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strangersmunsons · 4 months

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Eddie, My Love! eddie munson x reader // valentine's day special series Day 6 Prompt: Conversation Hearts 💕 ~ 2,300 words Eddie teases you because he thinks your crush on him is hilarious, but you don’t find it very funny.

A tiny, hard, unidentified object thwacks! against the back of your head.

“Ow!” You spin on your heel to confront the culprit, and…are actually not that surprised to see Eddie Munson standing there, smirking at you.

You rub the back of your head. “What was that?”

Wordlessly, Eddie holds up a small pink box. Conversation hearts. Of course.

You turn back around and keep walking, staring determinedly ahead, but he matches your pace. He strolls next to you down the hallway, nonchalant as can be, like he doesn’t have some trick up his sleeve to pester you with. When his arm brushes against yours, you shift subtly away, not wanting to touch him.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate, now is it?

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you mumble back instinctively, the need to mind your manners overpowering your need to avoid engaging with Eddie Munson at any cost.

“So? Who’s the lucky fella taking you out tonight?”

There isn’t one. “None of your business.”

“Aw, come on, Princess. You gotta tell me who my competition is.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks. “That’s not funny.”

He pouts at you.

You abruptly veer off to the left and duck into the restroom; you don’t want to hear what he has to say next.

“Hey! Where ya going?”

You shut yourself into a stall and lean with your back against the door, eyes squeezed shut. Why couldn’t he just leave you be? Was it not enough for him to simply not reciprocate your feelings? He had to go out of his way to tease you about the stupid crush you have on him, too?

Used to have, you think bitterly to yourself, as though there wasn’t any lingering affection embedded deep into your heartstrings.

But it’s not that easy.

Eddie Munson was different. He was rowdy, snarky, and absurdly eloquent for a guy in his third go-round as a senior; he liked to read, he played guitar in a band, and he protected his friends like an attack dog. He worked at a bar and dragged on Lucky Strikes as he walked through the school parking lot, practically stomping across the pavement in his heavy boots.

But still, there was a softness hiding underneath that hard shell. You were sure of it.

Smitten kitten. That was you. Reaching your own senior year, you were finally, finally able to share a class with him. Ms. O’Donnell’s fourth period English became your favorite part of the day, the perfect place to indulge in your silly romantic fantasies, because the leading hero who starred in them was conveniently seated just two desks away.

Which was all fine and dandy for you, until he knew.

You still don’t know how he found out. Did Nancy Wheeler let something slip in front of her brother, Mike, who ran and snitched to his fearless club leader? Or did Eddie somehow glean it from you by sheer intuition?

It was little things at first. Cocky, arrogant smirks aimed directly at you when he came into the room and plopped down in his seat. Cheeky tugs at your hair in the hallway. He hissed your name across the library and pulled goofy faces when you turned to look, wagged his tongue and threw wadded-up balls of paper at you. These actions left you confused, and automatically put you on guard. What did they mean, and why did they start occurring so suddenly?

You weren’t left guessing for long. He quickly got bolder. Eddie was already behaving like a general menace, but then it went beyond the rude gestures and peskiness. He did the unthinkable; he started teasing you mercilessly about your pathetic infatuation.

He chased you in the hallways, calling you mocking pet names and asking when you were going to finally give him a chance. He blew kisses at you when you made eye contact in the cafeteria, pouting at you when you didn’t return them, while his friends all watched the exchange and laughed uproariously.

It was so humiliating you could cry, and you had, many times over. And to think you had liked him because he was supposed to be nice underneath that tough exterior.

You’d rather be on the receiving end of Jason Carver’s poisonous words, or even worse — a repeat of Tommy Hagan’s routine torture from the year prior would be preferable to this.

Having Eddie poke fun at your unrequited love for him was far too much to bear.

You sniffle uncontrollably, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes. You wipe at them furiously with your sleeve, feeling hot with embarrassment. You wish you could hide in here forever, and you almost do — but the late bell rings, and — Goddamn it — you have a quiz. Heaving a shuddery sigh, you walk as quickly as you can without breaking into a sprint to Ms. O’Donnell’s room.

The ornery woman gives you a frown as you enter her class late; you keep your eyes glued to the floor as you scamper to your seat, pointedly ignoring the curious stares of your peers, who are no doubt wondering what’s got you in such a state. Certainly not meeting his gaze, which is trained on you. You can practically feel it.

Quiz papers are passed out, and you can scarcely focus on the questions. You skim and answer as quickly as you can, wanting nothing more than to put your head down and wait for class to end.

The period passes in a blur; you’ve spent most of it watching the clock, telepathically willing the red hand ticking the seconds by to move faster. As soon as the bell rings you’re out of your seat, throwing your bag over your shoulder and all but running from the room.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You ignore him, weaving in and out of the crowd of students.

He catches up with you anyway. “What’s wrong?” Eddie asks, for once sounding completely serious as he talks to you. “Why were you crying?”

Tears threaten to well up again. You purse your lips and shake your head as your face starts to crumble. God, you’re so over this whole thing. The teasing and the crying followed by more teasing, and more crying, an endless cycle that left you emotional and on edge every time you had to see him.

“Hey.” He tries to place a ringed hand on your shoulder, a touch that would have had you swooning mere months ago, but you wrench yourself out of his grip, face streaming.

Later at home, your parents are off to dinner, celebrating their own love story. You revel in the luxury of an empty house, taking a long, hot shower, and slipping on your softest pajamas. Ordering your favorite takeout and putting on a comfort movie has you feeling almost okay again; you’re determined that today will be the last day you let Eddie Munson get under your skin, ever.

There’s a rapping at the door. You hop up from the couch and grab the cash your parents set aside for your dinner, pad to the front door, and swing it open with a polite smile plastered on your face.

Except the person standing there is decidedly not a delivery boy with an armful of food, but one Eddie Munson.

Immediately, you try to slam the door shut, but Eddie sticks his foot out before it can close all the way. He yelps in pain as the heavy door squashes his Reebok, but he doesn’t move.

“Oh my God! Is it not enough for you to bully me at school? Now you have to come to my house?! How do you even know where I live?!”

“Wheeler told me your address!” His eyes are wide, alarmed by the ferocity of your reaction. Wincing, he asks, “Can you just talk to me for a second, please? I’m trying to check on you.”

Reluctantly, you ease the pressure you’re putting on his foot. You keep the door half-shut, peering at him from around the jamb. You say nothing, waiting suspiciously.

When it seems to Eddie that you’re not going to deck him, he relaxes a little. “I just wanted to apologize,” he admits, sounding as bashful as Eddie probably ever could. “I guess I upset you earlier today, and I didn’t mean to.” He pauses. “That was because of me, right?”

You sigh. “The fact that you even have to ask…”

His cheeks turn pink, and shuffles his feet nervously. “Look, I’m really sorry. For buggin’ you all the time. I guess…it’s some kind of…wish fulfillment thing for me, or whatever — anyway, it’s stupid, and I’m sorry for doing that to you. I swear I didn’t realize that it upset you so much, otherwise I never would’ve kept doing it.”

Eddie’s grimacing in shame, eyes downcast. He does look awfully sorry, but you’re not quite ready to forgive.

“I just don’t understand why.” Your bottom lip starts to tremble. “You know, you spend so much time fighting the basketball team, or anybody that so much as looks the wrong way at your Hellfire friends. You know what it’s like to get picked on. How could you do that to me? Even for a second?”

Eddie opens his mouth to interject, but you press on.

“If you thought it was funny that I liked you, then fine. You don’t have to like me back. But you don’t need to laugh in my face about it, either.”

He blinks. “I — what?”

“That’s so fucking mean, Eddie, for you to taunt me every single day —”

“You liked me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you snap back.

“Princess, if you liked me, this is the first I’m hearing about it. I was under the impression that you hated my guts.”

Both of you fall silent, staring at each other intensely. Eddie’s brow is deeply furrowed, full lips parted in wonder.

You falter uncertainly. “I’m…confused.”

His face is a mirror of your own bewilderment. “So am I. You thought I was teasing you…for having a crush on me?”

You suddenly feel very exposed, like someone just walked in on you naked. “Weren’t you?”

“No.”

The words hangs in the air between you for a moment.

“Well, I definitely don’t anymore,” you state defensively, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Why did you think that?”

“Because you never looked twice at me and then all of a sudden you — you started calling me Princess and blew me kisses and talked about us going on dates like it was the funniest joke in the world!”

“Did it ever occur to you,” he replies, uncharacteristically quiet, “that I did all those things because I liked you?”

There’s an odd swooping sensation, like stepping for a missing stair.

A small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, though his big doe-eyes still have a tinge of sadness in them. “I — I thought,” he wavers, then tries again, “I kept asking when you would go out with me because I really want you to. Go out with me, I mean.”

“Wish fulfillment,” you mumble, echoing his phrasing from earlier.

“I thought we were playing some kind of game, I guess. I thought you knew the meaning behind it, when I would do all those things. I had no idea I was hurting your feelings. And believe me, I had no clue that you had a crush on me — you’re way out of my league, Princess. I thought I was fighting a losing battle, so I kept hamming it up.”

You’re completely dumbfounded. “You threw papers at me. And pencils. And dice.”

Eddie chuckles nervously, thoroughly embarrassed. “Forgive me. I’ve been held back twice; that’s not really an indicator of a mature brain, is it?” He shrugs. “I wanted you to pay attention to me.”

All the emotional turmoil of the day hits you like a tidal wave. Impossibly, you find yourself getting choked up yet again. “All this time, I thought you were laughing at me.”

“I wasn’t,” he says softly, taking a step towards you. “I swear on my life, I never meant to make you feel this way. God, sweetheart, if I’d have known…” His gaze lingers on your watery eyes, your trembling lips, the way you’re almost hiding from him behind the jamb. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I didn’t see it.”

You swallow harshly. “It’s my own fault, I think. I always jump to conclusions — everyone tells me all the time that I’m too sensitive.”

“You’re not too sensitive,” he reassures you. “You’re sweet, you know? Gentle. That’s all.”

Oh. Eddie Munson thinks you’re gentle.

He cocks his head to the side. “Did it ever even occur to you? That I might have a crush on you, too?”

You laugh in spite of yourself, wiping at a few stray tears. “No.”

“Well, it should have. ‘Cause I did then, and I do right now, too.”

Eddie slips something out of his pocket, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth. He holds out the same box he had earlier: small and pink, still full of pastel candies rattling against the cardboard. He pulls the flap open and shakes a few out into his palm; after looking over his options, he selects a lilac-colored heart and holds it out so you can see the small text. It simply reads: FOR YOU.

“A small token of my affection,” he whispers. “If you want it.”

Without thinking you reach out and grasp his leather-clad forearm, tugging on his sleeve. “Come inside,” you whisper back, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to have him close and warm. “Please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Eddie bows his head. “Whatever you want, Princess.”

