I thought, 'why even try?' "
The clarification is a little vague and scattered. But you're still able to piece together a mental timeline with the little bits and pieces that he's given. And it finally answers the question as to why your otherwise cordial relationship with Farleigh had seemed to take an abrupt nosedive after Felix's visit to the States all those years ago. Why your interactions went from playful to subtly meanspirited. He was jealous. Envious of his cousin all because he had assumed that you had a crush on or would eventually develop a crush for Felix.
Sure, you weren't blind. Felix, for all intents and purposes was an attractive guy. And he's has always been a dear friend to you, protective and caring but you can genuinely say that your feelings for Felix had never developed past the platonic sense. Not even out of curiosity.
And it is a little aggravating to know that all the years of animosity between you and Farleigh was because he wasn't able to sit you down and have a conversation with you. That he had decided to act like a middle school boy who tugs on the pig tails of the girl that he likes because he can't properly convey his feelings. But you also know that that assessment isn't fully fair either. You're aware of the fragile standing that Farleigh has with the Catton's - his own family, and that he no doubt, often feels like a guest in a home that should be considered his just as much as it's his cousins.
And Felix, whether he realizes it or not, has always been able to achieve and get whatever - or whoever he wants. Usually, from his family's social or financial standing. And so, it wouldn't be the wild for him to assume that you'd be attracted to all of those things too. Especially, considering that you yourself, like many people, don't come from a wealthy family. It's a part of human nature, to gravitate towards the things you can't have. To try and see what life is like on the other side, where you're hand fed from a silver spoon and your every whim can be taken care of by an everlasting stash of money. So, Farleigh's insecurities weren't unfounded by any means, but regardless, it did still hurt to some degree that he felt like wasn't able to just talk to you about the way that he had felt. About the emotions that he had silently been harboring for all of this time.
"I really did try to hate you. " And when he looks at you his expression is naked and honest. " I tried to push you away, but it didn't work. It never worked."
He looks vulnerable. Like he's waiting for you to get angry or irritated and he's bracing for an argument. But you don't even contemplate doing anything even close to that. Instead, you're scooting yourself up on your knees to gently swing yourself across his lap, and he welcomes you by gripping onto your hips. You can't feel his skin directly. Not while you're both wearing a pair of boxers (he had lent you one of his to wear for bed last night) but you could still feel the heat of him against underneath you. And it serves to ground you all the same, pulling you into the moment and holding you here. And you take comfort in the sensation of his body against yours.
"I've never hated you either, " you say, swallowing around the nervousness in your throat. " I thought I did. But I don't think I ever really could, not even back then. I'm mean don't get me wrong, you were arrogant, and rude and some days you made me want to slam my head into a wall . . . But I never hated you."
There's something akin to relief in his eyes; hopeful and soft. And then he's saying two words that you thought you'd never expect to hear coming from him.
"I'm sorry."
It takes a moment for your mind to even register what he had said. But once the apology clicks into place, it has something fuzzy and warm growing in your chest, and you couldn't hide the soft smile pulling at your lips. It's bittersweet. You're remorseful for all the time lost between you but you can't even bother to dwell on it for too long, not now. Not with him gazing up at you, hopeful and waiting.
And the truth is, is that you weren't entirely blameless, either. Yes, Farleigh had been the one to initiate the friction and enmity between you, but you were also quick to respond in kind. Instead of even trying to take the high road and figuring out the root of his animosity, you were quick to jump on the offensive. Forgoing any ideas of reconciling in the desire to try and get even. You just gave it all up, the months' worth of a gradually cultivated fellowship in the trade of trying to tear him down like he had done to you.
"I'm sorry, too," you say truthfully. And the last bits of that tense, worried energy that had been tainting the air finally vanishes, carried off on the gentle breeze pouring through the window and out into the courtyard. Its absence welcomes back the playfulness that had been present earlier. "But if we're being honest, I've always enjoyed our little fights."
The way that he grins in response is the kind that would have concerned you at one time (only just a few hours ago - Jesus, you can hardly believe it still), all cocky and entirely too satisfied. "I know, I clocked that from the very start."
You can't resist the urge to roll your eyes, and there's a retort on the tip of your tongue, ready to tease him back but instead your mind decides to take a detour and it swerves back around to a different train of thought completely. Making you pause in place, lips slightly parted with the preparation to speak but the initial remark is gone. Leaving to assess your new realization with a bit of confused wonder. The realization that you didn't become acquaintances with Felix until months after knowing Farleigh. And that would mean that he caught feelings before- "Wait, " you pause, squinting at Farleigh questioningly. "You said that you weren't going to even try because of Felix. Then when did you . . ?"
He sighs lowly, stroking your thighs in a way that seems more absentminded than intentional, like his brain needs a distraction. "The first day that we met there's was something there. It was small. Intrigue, mostly. I didn't think it would go anywhere, and for a little while it didn't." It's matter of fact, not meant to be rude or harmful, just honest. "There wasn't some pivotal moment that changed things. I don't have a specific date to give you; all those feelings were suddenly just there, and I didn't know what to do with them."
It was the same way for you, you suppose. It wasn't like in the movies where the protagonist shares one defining moment with their love interest that just abruptly opens their eyes to their newfound affection and they immediately fall in love. The build up to your feelings had simmered and climbed up over time. It just sort of snuck up on you so stealthily that you hadn't even recognized that you had them. And even worse, your own hubris had kept you from even acknowledging the little shreds of emotions that managed to sneak by and slip under the radar. You always had an excuse for yourself.
That fuzzy, tingling feeling that would bubble in the pit of your gut whenever you had seen Farleigh smile back in the past, candid and genuine, that wasn't affection, that was disgust, surely. That searing burn that would scatter across your flesh when someone would lean up against his side and openly flirt with him, coquette and unabashed, it was just your irritation for him, not jealously.
Your emotions had always been there. Right under the surface and raging, but you had never let yourself see. Had never let yourself indulge. You were so out of touch with them, that honestly, you wouldn't be able to track whenever they had begun to manifest. It could have been from day one for all you know. And maybe it was. Right on that April evening, during the middle of a heatwave that had come in and choked out the otherwise agreeable spring air. The sun had the city in a violent grip, beating down on the concrete and asphalt until it was sweltering. And in an attempt to escape the unbearable temperatures, you and Graham, like many of the other tenants, had taken to the crystal waters of the pool to cool off. And when Graham had asked you if one of his friends could swing by, you had no qualms on the matter. You were honestly intrigued, considering that the said friend was apparently the mysterious Farleigh, who Graham had grown to be quite fond off, with the both of them having met from running with similar crowds. Socializers and party goers.
When Farleigh had showed up to the pool, you hadn't missed the somewhat disgruntled way that his lip had curled while he eyed all of the people splashing about in the water as he followed Graham over to your seats on the poolside. Like they had offended him by being there. But you could only find yourself being amused by his apparent dislike for the public, and when he had neared you were quick to sit up in your lounger, lifting your sunglasses from your eyes and onto your head to assess him better.
"You must be the famed Farleigh," you had greeted before extending your hand for him to take, introducing yourself with a smile.
"That would be me," he had replied, laying back on the chaise beside yours like he had always been there; relaxed and unbothered. Like he had known you forever. "But 'famed,' huh? Does he talk about me often?"
"Enough for me to be intrigued." You admitted, folding the corner page of the book you had been reading in a dog-eared marker before shutting it closed so that you could freely turn your focus onto him instead.
"And what has he told you about me?" He asked.
Your lips lifted, and for a moment you glanced around the pool, observing the colorful array of plastic floaties and limbs playfully kicking up water. "That you're trouble."
But it was told without any bite, your tone airy and impish. He didn't necessarily return your smile, but there was a kind of mirth glinting in his eyes. Intrigue as well. He let himself relax into the cradle of the chair without removing his gaze from yours, and you could see his open amusement. And somewhere in the near distance a child squealed in open delight and the laughter of their parent closely followed, but neither of you had so much as glanced away from each other.
"So, he told you the truth." That had been his response.
Charming, that had been your first thought of him. And it was one without ire or sarcasm. It was the truth. He had been charming then, and the both of you had spent a good twenty minutes talking to each other after your introduction. Divulging in common interest and gossip. Mostly from you sharing the scandals of your fellow tenants, like how your neighbor from 2E had been cheating on her boyfriend with the guy from 1F or how the elderly woman from down your hall had traded her husband's ashes for a pound of weed.
But regardless of when your feelings for Farleigh had begun, it didn't change the fact that you were so ignorant and blind, that literally everyone else had taken notice of your attraction before you had. And all of the teasing from Venetia, and Felix, and even Graham hadn't been enough to make you recognize them.
