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keeksandgigz · 10 months

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the love witch

modern!eddie munson x fem!witchy!reader

summary: Eddie Munson is obsessed with his girlfriend. Hell, he's not even sure how he was able to get you interested in him in the first place. Despite him not really believing in your witchy practices, he's incredibly supportive, but that doesn't come without his cheeky digs. He agrees to a tarot reading for shits and giggles. You don't like that he doesn't take it seriously.

cw: no y/n, reader's nickname is 'witchy' , talk of the occult, wiccan practices, description of r's clothing, but no body description, reader has female anatomy, oral (F receiving), face sitting, sub!Eddie, dom!Reader, choking, slight biting, dirty talk, honorifics, unprotected piv (pls don't do that), ending leans towards the whole witchy vibe

word count: 4.8k

this and all my works are 18+ minors do NOT interact

Eddie Munson is one lucky motherfucker.

Living in a small studio apartment in the Haight-Ashbury of San Francisco, which he got a damn good price on.

He works at one of the many vintage record stores in the neighborhood, which pulsates with raw musical energy, almost as if he steps in the 70s every time he gets out of the front door of his apartment building.

Sometimes he just sits on his fire escape to fuck around with his guitar, inspired by the smells of incense coming from the crystal shops, the music coming from the vintage clothing stores and the pungent smell of lingering weed at all hours of the day.

And with the shaggy, long, brown curls, bullet belt and chains, his black cutoff band t- shirts and heavy lace up boots, he seems to fit right in- for the first time in his life.

Next to his record store there is one of the many crystal shops on the high street, a tiny little nook he always walks by on the way to work and snickers to himself. There’s no way people believe in all that.

He stops doing that once he meets you.

Eddie Munson is one lucky motherfucker because he crosses paths with you.

He meets you while he is on his lunch break, using those thirty minutes of peace to walk around and usually pick up some prerolls from the dispensary a couple buildings down, or he lingers in front of the guitar store on the other side of the street, ogling at a B.C. Rich or an Ibanez, spending his break in there, fucking around with a cool amp.

He meets you on an off day. A day where he doesn't feel like walking around, so he just stands in front of his store smoking a cigarette. You're walking a longtime client out of the crystal shop next door.

“Thank you for that dried lavender, Janice! I’ll set aside some of that incense for you when we get the shipment” he hears you say. He turns around, snickers at your words while Janice passes in front of him, disappearing in the Saturday afternoon crowd.

“Something funny?” you ask. Your voice feels smooth like honey wine. He turns around, and suddenly he doesn't feel like snickering anymore.

You look so pretty, the kind of pretty that is almost otherworldly. Like you could’ve come up in his head while planning a DnD campaign. Purple bell sleeve top, a long, black, flowy skirt and lace- up boots. Dressed like his own elven high priestess.

He realizes he’d been staring at you for a good silent minute. He nervously breaks eye contact to put out his cigarette on the sole of his Docs.

“Sorry– heh, just don’t really believe in all that stuff” he says, shrugging. In doing that, his evidently too- short shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of the skin of his tummy, which doesn’t go unnoticed to you.

You lean on the doorframe of the store “What’s your name again?” you ask, a feline smile creeping on your lips.

He swallows “I um- haven’t told you my- It’s Edward- Eddie!” he corrects himself, you got him flustered “Nobody calls me Edward” he remarks.

His stammer makes you smile, like he's a wounded puppy dog.

“Alright Edward Eddie, see you around” and with that you disappear back into the store.

It takes Eddie a week to learn your name, asking the owner of the crystal shop you work at with no luck, then running into Janice a week later, who kindly tells him your name and then raves about you for a good ten minutes. Quite the hypewoman.

It takes Eddie another two weeks to ask you out on a date. You're wearing a long mauvish dress under a white cardigan when he sees you walk into the store. Your hair is pulled back from your face and he swears he sees stars in your eyes.

You say yes and agree to meet at a coffee shop, and by the end of the day, he asks you for a second date. And then a third, and a fourth, and by the arrival of fall, Eddie Munson has a girlfriend.

Eddie Munson is obsessed with his girlfriend.

He even jokes with his friends that his witch girlfriend put a spell on him. Made him drink a love potion, because he can't justify him being so obsessed with you.

Another thing he can't justify is you actually liking him. Sometimes he still needs to pinch himself to make sure it's not all a joke.

A pretty girl that looks like she's straight out of his DnD fantasies is dating him? There's no way shit like that happens to Edward Munson.

Although his apartment is right above the record shop, which means sneaking away for a quickie whenever you guys have matched up work schedules, he loves your apartment.

Twenty minutes away from Haight- Ashbury, in Twin Peaks, there lies your apartment. In an old building from the sixties or seventies, you have it decorated with tapestries and sun- catchers and rugs and pillows and cushions. It's a joy for Eddie's senses.

And with dating you, came Circe, your black cat who seems to have taken an almost immediate liking to Eddie.

Your apartment always smells like incense and candles, a smell you bring with you wherever you go. A smell Eddie loves. There are plants hanging from the ceiling and a big purple couch in the living room.

Everything is antique, lucky finds from thrift stores or flea markets. The table, chairs. The bookcases that hold your witchy books and your crystals.

The first time he comes over he picks one up. A carnelian.

"So, these pretty rocks are supposed to... what?" he asks, toying with every bit and bob on your bookshelf.

"They're crystals, Eddie. And each different one has a purpose. That one you're holding is a carnelian" you say, pouring him a cup of loose- leaf herbal tea, and pointing at the crystal with your nose.

"Okay, and what's it do?" he asks, toying with the smooth surface and going to sit on the ground next to you. He blows on his tea and takes a sip. He isn't a tea enjoyer, but for you he could be.

"Well, a lot of things, but primarily carnelians help boost sexual energy-" you get interrupted by Eddie sputtering out his tea. Some of it lands on you, which causes you to let out a shriek.

The ridiculousness of the situation is both endearing and hilarious. The poor guy probably didn't expect you being so blunt about your use of crystals to aid your sex life.

A giggle escapes you while Eddie tinges a deep shade of crimson from the embarrassment. He shakily sets down the teacup and saucer.

"Shi-shit sorry, lemme help you clean it up" he says, scrambling for the napkins on the coffee table to clean his mess up.

"You got some on me, Eddie" you say as you move your hair from your face to let him clean up the spit- out tea from your cheek.

"Oh my god, sorry lemme get that" he repeats, flushed.

He's shaky in reaching for the napkin to wipe your skin, afraid that he might have ruined his shot at dating you just because he cannot keep his mouth shut.

"It's honestly not a big deal, Ed. It was just funny for the most part" you smile at him, reaching your hand to lay his head on your shoulder. He breathes again.

Once he's calmed down he continues his curious interview.

"So what, do you put it up your pussy or something?" The idea of it makes Eddie's blood run slightly hotter. You laugh.

He blushes at your reaction, feeling slightly embarrassed once he registers what he had just said.

A sheepish "sorry" escapes his lips.

"No, no it's fine" you chuckle "not exactly. You just kinda charge them and set intentions. Then you can take it with you on, like, a date, if you wanna hope for something more" you say. He becomes very aware of his hard- on when you say that.

There is a thick sense of expectation in the air once those words leave your mouth. It could be the thick incense smoke floating around the room, or it could be the way you're looking at him like you want to eat him whole. Your faces get closer.

"I brought one with me today, actually" you admit. And he has never taken his shirt off so fast in his life.

So every time you hang out, he carries a piece if carnelian in his pocket, in hopes to repeat what happened at your apartment.

With time, he learns to carry a rose quartz with him, too.

Soon after, you begin gifting him crystals and bracelets to carry with him. He likes his black tourmaline beaded bracelet the best.

"It's for protection" you had said. It's just very metal to him.

He never really believes in it, but it's sweet, seeing you show up to his apartment with little colorful rocks to put on his windowsill. You teach him how to recharge them and set intentions, but after the second or third time he just can't be bothered.

He quickly learns it's not just pretty rocks you're interested in. You're, like, a full- fledged witch. Hence, the nickname 'witchy' he'd given you.

You ask him for the time and place of his birth. He scrambles to text his uncle Wayne to ask if he remembers what time he's born.

After a couple days of searching, Wayne comes across Elizabeth Munson's old diary. Indianapolis, Indiana, December 21st, 1997 at 3:47 AM.

Eddie Munson has a birth chart.

Sagittarius sun, Scorpio moon, Aries rising.

Whatever that means.

You try to explain it to him, but to no avail. He doesn't really care much for the stars. Except the ones in your eyes.

He swears he can see them twinkle every time you're laying on your brocade rug in the candle lit living room. He learns you don't really use your couch, rather, you just lay on the floor, among a pile of pillows.

Sometimes you're watching TV together. You're sat in between his legs, leaning against his chest, while Circe lays on your lap. And you look at his palms, tracing the fine lines and ridges of his calloused hands.

"You have lines on the top of your hand" you whisper, kissing his fingers.

He blows the cigarette smoke out the open window, careful not to make your house smell.

"Yeah, no shit. We all have 'em, witchy" he places a kiss to the crown of your head.

"No, look right here" you say, tracing the faint lines right where his callouses are "lines like this means you're gonna have a long life" you kiss that spot on his hand. Coarse, but warm.

"Thank fuck, imagine if i just got hit by a cable car tomorrow?" he chuckles, going back to watching TV.

You trace a deep line that goes across the palm of his hand, you smile to yourself.

"Whatcha smilin' about, witchy?" he says, eyes still glued on the TV.

"You have a double heart line. Means you love a lot" you turn and give him a smile. One of those that make your eyes sparkle in the candlelight.

"If I have a double heart line, does that mean I love you more?" he asks, sickly sweet. He cringes at himself for swearing he wasn't going to be that guy, but when you look at him like he just hung the moon for you, he can allow himself to be disgustingly sappy.

You think about it, because he does have a point, but you don't want to make him win this two- month long game you've been playing, so instead you take his palm once more.

"Look, Ed" you say, pointing at a random prominent line "this line tells me you're an asshole" you laugh, as he pinches your sides and you try to squirm away, but his hands are holding you firmly while planting sloppy kisses everywhere he could reach.

Cheek, neck, shoulder. He inhales the curve between your neck and shoulder, and you swear your feel a bit of tongue poke out between his lips. Then he stops.

And you feel it. Deeply seated at the bottom of your back, pressing against the exposed skin between your shirt and pants.

Eddie loves the way you smell, intoxicated by the smell of lavender incense and some kind of berry perfume you wear.

He's convinced that perfume is actually just a pheromone concentrate, because he cannot stop the blood rushing to his dick everytime he catches a whiff of the sweet berries, nestled in the crook of your neck, behind your ear.

"And where's the line that tells me I'm gonna get a kiss?" Eddie asks, voice low and gravelly, a voice that fills you with need, makes your breath falter from your lungs, replacing it with water. But you kiss him nonetheless, and maybe him getting a kiss is written in the stars, after all.

He softly grabs your hair as he slips his tongue in your mouth. Honey- wine whimpers falling from your lips, as you try and get Circe off your lap and in literally any other room. The cat seems to be unbothered.

"Ed... she doesn't want to move" you whine, high pitched voice expressing annoyance, but also overwhelmed at how cute your cat is.

"She's the biggest cockblocker in history" he mutters annoyed, you laugh. A groan leaves his mouth.

"Leave her alone she's just a baby! Us having sex tonight just wasn't in the stars" you shrug, light and airy as you go back to leaning on his chest and petting Circe.

Fuck the stars. He huffs, accepting his fate

He waits for you outside of the shop when he's not working. Guitar case slung around his shoulders, so he can practice at yours, he picks you up and you take the train to your apartment.

"How was work today, witchy?" he asks, roping a hand around your shoulders and giving you a tender kiss on your head.

"Meh, a. bunch of wannabe Tiktok witches, a bunch of old ladies booking tarot readings and threatening to leave bad reviews because I told them their husband is cheating on them or something" you shrug getting on the bus "Janice came, though, she brought me some jasmine flowers so I can make love tea" you say, sitting down. He sits next to you.

You take out the small satchel of dried jasmine flowers, taking in the sweet scent of citrusy flowers.

"Love tea?" he asks "that what you give me when I come over to your apartment every time?" he dips his nose in the satchel, giving it a sniff.

"Yeah, you wish" you laugh "just peppermint tea. Don't want you accusing me I put a love spell on you" Eddie smiles and lays your head on his shoulder while you play with the tassels of your bag, letting you close your eyes for the twenty minutes of the train ride.

Once you're home he slings the guitar case off his shoulders and takes it out, sitting at the stools of your breakfast counter, while you empty the contents of your bag.

Herbs, oils and a new card deck.

"So, what do you need to do now?" he asks, pulling out his phone, looking for guitar tabs to practice on.

"'kay, so" you begin "I need to make tea blend, then putting stuff together for this new project I'm working on, and then break out this new deck I got from work" you say, lost in the mysticism of your to- do list.

Sometimes he finds it funny that the stuff you have to worry about is totally otherworldly to what he usually worries about.

He watches you break out the mortar and pestle while you measure a teaspoon of dried rosebuds, a teaspoon of dried lavender buds, a teaspoon of jasmine and a pinch of cinnamon. He mindlessly plays a couple chords from a song he heard at the record shop.

"What's the cinnamon for?" he asks, pointing at the jar.

"Spicing things up? Cinnamon is a spice, so could be. I'm trying out this new recipe" you say, grinding the flowers together.

"So what you're saying" he begins, looking up from his guitar "is that you're making sex tea" and the feline grin plastered on your face is enough to make you wanna smack him in the head.

"This is not sex tea, Edward" you interject sternly while pouring the contents of the mortar in a new jar.

You light an incense stick, a rose infused one, to set your intentions for this batch, then putting it to rest on your windowsill for the night.

"What are you doing, witchy?" he asks, following your gaze as you set down the jar.

"It's for the moon. Charges the tea" you say, nonchalantly "can you pass me that deck on the counter, please?" you sit on the carpet legs crossed, while Eddie reaches for the card deck and tosses it at you. You catch it.

He sets down his guitar against the counter to goes to stand in front of you as you take the tarot cards out of the deck and start shuffling them.

"What's that baby?" he asks, he swears he can never stop learning from you.

"My new tarot deck, I need to break it out. Want me to give you a reading?" you ask, hoping he'll say yes.

He truly thinks about it, because he doesn't believe in any of this stuff, but saying no to you and watching your eyes darken with sadness is something he doesn't want to put himself through.

He is a weak, weak man.

He shrugs. "Alright then" he says, sitting down on one of the cushy pink pillows on the floor of your apartment "gimme a reading, you little witch"

Your ringed hands shuffle the gold filigree cards.

"I'm gonna do a regular spread, 'kay? Just past, present, future" you look at him, and he swears he sees your eyes twinkling again in the light of the glass lamp on the side table.

You fan out the cards on the carpet and let him pick three cards.

He's reluctant about this, all he really wants is to cook dinner together and spend the evening with you.

You spread the three cards out and unveil the first one.

"Okay, so that's The Empress. Means you have a significant female figure in your life. It usually represents feminine beauty, abundance" you say, explaining it to him.

"You got some abundance, alright" he huffs a laugh, quickly silenced by a deathly stare. You didn't like it when he made fun of what you liked. You roll your eyes at him.

"Sorry, witchy. Keep going" he smiles, like he's about to crack another joke.

"Yeah, okay." you flip the middle card "what luck. You got the lovers" you say, unenthusiastically.

Eddie's eyes light up at the possibility of a joke "Is that the card that tells me I'm getting some sick pussy in the next five minutes?" he asks, his tone makes you want to throw the empty box of cards at his head.

"It looks like you're not taking it seriously, so what's the point" you go to stand up, but he stops you.

"Sorry, baby, please don't leave. I'm enjoying this, Sorry, I won't make any more jokes, I promise" he pleads, and a wicked idea sparks in your head. He sounds really pretty when he begs.

You let out an annoyed groan as you sit back down and you unveil the last card, his future.

Ace of wands. Sex really was in his cards tonight.

"What's that, baby?" he asks.

"Ace of wands. Looks like you're gonna get some 'sick pussy' after all, Munson. Lie down." You command.

He flushes red. "Huh?" you reach under your long skirt to remove your panties.

"I said lie down, I'm giving you what the cards said" you stare at him, expectation in your eyes as he lays down on the brocade carpet, unsure if he should feel afraid or like the luckiest motherfucker alive.

"Better put in the work, pretty boy" you say, crawling on top of him, he looks at you, eyes blown as you lift your skirt, climbing the length of his body. You reach a resting place right on top of his mouth.

It takes him a second to register that you're sitting on his face, and his tongue darts out of his open mouth, to shyly have a taste.

"C'mon now, Eddie, where is the passion? You seemed really passionate about cracking jokes earlier, didn't you?" you cooed, holding up your shirt to look at his eyes, twinkling and darkened as his tongue begins to lap up the length of your pussy.

He gets the hang of it as your hips begin to grind on his face, his tongue darting in and out of your hole as his nose bumps deliciously against your clit.

"Mmm fuck" you gasp as you raise your hips to let him breathe, but he just pulls you down harder. A gasp escapes your mouth as the sound of your moans and Eddie's slurping fills the room.

Even he hears it, because you can see his eyes roll to the back of his head as a resounding hum escapes his lips, vibrating against you, wet and sensitive.

A whine leaves your mouth as you begin to get more desperate, grabbing a handful of his hair, grinding your hips harder against his tongue.

"Doing so good for me, Ed." you say in a feeble attempt to keep the reins controlled, but his tongue works magic on you, making your brain turn to mush.

"There you go don't stop, don't you dare fucking stop" you command, and his tongue flicks against your clit, catching it between his teeth to begin to suck at it.

A mewl leaves your lips, feeling the familiar warmth in your belly begin to form as you pull harder on his hair, moans becoming more high pitched and strained as Eddie makes quick work of his tongue on you.

"'mgonna cum on your face, you want that?" you ask, a rhetorical question, because of course he wants you to gush all over him.

And so you do. You come with a silent scream, riding the orgasm out with the last few snaps of your hips, as your breathing stills and your vision goes white.

Eddie's also panting like a dog under you, aching in his pants for you to make him cum.

You get off his mouth, his chin coated with your fluids as he gathers them on his fingers and sticks them in his mouth. You can't help but mutter a "good boy" as you reach for the belt of his pants.

"Sit up" you command, as he goes to straighten his back and lean against your purple couch.

You take off his shirt "I'm gonna ride you, yeah?" he looks at you like you've just discovered that aliens are real.

"God, yes please, please" he says, looking up at you as you unzip your top off, and you swear his eyes grow bigger at the sight of your chest, your bra still on. A longing sigh leaves his mouth.

You unbutton his jeans and lower them to his mid thigh along with his boxers as his cock slaps against his tummy. He hisses at the feeling as he watches you align yourself on top of it.

"You want it, Ed?" you question, an aura of cool, calm control exuding from you.

He whines. "Please, I want it so bad. Please put it in" he begs, and you've never realized how pretty his voice sounded when begging. Whiny and high pitched, nasal, almost as if he were about to cry. A prayer for you to fulfill him, make him whole.

Like he is nothing without you.

Is that what it felt like for him to see you crying on his cock every night? A rush of power washes over you, as you motion to sink down on him, but quickly going back up.

He lets out a whiny cry, a bratty child without his candy.

"Uh- huh. Beg me to fuck you, Ed" you say. You swear you can feel him shiver, his cock jumping from underneath your skirt.

"F-fuck, please. Please fuck me. Please my love, my witch, my high priestess" he rambles, your hand creeps up his thick neck, wrapping around it "fuck mmm please, I'll do anything. I'll give you everything" a frenzied speech, his words speed up at the feeling of your nails scratching the skin of his neck.

He'd let you sacrifice him to the devil if you asked him.

Feeling his pulse point with your nails as you begin to squeeze the sides of it, a needy gasp escapes the pretty boy's mouth.

Flushed a pretty red, sweat clinging to the base of his neck and forehead, hair curling and sticking to his feverish skin as you begin to sink down on him.

Inch by inch, slowly feeling him fill you up, as a quiet "oh" escapes you once you've taken all of him.

His breath is quick and labored, quiet pleas rolling out of the sweetness of his tongue, where the taste of you lingers. The love potion you'd been administering him all along.

Eddie Munson is not a religious guy, but if he needs to pray to his goddess to get you to fuck him he'll do it.

But you start moving. A slow, feline movement of your back, almost as if you and Circe were the same creature, a shapeshifter from another world. A goddess, an empress of his body and mind. He was wrapped around your finger.

Your hands tighten around his neck as you grind yourself down on him, he whimpers.

"Mmmm, so big" you mutter against his ear, biting his lobe. And everything you do makes him whine and buck himself deeper inside you, hitting the spongy walls deep inside you, needing more of you. Needing you to swallow him whole.

And you comply, raising your hips and lowering them, bouncing yourself on him as if you were only using him to chase your own pleasure. The thought of it makes Eddie shiver and moan, a strangled sound coming out of his constricted throat.

He hopes your hand leaves a mark on his neck, so people know he's yours. So people know that the witch next door spelled him and he is now in love with her. He never wants to get away from her.

"You- you're so good" he whispers, hips rising and falling on his cock, head lolling as you feel yourself get close again.

"Yeah, baby? Thank me, then. Thank your goddess for making you feel so good" you command, and his hands travel through every inch of your body, feeling every ridge and crease and bump. Wanting to feel you, wanting to worship you.

"F-fuck, thank you, thank you, thank you." a prayer to his goddess, for making him feel so good. "Please more, I- I'm so-"

"You're close aren't you?" you coo, cradling the back of his head with your free hand. Making him look at you.

"'M so close, please let me let me let me please" he begins to chant, too far gone from the feeling of your nails digging on the sides of his neck, scratching his sweaty scalp, tongue tracing the outline of his lips as quick and labored breaths escape him.

"C'mon, cum for me" you whisper in his ear, letting go of his neck and latching your lips onto him, leaving a few purple bruises on his milky skin.

You feel him spill inside you with a whine, shivering, while you ride him for all he is, chasing your own release.

You follow him soon after, biting down on his shoulder. The taste of his sweaty skin lingering on your tongue.

You stay clung to him for a few minutes after, quiet and panting as he revels in the post- orgasmic feeling you've just given him.

"Never thought I would've been the submissive type" he huffs out with a laugh as you climb off of him.

"Well, you're welcome. Gonna go have a milk bath, be right back" you stand, reveling in the feeling of his spent spilling out of you.

He hears the shower turn on and as he's getting dressed, Circe comes to nuzzle on his lap.

He raises an eyebrow.

Where has she been the whole time? The rooms of your apartment were all open when you got back. She was probably just taking a nap in your bed.

He shrugs as he delivers a couple pets to her head.

Meanwhile in the bathroom, a spell book is suspended mid air as you look a spell to get rid of a hickey that Eddie had left on your neck.

mini taglist: @strangerstilinski, @stuckonthefiction, @elegantkoalapaper, @gravedigginbbydoll, @eddiesxangel, @reidsbtch, @bangaveragewhitewine, @chaoticharrington, @hideoutside, @monstxrteeth, @the-local-pendeja, @thornsnvultures, @strangerfreaks, @unverifiedmeatsuit, @strangerfreaks, @starlitlakes, @thebejeweledwatercat, @aphrogeneias, @chrrymunson, @amira0303, @paradise-summertime, @onegirlmanytales, @piecsesrising, @feralamdtiredrat, @m0llygunn , @angel-upon, @lavendermunson, @cowboylikemunson

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claws-and-quills · 16 days

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Hot Blooded

A/N: This takes place during Days of Future Past. There's just something about Logan dressed in those tight ass jeans and wearing that silk button-up that just does something to me.

CW: Breeding Kink, Some Choking, Oxygen Deprivation, Overstimulation, Oral (female receiving), Unprotected Sex, Mentions of Blood, Marking, Primal Dom!Logan, Jealous!Logan, implied age gap, established relationship, Mentions of Male and Female Anatomy

Genre: Smut, some Fluff at the end

Pairing: DOFP!Logan x Fem Reader

The club was packed shoulder to shoulder with a sea of dancing bodies. 70's disco blared over the speakers loud enough to make the bones in your body vibrate with every beat of the bass. Sure, you and Logan had been sent back into the past to fix and repair things between Charles and Erik, but that didn't necessarily mean that you were going to be a stickler the entire time. What better way to blend in than this? While you were jovial and lively, Logan remained more on the stoic side of things.

He watched you closely while you leaned over the pool table. His eyes slowly dragged across the curves of your breasts and waist, then along the curves of your ass and thighs. The spandex pants you wore clung to your curves in all the right places. His eyes trail back up along the length of your legs and the subtle curve of your back just above your hips. Reaching into the front pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a cigar and places it between his lips. Lighting the end of the cigar, he takes in a slow drag from it; the smoke slowly curls and swirls into the air from the flame.

“It's not rocket science, bub. C'mon, it can't be that hard, now can it?” He husks, smoke slowly billows from his mouth and nose as he speaks. You could feel his body against yours as he leans over you, resting his hands over yours to help you line up your shot against the number 2 ball. “Nice and easy, draw back, and shoot.”