He finally crosses the threshold and steps into your arms, swinging the door shut behind him.

thank you for reading!! xoxo Valentine's Day Special Masterlist

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson reader insert #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader

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gravid-transluna · 21 days

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Two Birthdays

words: 4111

content: lactation, milking, clothing birth, birth denial, fpreg

Part One

A birthday is a special day. Her friend’s twenty-first should have been Mari’s only focus. However, Mari had been distracted the entire day as they spent time at the resort’s expansive pool and spa. It hadn’t been so bad at first. Her friend’s mom, Noemi, was nearly a week overdue with her second child, and though she had started the day in modest clothes—a maternity sundress draping her huge, full swell, navel protruding starkly, pressing downward from her middle—, the afternoon sun had continued to shine down on them, forcing Noemi to shed her dress, pulling it up her belly and over her head.

Mari’s face had flushed and she’d turned away, ashamed and furious at herself for her own thoughts, but she’d already seen the nakedness of Noemi’s belly, taut at the seams and painfully overdue, hanging low over her hips and melting into her otherwise small, slim frame. Sweat had shimmered, bright, on the stretched, striped skin. A dark linea nigra ran down her middle to her navel. Her belly button was hard and round like a stone. Underneath, she only wore a white two-piece bikini, and her breasts, once small and subtle, hung swollen in her top, nipples and areolae visible.

Mari’s heart wouldn’t stop fluttering every time Noemi lifted her slender hands to cup her swell, or when she rose from the sunbathing to reapply sunscreen and Mari saw her from the back; though she still tried to step with her usual grace and poise, her gait was wide, baby obviously dropped between her narrow hips, reducing her to a waddle.

It was a very uncomfortable day to be a lesbian with a fetish that especially appealed on an older woman.

This wasn’t the worst of it, though.

Mari first noticed it when Noemi reached across the table for her drink.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Of course!” Mari squeaked.

Then Noemi’s face changed. Her reaching hand flew to her belly, and Mari followed it to see visible tensing, muscles clenched on either side, misshapen around her huge baby.

“Oh!” she said. There was something in her face now. Surprise, but also a slight urgency.

“Ms. Noemi?” Mari asked. “Are—are you okay?”

“Mm,” Noemi said, and took her glass. “I’m fine. Thank you, Mari.”

This happened multiple times throughout the day, and every time she saw that mound tense then sag, muscles relaxing, Mari’s pussy pounded badly, pulsing.

She stayed in the shade, sipping nothing but cold water with ice while her friend and the others ordered drinks at the pool bar.

After about another hour of this, Mari couldn’t take it. She left and walked to the restrooms and found a stall. Inside it she immediately yanked her bikini bottom down her legs and pressed her fingers to her clit. Her pussy throbbed for release, dripping and clenching. She began to masturbate standing over the toilet, imagining closing her lips around one of Noemi’s stiff, milk-heavy nipples.

Fuck, she thought. Fuck, fuck. Her pussy began to pulsate under her slick fingers. Her thighs shook as she came.

“Shit,” Mari said aloud, then she wiped herself down and pulled her bikini bottom back up and exited the stall, washing the slick from her hands in the sink.

Suddenly the restroom door was flung open. Mari jumped guiltily, then her eyes widened in shock as Noemi raced past her, not even noticing her at the sink, bowed over her low belly, a hand clamped to her crotch. She ran into the handicap stall and slammed the door shut. It was quiet for a moment. Then—

“Ohhhhhh.”

A muted, breathless moan and a loud splashing sound.

Mari stood frozen. She heard a small gasping from the other side of the stall door, and approached hesitantly. She rapped a timid knuckle on the door and the gasps stopped.

“U-um, Ms. Noemi? Are you okay?”

There was silence. Then, “Yes, just some Braxton Hicks contractions. I’m sorry if I startled you, Mari.”

Noemi’s voice sounded strained, so uncharacteristic of her usually soft, modulated tone.

Mari hesitated. “Are you sure? Do you need any help?”

More silence. The stall door unlocked from the inside. Mari pushed it open and her heart thumped in her chest at the sight inside.

Noemi was standing over the toilet, thighs wide apart, knees slightly bent. Her bikini bottom and legs were soaked with fluids. Her belly, somehow, appeared to hang even lower, navel pointed almost to the floor now with weight and fullness. Her face was sweaty, cheeks flushed, short dark hair clinging damply to her forehead.

“Oh my god, Ms. Noemi,” Mari said. “Your water broke, didn’t it?”

Noemi’s face tightened and she pressed her lips together, nodding and closing her eyes. She clutched reflexively at the orb between her thighs as it flexed, hardening, muscles like iron. Her brow wrinkled and she grunted as though she couldn’t stand the pressure anymore.

“Mari,” she gasped. “I need you to step out, please. I’m—I think I need to—relieve myself.”

Mari shook her head. “I think it’s the baby! Are you feeling like pushing?”

“Ughh.” Noemi’s eyes were squeezed shut. “Yes. I need to push.”

“Oh my—“ Mari trailed off. “We’ve gotta call you an ambulance.”

Suddenly the contraction released Noemi. Her belly slackened. She collapsed onto the toilet seat, thighs spread wide to accommodate her massive stomach. She panted, chest heaving.

“No,” she said. “It will ruin the party.”

“But—“

“Please.” Noemi’s eyes softened, and Mari perceived her desperation clearly. “You’re one of my daughter’s more mature friends. I don’t want to embarrass her or cause a scene, and I need your help.”

Mari gulped. “What can I do?”

Noemi sighed. “Thank you. I just need to last until the party is over.”

The restroom door opened and someone walked in.

“Ms. Noemi? Are you in there?” The voice was a little slurred, tipsy from afternoon drinking.

Noemi composed herself and raised her voice. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“O-o-okay. Haven’t popped yet, have you?”

Noemi managed a weak laugh. “Holding it in.”

For now, Mari thought.

They waited until they heard the door close. Then Noemi said, “Could you—I need you to—” was she—blushing? “I can’t go back out covered in my waters.”

“O-oh,” Mari said, and she was suddenly aware of the distinct odor coming off of Noemi, the scent of her fluids, fecund and thick, the musk of a woman close to birthing. Noemi stood as Mari grabbed a wad of toilet paper and began to dab her formerly lean thighs, thickened over the course of her pregnancy.

“And–” She was really blushing now, Mari marveled. “I’d do it myself but–I can no longer reach around my stomach.”

Happy to. Mari drew her fingers around Noemi’s hips, noting the slight intake of breath as her thumbs brushed swollen underbelly. She hooked her bikini bottom and exposed her fleshy pregnancy pussy, damp and swampy, and the odor was stronger now. Mari breathed.

Then, “you have to close your legs.”

“Mm, trying.” Noemi struggled, the baby lodged in her pelvis making it almost impossible to pinch her knees shut. Her eyes widened. “Oh no…”

Her belly hitched and went hard. Her knees immediately buckled, thighs wide again.

“I need to push,” she said. She groaned as she began to bear down. The sides of her belly sucked in with the force of her pushing.

“No! Ms. Noemi, you have to hold it in, remember?” Mari said.

“Hnnnnfgh,” Noemi groaned. She tried to resist. “Hooh-hooh, god. I need to push.”

Mari, not knowing how to help, planted her palms on Noemi’s belly and rubbed the hot, furious skin. It burned under her palms, fevered. She could feel the desperate convulsions of Noemi’s strong internal muscles as they worked to expel her baby against her efforts.

“Oh,” Noemi grunted.

“Sorry!”

“No! No–ouugh–please. Don’t stop.”

Noemi closed her eyes and raised her chin, swaying back and forth as Mari stroked the tight, oblong surface. Experimentally, she flicked her thumb across Noemi’s bulging navel, and Noemi shivered.

The contraction ended, leaving Noemi worn and restless, her baby’s head burrowed deeper into her birth canal, fuller even, than she’d been before her labor. Mari removed her hands from Noemi’s belly, and Noemi appeared embarrassed, almost bashful.

“I wish–hah–you didn’t have to see me like this, much less care for me in such a compromising–ugh–condition. Modesty is hard enough to maintain when it comes to pregnancy.”

“You’re beautiful,” Mari said honestly.

Startled and disarmed, Noemi looked at her. It could have been the heat flush, or she could have been blushing again.

Part Two

They exited the restroom together and for the next hour, Noemi mingled near the pool bar, a drink in hand, and endured the powerful, relentless contractions. Mari stood beside her, and the first time another contraction struck she saw Noemi double over, muscles banding her belly, legs widening instinctively.

“Oh,” she whispered. “OH. I’m pushinnng-hnnngh.”

“No, you’re not,” Mari hissed back. “You can do this.” She placed a covert hand on Noemi’s curved back, massaging it gently, already accustomed to touching Noemi’s exposed, laboring body.

Noemi straightened, and painstakingly closed her legs as much as she could, attempting to hold her baby firm in her canal. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her grunts diminished into effortful pants.

“That’s it, Ms. Noemi,” Mari said. “I don’t think anybody noticed.”

“Good,” Noemi moaned under her breath. “Good. I’m feeling like pushing all the time now, even when the contraction’s gone. There’s so much pressure, right between my legs.”

Another contraction that hour had Noemi leaning heavily on Mari for support, her obtrusive belly pushing into Mari’s own flat tummy, making Mari wonder at the sensation of such a packed, heavy womb. She could feel the steely stretched muscles rippling against her. The skin contact moved heat from Mari’s stomach to between her legs, and again her pussy was beating, quick and warm like a pulse. She worried that she was leaking through her bikini bottom now, dizzied by arousal. Then Noemi moaned in her ear, arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Mari felt a wetness drip down her inner thigh.

“Aye, go get your mom!”

“Should she be drinking in that state?”

Luckily, everyone was too drunk at this point to think much about it.

Contractions were gripping Noemi mercilessly now, with barely any pause or respite, and she was barely holding on every time, fighting her body, her deep primal instinct to bear down against the baby in her canal. Every time Mari anchored her, caressing her hard belly, urging her gently, just hang on a little while longer. The last contraction left Noemi senseless with pain and need, foggy-headed. Her legs were permanently spread now, stance ridiculously wide.

“Oh, dear…” she breathed, and Mari followed her gaze to her front. Two wet spots had formed in her bikini top, nipples standing straight through the fabric.

“Ms. Noemi,” Mari said, summoning her courage. She looked Noemi in the eye. “Let me help you.”

Noemi let herself be led to the restrooms again, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, everything about her so full and aching.

“You don’t need to come in with me,” she said. “I can, ah, expel the milk on my own.”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Noemi,” Mari said. “I promised I’d take care of you.”

Noemi was blushing hard now, appearing almost drunk in her labored state. She allowed Mari to sit her down on the toilet. Mari gently teased the white bikini top from her breasts, and Noemi shivered, curling her toes at just the light brush of fabric against her sensitive nipples. Her dark areolas spread over her breasts, and around them blue veins ran through soft, tan skin. Her nipples jutted stiffly, heavy and laden, beaded at the tips with milk.

Mari set the flat of her hand against one and marveled as more milk beaded at the surface and then began to drip down the swell of Noemi’s breast and onto the long shelf of her belly. Noemi hissed, a sharp intake of air.