"And then one day, I couldn't stop thinking about you. " He admits. There's an intensity in his gaze, and that open vulnerability is still in there too. It threatens to steal your breath, and you have to force yourself to inhale. But it just makes you take the scent of his shampoo; the fresh, delicate fragrance of the detergent and his cologne on his sheets and it just makes the warm haze seeping back into you so much worse. "With your thrifted sweatshirts and bitchy attitude."
"Oh, I'm the bitchy one?"
You aren't sure what changes it. What causes the shift. If perhaps it had just been there the entire time and you had been too preoccupied to notice it with your thoughts and heart to heart conversation. Or if maybe it was just from the way that he's looking at you now. With an unmistakable type of want. With a sultry type of need that's hauntingly similar to the fervor that had glinted in his eyes just last night. And the feel of his heated palms gripping your thighs and the pressure of his lap nestled between your legs doesn't make it any easier. But the low heat rising in the room seems to amplify the desire that's beginning to storm inside of you, building up from the sun that's ascended a few more degrees into the morning sky. And combined with the light golden hue casted over the bed, it makes you feel as though you're being incased in a vat of heated honey. Saccharine, hazy and torrid.
You have to chase after that feeling. Following after it like a flower tracking the suns path across the sky and it leads you to Farleigh. Making you tilt down towards him like it's your purpose, brushing your lips over his and breathing in his air. And all the while you don't break eye contact once. You couldn't. You won't.
The hold of his finger's flexes on you, like he's trying to ground himself. His anticipation almost seems like a physical thing; like it's brushing up against your body and hanging heavy in the air. And it could be your mind playing tricks on you, but you're certain that he's stopped breathing while he eagerly waits for you to do something.
It has you lifting a hand up to cup his face, delicate and almost devout in the way that you press your palm against his cheek and his eyelashes nearly flutter from the contact. He looks content like this. No doubt still a little addled from the sleep that's probably still clinging to his brain. But the way that he appears to be so peaceful and fulfilled with something as little as your touch has this insatiable thing growing inside of you, and it feels as though it could grow a will of its own and possess you. The weight of it would have scared you once, if you weren't already so utterly swept up in it.
You can't help but to trace his skin, idly sweeping your thumb across the jut of his cheekbone before dragging it down the fullness of his bottom lip. And it surprises you entirely when he drops his jaw open to take the digit into his mouth. You have to hold back a gasp at the sensation of his tongue brushing over your skin and sucking. And the impish gleam in his eyes almost seems like some kind of dare. Like he wants you to make a move.
You just press your thumb into his mouth with a bit more pressure and the delicate, airy sigh that leaves him is a reward all in its own. The glide of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the way that he's looking at you, it's all so blissfully overwhelming. You wish that you could just stay here indefinitely, under the cover of the blankets with his body against your own.
But . . .
"You're a brat." That's all you say before you extract your digit from between his lips and swing yourself from his hips to climb off the bed. You have to glance over your shoulder when a surprised "what the fuck?" rises out from behind you as you pad over towards the open doorway of the adjacent bathroom. And the outright pouty and exasperated way that Farleigh rolls over onto his stomach and slams his face into the plush of one of his pillows is the last thing you see of him once you cross the threshold, and you can't fight the amused chuckle that leaves your chest.
You can hear him grumble something, but it's inaudible from your place at the sink, muffled by the walls and distance. You try to ignore those torrential, gushing emotions that are rising up inside your chest but it's hard to fight the smile on your face, and the sight of your reflection in the mirror is humbling almost. You're beaming and your eyes are sparkling with an unhidden mirth. God, you look like a lovestruck idiot. You can hardly recognize yourself like this, but as completely taken as you are by your feelings you can't even find it in yourself to be embarrassed by them. It feels good to just embrace them after years of fighting and lying to yourself. And you finally feel at peace.
It's like relief, being here with him. By wearing his clothes and spending the night in his bed. The toothbrush that you're using was one of his spares. It had still been tucked away in the rigid plastic and cardboard of its packaging when he had let you use it last night. He had been the one to suggest that you take it when you had been fully prepared to swing by the neighboring bathroom near your bedroom to collect you own. But he had told you that you didn't need to bother. That you could just take one of his. And after you had used it, you had placed it in the caddy beside his own for the night. They were all such small things. Tiny minute gestures but they made you feel so wholly wanted.
When you lean over to spit out the frothy toothpaste into the basin of the sink a pair of arms slip around your middle and press you into the expanse of his front. He hooks his chin over your shoulder to look at you from the reflection of the mirror and you struggle not to make eye contact with him as your rinse the bristles of the brush off underneath the tap.
"Come back to bed," he says, nuzzling his face into the junction of your neck. "Breakfast isn't for almost another two hours."
You just hum in response, tapping your toothbrush dry on the edge of the sink before plopping it back into its place in the caddy. "I will, " you promise. "Do you have anything for headaches? I have a little bit of a hangover."
"Bottom drawer on the left," he directs, and slackens his hold on you for you to slip free. You crouch down to slide the drawer open and rove your eyes over the contents before you single out the white safety lid of a bottle of ibuprofen. Once you have it, you're opening it eagerly and plucking a tablet into the palm of your hand. The throbbing in your skull is still dull, more of an annoyance really. But regardless you're still more than relieved to get something to finally knock it out.
You drop the sealed bottle back into its place before nudging the door closed with your leg as you rise to stand, and you put the bitter, acrid pill on your tongue. Farleigh is already in the process of brushing his own teeth, and instead of shuffling over to the opposing sink, you're leaning over into Farleigh's space and cupping a bit of water streaming from the tap into your palm to drink up; using it to wash down the tablet.
He doesn't look peeved in the slightest though, that he has to shift back just a bit on his feet to allow you closer as you toss the pill down. Instead, there's an amused smile on his lips while he watches you. Though you're too busy roving your eyes over your own features to notice, and you can't help the slight exasperation that shows when you spot a few fine pieces of glitter that are still stubbornly clinging to your skin; glinting from your collar bone and the ridge of your left cheek. You'll probably be finding remnants of it for weeks at this rate, in your hair and on your clothes.
Though you suppose that you can't be all that mad about it, with the way that it serves to be a reminder of last night. Of the balmy satin breeze and the pleased moans that it had carried. You can already feel your body thrumming in response and the depth of your reverie keeps you from noticing that he had finished brushing his teeth and had placed his brush in the caddy until you see his reflection shuffling around and he's suddenly standing behind you, securing his arms around your waist once again.
You all but melt back against him with a happy hum under your breath. It still surprises you a bit, the way that he seeks you and your affection out and clings to you. Though, you suppose that it really shouldn't be all that much of a shock. He has always been a very physical sort of person, even with those that he has a platonic relationship with. Even in the past, he always seemed to have someone touching him, whether it be by having a person clinging to arm, or sitting in his lap, he was always sharing his space in some kind of way. So, it isn't that farfetched that he'd crave physical intimacy in a relationship just as much. And you're all too eager and willing to fulfill that want.
Though you suppose that the surprise still comes from how new and raw this all still is. You've had your dynamic solidified with Farleigh for years. And it persisted that way, unshifting and constant until it had been swiftly uprooted and altered by a simple exchange of words. And a part of you still has yet to come to terms with it yet. That you're here with him and so completely, and wholly content. That you're happy with the person who had made it his mission to taunt your every waking moment. It is jarring and strange but no less sweet and captivating, and you don't think that you could imagine being with anyone else right now and experiencing the same breadth of joy and tranquility.
Your body almost goes lax against his, settling underneath the comforting heat radiating from the plains of his chest and abdomen. It's all peaceful and unrushed. Just two people enjoying each other's company without the threat of any responsibilities or tasks looming ahead to move you apart. And for a moment you think that you could fall asleep like this, standing up while cradled in his arms.
But then one of his hands begins to wander, shifting from its place around your middle to slip underneath your (his) shirt. And you can't help but to smile, basking in the subtle shift that weaves over the privacy of the bathroom. It's simmering and low and it already has a delicate heat blossoming between your thighs. His fingers trace up your stomach, leaving a buzzing trail across your skin in their wake and when they reach the swell of one your breasts it has you gasping.
"Open your eyes, " he purrs in your ear, smoky and sonorous and it gives you no choice but to comply. You hadn't even realized that you had closed them until they're fluttering open and meeting Farleigh's in the mirror's reflection. And the smoldering want alight within them has you breathless and thrumming with anticipation.
