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justafandomgvrl · 3 days

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oh, my dreams

(part 1: it’s never quite as it seems)

summary: Your name’s put you in some strange situations before, but this one might win the prize.

pairings: Steven Grant x fem-presenting!Reader**

rating: general audiences

warnings: strangers to…?, administrative fuckups, descriptions of anxiety/anxiety attacks. **I wrote this with a masculine-named AFAB reader in mind, for reasons I’ll explain below, but it could also be read as a transfem reader being deadnamed, so please read with caution if that’s a sensitive issue for you.

word count: 2650

author’s note: Written for the Moon Knight Spring Bingo @moonknight-events — this is entry #5 for “One Bed.” And thanks to @silvernight-m for the encouragement to finish this. 😘

Happy reading! ❤️

dividers by @firefly-graphics

You tap your keycard against the lock, half your mind on the lecture you’d just attended and the other half laser-focused on turning your brain off and some trash TV on. It’s the best way you’ve found to decompress, after a day of the sheer chaotic overwhelm that is more usually known as the academic conference.

Opening the door, you vaguely register someone else’s presence; it’s always irritating, the university’s insistence on saving money by forcing the grad students to share hotel rooms, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Dues must be paid, and someday, you’ll have tenure and you’ll never have to share a room again. But when you emerge from that pleasant daydream, you realize that something’s gone very wrong.

There’s a man in your room, lounging on the bed, tilting his head at you. “Hello,” he says, rather tentatively. “I — I think you might have got the wrong room.”

“Oh God — “ You fumble for the tiny envelope your keycard had come in, and can’t find it. “I’m so sorry — you must be right, let me just… but I swear it said 303, it’s got to be here somewhere…” After what feels like a year, you manage to unearth it, and it’s right there in black and white. You glance back to the still-open door, and those numbers haven’t changed either. Belatedly, it dawns on you: it’s happened again.

“Oh, shit,” you wail, dropping your bag on the floor. “Shit shit shit.”

“Are you all right?” He gets up and pads over to you, peering curiously at your stricken face. He’s British, clearly, from the accent; tousle-haired and dark-eyed and cute in the gentle, nerdy sort of way you like. Far too cute to be tainted by the swirling vortex of bullshit that always seems to follow you around.

“Fuck.” You scrub at your forehead, trying to ease the sudden headache that’s developed, and laugh bitterly. “It’s not personal, I promise — I don’t even know you…”

“Well, I’m Steven. With a V. Steven Grant.” He smiles at you, radiating a careful sort of friendliness, as though you’re a stray dog of uncertain temperament. “So now you know me a little bit, yeah? D’you want to come in and see if we can sort this out?”

You’re too flustered to object, and you step into the room and flop down into the desk chair, because your legs don’t seem to want to hold you up anymore. “Okay. It’s okay,” you repeat softly, trying to calm yourself. “He seems nice. He’s probably not a serial killer...”

“I’m definitely not a serial killer, if that helps.” His eyes are kind, concerned, and you feel oddly safe with him, despite your embarrassment at realizing you’d just said that out loud. “I’m just Steven, perpetually exhausted student. So what’s happened here? Is it something I can help with?”

“It’s my stupid name,” you growl. It happens all the time, no matter what you do to prevent it, and every time it does, it feels like sandpaper on your skin. You’ve put your pronouns in your email signature, you’ve written Ms. before your name, and none of it ever matters because people don’t fucking read. “They see it on the registration forms and just assume I’m a guy, and then something like this always goes wrong.”

“They did tell me I’d have a roommate,” he thinks out loud. “I saw your name on the list and I thought you were this bloke I know from my college, so I didn’t think anything of it…” He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, facing you, and that’s when it hits you.

The bed.

The single, solitary, admittedly large and very comfortable looking, but still only, bed.

“There’s only one bed,” you sigh. “Of fucking course there’s only one bed.” Tipping your head back, you study the ceiling as though it has an answer for you.

“Well, that’s it then,” Steven says. “We’ll have to talk to the organizers — I’m absolutely sure it wouldn’t be a problem for them to move one of us to another room. I’ll go with you and talk with them, if you like.”

“I can’t,” you interrupt. You feel it rising, that itchy, frantic, skin-too-tight feeling, the certain knowledge that when one more thing goes wrong you won’t be able to hold the screaming in. You’re frantically trying to gather up the cracking pieces of your carefully constructed shell, and the tigers in the tall grass will be upon you before you know it. “I can’t, because then I have to admit they’ve put me in the wrong room, and they’ll have to shuffle everyone around and it’ll make a big fuss and I’ll have Pain In The Ass stamped on my forehead when I go to network and I’ll never find a PhD advisor and — “

I don’t need you anymore, you’ve tried to tell it so many times. There aren’t any tigers here — you don’t need to protect me like this. But it doesn’t work that way, and you know it. It’s a bit like a wild animal itself, the anxiety, the way you’ve tried your best to tame it with meds and therapy and other, less doctor-sanctioned remedies, and sometimes it feels like you’re finally learning how to be friends.

And then it turns on you again, vicious claws and teeth sinking deep, and you remember you haven’t learned anything at all.

“I just can’t,” you whisper.

Steven’s hand lands on your shoulder, and you flinch; you hadn’t noticed him getting up to approach you again. “Breathe, love,” he says gently. “Just — take a minute, yeah?” You try, but your brain and heart and lungs don’t want to get with the program, and he sees the panic in every line of you. He half-sits down on the table, never taking his hand off your shoulder, and the other hand finds yours and curls around it comfortingly. “The only good thing about having anxiety attacks,” he says quietly, “is that you know what to do when someone else is having one.”