The cue ball collides against the 2 and sinks it into the corner pocket. “Good girl. Now, let's see if you can do it to the 4 ball. Just like I showed you.” He pulls away to watch you. Your heart was pounding in your chest and ears. Parts of you wishing he hadn't pulled away. The overpowering aroma of rustic oak, leather, mint, and tobacco lingered in your senses. He smelled heavenly to you, and looked even better. You lift your gaze to be fixed on him. He was a fine piece of work indeed. Your eyes follow him as he walked around to the other side of the table, his eyes trained on you. There's a cocky smirk at his lips as his eyes trailed down to the teasing amount of cleavage your crop top had been showing off.

“Enjoying the view, Logan?” You finally ask with cocky confidence as you line up your shot against the 4 ball. Cursing under your breath as it rolls just short of the pocket. Perhaps you had spoken too soon, not that you minded. Despite his stoic exterior, Logan looked to be in his element. He was already a few beers deep into the evening and seemed to be enjoying himself with you even though you had to practically drag him out here.

“Don't go gettin’ too cocky now, bub. There's still plenty to go. We're just gettin’ started,” he exhales another plume of smoke before grabbing up his poolstick. You couldn't help but stare and drag your eyes across his body. The way his hair was slicked back, the first two buttons of his shirt were undone, showing off a teasing amount of hair on his chest. His dog tags hung lazily around his neck, drawing your attention to them. A familiar heat began to grow between your thighs, but who could blame you? There was something about seeing this side of Logan.

You prop yourself up onto a stool that sat catty-corner to the pool table. Grabbing up your bottle of beer and tipping your head back, you take a long drink while watching Logan. He was definitely beating your ass at this game of pool, but you didn't mind it. In fact, you were enjoying yourself a little too much to even care if you lost this game. You were far too engrossed in the atmosphere. The blaring music, flashing lights, the sea of bodies that covered the dance floor, the stylish clothes, but most of all, you got to have this moment with Logan. You watch intently as he sank several of the striped pool balls into the pockets around the table.

The atmosphere of the nightclub almost hypnotized you. It was so easy to lose yourself. Your body swayed slightly in rhythm with the melodies of the songs that blared over the speakers. It wasn't until you heard an unfamiliar sound of someone clearing their throat that you tuned back into reality. Your brows furrowed slightly at the sight of an unknown man leaning against the table. He rested an elbow on the table, his eyes trained on you which made you shift your weight and lightly tug at the hem of your top, adjusting its position to try to cover yourself from the prying eyes of the stranger.

“What's a foxy mama like you doin’ sittin’ here all by yourself? You look like you're ready to be jivin’. C'mon, let me show ya a good time.” The man gives you a wink and steps closer to you. The expression you held didn't seem to be enough to deter him away. “C'mon, don't be playin’ hard to get. A fine piece of ass like that oughtta be down for a piece of this. C'mon, babe. What's it gonna take?”

You feign a fake smile, setting your beer down and gesturing with your head towards the pool table where Logan had just aggressively struck the cue ball against the striped 9 ball. “It's gonna take you gettin’ through him. You're welcome to be my guest, but truthfully, I really wouldn't advise it.”

The man follows your gaze. He let's out a hefty snort of laughter. Something about his body language told you that this wasn't going to end well. “Pffft, you have got to be trippin’. Don't tell me you seriously came here with your Pops. Hey! Hey Pops! You mind if I borrow your daughter here for a quick sec?!” The man calls out over the music towards Logan. You swallow dryly at the death glare that glazed Logan's eyes. His eyes narrowed at the close proximity that this stranger had to you. In that moment, the small crowd of people that had been occupying the pool tables and dartboards had shifted their attention towards you, Logan, and this stranger.

Logan sets the poolstick down across the table. His movements were rigid and deliberate; his eyes never leaving from the stranger as he approached the table you sat at. He reaches in front of the stranger, placing himself in the middle of you and him as he grabs his glass of whiskey and tosses it back with ease. He stands there in silence for a few moments before curling an arm around your shoulders. There's a smug smirk at Logan's lips as he does so, as though daring this fool to say something else. You lean into his embrace, wrapping an arm around his waist after sliding your arm underneath his leather jacket. He arches a brow at the stranger, inclining his head just slightly. You could feel how the muscles along his back and sides tensed and flexed with the movement.

“Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time, Pops. But since you're right here, guess I'll go ‘head and ask ya again. You mind if I steal your daughter away here for a little bit? It's a Saturday night, and she is just lookin’ foxy as hell. And you, well, you look like maybe you can use a night to yourself. Y'know, can go get your jive on.” The stranger very stupidly jokes towards an unfazed Logan. The corners of Logan's mouth pull into a tight smile, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle slightly as he forces out a hearty laugh. This leads to the stranger and his subsequent group of friends to also erupt into laughter.

“I heard you loud and clear the first time, bub. Either you're incredibly ballsy, or incredibly stupid to ask me the same question twice.” Logan gently pulls away from you to step towards this stranger. Logan towered over the man with ease. “Now…do yourself the favor, and get out of here kid.”

You watched intensely at the exchange between the two. Of the years you've known Logan, never had you ever seen this side of him before. Seeing this side of him had you turned on and wanting more. Judging by the body language on Logan, this wasn't going to end well at all. You slide off the barstool, moving to stand beside Logan. “Lo…just leave this putz be. He's not worth getting riled up over. Besides, we have a game to finish.” You press your body against his arm while rubbing his chest. You could feel the way the muscles of his pectorals rippled and flexed. A groan falls from your lips as the stranger opens his mouth again, and Logan gives you a look worth a thousand words.

“Look, I'm jus’ sayin’, dude. An old man like you can't possibly keep up with a fox like her. So why don't you go back to your little game, an’ let me jus’ take–” Before the stranger can finish his sentence, Logan slugs him across the jaw, followed by kicking the knees out from under the man. You cover your mouth in both shock and amusement as the scene unfolds before you. The stranger is obviously dazed and confused on the ground. Logan snatches him by the scruff of his collar with a menacing snarl.

“Now listen here, bub. I tried to be nice. I did. But you just don't know when to shut the fuck up. Keep your fucking hands and eyes off my girl. Get out of here, you're not worth the fucking time,” Logan threatens, kicking the stranger in the ribs. The poor putz scrambles to get to his feet, tripping on his own feet while shooting a death glare towards Logan. He returns his attention towards you, snaking an arm around your waist to pull you against his body. You knew damn good and well that Logan wasn't one for public displays of affection, but his possessiveness over you turned you on beyond comprehension.

“Someone is getting jealous. He isn't even worth getting riled up over, Lo. Let's just enjoy ourselves while we can.” You say lowly while rubbing his chest. A small smirk tugged at the corners of your lips while you fiddle with the button on his shirt. He could smell the arousal that pooled between your thighs. “Or…we can ditch this place all together.”

“I thought you'd never ask.” He husks under his breath. Inclining his head, he gestures for you to head towards the exit of the club. His eyes were now trained on you as he followed closely behind. Every step he took was calculated, deliberate, and held purpose. Once outside, he shrugs out of his leather jacket to offer it to you as you both approach his motorcycle. “Once we get to the hotel, that ass is mine.”

A high pitched yelp escapes your lips at the sudden sting of his hand colliding against your ass. The spandex pants you wore didn't help one bit. The small layer of fabric didn't provide much protection for your ass. The skin there burned from the initial impact, but you knew you wanted more. You watch as Logan gives you a satisfied smirk while swinging a leg over his motorcycle while he waits for you to get situated behind him. You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your hands near the insides of his thighs. As he kick starts the engine, the vibrations of the rumbling engine made you want to squeeze your thighs together. Once you nod against his back, he revs the engine, speeding out of the parking lot.

The wind whipped through your hair as Logan weaved through the traffic on the streets. The night life was so much different from what you were used to back home. Parts of you wished you could stay in this time, this moment. You pull yourself closer against his back, one of your hands crept closer towards the inseam of his jeans and inching closer towards the ever growing bulge hidden beneath the fabric of his jeans. You eagerly palm his hardening cock through his jeans. A soft ‘fuck’ falls from his lips, only to be swept away in the icy wind of the night. The ride back to the hotel felt like it would never end. Throughout the entire ride, you agonizingly teased him and palmed his throbbing cock to the point the sexual frustration was beyond evident in his eyes. He brings the motorcycle to a screeching halt in the parking lot of the hotel, where he eagerly disentangles himself from your arms.

“You're fucking mine. You've been driving me crazy all fuckin’ night dressed like that.” Logan growls as he stands and pulls you against his chest. His lips crash into yours for a feverent and needy kiss. His hands grips your hips, nails digging into the tender flesh just above the waistband of your pants.

“Then make me yours. I'm all yours.” You breathe into the kiss. The primal growl that came from Logan, rumbled through his entire body. The hunger in his eyes made every fiber in your burn. You needed him to fuck you, to claim you. Using his height and body, he guides you to back up towards the entrance of the hotel. Once you manage to turn your back to him, he's following behind you again like a hungry wolf that's ready to devour you.

Your words drive him over the edge. He fumbles with the key-card to get into the room. His lips and breath are hot and demanding against the hollow of your neck. Once the door is open, you both nearly tumble to the floor in a frenzy of needy touches, kisses, and hands roaming across the spanse of each other's bodies. Logan's hands find their way to the bottom most curves of your ass, hefting you up against his body. Your legs wrap around his waist as he pushes you against the wall in a heated kiss. His teeth scrape against your lower lip, asking for entrance into your mouth. Obeying, your lips part and his tongue eagerly roams and explores the inside of your mouth. The kiss swallows your pitiful and needy moans as you taste Logan. You could still taste the faint remnants of whiskey and cigar on him, but it was intoxicating. Your hands eagerly work away the buttons of his shirt, roaming across his chiseled chest.

He slowly ruts his hips against yours. The friction elicits a heated whimper from you. “Logan, please…” you plead pitifully, raking your nails down his chest.

“Please what?” He growls while sucking on your lower lip. “Use your words.”

“Fuck me, Logan. Fuck me. Make me yours. Ruin me…” Another gasp falls from your lips as you're carried over to the bed, where he roughly sets you down. His lips crash against yours again; his hands grip your hips with a bruising strength before roaming up your body to just below your breasts. His fingers hook the hem of your crop top, pulling the fabric up and over your head and arms. Another moan is pulled from your lips at the rough sensation of his beard against the sensitive skin between the valley of your breasts. His mouth leaves a trail of hot kisses down your chest and abdomen, his tongue dipping into your navel before sinking his teeth harshly into the flesh just above your hip.

“Logan…Oh fuck…” you mewl helplessly as you lean back onto your elbows and kick your shoes off. He merely responds with another primal growl, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants and eases them down your thighs, tossing the garments somewhere across the room. Your eyes flutter as he kisses and nips a trail along the inside of your thighs. The scruffiness of his beard scratches at your skin, making you involuntarily try to close your legs, but he growls in protest, curling your legs over his broad shoulders. He locks gazes with you while placing a hungry but chaste kiss over your clothed clit. The dampness of your arousal against your panties grew more with every aching second that passed.

“Keep those legs open. I'm just getting started with you,” he commands through a husk against you. Using two fingers, he tugs your panties to the side to expose your glistening cunt. The hunger in his eyes grew more primal as he eagerly dipped his head into you. His tongue dragging agonizingly slow through your slick folds. His moan vibrates against your clit and quivering pussy as his mouth encases your clit. His tongue draws tight, deliberate circles around your bundle of nerves. He pulls away just enough to grab your panties into his other hand, tearing the flimsy fabric in half and tossing it haphazardly over his shoulder. Your fingers find their way into his hair, gripping tightly and guiding his head back towards your needy cunt.

“Oh fuck…fuck…Logan…” you mewl at the sensation of the heat of his mouth against your clit. Your eyes flutter again as his tongue works you like a puppet. Every flick against your clit sent bolts of electricity through your body. He groans against you at the sensation of your nails digging into his scalp. Without warning, he plunges two thick fingers into your sopping pussy, earning a pleasurably pained squeal from you. A soft whimper escapes you as he pulls his fingers out, only to ram them into you again, this time deeper. Your walls flutter around his fingers, signaling to him to slowly fuck his fingers in and out of your needy cunt while he continued to eat you out. Soon enough, the room is filled with the squelching sounds of your pussy being ravaged by Logan.

With every pump, twist, and curl of his fingers, the fire in your belly grew hotter and hotter. You began to instinctively grind your hips onto his fingers and mouth. The harshness of the stubble on his chin left your legs trembling. With every flutter of your walls, Logan worked his fingers deeper into you, curling them upwards against your g-spot. The sensation makes your vision go white for a split second as you beg for him to do it again. He flicks his tongue against your clit in rhythm with the way he fucked his fingers deeply into you. This was enough to make the coil in your stomach become harder to control. Your thighs began to tremble and shake, the walls of your pussy convulsing as your orgasm grew nearer.

“L-Logan! Oh fuck!” You cry out helplessly as the first wave of your orgasm rocks through your body. He pulls his fingers out, your squelching orgasm following right behind. There's a dark chuckle that rumbles in his chest as he eagerly laps up your orgasm. Your legs tremble uncontrollably as you try to push him away. The sinful sounds of your squirting orgasm splashing against his chin and onto the floor fills the room. You cover your mouth to muffle the squeal that is pulled from deep within your chest. With every panting breath, your chest rises and falls, gasping for air.

“Fuck…you're doing so well. So good. I'm not finished with you.” He spoke gruffly. You lift your head to gaze at him. His chin, throat, and chest all glistened with remnants of your orgasm. His hair was a disheveled mess; his shirt bunched up and wrinkled around his waist. You swallow thickly at the prominent bulge in his jeans. He makes quick work of unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it somewhere across the room. His eyes drank in your form, dragging across the curves of your body. “Turn over. Hands and knees. Now.”

Just as you turn to get onto your hands knees as commanded, you hear the familiar clink of his belt buckle falling against the floor. After kicking off his jeans and boxers, he kneels behind you, swiping his fingers through your pussy once again. You grip the sheets in your fists at the sensation of him slowly dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds. Lining himself up properly, he slams into you, snapping his hips and burying his entire length inside of your sopping cunt. He snakes an arm around you, his hand finding your throat, digging his thumb and index into your pulse. He leans into you, forcing your knees deeper into the mattress as his chest presses against your back.

“When I'm finished with you, no other man is gonna lay his eyes on you. Everyone is gonna know just who you belong to.” He husks against the shell of your ear, earning a needy whimper from you. As he sits back up onto his knees, he drags his nails down your throat and chest, across your abdomen, and up onto your hip. He sinks his thumbs into the dimples just above the crest of your hips, pulling out of you, only to slam into again. His movements are forceful, powerful, and deliberate. Each snap of his hips rocks your entire body.

The grip he used to hold onto you with was bound to leave bruises, but you didn't care. You wanted him to mark you as his own, to claim you, to ruin you for any other man. Small, pitiful squeaky moans escape you with every thrust that rocks through your body. The room is soon filled with the sounds of the bed creaking, mixing into the symphony of pitiful squeaks and moans that Logan is able to force out of you, and the sinful sounds of skin colliding against skin. You pant raggedly, gripping the sheets tightly and biting onto the corner of a pillow as tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

He drags a calloused hand up the length of your spine, stopping at the nape of your neck, where his fingers become entangled into your hair. He tugs harshly, pulling your head away from the pillow, your mouth falls open into a small ‘o’, a symphony of broken profanities fall from your lips. You manage to catch a glimpse of him from over your shoulder. The veins in his arms bulged slightly under his skin, small beads of sweat decorated his chest in a slick sheen of moisture that made his skin glisten in the pale moonlight. His hips snap against your, hitching forward as he grinds his cock deep into your sweet, tight, pussy.

“Fuck…you feel so good on my cock. You're taking me so well. Look at you…fucking beautiful.” He husks while leaning down to kiss and bite the back of your shoulder. His canines sank deep into your flesh, threatening to draw blood. You cry out helplessly at the searing pain. Hot blood pricks at your skin; the pain is soothed at the sensation of Logan's tongue tracing the rapidly bruising skin with his tongue. A shaky whimper falls from your lips as he pulls out, resting on his knees. “Turn over. Wanna see that pretty face while I fuck a baby into that tight, little pussy.”

Your legs felt like jello beneath you. He releases your hair, grabbing onto your hips to help roll you onto your back. His eyes rake over your body, snarling grin as he licked his lips. Your blood still fresh on his tongue; the metallic taste drove him wild. You weren't sure what came over Logan, but you wanted everything he had in store for you. Cupping a hand under one of your knees, he hikes it up onto his hip, placing his other hand on the mattress next to your head as he buries his entire girthy length into you again. Your eyes flutter at the sensation of being filled by him again. Your chest rose and fell with every gulp of air you tried to suck down while he fucked you into the mattress. Small grunts and growls fell from his lips, mixed in with small words of praise towards you.

You curl your legs around his waist, pushing him in deeper. This encourages him to lean over you completely, his forehead pressed against yours. His dog tags dangle carelessly around his neck, swinging with every hitch and snap of his hips against yours. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you pull him into a needy and breathy kiss. Your tongues meet in a flurry of passion, allowing you to taste the remnants of your orgasm on his breath. His hand finds its way back to your throat; his fingers digging into your pulse and making your head spin at the sudden lack of oxygen. Your eyes flutter as a familiar coil begins to twist in your stomach. Within seconds it's impossible to hold back. Your walls flutter and contract around his cock as your second orgasm surges through your body, blurring your vision.

“Oh fuck. Such a messy girl. So fucking messy.” He groans against your lips. Slowly, he moves his head to the valley between your breasts. His breath is hot and needy; his tongue swirls around the tender bud of one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth. Your back arches upwards into him at the sensation. His hand slides down your side and onto your other breast. The roughness of his hand felt heavenly on your silky smooth skin as he massaged your breast, rolling and pinching your nipple between his thumb and index finger, earning a high pitched squeal from you.

Within moments, he switches the positions of his hand and mouth. Your nipples grow hard and achy at the attention. Your thighs quiver and tremble around his waist. You knew there was no way you could last much longer. Every fiber in your body felt ablaze as you chanted his name like a sinful prayer while your eyes flutter. Gripping his hair, you eagerly pull his head from your aching breasts. A string of saliva being the only thing still connected between his demanding mouth and your aching nipple.

“Lo…fuck…please…” You pant, unable to form a coherent sentence. The coil developing in your abdomen was growing tighter. There was born possible way you could cum for a third time, but the hungry look in Logan's eyes said everything his mouth didn't. The way his hips stuttered against yours, you knew that he was getting close to his orgasm as well.

“Fuck…M’close too…gonna fill you up, pretty girl.” He growls, gripping the headboard in his fist until his knuckles turned white. You drag your nails down his back, digging your heels into the back of his thighs. Your walls clench around him tightly, sending him over the edge. You gasp as his claws sink into both the mattress and the wall as he paints the inside of your quivering cunt white. The searing warmth of his cum fills and warms you straight to the core. Your nails sink deep into the flesh of his shoulders as your third orgasm wrecks your body, filling the room in squelching sounds.

His hips slow against yours, slowly coming to a stop as he pants heavily against your shoulder. Your legs slowly fall from his waist, trembling uncontrollably from the overstimulation. A small ‘fuck’ comes from his lips as he lifts his head to gaze down at you. Once you both come down from your highs, he retracts his claws and pulls you into a tight embrace, tenderly caressing your arms and back.

“Fuck…did I hurt you? Shit…” He peppers your cheeks in tender kisses as he cradles you. His thumb tenderly caresses the bruising and bleeding bite mark he left on the back of your shoulder. “I got too carried away…”

“Ssshhh….it's okay. I…I liked it…” You assure him and rub his chest. He presses a tender kiss to the crown of your head as he stands up, still cradling you on his arms and walking with you to the bathroom for a much needed hot bath.

“Still though…I got too carried away, bub. Way too carried away…” It was the closest to an apology you'd probably get out of him, but you were satisfied with that. He let's you lay against his chest in the hot water, his thumbs drawing small circles on your hips. You lean into the crook of his chest, sighing contentedly while pressing a chaste kiss over his heart.

“I love you, Logan…”

“I love you too…”

#marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel comics #x men fanfiction #x men comics #days of future past #logan howlett #james logan howlett #wolverine #marvel blog #marvel smut #nsft fanfic #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine x reader #hugh jackman wolverine #hugh jackman #wolverine smut #18+ mdni

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lavenderspence · 4 months

Text

To Lean On You | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Content Warning: post prison!Spencer, mentions of addiction, prison talk (typical for the prison arc), gun use, mentions of death, suggestive themes, idiots in love, angst, so much angst.

Word Count: 8.6K

Summary: You and Spencer wasted years, truths hidden, feelings uncertain, and a fear of the unrequited. It took ten weeks, isolated, silent, and broken, for the realization to strike. There was no life, if you didn’t have each other.

A/N: It’s finally here! Wow, writing this was a wild ride, honestly. Over a month of writing, blood, sweat, and tears poured over it (there were in fact some tears). This is also the first thing I’ve written in 3 years and I'm very happy to finally be out of my slump. It's probably the angstiest thing I've written ever, and at the same time, I feel like it's not the greatest, but deep down, I still love it, haha. Let me know if I've missed any warnings. And, enjoy and any feedback is appreciated. <3

Here are some of the songs I listened to while writing this if you want to get into the mood:

Hearts by Jessie Ware

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived by Taylor Swift

Lost Without You by Freya Ridings

In This Shirt by The Irresponssibles

79 days, 3 hours, and 27 minutes - that’s how long it’s been since he got arrested in Mexico.

70 days, 6 hours, and 13 minutes since you saw him being pulled out of the courtroom after he was deemed a flight risk and denied bail. 70 days, 6 hours, and 13 minutes have passed since you last saw him.

65 days, 7 hours, and 11 minutes, since he was transferred to Millburn Correctional Facility, and this whole nightmare, had started.

Per Penelope’s carefully crafted schedule, every team member has made numerous trips to visit Spencer - every member except you. You’d only made one trip out, and that had been 3 days after he’d been transferred.

March 4th, 2017

It’s been 8 days since you saw him led in cuffs out of that courtroom, where Penelope had broken down in Luke’s arms, everyone too shocked to make a sound. He’d looked back, his eyes meeting yours briefly, and it had been as if you’d almost seen your reflection in the mirror, every emotion had run between you both in a matter of seconds.

Shock, you’d almost been sure they would grant bail, and you’d be able to take him home. Almost.

Fear, for his future and his well-being. Fear of the uncertain.

Desperation, the desire to run to him and take him into your arms, finally, and to not let go.

Except you’d held his gaze for as long as you could before you’d looked down and turned your head to save him from seeing you break down in tears. You’d made a hasty escape after that, not sparing any of your teammates a glance, and walked out of the courthouse, stopping by a tree outside. The urge to curl up into a ball and hide, pretending none of this had happened, was strong, and then a hand wrapped around your shoulder. You had turned around, only to see Rossi and one of his sad little smiles, the ones you rarely saw.

“It’s going to be okay,” he’d said, squeezing your shoulder. ”The kid is strong.”

You’d sniffled, trying to hide the tears in your voice. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure I am," you’d whispered in despair.

You were better than you had been 8 days ago, calmer. Although still heartbroken, you were looking forward to seeing him, seeing with your eyes that he was okay. Garcia had seen him, 2 days ago, before you’d been sent out on a case.

“He looks good. I mean, as good as that big genius brain of his can look in prison. His eyes were sad though, really, really sad.” She’d paused as if to assure herself it would be alright, “I’m sure he’s looking forward to seeing you, sweetness.” She’d squeezed your hand, but her statement hadn’t rung true.

Your hands were shaking, you weren’t sure what from. The anticipation you’d felt? The nerves? Or the words you had a hard time coming to terms with.

“I’m sorry, but your name isn’t on Spencer Reid’s approved visitor list,” the guard at the checkpoint had said after rechecking the list.

“There has to be a mistake, I made an appointment,” you insisted, feeling yourself unravel. It wasn’t possible, you knew for a fact you were on that list, Emily had made sure of that.

“Look, lady. There are only 10 names on that list, and yours is not one of them. Now, you need to move, because there are people here waiting to see their loved ones.” you’d hiccuped and turned around, walking to the lockers to unlock your gun, badge, and phone.

“I’m here to see a loved one.” You’d wanted to scream, but you knew it would have been futile. There wasn’t anything you could do at that moment.

You walked to your car, dialing Emily’s number, “This is Prentiss.”

For a second, only your breathing could be heard over the sound of the wind, and then a tiny sniffle. You wiped at your eyes and nose, and then spoke up, barely, “Why am I not on Spencer’s approved visitor list?”

“What do you mean? Every member of this team is on the list. So is his lawyer and Diana, even Derek,” you could hear the surprise in her voice, yet you couldn’t keep calm any longer.

"They refused to let me see him! I made the appointment, Emily, and I came, hoping I’d finally see him hear his voice, and ask him-” Your voice broke mid-sentence, and after taking a deep breath, you continued, “Ask him if he was okay, and I was denied because out of the 10 names on that list, it seems mine’s not one of them.” You finished defeated, barely above a whisper.

All was silent for the moment, save for what you could hear was Penelope’s voice on the other end of the line, quietly asking what was going on, “Let me call Fiona and the warden, and I’ll see what happened. Meanwhile, I need you back here, because we just got a case.” Her voice wasn’t leaving anything up for discussion. Still, you couldn’t go, not until you saw him.