His other hand starts drifting, but it isn't slipping up to join the opposing one near your chest, it's traveling down low until his fingers are teasing at the band of your boxers that hang from your hips. He lets his thumb glide underneath the fabric to sweep teasing glides across the skin of your pubic mound. And you find yourself trying to lightly grind against his hand like it might get it to move lower to where you want him. But he doesn't budge, and the only thing that greets you is a condescending chuckle against the side of your head as he plants a kiss into the plush of your hair.
"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you're going to watch."
That just about nearly makes your knees go slack. And the warmth blossoming in your stomach is thick and heady already. He doesn't even have to ask if you agree, you beat him to the punch, eagerly nodding in response with a quick yes. And it's then that his hand finally moves. Your mouth drops open when his fingers slip in between your legs, parting through the heat of you and gently grinding against your clit in heavy, teasing glides. And the fingertips on your breast softly pluck at your nipple in time with each circle around the sensitive nerves at the apex of your thighs.
It has you becoming aware of how wet you already are, but you can't focus on the embarrassment for long because the sheer intensity of Farleigh's gaze has you in a grip. He only breaks the contact to briefly admire the shape of his hand jutting out from underneath the fabric of your boxers before it sweeps back up to your face, making you focus on yourself. There's already a glazed over sort of gleam in the reflection of your eyes, and your chest is rhythmically rising and expanding to release low, airy gasps.
It has heat prickling at your cheeks in a self-conscious response and you can't help it when you look away from the image of the both of you to train your gaze onto something else. It wasn't seeing him that made you feel awkward, it was seeing yourself like this that was so strange. You couldn't watch yourself like this. So, you pin your gaze onto the golden trim of the mirror instead, tracing the shapes of the cherubim and flora carved into the wood as some kind of distraction while your hips chase after the sultry simmer that's lowly building within the cradle of your hips.
But even with that pleasure, you can't help the way you whine when the hand stroking at your breast suddenly leaves. Though you can't voice your frustration before it's slipping from underneath the shirt and taking ahold of your jaw, guiding you to tilt your head back. The cradle of his hand is almost light despite the firmness behind it, more of a suggestion really, but you find yourself yielding to it regardless. Allowing your head to loll back on your neck until it's pressed against him.
And the angle makes you see yourself in the reflection. You want to glance away again and save yourself from the awkward prickling at your skin.
"Watch," Farleigh orders softly, nipping at your ear like it was a kind of reprimand.
And you can't look away now. Not with the sound of his command still ringing in your mind, all low and raspy.
"Good girl," he purrs. Then one of his fingers is slipping inside of you and even though he had just fucked you last night, you can still feel your walls slightly stretching around the thickness of it. A ragged moan tears from your lips at the feel of it and your body mindlessly jerks against the sensation, making you unintentionally grind against the rigid heat of his cock pressing against your backside. You can hear the soft sigh of pleasure that leaves him at the feel of you rocking against him, and his eyebrows pinch close with a near rapturous type of wince. Like it already felt too good.
It gives you a sense of satisfaction to know that even while he's pumping his finger into the heat of your cunt and working you into the throes of a syrupy, saccharine pleasure that you could still affect him. You can tell that he's noticed the slight smirk that's begun to tilt at your lips if the way that he glares at you from over your shoulder is anything to go by. And never to be one to back down from a challenge, he's gliding a second finger in alongside the other and curling them in deep.
Your hands reach for the counter, grabbing onto the edge of the sink for some stability. For something to anchor you while pure liquid heat pours over you like melted wax. But you don't stop fucking yourself on his hand, you don't stop grinding against him either, desperately rolling the swell of your ass against the rigid press of his cock; eager to see that near wounded look that crosses his face whenever he's in pleasure.
And it feels like a reward when his own jaw drops open with a moan. But then he's biting onto the junction of your neck like he's trying to silence himself, and the mere thought of being deprived of his voice has you whining out. Not this again . . .
"Farleigh," you keen raggedly, almost hiccupping around the steady, repetitive thrust of his fingers. " Please, I want to hear you. Let me hear you."
There's a brief bout of silence, and for one horrible moment you think that he's going to deprive you and leave you wanting, but then he's removing his teeth from their hold on your skin and nuzzling his nose against your head. Thankfully, he doesn't try to quiet himself. He lets his lips remain parted, allowing that gorgeous, low panting to escape, pushed out by the way that he's started to grind up against you, meeting the thrust of your hips with his own.
He looks gorgeous like this, with his eyelids settled low over his eyes from an intense type of want and desire and you think that you can see a fine dusting of sweat already glittering over his skin from the low, golden light projecting from the bedroom behind the both of you. And even with the heavy grate from the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit and the pulse of his fingers building that consuming fire in your gut, you honestly think that a large portion of your pleasure is coming from just seeing him.
And you think that it might be the same for him. His gaze is fixed onto you with an almost enraptured sort of quality to his gaze, like he couldn't bear to look away from you. And with the way that you're both working yourselves against each other, it's apparent that you're just blatantly getting off on seeing the other becoming worked up and clouded over with desire.
The sounds of your joined moaning and gasps are amplified within the cradle of the bathroom walls, and it just makes your body burn all the more hotter. Your eyes nearly roll back when his fingertips brush against that debilitating spot inside of you, and your back arches involuntarily, drawing tight like a bowstring.
"Right there, huh, baby?" He coos a little condescending, but you couldn't care less. Not with how he's working his fingers so well. Threatening to tear you apart and make you unravel with a few more well-placed swipes. And you just nod. Anything to satisfy him and have him keep going. To nudge you closer and closer to that wonderful, tempting edge and guide you over it.
"You really want to cum, don't you?" There's a taunting quality to his voice that easily would have tipped you off if your mind wasn't fogged over with lust but right now you're too caught up in feeling to even focus. It takes everything to even reply to him, though it comes out as more of a breathless huff of pleasure rather than an articulated response. And he's got that satisfied grin on his lips. Like he has you right where he wants you. "Then go get on the bed."
That's the only warning you get before he's slipping his fingers from your cunt and cruelly stepping away from you. The glare that you give him is full of hurt and scathing, and you can feel the dull rise of your approaching orgasm fading into a taunting, warm pulse between your legs and your walls flutter around nothing. But he doesn't appear to be guilty in the slightest. Instead, he's lifting the hand that he had used to fuck you and places his fingers onto his tongue to suck the gauzy sheen of your cum from them.
It has that desire flaring again and whatever quip you had at the ready extinguishing before you could even try to get it out. And you're quick to turn on your heels, trying to ignore the way that your knees slightly quiver with adrenaline and anticipation as you make your way towards the threshold of the bathroom. Though, you can't stop yourself from shooting Farleigh a look when he plants a slap on your ass when you walk past him to the bedroom.
But regardless of your frustration, you're doing exactly as he told you and crawling back onto the plush mattress of his bed as soon as you cross the wooden floorboards. You move up on your hands and knees until you reach the pillows, and then you twist around onto your back to get comfortable, swallowing around a shaky breath.
It takes you by complete surprise when Farleigh sweeps over you, urging you to fall onto the inviting warmth of the bedding as he climbs over your body. You hadn't even realized that he was following that closely behind, but you don't even have time to think on it before his lips are connecting with your own, urging you into heated exchange that completely siphons the oxygen from your lungs.
And his hands are everywhere, like he's trying to feel every groove and notch of you to collect it and put it away for safekeeping. Like he's trying to memorize your body. He tastes sweet, like peppermint and ice, no doubt from the toothpaste that he had just used a bit earlier. But there's something earthy on his lips too that you gradually come to recognize as your own cum, and it has you moaning into his mouth brokenly. It prompts you to claw the boxers around his waist just like he's doing to your own, the both of you are desperate to get the pieces of fabric from your bodies so that you could finally just feel each other.
You both separate yourselves from the kiss just long enough for you to prop yourself up to tear his sweater from your body and you don't miss the way that his eyes immediately rove down to your exposed breasts. And as much as you'd love to feel him touching them, you still need to taste his lips on your own. It has you cradling his face in your palms and dragging him down to reconnect your mouth to his in an exchange of tongue and teeth.
You're both moaning into each other, taking in the others air and gulping in it like it's your own. The atmosphere surrounding the room is thick and charged with something so frenzied and wild that it feels like electricity is getting ready to spill over you. It has you reaching down for the boxers that he's wearing and tugging at them like they've offended you personally. And right now, they kind of are, covering him up and keeping you from properly feeling him. Thankfully, he understands what you want, and he shuffles back just enough, rising on his knees to hook his thumbs into the band secured around his hips to work them down his legs.
For a moment you can't help but admire him once the length of his cock springs out from the cloth of his boxers, but the outright desperate whine that leaves him when you stopped touching him for too long is quick to spur you into action. And you follow after him, reaching to help pull them off, but you have to nudge him on his chest, silently directing him to fall back onto the mattress. And he lets you, settling down so that you tug them past his knees and then off his feet to toss them carelessly across the room.