He breathes, deep and slow, leading by example, and gradually your heart settles into a slower rhythm as though his own is pacing it. His hands are big, and warm, and they ground you, bringing you back to yourself. Tigers in the area, the anxiety whispers, fading, but not here, not right now.

“The way I see it, we’ve got two options,” he says softly, letting go of you and ticking them off on his fingers. “Option one, we go and talk to the organizers and let them sort things out.” You shake your head quickly; he must see the panic rising again, because he switches tracks immediately. “Option two, we, er — don’t do that, and just leave things as they are.”

Your eyes fly wide. You’d been half-ready to just leave, throw your opportunities away and run back to the airport with your tail between your legs, but... “You mean…”

“This isn’t some kind of a — a come-on, or anything!” he assures you quickly, brows furrowed. “I don’t want to be the conference creeper, you know? But it is rather late, and if you’re really sure you don’t want to talk to anyone about it, I don’t mind at all if you stay.”

“Even though there’s only one bed? Doesn’t that bother you?”

He shrugs. “It’s only two nights — I think we can manage to be grown-ups about it for that long, yeah?”

The faceless Many, the Here Be Dragons on the map, versus the gentle sweet-faced One, familiar only by a technicality: it’s an easy choice, after all. It’s probably not your smartest, and even as you make it, your rational brain is pressing you to reconsider. But the anxiety, for once, is silent.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

You stay, and it’s — well, it’s nice. He’s nice.

He’s nothing but cheerful all evening, going out of his way to help you feel more comfortable with him and with this whole clusterfuck of a situation. And he’s funny, with a sassy wit that offers a glimpse of the brain below the messy curls. (You have a momentary thought of gratitude for the opportunity to see Steven Grant with bedhead tomorrow morning. It’s going to be epic.)

“I’m at Cambridge,” he tells you at one point. “About halfway through my PhD in Egyptology. On the linguistics end, mainly, not digging up tombs and things. But I have been on a dig or two.”

“Wow, Ancient Egypt. That’s like — the gateway drug. The thing that makes kids want to be archaeologists in the first place, and here you are doing it.” You smile at him, and he flushes.

“I suppose you’re right — always had a thing about it, as long as I can remember. Probably watched too many old movies as a kid.” He grins back at you, and it’s endearing as hell, warm and a little shy but somehow cheeky, too. “How about you? What’s your field?”

“I’m on the tech side. Mapping, satellite photography, ground-penetrating radar, all the fancy-ass things that tell you folks where to dig.”

“Oh, that’s fascinating!” he exclaims. “I could never — I’m hopeless with technology. Utter disaster.”

“Most of you are,” you retort before you can think better of it. “That’s why you have us.”

He laughs for the first time, and you immediately want to make him do it again. “That’s why we have you,” he acknowledges with a tilt of his head.

You’ve always been prone to crushes. They tend to creep up on you, more subtle than the anxiety, but no less consuming. The first tendrils always wind delicately around your ankles, and by the time you’ve registered their presence you’re already bound up to the knees. No no no no no, you tell yourself, you cannot do this right now. This is Not Allowed. This whole thing is more than weird enough already, without bringing his kindness and his intelligence and his big brown eyes into it.

Oh, no.

It’s already too late, isn’t it? the anxiety taunts.

Sure fuckin’ is, the crush responds.

You shove it down, ruthlessly, burying it as deep as you can. You keep it light, trading fieldwork tales, always the preferred currency at these things but more important than ever now. I’m for real, they say, trustworthy and honest and normal about things. I’m safe to talk to.

Steven ventures out for snacks to give you a chance to get ready for bed in privacy (god, how is he so nice), and when he comes back he nibbles on dark chocolate while he regales you with stories of Egypt. “Most people don’t know this,” he says, “but Cairo’s literally right up next to the pyramids. There’s a bloody Pizza Hut across the street.”

You stare, skeptical. “No. No way. That can’t be true.”

“Have a look at your maps,” he insists, pointing at you with the chocolate bar. “It’s absolutely true. Fastest way to spot the Egyptologist in the room is to show ‘em a movie where someone visits the pyramids and gets ‘lost in the desert.’”

You trade a few more stories, and then you can’t put it off any longer; your commitments tomorrow make a reasonable bedtime imperative. When there’s a lull in the conversation, you stand up and stretch. “I’m just gonna — “ you say awkwardly, gesturing toward the bathroom, and disappear to brush your teeth again (since he’d given you half the chocolate).

When you come out again, he’s rummaging for his own toothbrush, which means you have at least two minutes alone to decide how you want to navigate the inherent absurdity of getting into bed with a stranger. Don’t make it weird, the anxiety cautions. “By the way, do you have any, uh — bad habits I should know about?”

He looks up, startled. “Pardon?”

“I mean, like — do you hog the covers? Or snore?” You shrug as though it’s a perfectly normal question to ask someone you met a couple hours ago, and try to ignore the heat rising in your face.

“My, er, brothers — Marc and Jake — they say I talk in my sleep, sometimes. So I’m sorry in advance if I say anything bonkers.” Steven laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Still don’t know if I really do, or if they’re just having me on.”

“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,” I promise. “And if — if I can’t sleep, I’ll try not to keep you up.”

He smiles at that. “Likewise.”

And once he’s brushed his teeth, there’s really no putting it off any longer, and it doesn’t end up being as weird as you’d thought. Just two people climbing into opposite sides of a bed and settling down for the night, nothing weird about that at all. It feels rude to turn your back, somehow, so you curl on your side, facing him, and he clicks off the light and does the same.

You’ve tried to talk yourself out of it, but the apology spills out anyway. “I’m sorry — this is probably the last thing you needed tonight…” Your voice is small in the quiet room. “But — but thank you. For helping me.”