“Okay?”

Noemi nodded, unable to speak. Keep going.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” Mari said. She sat on Noemi’s lap and clamped her mouth around her nipple, cupping her other breast in her hand. Milk spurted from both breasts in tiny forceful streams. Noemi clapped a hand over her mouth to contain a sharp noise of pleasure and release, her back arching, other hand raised, opening and closing in the air. Mari suckled, feeling Noemi squirm under her, and lowered her free hand between her own legs, strumming her clit. Suddenly Noemi’s belly went hard again and she threw back her head to moan loudly, and Mari couldn’t tell whether from ecstasy or agony or a thrilling mixture of both.

“Oh, oh—Mari, please don’t—don’t stop. Fuck.”

Mari continued to suckle and the hand groping Noemi’s breast slid to her swell instead, tracing her linea nigra. There was no give to the surface, drum-tight, and Mari could feel Noemi’s belly seize violently, driving her baby down in a deep, involuntary push. Noemi’s moan lowered, guttural with sudden pushing, and Mari instantly took her lips away from Noemi’s breast. The milk stream diminished to dribble, her breasts not even close to being drained. Noemi squirmed at the sudden lapse.

“No pushing, remember?” Mari had settled well into a dominant role, playing out her ultimate fantasy, Noemi utterly receptive, responding to her every demand.

She breathed, slowly, and her hard belly relaxed somewhat.

“Good,” Mari said.

Noemi shuddered. “Yes, just—please. Continue.”

Mari smiled and said something she’d always wanted to say to Noemi: “Good girl.” The faint marks in the corners of her mouth, the maturity in her maternal hips, the refined elegance of her fingers—it was all subversive.

“I’ve never—never been called that by anyone,” Noemi panted. “Especially not someone no twenty years my junior.”

Mari bent her head again and Noemi’s lips tightened in preparation. She latched back onto her nipple, milk gushing into her mouth, and began to thumb Noemi’s stony pointed navel, her entire belly an erogenous zone at this point, her navel the sensory peak. Noemi nearly shrieked, delirious, and beneath her thighs Mari felt her hips bucking, building not only toward delivery now, but a climax. Mari continued to masturbate herself furiously, working her mouth at the same time, sinking her teeth lightly into Noemi’s breast, just enough to leave light, red marks. Noemi’s thighs began to quake with tremors and Mari’s pussy squeezed tight, clit bared—she gasped against Noemi’s soft chest at the same time that Noemi’s lips parted in a perfect O. Then they both trembled through watery orgasms.

Noemi looked at her with glassy eyes, hazy. She leaned in, lips soft and open and receptive for a kiss—then stopped, delicate features twisting into a grimace, and released a thunderous groan, lifting her bottom off the toilet seat with the force of her pushing. Her eyes went wide. Mari could tell something had changed. She was feeling something, deep inside of herself.

She tried to articulate the sensation. “Guh—the baby, it’s—mmmm, it’s right between—the baby’s in my vagina!”

Mari looked at her. She was desperate, out of control, her face flushed and beaded with sweat, moist short hair clinging to her forehead. Her contracting belly, lower than ever.

Mari leaned forward and rammed a kiss onto her lips, and made her taste her own milk.

Part Three

Mari rose from Noemi’s lap. Her tortured spasming belly hung so low at this point that even when she raised herself from the toilet seat Mari still couldn’t see her pussy, just the creases where her extreme underbelly sank into the flesh of her hips, and the tiny white string of her bikini bottom wrapping them, dragged by the heavy downward sag. Noemi was already trying to push again, nothing else in her mind except the baby now coming out of her. Legs planted wide, firmly squatted. It didn’t seem like she could even straighten up at this point, so heavy and low with the head. She grunted loudly, frantic in her efforts to pull her bikini bottom down her thighs and alleviate the immense pressure in her bottom. Sweat poured from her slick skin. She was obviously in the final stages of labor, and like she had been twenty-one years ago, she was consumed by the need to birth her baby.

Mari stood, watching in the sticky panties she’d just masturbated herself hard in, pussy still convulsing. She could see the light red teeth marks ringing Noemi’s areola. She had marked her. Noemi was hers. And yet, she wasn’t paying any mind to the girl who had suckled her to orgasm. Her only focus was pushing her baby out into her bikini, and once she did that she would become a mother again. Mari felt insecure, possessive. Would things return to the way they had been before? Noemi never noticing her, never giving her the attention she had craved. Suddenly, Mari reached for Noemi’s fingers at the hem of her bikini.

“Ms. Noemi.” Her voice was a firm reprimand. “I thought you wanted me to help you. I can’t help you if you push your baby out right now.”

Noemi could barely talk at this point. “Have—to—PUSH.” Mari still felt that awe, seeing such an articulate, modest woman reduced to animalistic instinct. She groaned, bearing down more, and her groan tightened as the baby was driven deeper into her bottom.

Mari circled her, tracing her fingers lightly from Noemi’s contraction-wracked torpedo belly to her curving bent back. Standing behind her now, she took Noemi’s delicate wrists in her hands and moved them away from the bikini bottom. Then she bent to see Noemi’s squatted thighs and bottom, and between her cheeks the wetted white bikini was beginning to tent outward. Mari gently rolled the bikini down to Noemi’s widespread knees. The pregnancy pussy she had just seen hours ago was now unrecognizably swollen and bulged with a startlingly huge head, yet her lips had barely parted. Mari wasn’t even sure if Noemi could birth something so big. Between Noemi’s thighs she could see her brown hanging belly harden again, the contractions now relentless, forcing Noemi into constant pushing.

As she watched, Noemi’s pussy bulged more and reddened. Her lips slowly began to part, distending—until Mari clapped her hand over the head. Noemi’s hot pussy strained against her palm, but Mari didn’t permit the head to progress any further. She heard Noemi’s strangled sob of frustration.

“It’s okay,” Mari cooed. “If you can’t hold it in, I can for you.”

Gently, she slipped the bikini bottom back up Noemi’s thighs and pulled it firmly over her hips, wedging the baby tight in her pussy. It yielded a little, but certainly not enough for Noemi to deliver the head. Noemi gasped at the feeling of the fabric against her sensitive, tender opening.

Mari then redid Noemi’s top, tying it in the back.

“There,” she appraised Noemi, trembling and gasping, filled completely with her baby. “I think you’re ready to go back out. People are probably getting suspicious of us.”

“Okay,” Noemi closed her eyes. “Just a little longer.”

“That’s it, Ms. Noemi!” Mari’s eyes lit up. “Hold it in for me.”

It was evening now. A lot of people had deserted, and those who stayed were trashed, too inebriated to notice Mari step out with Noemi in tow. They didn’t notice that Noemi only walked in a squatted position now, knees bent, legs far apart. They didn’t notice the sweat beading her forehead, or the flush of her cheeks. They didn’t notice her hanging belly, constantly constricting with contractions and hard unceasing pushes. And they certainly didn’t notice the conspicuous bulge straining her bikini bottom, dripping fluids from between her thighs.

Nobody assumed such a composed woman would be bent under the thumb of a girl twenty years younger than her, crowning into her bikini right there at the poolside.

Noemi staggered to a wicker pool chair, and slowly lowered herself with Mari’s help, only to yelp and cringe away when her bulged bottom made contact with the seat.

“Here—“ Mari said. “Try to sit back instead.”

Noemi sat with her back arched, legs open to the poolside, so that the head rested in her pussy without being crammed between her and the chair. She was already pushing, her knuckles white, gripping the arm rests so hard, Mari thought they might snap in her grasp. Her toes curled. Liquid pattered the deck beneath the chair, a puddle spreading under her. The head parted her more. She seemed unable to spread her legs wide enough, grunting and pushing and stretching. Even when she paused, it no longer slid back in, kept her lips taut and spread.

She pushed. The head no longer moved. The fabric trapped it snugly. She pushed again. Hard. Nothing. She pushed and pushed, caught in endless contractions and pushes. Mari heard her name panted, again and again, as she circled the head over the fabric with light fingers. Satisfaction stirred her.

Noemi was hers.

Finally, Noemi clambered heavily from her seat. She dropped into a deep squat on the deck and threw her head back, interrupting her silent pushes with a strained moan as she bore down once again, pained for leverage, obeying her instinctual need for a position change despite her unyielding clothes. Mari heard her joints pop; her forty-something body was at its limit.

It was time. They both sensed it.

Mari leaned in. Her breath shivered Noemi’s ear. “Are you ready, Noemi?” she whispered, forgoing the “Ms” title for the first time.

Noemi nodded. Once.

Mari paused. “Are you sure?”

Noemi nodded vigorously as she heaved with another push.

“Come on, then.”

The party was over. Nobody was left except for Noemi’s daughter, who had been laying passed out in a reclining chair since noon.

The pool water was cool on Mari’s skin as she waded down the steps. She discarded her bikini as she went, and the cold pricked up her bare nipples. Noemi breathed a deep sigh as she waded in herself. The water enveloped her thighs, her heavy submerging belly, and finally her splayed breasts as she sank. Mari swam up behind her and hugged her around the circumference of her gravid belly. She pressed herself to the curve of Noemi’s back, naked skin touching as they drifted for a second. Only a second, though. Soon it was over and Noemi was placing her head back, into Mari’s shoulder, and pushing. Mari’s hands traveled to Noemi’s bikini bottom and—

“Push for me,” she breathed, and pulled it down.

Noemi shouted loudly and groaned her baby into Mari’s hand. Her vaginal lips stretched, forming an angry fervent oval around the massive head. She groaned, forceful in her efforts. Her thighs gaped open in the water. Her pussy was a slick, round, red circle now, straining and slipping around the head. Her groans were almost inhuman, overwhelmed with need and desire and basic instinct. Mari felt the head inch out with Noemi’s powerful pushes, and admired its size and width. This was coming from Noemi, coming through her, creaking her aged bones and spreading her in a way she hadn’t been since her youth.

Her belly raised and then dropped with a final push, the drawn muscles of her uterus convulsing, and she shrieked. The head reached its widest point. Eyes, nose, ears, she opened around each feature. For a moment her lips whitened, pale around the head. Then a pop, a burst, a release. Noemi shuddered. Her legs jerked in the water and opaque amniotic fluids spilled from her.

“Uggghhh.”

“You did it,” Mari said. She marveled at Noemi’s motherly drive as she caressed the head hanging from Noemi’s pussy. “Just the shoulders now.”

“Ohhhh,” Noemi brought her hand between her legs, holding Mari’s as they both cupped the head. “My baby,” she panted. “My baby….”

“Let’s meet her together,” Mari whispered.

Noemi arched in the pool, belly and breasts and upturned nipples raising above the water. With a sweet, quiet groan, she gave birth into Mari’s waiting hands.

Noemi sat beside the pool on the reclining chair, her stomach sagging in her lap, ruined by a dark linea nigra. Her short hair plastered her forehead. Her attention was on the baby suckling at her milky breast. She looked up when Mari trotted to her with spare towels, and smiled tiredly.

Mari leaned down and wrapped her in the towel, and kissed her on the cheek.