But then he's on you again, quicker than you can even blink, and now you're the once again the one laying with their back against the bed. He looms over you with something hungry and eager burning in his eyes and it has your body involuntarily writhing to press up against his own. Distraught with the need to just feel him. He's quick to tear your boxers off with an equal fervor, but he doesn't wait for you to try and help him. He practically rips them off of you, nearly dragging you down the bed when they briefly catch on one of the heels of your feet.
You spread your legs to let him fully settle between their cradle and the weight of his length pressing against the wet heat of your cunt nearly makes you sob out loud. But unfortunately, despite the frenzy that had overcame him before, he still seems to be in the mood to tease, at least somewhat. Because instead of offering the both of you the relief that you crave and just fucking you, he just settling himself over you, leaning the brunt of weight on his elbows as he ducks his head down low and takes one of your nipples into the sweltering heat of his mouth.
You cry out when he sucks at it, tracing it with the tip of his tongue and gently tugging at it with the barely-there scrape of his teeth. It makes you grip onto his shoulders for some sort of tether. Anything to keep you from just floating away from your body. But he doesn't give you any sort of reprieve before he starts to grind against you, dragging his cock through the slick warmth of your cunt and nudging the swollen, sensitive bud of your clit with the head of his length.
Your fingernails drag across the skin of his back, but it doesn't hurt him if the way that he groans around your breast is any indication. You can't do anything other than just lying back and taking it. And as impatient as you feel, you can't deny that it feels good to try and endure the sweet torture of him making you wait. And you just allow yourself to fall into the melted, sugary haze filling up your skull.
Your legs fall open wider when his cock slips across you and brushes over your entrance, and for one blessed moment you think that he might actually fuck you. But he doesn't. He just continues to grind steadily; increasing that stifling, profound heat in your body, and it trickles down the individual notches of your spine until it's pouring between the cradle of your hips and settling between your thighs like something molten and inextinguishable and fluid.
His lips leave your breast with an audible pop but he's fast to shift over and take your other nipple into his mouth, moaning around your chest and teasing the rigid, sensitive skin with the suction of his tongue. It makes you whimper, a little pathetic and certainly needy, and you can feel the vibrations of his smug laughter dancing across your skin.
It pisses you off, the outright way that he's teasing you and as good as this is, as good as it feels, you need him. You can't keep yourself from removing your hands from the expanse of his back and taking his face back into your hands to move his head from your breast to look at you. Something flickers in his eyes, it could have been a mild form of irritation, but you aren't exactly in the best state of mind to be sure. It melts away just as quickly as it had been there, shifting into something satisfied and fond at the sight of you and there's a dazed sort of quality to his gaze too. And you're pretty sure that you look just as drunk on your lust as he does.
"Farleigh, please. " You beg shamelessly, panting against his lips as you press desperate, pronounced kisses against his lips. You can feel the way that he's smirking underneath each peck, but you can't find it in yourself to be mad. You're too worked up, and the constant, languid drag of his cock against your clit is doing wonders to evaporate every single coherent thought from your brain. "I need you. Please, I need you to just fuck me - please -"
"Yeah, you do need me, don't you?" It's said such a matter-of-fact way but even with that haze stuffing your head, you swear that you can see something pass over his expression. Something that almost looks vulnerable and maybe even insecure. It reminds you off his earlier confession. How he had admitted that he'd always assumed that you had a crush on Felix, or that you would eventually come to develop one at the very least.
It reminds you of your own jealously that you had felt every time that you saw someone with their arms wrapped around his neck or exchanging a flirty set of words. How it had always threatened to choke you with the searing, ugly heat. It hurts you to think that he may still carry that pain now, even while he's wrapped up in your embrace.
"I need you, " you agree. And you do your best to pour all of your emotions into it, to telegraph to him that it's so much more than sex talk. That you want him to know that you do actually need him. That it's been him. That it's always been him. "I need you, Farleigh. Just you."
And it must work. The scope of your emotions must show across your face because something affectionate and tender melts over his features and he confirms that he's heard you with subtle nod.
"I've got you, " he says, pressing a long, wanting kiss to your lips. "I got you, baby."
And he lifts one of his hands down to take ahold of his girth while he softly rotates his hips, grinding the head of his cock around your clit one last time before he's finally guiding himself into your heat. The moan that leaves you is punched out and ragged already, and your walls clench and flutter around him as he splits you open, gradually feeding you every glorious inch at a time. Letting you feel all of it as it slips inside until he's physically stopped by the press of his hips against yours.
He's panting already too, groaning lowly from the way that your pussy won't stop pulsing around him as it adjusts to his length. But you can't help it. Not when he feels so good. And your eyes fix onto the delicate necklaces draped from his neck, focusing on the pendants dangling from them to try and keep yourself present.
You don't even have to beg. He's drawing back until it's just his tip inside of you and then he's thrusting forward in a way that leaves you breathless. But it isn't rapid or ardent like it was last night or even just a little earlier, instead it's unhurried and savoring. The both of you seeming to come to the conclusion that you don't have to scramble zealously. That the both of you already have each other. That neither of you are going to leave the other and you could fully relish in your bodies and presence completely unrushed.
Your hips lift on their own, instinctively rocking to meet the languorous pattern that he's set, and it has your head rolling back. But even while you're fully basking in the rapturous drag of his cock, you can't pull your eyes from him. The burning, smoldering fog taking over you can't keep you from admiring him and the way that the golden sunlight has highlighted the flecks of a rich bronze and even some faint glints of copper in his hair. There's a thin layer of sweat perspiring on the warm shade of his skin and that pinched furrow between his eyebrows is back, telling you that he's enjoying this just as much as you are.
And the pleasure is washing over you like heated butter, making your toes curl and fingers twist into the sheets for something to keep you roped here; from drifting off from this moment and getting lost. The breathless moans leaving his chest just work you up even more, making you desperate and wanton.
He's ducking his head down to mouth at your exposed neck, taking advantage of the way that your head is still tilted back. And he reaches down to grip at one of your thighs, notching it up higher around his waist and it somehow makes you feel all that closer. Eliminating just a few centimeters worth of space between the two of you but it's enough to have you gasping.
"Farleigh," you cry. And you reach one of your hands up to clasp his upper arm, feeling the muscles underneath flex with each shift from his hips. He grinds into you with each thrust, rolling his hips in a way that has his pelvis grinding over your clit and liquefying your brain into useless mush. It almost feels like too much. It's lighting you on fire and scorching you from the inside out. And the sweet kisses that he's peppering across your skin doesn't help your case. It just helps to make you feel even more adrift, lost in a seizing current and frothing waves.
You can distantly feel him tenderly nuzzle his nose between the valley of your breast, and the sensation of his tongue trailing across your chest quickly follows, tasting the salt of your skin. And the head of his cock brushes against that spot within you that makes you squirm and sob, and you can tell that the way that you've begun to helplessly jerk underneath him is just the reaction that he was searching for, judging by the feel of his smirk against your body. That he's absolutely reveling in the way that tears have begun to prickle at the corners of your eyes from the pleasure ravaging your body; threatening to spill.
And as cocky as he may be, you can tell that he's not doing much better. The shameless way that he's moaning out gives away as much; airy and debauched.
God, he sounds so hot, it has that fluid warmth steadily rising up again, just threatening to tip over you and sweep you away. It has you fucking yourself against him with ardor, whimpering at the persistent cant of his hips. And you keep tightening yourself around the shape of his length, determined to drag him down with you, to feel him come undone and spill over.
You can tell that he's getting close with the way that his breath his hitching. That you're both hanging off the precipice of something extraordinary and debilitating and it makes you cling to him harder, swinging your other leg around his waist to hold him closer, to try and ground yourself. But the air in your lungs keeps getting choked out, and you're barely able to get your warning out from your lungs. "Farleigh, " you moan, gasping. " I'm gonna cum. Farleigh - "
He just nods against your chest, huffing and panting over your skin. "I know, baby, I can feel it."
One of your hands blindly searches around, scrambling for his own that he has somewhere above your head. And he seems to take notice of your unseeing pursuit because soon his fingers are slipping between your own and clenching your palm in a soothing, reaffirming gesture. It has pure devotion blooming within your chest, so strong that it feels as though you might fall apart and burn alight with it.
He lifts his head from its place on your chest, subtly shifting forward without disrupting the pace that he's set so that he could settle his forehead against yours, using the angle to look into your eyes. And the warmth reflecting in them makes you feel like the only being in the world. Coveted and adored and you can only hope that he's able to recognize the same reverence and affection in your own gaze. That he truly understands how much you actually care and want for him.