“Emily-” she cut you off.

“It’s not a discussion. I’ll resolve this, but I need you here and your head in the game. Am I clear?” Her voice was stern, but maybe that’s exactly what you needed. Maybe.

“Yeah, clear. I’m on my way back.” You took a deep breath and started the car and the journey back to Quantico, but your mind stayed right there, on the bars that kept you away from the one thing you held dearest.

As it turns out, there was nothing the warden or Fiona could do. Even Emily Prentiss, Unit Chief of the BAU, couldn't “resolve” the situation. Days, weeks, and months passed, and for 70 days you couldn’t see him, isolated out, not even knowing why.

“-to be in the courthouse in one.” You snapped out of your thoughts, only catching the end of the sentence, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. You were tired, and it had little to do with the fact that you had been up all night, going over all the evidence with the team and tracing Lindsey Vaughan’s steps to a T in an attempt to exonerate Spencer and finally bring him home.

You were exhausted, both physically and mentally. You’d been up for more than 24 hours now, but then you hadn’t been sleeping all that well to begin with. Every single night was spent wondering how Spencer was doing, and every time you closed your eyes, you saw him in that cell in Mexico.

His eyes were red, high out of his mind, barely coherent, dirty, and injured - a far cry from the person you were used to seeing every single day - energetic, passionate, and brilliant. After 12 years, if there was one image you wished to erase from your memory, it was this one. Not all the blood you’ve seen spilled, every victim, be it men, women, or even children, all the horrors of the job, but this. Maybe it made you a bad person, but there was nothing worse than seeing the one person you held dearest at their lowest and not being able to do anything to stop it.

Every waking hour that you weren’t on the job was spent wondering how he was doing and if he was okay. If he was healthy, unharmed, and safe, or as safe as an FBI agent could be in prison. But most of all, the one thing that had kept you up at night, slowly destroying your sanity and making you question everything, had been the one question you couldn’t seem to get an answer to.

“Why doesn’t he want to see me?”

You’d asked everyone and had waited with battered breath for an answer, a clarification on the matter, and it never came. As shocked as you had been at the notion that you wouldn’t be seeing Spencer for an indefinite amount of time, your team had been even more shocked. They knew the kind of relationship you and Spencer had, how close you’d become over the years, and how much you relied on each other.

You’d asked every team member, you’d asked yourself, you’d even asked Spencer in a few of the letters you wrote to him, and then there had come a point where you just stopped.

You were torturing yourself more than enough, day after day, and every single night, asking yourself a question you wouldn’t get an answer to. Not as long as he was locked up in that hellhole and you were out here, trying to keep together the pieces of something, that was on the verge of breaking.

You felt a hand taking hold of yours, and for a second, you tensed up. Pulled out of your thoughts, you looked up and were met with chocolate brown eyes, full of worry - Emily’s eyes.

You glanced around the room, only to realize it was empty, save for the two of you. You hadn’t felt when the others had left, that’s how deep in thought you had been.

“Where did you go? I’ve been calling your name for a while now,” she spoke gently, squeezing your hand. If you were honest, that’s the first time she asked you anything about the situation. You’d spent weeks suffering in silence and trying to pretend that you weren’t slowly dying on the inside.

You briefly thought about lying, it wouldn’t be the first lie you’d told since Spencer had been incarcerated, but you didn’t have it in you to hide anymore.

And so, for the first time since Spencer’s hearing, you told the truth.

“Nothing makes sense anymore, Em,” it left you in a whisper, “I’m barely holding it together. I feel like I’m drowning sometimes, and just when I breach the surface, I’m pulled back in. My mind, it’s...I question everything, all the time. My mornings start with thoughts about him, and my nights end with tears over him, over this entire…this nightmare. I keep waiting for my alarm to go off, to wake up and realize that this has been a plot of my imagination, some cruel joke my mind has conjured, designed to show me... "Your eyes welled with tears, prepared to admit something you should have long ago. Emily gave your hand another squeeze, prompting you to continue, and so you did, admitting it for the first time aloud.

“Designed to show me that I can’t live a life that doesn’t have Spencer in it.” You wiped at your eyes, willing your tears at bay. When you dared to look up, you were met with the eyes of the only other person besides Spencer who has been a constant rock in your life for the last 11 years. What you saw in her eyes then wasn’t surprise like you’d thought, but relief. It took you a moment to fully read her, but it was like a switch had gone off when you finally did.

“But you’re not surprised to hear this, are you?” you smiled sadly, a light laugh leaving you.

“I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t have my suspicions, and I’d be an even worse profiler,” she smiled at you, “Plus, there are some feelings that you just can’t hide,” you blinked, and then you blinked again. You hadn’t come right out and said it, and yet she knew, she somehow knew.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” you tried to backtrack, but you knew it was a losing battle. Emily knew you well enough to smell your bullshit from miles.

“That’s exactly how you meant it, and don’t even try to deny it. I see it every damn day. It’s how you leave the room whenever you hear someone talk about visiting Spencer. You don’t want to hear how he’s doing because you wouldn’t believe it, not unless you see him with your own eyes. But you can’t, so you’ve resigned yourself to the torture of not knowing instead of giving yourself the smallest amount of peace by asking. You’ve been suffering in silence for almost three months, too stubborn to say anything, thinking you were doing yourself a favor. And what for? You’re crying yourself to sleep every night and coming to work the next morning, pretending everything is fine when clearly it’s not. You think you’re fooling everyone, but the only person you’re tricking is yourself. And how’s that working out for you?” she had a point, and it’s not like you weren’t aware of that fact. You knew what you were doing wasn’t okay or healthy. You had the most stable support system imaginable to get you through the hardest parts. It was hard, though, especially when the person who was suffering the most was the person who’d taken your heart with him.

“Way to call me out, boss.” you were just about ready to end the conversation, you couldn’t take any more of this. You’d promised each other long ago that you wouldn’t profile each other but you had a feeling that was exactly what Emily was doing right now. Maybe not on purpose, and with every good intention imaginable, but you didn’t want that. You didn’t want one of your best friends to try to understand you based on behavioral analysis right after you’d spilled your soul out to her.

“Just calling it the way I see it, someone has to,” she smiled, but then she shook her head a little before continuing. “What I want to know is why you didn’t say something earlier. You know I would have been there to listen, and so would have the team.” Damn, Emily Prentiss.

You didn’t have to think hard about it, you’ve been ruminating over everything for days. You were trying not to, but whenever your mind wasn’t focused on a case or the many drinking nights spent in Penelope’s purple adobe, that was where your mind would take you.

“Out of fear, I think,” you started, unsure for a second, still nervous to admit it. It wasn’t exactly what she was asking, but it was a start, “I was afraid, and I still am. I’ve been baiting myself into thinking it was just some sort of fondness, a little stronger than that which you feel towards a friend, and far lesser than what it actually is. I thought that if I didn’t say anything, I could go on lying to myself, and nothing would have to change, we wouldn’t have to change. Because words hold meaning, and an admission like that holds weight. What would I have done if it was just me who felt like this? I would have ruined the one thing we’ve both cherished for over a decade.” It felt good to finally say all of this out loud instead of holding it inward. But then again, Emily always knew when you'd had enough.

She’d told you time and time again the same thing Hotch had asked of her when she returned to duty after faking her death: “Let me know when you are having a bad day.”. Honestly, you’d held off long enough, and so had she. It was a whole miracle she hadn’t pressed you about your behavior earlier.

“That’s not what I was asking,” you said, shaking your head with a smile to let her know that you weren’t done speaking.

“Everyone was suffering as a result of what happened in Mexico, what I was feeling wasn’t any different, Emily.” You were flippant about it, you always have been. You preferred isolating yourself and hiding everything instead of seeking a shoulder to bear the weight of what you felt.

“Our sadness came from the fact that our friend was framed. And yours? That’s different.”

“It isn’t,” she scoffed, getting up. Now you really felt like you were about to get scolded like a child.

“Yes, it is. God, you and Spencer are the same. It’s like I’m looking at his doppelganger without the whole… IQ of 187. You share some of the worst qualities a person can have,” you laughed at that, “You are both changeophobes-” you cut her off

“Metathesiophobia, fear of change.” She only raised her hand at you, as if to say, “See, you even sound like him,” which made you laugh even more.

“You close yourselves off after a sad or traumatic experience, silently hoping you’d be able to get through the worst of it on your own. Most of the time, it’s evident that’s not the case. You only ask for help when you’ve reached rock bottom or have no other choice, but you’ve had a choice from the get-go. Your stubbornness even stems from the same anxieties, it’s infuriating,” she seemed to calm down then, in defeat maybe, or she hadn’t been mad, to begin with, she sat down again.

“My point is, it shouldn’t have taken you learning that he might be coming home today to tell me all of this. I’ve known for a long time that there was something far more than platonic friendship on your end. You shouldn’t have tortured yourself since his trial to try to put the puzzle pieces together. You aren’t late, you have all the time in the world to say what you feel and what you want, and rejection shouldn’t be a factor, believe me. You need to make peace with that fear because Spencer is coming home today. And whether you are ready or not, you both need to have a serious conversation.” You appreciated her determination about Spencer being released, but then again, you had more than circumstantial evidence to support the fact that he was innocent. But, as always, Emily was right. He was coming home today, and after months of not seeing each other, there were a lot of things you needed to say.

“I know. Thank you, Emily, for everything,” you whispered, squeezing her tight.

Spencer’s POV

The first breath of fresh air after being on the inside for months felt far more overwhelming than he thought it would be. Being in charge of your being and your responses and emotions felt almost unnatural like the feeling of it didn’t belong to him. The sound of the wind and the traffic, people’s voices, and even the simple act of getting comfortable in the leather seats of the jet overwhelmed any ability to concentrate and think straight.

In itself, it was strange. The prison was loud, the prison commissary at breakfast, lunch, and dinner was a cacophony of prisoners talking, cells being opened, and guards barking orders. The yard was loud too, although, in the middle of nowhere, nature could still be heard - the sounds of trees and the lone birds, if he had to guess a mix of Mourning Dove and Field Sparrow. Their songs were soothing most of the time, a welcome distraction from the usual noises around him.

Without the atmosphere he’d gotten used to and subjected to all of those sounds and people whose presence he found comforting before, he now felt almost out of place. He wanted to feel at peace, he wanted to feel free, and although he technically was, his mind was more trapped than he’d actually been in that 2 by 2 cell in cellblock C.

He kept replaying some of the hardest moments from his time in, every threat, every punch he’d gotten, and the phantom feel of the fists connecting. Luis’ blood on his hands, the smell of bleach incorporated with the drugs, the tip of the sharpened toothbrush embedding into his thigh. All he’d done to survive, harm, and more harm, only to make it out alive.

He barely recognized himself. He’d deliberately ignored looking at himself in the small plastic mirror in his cell, for fear of seeing what he’d had to become. Gone was the Spencer who’d use his brain to get out of situations, whose obliviousness more often than not helped to balance his intellect with the socially acceptable. Gone was the bubbly personality of a kid excited to share a plethora of facts with his friends.

In his place sat a man, tormented by the reality of the hatred felt towards him. The reality of being a pawn in a game whose complexity could have been his downfall. A man whose genius, as much of a blessing, could sometimes be a curse. A man who had felt too much and was made to experience far more loss than his quaint heart was able to take. In the end, he kept losing, be it his father, by no choice of his own. His mentor, at the hands of a killer’s insanity. His friends and loved ones, hoping for a better life or his freedom, made to rot in a place he didn’t deserve to be in.

Some would doubt that he had anything at all left to lose. All in all, how much more could the scrawny twelve-year-old child prodigy, left to survive in a public high school, take?

His mind had been plagued by that question for years. He’d thought about that more than he’d like to admit. After every loss, there’d been a split moment where he’d asked himself what was next. What would be the next thing life would take from him? And every time, he’d had to wonder if, next time, life wouldn’t reach for the one thing he couldn’t allow to be taken from him. The one thing that, were he to lose, he’d never recover. He had hoped, sometimes prayed, that after everything he’d seen, everything he’d lived through, this would be the one thing that’d be spared.

Locked in that cage, he’d tried even harder to ensure that there wouldn’t be another loss in his life - not anymore. Be it good or bad, he’d done everything. For 70 days, he’d had to assure himself he was doing what he thought was right, and what he wasn’t saying, he’d be forgiven for. He’d had to dodge questions and see the disappointment in his friend’s eyes, and when that wasn’t enough of a burden to bring all of his anxieties to the surface, he’d resigned himself to reading the words of the person he was doing all of this for - you.

He’d reread every letter to the point where the edges of the papers were worn out, even though he’d known the contents by heart on the first read. He tortured himself by looking at your handwriting, analyzing the slanting of the words and the pressure of the pen. The little stains on the paper, he didn’t have to be a genius to know, were your tears. It broke his heart, to know he was causing you this much pain. He didn’t need to be there to see it, he felt it through your words.

He often questioned if it was worth it, if he was protecting you, or himself, or maybe even what you were or weren’t.

Even now, the weight of your words sat heavily on his mind, and right by his heart, in the pocket of his jacket, he felt the weight of the 9 letters you wrote.

As he looked over from the little window of the jet, he couldn’t help but wonder if, in his desire to shield you from everything, he hadn’t gone too far. Ultimately, was he going to be forgiven, or be forced to pick up the pieces of the reality broken by his own doing?

“Don’t do that.” JJ’s gentle voice startled him from the overwhelming nature of his thoughts. She’d spent the last 30 minutes since they boarded silently observing him, waiting for him to pick up a conversation. But he’d decided to stay num.

In every twitch of his fingers, in his desire to get comfortable but being unable to, she could see that he was restless. If she had to guess, his mind was much the same.

“Do what?”

She gave him a look, one, had he not known her long enough, he might have been offended by. Clearly, she was offended herself, watching him play the clueless card.

“Spence, I don’t need to profile you to know that your mind’s running a thousand miles a minute, contemplating your decisions, and I don’t think you should. You did what you thought was right, and no one blames you for that, not for Mexico, and not for what you did after,” she spoke evenly, gathering even Penelope and Alvez’s attention from where they sat. He looked over, receiving a smile and a nod from both before focusing on JJ again.

Rationally, he knew she was right about everything. He didn’t need to run himself ragged with everything he could have done differently, or search for the perfect way to explain, or overall, the perfect outcome of his own decisions. He knew there wasn’t one, there was no perfect way to say what he needed to, no perfect words to pick so he could fix this and erase the pain he knew he’d caused.

Perfection wasn’t something you could strive to achieve, because there’s no such thing as perfection. The term was diverse, everyone had a different perspective on what that might look like. If for JJ, perfection was the family that waited for her at home every time she returned from a case, for Spencer, perfection was vastly different.

For him, perfection was the rich aroma of coffee that could cause someone’s insulin to spike because of the amount of sugar in it. The softness of a book page between his fingers, or the familiarity of a book he’d read before but needed to revisit.

Perfection was the sound of your laugh whenever he was the one to prompt the sound. The way your eyes lit up every time you listened to him babble on. Perfection was the time he got to spend with you every day, every hour, and every minute that he could remember with almost scary accuracy.

He could sit and wonder what the perfect way to go about this was, but there simply wasn’t one, there was only the truth. And as painful, hopeful, or even a little dumb as it was, that was the best he could give.

And maybe that’s what his mind should focus on instead, the truth, in its simplest form, at its core the truth he’d hidden for months, and then the truth he’d hidden for years.

He had wondered long enough if he’d made the right choice. He spent plenty of time focusing on the shame he’d felt, prompted by the disappointment he’d seen in his friends’ eyes whenever they brought up your name. How he’d sit, silent, or give an answer so short and angry, it’d add even more shame to the one he already felt.

Beyond his time in prison, where he spent most of his time questioning his decisions, he spent years before that questioning himself as a person. His place on the team, his intelligence, even his failings. His inability to form relationships where he’d be seen as more than Dr. Reid, or the skinny kid, pretty boy, or a genius. A relationship that’d make him feel like simply Spencer, without the added adjectives, that sometimes made him feel like a circus clown.

Only when he’d been locked up, had he started to realize that he’d finally built a relationship with someone with whom he could be himself. The most basic, boring, and peaceful version of himself, and slowly, all had started falling into place.

How content he felt whenever he was around you, the desire to tell you every good or bad news he received. How when you asked about his mother, it warmed his heart, or how worried he felt when you acted stupid in the field. How out of control he’d felt when you’d gone missing last year. Or even, at the time, the unexplained jealousy he’d felt seeing you talk with another man.

Morgan had asked, once, twice, a lot, if maybe he didn’t have a crush, but he’d denied it, every time. And every time he’d question himself, he'd dismiss the idea just as quickly.

Yet, upon being forced away from you, the pieces had started mending into one.

Every realization he’d had was like a new broken piece being glued to the overall mosaic. And every new piece added built everything he felt about you. And it was a lot, and it was overwhelming, and so, so right, it sometimes felt wrong. Because he was inside a prison of his own doing, and you were out there, made to wait for him, for an explanation, for the truth.

And he’d vowed to himself that the moment he was out, he’d put everything on the table, no matter how much he’d fucked up or how much he’d hurt you. He’d sit there, and he’d let it out, and if necessary, he’d even beg for your forgiveness.

Because there wasn’t a moment in this life, he wanted to live through, without you there with him.

Your POV

You pulled the trigger, your eyes focused, and your hands steady. Three consecutive shots were fired, each one hitting its intended target. Three more followed, and then as many as it took to empty the magazine.

You put down the gun and took a deep breath, steadying your heartbeat, trying to rid yourself of the deep-seated anxiety you felt. An odd sense of calm overtook you whenever you found yourself at the shooting range. Maybe it was the everpresent scent of gunpowder or the quiet only disturbed by the firing of a gun. Or even the possibility of escaping your rising thoughts, the desire to run or scream, sometimes both.

There was a sense of solitude there that almost made it easier to breathe. The repetitive motion and the weight of the gun in your hands felt like second nature.

Front sight, trigger press, follow through, just like Hotch had taught you all those years ago. As long as you held that gun, your mind was quiet, and you focused on something other than the worry you felt.

It made sense you found yourself there shortly after Emily had shared the long-awaited good news - Spencer was finally free, and JJ, Penelope, and Luke were on route back with him. For a short moment, you’d felt the weight being lifted from your chest, and then it dropped again, now tripled.

Suddenly, your earlier conversation with Emily had gotten as real as the target before you. Even with the sense of peace, you’d felt after, your thoughts on the matter clear, you still felt a sense of dread at the idea of seeing him.

As if he wasn’t your best friend, the man who’d long ago won your affection and captured your heart, but rather a stranger who held your future in his hands. And he might as well be, because whatever the truth to the questions you wanted answered was, one thing was for sure.

It’d either make or break you both.

You picked up a new magazine, and loaded the gun, aiming at the target before releasing the safety. Before you fired again, you released a breath, and with it, all the feelings within you - fear, uncertainty, yearning, and the sense of madness, which, although mild, was persistent.

You fired once, twice, your aim impeccable, and then, out of nowhere, you missed.

The hair at the back of your neck rose, your heart rate quickened, and the feeling of another’s presence in the room was unmistakable. It took you just a second to put the pieces together, the intrusion felt like anything but that.

Instead, for a brief moment, the person brought with them a familiar feeling of calm. In the next instance, though, reality came crashing like a tidal wave, and you knew you’d run out of time.

Your hands shook as you put down the gun. You could feel him watching you, probably standing next to the door, as if he couldn’t will himself to move closer. The anxiety was palpable in the air, although you couldn’t really say if it was yours or his, most likely, it was a mix of both.

You went to reach for your protection but hesitated. Once you took it off, there’d no longer be an excuse for you to ignore him, you’d finally have to meet the reality he’d so carefully crafted for you.

Even though you felt like you could barely breathe, the desire to finally lay your eyes on him won out.

Without missing another beat, you took off your earplugs and then your eye protection. You could faintly hear the sound of shoes squicking against the floor. He could never stay still when he was nervous.

You picked up on the sound of your own breathing too, the beating of your heart was almost erratic. You were waiting, what for, you weren’t sure.

He was waiting too, for you to turn around, to lay his eyes on you. Like a sadist, waiting to see the pain he’d caused, or a masochist, wishing for his own in turn.

70 days of slowly killing you both.

When you finally dared to turn around, it took you a moment to fully take him in. He looked like the Spencer you knew, yet there was something different about him too. Dressed in his usual suit and tie outfit, he didn’t look comfortable. His posture was rigid, almost defensive. It wasn’t a conscious decision, that much you were sure of.

His hair was longer, pushed back, curling at the ends, and he’d lost some weight. Not much, but enough to make an impression after all this time. He looked pensive, like the weight of the world sat on his shoulders, but maybe it was just the weight of the consequences he had to face.

Your eyes ran over every inch of him multiple times, intentionally avoiding his gaze for as long as possible. Seconds and minutes passed, and you weren’t really sure how much exactly.

Spencer knew, though, of course, he did. If his fear of meeting you eye to eye was as great as yours was, you knew he was counting until the torture of the act itself was over.

89 seconds he’d counted, although now with you there, they felt longer than the days without you did.

When you eventually met his gaze, you felt a part of your heart chip on the inside. What people said about the eyes being a portal to one's soul couldn’t have been more right in that moment. Spencer, a man who excelled at hiding his emotions when he really wanted to, had let them out as clear as day for you to see.

His eyes sparkled with so much sadness and guilt that it threatened to take you apart even before he had the chance to talk. Something softened within you at that moment, but in the next instance, it was like someone else took over.

One moment you wanted to cry for him or with him, and the next you felt like your whole being needed to be let out.

“Is that…is that all you can offer me right now? More of your silence? Don’t you think I’ve had enough of that?” The questions, a few of many to follow, had a bite to them.

His face fell a little, taken aback by your tone. He fidgeted with his fingers, unsure what to say, or where to start. How could he answer your question? He pictured a scenario where his words flew freely, where he gave you an explanation worthy of forgiveness and a confession, so earnest that it ended with you in his arms.

Try as he might, the words didn’t come to him, just a barely audible accusation.

“That’s not fair.”

You scoffed, as if in outrage. A madness, one born out of so much heartbreak, took over, it was blinding. If someone had asked you to explain yourself, you’d say that wasn’t you. You’d never be so forward, almost cruel, to him, but at that moment, being mad sounded so much better than being vulnerable. Like a shield, you weren’t ready to let go of yet.

“How exactly is this not fair, Spencer? It’s the truth!” you yelled, and you felt free, finally letting it all out. “You want to know what isn’t fair, though? The way you isolated me OUT of your life! For three months, I’ve had to stand on the sidelines and beg for scraps, just to know you were okay. Every pitiful look I’d get from the people I consider family felt like another stab to the heart. That’s what’s not fair!” You were screaming so loud. It was a good thing the range was soundproof, otherwise, the whole of the BAU would have been deep in your business by now.

If he looked surprised by the accusation, he didn’t really show it. His posture took a turn, though. The rigidity disappeared, and in turn, it opened, as if the need to comfort you overpowered the uncertainty or the mask he’d had to hold while imprisoned.

You didn’t want his comfort, not right now. Maybe later, when all was said and done, you’d get to have a normal conversation without the frustrations of the past. At that moment, you just wanted everything out of your system. You wanted the questions, the answers, and the truth.

His silence continued as he started closing the distance between you. You wanted to move, to create more distance, but there was nowhere to go. You were squeezed between the range, and him. Whatever else was left than to continue begging for clarity.

“It’s not fair being sent away the first time I came to see you. To learn you didn’t want to see me! Each time it was my turn to visit you, do you want to know where I was? I sat outside that fucking prison, wishing for a glimpse of the person who’s been my rock for 12 years! Holding back tears, thinking you didn’t…you didn’t care like I did. Is this what I really deserve after 12 years by your side?” You almost slipped, you almost told him, and maybe you should have, it might have prompted him to talk or to say something. But no, he stayed silent. Step after step, he limped, his cheek twitched, and his brows furrowed, but like a coward, he remained quiet.

He was meters away from you, three more steps, and he’d completely close the distance, and meet you face to face.

“Say something, Spencer, damn it!” Your throat burned from the strain, and he advanced even more. “Anything,” you finished in a whisper, and all of a sudden, all the fight left you, and your eyes watered and your vision went blurry.

He was just a step away then, and when you looked into his eyes, you couldn’t help but see how they shined.

He reached forward, one hand taking hold of your arm while the other went to hold your waist, but you shook your head. “No, Spencer, please,” you whispered. You didn’t want to find yourself in his arms, because that would be the last of your composure, gone. You’d surrender to the feel of him like you even had a choice not to.

He didn’t stop, not until you were snug into his arms, one of his hands at the back of your neck, holding your head tenderly, but the arm around your waist held onto you as if he was scared you’d slip away from him.

Once in his arms, you finally let go, breaking down into pieces, hoping he’d be able to hold them all from crumbling to the ground.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He kept repeating, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your pulse point. All the while, you could only stand, your arms at your sides, as if paralyzed.

Being in his arms felt like being home somehow. It felt so right after having been deprived of the feeling for so long. It felt like there was nothing wrong, and nothing could go wrong at that moment.