“So,” Noemi said. “How do we tell my other daughter?”

#fpreg #clothing birth #birth denial #breast milk #labor kink #birth kink #pregnant kink #fxf smut #dom/sub dynamics

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munariplans · 1 month

Note

YES PLEASE WRITE ABOUT THAT

the second i heard about all the merch nat had amassed i thought about what readers reaction would be if they would think its sweet or tease her or make fun of how she most definitely got ripped off for most of them but will now get them free (and the most important signature of all going on the marriage certificate duh)

But it also made me think what about readers 🤔

In my head reader has all of nat’s articles printed out some even framed

synopsis: just a short one-shot / drabble based on the cute request above!

read the original forty, love.

natasha romanoff x tennis player! reader

word count: 1.9k words

it had been a spontaneous decision; natasha inviting you back to her apartment. the both of you were more than slightly tipsy at that point, and you were in no condition to drive back home. luckily, or not, the bar had been right by her place, and within walking distance of her way home.

natasha thanked her lucky stars that she had liquid courage fuelling her bravery, as she asked, “do you just want to go back to my place?”

at your surprised glance, she laughed, and slapped you on the shoulder. “n-not anything weird, i promise. you will take the couch, and i will be very cosy in my bedroom.”

you were holding her up by then, and the smirk on your face was so teasing, so smug for a moment, that natasha had to remind herself that she was drunk, and it was wrong to kiss a friend. a friend she very much had a deep history with, a friend that she wouldn’t want to stay just friends with.

“okay, lead the way, ms. romanoff,” you gestured out of the bar, and natasha and you leaned against each other the whole walk home, in the freezing temperatures of new york in winter.

it was only when she had let the both of you in through the threshold of her space, and cursed drunkenly as she tried removing her thick socks, that she noticed you weren’t by her side anymore. and you weren’t as drunk as she had been when you left the bar.

natasha heard a snicker, and when she turned to see you crouching over the television stand, her heartbeat began to raise in embarrassment and her palms cold.

she was across the room in the next moment, screaming, “no, no! don’t look at that!”

but you were quicker, and you caught her right as she tried to block your view of the rows and rows of memorabilia that she had of you, carefully curated and collected over the years. her flailing arms trying desperately to release herself from your hold and swipe the memorabilia off of the stand and out of your memory.

then, she heard your laughter. a hearty, amused rumble from the depths of your chest, ringing against her ears as you laughed, and laughed, at her embarrassment and the blatant obsession over your career that she had followed through the years. “oh, natasha, my natasha.”

if she even had half her mind right on trying not to make her cheeks any redder, she would have blushed at the proclamation of you calling her yours. but you were already kneeling back down to eye level with the memorabilia then, inspecting each one with amusement, and slight fondness, in your eyes. she began right after your qualification for the Australian Open, while you were still in college, but broken up.

natasha decided it was pointless trying to stop you, and simply resigned and fell flat on the couch behind her, sighing until you had your fill.

“this was from years ago!” you picked out a ball that had been used for your final round in the qualifiers, and natasha threw her arm over her eyes.

“i know.”

you picked out a cap this time, “i remembered signing only about ten of these to give out to fans during the festive season.”

“i know. i signed up for your team’s emailers, lucky draws, even bought your stupid posters and water bottles, anything, to get a chance of winning that thing.”

you let out another grin, and while she couldn’t see you, you let your eyes soften at the fact that she had done so much to support you, and you hadn’t realised. all these years. it made everything a little bit of a shame; the lost time and wasted efforts.

finally, you took a row of little figurines of your racket designs over the years, neatly arranged and kept in an acrylic casing. “nat, you could start a museum about me at this rate.”

“oh, shut up!” she shot up this time, trying to wrench it out of your grasp, but you pulled away, giggling at her cheeks reddening again.

“seriously, how much have you spent on all this? must’ve cost you thousands, i’m a really expensive player,” you gave her a cheeky grin, and she took your cheeks in between her fingers, pinching as hard as she could. you yelped in pain as you jumped back, “ouch!”

“i hate you, i hate you so much.”

you rolled her over, grabbing a marker that you had spotted lying nearby, and immediately taking her arm to sign on it. she tried to bite you this time, but you managed to escape just in time. “your collection seems to say otherwise.”

that night, the proposition for you to sleep on the couch and her in her own bedroom was quickly forgotten; as the both of you ended up play fighting all the way until you landed on her bed. natasha pointed you out on it, but you were adamant, and pulling the covers over the both of you, exhausted from the bar and natasha’s punches, you sighed happily. “too late, i’m here now. bed’s too warm.”

she grumbled that she hated you once more, as she came in closer and slung her arm over your midriff to pull you close, under the guise of still being cold. you decided not to point out that her limbs were practically tangled with yours in the morning, head on your chest as she slept as peacefully as a child who had just gotten their first tennis ball signed by you in a tournament.

it was only years later, when you tried to point it out on the day of registering your marriage, had natasha threatened you sleeping on the couch in your shared apartment again. this time, you knew she meant business; and the threat was most likely real, so you shut up quickly and followed her into the registry.

while you signed the certificate beside her, she caught you stifling a laugh again, and jabbed your side to ask you what it was about.

“nothing.”

“tell. me,” she glared at you, “or i’m not signing that thing.”

your eyes twinkled with amusement, you looked so entertained by your own memory. “j-just…i was just thinking…how much the you in the past would have paid for this signature right here, on this certificate. you were my number 1 collector and fan, of course.”

the witness couldn’t control his own chuckles, seeing natasha pull you in by the ear and scolding you for teasing her until her whole body turned red with shame.

afterwards, however, when the two of you were alone, did she finally admit, “i still am your number 1 collector and fan. don’t you ever forget that, or try to replace me.”

–

but natasha had her own arsenal of materials to make fun of you for your obsession with her too, of course. while you hadn’t had memorabilia or kept up with her over the years with no contact, that was a problem that was quickly alleviated once you learnt of natasha’s full-time job as a reporter and editor.

the next match natasha came to after your first grand slam win, your manager had asked her how her day at the office the previous night went, and while taken aback, he sheepishly admitted that you had asked him to, and to make sure she was comfortable at the seats. she had first chalked it up to a lucky coincidence that you knew she was on the news yesterday, reporting on a recent economic trend that hit the country.

then, it was all debunked when you came to her later, and while distracted with fans that were coming up to you at your hotel, you had left your phone unattended at the bar with natasha. it wasn’t really her fault you received a ping from a message then, to reveal your lockscreen had been changed to one of a scheduling sheet. upon closer inspection, it had been natasha’s schedule sheet, of when she would be on air for the month, complete with the locations and timings that the firm had published for her. she presumed the ones in red highlights were when you had your matches, and true enough, they were, when she found your manager helping to record a segment of her news portions one day, and having to admit to her that you had asked him to so you could watch her after to destress. she could hardly control the butterflies that erupted in her belly at the confession.

when the both of you had gotten closer and you would spend some dinners and mornings at her place, natasha would find that you had even pinned her as the top editor in the morning news you would read, always reading what she had published first before anyone else, as if her writing was your morning coffee. she chose not to say anything of it, silently gleaming at the fact that you paid so much attention to what she wrote.

you would often say, “i really liked that piece, the one on the impacts of artificial intelligence in sports,” or some other topic that she would have written, and point out your own thoughts on her piece. it was like having her own personal editor, with no judgments, no criticism. just love for what she had put out, and validation for her work. natasha was glad she had a supporter so ardent as you had yours.

and when the two of you had officially gotten together, natasha once received a text from your best friend during your match, while she was at work, and sighed at the opportunity that she had missed. however, when she did open up the text, it gave access to a video that said best friend had recorded, and there you were, in your dressing room before the match, crouched over the small television set there was, watching her cover the daily news like it had been an action movie. you paid attention to every word, eyes following her as she moved around like an entranced puppy, and when you had to get up and leave, natasha saw you leaning close and pressing a kiss from your fingers to the screen where she was, in replacement of the lips you couldn’t kiss in real life then, and she couldn’t control her burst of laughter. you had to know about this, at the very least.

you physically recoiled and clamped your eyes shut in embarrassment when you saw the video yourself, natasha still fighting hard to control the chuckles coming out of her, and you begging for her to delete whatever you had just seen. “nat, please, please!”

“no, this is hilarious!” she said between fits, “you are hilarious. is this your pre-match ritual, baby?”

“it is not! n-no, i can’t have anyone else see me like this, i can’t have the public see me like this,” you tried to wrestle her off for the phone, but only half-heartedly, because natasha was never in a million years going to let you delete it.

“oh relax, it’s only going to leak if you really, really piss me off one day, or if this phone gets hacked,” she replied, eyes still dancing in amusement as you hid your face in your hands, shaking your head in shame. “it’s kind of sweet, i must admit.”

you pouted at her. “promise me it’s not going anywhere. promise me you won’t send it to anyone else.”

she interlaced her pinky with yours, “i promise.”

natasha had already sent the video to your manager, however, and allowed you to become the laughing stock of your team just days after that match occurred.

#natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff #tennis player! reader #forty love #natasha romanoff x tennis player! reader

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hotvintagepoll · 4 months

Text

Propaganda

Ann Sheridan (I Was a War Male Bride, City for Conquest, The Man Who Came to Dinner)—she was called 'the oomph girl' and i think that deserves a vote

Marlene Dietrich (Shanghai Express, Witness for the Prosecution, Morocco)—its marlene dietrich!!!! queer legend, easily the hottest person to ever wear a tuxedo, that hot hot voice, those glamorous glamorous movies.... most famously she starred in a string of movies directed by josef von sternberg throughout the 1930s, beginning with the blue angel which catapulted her to stardom in the role of the cabaret singer lola lola. known for his exquisite eye for lighting, texture, imagery, von sternberg devoted himself over the course of their collaborations to acquiring exceptional skill at photographing dietrich herself in particular, a worthy direction in which to expend effort im sure we can all agree. she collaborated with many other great directors of the era as well, including rouben mamoulian (song of songs), frank borzage (desire), ernst lubitsch (angel), fritz lang (rancho notorious), and billy wilder (witness for the prosecution). the encyclopedia britannica entry im looking at while compiling this propaganda describes her as having an “aura of sophistication and languid sexuality” which✔️💯. born marie magdalene dietrich, she combined her first and middle names to coin the moniker “marlene”. she was a trendsetter in her incorporation of trousers, suits, and menswear into her wardrobe and her androgynous allure was often remarked upon. critic kenneth tynan wrote, “She has sex, but no particular gender. She has the bearing of a man; the characters she plays love power and wear trousers. Her masculinity appeals to women and her sexuality to men.” in the 1920s she enjoyed the vibrant queer nightlife of weimar berlin, visiting gay bars and drag balls, and in hollywood her love affairs with men and women were an open secret. she was an ardent opponent of nazi germany, refusing lucrative contacts offered her to make films there, raising money with billy wilder to help jews and dissidents escape, and undertaking extensive USO tours to entertain soldiers with an act that included her a playing musical saw and doing a mindreading routine she learned from orson welles. starting in the 50s and continuing into the mid-70s she worked largely as a cabaret artist touring the world to large audiences, employing burt bacharach as her musical arranger.