And the sheer breadth of your feelings, of his, of this moment has that all-consuming chasm opening up underneath you and threatening to swallow you whole. But you just need something. Just something small to finally tip you over.
"Farleigh, " you beg. And it's like he can just sense it. Or maybe he can just feel it in the way that your muscles have all coiled up and tensed in anticipation. Because you don't even have to ask or clarify before he's reaching down between your bodies and swiping his fingers over the slick, swollen bud of your clit in brushes that have your jaw dropping open.
"Farleigh!" This time you all but scream it as your body seizes almost violently, sweeping you underneath a blazing torrent. It's like being scalded by the sun in an exquisite burn, like breathing after drowning. It's pure pleasure. Complete ecstasy. And the entire time, you're fully aware of feel of Farleigh's body against your own. The way that his thrusts have gone choppy and lurching. You can still hear the way that he's moaning and whimpering even though it sounds muffled and distant and miles away while your brain goes blissfully blank from the brunt of all molten elation pouring throughout your limbs, making you go limp.
But even throughout all of the overwhelming pleasure taking over you, you hardly allow your eyes to flutter closed; desperate to see him come undone. You can tell that he's close. Just seconds from spilling over and getting swept up just as you had. And it has you squeezing yourself around him, desperate to urge him closer to his orgasm, despite the raw, sensitivity clinging to your nerves.
"I want you to cum, " you say breathlessly. His face twists up in response, and his hips twitch with just a bit more vigor. "Please, baby, I want to feel it. I need to feel you."
And that seems to be enough to tip him over the edge, because his body goes rigid, nearly curling in on itself while a torn, frayed moan rips from his lungs and the heat of his cum fills you. His breath catches while he uses you to ride out the rest of his orgasm, and his muscles shudder while he grinds into you with weak, uncoordinated thrusts before he goes lax with a strained gasp.
He lets himself go boneless on top of you, sinking into your body with a light, satisfied sigh. But the weight of him isn't uncomfortable. It feels good, and you have no desire to make him or yourself shift while you soak in the afterglow. Everything is hazy and comforting, and it feels as though all of the energy has been sapped from your body, but in the best way.
You can hear the birds outside again, singing and jovial, and the scent of the sweet summer air is still drifting through the window. It's pure peace, with the feel of his form up against you. All of the chemicals moving around in your brain make it difficult to focus, but even then, you're aware enough to notice him briefly reaching down to gather up the comforter, which had shifted in the mad scramble of your bodies to pull it up over the both of you.
And you can hear yourself moan quietly when he rotates you both without pulling himself out from the heat of your body. So now that you're the one tucked into the cradle of his chest, but all you get is a gentle hush in response. And with the heat radiating from his skin and the cushion of the blankets cocooned around you both it already has you slipping into the hold of sleep as you both settle. But even with the lull of unconsciousness threatening to spill over you, you can't hide from the volume of the emotions welling up within you. It all feels unexplainable. All-encompassing and bright. Like it might burst. Like it might eat you alive. But not violently. It's soft and delicate and fiery, and the sheer gravity of it has you struggling to grapple with it.
You know what it is. What you're feeling. But that's another step to take entirely.
"We've still got some time to catch up on some sleep, " you hear him mumble above you in a gentle rasp. "I'll wake you up."
You just hum in response, but not without placing a small peck onto his chest and nuzzling against him, purely content. And you think that you feel him place a kiss onto the crown of your head in turn and you're unable to fight the smile that curves at your lips.
You fall asleep in his arms with that single, world altering word on the tip of your tongue. A small, otherwise harmless but no doubt powerful word that sounds a lot like love.
#farleigh start x reader#farleigh x reader#farleigh start smut#farleigh saltburn#farleigh start#farleigh catton#saltburn fanfiction#saltburn x reader#saltburn movie#saltburn
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“Don’t cry.”
Eddie Munson x female reader
summary: a spa session with your new boyfriend turns out to be both of your breaking points.
requested by anonymous! i hope you like it and that I did it justice! i kind of took it and ran. i made it much more deep than i initially planned, so i hope you like it!
warnings: talk of sexual abuse and rape, with both eddie and reader, angst and tears, language, mentions of drug dealing and absent parents. reader is struggling to connect with eddie and he doesn’t know why, kinda leaves in a cliffhanger??
Sometimes Eddie wondered if you liked him, because half the time it didn’t seem like you did. You’d become stand-offish, quiet, shrink in on yourself. His “Are you okay?” was always met with an “I’m fine.” and nothing more. It always seemed like you were protecting yourself. Not just from him, but from everyone. You loved his friends, but sometimes they scared you. You never knew who to trust. Would one of them hurt you, given the chance?
One thing was for sure though, you loved Wayne. He was like the father you never had growing up. From the way he talked, looked, his personality, it reminded you of a father. Eddie was extremely lucky to grow up with him while he did.
Eddie wasn’t stupid, however, he knew some of your behavior had to do with your upbringing. You’d shared some of it with him before, time and time again, here and there. You’d grown up pretty similarly to him. Dead beat parents that abused you, surrounded by their friends who eyed you like a piece of meat for them to chew on. When you grow up like that, you’re bound to be a little messed up. Eddie understood that. He was the same way.
But with you, it was different. He didn’t want you to feel that way around him. The relationship hadn’t been going on for that long and was still fairly fresh, but he wanted you to trust him. And even dating might have been a stretch, you were just very good friends who weren’t very good friends with anyone else.
You liked Eddie, maybe even loved him, but there was no lying when it came to the fact you were struggling to connect with him. Could you really trust him? Was he just like the men from your childhood? Would he fuck you and ultimately leave once he got his full satisfaction? You’d cried yourself to sleep many of times during the night at the thought.
Sometimes you didn’t feel safe. Not with him, not with his friends. You only ever felt truly safe with Wayne. You didn’t know why. You hated the way you felt. Eddie was a good man. He was good to you. He had yet to do anything that proved otherwise. But the dark corners of your mind lingered closer and closer to the edge, reminding you of what once was your reality on the daily. You hoped this time it was different.
“I like this color on you.” Eddie’s tongue was stuck out in concentration, one hand holding your foot, the other holding the brush of the pink nail polish bottle. “It’s cute.”
“Pink?” You smirked. “You like pink?”
“On you.” His lashes fluttered up to you briefly.
The gesture was cute, but anytime he did something sweet like this you couldn’t help but think if he was luring you into a trap. Your stomach was littered with jitters and nerves. Day by day your anxiety was staring to become more out of control. You thought about ending things with him. It wasn’t fair to him to not give the relationship your all, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You’d miss him dearly.
“Well, thanks.” You smiled softly. “I don’t like painting them by myself. The angle is too hard.”
He muttered a Mhm with his tongue out, blowing on your little toe so the pain would dry. “I used to paint my nails black when I was a teenager.” He said.
“Really?” You said amusedly. “Why’d you stop?”
“Got out of the habit, I guess.” He dipped the brush back in the bottle. “Plus, not that I cared, but kids at school were givin’ me shit about it.”
You knew Eddie had the same childhood you did, in some sense anyways. Eddie wouldn’t talk about it much, especially never about his mother. But his dad was something you knew struck a nerve. You should share your traumas together, that’s what you always told yourself. You knew you both could relate to one another, but the relationship was still too fresh. Maybe neither was ready for that.
“Want me to do your fingers?” Eddie asked, blowing on your last toe as he finished up his fine work. “I gotta say, babe, I did pretty good.”
You flexed your freshly painted toes and grinned at his work. “You did! Thank you.”
He put the bottle on the table and plopped down beside you on the couch, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “So what now? What’s next on the spa list?” He smirked and you did the same, laughing breathily.
“I won’t make you succumb to all my girly stuff.” You laughed. “Anything I can do for you? Your hair looks like it needs brushed a little.”
“What?” He gave you an incredulous look. “I keep my hair very much maintained, thank you.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t, Eddie.” You rolled your eyes. “All I said was it needed brushed a little.”
You hopped up and got your plastic hairbrush from the bathroom, pointing at him with it when you returned. “Your turn to be pampered. Sit on the floor.”
He shook his head amusedly and sat down where you had, your legs falling at the sides of his shoulders as you gently began combing out his curls. He didn’t mean to, but he sighed in content.
“Feel good?” You gave a shit eating grin.
“You’re a-lot gentler than Wayne used to be.” He relaxed under your touch. “He always pulled at my hair and got it more ratted up than it already was. This feels good.”
You smiled at the mention of Wayne. “Well, I’ve got a woman’s touch, honey.”