Even though you hadn't initially wanted his comfort, somewhere deep inside, you craved his tender touch. You craved the feel of his body near and the faint scent that was so uniquely him - a mix of coffee, fall, and old paper, books. You realized then that you craved the sound of his voice too, another part of him you’d been deprived of.

The voice of the always rambling boy that never failed to bring a smile to your face, even when you couldn’t understand him sometimes.

And the more he whispered, his voice broken and shaky, the harder you cried. You’d thought nothing could match the heartbreak of his actions or the anger of his silence, but the reality of being held against him brought the realization that your suffering mirrored his own.

If you’d been dying on the inside for months, he’d been on the other side of the link holding you tethered to each other, dying just as much.

And you couldn’t hold yourself back any longer after that. You buried your head in the crook of his neck, and your arms finally circled his waist underneath his suit jacket, fisting the back of his shirt as if it were your one lifeline.

You felt him exhale when you finally returned his touch, most likely in relief, before he dropped a light kiss on your head.

You cried for the relief of having him back and close. For unspoken truths and time wasted, years of figuring out feelings clear as day. For all the anger, for all of his silence, for all you felt for him.

He cried for all the pain he’d caused you and for all the time he’d wasted being alone instead of being with you. He cried for himself, he cried for you, and he cried, overwhelmed by his feelings for you.

You clung to one another, crying, and minutes were passing and neither of you cared. Not when you had each other.

After a while, when both your tears dried out and your cries quieted, but you still felt the need to hold each other close, you dared to murmur a broken “Why?” hoping he’d hear, hoping he’d understand.

It didn’t take him long to mumble a reply, no longer silent.

“All the words in the world available, and I wish I could explain.” it came out just as quietly, both of you scared to break the little bubble you’d found yourselves in.

You pulled back from him, wanting to look into his eyes, red-rimmed and still sparkling when you felt yourself begging again.

“Then try, please, because I’d rather know, and not understand, than not know at all.” And it was the truth. He could speak in riddles if he wanted, but you needed to know why he’d made that choice.

You looked at him expectantly before he pushed a piece of hair back, and his hand once again settled at the back of your head, gently cupping it.

“I wanted you safe from a world you didn’t belong in,” he admitted on an exhale, like a lifelong secret he’d gotten tired of holding onto.

You looked at him in wonder, and it was on the tip of your tongue to tell him he didn’t belong in that world either, but just as you opened your mouth to speak, he shook his head.

“I was ashamed when I had you removed from the visitor’s list. I didn’t want you to see me like that, like a criminal,” he started, pulling you into his arms, not wanting to admit it to you eye to eye, out of fear of being right. Of course, he was wrong, but that didn’t stop him from wondering.

“The first time JJ visited me, they leered at her like they were being fed fresh meat, taking her in, committing her to memory. A cage full of animals. I knew then that I didn’t want that for you, and any guilt I had at keeping you away disappeared that day. It hurt me, knowing I was failing you and whatever trust you had in me,” he whispered, wishing to keep the reality of his thoughts and his feelings in a little bubble as if you only existed in it.

“I’m not the same person I was before, I couldn’t be him, even if it meant losing a part of myself in the process. I couldn’t really be a decent human being without bearing the consequences. Everything I saw, everything I did, and everything that was done to me, I don’t think I’d ever fully be the person I was before. And that too, I’m thankful I spared you from seeing.” It would explain his rigidity, a defense mechanism he’d had to get used to.

And while everything he’d said thus far was true the biggest truth, he’d had yet to say. He had yet to really explain why he’d done what he’d done in the first place. He was stalling, still afraid, but the longer he held you, the longer he felt your heart beating in time with his, the more sure he became.

To hell with the consequences, to hell with whatever happened after, he was right here in the now, alive, breathing, his arms around you, finally at peace.

He pulled back, took your face into his hands, and finally whispered.

“Most of all, though, I knew I loved you enough to risk us if it meant keeping you safe.” It left him in a rush, a confession waiting to be let out for months. A feeling he’d had for years, and a moment where he could finally be open about it.

“What…?” you licked your lips, shocked that you might not have heard him correctly. ”What does us mean?” This part of the conversation felt like you were daydreaming about it, it just didn’t feel real.

“It means whatever you want it to be. Whatever you want us to be.” All of a sudden, it was that simple.

“So, you love me?” You had a hard time taking it all in, yet your heart fluttered in pure happiness. “And you…you want us?”

Months of figuring out your feelings, years of hiding them, a conversation to finally prompt a confession out of you, and all this time it was reciprocated. You could have cried, happiness like no other coursing through you, pure bliss.

"Yes.” Even before you were done speaking, he was already answering. He was desperate to finally admit he was absolutely smitten by you.

You wanted back into his arms, you wanted to kiss him so badly that your blood was burning from the need to feel him like you'd never been able to before. And yet, you knew there was something else you needed to do before you could finally do it.

“Spence, you don’t push away the people you love, no matter the cost. You rely on their love to help aid you when you’re at your lowest.” You gave his sides a light squeeze before you looked back into his eyes, only to see them hopeful and uncertain at the same time.

He looked hopeful, for the possibility that you might actually love him back, but uncertain because it felt like you might be pushing him away this time.

“I can’t go through this again. Having to watch you wither away, in prison, at home, or by your own thoughts, I won’t be able to handle being pushed away again,” whispers, cries, pleas, memories full of heartbreak intertwined with present confessions full of joy.

His eyes watered then, his lips trembling. Any sign of hope was gone, and in its’ place stood the realization of a man who’d maybe gone a little too far. He’d pushed you away, and now, it was your time to be the one sticking and twisting the knife deep, breaking his heart in the process.

If someone were to ask him at that moment what his biggest regret was, he’d say this. This was his biggest regret, his own choices.

A tear escaped him, and you reached up, wiping it away gently before you spoke again.

“If..if this is going to go anywhere, you need to rely on me. You need to believe that I can handle anything and everything, just as long as you are by my side. All those years of being pushed away - your addiction, Maeve and Gideon’s deaths, your mom’s diagnosis, Cat Adams - you weren’t alone then, you aren’t alone now, and you won’t be alone in the future. You’ll always have me by your side, you’ll always have my support. Most of all, you’ll have my love, but when things get hard, I need you to lean on me, and trust that I can help you because together we can pull through everything, anything is possible as long as we are together.” You finished on an exhale, full-on crying now. You could barely see him, but from the little you could, you saw tears streaming down his face, and a smile that grew wide, happy.

Those words, he knew them word for word. For 13 days, he’d repeat them, no longer needing to see them written down, he had them engraved in his brain. Your letters he could recite, but your final one he’d remember as long as he lived.

“I promise to lean on you and trust that you’d help me because together we can pull through everything, anything is possible as long as we are together,” he whispered back, his eyes searching yours for just a moment before he pulled you in, and finally, his lips met yours.

He kissed you, tentative at first, testing the waters. He wanted to take his time, commit your lips to memory, gentle, and plump, exactly how he’d imagined they’d feel. The more he kissed you, the more he couldn’t stop. Passion, urgency, desire - his kisses turned desperate like he wanted to swallow you whole and never let you go.

He bit your lip gently, asking for access, before his tongue intertwined with yours and he pulled you flush against him, closing any gap left between you. Chest, hips, there wasn’t an inch where you weren’t touching.

It felt so familiar, even though you hadn’t kissed before. So right, like no one's kisses had felt before. As if your whole lives, kissing each other was the missing piece in a complicated puzzle, waiting to be put together. Coming together as one, it felt magnetic, a feeling of euphoria, pure ecstasy, no one else mattered, no other feeling mattered at that moment, other than your hands on each other and your lips locked together.

Time was passing by, and you didn’t care. Years of missed opportunities, hidden feelings, and long-awaited realizations all led to this moment. Starved for each other, a kiss full of fervor and even the taste of tears was present. Unimaginable, but very real.

When you finally pulled apart, he wiped your tears, and you wiped his in turn, before he gathered you back in the comfort of his arms, laying a kiss on the side of your head.

And between the four walls around you, nestled in each other’s arms, the place where no one could touch you, in a shared breath you both whispered.

“I love you.”

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Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

#spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid self insert #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 9 months

Note

Thots of Matt eating reader out after she just shaved??🤭

love the way you think🫠

wrote this late last night, so not sure if all coherent - maybe just rambling brain rot. too lazy to edit it rn

matt murdock x fem!reader, mdni (18+ only!!)

aaaa so okay SO!!1

firstly I gotta say, and I quote forever and always, matt is a pussy eating fiend !! he don't care what you got, he's gonna eat. got a 70's bush? he's gonna chow down. haven't had time to clean yourself up beforehand? again, he's gonna gobble you up. he may have a preference (bc of his senses etc) - but he doesn't let that be known

BUT?? there's something just so addictive about eating you out after you just shaved, when you're all soft and smooth and silky - folds and pubic bone velvety to the touch and free of hair

I feel like it would be even more satisfying and enjoyable for him than usual, and he may even forget about getting you off. like the way your soft folds feel when he sucks them into his mouth, or simply just how good your pussy feels on his tongue

he would take all the time just leisurely licking you out, soft, pleased groans and moans muffling between your thighs - fingers digging into that crease, holding you still to his face. he'd be slow and teasing with it, changing things up without realising - unintentionally edging you. one minute, his tongue would be curled up into your pussy, tongue barely poking inside of you. the other he's on your clit, flicking over it. the next, he's sucking on it. the time after that, licking faint stripes up your slit

he also pays attention to other parts of your body without acknowledging it. maybe he trails kisses between your very inner thighs, spreading soft, open-mouth kisses over your heated skin - giving your poor, sensitive pussy a small time-out. his hands comfortingly stroking down your sides as if to reinforce his love for you

he also def reaches up to cup your tits when he eats you out, just saying ! just him extending his hands up to knead and squeeze them, as if to ground himself from his almost painful hard-on.. WHICH he has most definitely rubbed against the mattress a few times

more thots bc I can't help myself. but he doesn't let you get away, no matter how much you protest and push his head away - all you need to say is that small little word and it will immediately seize his movements. but you won't say it bc you don't actually want him to stop.. and he knows that

maybe he likes it when you get just shy of overstimulation, when you're moments away from tapping out. when you crush his head with your spasming thighs, or when you make those strangled and choked moans, or when you're just twitching and jolting against his face, or when your grip in his hair tightens, or when you shimmy up the bed, or when your cry half of his name in a breathy whine, or when you cream on his tongue

lastly, mr. matt murdock isn't about waste around here, so he never wastes a drop !! !! drinks you all up !! EVERYTHING !! since he can't see the messy state of your pussy after, instead, he runs his first two fingers over you - feeling the slippery and soft and puffy, soaked folds coated in spit and arousal. smearing everything around with A COCKY GRIN SLAPPED ON HIS FACE - feeling the literal mess he made of you

also also, he snogs you after to make you taste yourself 🫨

— — — — — — — — — — ☆ — — — — — — — — — —

#ask #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock #matt murdock headcanon #daredevil #thots

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luveline · 2 years

Text

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie.

There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative.

You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little.

He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you.

"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?"

"I said you have good taste."

He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers.

You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of.

"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious.

He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years."

"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?"

He blinks at you. "You know the scene."

"It's my scene," you say.

You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life.

"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away."

"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.

"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you."

Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music.

"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case.

Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour.

"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–"

"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart."

—

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"

You panic slightly. "I need a minute."

"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying."

Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya.

Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.

"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses.

"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed.

You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year.

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks.

She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks.

She's multi-faceted.

"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to.

"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them."

And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice.

You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.

"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up.

"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now."

"That's dramatic."

Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow.

You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice.

"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick."

She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem.

"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says.

Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke.

"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late."

You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events.

"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion."

You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed.

"Do we know those guys?" you ask.

Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters."

Ananya turns off the TV.

You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone.

Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.

"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"

You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part.

Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance.

She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.

"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?"

"I don't need practice," Morgan says.

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–"

Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks.

Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.

The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold.

—

Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away.

"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches.

Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.

"Shithead."

Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth.

"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks.

"You'll sneak out."

Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly.

But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist.

"You know this is stupid."

Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson."

"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now.

Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say.

"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded."

Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light.

"What are you losers doing?"

"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole."

"You're disgusting," Eddie says.

"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy."

Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image.

He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar.

Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles.

"I can't shower, I'm watching him."

"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot.

Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters

"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space.

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats.

There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside.

"Jame," he protests.

"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?"

"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move."

"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly.

Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?"

"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?"

Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears.

—

So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this.

“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs.

She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.

Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.

“Whose house are we in?” you ask.

“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else.

She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back.

You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her.

I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody.

The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card.

I need to get paid.

The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate.

“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn.

She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose.

You blow it away from her.

“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers.

“The floor’s fine.”

You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession.

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her.

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.

You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly.

You find you aren’t asking Morgan.

In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty.

"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart."

Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun.

He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from.

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?"

"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?"

His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.

"You look familiar," he says.

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?"

He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you.

Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame.

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly.

You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot.

You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain?

You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here.

He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.

You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe.

The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in.

He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone.

You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection.

Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks

The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance.

Joan, you could hit him.

"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"

Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at.

"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…"

"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that."

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?"

"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?"

"No, that one passed me by."

"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand.

You take it. You tell him your name.

—

Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets.

"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks.

The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so.

You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation.

If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it.

"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.

You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here."

"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics.

It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever.

But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it.

Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room.

"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up.

Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home."

"Why's she so upset?" you ask.

Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing.

"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably.

You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing.

You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it.

If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough.

They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go.

They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me.

The subtext isn't important.

You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions.

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone.

"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing.

You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target.

"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks.

Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you.

"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?"

You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day.

"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me."

You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night.

"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things.

She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short.

"This tastes awful."

You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie.

You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable.

Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue.

"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin."

You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?"

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist."

"The loud one."

"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him."

"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible."

"Can you get me something from the minibar?"

You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems.

"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse."

"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine.

She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing.

An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones.

"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles.

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got."

The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes.

There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight.

After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume.

A familiar scent pricks your attention.

You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown.

He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way.

He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters.

It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time.

"Have we met before?" you ask.

He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle.

Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick.

Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?"

"You look exactly the same," you say.

It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.

This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you.

You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment.

The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front.

"You'll catch flies."

You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend.

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek.

"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror.

His lightness fades. "Nice."

"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it."

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually.

You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow.

"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh.

Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily.

He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments.

Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise.

Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet.

After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go.

He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch.

"Can I help you?" he whispers.

You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you.

"Fucking move," she says.

His expression flickers.

"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy.

You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.

—

Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle.

You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day.

Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh.

"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs.

Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good.

"She's hot," he furthers.

"Jesus, Gareth."

"What? She's fucking hot."

He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time.

The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything.

The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin.

He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot.

"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?"

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser."

"I was just asking."

You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about.

He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline.

You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.

"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?"

"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange.

Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given."

"I did."

"And only that."

Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds.

"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that."

Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise.

You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.

Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say.

Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green.

He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you.

Fuck it, he thinks.

What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder.

Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.

You appear and blitz past him.

"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"

You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory.

Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure.

"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired.

He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers.

He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks."

"Yeah."

He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice.

"She's a piece of work."

You shift uneasily.

"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.

"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart."

He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?"

You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that.

It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks.

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?"

He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog."

"Fuck you, I do not."

He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue.

"What would you know?" you ask.

"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit."

Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve.

"I must like it," you quote, strained.

"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?"

He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too.

"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options."

That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk.

"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out.

"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start."

He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it.

"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift."

"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.

"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."

"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.

The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe.

He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you.

"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen."

Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast.

"You don't know anything," you murmur.

"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."

Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else.

He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.

"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel.

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all."

"They're hardly desperate."

"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares."

Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now.

"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile.

"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads.

He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless.

"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?"

Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?"

"It doesn't."

He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him.

"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone."

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up.

"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath.

"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon."

Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column.

"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."

There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.

He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows:

Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see?

Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror.

Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off?

Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad.

"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him.

"And Cindy."

"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously."

"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs."

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks.

"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave."

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks.

He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up.

He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet.

"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks.

"Because she was jealous of my success."

Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out."

"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands.

"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy.

What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious.

He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue.

He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right?

Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and—

Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely.

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself.

Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room.

Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it.

You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch.

You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly.

He can feel your gaze on the side of his face.

He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted.

He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end.

It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes.

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly.

"Sorry."

"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?"

The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID."

You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips.

"You're American?" the cashier asks.

"I'm visiting for the festival," you say.

Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card.

"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie.

Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together."

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now."

There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that.

"I thought you didn't know who I was?"

"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said."

He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till.

"What were you really gonna say?"

The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.

"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean."

His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown.

He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.

You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway.

"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm so serious," he says.

He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it.

"You're hot when you're mad."

You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same."

"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?"

"I thought that too," you say.

He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice."

You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter.

"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival."

You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor.

You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention.

"Seriously, come on."

"No."

"No?" he asks.

"No. I don't have to listen to you."

"You're being stupid."

"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care."

"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."

"What do you get out of this?"

He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?"

"Tormenting me."

"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other."

"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–"

"You started it."

You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his.

"Don't touch me," you say quietly.

He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea."

"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car."

You're infuriating.

Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…"

You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd."

His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that."

—

You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people.

The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt.

Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his.

Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl.

You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him.

And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats.

You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has.

You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second.

You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson.

You don't do that.

You wave.

You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat.

For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do.

You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face.

Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.

There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left.

A wooden board creaks.

You look up.

"Hey, you–"

Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat.

Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view.

"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest.

"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You want to mess with me, is that it?"

His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart.

"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson."

"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation.

He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft.

You lift your chin.

I dare you.

His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in.

"Are you going to–"

"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours.

It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you.

You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away.

You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much.

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth.

"Don't play games," he says.

He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist.

"You like games," you argue.

He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once.

His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt.

"Stay still."

You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own.

"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?"

Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it.

"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now."

A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan.

"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks.

His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding.

He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice."

"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again.

"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart."

Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance.

You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.

You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game.

You'll have to be better.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol

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turcott3 · 7 months

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nasty

trevor zegras x fem! reader

warnings?: smut!, cursing, fingering, oral male receiving, unprotected sex, p in v and of course a little bit of fluff

positions fics masterlist

~don’t wanna wait on it tonight, i wanna get nasty~

“trevor, can we go now?” you ask, tugging in his sleeve. you were at the team dinner, which was practically over by now since people had already begun to leave.

“just wait y/n, stop rushing everything’s okay.” he says trying to soothe whatever nerves you had.

“need you so bad.” you whisper into his ear.

“just five more minutes okay?” he replies kissing you on the cheek causing the heat between your legs to burn hotter. you adjusted the way you were sitting and scooted away from your boyfriend, after all his hand running up and down your thigh all night had been the cause of all of this. the five minutes finally pass and you take it upon yourself to leave.

“it was lovely seeing everyone, but we have to go. have a great night.” you smile, anxiously pulling trevor by the sleeve out of the restaurant.

“what was all of that?” he asks once we get to the car.

“trevor you’ve been driving me crazy, your hand running up and down my thigh all night. i was fighting off goosebumps so people wouldn’t think anything was going on at the table. and now i’ve been sitting in soaking underwear for at least an hour, probably more. take us home now.” you demand and he giggles, starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot.

“so antsy baby.” he smirks placing his hand back on your thigh.

“trevor.”

“relax baby, i got you.” he says as he merges onto the interstate, putting the car in cruise control. his right hand travels closer and closer to the heat between my legs, running two fingers over your wet underwear.

“wow you weren’t lying.” he laughs, sliding your pantries to the side and running his fingers through your sensitive folds.

“fuck.” you say shutting your eyes, you’d been yearning for this feeling for the last few hours and it was finally here. you didn’t care that you were in the car riding down the highway at 70 miles per hour.

“that’s my good girl.” he says as he presses two fingers into you causing you to moan loudly.

“fuck trevor. oh my god.” you said as he moved his fingers at an unforgivably slow but godly pace, curling his fingers inside you.

“tell me how it feels huh.” he says.

“it’s fucking good, really fucking good.” you gasp, grabbing tightly onto his wrist as he brought you closer to the edge, quicker than you could’ve ever imagined, almost embarrassingly quick.

“i’m gonna come.” you say breathlessly.

“come for me baby.” he says as you tighten around his fingers, practically screaming out of pleasure as an orgasm rips through your body.

“oh my god.” you gasp, struggling for air, “get off the interstate right now.”

“okay?” he says, sucking his fingers clean of your mess. he finds the nearest exit and pulls into a dimly lit parking lot, stopping the car.

“it’s your turn.” you say as you unbutton his belt, palming at his dick through his underwear, feeling him grow under you.

“y/n.” he says with his breath shaking. you tug down the waistband allowing his dick to spring free. you take it into your hand before leaning over the console and spitting on it, jerking him off more.

“couldn’t wait until we got home, needed you right now.” you say looking up through your eyelashes at the boy who was in awe of you. your tongue makes contact with his tip, tasting the salty taste of his pre cum instantly. with the help of your hand, you took all of him into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks and pulling him out with the pop of your lips, saliva covering the area around your mouth. you swirled your tongue around the tip while pumping with your hands before taking him all back into your mouth, this time sucking in your cheeks, causing you to gag slightly. you take him out of your mouth, spit webbing from your mouth, which you wipe away with your arm. with tears in your eyes, you make eye contact with the boy, who grabs you by the face with one hand and kisses you shamelessly.

“god you’re so fucking perfect.” he says once he pulls away, sounding nearly intoxicated by the way you made him feel. you climb over the console and straddle his lap, stroking his dick a few more times before placing a hand on his shoulder as you lined him up with your entrance. you sank onto him, a raspy moan leaving your mouth.

“you fit so perfectly around me.” he said pulling your dress up and placing both hands on your bare ass. you bounce up and down at a rhythmic pace, your moans consistent. your lips attached, tongues tangled for what seemed like hours, but after a while, he gripped tightly onto your ass as he littered your neck with hickeys. trevor needed more.

“fuck.” you scream as he bucks his hips up into you, pounding as hard as he could.

“such a pretty girl when i’m fucking you like this.” he says grabbing onto both of your cheeks with one hand, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he thrusted into you at an unforgiving speed, hitting the sweet spot deep inside of you each time.

“oh my god, trevor.” you say, both of your arms wrapping around his shoulders and laying your head on one of them as he continued his pace. you felt yet another orgasm creeping up on you, but you tried your best to hold off.

“are you gonna come for me, i feel you tightening around me, so good.” he says into your ear sending you over the edge.

“oh my fuck.” you say as he slows down his pace, fucking you through your high. his strokes getting slower and sloppier until you feel his warm seed spill deep inside you, slowing down until you were both still, breathing heavily. you could feel his hot breath on your shoulder as he kissed it.

“baby, you made me come so much.” you smile, legs shaking, leaning up to look at his face and kissing him sloppily.

“god i love you.” he says when you pull him out of you and sit back in your seat.

“i love you more.” you say leaning over to kiss him again.

“let’s get home and clean you up okay baby?” he asks, placing his hand back on your thigh, more innocently this time.

“okay.” you sigh, recovering from the fucking you’d the received.

“you know i’m kinda glad you didn’t wanna wait because that was the hottest thing i have ever experienced.” he laughs as you pull into the parking garage of your apartment complex.

“you’re the hottest thing i’ve ever experienced.” you laugh as a reply. you spent the rest of the night together in your bed, fucking like bunnies. you never wanted to stop the feeling he gave you these nights, but most importantly you’d never been more in love.

#trevor zegras #trevor zegras x reader #trevor zegras x y/n #trevor zegras smut #trevor zegras imagine #anaheim ducks #mason mctavish #turcs’ talk #turcs <3

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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 6 months

Text

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 · · · · 𝙸𝚅. 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 ║ ⓒⓗⓐⓟⓣⓔⓡⓔⓓ

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 || 𝚗 𝚊 𝚟 𝚒 𝚐 𝚊 𝚝 𝚒 𝚘 𝚗 || 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x fem!OC/reader

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | CHAPTER CONTENT: POV switching, flirting, fluff, angst, pining, soft!Joel, protective!Joel, girldad!Joel, tipsy!Joel, heteronormative bullshit, inherent power imbalance due to boss/employee dynamic, Sad During the Holidays™, financial/mental/emotional/physical abuse, high functioning alcoholism | WORD COUNT: 9k

| CHAPTER SUMMARY: The more settled you get into your new job, the more your home life frays at the edges. When Joel asks you for a favor, you both struggle to keep from crossing the line between professional and personal.

“Blue Plate Diner?” you read aloud. The flickering bulbs of the neon blue sign added to the Mom & Pop charm of the breakfast place Joel had picked.

“It’s good, I swear. Just give it a chance and you’ll love it,” he promises.

You’re craving the proximity of last night on the bench together passing out candy, so you choose a booth when the waitress asks if you have a preference. Joel picks up a menu and hands it to you, and you take the opportunity to scoot closer to him when he grabs one of his own.

“So what do you normally like for breakfast?” he asks.

“Um, I dunno. Just whatever is around, I guess.”

“What sorta answer is that? You don’t have a favorite breakfast food?”