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

"ms dietrich....ms dietrich pls.....sit on my face"

"First of all, there are those publicity photos of her in a tux. Second of all, I have never been the same since knowing that she sent copies of those photos to her Berlin lovers signed "Daddy Marlene." Not only is she hot in all circumstances, but she can do everything from earthy to ice queen. Also, she kept getting sexy romantic lead parts in Hollywood after the age of 40, which would be rare even now. She hated Nazis, loved her friends, and had a sapphic social circle in Hollywood. She also had cheekbones that could cut glass and a voice that could melt you."

"Did a bunch of humanitarian work during ww2, pretty sure a shot of her from Shanghai express was the inspiration for one of queens album covers and also her in the suit in Morocco (1930) CHANGED LIVES. I’m sure she’s already been submitted but I wanted an opportunity to submit one of my favourite pictures of her for the poll"

Bisexual icon, super hot when dressed both masculine and feminine, lived up her life in the queer Berlin scene of the 1920s, central to the 'sewing circle' of the secret sapphic actresses of Old Hollywood, refused lucrative offers by the Nazis and helped Jews and others under persecution to escape Nazi Germany, the love of my life

Her GENDER her looks her voice her everything

“In her films and record-breaking cabaret performances, Miss Dietrich artfully projected cool sophistication, self-mockery and infinite experience. Her sexuality was audacious, her wit was insolent and her manner was ageless. With a world-weary charm and a diaphanous gown showing off her celebrated legs, she was the quintessential cabaret entertainer of Weimar-era Germany.”

"The bar scene in Morocco awoke something in me and ultimately changed my gender"

youtube

"Her manner, the critic Kenneth Tynan wrote, was that of ‘a serpentine lasso whereby her voice casually winds itself around our most vulnerable fantasies.’ Her friend Maurice Chevalier said: ‘Dietrich is something that never existed before and may never exist again.’”

"Songstress, photographer, fashion icon, out bisexual phenom (notoriously stole Lupe Velez and Joan Crawford's men, and Errol Flynn's wife, had a torrid affair with Greta Garbo that ended in a 60-year feud, other notable conquests including Erich Maria Remarque -yes, the guy who wrote All Quiet on the Western Front- Douglas Fairbanks Junior, Claudette Colbert, Mercedes de Acosta, Edith Piaf), anti-Nazi activist. Marlene was a bitch - she had an open marriage for decades and one of her favorite things was making catty commentary about her current lover with her husband, and her relationship with her daughter was painful- but she was also immensely talented, a hard worker, an opponent of fascism and the hottest ice queen in Hollywood for a long time."

youtube

"She can sing! She can act! She told the Nazis to fuck off and became a US citizen out of spite! She worked with other German exiles to create a fund to help Jews and German dissidents escape (she donated an entire movie salary, about $450k, to the cause). She looks REALLY GOOD in a suit. If you're not convinced, please listen to her sing "Lili Marlene". Absolutely gorgeous woman with a gorgeous voice."

Gifset link

"Bisexual icon and Nazi-hater. Looks absolutely stunning in the suits she liked to wear. 'I dress for the image. Not for myself, not for the public, not for fashion, not for men'."

"would you not let her walk on you?"

#marlene dietrich #ann sheridan #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 1

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attapullman · 4 months

Text

The Perfect Pink | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: While bartending for Rolling Acres Retirement's Valentine's Party, you encounter a pink-cheeked man and his cherry-loving cousins.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: all fluff with alcohol mentions

A Note From Mo: Here is my Pink Lady fic for @thedroneranger's Pick Your Poison event to go with this gorg moodboard! As a part-time mixologist and full-time Bob Floyd lover, this was such a fun concept to play around with and has inspired me to come up with more pink drinks. I've never been a Valentine's girly, but I fully believe this pink-cheeked WSO could convince me otherwise. To everyone who reads this, I love you bunches and bunches, all 365 days in the year!

It’s so pink. Horrendously. Abysmally. Pepto-bismally. PINK.

When you agreed to tend the bar in a pinch, a few bundles of carnations and candy pink paper hearts were your guess for the evening’s decorations. But when you showed up to Rolling Acres Retirement's Valentine’s Party holding a crate of soda water and a handful of shakers, your senses flatlined with the amount of pink covering every surface.

Petal pink tablecloths straightened over round tables; a small bouquet of magenta carnations attached to each folding chair and incensing the recreation hall of the retirement home. Heart-covered paper plates and folded napkins set up at each place setting, glittering confetti sprinkled around the tableware. The ceiling isn’t even a reprieve, a rainbow of fuchsia and rose and flamingo and blush balloons filling up every available inch of space.

Suzette on the front desk had complimented your dusky pink sweater - an appropriate choice for the holiday - but set against this backdrop you feel like another decoration. An oversized bauble that also makes cocktails and pours cheap wine.

And now, standing behind this makeshift card-table-turned-bar covered in bubblegum crepe paper, your brain might explode in a cloud of hot pink smoke. Counting out pours and trying not to slice yourself making garnishes is a struggle keeping up with all these orders. While the average age of the party goer may be eighty, they drink more than the 21st birthday bash you bartended last weekend. You’ve been here all of an hour and Mrs. Moscovitz has already downed three fuschia cosmopolitans.

While disappointed you don’t have more romantic Valentine’s Day plans - though, when have you ever had a date on this too pink day? - it’s fun to see who’s turned up to celebrate. White-haired couples are swaying on the makeshift dance floor, every shade of pink and red in their attire. Bridge groups and knitting circles are excitedly chatting at their respective tables, gossiping over who is in attendance and with whom. Even the staff have wide grins splitting their faces, enjoying the festivities that break up the bleak winter. It’s the least you can do to spend the holiday providing beverages for this crowd.

The best part is the families. While romantic love is thick in the air, so is platonic love. Family members of all ages have come out to spend the holiday with the residents. Mr. Gordon’s daughter and her family have driven hours to catch up over pot roast and sparkling cider while his grandson plays trucks over a pile of chocolates he snuck from Suzette.

Orders have slowed down and your eyes keep glancing over to Ms. Floyd’s table. The entire clan has showed up for dinner, dancing, and to take home a batch of her homemade snickerdoodles. Multiple relatives are taking up two entire heart-sprinkled tables. Your focus is mainly on the second table for too far from you, where the grandkids have been relegated to play cards and swap candy hearts to pass the time.

“Why don’t you go ask the pink lady for more cherries.” God, he’s cute. The only guy in this place near your age and his attention is stolen by a pair of toddler girls obsessed with the cherries in their Shirley temples.

You divert your eyes quickly when you realize he’s talking about you and your pink sweater. The girls giggle shyly, the high pitched squeals of glee as they convince him to go up instead. Fiddling with shakers, wiping down the counter, you try to stay busy as you physically feel him approach the converted bar and your trembling hands.

“Hi!” His smile is thin and nervous and his cheeks are pink, blushing from his little cousins and their antics. Also because you’re much prettier up close and he’s wearing a shirt he’d never normally be caught in if his grandma hadn’t picked it out.

He’s much cuter at this distance as well. Sandy hair combed neatly, one small strand slipping out behind his ear. Friendly cerulean eyes framed by golden wire spectacles, similar to the ones several of the ex-military men at Rolling Acres are sporting. His thin lips falter slightly as he takes in how well the pink of your sweater compliments your skin. God, he wishes he wasn’t wearing this shirt.

You spring into service mode and grab a fresh cocktail shaker. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m technically up here for some cherries.” You dutifully nod, hoping to hide the fact you’ve been watching him converse with the toddler girls in their matching baby pink dresses most of the night. You make a small dish of cherries up and push it toward him, shaking your head when he attempts to pay. “The thirty-eight cents of cherries is a small expense for a night those two will talk about for weeks. They’re on the house.”

He grabs the dish with a smile, but realizes he now has no excuse to stay by the bar. And while he loves his cousins, he’s on leave for a few more weeks and you’re really pretty. A few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. He extends his hand with a timid smile. “I’m Bob.”

You reach out and shake his hand back as you introduce yourself, hoping the condensation coating your fingers isn’t too noticeable. He immediately commits your name to memory, happy to replace “The Pink Lady” with a name as fitting to you as yours.

He moves out of the way as a woman in a magenta scarf orders a round for her bingo group. Bob watches as you whir into action, pouring liquors and counting off ounces. The delicate way you garnish each drink so the owner feels special. Your gracious smile when a tip is stuffed into the heart-shaped velvet box provided to you for tips.

When the line at the bar dies down, he sidles back up to your makeshift station. Bob notices the way you eye the decorations warily, still adjusting to the deafening pink of it all. He drums lightly on the blushing pink tablecloth, catching your wide-eyed attention. “Everything all right?”

“Uh, this place is too…pink?” you laugh, gesturing to the overabundance of rosy hues surrounding you. For possibly the first time all night, Bob realizes that while you were the only pink thing that had his attention, it is suffocating in the recreation hall.

“Yes, yes it is,” he chuckles right back, eyes soaking in the offending decorations. There’s a comfortable air between the two of you, and he decides to push his luck for more time with The Pink Lady.

Bob clears his throat, pulse thrumming through his body. Tonight is his one and only chance to land a date with the pretty bartender.

“So, to go with the theme, what is the pinkest drink you can make me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, his best attempt at flirting. A hint of a giggle escapes as you purse your lips, contemplating his challenge.

“I can make you a pink lady.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is that a real drink, or have you named it after yourself?”

“It’s real, I promise.” You’re all smiles at his attention as you combine the gin, applejack, and grenadine with a splash of lemon juice. He really could watch you work for hours.

As you reach for the last ingredient, his eyes bug out. “Is that an egg?” He’s a Navy man, his normal bar only has cocktails with two ingredients. Since when did eggs go in cocktails?

“When you dry shake an egg white it creates this nice foam, adds to the drink.” While he wants to come across as open-minded and cultured, he’s hesitant. “If you don’t like it, I’ll make you something else.”

He’s bewitched as you pour the perfectly pink drink into a plastic coup, the creamy white foam rising to top it off. A cherry balances the rim, one that won’t be stolen by his mischievous cousins. As he looks between the freshly poured drink and you, he swears your cheeks are the same happy pink.

You push the drink toward him, excited to share something new with a customer. Always a gamble as a bartender, but worth it when you expand someone’s palate. He gives you a tentative smile, unsure if he’s going to like it, but he really wants to impress you. In return, you give him an encouraging nod, completely unsure of how this will go. He takes a sip, the frothy mixture coating his tongue.

As far as he’s concerned, the drink is named after you. Not too sweet, not too tart, a divinely balanced combination of flavors in a perfect pink concoction. Bob is convinced you would taste just as good, especially with a cherry. The thought makes his brain blank.

“Do you like it?” Your hopeful eyes are endearing. He wants to brush the strand of hair from your cheek and assure you that he likes it, that he’d like anything you made him because you made it. But you’re practically strangers so he stumbles over his words as he promises it’s delicious.