“Yes, you do.”
It was quiet and peaceful for a while as you brushed his hair, the both of you content in the silence. When he touched your ankle, caressing it, your heart began to pound. You hadn’t had sex with him yet. You were too scared to. You knew it was time, it had been almost two months and you knew Eddie had long since been ready to sleep with you.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. You did. You fantasized about him just as much as he did you, but you were terrified of him leaving once you finally crossed that line. Out of instinct, you brought your legs up to you, sitting criss-cross like he was.
You heard him sigh and your stomach ached with guilt. You should give him what he wants.
“I’m sorry.” You say guiltily.
“You never let me touch you.” Eddie said flatly, staring at the ground as you continued to brush his hair. “And you won’t tell me why.”
Your eyes teared up and you stopped brushing, bringing it down to your lap. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all you say.” He shook his head. “You don’t need to be sorry. You just need to tell me why I scare you so bad.”
“You don’t.” You denied, trying your hardest to convince him. When he said things like this, you felt foolish for thinking the way that you did. “It’s just- it’s- it’s just me.”
Eddie turned around, looking up at you to find you with tears in your face. “If it wasn’t true you wouldn’t be crying. Don’t I deserve the truth, Y/n? Have I don’t anything at all to make you scared of me?”
“No.” You sniffled, getting off the couch to go into the kitchen of his trailer. “You haven’t.”
Eddie watched you, becoming more and more anxious by the second. He sat there, waiting for his answer, anything but no. “Do you want to break up?”
“No!” You cried, shaking your head wildly. “No, that’s not what I want.”
“You don’t even like me, Y/n.” He scoffed to himself, closing in, becoming cold and shutting down. Something he hadn’t done in a long time. “You won’t open up to me. I can barely touch you. You look like you’re disgusted to be around me.”
“That’s not true!” You snapped, taking a step toward him. “Stop saying shit like that!”
“Then you say something for a change!” He argued back, not moving from his spot on the floor.
“But it’s so stupid!” You shook your head. “It’s ridiculous!”
He gave you a look. He was waiting and he wouldn’t back out this time. Either that, or he was going to break up with you. The thought made you want to vomit. Maybe you did care more deeply for him than you were letting on.
“We don’t talk about what happened when we were kids,” You sighed through tears, voice breaking. “We’re..both the same, but we don’t talk about it.”
Eddie’s eyes narrowed as you began, wondering after all, if he wanted to hear where you were going with this.
“Mom wasn’t around, so that left dad and his friends.” You stared at him, being as open and honest as you could now. There was no beating around the bush with this. “I…Jesus,” You shook your head, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t know that it wasn’t normal at the time, but they’d…they’d use me.” You took a deep breath after the last word. No stopping now.
“They would play poker, touch me, rape me.” You weren’t crying anymore, talking mostly to yourself now at this point. “And I know you would never do that to me, Eddie, but sometimes I’m so afraid of it happening again and I just shut down.” You closed your eyes. “You touch me and I’m so afraid you’ll abandon me once we sleep together. That’s all anyone has ever done in my life.”
“Fuck me, then leave.” You sniffled. “That’s all they ever do.”
Eddie’s eyes were drooping, slightly narrowed and brows furrowed. He shook his head softly, you almost missed it, and you knew you’d made him at a loss for words.
He looked up to you briefly, licking his lips before he spoke. “There was this one guy my dad would deal for,” He began. “He was a big dude, almost seven foot. I was only thirteen. But dad would bring him into the house and he…would look at me. Just watch me wherever I went.” He stared at his hands, not daring to look at you.
“I think he payed dad.” His voice broke, but he refused to let any tears fall. “Because I screamed and screamed and he wouldn’t come.”
You let out an audibly gasp and covered your mask, your heart falling to the floor with a splat.
“Oh, god, Eddie,” You crawled to the floor and knelt beside him.
“It’s okay.” He stopped your apologies. “I didn’t tell you for you to be sorry for me. I told you because you need to know you’re not alone, and not everyone is out to get you. You’re safe with me. I want you to believe that.”
You let out a wet sob, tears rolling down your red face. “How do I stop being scared? I want to be with you.”
He smiled softly, a finger swiping at a tear. “We have all the time in the world for that, angel.”
You grabbed his arm and laid your head against his shoulder, sobbing like a broken child.
“Oh, baby,” He kissed your forehead. “Don’t cry.”
It would be a long road to recovery, but you could both do it together. Slowly, every day you would both open up to each other about what you went through, and day by day, it would get easier.
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson angst#requests#stranger things#stranger things season four#joseph quinn#eddie munson imagines#eddie munson headcanons#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson blurb
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wingman - l.n
Warnings: funny funny haha I’m deunk
Pairing: Lando Norris x piastri!fem!reader
Summary: Oscar helps Y/N hook up with someone after she’s been single for ages
A/N - I see a lot of fics about like Oscar/Lando being, like, ‘I don’t want you to date him’ but this is kinda around my brother, he’d get protective but he’d, like, support me ig? Just an idea lmao
“Hi Oscar,” you said, jumping from one foot to the other as he raised an eyebrow. “Who’d you kill?” he said sarcastically as you scoffed. “No one! You’re always so mean,” you crossed your arms. “Sorry, force of habit, what’s up?” he asked, still scrolling through his phone. “Need to tell you something,” you muttered. “Ah, so you did kill someone?” he said, stifling a laugh. “Sorry, sorry, couldn’t help myself!” your brother snorted as he saw your face. “I, uh, I may like someone?” you said, cheeks flushed red as Oscar hummed.
“Oh yeah? Do I know him?” he asked, putting his phone down. “You could say that, yeah,” you shrugged, sitting down on the edge of the massage board as he looked up from his be. “How long?” he asked, the usual questions he asked when you liked someone new. “Like, I dunno, a few weeks,” you replied, you didn’t measure how long your crush spanned. “Who is it?” he opened his phone, ready to check if he had them in his contacts. “I…uh, Lando,” you said quietly, voice high with unease as he dropped his phone. “Lando?!” he hissed, knowing that the other driver was in the room besides his.
You nodded, confirming his hearing wasn’t malformed as his eyes widened. “Like, that Lando?” he gestured vaguely at the wall, as you gave the same confirmation. “Damn,” he acknowledged slowly, “this is gonna take a special type of brother wing-manning,”. You could always rely on your brother to help you out with anything, even if it was getting with his teammate. You and Lando had a pretty strong relationship - you had each other’s numbers, you spoke every time you saw each other, you hung out with each other in your free time, you had hour long calls almost every night. Now you just needed to build on it.
“Hi Lando,” Oscar said pointedly, walking towards the Brit as he looked up grinning at Oscar. “Me and some of the drivers are planning on getting lunch at this little place near the pier,” your brother said coolly, “you interested?”. Lando nodded, more than happy to go, but little did he know, the driver’s had a plan for the pair of you. George had asked you the same question and you’d all arranged to go to a restaurant on ghetto 16th floor of skyscraper hotel. Oscar’d plan was simple. Time each of your entrances to the elevator perfectly and then do a little snippy snippy on the wire. Easy.
“Hey Y/N,” a voice said behind you as you waited for the elevator, nervously adjusting your short, black dress. “Lando, hi,” you stepped into the open empty box as Lando followed. “You going for the dinner?” you asked, trying to prompt conversation. “Yes, I’m -fuck!” Lando gasped, the lights of the elevator immediately flickering as the box shook violently.
“Lando!” you shrieked, almost like a normal reaction, your body fall into his as the box tilted to one side suddenly. “Hey, you alright?” he asked, struggling to find his phone. “Y-yeah, it’s dark,” you gulped, your hands scrunching into his shirt as held your body close to his. “You good?” he said, eyes roving your face for any signs of fright. “Yeah, just shocked,” you said, “Lando, I don’t like the dark,”.
“My phones dead,” he groaned, you’d forgotten yours. “Lando,” you shook his hand lightly as he pulled you closer. “Cold?” he asked, feeling your shivering body against him. “Yeah,” you hummed, hands on his as you struggled for balance. You heard him shuffle, sliding down so he was sitting, before taking your body into his. “Sit,” he said, as you rested your head onto his shoulder.
A/N - idk how to end it.