“No, no, it’s no trouble at all! This is good!” Steven protests. “I mean, not that you’ve got anxiety, but this — whole thing.” He waves his hand in a vague circle around the room. “It’s a good distraction. Means I’m not getting in my own head about my lecture tomorrow.”

Okay. That makes a certain amount of sense, and you begin to feel slightly better. “Do these conferences bother you too?”

He pauses for a moment. “Maybe… not quite in the same way as you? I don’t mind talking to people one-on-one and that, but presenting to a crowd always gives me a few fits, beforehand.”

“Do you — “ You swallow hard before continuing; it’s going to sound silly, maybe, but he’s looking at you so gently and like he understands, and you blurt it out. “Do you want to know a trick I have? It might help, if you want it…”

“Yeah?” He’s waiting as calmly as if you’re having this discussion over coffee, in broad daylight, not inches from each other in bed in a darkened hotel room, and it emboldens you.

“If I’m nervous about meeting someone, or — or giving a talk, or whatever, sometimes it helps me to, um — get there first.”

“Get there first,” he repeats, considering.

“Yeah. Get there first. Then it’s like — they’re coming into your territory, and you’re in charge.”

“That’s quite clever, actually.” He begins to smile, a broad grin creeping up like sunrise, and nods happily. “‘Get there first.’ I’ll remember that.”

A tiny glow of satisfaction burns in your chest, and you lie in silence together for a time. It’s a comfortable one, strangely intimate; you could talk, if you wanted, but for once you don’t feel like you need to. It’s enough just to be here, next to him, somehow knowing it’s enough for him, too.

It’s just — nice.

And then he stretches and turns, and for half a second your brain shorts out. “G’night,” he says, his voice already blurred with sleep. “Sweet dreams.” And he’s out like a light before you can even return the wish.

Even as your eyelids grow heavy, you’re convinced you’ll never sleep; how could you, when you’re literally in bed with a complete stranger, kind as he is? But the soft rise and fall of his breath is better than your white-noise machine, and the last thing you remember seeing before drifting off is his strong profile, silhouetted by the moonlight seeping through the space where the curtains don’t quite meet.

If you dream, you don’t remember it.

But it’s the first time you’ve ever been to one of these things and slept through the night.

part 2 coming soon…

@juneknight @spacecowboyhotch

author’s note, again: I got the idea for this fic from something that did, actually, happen to me as a teenager. Only in my case it was a summer music camp, not a conference, and my mother threw an unholy fit and made them change my room immediately.

(Sorry, Andrew. I guess we’ll never know what could have been.)

If your own name doesn’t match your gender presentation, for whatever reason, please know that I am fist-bumping you in solidarity and I love you.

#so cute

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justafandomgvrl · 4 days

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Bloody seriously what's with you guys and cctv cameras-

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justafandomgvrl · 5 days

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But Steven I love Him

Swiftie! Steven Grant with mini HC (self insert)

•Steven is a hardcore Swiftie and has been listening non stop to TTPD since it dropped out last week

•The day it came out he was eagerly awaiting in the living room refreshing non stop all platforms available until it popped up

•He also immediately got the hoodie and has been wearing it non stop like the cute fanboy he is 🥺

•After Fortnight started playing, Steven not even 20 seconds into the song

•Also….Is that Harrow on the music video almost lobotomising Taylor?!

•He info dumped and theorised on which song was dedicated to which ex man in Taylor’s life, surprisingly he has a vast knowledge on Taylor’s love life (he denies it but has a HUGE crush on her, who is her trying to fool? Me? Nah)

•When he listens to The smallest man who ever lived he starts ranting about how outrageous the song is

“This song is definitely for that muppet Healy”

“HE DID WHAT?”

“Oh my days, what a bloody shame for us brits”

“I need to apologise to her in behalf of all British men”

“Cause we are not like that and you know it luv”

•He’s definitely annoyed towards that certain band member I’m wearing a sweatshirt from

That he totally got pissed also for me buying it when I went to the concert with my friends last month

“Luv what do you mean this was 70 quid?”

“Steven you spend much more money in books and other stuff”

“Yeah but is educational, I don’t spend that much amount of money on an ugly washcloth” *sighs*

“But you spent 8…”

“I’m gonna go online and try to buy you a decent sweater like mine, we don’t want to keep seeing you with that sickening thing”

•I think due to his personal beef TTPD is now definitely his favourite era

•and of course his favourite song is “So Long London”

“Are you kidding me? She wrote that indirectly for me, it’s basically my old life!” (Before I found you 👉🏻👈🏻)

In conclusion

My hyper fixations clashed again and I needed to doodle it cause that’s how my brain works.

I’m a 1975 enjoyer but also I’m a swiftie BITE ME STEVEN, I will keep wearing the sweatshirt to annoy you 💜

Shout out to both my friends Alyssa that screamed the same things to me that steven is pissed about when we listened to the album together

Also in a month I finally get to go to The Eras Tour! yay’

Let me know if you have theories about Steven being a swiftie!

Taking the liberty to tag 🏷️

@winniethewife @marc-spectorr @justafandomgvrl @femmeanonymelives @rams00

#sketch #moonknight fan art #moon knight #steven grant #steven with a v #taylor swift #swifties

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justafandomgvrl · 11 days

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You're never alone, remember? You can do this, Marc.

- Moon Knight (2021) #30 by Jed MacKay

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justafandomgvrl · 12 days

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justafandomgvrl · 14 days

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if you get this, answer w/ three random facts about yourself and send it to the last seven blogs in your notifs. anon or not, doesn’t matter, let’s get to know the person behind the blog !