“I dunno. Do you?” You glance over to see what he’s considering on the menu, only to find he’s ignoring it completely and has his eyes set on you.

“Yeah, I got some classics on deck, but I wanna make sure you get somethin’ you like.”

“Well what’s the fan favorite?” You take a look around at the other patrons and find not a single one of them looks to be under 70 years old. “Other than maybe applesauce and prune juice,” you add.

“Very funny,” Joel laughs under his breath. “You’ll be old one day, too, you know.”

“Yeah, but you’ll get there first, so you can tell me all about it so I can be prepared,” you shoot back with a devilish smirk.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re nothin’ but trouble?” he teases with a full body bump to your side.

You quickly look back down to the menu and wonder what he would say if you told him that yes you had in fact been told many times in many different ways that you were nothing but trouble – except not in the fun, lighthearted way that he’d just said it.

“Yeah, but I’ve heard worse,” you settle on.

When he seems to be sizing up your response, you give him a full body nudge of your own, which draws a soft chuckle from him. “So,” you say brightly. “What do you recommend since we don’t have to worry about our dentures popping out?”

He rests his arm along the back of the booth behind you and pins you with a put on stern expression. “Speak for yourself,” he huffs. He’s so broad and open sitting next to you like this. You could curl right into his side and fit so snug and perfect, you just know it. Somehow you just know it’d feel like his body was meant to curve around yours.

You giggle and turn to him, your hand finding it’s way to his lips before you can really register what the fuck you’re even doing. He stills, eyelids falling half-lidded for a moment as he watches you, and leans into your touch. The scruff of his beard is coarse and scratchy. You wonder what it would feel like against your neck, your lips, in between your legs. You tap his front teeth when his mouth opens into a smile. “Your denture guy does some real good work. Can’t even tell they’re fake,” you mock observe.

You want to touch his dimple so, so bad. It’s right there. Would he let you? Would it be weird? He still hasn’t moved, just sitting there letting you touch and poke and prod as you please. Your hand gently curves against his jawline, and your fingertip grazes against his dimple. “Is this your real hair or do you have a wig guy, too?” You meant for it to come out as a playful jab, but instead it was a breathy sort of question that betrayed the farce of innocent levity.

“I’m gatekeeping my wig guy, sorry,” he teases. “I’ll give you my denture guy’s contact if you want it, though.”

“Should I come back?” the waitress asks no one in particular.

You and Joel both missed her return to your table. Gravity feels stronger with how quickly your hand drops from his face. You situate yourself forward again to face the server. Joel still keeps his hand along your back where it rests on the booth. “You need a minute?” he asks you softly. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice even though it hasn’t emerged onto his face quite yet.

You know he means do you need more time to look at the menu, but all your brain can recognize as needing a moment to process is the insanely flirtatious banter that’s definitely crossed over into inappropriately touching your boss territory. “Um, can you just order for us both?”

“I got you,” he assures you with a smile. Your tummy flips because again there’s so much more to his words than their surface value. He does have you. He has you in ways you haven’t even begun to openly admit to yourself despite feeling it.

He has you in the way that he’s always been on your side since you first met. Taking up for you when Jeremy was being an asshole. Recognizing and having faith in your abilities to do a job you have zero experience for. Driving you to and from work every day so you had safe, reliable transportation. Calling to check in on you whenever he wasn’t in the office. Texting you on the weekends. Taking the time and the effort to explain things to you until you got the hang of it and never making you feel dumb about it no matter how many times or how long it took. Letting you come over to his house when you said you were alone at your own. And even the little things that might not matter to most people – getting the door for you, making sure the temperature in the car was comfortable, asking if the music playing was okay or if you wanted to change it.

Joel takes care of you in so many ways that on their own might seem insignificant or standard but all add up to one overwhelming sense of being looked after.

He orders for you both – a monte cristo sandwich and chicken and waffles - and you settle into easy conversation again. You’ve never tried either dish, and you soak in the eager way Joel explains them to you in detail and what he thinks you might like about them. You end up preferring the raspberry jam to dip the sandwich into over the strawberry jam that Joel liked better. The chicken and waffles are absolute perfection, and Joel is nice enough to let you have the last bite.

Your stomach was uncomfortable with fullness, but you’d have to wait until you were alone in the office to unbutton your jeans for more room. You lean back with a heavy sigh against the booth and mindlessly snuggle against Joel’s arm there. You don’t remember when he put it back after the food had come.

“Not a breakfast person, huh?” The curve of a self-satisfied grin slips onto his mouth.

“Did I eat too much?” You feel self-conscious now. Maybe he’d meant to save some of it for later? You didn’t realize how hungry you actually were. It occurs to you that you didn’t eat dinner last night. You sometimes forgot to eat if you weren’t preparing a meal for your dad.

“Oh quit it,” he gently chides. “You know damn well I’m over the moon that you liked the food. I was nervous I’d oversold it to you.”

You relax again knowing that he wasn’t upset with you for helping eat the plates clean. “You always pick good stuff. I knew whatever you picked was gonna be good.”

His entire face beams with a deliriously pleased grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe a little laugh.

He turns his head from you to look out the front of the diner, and you swear the tips of his ears are pinking just like the apples of his cheeks.

“So, can I ask a favor now that I got you all comatose with sugar?” he lobs at you and makes eye contact again.

“Ask away, Sugar Booger,” you giggle, feeling a little giddy and high off the carb and glucose laden foods. And maybe making him blush. And possibly also the prolonged proximity to him.

“Oh wow. No more syrup for you,” he jokes. “You sure you’re of sound mind? Don’t want you claimin’ an altered state later on and try to get outta it.”

“Is the favor that bad?”

Joel winces at the unintentional negative setup he’d created for his impending request. “No, I mean, it’s not– No, it’s not that bad. More just like I’m not the best with those sorts of things and could use some guidance.”

Your eyebrows lift in curiosity, and you wait for him to continue.

“So, there’s a guy on our crew – you’ve met him, I think? Paul?– and he’s been with us for 10 years this December. So me ‘n Tommy wanted to do a sort of, not like a party, but more of like a sit down dinner sort of thing? And invite all the employees to come celebrate.”

You stare blankly at him, wondering how this was supposed to be something you’d have a better hand at than Joel or Tommy.

“I know it ain’t your job duties, but I could use a little help,” he admits. “Jenn always sorta just handled this stuff, and I shoulda paid more attention to it when she was—”

“I can do it,” you answer quickly. If Jennifer had done it, you could do it. You had to do it. You weren’t going to come into this position with none of the experience she had and none of the work ethic, too.

“You don’t have to. I can do most of it, but I just need a little help organizing it and whatnot.”

“I can do it.”

“Well alright then,” he says like he’s relieved it’s settled and didn’t take too much convincing.

He pays for the meal, and you both head to the car to start your work day.

Kenzie: sssooooo the job???

Her text comes through, and your eyebrows shoot to your hairline in pleasant surprise. You’re shocked she even remembered you’d quit the grocery store and started full time with Miller Contracting. After ten seconds of consideration, you realize she probably had a little more incentive to recall more of what’s going on in your life because she wanted the dirt on you and Joel. You can’t really blame her, though. You’d be the same way.

You: omg hi! yes, it’s been really good! hbu

Kenzie: caught up w my study buddy friend again this past weekend

Kenzie: he did better this time around

Kenzie: might have to give him a better dicking down score tbh

You: gotta love a fast learner right lol

Kenzie: no fr haha

Kenzie: so have u and joel fucked yet or what

You roll your eyes. Of course she probably would’ve already had this figured out and been fucking Joel on the regular if she was in your shoes, but you didn’t have the sort of inherent charm and finesse that Kenzie seemed to possess when it came to hooking up and relationships.

You: he’s literally my boss

Kenzie: ok but im not hearing a no…..

You: you are trying to get me fired 😐

Kenzie: no im trying to get u FUCKED

Kenzie: which btw whens the last time somebody knocked the cobwebs outta that pussy

You: omfg

Kenzie: 🎤🎤🎤 lets hear it bitch i need to know what im working with

You groan and scrub a hand over your face. You really, really weren’t in the mood for this particular conversation. It had been a long time since you’d been with anybody, but that wasn’t what made you reluctant to dive into the topic. You’d told her about your past experiences, but she never picked up on the fact that you didn’t mention who they had been with. Pretty much everything you knew about having a sex with a guy you’d learned from Kenzie’s extensive and detailed exploits. She would typically take the lead on conversations around hookups and whiskey dick and bad dating app matches, and you were happy to just listen along and live a little through her tellings.

You: don’t laugh

Kenzie: oh god ok hold on

Kenzie: ok im ready

You: it’s been like 3 years ish

Kenzie: WHAT

Kenzie: u didnt tell em this was an emegenyc!!!!!!!

You: are the typos for dramatic effect or are you legit that worked up

Kenzie: 🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

Kenzie: if i wasnt in class right now id be calling you asap im so serious

Kenzie: omfg ur poor kitty wtf that is actually tragic

You: ok actually I think I’d just prefer you to laugh at this point instead of whatever this is 💀

Kenzie: ok ok sorry

Kenzie: im just in a state of shock let me pull it together

Kenzie: ok

You: you have to remember I haven’t been with a ton of ppl

Kenzie: pure and innocent okay mary mother of jesus 🙏⛪

You: it’s not like I don’t want to!

You: you’re supposed to be helping me rn 😒

Kenzie: ok well what was he like?

You: who?

Kenzie: the last guy you were with? 3 years ago?

Ah, there it was. The default assumption. It wasn’t usually intended to be rude or presumptuous, but it put you in a position of having to explain your departure from the “norm.” You sigh and decide to give Kenzie a chance. She was super open when it came to sex and all that, so maybe she wouldn’t be like every other person you’d had this conversation with, which thankfully had been very few.

You: nope never been w a guy

Kenzie: …..

Kenzie: im so confused rn

You: well kenz when two ppl like each other a whole bunch, sometimes their crotches get all hot and tingly

Kenzie: ppfffttttt dont have to explain that part to me

Kenzie: ok so ur a virgin?!

Kenzie: 👁️👄👁️

You: nope just never had dick or dick shaped things inside me

Kenzie: hmmm ok idk if thats how that works but im gonna roll w it bc i really dont know lol

You sigh again. You know she’s probably genuinely confused and probably also trying to halfway pay attention to whatever lecture she’s in, but it’s still frustrating nonetheless. This idea that sex had to be penetrative to “count” never made a whole lot of sense to you, but over the years you’d found out that you were in the minority with that viewpoint.

You: wow ty for your grace and understanding 😐

Kenzie: i mean it could be worse we could be starting from square 1 so at least youve got some experience under your belt we can work with that

You: I’m really not trying to fuck up this job like obviously Joel is hot but I don’t want to lose this job bc I cross a line and do something stupid

Kenzie: i bet hes huge 😮‍💨

You: that’s not helpful!

Kenzie: ok ok!!! sorry i literally cant help it hes hot and has bde like its not my fault im thinking about it

You laugh at that. Joel did in fact carry himself with the confidence of a guy who was “blessed below the belt,” and the thick, broad physique he had also had all signs pointing to big. You tried your hardest not to think about that, though, because once you got fixated on it that was it. His body always felt so nice and warm next to yours, and you’d put a firm boundary in your mind to not let your imagination run wild about what was beneath the clothes.

You: ok I gotta get back to work

You: text me soon! I want to stay in the loop with everything!

Kenzie: same! 💖

You: ❤️

You’d always preferred pants, but a dress was a single item and cheaper than buying a decent pair of slacks and an appropriate but not boring top for this dinner you were organizing. There was a steakhouse that wasn’t too upscale but still landed in that clean, woodsy tavern type of environment you felt was a good fit for the crew. You knew your usual jeans and t-shirts weren’t going to cut it, so you carved out a little time to bike up to a few thrift stores in the area.

The wrap dress you’d picked had a sort of matronly floral pattern, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, it looked better on a body than dangling from a hanger, so it wasn’t a total loss. You used a few carefully placed pins to make sure it wasn’t going to fly open in the middle of the dinner, and, voila! you had a sort of cute outfit to wear to this thing.

The Sunday of the event finally rolled around, and your nerves were at an all time high. You worried that you had forgotten something or that people weren’t going to like the party or that you were going to embarrass yourself in some way. You ignored the catastrophizing as much as possible, but even your favorite, softest t-shirt was feeling itchy around the color while you waited near the front hallway to listen out for Joel’s truck.

You couldn’t leave the house in your dress without your dad demanding to know when and how you’d gotten it. He’d never approve a new dress for just one singular work function. It’s tucked away in your bag until you can change into it later. You make a beeline for the door when you hear Joel’s truck pull up. You absolutely do not want him to interact with your dad. The idea of him confronting Joel about your pay sets your panic on edge.

“When are you gonna be back?” he barks out. He’d agreed to let you go to this work event, but he wasn’t happy about it.

“It’s supposed to be from 1 to 3, dad. I might have to help clean up after, but I don’t think it’ll take too long.” Your hand grips on the doorknob when you hear Joel’s truck come to a complete stop. Bits of imagined images flash in your mind of your dad finding out you’d been lying to him this whole time about how much you made. Your stomach clenches.

“Clean up after? You’re not even getting paid for this thing. Why the fuck would you— You know what, nevermind. If you’re stupid enough to work this thing for free on a weekend, there’s no point trying to explain to you why that’s fucking ridiculous.” He huffs and shakes his head with an incredulous, aggravated smile.

“I’ll be back soon. Bye, dad.”

He settles back into his chair and flicks through the TV channels. “Fucking moron,” he mumbles loud enough for you to hear.

You pretend like you didn’t hear him even though you both know you did. Joel is approaching your front door when you bound down the steps towards him. “Hey, ready to go?” You don’t wait for an answer as you scurry to the passenger side. Joel rushes to open the door for you, and you feel bad about making him hurry. You just need to get off your street, and then your nerves might settle.

Joel hops into the driver’s seat and greets you with a smile. “Well hello to you, too.”

You force a smile back. “Sorry. Just don’t want to be late. I’d never forgive myself if I ruined this whole thing by being late.” He motions for you to put your seatbelt on, and it’s only then you realize he’s got on a nice pressed button up with dark wash jeans. His hair is lightly gelled and combed back.

“What the fuck,” you exhale.

“What?” He pulls back, brow knitted in confusion.

“You– You look so handsome.” It jumps out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

He bursts into a deep belly laugh and shakes his head. “Well you don’t have to sound so surprised about it.” He puts the gear in reverse. “Get your seatbelt on, sweetie.”

“‘Kay,” you mumble absently. When had the inside of the car gotten to 500 degrees? Were you sweaty or clammy? It was hard to tell. You shove the seatbelt into the lock and slump back, all while stealing glances at Joel. He pulls out of the driveway and heads down the street. You suddenly realize you look like an absolute dumpster fire in comparison. “I, um, I do have a different outfit. It’s in my bag.”

“Oh? You can wear what you’ve got on if you’re more comfortable in it,” he offers. “It’s just the guys. Nobody there to impress. I just figured I should put somethin’ on since I’m the big important boss, right?” He flashes a small grin your direction.

“No. I, um, I actually got, like, a real outfit for this. So. You don’t have to worry about me looking like a complete slob.”

He turns his head your direction fully now with a disapproving frown. “You look nice. Why’re you sayin’ that?”

You shrug and look out your window. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Sounds like you did,” he contends.

“Sorr–” You clamp your mouth shut before the word can leave it. “I’ll word it better next time.”

The drive is quiet for a few minutes.

“Hey, you doin’ okay? S’everything alright?”

You hug your arms tighter around yourself. “Yeah, why?”

“Just seem bothered or somethin’. You sure nothin’s wrong?” he presses.

“Just nervous I guess about the party,” you half-lie.

He reaches a hand over without taking his eyes off the road, and your throat squeezes tight when his hand settles gently against the top of your thigh. “You have no reason to be nervous, okay? You did a great job, I just know it. And if anybody doesn’t like somethin’ — even though I doubt that’ll happen — we’re gonna say that I did it or chose it, okay?”

“You don’t have to—”

“That’s our plan, okay?” he interjects. He stops at a red light and turns to look at you, pinning you with a tender but firm expression. “You’re an employee, too, remember? So you should have a good time just like everybody else, you hear?”

You nod and slowly put your hand atop his. You graze your fingers against the solid shape of it and feel grounded for the first time all day. “Okay. I’ll try to enjoy myself.”

“Good,” he approves with a gentle squeeze to your leg before putting both hands on the steering wheel again.

The steakhouse has a private room that you booked, and you get another boost of encouragement when you see that the setup they did is really nice. Joel appraises and compliments every balloon, confetti, tablecloth color, banner you picked, and so on until he starts repeating himself. You were worlds away from the stress of your house by now, and you slipped away to the bathrooms to change before people started arriving. You situate your dress so it hangs just right, double check the pins are in place, and give your hair a quick pat down.

“Oh good, no one’s here yet,” you sigh when you rush back into the private party room.

Joel’s hands are in his pockets as he casually stands admiring your efforts for the party. He turned when you spoke and stopped dead in his tracks. “Wow!”

“Oh, you don’t have to do all that just because I was an idiot in the truck,” you dismiss.

“You look incredible!” he raves. He pulls his hands from his pockets and holds them out low to his sides as he approaches you with an open appraisal of your form. He’s standing so close now you feel a bit dizzy. It doesn’t help matters when he slides his hands to cup your elbows. “That’s a really nice dress. You look really nice.”

“Thanks,” you mumble. Your chest might as well be on fire, and your ears were throbbing with a pulsing drum.

“And you’re not an idiot. I really wish you’d quit sayin’ that stuff,” he adds gently. His face is open, imploring you to stop the ingrained habit of tearing yourself down with simple but hurtful self-directed words.

“I don’t mean to,” you admit in a soft hush. You rest a hand on his stomach and fiddle with the small buttons there.

“I know you don’t,” he says just as soft. He smooths a cluster of stray hairs to sit behind your ear.

He nudges your chin before putting his hands back in his pockets. “Chin up, alright? Let’s have a good time.”

Your mouth twitches to the side in a little half smile. “Okay,” you agree.

You keep your word for the most part. The rest of the employees filter in one by one, all dressed in varying degrees of special occasion attire. You feel a bit better about your dress now seeing a few others wearing pretty much what you’d consider “elevated loungewear.” You recognize the names and a few faces, but you’ve never really had a chance to actually sit down and talk with most of them. They all seem friendly and easygoing. The back and forth between everybody feels like one of those scenes in a movie or TV show where everybody is sitting around for a holiday meal while the camera pans through all the boisterous, joyful interactions.

You surprise yourself by enjoying all of it and glancing around at all the happy energy zipping through the room. Normally you’d probably feel like the odd man out for not really knowing anybody that well, but the atmosphere is so warm and friendly that it feels perfectly acceptable to just be a content fly on the wall. It probably helps that Joel keeps checking in on you as he’s taken to doing.

You’re sat near the end with him and Tommy – prime positioning for whoever needs to get up and grab something or stand to make an announcement. The man of the hour Paul is seated near the other end of the table, which actually turns out perfect since most people’s attention keeps focusing his way. You make sure to keep the physical and verbal boundaries with Joel in check even though you wish you could just reach out and hold his hand.

The first snag comes when the drink orders are being taken. Everyone is getting beer or wine, and you feel a bit of panic rise up. You can’t remember the last time you drank, and you don’t want to make a fool of yourself or be the only person not drinking. It was a celebration after all, and the pressure to just pick something and deal with the consequences were weighing on you more and more the closer the wait staff got to you. You fumble with the drink menu and pray to god your hands don’t shake too much or heaven forbid your voice when you actually have to speak.

“And for you, ma’am?” the waiter asks politely.

“Um. Um… I … I, um…..”

“Oh, what about that peach moscato I was tellin’ you that Sarah won’t shut up about? You said you like moscato, right?” Joel pipes up.

You turn to him and try to hide the surprise on your face. You’d never had any such conversation. It dawns on you that he’s trying to help. “Oh, yeah! Perfect. Um. I can’t remember what it’s called, though?”

Joel pretends to be in thought for a moment trying to recall. “Hm, I think the label has a flower on it? A peach flower maybe?”

The waiter “regretfully informs” Joel that he isn’t familiar with the moscato in question. You feel a bit bad for him knowing all of it was just something Joel had pulled out of his ass to save yours. Joel shrugs and says whatever peach moscato they’ve got would do. The waiter nods and scribbles down your order before excusing himself and taking Joel and Tommy’s orders for beers. Everyone is served their beverage, and you actually think your fizzy pink drink looks pretty with all the peach slices floating around in it.

“Mind if I try some?” Joel asks when you haven’t taken a sip after several minutes.

“Oh, go ahead.” You hope he takes a big gulp so you have less alcohol to get through. When he does just that, it takes all your effort to not jump into his arms. He makes an approving face at the taste of it before setting it back down in front of you. He leans closer to you and quietly says, “Weak as shit just like I figured. You should be good with what’s left.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He leans back into his own space and gives your lower back a quick, encouraging rub.

Everyone is ordering steak and seafood and some of the fanciest food you think you’ve ever heard of. You choose the peppered mustard salmon filet at the waiter’s suggestion that it would pair nicely with your moscato. You finally do take a sip and whip your head Joel’s direction.

His eyebrows raise in question, and he breaks into a soft grin when he recognizes your pleased reaction. “You like it? S’good, huh?”

You bite your bottom lip and nod. “It’s actually really good. Thank you.”

He leans in again so just you can hear him. “Sorry I cleared most of it already. Was just tryna let you off the hook. You want me to order you another one?”

“No, that’s okay. I really appreciated that, by the way.”

“Of course, hon.” He pulls away and cuts through his medium rare steak. He offers you a slice, and you take a bite. It’s delicious. You all share a laugh when he asks if you want to try some of Tommy’s medium well steak, just so you can see the difference of how steak should actually be eaten. “Whatever, man. If not wantin’ your food to bleed out all over your plate is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right,” Tommy asserts with a sparkly eyed grin.

After dinner, a few of the crew stand to make their toasts and reminisce on times Paul made an ass out of himself or dropped a really expensive power tool and broke it or found himself in the awkward position of being pursued by both the husband and wife – separately – on a kitchen remodel job he worked. Tommy stands and says a few words about Paul’s work ethic and great attitude that keeps the hard days from being unbearable. Joel stands and offers a few words of his own and then detours a little.

“And we’ve been so lucky to have a guy like Paul with us for these past 10 years. We always wanna show our thanks to him and to all of you for showin’ up every day and just gettin’ shit done.”

The table murmurs in agreement with a few people making exaggerated whooping sounds.

“And I also wanna say,” Joel continues, looking down at you and gesturing for you to stand with him. Your legs feel like jelly as you rise and let him wrap a loose arm around your shoulders. “That this one right here put all

this together, so a special thanks to her for that.” Most of the table gives their cheers! or their quiet golf claps, and you fight the urge to run away and hide under the table. “She’s also the reason why y’all’s paychecks didn’t get fucked up when Jennifer had to leave us so quick—” Joel gives a pointed look to Corey, an employee and Jennifer’s ex-fiance once she discovered his cheating, who blushes and drops his gaze “—so let’s all make sure to let her know we appreciate her coming on board in the middle of all that mess and helpin’ to keep things on track.”

The table collectively gives a genuine round of cheering and laughter in praise of you and your role in their undisturbed paychecks. You nervously smile and wave in acknowledgment. Joel gestures that you can take a seat again, which you gratefully accept.

“So here’s to all of you from me and Tommy both. Don’t matter if you’ve been here 10 years or 10 months, we wanna say we appreciate the work y’all do. Thanks everybody for comin’ out today to celebrate.” With that, Joel tips his beer in the air to toast with everyone, and you sip down the rest of your drink.

As things start to wind down, you excuse yourself to the restroom and pluck your phone from your bag to check it before coming back. Just another reason why you could never truly be a dress sort of girl: the lack of pockets. You have a warm glow about you as you assess your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and you know it’s not just the few sips of moscato you’ve had. This had been fun. Being out with other people – and even with everyone drinking – it never got too rowdy or uncomfortable. Your chest pangs at the thought of how much you wish you could do something like this more often.

But that wasn’t your life, so you quickly brush those feelings away. You’d learned long ago that lingering on the impossible only made you feel worse. You sigh and pull your flip phone from where you’d ungracefully shoved it into your top. Your heart drops when you see you’ve missed 7 calls from your father. It drops even more when you see he hadn’t bothered texting. It signaled one of those moods he got into where he’d get indignant over the thought of having to exert too much energy to access you. You should be the one checking to make sure he didn’t want to say something or need something.

Your hands are shaking as you exit the bathroom to get a better signal in the hallway. The phone only rings twice before your father picks up.

“If you aren’t going to answer my calls, there’s no need for you to have a phone at all,” his cutting voice comes through.

“Dad, I’m so sorry, I was just—”

“Do you even know what time it is? Have you even been keeping track of it?” he interrupts.

You regretfully haven’t. You’d been having such a good time that you hadn’t thought about how long it’d been. You’d booked the room for 12-4. Hadn’t you told him you’d be staying behind to help clean up? It couldn’t be that far out of the window, could it?

“Dad, it’s a work–”

“Bullshit!” he snaps. “You have other responsibilities! You know all the shit that needs to be done around the house before the week starts!”