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THE MIDDLE BEDROOM
PAIRING: established Billy/Reader relationship, bff!Eddie is a Peeping Tom
TAGS and C/W’s: this is basically just smut (which means 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI), pining undertones, oral (f!receiving), Billy's filthy mouth, SPIT, Eddie's a pervert but Billy's kinda setting him up so really Eddie is just advantageous, m!masturbation, unprotected PiV
WORD COUNT: 3.4k+
A/N: hi, my friends!!! this is a rewrite/repost and has been edited for a (hopefully) smoother, more enjoyable read. basically, i’m trying to revamp everything i’ve published in hopes that an inspiration bug crawls deep, deep inside me and just fucking explodes, leaving only creativity and motivation to replace all of my blood and oxygen. it’s almost 2024, who needs to bleed and breathe anyway??? please remember that likes are greatly appreciated, but comments and reblogs are what make the writer’s world go round. :-) <33
—
It happened at Rick Lipton's annual Halloween party. '86, baby.
There were many nameless faces wandering about the bungalow, all in varying states of sobriety. Eddie only recognized a handful of people, one of them being Billy Hargrove... and the other being you, Eddie's best friend, but also Hargrove's drop-dead, knock-the-fuck-out gorgeous girlfriend.
Eddie had overheard someone guess that you were dressed as a witch. Someone else guessed that you were dressed as Stevie Nicks. With a shrug, you'd answered, "Those are the same thing," like it was the most obvious certainty in the entire world.
You were in a sheer black off-the-shoulder maxi dress, the form-fitting fabric tight in all the right places. There was a long, gracious slit down the side that ran from hip to foot. When you moved in a certain way, Eddie could see that you were wearing black suede thigh-high boots, a little kitten heel clicking against the hardwood floors as you walked.
Right up to him.
"Hi, Eddie," you'd greeted with a smile, eyes wide and welcoming. You swirled the train of your dress a bit, swaying along to some Joni Mitchell song playing in the background. "Happy Halloween."
Eddie didn't get the chance to answer, though he was sure he'd have ended up stumbling over his words anyway, because you just looked so pretty tonight. He was only able to return the smile before Billy appeared beside you.
"Hey, man," Hargrove prompted, Eddie watching as the honey blonde rested lucky fingers on the small of your back. The other palm extended to clap Eddie on the shoulder a few times. "You bring it?"
"Yeah, it's just... uh..." Eddie dug his hand around in the front pockets of his jeans, then in the back pockets of his jeans, then eventually found what he was looking for in the pocket of his denim jacket, bypassing a broken button to reach for the little baggie in question.
As he was about to pull it out, Billy’s hand gripped his forearm, halting him. "Not here," Hargrove instructed. He stepped an inch closer to Eddie, voice lowering to just above a whisper. Eddie had to dip his head forward to try and hear the blonde over the music and commotion around them. "Come upstairs. Like fifteen minutes. Middle bedroom." At Eddie's confused expression (they were at a Halloween party thrown by Hawkins' most profitable drug dealer, for fuck's sake -- who the hell would care about a little coke?), Billy fashioned him a grin, stepping back. "Don't need everybody knowing my business and shit, ya know?"
Eddie guessed that was a decent enough explanation, so he shrugged the absurdity off. He'd always thought Billy was a little weird, anyway. And coming from Eddie Munson, the biggest fucking weirdo of all, that characterization spoke volumes.
After that, you and Billy disappeared. Eddie had followed the tail-end of your dress until you were lost in a sea of strangers, then decided to try and push the rest of the weed he had onto other partygoers, wanting to leave tonight with his current debt to Rick paid and his lunch box full of fresh goodies for the new month ahead.
It was exactly fifteen minutes later that Eddie began his ascent of the stairs to Rick's second floor. He weaved in and out of groping couples, stepped over sleeping Lettermen, and gave a tight-lipped smile to a group of girls that stumbled out of the bathroom and slammed right into him. He stepped to the side, giving them the right of way, before crossing the hallway to his destination: the middle bedroom.
The door was shut, so Eddie knocked. Waited a few seconds, then knocked again.
Still with no answer, he took a large step back, surveying the other doors around him to verify he hadn't gotten turned around and was in fact standing in front of the right room, which he was.
Eddie huffed a sigh. He glanced around the hallway again, checking to see if maybe Hargrove was just running late, but there was no blonde mullet in sight.
Figuring Billy must have been inside and was just... busy or something (actively ignoring him? suddenly gone deaf?), Eddie brought his hand to the knob to twist it and enter.
The room was mostly dark. Not exactly pitch black, thanks to a streetlight seen through the big bay window, but still dark enough that Eddie needed to blink rapidly several times to adjust his eyes to the new lighting.
His immediate thought was that Billy must have either forgotten to meet him up here or had ditched the party entirely and left the dealer packing with a now homeless dimebag of blow.
Off to the right, however, was a thick slab of pale-yellow light emanating from a partially closed door. It was the bathroom, which Eddie knew from sleeping in this very bedroom more than a handful of times since first meeting Rick Lipton a few years back.
And that’s when Eddie started to hear it.
Or, as he would soon come to find out, hear you.
He had at first mistaken the quick, soft breaths of air for sounds of pain or distress, which was why he'd begun inching towards the bathroom in the first place.
But now, standing in the shadow of the ajar door, he was able to peek inside. At the sight before him, Eddie felt his eyes widen, and a prickling warmth started to spread throughout his body.
Those were definitely not sounds of pain or distress.
Billy sat kneeled in front of where you were currently spread out on the bathroom counter. Your knees were hiked up towards your chest, your dress laying in a heap on the ground, and you were left only in a bright red bra. And those goddamn suede thigh-highs.
He should have walked away right then, he knew that. He was going to, really, but then you arched your back, your head falling lax behind you, and the fucking obscene moan you let out had Eddie biting down so hard on his bottom lip that he tasted blood.
How was he supposed to leave now?
He couldn't help himself.
You were just... you.
Thoughtful, generous, creative. You went out of your way to ensure no one ever felt judged or left out; you were known to drop everything without debate in order to help anyone who really needed it; you let him host Hellfire in your basement when the club needed a new location in a pinch, and even helped him plot twists in his campaigns.
Truly, Eddie had a very hard time seeing what you saw in that prick Billy Hargrove, but that was something to ponder at a later point. Because right now, Eddie was getting to see you in a position he'd only ever dreamed of seeing you in.
When would he ever get this chance again?
Eddie refused to think too deeply into this, deciding to pretend he didn't have a moral compass for a bit. It was probably bad. Likely even made him a pervert, but he'd been called much worse, so he figured he'd just add this one to the list now, too.
He wasn't exactly sure how he was going to be able to face either one of you again, but his feet just weren't working when his brain tried to tell them to move, and now his cock was starting to fill out the confines of his jeans in a way that had him seeking the relief of the doorframe, his hips acting of their own accord, finding a slow, rocking rhythm.
Billy had his palms splayed out on either side of your inner thighs, holding your legs open. Eddie quickly grew irritated that he couldn't see exactly what the blonde's tongue was doing. He thought that if he couldn't be the one with his own face buried against you, he wanted to at least have an unobstructed, close-up view.
He wanted to see Hargrove's lips wet with your slick, wanted to watch them wrap around your aching clit and suck until you tried to push him away. If Eddie could, he'd hold your arms down while Billy devoured you, wanting you to feel so much pleasure it was borderline painful.
He was pulled out of his fantasy by the sound of Billy's voice, raspy and teasing. "Love when you give me this sloppy fucking cunt," he said, the words themselves demeaning but his tone singing nothing but praises. Billy lowered his head back down, giving you a few long, loud licks.
Eddie knew he himself could be theatrical, but Billy Hargrove was dramatic in his own ways, and it did certainly seem like the blonde loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Apparently, eating pussy and its associated noises fell under this umbrella of Hargrove Histrionics.
Billy pulled his head back to spit several times on your well-loved cunt. Eddie didn't dare to blink as the other man brought two fingers to spread your lips and spit again, this time with your hardened nub as target. Both him and Billy watched intently as the saliva dripped slowly down your slit, past your empty hole, and leaked off of you entirely to darken an already present wet spot on Hargrove's blue jeans.
And fuck, you loved it.
With each assault of Billy's spit, you let out faint little gasps (fucking cute, Eddie had thought), body jolting at the contact, your eyes fluttering open and shut as the moisture filled in every curve of your core.
"So fucking messy, aren't you?" Billy taunted, his free hand moving to palm at his clothed length. Eddie was relieved to see Hargrove finally begin to touch himself, honestly impressed at the self-control the blonde had to disregard his pleasure and focus solely on yours. "Makes it feel so good when I finally fuck this thick cock inside you," he continued, unzipping his jeans as he stood. "You think this pussy's ready to soak me?"
Eddie felt like his skin was boiling. He wished he could eliminate some layers. Or all layers, preferably.
You were staring earnestly up at your boyfriend, a desperate pout on your face as you nodded in vigor. "Please, Billy," you begged, and Eddie couldn't take it any longer. He needed to fist his cock raw, having had enough of this grinding against the wall bullshit.