1. I love Olivia Rodrigo and Taylor Swift

2. I have an Oscar Isaac calendar

3. I have 458 dice for TTRPGs.

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justafandomgvrl · 14 days

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tag game

so i'm a little bored and have decided to make a tag game, i hope you like it!

go to pinterest and search:

colour of your phone background + aesthetic

favourite animal + aesthetic

name + core

movie you rewatched multiple times as a child + aesthetic

favourite time of day + aesthetic

first word of your favourite song + aesthetic

no pressure tags 💖: @solivagantingrebel @syoddeye @cordeliawhohung @valkyri @losersimonriley @nachtaug @cloudyyyday @tawus @honestlyhiswife @theywhowriteandknowthings @the-original-honeybun @going-to-ikea-for-the-fries @deadbranch @fleurafae @lyreinthesky @flowermiist @brewed-pangolin @glossysoap @keegansshark @gemmahale and anyone else who sees this and wants to do it!

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justafandomgvrl · 14 days

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Moon Knight 1.05 | Asylum

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justafandomgvrl · 14 days

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Thanks for the tag !

Last song I listened to: vampire by Olivia Rodrigo

Currently watching: moon knight, the legend of Vox Machina

Sweet/savoury/spicy: savoury

Relationship status: taken, poly

Current obsession: Oscar Isaac, daggerheart, dungeons and dragons, critical role

Last thing I googled: Anne Bonny and Mary Read

Nine People To Tag!

nine people to get to know better

(nobody tagged me in this, i saw it, and thought it would be fun to do)

Last song I listened to: U Got It Bad (by) Usher

currently watching: The Blacklist

sweet/savoury/spicy: Sweet

Relationship status: Engaged!

Current obsession: Currently? Uhhh, The Sims??

last thing I googled: tumblr, ironically

tag nine people to play!

@nekoannie-chan @nana1000night @meganlpie @buckysforeverprincess @nicoline1998enilocin @darkficsyouneveraskedfor @tuiccim @yarrystyleeza @late-to-the-party-81

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justafandomgvrl · 14 days

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Tattoo Artist Pt2

Laurent Leclaire x F!Reader

Around 1000 words

Part one here

Thank you to @winniethewife for some aid with dialogue

You pace in your flat nervously an hour before you’re supposed to meet Laurent. You stop in front of your mirror for the eighteenth time to stare at your outfit. Jeans, band tee, leather jacket, vans. You look at your phone and curse, realising if you don’t leave now you’ll be late. One last application of lip balm and your feet carry you out the door to your favourite coffee shop. Laurent waves you over to his booth and you smile, the nerves dissipating almost immediately.

You slide into the booth across from him.

“I’m glad you messaged me.” His warm voice consumes you. “I took a chance on that business card, and I’m -“

“I know.” You say with a small smile as the waitress comes and refills his coffee pot. He thanks her before returning his attention to you. “I’m glad I did too.” You say, his eyes gazing into yours and you feel so much more alive than you did twenty minutes ago in your flat. He picks up the coffee pot and pours you a cup. You add a splash of milk and a sugar cube, watching him as he supplied his black coffee without sugar.

“Oh, you like it as sweet as you are.” He says with a cheeky smile.

The date goes better than you expected. You laugh together, drinking way more cups of coffee than you should. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so light.

Within a month, you and Laurent have been for five different coffees in five different shops after five tattoos. Each one has been more and more discounted, much to Camilo’s annoyance. The one constant is Laurent never lets you pay for the coffee.

He smiles at you over your sixth cup in your sixth shop after your sixth tattoo. His hand is wrapped around yours and you feel warmth spreading from where he’s touching your skin.

“Why don’t you ever let me pay?” You ask and he chuckles.

“How could I ever let someone as beautiful as you pay? Pieces of art don’t pay for anything.” He says and you blush. It’s the same every time he compliments you.

“I’m only a piece of art because of your drawings.” You say quickly. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“No. The first moment I saw you sat there nervously waiting, I knew you were the most beautiful piece of art I’d ever seen. And now? You’re somehow even more beautiful.” He says, his thumb brushing your knuckles. You look up at him and he smiles in a way you’ve grown to adore.

“This past month has been so wonderful, Laurent,” you say and his smile widens.

“I agree. That’s why I wanted to ask you something.” You pause, putting your cup down and he takes your hands both into his own. “I know it’s only been a month, but I really adore you. You’re kind, and smart, and funny, and so beautiful. I was wondering if you would want to officially be my girl.” You pause for a moment, processing his words.

“Yes.” You whisper. He grins and surges toward you, leaning over the table to capture your lips with his own. “Your girl.” You whisper against his lips and he all but groans. You wonder what it would be like to hear- you cut off your thoughts as you kiss him back gently. You can feel him smiling against your lips before you break the kiss.

“My girl.” He repeats, as though he’s savouring the way the words taste in his mouth. He grins like a boy who just discovered how it feels to get dirty for the first time. “Shall we?” He asks, standing up and offering you his arm, having paid already despite your protests. You loop your arm through his and the two of you leave the cafe, wandering through the streets of Paris as though it was your city.

You find your way to Montmartre, the village that his tattoo shop is set up in. You sigh as you arrive at the Sacre-Coeur, the church of sacred heart. “I love the view from up here,” you say as you look down the steps that you had climbed to look over the village.

Laurent is staring at you when he replies, “me too.” He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts as he turns to gaze over the village. You look at him and smile, gazing at his side profile. “I used to want to be a painter.” Laurent says absent-mindedly. You turn back to gaze at the village as the two of you sit down at the top of the stairs.

“What stopped you?”

“Not as many hot women.” He jokes and you chuckle, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Being a tattooist meant I could paint and be social with a bunch of people and find out about their lives. I like that.” He says with a smile.