The bowl of cherries for his cousins still in his hand, Bob stands to the side of the bar and sips his tartly sweet drink, casually keeping up conversation with you as you serve other patrons. You’re glad for the company, enjoying the way he asks about your technique and mutters out the few things he knows about wine from conversations with his aunt. Despite the fact you’re working, it’s the best Valentine’s Day you’ve had in years with this bespectacled man watching you tend bar.

He’s just so cute, blushing his own special pink hue when your eyes connect while you shake up a few martinis.

“Uncle Bob!” There is no mistaking who is calling him over. Two identical heads pouting as they motion him over. His time with you is up. He gives you a sweet smile, trying to memorize every inch of your face, before motioning his hand filled with cherries in their direction. You bittersweetly grin right back, smile lingering as you start on Mr. Nickerson’s two merlots as you watch his broad shoulders walk away.

Oh, how you wish he would come back.

Because it’s a retirement home and not a frat house, by ten the party is wrapping up. You’ve exchanged shy glances with Bob a handful of times, but his family has taken up most of his attention with Navy questions and inquiring when he’s going to visit next. He barely registers the event is over before he’s rummaging through his mom’s handbag with his last attempt at salvaging the night.

You’re cleaning up your supplies when the Floyd clan walks past, all waving good night to you and the staff, thanking you all for a great Valentine’s night. The girls thank you for their cherries, a stem hanging from one’s lip.

Staggering at the end of the crowd is Bob, his cheeks flushed and palms tingling. He stands in front of your table, rocking on his heels, working up his courage. You give him a warm smile, thanking him for his company, and he completely melts. As he holds up his occupied hand, he hopes this works.

“Forgot to slip this in earlier.” His smile is tense as he jams a few dollars through the absurdly small hole in your improvised tip box. You thank him before both blurting out awkward goodbyes. As he catches up with his family, a pang rings through your chest. Disappointed he’s gone, never to be seen again.

Bob Floyd, a Valentine’s mirage you will remember fondly.

Once all your things are packed, you square things up with Suzette with your pay for the event and a promise to stop by to visit the residents later in the month. You schlep everything to the car, a mixture of emotions painting your face in the rearview mirror as you make your way back home. The weight of defeat keeping you from bringing anything inside except for that damn tip box you’re hoping will cover groceries for the week.

You pry open the velvet lid and are met with the best surprise.

There, at the bottom of your substitute tip jar, underneath all the singles the elderly stiffed you with, was a scrap of cheap rosy pink napkin. You unfurl it to see neat chicken scratch handwriting, the pen poking through the fabric in spots as he worked to write out his message with a phone number beneath.

I’m here until the 27th. Drinks on me? - Bob

Now that you think about it, maybe you do like pink.

taglist: @berryvanille @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @drxgxnslxyer @hangmanapologist @hiireadstuff @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @kmc1989 @maryelizabeth13 @petersunderoos96 @rhettsluvr @roosterforme @seitmai @sweetwhispersofchaos @topherwrites @xoxabs88xox @yuckosworld

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#pick your poison challenge #bob floyd fic #robert bob floyd fic #bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #robert bob floyd x you #bob floyd fanfic #robert bob floyd fanfic #tw: alcohol #top gun: maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fic #bob floyd fluff #robert bob floyd fluff

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ohtobeleah · 4 months

Text

Secret Sacrifices // Jake Seresin

Prologue: [BrainBox]

Summary: Managing the Hard Deck isn’t always easy, especially when a certain Naval Aviator is always just one step away.

Warnings: Illusion of family loss. Jake Seresin X F!reader. Witness Protection Reader. Situationship. 18+ Content.

Word Count: 1.6k

Author Note: I’m getting back into writing after a few weeks hiatus, any feedback, comments and concepts will be greatly appreciated.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The human brain can be seen in scientific communities as the most mysterious organ in the human body. The human mind can generate up to seventy thousand thoughts a day, which means there are around two thousand nine hundred thoughts created every hour.

“Mommy!”

The human brain can store around about two point five terabytes of information at any one time. That capacity of storage is equivalent to about three million hours of television reruns or one million high-quality photos. Take your pick.

“Come on—wake up! WAKE UP PATRICK!”

The human brain can generate an electric current of about twenty-three watts. That’s enough to light up a round bulb. And although the human brain only accounts for two percent of your total body weight, it consumes more than twenty percent of the human body's total energy.

“Please don’t leave me, not now—oh god please don’t leave me.”

The length of all blood vessels in the brain, if combined, would reach a maximum length of about one hundred and sixty thousand kilometres. That’s enough distance to wrap about the earth’s circumference four times over.

“Mommy I’m scared!”

Each nerve neuron in the human brain has up to ten thousand connections with other neurons, not only that, but there are upwards of one hundred billion neurons in the brain. Which means there are more than one thousand trillion neuron connections formed in the human brain.

“We just have to keep running baby.”

The amygdala, a part of the brain responsible for coordinating emotions, has an information processing speed of upwards of twenty ms. This speed is even faster than the speed at which humans can perceive something.

All of these facts lean towards the idea of the human brain being some sort of supercomputer that we have been given. Programmed into our very existence by evolutionary biology.

“No baby girl you stay with Mommy, it’s okay—don’t you close your eyes again okay?”

And yet? Despite all the wonders and capabilities that the human brain can accomplish—Your brain keeps you stuck in a time loop of unimaginable grief and despair.

“Brewer?” The world around you had seemingly stopped for a few moments. The regular Friday night hustle of the Hard Deck had all but dissipated into silence when the overwhelming haunting noises of your own personal hell had become too loud to drown out. “Hello? Earth to Brewer?”

“What?” You frowned as you shook yourself back into existence. What you found, or more accurately, who you found standing before you across the bar made your heart skip a panicked beat. “Jesus Seresin, you scared the hell out of me.” You sighed as you felt your heart beating rapidly inside your chest. The same heart that had loved and lost so much. The very heart that right now was plagued with the dilemma of falling for the sandy blonde who stood before you with eyes that could rival the Emerald City itself.

“How?” Jake questioned as a confused frown took over his face soon after the words left his mouth. “I’ve been standing here for like two minutes just watching you zone out like some space cadet.” The chuckle that escaped Jake's slightly parted mouth soothed your beating heart into a steady rhythm.

Oh. How long had you been zoned out for?

“What can I get ya?” You decided to let it go as you shot Jake a short but harmless smile. There was no need to ask or spend too much time focusing on how long you’d been stuck standing still cleaning the same spot on the bar over and over while your thoughts consumed you. Besides, you didn't really want to know how long Jake had been standing there looking at you like a moth drawn to a flame.

“The usual, times four thanks barkeep—“ Jake replied as he reached into his back pocket, finishing out his wallet. A simple brown leather moment that always made you feel like your past was trailing right behind you. “Plus a lemonade with lime for the underage Back Seater.” There it was, that signature Seresin smirk accompanied with that wink. Insufferable. Cocksure. Endearing.

“Four Budweisers and a lemonade coming right up.” You smiled once again as you threw your bar towel over your shoulder and got to work. Jake took the time to perch himself on one of the empty bar stools that littered the outskirt of the bar. Patrons buzzed around the Hard Deck like there wasn’t a care in the world to be had on a Friday night. “And lay off Bob, he gets your drunken ass home more often than not so you should be more thankful for his intolerance to alcoholic beverages.”

Jake beamed at your lighthearted remark, they came few and far between. Whenever he was graced with the pure nature of your smile or your dry sense of humour, Jake reveled in it. So much so the crush he harboured had become common knowledge to half of Miramar. Yourself included. He wasn't a shy man, far from it. Jake knew what he wanted and, usually, he got it.

But you? You had been playing hard to get and hard to crack ever since you showed up to the Hard Deck around six months prior. From the first moment Jake saw you he’d been caught hook, line, and sinker. Six months of chasing the same girl round in circles.

“What had you lost, Brewer? Daydreaming on the clock isn’t usually your thing?” Jake asked as he got comfortable, leaning forward on his elbow as he watched you grab four Budweisers from the cooler fridge beneath the bar. He didn't miss the look on your face, the one that would occasionally replace the mild-maned stare you'd give off to slightly agitating customers. It was a look Jake couldn't really read–one that he wasn't sure if he would ever get to the bottom of, but he let it go, didn't press.

“Just got caught up thinking about how I'm gonna spend my Sunday off.” Of all the lies you could’ve made up that seemed to be the most believable.

“What are we doing on Sunday, Brewer?” Jake teased as you placed the still-capped amber bottles on the bar before him. The smirk he wore said it all, he was waiting for you to bite. And bite you did.

“God, you've got tickets to your own show don't you, Seresin?” You shook your head with a laugh as you popped the caps on the beers you'd collected. “I– am planning a reset, just have a lot of housework to get done, laundry, meal prepping, self-care.” You teased the meaning behind self-care as you reached for the soda gun. “Which reminds me I need new batteries.”

Jake caught the look in your eyes as you filled the glass to the brim with ice with your free hand and let the liquid drain from the gun. “Kinky girl, you sure we aren't hanging out on Sunday?” The smile, that damn infection smile that could light up the darkest of rooms made your head spin. But you couldn't go there. Harmless flirting was one thing, but crossing that line could cost Jake everything.

He wasn't even aware of how close he was tempting death. How close he was standing to fire. How close he was standing to a woman who had lost everything in the name of being a good person.

Unlike Jake, you had already lost everything.

“In your dreams, Bagman.” You chuckled lightly, Jake's order was all but done. “Cash, Card or on Bradshaw's Tab?” The question remained unanswered for a few moments as Jake just sat there taking in the sight of the bartender who had him wrapped around her finger with ease. A spot he wouldn't mind staying forever if you'd let him. But for now? He knew he had to play the long game: Catch me if you can! you had forced him to play.

“You tempt me, but card it is.” Jake confirmed as he fished his card from his wallet. “Someone has to keep Rooster from going into financial ruin.” It only took a few seconds for you to place all of Jake's drinks, the four beers and one lemonade with lime, onto a carry tray. “I think Payback’s been piggybacking on his bar tab too.” Jake smirked as he gave you an all-knowing look. You had been caught red-handed, but it was all circumstantial evidence at best.

“Never took you as a softy.” Bradley Bradshaw still owed you an apology for his drunk and disorderly behaviour a few weeks ago. Behaviour that saw him hurling abuse your way when you cut him off. The guy was going through a breakup of sorts, of course you felt bad. But until he said he was sorry? His tab was racking up a pretty penny of top-shelf liquors and extra beer orders from the boys. “But fine, tap your card whenever you’re ready.”

“This place is starting to charge a premium price for cheap booze ever since they hired a new manager.” Jake let out a sigh laced in banter as he paid for his order, the tip he left never went unnoticed either. Jake was good like that, he always tipped with a smile and a few extra bucks to make his almost cheesy pickup lines and banter worth your while. “And there's a lot of things you don't know about me Brewer.” With one final wink and signature smile, he was off.