At the same time Billy dropped his jeans, Eddie did the same, pulling himself out of his boxer briefs. He muffled a groan of relief by biting down on the knuckles of his free hand, his other wrapping around the girth of his dick and just squeezing. He didn’t want to give in before Billy had gotten inside you.
The blonde sure was taking his sweet fucking time though, only wetting his length by sliding himself repeatedly between your lips. You were whining, and Eddie could tell you were trying to angle your hips in such a way that it would trip Billy up and he would slip inside. Good girl, get that fucking cock, Eddie thought, impatient and eager to cum, but not wanting to do so without first catching a glimpse at what you looked like stuffed and fucked full.
"Hmm, I dunno," Billy provoked, tapping his cock against your cunt with loud slaps. "Feels really good just like this, baby. Maybe I'll use the outside to fuck myself instead, cum all over this pretty little pussy, make an even bigger mess. You want that?"
You and Eddie both shook your heads at the same time.
You gave a grumble of annoyance (more of like a testy whimper, really) and brought a hand up to slap playfully at Billy's chest. "Fuck me, Billy," you demanded, your voice throaty and yearning. You dropped the hand at his chest to circle his cock, wrapping delicate fingers around his own and helping to stroke. "Need it inside."
"Oh, you need it, greedy girl?" It appeared he was going to listen to you, much to yours and Eddie's respite, because he lined himself up against your hole with one hand, the other moving to wrap around the nape of your neck. "I didn't know that. I gotta give my girl what she needs then. Can't have anyone thinking I don't take care of you."
Finally -- finally -- Eddie watched as Billy took one thrust to bury his cock inside you completely, the blonde releasing a loud, lewd moan. Eddie gave his own throbbing, sweat-slick length the same treatment, fucking into his fist from tip to base until he felt his tightening balls press against his twitching fingers.
You looked better stretched open than Eddie could have ever imagined -- a natural flush glowed on your skin, your bottom lip tugged tight between your upper teeth, your brows furrowed deep.
Your eyes rolled back as Billy began to move, a satisfied moan escaping your lips at the pace he was setting. The sound, contented yet desperate, was music to Eddie's ears. He wanted to record it and hear it on loop -- as a wake-up call, an afternoon pick-me-up, a bedtime lullaby.
Your hands moved to rest on either side of the surface of the sink below you, supporting your weight as Billy rocked into you with long, languid thrusts. Eddie tried to match Hargrove's pace with the stroke of his hand, envisioning it was his own cock giving you exactly what you needed.
You must have felt fucking good to be buried deep inside of, because Billy, always with something to say, was awfully quiet now.
He watched the other man's face through the reflection in the mirror, saw as Billy's baby blues fervently took in the sight underneath him, knowing he himself would be donning the same expression if positions were switched. Eddie knew Hargrove was admiring your perfect tits bouncing with the force of each thrust, knew he was lost in the dissipated doe-eyes that stared back up at him like he hung the fucking moon, when in reality he was just feeding your cunt some very well-deserved cock.
When your mouth dropped open unprompted, your pink tongue sticking out as far as it could go, that was the beginning of the end for Eddie. Both men knew exactly what you were asking for. Hargrove smirked approvingly at the sight before him, and he slowed the speed of his hips for better accuracy. He gathered as much saliva in his mouth as he could before leaning over you, parting his lips and letting gravity do its job.
Once your mouth was filled, Billy brought a hand to your jaw, forcing it shut. "Don't swallow," he instructed, his thrusts no longer slow and unhurried, but now posthaste and unrelenting.
Eddie could feel the familiar tingle in his lower abdomen, alerting him that his release was maybe a minute away. He fleetingly realized that he was going to have to very quickly clean his upcoming mess and get the hell out of the room before he was caught, but his attention was reeled back in when he heard a series of deep, breathless grunts.
"Okay, shit... spit it out now, baby," Billy was muttering, speech rushed, his head dipped to stare unwaveringly at where your bodies connected. "Oh fuck, spit on my fucking cock."
Eddie watched as you leaned yourself forward, angling your head down to release the spit you'd been holding in from your mouth, just adding to the noisy wetness between your legs.
And that did it. The visual — someone as soft and sweet as you doing something so filthy — had Eddie's toes curling in on themselves in his gym shoes, his hand pulsating around his cock to mimic a clenching cunt as he fucked himself into it. His release spilled out over his fist, dampening the ground below him and the bathroom doorframe. He saw stars.
Billy had followed Eddie right off the brink, muttering praises and obscenities interchangeably as you both came down from your highs. "Listen so well, dirty fucking girl. Always make me cum so hard, fuck, this pussy's so fucking full of me right now."
The sound of the quiet giggles urged out of you by Billy's tickling kisses on your neck were what brought Eddie back to the present reality. He wasn't back at home watching the hottest fucking porno he'd ever seen -- no, he was actually standing in a dimly lit bedroom, covered in his own cum, having just spied on his best friend while she got railed by her boyfriend.
Shit.
Eddie's moral compass came back with a vengeance. He cringed as he rubbed his sticky fingers on the inside of his band tee to clean them, not wanting anyone to catch a glimpse of crusty white as he made his getaway. He found a towel in a laundry basket and wiped away any remnants of his release from the wall and floor, then tossed it back into the hamper.
Not even able to glance back into the bathroom, his skin now heated from shame and embarrassment rather than arousal, Eddie buttoned up his jeans and hurried out of the room, ready to try and forget that all of that just happened.
About ten minutes later, he was perched against his van about a block from Rick's, where he'd parked. He was smoking a cigarette, having finally began to cool off and calm down. If he tried hard enough, he was sure he could convince himself this was all a really vivid hallucination, and maybe he'd be able to compartmentalize his moment of perversion that way.
He just needed to stay away from the two of you for a little while.
But then, because of course...
"Munson!"
Eddie quietly groaned, taking a deep drag off his cigarette to quell his already rapidly growing nerves from just the sound of the other man's voice alone. He turned to face Billy, plastering what he hoped was an easygoing grin on his face.
"Hey, man," Eddie greeted, his voice surprisingly steady.
Billy held his hands up in a 'What the fuck?' kind of way, brows furrowed. "Thought we had a plan," the blonde replied, stopping just a foot away from the tall metalhead. One side of Hargrove's mouth lifted. He looked predatory. Eddie fought back a hard swallow. "Did you even come upstairs?"
"What..." Eddie's brain went blank at the question. Or was it an accusation? It definitely sounded like one, but Billy didn't seem mad. The blonde was just staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.
"Y'know," Billy continued. "Because I told you to meet me in the middle bedroom? For the coke?" What had started as the slight of a smirk had turned into a full-blown grin on Hargrove's face. "You good, Munson? Lookin' a little spooked.”
To this, Eddie sobered his expression, shaking his head. "No, just like, busy night, that's all," Eddie answered lamely. Maybe Billy really didn't know. Maybe Eddie was just hyper-paranoid about having been caught that he was reading too deeply into this. After all, wouldn't Hargrove have been pissed to find out he'd been spying? Wouldn't he already have Eddie pinned against the van, spewing threats? "Lotsa deals. Kinda forgot about yours, my bad. Here, lemme get it..."
Eddie began digging around in his pockets, having forgotten again where the coke was. He blamed the alarms of anxiety going off in his brain (thoughts like fuck, he probably knows, which means she knows, and now she's gonna fucking hate me plaguing him).
But Billy said, "Don't worry about it, I'm good. Got my energy hit a little bit ago." The blonde then looked like he had remembered something, and began looking in his own pockets, "Shit, actually. Ya know what? I have something for you."
Eddie was sure the look of confusion on his face was readable. This whole night was turning out to be a fucking fever dream. He didn't think anything else could happen to make it any more surreal.
And then Billy was reaching his hand out to give Eddie something, that I-know-something-you-don't smirk present again, and Eddie took it without looking. He just wanted Billy to walk away so he could go crawl into the back of his van and smoke himself stupid to avoid any and all realizations and repercussions.
"See you ‘round," were Billy's parting words and Eddie just nodded dumbly, mute, and watched him go.
Once Hargrove was out of sight, Eddie opened his hand. At first, it just looked like an unassuming wad of fabric, maybe a sock or something, small compared to the size of his palm.
Eddie unraveled it, holding it out in front of him, and then very quickly tossed it inside his open passenger window, eyes darting around to make sure no one had seen what Billy Hargrove had just given him —
The matching pair of panties to your bright red bra.
#billy x reader#billy hargrove x reader#eddie x reader#eddie munson x reader#mungrove x reader#billy hargrove smut#eddie munson smut
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