You place your hand on the ground between you as the sun begins to set.

He rests his hand on yours.

“Do you know what the French would say about a view like this?” You ask and he looks at you with an eyebrow raised.

“What?”

“I was asking you!” You reply, nudging his shoulder with yours. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“They would say it’s beautiful, but not as beautiful as you.” You blush and he smiles.

In the pink, orange and purple hues of the sunset, your eyes almost seem to have an otherworldly glow. Laurent knows he’ll never recover from the sight.

#laurent leclaire x reader #laurent leclaire #Oscar Isaac #fluff #modern au

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justafandomgvrl · 15 days

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9 Movies that I Love

9. Jennifer's Body

8. Princess Mononoke

7. Lord of the Rings trilogy

6. The Notebook

5. House of Flying Daggers

4. Dead or Alive

3. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

2. Charlie's Angels

1. Kill Bill

#cinema #films #movies

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justafandomgvrl · 16 days

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Tattoo Artist AU pt1

Laurent Leclaire x F!Reader

Around 1000 words

You sit nervously in the waiting room, your knee bouncing. It’s your first tattoo, and to say you’re anxious is an understatement. A man walks out from the back and smiles at you, dark curls atop his head.

“Are you here for the 10am appointment?” He asks. You nod and he offers you his hand. “I’m Laurent.” You smile and shake his hand, introducing yourself. “Ah, of course, you were here with Camilo for your consultation a few days ago.” He says.

“Isn’t Camilo doing the tattoo?” You ask and Laurent chuckles as he slowly lets go of your hand and you get shakily to your feet.

“No, no, he does consultations and appoints the best tattooist for the idea.” Laurent explains as he leads you through to the room he had emerged from. He looks you up and down, almost frowning. “You seem anxious. Did you bring anything to eat?” He asks.

“I brought a little bit of chocolate. Camilo recommended it.” You say shyly. Laurent smiles and gestures for you to sit down in the chair in the centre of the room, which you climb on top of less than gracefully.

“Unbutton your shirt.” He says as soon as you’ve turned around. “You wanted it on the back of your shoulder, correct?” He asks and you nod, unbuttoning your shirt with shaky hands. His fingers brush your hair out of the way and you feel your breath hitch in your throat.

Laurent takes the stencil and gently presses it to your shoulder blade, applying the - what you would simply call ‘cold goop’ - to put the lines in place to ensure the tattoo matches what you want. He watches you from behind as he waits for the stencil to take on your skin. “What made you choose this design?”

You smile and shrug gently. “It’s from my favourite film,” is all that you say. He chuckles and nods, although you can tell that he’s not laughing at you.

You sit quietly as he removes the stencil and helps you to sit down with your front pressed against the chair, all but straddling it as he braids your hair out of the way.

“If you need me to stop at any point, you let me know, okay? I won’t charge for the extra time.” You smile and nod that you understand, resting your head on the top of the chair as you hear the tattoo gun turning on. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You mumble and you can hear him chuckle again. “Yes, I mean, yes.” You correct quickly, your cheeks burning. You can almost feel him smiling at you. The needle presses against your skin and your breath hisses through your teeth as you will your body to stay completely still.

“Easy, easy, keep breathing,” he instructs, his voice in equal parts firm and soft. You close your eyes and focus your breathing, inhaling slowly and then exhaling. “Good girl.” He murmurs offhandedly and your cheeks blaze red. You’ve never been more grateful to have your back to someone.

By the time you’re halfway through the tattoo, you need a break. Laurent is watching your every move and you don’t even have to say anything. “Lets take five minutes,” he says with a smile. You nod, exhaling shakily. “You’re doing amazing.” His voice is far more gentle than you expect.

“I didn’t expect it to feel so… scratchy. I thought it would be more of a sharp pain but…” he moves around to the front of the chair as he switches the size of the needle attached to the gun to get to the more detailed lines.

“I hear that a lot. I would never say that it doesn’t hurt, but a lot of people exaggerate it.” Laurent says. “The pain might get a little bit worse now because the needle is thinner and the sound is louder, sometimes that can have the effect of more pain. Are you holding up okay?” He asks, and you can see genuine concern in his eyes.

“I’m okay.” You assure him. He smiles, moving back to sit behind you. Something about his smile stays in your mind as his hand brushes your neck to keep your hair out of the way as he begins the next section of the tattoo. You flinch and he hesitates. “I’m okay.” you repeat. He doesn’t argue and gets back to work, the lines flowing almost effortlessly as he permanently etches your design to your skin.

Something about him being the one doing it makes it even better for you.

Someone so beautiful leaving a permanent mark on you adds to your endorphins, to the adrenaline coursing through your body.

“Okay, are you ready to see?” Laurent’s soft voice makes you jump and he bites back a chuckle. You nod eagerly and hear a clicking sound before he wraps the tattoo and tapes the wrap to your skin. You button up your shirt and look over your shoulder to him as he shows you his phone screen.

The tattoo is more beautiful than you had ever imagined it being. He seems to have woven his soul into the work, and you can see it. You smile at him as you turn around fully and throw your arms around him.

“Thank you.” You whisper and he smiles, gently wrapping his arms around you, careful not to touch your shoulder.

You could swear the price he gives you is half of what was quoted but you’re floating so high on endorphins and adrenaline that you barely register it. He passes you a business card for “if anything goes wrong” and you smile and nod and walk out of the shop.

It takes until you get to the end of the street for you to look at the business card you were given.

Call me if you want to get a coffee - LL x

You could swear that you float even higher as you begin to text the number.