You flinch even though he’s not present. You knew that tone all too well.

“Dad, I swear I’ll—”

“You can’t just leave all your responsibilities in the dust just because you want to go out and get rowdy with coworkers!”

“I’m not, dad! Please just let me—”

“GET YOUR ASS HOME IMMEDIATELY!”

“I-I’ll stay up to get everything done, dad. I swear! I’ll get started right when I get home!”

You imagine he must mean pressing his shirts, cleaning the kitchen, and tidying up in general. And whatever other chore he dreamt up on the spot that you were expected to jump up and do without question.

“If you don’t get home soon, I’m gonna lock your ass out. See if you lose track of time again after that.”

“Dad! I’m leaving soon! I–”

The other end goes dead, and you pull your phone away to see the home screen. He hung up on you. The clock reads 4:37.

Joel is happy to see his employees getting some downtime, an opportunity to throw back some beers and shoot the shit with each other. They all worked so hard. It felt good to be able to do things like this for them.

You’d slipped away to the bathroom several minutes ago, and Joel excuses himself with the intent of thanking you without anyone else around. He figures he could use a bathroom break himself, and he winds through the restaurant towards them. He stops just short of the hallway when he hears your voice, but it’s not your usual tone. There’s a shakiness to it that Joel immediately clocks.

“I’m not, dad! Please just let me—”

Why do you sound so panicked? Did you say ‘dad’? Why would talking to your dad have you so frazzled?

“I-I’ll stay up to get everything done, dad. I swear! I’ll get started right when I get home!”

What did you have to stay up to do? Why did you have to get home to get started on it? How much of it was there? You hadn’t even been gone that long.

“Dad! I’m leaving soon! I–”

There’s just quiet after that. Joel immediately thinks back to a conversation he’d had with you earlier this week after you’d finished a call with a particularly disgruntled client.

“You sure you never worked at a call center or somethin’?” Joel laughed.

“No, never. Why?”

“S’just you don’t seem fazed at all by people bitin’ your head off. It’s the sorta thing you think seasoned debt collectors would be used to, not somebody workin’ at the supermarket.”

He then thinks about the way your dad spoke about you when he’d run into him at the car shop. Joel starts to wonder if it’s the same way he talks to you.

He slowly rounds the corner to find you staring blankly at your phone. Your head snaps up when you notice him.

“Oh! Joel, hi. You scared me,” you breathily laugh.

“Hey, you okay?” He can’t help himself. He considered playing it off like he hadn’t heard anything – to just mind his own business for once when it came to you – but he had to know if there was something wrong, if there was something he could help with.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. My dad just gets really worried when I’m out by myself.”

“You’re not by yourself,” he contends, a little offended by the notion that your dad didn’t trust him for some reason. Joel reminded himself that he was protective of Sarah and that your dad was probably just coming from the same place. He couldn’t blame a dad for being protective over his baby girl.

“You know what I mean,” you breathe with a shake of your head. The undercurrent of your words came through clear as day: please don’t make me explain it because I’m so, so tired.

“Yeah, alright. I, uh, overheard a little bit when I came ‘round the corner. You, uh, need to get home soon?”

Your sad eyes locked onto Joel, and it took everything in him to not scoop you up into a tight hug and tell you that he’d do anything right now to see you as carefree and happy as you’d been not that long ago at the table.

“Yeah, sorry. I can call a cab if you–”

“No. We can get goin’ if that’s what you wanna do,” he assures you. “Let me just use the bathroom real quick and say bye to everybody. We’ll get goin’ quick, alright?”

Your frown added to the contradiction of the entire situation. It didn’t seem much like you wanted to go home at all despite insisting you did. Joel knew he’d be replaying the entire day over and over in his head to figure it out.

Joel had offered to walk you inside after getting the car door for you, but you managed to talk him out of it, saying how he’d done plenty for today and that you’d see him in the morning. He waved and reversed out the drive before disappearing around the corner.

The front door was unlocked. You breathe a sigh of relief. One obstacle down, one million to go.

Your father is waiting in the foyer for you, tall and imposing. “Took you long enough.”

“Dad, I’m so sorry.”

“What’re you wearing?” He rounds on you now like a buzzard on rotting flesh.

Your gut turns when you realize you’d forgotten to change out of your dress. He pulls at the sleeve as if to inspect it.

“Dad, be careful! That’s Kenzie’s dress!” you lie. “If I mess it up I’m gonna have to replace it!”

“Oh, is that so?” he sneers. He yanks your bag from your shoulder and flips it upside down, emptying its contents all over the floor. You stay frozen in place as he uses his foot to kick around your things and search for some incriminating item. You almost lurch forward when he toes your clothes to the side and sees your work phone.

“And I guess this is Kenzie’s phone, too? Just borrowing a brand new phone from a friend?” he mocks as he leans down to pick it up and shove it in your face.

You shake your head, your tongue heavy and inoperative, and a black fit of rage clouds over his eyes.

“So, you’re stealing money from the account somehow, huh? Spending it on ridiculous things for yourself? How long has that been going on?” he demands.

“No, I’m not! It’s for work!” you plead.

“Oh yeah, just like this little function today was for work, huh? BULLSHIT!”

It happens before you can stop him. You watch in horror as he throws your work phone into the wall. It thuds to the floor with cracks throughout the screen in several places.

“Dad, stop! I need that for work!” you cry. You scramble to the floor to salvage what you can.

Something in your voice must tell him you’re not lying. He seems to realize you’re telling the truth: it is a work phone. You hadn’t been hiding anything or spending money – your own money from your own account.

“See what happens when you keep secrets? Makes me feel like I can’t trust you at all.”

It’s as close to an admission of error that you’re going to get. He certainly wasn’t going to outright apologize. You hold back tears until he stomps off into the living room and plops down in his chair, just where you’d left him earlier today. You gather your mess of things from the floor and try to pull yourself together enough for the hours of chores ahead of you.

You’d been close to your normal self on Monday morning when Joel picked you up. He was waiting for some somber mood or vague mention of yesterday’s hasty departure. But, you were acting like nothing had happened. So, Joel did, too. He’d found that taking your lead with these strange situations was the only thing that kept your guard down. He’d have to just work the information out of you slowly and gently.

The entire thing had left a sour taste in his mouth. Maybe your dad had really just been worried about you being out past when you’d said you’d be home, but was it really necessary for him to get so upset over it? You couldn’t just up and leave of your own accord since Joel had driven you both, so why did it seem like your dad was blaming you for something you had no control over?

It wasn’t until Wednesday when he saw your broken work phone that the uneasy feelings came back tenfold. You’d sworn up and down that you’d dropped it a couple days ago and that you’d meant to tell him about it but forgotten. You’d apologized profusely for it and urged him to deduct the amount from your paycheck.

It just added to that nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. First the apparent relief of being paid cash. The fact that your dad was on all your accounts. The condescending, sharp way he’d held himself when Joel ran into him at the auto shop. The way you always seemed to change the topic whenever family or home came up. The way you sounded upset on the phone with your dad on Sunday. And now your work phone had been “dropped and cracked.”

It all gave Joel a bad feeling he couldn’t quite pin, but he couldn’t root it on any one thing in particular. All he could do was keep a closer eye on you and watch for more indications.

He takes you to get a new work phone and doesn’t leave until you’ve picked out the color you want of the newest version available. He doesn’t entertain your hesitance at accepting such a “nice gift.” He downplays it for your benefit. “Nah, quit it. It’s a work thing, but, hey, if it feels like a gift, I ain’t gonna argue with that.”

You were supposed to be getting direct deposits just like every other employee starting next month after Tommy had pressed him about it, but Joel wanted to keep that on hold until he got a better idea of what this bad feeling was that had taken hold of him. He’d been paying you in cash and driving you to the bank every other week, and he suggested doing that for “a little while longer” until he “could get some other things sorted out.”

To no surprise, you had no qualms with the offering.

You’d faked your excitement with everyone else around the office about the days off coming up for the holiday. Now here you were up at the crack of dawn trying to scrounge up whatever you could to put together something for today. It wasn’t going to be a Thanksgiving feast, that’s for sure. Part of you is relieved when your dad wakes up and tells you he’s going to Denise’s for the day. He’d been standoffish since he’d thrown your phone, but you didn’t dare acknowledge his almost rueful demeanor. If he didn’t directly address it, you knew better than to bring it up.

Just for good measure and to keep you in line, your dad explains that Denise’s parents are going to be there today, and he’s not willing to risk you tagging along and making some sort of scene. He wants to make a good impression, and it’s abundantly clear he doesn’t consider you someone that would make him look good. If you’re not an asset, you’re just in the way.

He takes the one decent dish you’d managed to produce and tells you not to wait up.

The quiet and calmness of an empty house is a rarity – a nice change of scenery – but you can’t pretend you’re not a little lonely. Something about the holiday where you’re meant to gather around family and friends and express your gratitude for them and everything else. It all amplified your solitude. You can’t keep your mind from drifting to your younger brother Calum who you hadn’t heard from properly in months.

He’d made the choice to leave almost a year ago. In truth, you’d never really felt lonely until he left. And as much as it hurt to no longer have him here with you, you understood. The least you could do was respect his choice and give him the gift of leaving this awful place behind. He didn’t need reminders of his past, what he’d decidedly departed from, when he was probably enjoying himself on Thanksgiving for the first time ever. You smiled as

you imagined the friends he might be having a meal with. At least one of you got out. You don’t begrudge him, but you do wish there was some way to know if he ever missed you.

A blanket work text comes through on your work phone. Some sparkly cornucopia graphic with even more sparkly text that read Happy Thanksgiving! It was sent by Joel, but you had a feeling the graphic was more of Tommy’s doing. You respond back to Joel on a private text.

You: happy thanksgiving :) shame you didn’t send out one of your famous emoji stories tho

Joel: Tommy made me send that ugly thing.

Joel: Thought of you earlier, by the way.

You: oh?

Joel: Yeah the parade was on, and I saw the Jolly Green Giant. Creepy fucker. Don’t remember him looking like that.

You: and that made you think of me? 😐

You snort at the inadvertently rude comment and break into a wide smile when his contact takes up the screen.

“It’s fine, Joel,” you assure him.

He groans on the other end. “Listen, I was tryna say that I thought of you ‘cause of the grocery store, you know? Canned green beans at the store? And you used to work at the supermarket, so… And the float was ugly – I don’t think you’re ugly, not in the slightest — I, well— now that came out wrong, goddammit—” You openly giggle at his floundering, and he lets out a nervous, self-deprecating chuckle.

“Been making merry it sounds like,” you lightheartedly tease.

He makes a sheepish sort of sound and admits to “having been bullied into a coupla bottles of beer by Tommy” but is quick to assure you he’s going to “stuff myself with some appetizers to soak some of it up before talking to any other employees.” You grimace at the reminder that this is not in fact some friendly call but rather your boss just sending out a mass text wishing everybody a nice holiday.

You wish you were there with him. His warmth and kindness feels like it was meant to be shared on days like this, surrounded by a good meal and a happy family. Even this somewhat inebriated version of him is so different from what you’ve grown up with.

“Sure is quiet over there,” he notes.

“Yeah, I just stepped outside for a minute when I saw you were calling.”

“Ah, well don’t let me keep you from it, sweetheart.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling, Joel. Say hi to Tommy for me.”

“Will do. And, uh, sorry about the green beans thing again.”

“Yeah, yeah. You owe me a trip to Blue Plate Diner for that one.”

He laughs and agrees that the “punishment fits the crime.” Your heart stutters at the promise of getting to cuddle up next to him in a booth again.

“So, you ate good and all that?” Joel asks as he turns the wheel.

“Oh yeah. Probably gained five pounds,” you lie with a fake laugh. “How about you? Tommy bully you some more after we talked?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Gotta remind myself that alcohol hits different the older you get. Gotta have some food in me first before I start sayin’ crazy things.” He grumbles to himself when he pulls into the office parking lot and finds a large portion of it sectioned off with cones. He spots somebody in a high visibility vest and hops out to talk to him.

You watch on as he points to the various cones and then to your office door. The worker nods and gestures to something down the road. You try to follow along to where he’s pointing, but his hand drops before you get a good look. After another moment of discussion, Joel shakes the guy’s hand and moves a few cones aside. To your horror, he motions for you to drive through.

It’s a short, straight path. You don’t have a license, but this was as simple as it got in terms of driving without hitting anything. The entire lot was empty except for the cones Joel had moved aside for you. You shakily scoot over to the driver’s side but can’t make yourself shift the gear. You’re suddenly cold and clammy, staring blindly at the wheel and the gearshift. Why can’t you just do this simple thing?

You jump at the door opening. You hadn’t even noticed Joel making his way back over to you. “Hey, you’re alright. I got it.” He hops into the truck without another word, and you barely shift over enough to make space for him. You wait for the insults to fly, but they don’t come.

No why you couldn’t manage such a simple request?! barked at you

No I have to do everything myself! hurtled your way.

Instead, he pulled into a space and put it in park. Before you’d even opened your mouth to apologize, he waved you off. “Nah, shouldn’t have assumed you were comfortable with it. That’s my fault,” he offers casually.

“It’s so stupid, I should’ve just–”

“Shouldn’t have asked ya in the first place. Not right. I know you don’t have your license, and I shouldn’t have assumed you’d be comfortable even if I thought it wasn’t a big deal. I’m sorry for puttin’ you in that spot.”

Your mouth feels dry, adrenaline coursing with the stress of a reprimand that wasn’t going to come but you’d been trained to expect. He hops out and gets the door for you, just like he always does. You take his hand as you step down from the truck and hate how you have to let it go.

“You know, uh, if you ever wanted to, I could take you to get your learner’s. I could take you to practice – you know, just learn the basics. If it’d make you feel more comfortable….”

“Yeah, okay.”

You had to learn to drive eventually, right? And you weren’t about to turn down more time alone with Joel.

You listen as he rattles on about all the abandoned parking lots and empty job sites he has in mind for you to practice without the stress of people or cars around. You want to tell him that if you were with him you knew you’d be alright. You settle for a “thank you.”

◦ ty to @jupiter-soups for looking this over ◦ posting this a tad earlier than planned bc I'm going to be offline towards the end of the week and want to make sure this goes up without any issues ◦ ty for all the love thus far on this series!

tagging those who have shown interest (lmk if you want be removed):

@verybigvag @drunk-and-capable @bizarrelove-triangle @dontjudgemyobsessionpls @cumberpegg @koshkaj-blog @survivingandenduring @umnitsa @ellenmunn @zooty-and-fruity @walw1017 @keylimebeag @beelzebeth87 @janaispunk @wand-erer5 @0vix0 @pastelnap @goodwithcheese @akah565 @fadajnaoqkzalq @confusedpuffin

#fic: chrysalism #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x oc #hurt/comfort #pedro pascal characters #joel miller smut #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller au #joel miller fluff

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tvgals · 1 year

Note

Could we please get more dad eren? I’ve literally became obsessed with the one you did 🥹🥹

too much dad! eren? no such thing !

dad! eren x black! fem! reader!

ok. let’s backtrack to the birth of you and eren’s first kid. your water broke in the midst of you and eren’s sleep. 1:40 am is what the clock read once you felt the wet and somewhat gooey substance under you. once you were atleast 70% awake and realize what’s going on, you fall into a panic. “eren, eren! wake up!” you shake eren with the most force you can as a pregnant- going into labor - woman. after almost a minute of tears falling down your face and shaking legs and hands, eren groggily wakes up.

“whats wrong, baby?” “i’m going into labor! eren please get up! we need to get in the car!” you plead, trying to get yourself out of bed, groaning while sitting on the edge. “shit shit shit…okay hold on,” eren starts panicking alongside with you. he hands you your shoes while trying to find the overnight bag the two of you agreed on just a week before. “baby please! i can feel her kicking!” you sob, trying to slide on your house shoes. “i know i know, just let me find my glasses.” him and those god damn glasses. “eren!” you squeal. “okay okay.” and with that, eren takes his and yours phones and grabs your hand, guiding you to the door. you groan and whine in pain. “holy shit eren..the hospital is like…ten minutes away! i can’t do it!” you tell him, shaking and crying. “yes you can. you’re the strongest woman i’ve ever met.” eren says, hauling you up the apartment stairs and opening up the door, fleeing down the ramp.

“baby i’m not gonna make it!” you wail, making it to the car without your knowledge. “i know it hurts baby, just get in. we’ll make it, okay?” eren sighs himself, this is stressful and he’s not the one pregnant. “okay okay.” you gasp, sitting yourself down in eren’s seat, remembering to lift your feet onto the dashboard. eren runs around the car and plops into the drivers seat, pushing the key into the engine and reversing. “eren please! go 150 if you have to! i swear to god if i have birth in this god damn car you will sleep on the couch for as long as you’re alive!” you threaten, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “got it. no birth in this car!” eren affirms, speeding down the street. just around the corner from the hospital you feel your contractions getting closer, your eyes grow wide. “eren hurry up,” you plead, eyes closing at the sight of the hospital. “cmon cmon,” eren parks the car right in front and pulls the keys out, immediately hurrying to your side. “let’s go.” he practically runs you into the lobby of the hospital, you gasping and groaning in pain.

“she’s going into labor. we just need a room really fast.” eren says, seeing a nurse come around the corner with a wheelchair. he walks you over and sits you down, the nurse hurrying you to the room. eren isn’t too far behind…due to his running. “please! i can feel her coming! hurry up!” you cry, gripping the handles of the wheelchair. “it’s okay. here’s your room right here, you’ll be okay.” after getting you all situated in the hospital bed, the doctor and multiple nurses are surrounding you, your husband by your side. “just breathe in and out.” the doctor says. after three hours of pushing and grueling work and pain (and the breaking of eren’s hand) your beautiful baby girl was born. a beautiful head of curls being presented. all tests were ran and they made sure she was healthy and safe and gave her to you, a bundle of pink.

“hi baby.” you coo, tears threatening to fall. “eren she’s so pretty.” you mumble, looking up into his emerald eyes, glossy and soft. “i know i know…” you cry, wiping your tears on your shoulder. “here eren, hold her.” you smile, handing eren your daughter. “what if i don’t know how to hold her right? what if she doesn’t like me?” eren babbles. you sush him and hand him her. “now…what name are we feeling?” you ask, tilting your head out of love. “nevaeh..”

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your-nanas-house · 11 months

Note

Can you make a late 70s Elvis x reader in which she's shy to be with him naked despite being together for a long time? Make it smut and thanks

Wow direct 😂 sounds more like an order than a request, dear. (I'm kidding 🥰) I can, sorry for making you wait and thanks for the Elvis' request!!!

Little one

◇ Pairing: 70s!Elvis Presley x fem!reader

◇ Warnings: smut, shyness, age gap (Elvis is in his 40s, they are both adults), insecurities, bathtub

◇ Summary: Elvis wants to take things to the next step but you're too shy. (You already had sex together but you are too shy to show your naked body to him)

◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English.

Elvis wanted to bring things to the next step in your relationship, you've been together since a few years now— since nearly a year after his divorce with Priscilla.

He missed a bit the warm skin of a woman against his even just for in an innocent way like cuddling; reason because he wanted to take things further with you. He needed your young and attractive body against his, just like your momma made you.

He was honestly just waiting for the right moment to act and that night felt like the right time for him, he just needed to find a way to seduce you and not scare you off.

Elvis noticed how shy you were and he respected that but he really wanted to show you that you didn't need to be that shy to show your gorgeous body to him or let him show you some love behind closed doors.

He was thinking at that, sitting in his big bathtub by himself, surrounded by warm water that relaxed his sore muscles.

His need for you in that moment grew and grew and he was 100% sure that he was going to have you just like he was longing you.

"Hey, uh, Satnin—?" He started, raising his voice to make sure that you could hear him

"Got time for a little something later...?"

Elvis asked softly, hoping for one of your usual soft spoken replies or a short yet flirty gesture.

He was a simple man, and in reality was just nervous to initiate the action due to fear of denial or possibly hurting you in someway but his worry vanished as soon as he heard your reply

"Of course, love" you replied sweetly, searching him in the empty bedroom, wondering where he was; your gaze moved all around the room and it quickly stopped towards your shared bathroom when you heard a noise coming from there.

Elvis softly chuckled, moving the bathtub plug a bit to make some noise as his lips curled into a smile once he heard your footsteps approaching the room

"In here, darlin'!"

A soft smile appeared on your face, you were pretty excited to see your Elvis since you had been all day out of Graceland, leaving him all alone.

You walked in with a rushed pace, expecting him to be in front of the mirror busy shaving or brushing his teeth— finding him instead in the tub completely naked and comfortable, an amused smile on his face, his fingers, still adorned by his rings, brushing against his heart-shaped lips as he looked at you with his blue eyes.

A soft gasp escaped your mouth as soon as you registered what was happening, a heavy blush appeared on your cheek as you covered your eyes with your hands, turning your back towards him to leave him some privacy even though he really didn't want that at that moment

"S-Sorry, baby" you apologized quickly, blushing even more as you heard his low laugh

"Don't you be covering up that face, woman. C'mere'" Elvis softened his voice, his own cheeks turning slightly pink as he at your reaction, the smirk still present on his face.

He reached his arm out, wanting to bring you into the tub with him, not really carrying about the fact that you were still dressed, he just wanted or needed you to be close to him.

You moved closer to him, letting him grab your hand and try to pull you on him

"Not so fast, sir" you scolded playfully, stroking softly his wet hair

"Don't want you to get me all wet—" you murmured, slapping his arm softly when you noticed his smirk that made you quickly understand what he was thinking about

"Oh, I intend to, Satnin'!" Elvis said with a sly smile, his hand brushing against yours

"Now, come on—" he murmured, pouting slightly as he tried again to pull you in the bathtub, making you blush even more

"Not that way..." you murmured shyly making him laugh again

"Aw, my little lady being all bashful? I don't believe it. C'mere, I wanna snuggle some bit" Elvis replied as he leaned in to softly kiss your neck to tease and make you agree to his "plan".

You strangely agreed and asked him to close his eyes so you could remove your clothes and join him in the bathtub.

There was a mischievous smirk on Elvis' chubby face, his bottom lip continued to be molested by his teeth, while his eyes remained slightly open even though it looked to you like they were closed.

"No peaking" you warned as you got ride of your dress before climbing carefully in the warm water, exactly in front of your love.

As soon as your body was surrounded by the heat and the few bubbles, you covered your intimate areas as best you could before allowing Elvis to look— your gaze not meeting his lustful eyes, your cheeks a soft blush.

"Look at ya" his low voice murmured as he eyed you slowly, focusing on your hands

"Trying to cover up what's daddy, huh?"

Your face heated up even more, you were blushing harder and harder, expecially when you met his eyes because of his sudden grip on your chin

"Show daddy what he's missing, lil' mama" Elvis growled softly, chuckling softly at your shy self.

You weren't completely sure to want that but you went along with his order, removing slowly your hands to reveal your fully naked (and now wet) body at him.

As minutes passed, you became more and more insecure— but as soon as an animalistic groan escaped the King of Rock'n Roll's mouth and his big hand manhandled you on his lap— you knew that he liked what he was seeing.

Expecially when his right hand started to knead your breasts and his left hand went to your ass, causing your pussy to grind against his hard rock erection.

Elvis' mouth started to abuse the sensitive skin of your neck and jawline, shoulder as well when you moved the tip of his cock at your eager entrance— which swallowed his length completely, clenching and pulsing around it, almost holding it inside of you for dear life.

"Y-Y-Ya're s-so damn p-perfect, Satnin'" he groaned softly, holding you close to his hairy and board chest.

Taglist:

@gabile18 , @mrsfullbuster500 , @rex-ray , @elizamalfoyy, @eovjjj , @wife-of-magic-monkeys , @jeremiah-va1eska , @gothamchic16, @rabbiteggz , @dieg0brandos-wife , @rottenecstasy , @lazyexcuse , @teh-vampire-bunny , @lobotomy-lover , @slasher-smasher , @sleepycreativewriter

#elvis presley fanfiction #70s elvis #elvis the pelvis #elvis presley #elvis fans #elvis presley smut #elvis presley x reader #elvis the king #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley fic #elvis presley x you #elvis presley x shy!reader #elvis aaron presley

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filthyjoetini · 7 months

Text

Stumblin' In

a/n: Here we are guys. The last part. Thanks for sticking around <3 feedback, reblogs and likes are as always very appreciated. beta-reader, editor, partner in crime: @barfightzanddiscolightz

warnings: rpf, fem!reader, could raise your blood sugar...

wordcount: 4k

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

Part 4

“It looks so stu-hu-hupiiid.”, you groaned, stomping your feet and throwing your head back in frustration. You stood in front of your full-length mirror. One of your legs was only halfway inside your tights which had a run from you pulling too hard on them. Your lace corset-top, which was halfway tucked into your faux-leather skirt, hung loosely around your torso because you couldn’t find the laces. You were sure that one of your cats had stolen them and hidden them under your bed, where you couldn’t reach them without crawling under it. But the worst thing of all was the fact that your flat iron decided to die on you mid-way through styling your hair. Luckily, you had already finished your make-up, which turned out to be perfect.