“Funny.” You mumbled to yourself as you watched Jake walk away back towards the same booth the boys all lingered around whenever they weren't hogging the pool table. The same booth you frequented the most. The same booth you gave a little more attention to–because Jake Seresin, despite all your might, had a hold on you that you couldn't seem to get out of.

“I guess I could say the same damn thing.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Tags: 🏷️ @a-reader-and-a-writer @xoxabs88xox @hiireadstuff @buckysteveloki-me @athenabarnes @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt @tayl0rhuynh @na-ta-sh-aa @kmc1989 @sunlightmurdock @mamachasesmayhem @jaxfart @lauenderhaze @sugarcoated-lame @maisie-rebloging-blog @captainmoonknight @seitmai @shanimallina87

#secret sacrifices // jake seresin #jake hangman fic #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman imagine #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun fandom #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction

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cowgurrrl · 6 months

Text

It Ain't Me Babe

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: A holiday present from me to you ❣️

Summary: Ellie’s first art club meeting [2.8k]

Warnings: creative insecurity, mentions of financial instability, teacher things, Ellie talking about Sarah, more flirty flirt, I think that’s it??

Nothing has ever been as annoying or guilt-inducing as an unfinished piece of art. Sure, every artist— no matter the medium— has felt like an uncreative, unoriginal hack, but it still feels just as new as it did the first time. Moonlight streams through your window as you glare at the canvas, hoping for an idea or stroke of genius. It's late. You should be in bed, especially since it's a Sunday night and you spent your weekend working at the bar down the street. But you're holding a paintbrush between stained fingers and praying for a miracle. It's been eight months since you last sold a piece for a whopping $200, chump change when it comes to living in Austin these days. Even with two jobs and doing commission work, you're living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that's why it's so hard to create? That has to be the reason. You don't remember it being this hard when you were younger.

Creating art was the only thing that brought you solace during your teenage years. It didn't matter if it was drawing, pottery, painting, sculpting. All that mattered was that you were doing it and you were good. You won awards, scholarships, and attention. Your art teacher, Ms. Henry, was a godsend. Grey-haired, glasses-wearing, colorful Ms. Henry glided through lessons and projects like it was second nature. She always had pencils in her hair, a mug in her hands, and a kind word on her lips when you entered her classroom. She's the one who pushed you to go to your artsy liberal arts college full of people richer and better than you. Even with her love and support, you struggled and almost dropped out after that first semester.

"There's always someone better," she told you when you ended up crying across from her in a coffee shop. "But there's nobody in the world who can make what you will because there is and never will be another you. I mean, God, what a gift. I'd hate to see you waste it." That sobered you enough to keep going and eventually pursue a teaching certification. Ms. Henry has since retired to the Pacific Northwest with her wife, Mable, and sends you a postcard every once in a while because she believes smartphones will be the downfall of civilization. After so many years in education, you're ready to agree with her.

You sigh, feeling your motivation fluttering away with your breath, and plop your paintbrush down in the cup engraved with the words "DO NOT DRINK" in bold. The canvas doesn't look like much of anything right now— just a mass of colors and shapes that could potentially pass as an abstract version of a landscape. It looks like the other painting you left at the school to work on when you have time. And the painting before that. And the one before that. You curse at exactly the same time your phone buzzes with a text.

You awake?

You don't bother responding and go straight to FaceTiming her. She picks up on the second ring, her beautiful, round face greeting you with a smile. You met Andie during high school, and her effortlessly cool attitude and bulky violin kit quickly became a part of your heart. You two were inseparable all four years of high school, dividing your time between rehearsals and time spent in the studio, but college took you to art school and her to a prestigious orchestra program in Vienna. She's been there ever since graduation, playing for diplomats and royals alike, but she comes home for holidays, and you've been trying to save money to go see her. Being so far from her is hard, but you make it work.

"Why are you awake?" You ask by way of a greeting, more than accustomed to your seven-hour time difference and her early riser habits. She laughs, and you hear a tea kettle whistle in the background.

"Well, hello to you, too," she says. "I have rehearsals all day today, so I got an early start. Why are you awake?"

"I'm staring at my waking nightmare."

"Oh, God, are you having another spiral?"

"I'm a hack."

"You're an artist."

"I got rejected again this weekend," you say as if to prove your point, and she sucks her teeth. "They said my art didn't fit their vision for their exhibition, but to feel free and submit another time."

"Well, they must not know great art when they see it. There will be another exhibition and another chance for you to show off your amazing skills. And when you get accepted, which I know you will, I'll fly in, and we'll drink fancy champagne and talk shit the entire opening night." She says, and you sigh. Her persistent optimism is one of the things you love about her, but sometimes, all you want to do is sulk.

"Or I could fly to you when your first composition gets performed, and we could do all those things in Austria instead of this shithole."

"Hey, some of us like that shithole."

"Some of us haven't lived in the shithole in ten years."

"Touche," she concedes. "But I'm serious about what I said. You're a good artist, just going through a little bump in the road. One day, we'll be really sexy and successful, and we'll look back at this and laugh with our rich spouses while drinking expensive wine."

"One day," you say, smiling. "How are rehearsals going?" She groans at the question, and you laugh. Whenever you talk to her, she's working on a new show or with a new conductor and always has something to say. There are many things you could call your best friend, but lazy is not one of them.

"I feel like we're stuck on this one part, but the conductor won't listen to me. He says he knows better than I do, which might be true, but also, if he just listened to me, then we can move on. I don't know. I'm sure if I poke him enough, he'll have to listen to me."

"Sounds reasonable."

"That's what I'm saying," she says as she shuffles her coffee mug and breakfast to her dining room table before checking the time. "It's midnight there. Don't you have school tomorrow?" She asks, and you sigh.

"And an early morning staff meeting and art club after school."

"Sometimes, I worry about your mental health." She says, and you laugh a little too deliriously to prove her wrong. You stay up talking with her for a while before finally getting hit with a wave of fatigue and crashing into bed.

The next day is not any less hectic than your weekend was. The staff meeting early in the morning is mind-numbing and completely unnecessary. The printer in the teacher's lounge breaks halfway through a heavy-duty print job, and you're left scrambling for new activities and lessons. Not only that, but your students were more out of control than usual, prompting a veteran teacher to come in and scold your class on your behalf. It would be kind if it didn't make you feel two inches tall and your students didn't look at you like you betrayed them. You spend your planning period indulging in the silence of your empty classroom and fighting off a migraine.

The second the final bell sounds, your art club kids are knocking down your door, more than ready to work on their projects for the winter showcase. The winter showcase is hosted by a local art gallery that opens for submissions from students every fall. If a student's work is taken, it gets shown in the gallery, and they get entered into a prize to win money and a chance to paint a mural downtown. It's a big deal. So far, you haven't had a student win first place, but you've had them get very close. You always assure them you're proud of them no matter what, which is especially true when Ellie slinks into your classroom with a shy smile.

"Hey! We're just setting up supplies to work on stuff for the showcase. Do you have something to work on?" You ask, gesturing to the students working around the room in a buzz.

"I think so. Are you gonna play music?"

"Who do you think I am?" You make a face, and she laughs. "Why don't you find a spot and get comfortable while I queue up a playlist?" She hesitates for a second before she takes a deep breath and musters up the courage to approach another student to ask if she can sit with them. They start chatting easily, and her shoulders relax as she gets more and more comfortable with all the new people. You put on a random playlist and move around the room to answer any questions about colors or give an opinion when asked for one. Over the course of an hour, Ellie makes her own little group of friends, and they all talk as if they've known each other forever as they work. She seems so in her own element, and you can't fight the pride beaming in your chest. Okay, so maybe your job can be pretty cool sometimes. Not fame and fortune cool or traveling overseas cool, but cool nevertheless.

Students gradually start packing up their things and leaving when they get texts from impatient parents in the parking lot or close to dinner time, but Ellie stays behind, bobbing her head to a beat or bouncing her knee under the table. She's the only one left in the classroom when you start packing your stuff and preparing the room for the next day. "You've got a ride home, honey?" You ask, and she glances nervously between you and her phone.

"Yeah. My dad should be here soon." She says.

"Alright, well, I've gotta lock up here, but I'll wait outside with you until he gets here."

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

"It'd make me feel better knowing you weren't left behind. Plus, I'm the adult responsible for you until he picks you up, so it's kinda illegal for me to just leave you here." You say, and she looks hesitant again but nods. Together, you walk out of the classroom and through the empty hallways until you get out to the scorching September afternoon. You stand outside in silence for a few seconds, taking in the sunset, before you turn to look at her.

"How'd you like the club?" You ask.

"It was fun! I met lots of cool people."

"I told you, kid. You just needed to give it a chance."

"I know, I know," she rolls her eyes, and you smile. "Thank you for pushing me to go. I don't think I would've gone without you." She's so genuine and kind in her tone that it throws you off-kilter. You're used to being berated by students, staff, and parents. To be told you actually had an impact on someone is not commonplace, to say the least.

"I'm sure you would've found your way there without me."

"Maybe, but you helped me get there a lot sooner than I would've on my own." She says, and you take a deep breath. It feels nice to be acknowledged, especially after the day you've had, and Ellie seems to sense it. You're looking for something to say when she looks down at her shoes and kicks a stray rock. "Just take the compliment and move on. Don't make it a thing."

"Alright." You say, laughing, and she cracks a smile, too. Traffic will be horrible on the way home, and you have nothing to eat for dinner, but it's okay. You did one good thing today. That's all you need.

"Sorry, my dad is taking so long." She changes the subject, a touch of anxiety creeping in, and you shake your head.

"Does he always work late?" You ask, and she shrugs.

"Sometimes. Dad and Uncle Tommy have been picking up jobs to send money to my sister in Boston. "

"What's in Boston for your sister?"

"Medical school. She's about to go into her internship at a hospital there."

"That's a big deal." You say, and she hums.

"Yeah. She'll probably save the world or something one day." There's a hint of something nostalgic in her voice, and you decide to push just a little.

"Do you miss her?"

"A lot," she says. "She's my best friend."

"She's lucky to have you." You say. She smiles but doesn't say anything. You want to ask more about her family, but a rickety, greenish pickup truck comes rumbling through the parking lot before you can. Ellie shifts her backpack on her shoulder as her dad and uncle come into view, and you smile at them. Joel, however, looks frantic.

He's unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the driver's side door before the car can even finish moving. There's dirt on his pants and a little bit of a sunburn across his arms, the muscles straining across the black fabric. He politely pulls the ball cap off his head to reveal sweaty curls as he approaches you, jerking his head toward the truck at Ellie. "Why don't you wait in the truck with Uncle Tommy? He's got a snack for you." He says, and Ellie lights up at the mention of food. When you're alone, he tucks his hands in his pockets and gives you an apologetic look.

"'M so sorry. We got caught up at work and lost track of time. It won't happen again." He says, wringing his hands like he's waiting to be scolded, but you wave him off.

"It's okay. Things happen, and I'm just glad she's got someone picking her up." You say.

"How'd she do today?"

"Really good. I think she fits right in."