#laurent leclaire #Laurent leclaire x reader #Oscar Isaac #Oscar Isaac characters #modern au

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justafandomgvrl · 16 days

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someone’s gotta say it… we need more thigh/buldge riding fics… *goes back into hiding*

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justafandomgvrl · 18 days

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this hellsite needs more Cecil Dennis…

And if nobody else will.. then

#Cecil Dennis #Oscar Isaac #revenge for jolly

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justafandomgvrl · 18 days

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IM SO GLAD YOU MADE IT GOOD

I would do anything for this man

jonathan levy- the house

Summary: Jonathan airbnb’s his old house to surprise you, and test himself (based on this idea)

Contents: 🔥 18+nsfw, fem!reader, *puts hands up* you caught me- this is a fix-it fic, non toxic-Jonathan Levy, oral (f receiving), p in v, pregnancy talk, slow burn for real (~3.5k)

Thank you @femmeanonymelives and @justafandomgvrl for helping me choose good over evil for this fic!

-----

It’s late afternoon when Jonathan pulls his car into a driveway you don’t recognize.

“Who lives here?” You ask.

“I used to.”

It hits you. The background of all of Ava’s baby photos.

This is the house he owned with his ex-wife.

“Jonathan. You’re kidding me. No. No way. You did not have me pack a bag and drive me all the way to the other side of the city to do this. It’s completely fucked. Jonathan. Jonathan,” you say, his name coming out in a sigh.

He stretches his arm over the passenger seat and turns toward you. His face is serious and nervous.

“You said you’d spend the weekend away with me,” he said.

You lean forward in the seat so you can rest your forehead on the dash.

“I know you’re trying to see the positives in your memories, but you can’t replace all the shitty things that happened here by us doing it all over the house.”

“Well, technically, my ex and I only ever did it in the bedroom and living room. So, if it’s any consolation, we only have to do it twice.” He’s trying for light-hearted, but can hear the stress in his voice.

You turn to watch him out of the corner of one eye.

He has that look he gets sometimes. Like he’s waiting for you to break up with him because he finally revealed too much about himself.

It’s been more than a year since your first date, a great year, and the fact that he still thinks you’re going to leave him breaks your heart.

You lift your head and will your shoulders to relax. “You only ever had sex in your bedroom and the living room?”

Jonathan heaves a tired sigh. “The living room just once, the night we signed our divorce papers. Remember, I told you,” his voice still gets tight talking about it. He calls it the worst day of his life.

“Yeah, I know.” You look toward the big, two-story house. “Just in the bedroom? You must’ve done it in the shower?”

He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head.

“Your office? We fool around all the time in your office at the house.”

He continues shaking his head slowly.

“That’s…”

“Pretty fucking sad. I know.” He sighs. “I was different then. More reserved. Because of the way I grew up, I mistook being miserable in silence for safety. I don’t do that with you. You bring out better things in me.”

“This, you call better? This is an experiment in irrational logic.”

He glances at you, a gleam in his eyes. “Let me fuck you against the front door, then tell me how you feel about it.”

“The front door?”

“I have bad memories about the front door. And the kitchen. And the pantry. Living room, obviously. Master bathroom. The attic. My old office. The bedroom’s the worst.”

“Slow down sailor, we only have one night.” You smile at him, jokingly.

He smiles, adjusts his glasses. “Look, I can’t change my past. I just want to be able to picture you in this house. I want to have done something right for the woman I love, right here. And no, it’s not about my ex. I love you in a way that I never loved her. I have to love you. I choose to love you.” His forehead scrunches up. “You don’t have to get me anything for my birthday this year.”

You laugh. “I’ll return the fancy espresso machine I got you, then.”

“Oh wait, I didn't know that was what you were giving me. I take it back. I’d much rather have the espresso machine,” he says, rolling his eyes.

You push his arm playfully and open the car door, your heart pounding in your ears.

You don’t know if this is a good idea, but then again, you’d said the same thing a year ago when Jonathan had asked you out.

He’d been a guest speaker at an event you were attending. He’d struck you as a man pretending to be someone else.

He had on dark, fancy clothes and neat, almost slicked back hair. His date that night had been significantly younger than him, gorgeous. Rumor was, she was one of his grad students.

But he’d relaxed around you, talking by the open bar for an hour. He was so smart, funny. A dork. A loveable one.

You like him better now, wild dark and gray curls, big sweaters and dad sneakers. He smelled better too, since he’d stopped smoking. He smiled more.

You try to sound confident when you speak. “If this is what you need to close the door on your old life, then okay. I’ll stay here with you.”

Jonathan doesn’t look overjoyed or even happy. He looks a little confused.

“It’s not about closing the door. Look,” he says, “I know I’m not the most open about my failed marriage. It’s still difficult to talk about. This is the best way I could think of to show you, maybe show both of us,” his words trail off.

“Show me what?” You reach out and put your hand over his.

“I’m not the man who lived in that house anymore. But I want to tell you about him. Maybe after I do, you won’t want anything to do with me, but I have to be honest with you. You deserve that.”

You squeeze his hand. “I love who you are now. How couldn’t I? All the work you put into being an amazing father and partner. I think you should consider what you deserve. That you deserve to be this man. I love you.”

Jonathan smiles, a real one this time. He pulls you closer to him and kisses the top of your head. “I love you too. More than I could ever show you.”

*****

The house has a few changes from when Jonathan owned it.

“I thought I’d hate it, but you know, it’s more open. I like that.” He says as he takes you through the ground level.

He’s more at ease now that you’re through the front door.

The story he told about the last time he’d been in the house, and what had happened at that very door.

He’d said telling you about the fight with his ex was the hardest part of all of this, because it was the story most likely to send you walking right back out.

But you'd stayed. Even though you could tell it still hurt him, he was honest about his feelings. Not detached about why he'd let himself be pushed so far, for years.