After unplugging the broken styling tool, you took it to your bathroom and placed it in the sink to cool off. Looking down at it with a sneer, you quickly grabbed your hairdryer and curling brush. Returning to your bedroom, you plopped down on your bed and took a few of deep breaths to ground yourself. You needed to calm down. Why were you so nervous? You knew when and where you needed to be. It was a cute little café that also served a variety of sandwiches and other finger foods. You had already checked the menu online and knew exactly what you were going to get.

And you’d read the book twice. For your book club, of course, and not at all to impress him. No need to, right?

With one last big breath through your nose, you stood up and took off your damaged tights. You threw them on your bed, telling yourself you would throw them away later. Later meaning ‘three weeks from now’ later. Pushing yourself up from your bed, you walked over to your commode and picked your second-best pair of tights out of your drawer.

“Yeah...you’ll do.”, you sighed and pulled them on gently. They didn’t really go with the rest of the outfit, but you didn’t have time to go out and get a new pair that would suit your style better. The next step was to find the laces for your top. You got down on all fours and crawled halfway under your bed, where most of the cat toys had found their final resting place. After rummaging through the pile of toy mice, hair and zip ties, you finally found a huge ball of laces. You pulled it out from under the bed and immediately spotted the silk fabric of the strings.

“Fucking cats.”, you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. Carefully, you began to untangle the ball of laces and gently pulled out the one you needed before skilfully threading it through the corset’s grommets, tightening them and finally tying them on your back.

Two tasks down, one more to go.

You plugged your hairdryer into the outlet, turned it on, grabbed your curling brush with your other hand and started straightening the second half of your hair. The brush left a little curve at the ends, making one half of your head look like a 70s actress, whilst the other half screamed late-00’s emo kid. Groaning, you got to work on the emo side again to even it out a bit. You weren’t fully satisfied with the result, but at least it looked somewhat presentable now.

After staring at yourself in the mirror for far too long and almost spacing out, you decided to pick up your mobile phone from where it was lying on the bed. You gasped when you saw the time. You were running royally late.

Panicking, you grabbed your purse and your trusty leather jacket and sprinted for the door. There you slipped into your Dr. Martens and tied them up properly. Another trip to the hospital wasn’t in your books.

As you opened the door, you yelled back at your cats to behave before hastily locking the door and speed walking down the corridor and stairs.

---

Heaving and panting, you entered the café. You prayed that Joe wasn’t there yet, but unfortunately, you spotted him already sitting down in a cosy armchair, dressed in his overly expensive trench coat, phone in hand.

You collected yourself and stepped into the room, slowly making your way over to him.

“Hey,”, you greeted him, clearing your throat.

Joe turned around quickly when he heard you, beaming grin on his face. He immediately stood up and pulled you into a bone-crushing hug.

When he pulled back, he was holding you at an arm’s length, eyes narrowed, lips between his teeth. He studied your face. Then his eyes darted down your body, a smirk forming on his lips.

You rolled your eyes, snorting at his expression.

“Yeah, I know. For once I don’t look like a hag. All put together, like a normal human being.”

“You never look like a hag,”, he scoffed at your self-degrading remark, “and you always look put together. With or without make-up. I like it though. Suits you very well.”

He said the last part with a wink that made you blush instantly.

Quickly, you took the remaining couple of steps to the second armchair and sat down. Joe though, didn’t move an inch, instead opening his mouth again.

“Do you know what you want? There’s a menu on the table.”

“Oh. Can you get me a cappuccino with the Toblerone sprinkles and one of those egg and cress sandwiches? They look delicious.”, you blurted out without looking at him or the menu at all, shrugging off your leather jacket.

When Joe still didn’t move, you looked up at him and saw him grinning down at you.

“What?”, you asked, innocently.

“Nothing.”, he smirked and then walked off to place your orders at the counter.

---

Joe placed your sandwich and hot beverages neatly in front of you on the very tiny table and his in the same orderly fashion on his side before sitting down.

“How was your wor-”

“How’s your nec-”

Joe and you both started to speak at the same time and stopped abruptly again when you noticed. It made you both giggle.

“Sorry, you first,”, you urged, gesturing for him to start talking again.

“How is your neck?”, he asked, the giggle still evident in his voice.

“I had a check-up two days ago and the doctor said I’ll be just fine, although there is no cure for my clumsiness.”, you giggled and shrugged your shoulders.

“Good. Because otherwise I’ll have to find a new nickname for you, and I’ve grown quite fond of Bambi.”, he explained, a gentle smile now sporting his lips.

“Shut up…”, you muttered bashfully before composing yourself and taking a huge gulp of your cappuccino and a bite of your sandwich. “How was your foreign mission? Any more planned?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. And yes, always.”, he replied nonchalantly, as he leaned towards you. He had his elbow propped on his knee and slowly rested his chin on the heel of his palm, smirking smugly at you.

Two can play this game, you told yourself, mirroring him.

“And what is it you do? Mr. Over-Secretive?”, you inquired further, returning his smug expression.

“I’m an actor.”, he responded quickly, leaning back casually into the backrest of his armchair, hands placed flat on his knees.

“Oh.”, you replied, somewhat taken aback. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything before.”

“Ouch.”

“No…I didn’t mean it like that.”, you apologised immediately, leaning further forward and grabbing his hand without thinking. All Joe could do was smile down at your hand.

“It’s alright. I’ve been in a lot of period productions, and I know they are not for everyone.”, he replied, adjusting his hand in yours by lacing your fingers together.

“Yeah, they are not my cup of tea.”, you nodded, staring at your intertwined fingers before moving your eyes up to his face. “Have you been in anything else?”

“Yep.”, he replied, popping the p. “I was in the latest season of Stranger Things.”

“Wha-?”, you started, mouth agape now and eyes wide. “That’s one of my favourite TV shows. Who did you play?”

“Eddie Mun-“

“GET OUT OF HERE!”, you almost shrieked, pulling your hand away from his and clapping it over your mouth. An elderly couple two tables over glared daggers at your outburst. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to shout.”, you spoke through your fingers, muffled.

All Joe could do was laugh at your reaction. You were so bloody adorable. Especially when you started blushing as soon as you did something out of character.

“Eddie is my favourite character this season.”, you confessed, almost whispering.

“Yeah?”, he asked, giggling.

“Yeah.”, you confirmed sheepishly.

“Anyway.”, Joe continued, trying to divert the attention to something else. Something else was obviously you. “What do you do for a living?”

“It’s really not that interesting.”, you explained with a shrug. “It’s your usual boring desk job.”

“I bet it’s not as boring as you make it out to be.”, Joe spoke, an encouraging smile on his lips.

“It really is.”, you concluded with tight lips, leaving no more room for an argument. “In contrast to my job, yours is very multifaceted.”

Nodding, Joe didn’t inquire further, sensing your discomfort with the subject. You let out a shaky breath and then put on a smile again. You didn’t want to dampen the mood. Joe returned your smile and leaned forward to take your hand in his again. It was very warm whilst yours had become clammy.

"So…what do you do for fun then?”

“Well, I really, really enjoy going to the cinema to see obscure films and I love to read a book every now and then.”, you stated with a chuckled. “Oh, and I love music. I love, looove love going to concerts.”

Joe couldn’t take his eyes off you as you rambled on about your passions and favourite past times. You animatedly recounted the story of the last concert you went to, and Joe basically hung on your every word.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

“Hmm...”, Joe pretended to think, putting his free hand under his chin, which made you giggle again. “I love going to the cinema, especially to study the work of other actors as well as the directors. I also like to write scripts. They’re usually silly little stories. And I love to read. Speaking of reading. I just finished the book this morning.”

“Did you? How did you like it?”

“Considering I literally devoured it between shoots, I’d say pretty good.”, he said with a chuckle, letting go of your hand to reposition himself in his armchair.

“Well, I was hoping so.”, you giggled, pulling your hand back and you crossing your legs. “Otherwise, I’d have to disband our book club.”

“Bambi, book clubs are for discussing different opinions about a book.” Joe retorted. “Disbanding it prematurely would defeat its purpose.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh uh.”

“Nuh uh!”

“Yuh uh!”

“Ugh. You’re even more annoying than my cats.”, you groaned, knowing he could go on like this forever.

“You have cats?”, he asked, his eyes widening with interest. His whole body moved forward again.

“Yep. Two little bastards.”, you replied with a chuckle. You took your phone from beside you and showed him a picture of your two fur babies. “Do you want to meet them?”

“Yes. Duh!”, he responded, immediately getting up from his armchair and pulling on his coat.

“Uhm, Joe. You still have some coffee and food left.”, you pointed out with a raised eyebrow. Joe looked down at the table and quickly downed his now cold coffee and stuffed the rest of the food into his mouth.

“Okay. Let’s go.”, he spoke again after he had swallowed everything. You were still sipping the last of your drink and wrapping your sandwich in a serviette when Joe was already halfway out of the café.

“Hey. Wait up.”

“Hurry up! I’ve got cats to meet.”

“Idiot.”, you muttered under your breath, shaking your head, grinning and following him out.

---

“Joe, you really don’t have to do this.”

You slowly climbed the stairs up to your flat, Joe beside you, hovering like a mother hen. An arm was draped around your waist. A safety precaution.

“I won’t fall down again.”

“Says you!”, he objected, jabbing a finger into your side almost causing you to lose your balance nearly missing the next step. You cursed under your breath. Why do you have to be so ticklish?

“See? You almost fell again!”, Joe pointed out the obvious, grinning like a madman. That dick knew exactly what he was doing. You responded by giving him a light shove.

“Of course I’m gonna fall if you poke me in the side, Joseph. I’m ticklish.”, you huffed, feigning annoyance.

“Good to know.”, he countered with a wink.

Rolling your eyes, you wiggled out of his grasp and took the last few steps up the stairs to the door of your flat. Joe was hot on your heels, not wanting to be left behind.

“Uhm. Just so you know. My cats are very skittish and don’t really like strangers. Please don’t be offended if they don’t come to you straight away. They’re drama queens.”, you explained before inserting the key in the lock and slowly unlocking the door.

“Don’t worry. I won’t be.”, Joe smiled at you. He leaned his arm against the wall for support as he unzipped his boots to take them off. His tongue was sticking out in concentration. It made you snort a little, because you found it very endearing.

Gently, you pushed open the door and your cats immediately greeted you. As soon as they noticed someone else was standing there, they took off. Probably hiding under your bed.

“Told you.”, you said matter-of-factly before stepping aside to let Joe in. “The living room is this way.”, you pointed in its direction, “make yourself comfortable…uhm…do you want something to drink? What do you want?”

“What do you have to offer?”, Joe asked sweetly, not yet moving.

“I have water, both still and sparkling, tea…I should have beer…”, you listed, making your way over to the kitchen to check, leaving Joe standing in your narrow hallway.

“If you’ve got beer, I’ll have one.”, Joe called, following you.

“Shit. I’m out!”, you winced lowly after rummaging through your fridge. “I do have a liquor shelf though – holy FUCK. You scared me!”

Joe was standing right behind you as you turned away from the fridge. You hand’t expected him to follow you.

“I thought you’d gone into the living room.”, you explained frowning, hand covering your chest. Your heart was racing at a thousand miles a minute.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Bambi.”, he apologised, mirroring your frown. He gently took your free hand in his and rubbed it softly to emphasise how bad he felt for scaring you.

“Alright...it’s alright.”, you murmured, slowly smiling at him and giving his hand a quick squeeze before taking yours from his grasp. “Would you like a drink instead of a beer?”

“Sure…uhm…a gin and tonic, maybe?”

“Gin and tonic coming right up.”, you announced, turning to your liquor shelf. “Go sit in the living room. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Alright.”, Joe chuckled and wandered off.

---

As you entered the living room, two gin and tonics in hand, you saw Joe coaxing Kiro over from the other side of the sofa. Your black panther of a cat was the braver of the two but totally unimpressed by Joe. The man in question clicked his tongue and stuck his pointer finger out at him.

With a low chuckle, you set the two drinks down on your coffee table and sat down in between them. Your addition to the scene awakened Kiro’s interest and he now ambled over to you and plopped himself down on your thighs.

Joe, who was now sporting a huge grin, slowly scooted closer to you and held his still outstretched forefinger directly under Kiro’s nose. The cat sniffed it and eventually gave it a lick. Joe had been approved.

Giggling, Joe moved his hand to the top of Kiro’s head and scratched it softly before pulling his hand away and grabbing his drink from the table instead. You had watched the whole interaction with a soft smile gracing your lips.

“Would you like to watch something on Netflix?”, you inquired, leaning forward carefully so as to not crush your cat, and grabbing both your drink and the remote.

“Sure. Anything obscure on there you haven’t seen?”, he asked, taking the first sip of his long drink and nodding in approval.

“Not really. I’m kind of in a mood for some nostalgic rom coms.”, you giggled as you launched the app. “I’m talking early 2000’s, baby.”

“Oookay. Whatever floats your boat.”, Joe chuckled and put his drink down again.

You chose the corniest one the streaming service had to offer, but before you hit play, you asked Joe to hand you the blankets that were draped over the settee’s armrest. Before you could drape one over yourself, Kiro jumped off your legs and sat down beside you.

“Do you want the other one?”, you asked Joe, holding it out to him.

“Sure. Thanks.”

You nodded at him as he gently pulled his blanket over his own legs.

Just as you were about to press play, Freya decided to show herself by sauntering lazily into the living room. When Joe saw her, he let out a small audible gasp. She decided to jump on the sofa, right between you and Joe. He immediately held out his hand to her as well. She sniffed it and then turned her behind to him. She opted for your legs instead.

Joe’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and you smiled at him apologetically. He just grinned and waved you off.

“She’ll get around to you…eventually.”, you promised and finally pressed play.

Less than twenty minutes into the film, Freya had had enough of your legs and moved over to Joe. There she scratched gently at the blanket. Joe looked at you with questioning eyes.

“She wants to go into the blanket cave.”, you explained. “Is that OK for you? If not, I can make one with my blanket.”

“Is that OK? Of course it’s OK!.”, Joe confirmed, face beaming and you leaned over to help him make it. Snug as a bug in a rug she now lay against Joe’s thigh, fully covered by his blanket. One of Joe’s hands was underneath the blanket as well, gently stroking her fur.

Surrounded by the warmth of two cats and a man, you grew more tired by the minute. It wasn’t even that late, only a quarter to five but your brain still hadn’t fully recovered yet and the circumstances you found yourself in didn’t really benefit your condition. You tried very hard to stay awake, but your eyes grew heavy, and your head was inching closer and closer to Joe’s shoulder, eventually landing on it.

Joe looked down at your sleeping form, moving as little as possible to make you more comfortable and not to disturb the cats. He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you a little closer, so that your head rested just below his collarbone. Unconsciously, you snuggled closer to him and let out a soft sigh. Joe grinned and continued to watch the film which he hadn’t followed at all.

He let you sleep like that even after the film had ended. You were snoring softly, and he found it to be very soothing whilst he tried to solve his sudoku on his phone. 45 minutes after the credits had finished rolling, he received a text message from his manager saying he had to get up early the next day due to a spontaneous work commitment all the way up in Scotland.

Groaning at the text, he pushed himself up a little, much to Freya’s dismay who now crawled out of her cave and glared at Joe.

“I’m sorry, girl. I didn’t mean to.”, he apologised, scratching her ear. Then he gently placed the palm of his hand on your cheek.

“Bambi…wake up.”

“No…five more minutes.”, you whined and tried to swat his hand away, making Joe snort out a laugh.

“Unfortunately, I have to go. I just got a text saying that I have to get up early. I’m needed in Scotland.”, he explained, rubbing his thumb along your jaw.

You slowly opened your eyes and mumbled something about another secret mission.

“That’s right…now come on.”

He moved his hands to your arms and slowly helped you up which irritated the two fur balls even more. Kiro toddled over the sofa cushion next to Freya and lay down again with a grunt.

“You just lost at least four brownie points in their book for that rude awakening.”, you muttered with a yawn and stretching your arms over your head.

“In yours or theirs?”

“Hmm.”, was all you replied, shrugging your shoulders.

“I’ll make it up to them.”, he grinned, gently petting them to say his goodbye. A little more awake than before, you smiled at him and made your way to the hallway to see him out.

After Joe had put on his coat and boots, he slowly turned to you.

“I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you, Bambi.”

“Likewise.”, you retorted having grown rather fond of his silly nickname for you. Slowly, you pushed yourself up on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Gently, he returned the embrace, and swayed you in his arms for a couple of moments.

Pulling back a little, you stared into his deep caramel eyes, a soft smile tickling at the corners of your lips. Smiling himself, he stared back down at you, lowering his face until you were nose to nose. Joe then gently tilted his head, brushed his nose against yours, causing you turn up your nose a slightly. Your reaction made Joe grin even wider, and you took the opportunity to close the distance, pressing your lips tenderly against his.

He immediately reciprocated the kiss and sweetly pecked your lips a few of times which made you open your mouth just a little. Taking this as an invitation to go further, Joe gently nibbled at your lips and finally captured them passionately with his.

Breathing heavily, you both reluctantly pulled away, resting your foreheads against each other. You took one hand from around his shoulders and ran your fingers delicately along your bottom lip. Both his and your cheeks were slightly rose-tinted, and Joe’s ears were glowing red. He quickly placed another soft peck to your fingertips and gingerly let go of you.

“I’ve got a train to catch.”, he whispered, and you nodded, reaching behind him to unlock the door. He took a step back into the stairwell and turned back around to where you were standing in the doorway, the blush still evident on your face. Joe took a step back towards you and gave you one final peck to your lips.

“Let’s do this again, Bambi.”, he winked, making you giggle again.

“Get home safe.”

“I will.”

“Text me?”, you inquired, crossing your arms around your middle.

“Of course.”, he promised as he descended the stairs. You watched him disappear before you opened your mouth again.

“Bye!”, you called after him.

“Bye, Bambi!”, he called back, and you eventually heard the front door slam shut far too loudly. This was in no way Joe’s fault but the doors itself. The mechanism was broken.

Turning around, you quickly closed the door and ran into your living room to look out the window. You caught him just in time to see him disappear around the corner. Smiling to yourself, you touched your lips again. Your smile turned into a snort and finally into a full laugh.

Oh, you so were gonna do this again.

The End

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megamindsecretlair · 1 year

Text

Be My Little Darling

Masterlist Chapter 2

Pairing: Loki x Black!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. You are in charge of your own reading experience. One shot. There is some making out, unresolved sexual tension! Mentions of private parts. Cursing. There's violence with weapons. Established relationship.

Summary: Loki is the exclusive owner of the hottest club in New Asgard. Dubbed the Nine Realms, each of the nine rooms represent a different realm. You are his second in command, working the floors and ensuring everyone is having fun. At least they will be after you stop a creep from bothering one of your waitresses. And Loki has to stop the fight with you. He takes you back to his office to set some things straight.

Word Count: 3,826k

A/N: Ever since hearing that the Loki show had an early concept of Loki running a 70s dance club like the show Lucifer, I couldn't stop thinking about it. So I knocked this out. It was fun to write LOL. I conceived it as a one shot, so enjoy. Not beta'd or proof read, so all mistakes are mine. While likes are awesome, please consider commenting and reblogging to support writers!

“Hands. Off. Now,” you snarled. You looked up into the ugly mug of some random person who had too much to drink. He stank of ale and dried sweat and something faintly oily.

He sneered down at you and looked you over. You wore the same thing as the other girls, except you took liberties with yours. The skirt was a little shorter, the cleavage a little tighter, fishnet tights, and fingerless gloves. You wore all black like the other waitresses complete with a fresh black rose pinned to your lapel.

He saw you no more than background noise, blending into the decadent atmosphere. So, in his mind, he could do whatever he wanted.

“I don’t hear her complaining,” he said, with a heavy accent. You couldn’t place it, but then again, you were still getting used to New Asgard. Between the Asgardians and the humans native to this part of the world, there was an eclectic mix of voices, accents, and dialects.

He held one of your girls by the arm and from the looks of it, it was none too gently. She was a pretty brown haired girl, a little mousy and pale, but this room preferred the look of a doe-eyed innocent. You nodded to her, to give her reassurance that everything would be okay.

You turned your scowl back on the idiot. “She’s told you no a few times. Clean out your ears and let her go. I won’t ask again,” you said.

“And what will you do?” He asked. He looked around the room at his buddies who laughed along with him. You looked around, committing each idiot to memory. They were definitely banned after this.

You licked your lips, trying to keep your cool. You were so over this bullshit. You weren’t a bouncer and you resented the extra load Loki dumped on your shoulders. As if managing nine fucking rooms in a club was an easy task.

He chuckled some more, getting his cronies to increase their mocking laughter. The Alfeim room was supposed to be one of the most relaxing and ethereal rooms. You didn’t know where the meathead came from but you made a mental note to deal with the front house staff in the morning.

You moved forward and conjured a defense baton, bringing it down on his arm at the joint. There was a faint crunching sound and he yelled as he dropped the girl. She grinned and backed away, using her tray as a shield from the other cronies. They stood up and you slowly unveiled a conjured sword, waving it about.

“Ah ah ah,” you tsked. “Play fair.”

The meathead wailed like an unruly child and you curled your lip in disgust. So pathetic.

“Out, all of you. And I never want to see you here again.”

There were five men who encircled you, each remaining in place. You glanced around the room. There were log tables set up with stumps to sit on. There was fake moss on the walls and floor, fake branches overhead, and a cave facade built onstage for the performers. The girls in this room wore leafy, flowy skirts and loose peasant shirts. Flower crowns were woven into their braided hair and they wore sandals on their feet.

The patrons in this room needed that bit of fantasy to escape for a bit. For now, they were content to watch the fight unfold. They weren’t freaking out, so you decided to keep the mood light.

The meathead in charge stopped crying long enough to struggle to his feet. “You will regret that,” he said, low and menacing. Well, at least he thought so. But once you saw a man sniveling on the floor with snot running down his face, you kind of lost all respect.

You swung the sword towards him until it was flush against his neck. “Care to try me? I haven’t had a good fight in a good while,” you said.

The meathead scoffed. He suddenly thrust his arm up, moving your sword out of the way. But it still nicked him across the neck and cheek. A red line opened up on his skin and bled freely. He paid it no mind as he got in close, using his good side and broad frame to crowd into you.

You stepped in close as well and used the hilt of your baton to hit him in the abdomen. You stepped in, turned, and used the momentum to bring the baton across his face. His face whipped to the side but then turned back to you with fire in his eyes.

Finally, a good fucking fight. He yelled and ran at you, picking you up and slamming your back against the nearest table. You dropped the sword and conjured another baton and began wailing on any available body parts you could reach. You rained down holy fire on his back and arms until he finally leaned back far enough for you to land a solid kick.

He stumbled back, cursing at you and calling you out of your name. You hopped off of the table and bent low to bring your batons down on his kneecaps, ankles, and shins. He yowled in pain before grabbing your arm with a snarl.

“Let her go.” A deep, rich voice called out into the room. The faint faerie-like music slowed to a stop. The lights seemed to dim in his presence.

You sighed. This was the last fucking thing you needed.

“I got it,” you said. You twisted in the man’s hand making him twist in an unnatural way. He could either let go and save his hand or keep going out of spite. He cried out as his wrist twisted too far. You grabbed it and twisted it behind his back. You elbowed him in the back until he was bent over and back to crying. You applied pressure until his knees buckled.

“All of you, out. And you already know what I will do if I catch you here again,” Loki said. His breathy baritone commanded all the force of a prince. The eggheads who stayed out of the fight looked to their pathetic leader. He looked between you and Loki, trying to determine who was the real threat. You with the weapons, or the owner of the club and his former prince.

The meathead nodded and you let him go with a final shove. He stood up and one of his buddies came to help him stand. He glared daggers at you as they were escorted out by a team of bouncers.

You weren’t even out of breath. You released your constructs and set about setting the room to rights. You didn’t want to look at him. You already knew that he’d be scowling at you. As if the disturbance was somehow your fault.

Loki approached you on silent feet. While you were looking down, his shiny black dress shoes came into view.

He called your name and you suppressed a shiver. His voice made music out of your name, pronouncing all of the syllables in his own unique way. Every time felt like you were discovering your name for the first time.

You dragged your eyes along his all black suit that hugged his frame, accentuated his small waist, and broad shoulders. He wore a black on black suit, with a black tie, and a black rose on his lapel. His hair draped down to his shoulders. He was letting it grow out again and gods it was glorious on him.

His signature scowl was on his face as he regarded you.

“I had it covered, you didn’t have to do that.” You hated that even from across the fucking club, word spread so fast that he always spoiled your fun.

“It shouldn’t get that far,” he said.

“How about you trust me next time?” You snapped. You weren’t a fucking child that he could scold. He raised an eyebrow at you.

Perhaps you really had lost your mind, because you didn’t care this time. “You can’t expect these people to trust me, let alone my girls to trust me, if you swoop in and command people about. They need to fear me, not you,” you continued.

“He had his hands on you,” Loki said as if it explained everything.

“He had his hands on Sugar, or did you not see that?” You asked. Loki gave every waitress a name. Sugar, Sweetie, Honey…

“Darling,” he said, with a slight smile. “There’s nothing that goes on in my club that I don’t know about,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. Yes, you’ve heard the speech. He is the lord and king of the club and no one could tell him different.