You give him a big hug, something you can tell he needs after walking you through most of the rooms.

Jonathan carries both of your bags upstairs and you follow.

“That was Ava’s room,” he says as you open a door, being nosy.

You close it again immediately. “It’s a boy’s room now. And it smells like it.”

Jonathan laughs, but it dies in his throat as he stands in front of the master bedroom.

You scoot around him and go in.

It’s very plain. The owners had taken all of their personal photos down from the walls. There’s a welcome binder on the bed so you sit and flip through it, giving Jonathan time to stand in the doorway, bags in hand, looking at you.

You finally toss the binder aside. “Okay, you’ve been out there long enough for me to memorize the wifi password, and find six typos. You wanted me here. And here I am.” You hold out your arms wide.

He licks his lips, brown eyes thoughtful, and steps inside. He sets the bags near the door, like you’re leaving instead of just got here, puts his hands on his hips.

“Look different in here too?” You ask.

He nods, looking around, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Really different.”

“The feng shui,” you gesture around the room with your hands.

He huffs out a laugh. “I hate to break it to you, but the bed’s in the exact same spot.”

You run your hand over the heavy duvet. “Is that a problem for you?”

He tilts his head. “The sight of you in bed is never a problem for me.”

You smile and scoot back toward the head, kicking off your shoes as he joins you.

He toes off his sneakers and you run your hands under his sweater as he sits back on the headboard.

“You look a little like you’re in shock,” you say.

He runs his hands through his hair. He laughs. “I just- I can’t even believe- this was a really shitty idea.” He covers his face with his hands, still laughing. “What did I even think I was doing with this plan?”

You lean into him, laughing too. “Hey, I was going along with it.”

He wraps an arm around you, taking off his glasses and setting them aside to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes.

“And I love you for it, but to be completely honest, I don’t know if I can even sleep here, let alone anything else. Not sitting here, looking at those windows, and these fucking lights by the bed that they kept and I always hated.” He throws up a hand. “I don’t know.”

You rub your hands up and down his torso. “We can go sleep in, um,” you pause, “the car. You have a bad memory in every room so I guess, we’ll just sleep in the car.”

You both start laughing again.

And then, somewhere in there, Jonathan starts kissing you. His hands, impatient as always, run up and down your body.

He undresses you, not letting you help much. Telling you without words that he needs you, badly, and that he needs to set the pace.

He takes off his sweater, then kisses you deeply, beard scratching and pressing into your face and your neck. He drags his teeth along your collarbone and chest.

You laugh as he tickles your stomach on his way down, but it ends in a moan when he buries his lips and beard between your legs.

“Jonathan,” you eyes go wide as he sinks his tongue deep into your hot, already wet skin.

He looks up at you from between your legs. “You taste amazing. Never tasted anything so good in my fucking life.” He moans as he licks through you again, and again.

The firm tip of his tongue finds your clit and circles it, flicking up and down before he sinks two thick fingers into you, rocking back and forth by millimeters until you grab the duvet with both hands and come, screaming his name, cradling his head with your thighs.

He uses his whole mouth, lips and tongue and beard, the sound of his voice, everything he can to draw out your orgasm. To keep you in that suspended ecstasy where there’s nothing but the way he makes you feel. Where he can drink his fill of you.

When your back relaxes back down to the bed and you can hear your own shaky breath again, Jonathan kisses the insides of your thighs. He wipes his beard with his hand and takes off his pants while you lay back, still not recovered.

The curls of his hair hit your forehead first before he kisses you. He brushes them back as you wrap your legs around him, smiling against his mouth.

“Can you taste how good you are?” He asks softly with another kiss.

He’s so hot between your legs, just barely inside of you. Like he’s savoring the way you lift your hips to try and fill the emptiness you feel for him.

You hum, opening easily for the soft, thick tip of his cock.

“Fuck, Jonathan,” you gasp, “you’re really hard.”

“This is what you do to me. God, I love you so much.” He says raggedly as he enters you faster, retreating just as quickly, sensing he already has you on the precipice again.

He fucks you single-mindedly, like he wants to drive you both insane. Keep you squeezing and spasming around him. You hear how wet you are for him, feel how easy it is for him to fuck you like this, unrelenting and ruthless.

Your body arches up for him, arms straining around his body, neck bowed so the top of your head is against the mattress as he pounds into you. He open-mouth kisses your neck, licking your skin, holding you with one arm while the other braces against the bed as leverage to keep you pinned beneath him, coming again.

Sweat beads off his nose and onto your face as you kiss him, his tongue filling your mouth, his body shaking as you feel him get even harder inside of you just before he lets go. He pants, coming with you, spilling out of you already. You whine as his fingers flex into your skin, holding onto you tight as he almost shivers, letting your body down and laying on top you.

He breathes heavily through his nose, his forehead against yours, eyes open. One of his fingers reaches up and touches the inside corner of your eye. He touches the tear to his lips.

*****

The binder says no food in the bedrooms, but Jonathan has a surprisingly rebellious streak sometimes.

He orders pizza and makes you stay in bed while he runs down to get it. He sets a bath towel down on the duvet, a dry one. Not one of the wet ones from your shower together. The greasy box goes on top.

“Hey, I’m still naked, don’t get into bed like that,” you point at the clothes he’s put back on to get the pizza delivery.

He takes off everything but his boxers and sits on the bed.

“Your pizza, m’lady.” He opens the box with a flourish and hands you a napkin.

“Joke all you want, but pizza is way better than a fancy dinner.” You grab a slice and almost moan as you take the first bite.

“Good thing I ordered two and stuck one in the fridge.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you playfully.

“Holy hell, Jonathan, you are so the perfect man.”

He licks his fingers after he inhales his first slice. “Yeah,” he laughs, “bringing you to this crime scene of a house and waiting a whole ten minutes to get you into bed. I’m a dream.”

You shrug. “You ate me out. Don’t forget that part.”

“I know. I’m insatiable about that,” he says, a little embarrassed in an adorable way.

“The day you hear me complain, is the day you can chuck me into the river and find another pair of legs to bury your gorgeous face between.”

He gets a little red in the cheeks, but laughs. “You’re going to love dessert then.”

“Is it me?”

“It is,” he nods.

“At least let me put on some of the lingerie I packed. This is supposed to be a romantic weekend away.”

He makes a face. “I’ll give you another weekend, I promise. A better one. Not here.” He looks around the room. “But please, still put the underwear on. I’m begging you.”

He smiles, tosses his crust back in the box and wipes his fingers on the paper napkin. “You look like you want to say something. You’d be well within your rights, given how I sprung all of this on you. Say anything you want.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I thought this weekend would be a good time to talk. Feels weird now.”

He licks his lips, brown eyes studying you. “Talk about what?”

As nervous as suddenly feel, you see, for the first time, that Jonathan doesn’t hear the word ‘talk’ from you and get that look on his face. Concerned, yes, but there’s no fear in his eyes. Finally.

You lay your hand on his cheek, stroking his beard and scratching into it a little.

He leans into your touch. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, leaning over to kiss the tip of your nose, his eyes excited. “I want to talk to you too. About, if you’d consider, and this isn’t me asking, I would never ask you here, like this, you deserve something perfect, flowers and candles and stars. This is just me asking if I can ask in the future, about if you’d maybe consider marrying me.” He catches himself rambling and clears his throat. “Don’t answer now. Just think about it, please.”

You nod.

He looks relieved. “Thank you.” He closes the pizza box and sets it, along with the towel, on the floor by the bed.

He smiles at you, more relaxed now that he's gotten it all out. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it off his face. “I’ve thought about it for weeks now. We’re not obligated to get married, I know. But I want to show you how much I love you. If it's something you want. I'd give you anything you wanted, I think you know that by now."

He pauses, looking almost shy about saying it out loud, the love he feels for you, that he shows you every day.

"Something for you to think about," he says with a soft smile.

“Something to think about,” you agree. “Jonathan-“

“Don’t answer,” he grins, reaching out to squeeze your hands. “I knew as soon as I opened my mouth, you’d want to answer. I hope I’m right, that I know the answer you’ll give. But I’ve been distracted, thinking it over for awhile. You can stew in it now. Give me like, a week at least. I have a whole thing planned for you.”

“You have plans?” You ask.

He leans a hand down on the bed, tucks one of his legs under him. “Of course. Big ones. Your friends helped me pick out a ring.”

Your smile dips.

“What?” He says, frown lines deepening between his eyebrows. “Is it too much? Too fast?”

“No,” you rush to reassure him, “I can’t wait to wear it. I just, don’t know how long it’ll fit.”

His eyes squint slightly as he tries to figure out what you’re saying. You raise your eyebrows at him, a smile you can’t hold back bursting out of you. You point to yourself, moving your finger down to your stomach.

Jonathan’s mouth opens in an adorable, ‘O’ shape, his eyes huge. “How…” the word draws out of him in a long, reverent, whisper.

“It’s not exactly the immaculate conception,” you smile. “I think it was probably that whole week we had, just the two of us, when Ava was away.”

He makes a sound in his throat. “Yeah. That was a good week.”

“One of the best.”

He scoots closer on the bed and lays a hand on your stomach. He looks up and you see tears in his dark eyes. He’s smiling so hard it looks like it almost hurts.

“And you want this?” He says hopefully.

“You know I do. It’s a little sooner than we planned, but we’ve already talked about having one or two. Plus, it’s a good excuse for me to finish that pizza in about twenty minutes.”

Laughing, he moves up on the bed so he can wrap his arms around you.

You lay your head on his shoulder. “So, is this what you were picturing when you Airbnb’d this house?”

You feel him shake his head. “Not at all. Part of me thought you’d break up with me before we even got inside.”

“I know you did,” you say, chastising him. “You can’t scare me away. Should know better by now.”

“I was trying to scare you away, a little,” he says quietly. “But that was the last time, I promise. Hence the whole, proposal plan thing. I just had to make sure I really was,” you feel his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, “good enough for you.”

You tilt your head back to look up at him, smoothing his beard back out of your face. “Do you love me? Because that's enough.”

His eyebrows shoot high on his forehead. “Yes, but when we met, I had zero belief in romantic love. I wasn't sure I'd ever been capable of it, if there was something seriously wrong with me. I didn’t know I could love someone so much, and accept the love that they gave me. And, the baby. I love this baby so much already.”

He hasn't stopped smiling.

“Typical. Falling in love with part of me in the first five minutes,” you say to tease him.

“I loved all of you pretty much immediately,” he says, kissing your forehead. "You leave a strong impression."

“I love you too.” You run your hands over his beard. “We’re going to be okay, Jonathan.”

“Forever.”

You nod. “Forever. And that’s not an answer to your earlier question. I definitely expect a whole,” you wave your hands around, “thing.”

“More than two pizzas?” He says, hissing air between his teeth.

You smack him playfully.

He chuckles. “Okay, okay. I’ll buy you as many pizzas as you want. Forever.”

You snuggle deeper into his arms, both of you content in the moment. “See? This is a romantic weekend after all.”

"Because of you it is." Jonathan takes a deep breath, holding you closer. “And this is just a house. You and Ava and this baby, you're my home now.”

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#jonathan levy #jonathan levy smut #jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy x you

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