You finished righting the tables and stumps. You grabbed the towel hanging from your back pocket and wiped down the table. The couple who had been sitting there had stood up in the commotion to avoid being trampled. They nodded their thanks. You gave them vouchers for a free drink on their next visit.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Loki,” you said. You brushed past him but he dug his fingers into the fleshy parts of your upper arm.

He raised a finger into your face. “Have care how you speak to me,” he said.

His dark eyes bored into yours. Oh he was angry. If he had the ability to burn you with one look, it’d be this one. His jaw flexed as he clenched it and his eyes were so narrow, he looked like his eyes were half closed.

You yanked your arm out of his grasp. He reared back as if you had slapped him. “Fuck you,” you said.

Instead of rising to your obvious bait, Loki chuckled. He clapped slowly and turned around, getting others to clap along with him. “Let’s thank the lovely Darling for keeping us safe.”

The room clapped awkwardly before Loki nodded to the band. The music resumed, the soft and ethereal music floating through once more. Waitresses floated in and out carrying full trays of drinks to go with the forest theme.

Loki smiled and waved to patrons. He leaned down to speak to a group of women who giggled at his words. Giggled. You dry heaved.

Loki turned back to you and his smile disappeared. He stepped closer and leaned towards your ear. “My office. Now,” he demanded.

You sucked your teeth but his expression told you that he wasn’t in the mood tonight. Whatever. If he wanted to fire you, you’d welcome it. You didn’t sign up for this shit.

You whirled around and exited the room. The common areas were decorated in velvet and revolving lights that switched colors and swirled on the walls. Waitresses dressed in regalia from all over the nine realms marched to and from the various kitchens and bars, carrying drinks or finger foods.

Your high heels clicked on the floor, despite the thumping music from various rooms you passed. You were all too aware of Loki stalking behind you. He didn’t make much of a sound. If it weren’t for his shoes, you wouldn’t be able to tell he was there. Well, besides the overwhelming presence of him.

His disappointment and anger were like thick blankets around you. Suffocating you. Your skin was overheated and oversensitive. You wanted a fight but now you were left unfulfilled. Your denied release made you antsy, eyes flicking across the assorted artwork and sculptures in the labyrinth hallways.

You led the way to his office. Smack at the back of the club, Loki had a spacious and elegant office. He was done in his signature black and emerald. Deep, plush couches he probably fucked people on.

He had a dark mahogany desk that was large enough to dominate the room. Two chairs were in front of it. File cabinets, boxes, and random sculptures made up the room. He had a private bar in the corner with the best liquor according to his tastes.

He entered behind you and slammed the door shut. You hated that you jumped. You hated it more that the sound of the door locking didn’t scare you. It excited you. Your pitiful crush on your boss was embarrassing. All of the women loved him. Half the men did too. He had a unique way of making you feel like the only person in the room, despite being surrounded.

You crossed your arms and faced forward. He stalked towards you, way too close for comfort. You shifted as he trailed a finger down your exposed arm. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“If you don’t respect me out there, the other girls will stop listening. So instead of running a club, I’m now stuck with the task of hiring and training a completely new staff. Do not disrespect me out there,” he said.

You faced him. “Then don’t disrespect me. I had the situation under control,” you said.

He laughed at you and shook his head. He dropped his hold on your chin. “I’m sure breaking his knees and arms was a controlled situation,” he said.

“He would’ve healed,” you said.

“That’s not the point!” He yelled. Fresh arousal flooded you and made your stomach flip. This was so fucked up. His yelling should not excite you. But it did. Gods, it did. Every single time.

“There’s no fighting in my club. Ever,” he said.

“You embarrassed me out there. How can people respect my position if you don’t?” You asked.

“I wouldn’t have given it to you if I didn’t respect you. I know you can do a good job. Itching for a fight will drive customers away. What’s going on with you?” He asked.

You blinked at him. “What? Nothing. Can’t a woman rage without there being a reason?”

“Not you, no. What is it? What happened?”

“Nothing,” you said through gritted teeth.The hell did he truly care anyway? Maybe you were in a shitty mood because you wanted to be. You were stressed out to the max. The highlight of your day was managing the club. Outside of it…it wasn’t pretty. You preferred the dark interior of the club and its nine rooms to the sunny and bright world outside. It was all so sad.

But you weren’t about to tell your boss that. If you broke down, he’d be more than justified to replace you. And you didn’t want to think about what would happen if you didn’t have the club anymore.

He approached you, crowding into your personal space. You backed away until your round ass hit the top of his desk. Still, you tried to get out of the web he weaved. His entire being made the room feel tiny.

“Tell me or we’ll have to find a more constructive use for you,” he said. He looked down his nose at you, eyes raking over your plump brown lips.

A sigh escaped you. “We’ve never crossed that line, Loki,” you said.

“I can’t fathom a reason why right now,” he said.

You chuckled to try to dissipate some of the tension in the room. “You couldn’t give me what I want,” you said.

You and Loki had flirted plenty of times over the years, but you both respected your positions. You didn’t need anyone thinking you got this job on your knees. Some of the girls liked to still gossip and call you Princess when they thought you couldn’t hear them. But no one thought you two had a relationship.

How could they? Loki had a different woman or man or those in between on his arm every night. He made no secret of the type of people he liked. And safe to say, you did not fit the bill. You weren’t ugly. You knew that for a fact. You were gorgeous with real curves and a real tummy.

Loki seemed to go for the weak willed, bland people whose personalities came from a quiz online. He liked to boss people around and you made sure that he knew that he couldn’t do the same to you.

“You think you’re so hard to figure out?” He chuckled and looked over you as if you were nothing. “Darling, I know what you need.”

You jutted your chin out and crossed your arms. He poked your side. You slapped his hand away. He poked your other side and you slapped his hand away again. What was he playing at?

He scooted closer, molding his body along yours. You felt the unmistakable imprint of his dick straining against his trousers. You inhaled sharply, not expecting that at all. You looked into his eyes. He had a downright devilish grin on his face.

He dragged his fingers from your tummy, up and over your chest, in between your breasts, and then wrapped them around your throat.

You prayed he couldn’t feel your heartbeat increasing. He smelled like wood and smoke, like sin.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. He kept eye contact with you as he leaned down and kissed the tops of your breasts. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips.

“Shove me away,” he said. He increased pressure on your neck and you whined. His free hand roamed over your thigh before pulling it up and wrapping it around his hip. It pressed his dick closer to you and your pussy throbbed.

He moved his hands higher, lifting your skirt. He went so agonizingly slow, giving you enough time to reject him. To shove him away. To tell him to leave you alone. Yet…what if this is all you got from him? What if this was your one chance to experience Loki’s attention directed at you?

“My poor, overworked Darling. So many responsibilities I gave you. I have no doubt you can deliver. But so little time for a proper release,” he said. His breath fanned over your face, smelling of whiskey and mint.

His fingers slid up to your jaw, running his thumb over your lips before pushing in. You suckled his thumb as his other hand drifted closer to your pussy. He played with the outline of your panties, lighting running his fingers back and forth.

You shamelessly moaned. You wiggled your hips, trying to get him to do anything else. He couldn’t stand here teasing all damn night. Surely, you would recover from his rejection after this. You weren’t the first to hold out on him but it was a game to see how flustered you could make each other.

Once he had you, there was no reason to continue the game.

“Eyes on me,” he demanded.

You snapped your eyes to his. His magic must extend to his eyes, because you were lost. Pulled in. Fuck it. Heartbreak was worth whatever he was about to do to you.

“No funny remarks? Is that all it takes? Playing with your needy little pussy?” He asked.

You nipped at his thumb but he didn’t pull it away. He grinned. “You don’t know what I need,” you said. But your comeback was weak to your own ears.

“You take care of so much, but who takes care of you?” He asked.

“I have a trusty vibrator. Better than any man,” you taunted.

Loki grinned. “Don’t stand there and lie, Darling. Shall I prove you wrong?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, daring him to. He hooked his finger under your panties and cooed at the amount of wetness on the gusset of your panties. “Quite a mess you made.” He leaned his head down and nuzzled your cheek before resting his nose against your shoulder. He took a deep whiff.

“Divine,” he said.

His knuckles brushed against your slick folds and you whined, moving your hips to get him where you needed him. “You’re so used to being in control, aren’t you?”

He took his thumb out of your mouth and grabbed your chin. He brought you close, close enough for your lips to touch. He licked his lips and the movement caught some of yours.

“Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll stop,” he said.

“Fuck you, Loki,” you said.

He chuckled and started to rub his knuckle back and forth with increased speed. You bit your lip to keep from moaning on his knuckle. There was no way he was playing you this well. It was embarrassing.

He kissed both of your cheeks and hovered his lips over yours. You wrapped one arm around his shoulder and the other around his tie. You yanked and he fell forward, giving you a quick kiss.

You dug your hands into his scalp, pulling his hair at the roots. He growled but still didn’t take the hint. He bit your lip and you cried out. He licked away the sting.

“Ask nicely if you want me to kiss you,” he said.

“Fuck you,” you breathed.

“Say the word and I will,” he said. You mashed your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

His knuckle stilled and you cried, rolling your hips forward. He withdrew completely and you groaned. You were nearly there. He kept eye contact as he licked his knuckle. You could smell yourself on his fingers. It was obscene. And it was fucking hot.

“If you want this cock, you’ll have to beg for it.” His voice weaved a spell on its own. You sighed at his filthy words.

“Like hell,” you said.

Loki chuckled and shrugged. “Until you beg, you’ll stay like this. You’re not allowed to cum or let anyone else touch you.”

He backed away from you, dropping you unceremoniously. Your leg hit the ground and your knees slightly buckled. You caught the desk behind you to keep you upright. You hadn’t known that he held the majority of your weight. The bastard took all the heat with him. Your hands shook with overwhelming need.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” you scoffed.

“I know I can. Go home. Think of me. Curse me. Whatever you need to do. But I will be very angry if you cum without my permission.”

He nuzzled your neck again before planting a soft kiss to your neck. He caressed your cheek before fully backing away. He rolled his shoulders. His pants were tented. Surely he was in pain as well.

“Don’t worry about me, Darling. I can last longer than you,” he said. Oh, now he activated your competitive side.

You smiled sweetly and fixed your skirt. You took your time fluffing it around your hips and thick thighs. Two could play that fucking game. You stood up and sashayed past him.

“We’ll see. But you’re not allowed to touch anyone else either,” you smirked. You trailed your hand along his chest as you passed him. His dark chuckle followed you out of the room. This ought to be interesting.

Masterlist| Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

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mcondance · 2 months

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fem!reader, encouraged (not inspired) by distant lover by marvin gaye. do not listen as you read, as the lyrics are not about love. i just liked the smooth 70s slow jam feel. fluff but still 18+ MDNI

thinking about days around the house with luke.

thinking about him in a dark blue tee and black sweats, relaxed and happy. thinking about being dressed lightly in a little cami with red hearts decorating the white fabric, in little shorts that barely cover your thighs.

it’s cozy. not slow, and definitely not quiet, what with luke’s loud, brash mouth and yours to match. but it’s cozy.

you cook breakfast with his arms wrapped around you and his lips press pretty kisses to the side of your neck, your eyes still a little blurry with sleep. dancing around each other as you focus on your regular dishes; luke’s like, a god at making pancakes, and you can make the fluffiest eggs in the world.

you’re basically attached at the hip, so you sit beside each other rather than across from one another as you eat. you lean your head on his shoulder at times. one of those times, you tilt your head head up for a kiss, and he obliges. the most cliche thought pops into your head: you get sparks. kissing luke, even after all these years, gives you sparks like that first time.

there’s a movie you watch curled into his side on the couch, taking breaks to pause and talk and get snacks and get out of your seats because you both truly met your match in each other. neither of you can make it through a movie in one-sitting except on special occasions after which you’re surprised at what just occurred.

luke makes the most mundane of tasks fun. folding clothes is over and done with because he talks to you the whole time, because he sings to the music you have playing and hypes you up as you croon to him.

lunch and dinner move the same as breakfast, cooking intertwined with hugs and kisses. with the spaghetti cooking on the stove for dinner, you take a second to embrace in the silence of the kitchen. he’s warm and solid against you. you could never fall with him. it brings a peace inside you that you don’t get very easily. it’s a special place accessed only by the softest and kindest of experiences.

over dinner, you laugh and joke and screech. his rolling laughter fills the house.

luke’s your best friend as you tuck in for the night, like two teenagers at a sleepover trying not to be too loud. in the warm, low light, you tell quiet jokes and laugh quiet laughs as sleep starts to take you.

#luke alvez x reader #luke alvez fluff #luke alvez x black reader #luke alvez x you

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storiesandthingsofthatnature · 1 year

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Soft and Spicy

Summary: Being Gojou Satoru’s girlfriend has its perks. But nothing beats an afternoon of comfort with a side of spicy.

Word Count: 2.5k

Pairing: Gojou Satoru x Hispanic!Fem! reader (afab)

Warnings: Breeding kink, praise, unprotected sex (don’t be silly), cream pie, fingering, dom/sub dynamics, possessive maybe?, lemme know if I missed anything! :D

Disclaimer: MDNI!! 18+ only!

A/N: Hello! So I have seen little to any Hispanic reader fics so I decided why not make one? :3 This is my first fic in this fandom so please be kind :3c Comments, likes and reblogs are heavily appreciated! :D Also requests are open so don’t be afraid to hop on by ^^ also this is a smol excerpt for a gojou satoru x y/n fanfic. Lemme know if y'all are interested in a full story :D I has ideas~

Thank you and enjoy! :D

Officially being dubbed Gojou Satoru’s girlfriend was both a blessing and a curse. While your safety became absolute and acceptance more smoothly, Gojou’s energy was far different from yours. While you are more than comfortable staying in a comfy spot for hours on end, Gojou has to be constantly doing something. You swear he has ADHD but know he would never get checked officially for it.

Today was a particularly rainy day for you, despite it being a sunny 70 degrees spring day. Gojou knows about your depression and no matter how much you say you can handle things on your own and don’t want to be a burden, he still nudges his way in. You lay curled amongst a plethora of pillows, fluffy blankets covering you entirely as you tried to nap away your icky feelings. Gojou was worried, you could tell. You weren't texting him as much and for now, you were able to veer around his probing questions but you weren’t sure how long you could keep it up.

However, your thoughts were interrupted when a sudden heavy pressure-filled the dorm room. You tense, too afraid to look as you knew full well who it was. With Gojou he had certain pressures and you noticed it depended on his mood. Most were light and airy but this one was laced with worry and frustration. “Are you seriously going to ignore me all day?” His voice made your chest ache, you shifting slightly into a tighter ball.

There was a soft sigh followed by the soft padding of footsteps. “Can I at least join you?” Gojou gently inquired, your face heating up. You would be so close to him but something told you that you needed that the most right now. “Yes.” You said softly, your voice wavy from hours of silent sobbing. Gojou maneuvered through your nest with ease, large hands reaching out for your form and latching on, you being pulled into a tight embrace.

Your body acted on its own, arms snaking around Gojou as you buried your face into his chest. Calloused fingers sifted through your hair, blunt nails gently massaging your scalp and the base of your neck. He entangled your legs together, his grip upon you tight as if he feared you would run. “I’m sorry.” You breathed. “It’s been one of those days.” You had warned him ahead of this, that your manic depression was always a relationship breaker. But like Gojou Satoru is, he didn’t listen and still swooped you off your feet.

You were met with a hum,” However, I won’t be able to understand how to help you if you keep me away.” He whispered, lips brushing against the crown of your head. Idly, your fingers traced along the lines of Gojou’s back muscles that you were able to feel through the fabric of his shirt. “I’m not too sure what would help right now.” You supplied. After a moment of silence, Gojou spoke,” Do I help, at least?” Your cheeks flushed a pretty pink, [e/c] eyes looking down bashfully. “You do. Your presence alone is more than enough.”

“Don’t close me off then, okay?” He accented his statement by strengthening his grip around you. You give a small nod, eyes closing while you relax against his form. You both stayed like that for a while, Gojou in a state of zen while you drifted in and out of sleep. You wanted to be awake to enjoy this time with him, but his embrace was so warm and comfy that you couldn’t help but nod off in between. But, Gojou didn’t mind. Just being able to hold the love of his life in his arms is more than enough for him.

The whole day was spent lazing about in each other’s embrace, you catching up on rest before nightfall officially hit. Fully awake now you both chatted amongst each other, talking about anything and everything. Before feelings were confessed Gojou and you were two peas in a pod and luckily the rhythm was still the same after. However, Gojou can be more physical with you now and he would be lying if he said your current position was not making him think of a few ideas.

Suddenly, caught mid-sentence, you were snatched by the waist and maneuvered to where you were straddling Gojou. What was once a tame atmosphere soon became a lot more tense. You blinked before you could comprehend what just happened, and when you did you tried to take off. “G-Gojou! Wha-” The firm grip on your waist shifted to the fat of your ass, the male keeping you firmly in place. “Sorry, baby girl. I just wanted to get a better look at you is all.” He said with a sweet tone, you producing a small pout.

You were still in pajamas from the night before; a large shirt with some boy shorts. You suddenly remembered that you weren’t wearing a bra and even though you silently pleaded that Gojou hadn’t noticed, he noticed. He’s noticed a lot of things since he’s been able to hold you. Specifically, just how small you are. He has fought alongside you for two years now, has been with you through thick and thin and it’s only now he realizes y’alls size difference. You were a woman to be reckoned with, a powerful sorceress who is climbing fast in the ranks. But Gojou would be the only one to see you this vulnerable and he had a couple of ways to keep it that way.

Unable to meet Gojou’s gaze, you shifted your sight elsewhere. You felt his thumbs beginning to rub gently into your hip bones, the closeness to your heat making you blush. “You’re so unnecessarily shy.” He quipped, you mentally scoffing at the insight of an extrovert. “You’re honestly not that confident in your appearance?” His question sounded so sincere that you made the mistake of looking at him. Piercing blue met glossy [e/c] and you were stuck, no longer able to look away.

“Why should I be?” The question slipped from your lips, Gojou rising from his laying position to sitting up with you still latched to his lap. His forehead met yours as you suffocated from the intensity that was Gojou Satoru’s intent. “I’d be more than happy to show you.” His right index had found its way underneath your chin, tilting you into the perfect position for a kiss. He began to lean in slowly. “Will you let me?” He asked, a euphoric chill shooting down the base of your spine. You knew what this entailed, you knew what he was asking. And while you were very nervous, you quickly found yourself aching for him. “Yes.”

The kiss was definitely something you had never felt before. He wasn’t your first, but it certainly was one that immediately sent your heart rate skyrocketing and your mind turning into white noise. He literally took your breath away and Amelia didn’t mind it one bit. You found a rhythm easily, you soon finding it hard to keep up, however. You felt like he was devouring you and while it was a very welcomed feeling, it was also a foreign one. As your kiss grew heated you felt a slick pool beginning to pile within the middle of your underwear. You felt slightly embarrassed that you were already this wet, but immediately changed your mind when you ground against his hard-on. “Baby, you’re already this wet? I haven’t done anything, though~” He teased, however, you could feel him pulsing through the thin fabric of your panties.

You placed your face into the crook of his neck, grinding becoming more insistent as you gave little nips along Gojou’s pulse line. “Acting all shy but you go and do this. Such a cutie.” He gently mocked but his breath hitched a couple of times when you rubbed against him just right. Soon, your underwear began to stick against your wet cunt, the fabric outlining your heat. Before you could move to take them off you felt Gojou insert his right index into your flower with ease. Caught off guard, a wanton moan left you as you bit down on Gojou’s shoulder. “Blaming me? How cruel.” He feigned offense, a second finger soon joining the first.

You tried your best to conceal your moans, mouth placed against the crook of Gojou’s neck. But your lover was not having it and you found your positions flipped once more. Using his blindfold, he tied your hands together and placed them above your head. “No more hiding from me, understand?” His demeanor had slightly changed, his playful tone accompanied by sternness. You could only nod, Gojou’s expression softened once more. “Good girl.” The praise made you visibly shiver.

Gojou swiftly went back to his previous action, your honey-dipped moans freely filling the room. “So beautiful.” He whispered, Gojou propping himself up just above you while he fingered you. “Being such a good girl for me.” A long moan followed as he added a third, his thumb rubbing against your clit. Your toes curled as you felt a familiar coil beginning to tighten. You let out a breathy whine, Gojou easily finding all the right spots within you as if he already knew. Perhaps he did? You had no idea with the sneaky bastard…

His middle finger pressed firmly against a particularly gummy spot, the action having you keening. “What the hell?!” Of all your years of masturbation and very few sexual encounters with others, you have never experienced an intense and overwhelming feeling such as now. You went to crawl backward but was stopped by a firm grip, a mischievous smirk placed upon Gojou’s face. “Found it~” He beamed, his fingers now focused on that one area much to your dismay.

It only took a few harsh pokes to have you cumming, your walls creating a vice grip around Gojou’s fingers. But to your horror you continued the action, the overstimulation nearly unbearable. “Gojou, no! Too much!” You practically sobbed, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. A second unforeseen orgasm was ripped out of you and you nearly screamed. Pleas turned into garbled words as he rubbed you through the high. “Toruuuuuuuu.” You managed to say, any other words jumping ship from your mind.

Gojou let out a small laugh,” Don’t get to lose your mind often, do you? Don’t worry, I’m happy to assist~” He cooed. You pulled against your restraints, your pleas for Gojou to stop falling on deaf ears. “Toomuchtoomuchtoomuch - Ay. Dios!” He had done it, reduced you to your second language. He hummed with satisfaction, your mother tongue being the prettiest thing that ever graced his ears. “Amor, no mas.” You whined, the feeling of a third orgasm looming over you.

He didn’t need to understand you to get what you were trying to say, but he loved seeing you this way. Usually, you’re so mentally exhausted and an aura of sadness always hangs around you despite your good luck charms being near you for stability. His heart ached for you because you were in so much internal pain and you just wouldn’t open up about it. Having you under him like this, tied hands gripping onto loose sheets while you gazed up at him as if he was your everything and more was what he strived for. Right now your cautious nature was thrown to the wind, your walls completely down for him to easily slip through and set up shop. Like hell was he going to let you go after this.

Suddenly, your back arched like a fine-tuned bow. Gibberish escaped your mouth as you reached your peak for the third time in under ten minutes. Tears slipped down your cheeks as Gojou finally slowed down his fingering, the male sure you were more than ready for him. You, on the other hand, had floated off into your own headspace for a while. You had never experienced such pleasure consecutively and your brain was trying to catch up again.

Gojou noticed your vacant gaze and his ego was fluffed up from the display. “Drift off somewhere, baby?” He placed both hands on either side of your face, thumbs rubbing your tears away while he placed butterfly kisses on your lips and jawline. His ministrations slowly brought you back down to him, you soon returned his kisses. “There she is~” He whispered, your blush having reached your collarbones at this point.

To be honest, you could pass out. Your eyelids feel heavy and you could feel yourself beginning to sink into the mattress further. But then you found yourself on your stomach, a small throw pillow having been placed underneath your pelvis so your ass was in the air at an angle. You felt very exposed but the familiar weight of Gojou against your back helped to ease you. “Someone looks sleepy.” Gojou practically purred. “Want to be my pillow princess, then?” He inquired, the feeling of something heavy and hot poking against your already leaking entrance.

You gave a small noise, you gave in to be used. “Condom?” You asked softly, your sleepy voice making Gojou kiss your shoulder. “Not a chance.” He said simply before plunging himself into you fully in one swift motion. You gave a gorgeous mew, hands fisting into the sheets below as Gojou sheathed himself fully. He let out a small, shaky breath. “So fucking tight…” He groaned, but you were a little worried with Gojou being bare.

“Gojou, what if I-?” He pulled out of you until it was just the tip, and then slammed back in which caused you to let out a cry. “Gojou! I could get pregnant!” You try to reason but his thrusts were incessant. He let out a chuckle. “I know that, sweetheart. But wouldn’t that be just a sight? You, heavy with my child. Letting everyone know who knocked you up in 9 months. Oh, how scandalous would that be?” He teased as he found a nice rhythm. You let out a groan at his words, your walls clenching around Gojou’s cock which made his hips stutter.

“Like that thought, huh? Such a good girl for me.” You start to meet his thrusts with your own, gyrating down onto his cock to add to the nice pressure that was him. You could feel yourself nearing your orgasm once more, the tightening of the coil within your abdomen threatening to snap at any moment. “G-gonna cum again.” You warn and Gojou’s thrusts picked up. “Me too.” He growled. “Cum together?” He asked and you nod with enthusiasm. It only took a few more jabs of your gummy spot before your toes curled to the point that a cramp was threatening to bloom. You let out a scream of Gojou’s name as you creamed all over his cock, your heavy contractions making your lover fall over the edge as well.

He buried himself deep within you, the feeling of hot ropes of cum hitting your puffy walls making you bite your bottom lip and let out a content sigh. You were worried about the consequences but the thought of making a life with Gojou was far more appealing than you could have imagined. “Now all I need to do is wife you up.” The male said with a smile and you couldn’t help but hum in affirmation at that.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x y/n #gojo smut #gojou satoru smut #gojou x you #gojou x reader #gojou fluff

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