"She make some friends?"

"I can't give away all my secrets. What else are y'all gonna talk about at the dinner table?" You tease.

"I guess that's right," he says as he stares at you, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "Thanks for waitin' with her."

"It was my pleasure." You say. You stand awkwardly for a few seconds, rocking back and forth on your feet. His eyes are locked in yours, and there's a silent competition to see who's gonna blink first. "Well, I should let you get home. Have a good night."

"Uh," he starts, stopping you before you can even fully take a step. "I wanted to apologize for the other night. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," you say a little too quickly, and he smirks. "I was very flattered. Besides, it's not the first time."

"Beautiful woman like you, I'm sure you've got 'em linin' the block for a chance with you." He says. You're dancing a delicate dance here. You're not not flirting, and you're not not interested in him, but if your principal finds out, it could cause a whole new world of problems. Still, it's nice to be wanted after so long of being on your own. You're not a saint, but you're also not doing anything inherently wrong, right?

"The teacher thing usually freaks 'em out before they can get very far."

"That's a damn shame." He's quick with it, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes at the line. A buzz in your bag reminds you of the time and why you're still at school, and you find your footing again.

"Uh, I usually give out my contact information to the parents of my art club kids in case they need anything or need to contact me quickly. Since Ellie's an official part of that, I figured I should give you my phone number in case anything comes up. If that's alright?" You say, and he pulls his cracked phone from his back pocket.

"Yeah, yeah. That's more than alright." He says, handing it to you to punch in your information.

"It's for emergency purposes only."

"What d'you consider an emergency?"

"Mr. Miller-"

"Joel." He corrects, and you give him a look as you pass his phone back.

"Don't abuse it. I'd hate to have to put you in a group chat with all the PTA moms."

"You're evil." He groans, and you laugh. Tommy, leaning over and honking the truck horn, interrupts your conversation, and he shoots daggers through the back window.

"I'll see you next week, Joel." You say, dismissing him, and he hesitates for another second before nodding.

"See you next week." He says and turns on his heels to get back in his truck. You think you vaguely catch Joel scolding Tommy for being impatient, but you ignore his deep voice and the engine sputtering as you walk to your own car with a little more pep in your step than this morning.

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 (look at how many of you there are!)

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fic #the last of us x reader #joel tlou #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #the last of us fic #the last of us au #joel the last of us #ellie the last of us #joel au #joel miller fluff #joel miller au #tlou hbo #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction

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stanchett · 1 year

Note

Hi! I saw your post asking for prompts, so here's one for you, if you'd like. ☺️

Out of all of Nevermore's traditions, Larissa disliked Staff Bonding Nights the most. She preferred to drink her wine alone in her office instead of in a loud bar, thank you very much. But thanks to the new addition to the staff, maybe this time it wouldn't be that bad of an evening...

Here you go!! Thanks for the request, I hope you enjoy!!! :)

I owe a massive thank-you to @pro-weems-places for editing this for me, it was written at 1am and required much revision.

Black and White

Warnings: NSFW, alcohol use

Word count: 3.4k+

Your laptop screen glowed a bright white in your dark bedroom, the seemingly endless stream of emails welcoming you to the Nevermore staff taking up the open tab. The most recent one caught your attention the moment you read the subject line, “Staff Bonding Night at the Weathervane”, written in bold black letters.

“That could be fun, I suppose...” you pondered to yourself while scrolling through Netflix for something to watch.

Normally, you were more of an introvert, but you were determined to come out of your shell a bit in light of your new position at the school. You turned in for the night, shutting your laptop and curling up in bed with a nature documentary, unaware of what the following evening would bring.

--------

The next morning was a bit of a drag as you roamed the hallways of the school, nearly getting lost (again) as it was only your second week. It was still early, about an hour before your class was supposed to start. Rounding a corner, you almost run head-first into Larissa Weems, the stunning principal you’d hardly stopped thinking about since meeting upon your hiring. She gasped in surprise and stepped back from you, clutching her chest while she caught her breath.

“Oh Principal Weems, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you coming-” you apologized, but a quick wave of her hand dismissed your apology.

“It’s quite alright, Ms. Y/L/N. Are you lost? You seem a bit turned around.” You blushed at the realization that you definitely were, and nodded in confirmation to her question.

“Walk with me darling, I’ll show you the way from here,” Larissa offered, and you gratefully accepted. Keeping in stride and making small talk was easy with her, she was so sweet and polite. You wondered if you would see her that evening at the staff gathering.

“Hey, will you be at the Weathervane tonight? How do those events usually go?”

Larissa rolled her eyes with a sigh, “Oh yes, that.. I myself am not normally in attendance, but I’ve heard they can be quite fun, according to other staff members. I much prefer my study and a glass of red personally, but to each their own.”

Your heart sank a bit at her admission, but you tried not to look too defeated. “Why don’t you give it another shot? After all, I’ll be there..” you said in a mock-suggestive tone, secretly hoping she would realize you meant it in a way that wasn’t entirely a joke.

Just as you delivered your makeshift pickup line, the two of you arrived at your classroom. You stopped at the door and leaned against it with your arms crossed, looking up at Larissa with a challenging look, “What do you think?”

She chuckled and looked away from you - was she getting flustered? Clearing her throat, she stated, “I’ll think about it. Enjoy your class this morning, Y/N.” And with that, she headed back to her office. You watched her leave for a moment and smiled to yourself, then removed the keys to your room from your pocket. If she decided to show up tonight, you would make sure she had a great time.

By 5 o-clock that evening, you found yourself rushing around to finish getting ready, hopping out of the hot shower to throw on a button-down and some slacks. Leaving a few buttons undone in hopes you would catch the principal’s attention, you put on some light makeup and headed out the door. You hoped beyond hope that Larissa had made up her mind and decided to show.

After a short drive down the winding road, you parked outside the café and noticed the inside had been completely revamped to reflect a vibe similar to a nightclub of sorts; the tables had been pushed to the edges of the space or removed altogether to make room for a makeshift dance floor, and the overhead lights dimly lit the room in a variety of colors. “Maybe this’ll be more fun than I thought...” you whispered to yourself, glancing in the mirror of your sun visor to double check your makeup before leaving your car.

--------

Swinging the front door open, you were immediately greeted by a chorus of hellos from the handful of staff members already inside enjoying themselves, the low hum of dance music hitting your eardrums.

“Y/N! I’m so happy you showed up! Welcome to our little annual bonding tradition,” Ms. Thornhill exclaimed, quickly looping her arm through yours to guide you to the counter. “Would you like a drink? There’s a full bar and a table of snacks over in the corner, too. You’re welcome to them!”

You smiled your thanks in return, and she patted your back before rejoining a group of teachers by the door. She seemed like the excitable type, which you weren’t really into, but she made you feel included nonetheless and for that you were grateful.

Peeking past the counter, you spotted Coach Vlad preparing a few drinks. He handed them out, then headed your way with a grin.

“Hey, fresh blood! I’m so glad to see you! What’ll you be having?”

You thought for a moment before deciding, “Just a Jack and coke for me, Coach. I’m glad I could make it. This place moonlights as a club for you guys, huh?” You jest, leaning on the counter, eager for something to take the edge off your remaining nerves.

“Oh yeah, the Nevermore staff really knows how to get down,” he joked, gesturing to the dead crowd before you both, all chatting away. He handed you the drink and you took a swig. Strong stuff. You wondered where Larissa could be. Would she really decline your ever-so-convincing offer?

“I guess Weems doesn’t really ‘get down’ much, does she?” You asked him. His hands were already busy with prepping another drink.

“Not these days. She hardly shows her face at these events. Not really her style, I gather.” He wandered to the other side of the counter to take some more orders. You took another sip and pulled out your phone, suddenly feeling out of place without someone to really talk to.

While you were mindlessly scrolling through your social media apps, the group of teachers suddenly went silent, quietly muttering to each other as opposed to the loud conversations they were just having. You look past them and see a flash of silver brush past one of the windows. Was that..?

The front door eased open and you swore you had never seen anyone more beautiful - in walked Larissa, adorned in a silver dress and white elbow-length gloves, her hair done up perfectly.

Your jaw dropped to the floor and you struggled to keep from staring. She caught your eyes roaming up her figure and strutted her way over to you, politely greeting everyone along the way. It was at that moment you realized the alcohol was starting to hit you, giving you more confidence than you normally possessed.

Setting your drink aside, you attempted to lean coolly on the counter behind you as she approached. “Fancy meeting you here,” you teased when she reached you, her gloved hand coming to rest on the marble surface next to you, effectively trapping you beside her.

“I suppose I could say the same..” she said, her eyes openly sweeping over you, momentarily coming to rest at your slightly revealing choice of clothing before flicking away to Vlad who was still wearing a look of surprise on his face at her appearance.

“I’ll have a red, Coach,” she said all too smoothly. Grabbing the wine bottle, he poured her drink with a nod. Her gaze turned back to you, her eyes glistening under the multicolored lights as she regarded you.

Leaning in, she said in a low voice, “You sure clean up well, Ms. Y/L/N.”

You were momentarily grateful for the low lighting, positive it hid the blush that quickly rose to your cheeks and shiver down your spine. But you feigned shock at her words, putting a hand to your chest as you retorted, “Principal Weems, are you flirting with me?”

She raised an eyebrow and elegantly turned to accept her drink, looking you dead in the eye as she took a long sip. You felt a searing heat gather in your lower abdomen. God, this woman is stunning, you thought to yourself.

“It’s possible,” was all she said.

There was a sudden clap sounding from the center of the room, an attempt from Thornhill to command everyone’s attention. “Alright everyone, partner up! Let’s get a little dancing in, shall we?” She said with a grin.

A collective groan passed through the room and she jogged over to you, a huge smile still plastered on her face. “Would you care to join me? It’s your first time here, you have to give it a shot at least!”

You would feel bad turning her down, so you jokingly rolled your eyes and agreed, Larissa watching your reaction the entire time. She tried to hide her amusement but she was looking forward to this. You swallow the rest of your drink and let Marilyn lead you out onto the dance floor.

Someone cranked the music up a little higher and you quickly found yourself swaying to the beat, the alcohol in your system doing its job. You were grateful several others ended up taking her up on the offer as well, all of you dancing together to the rhythm. You closed your eyes and lost yourself to the music for a moment, your hips working on their own to keep time with everyone else. Maybe Nevermore really did know how to get down.

You opened your eyes to see Larissa staring you down from her spot at the bar, her eyes raking over your body while you danced. Without thinking, you reached a hand out to her, wiggling your fingers in the air as a silent signal for her to join you. Tossing the remainder of her wine down her throat, she placed down the glass and stalked over to you, her eyes never leaving yours. She came to stand in front of you, and you boldly placed your hands on her hips. You looked up to catch her eye and confirm that this is alright with her, her only response a sly smirk and a glint of mischief in her eye.

She began moving her body to the beat in time with you, and you released your hold on her to raise your hands above your head, losing yourself to the music once more. She closely watched your every move, almost hypnotized, like you’d put a spell on her. You turned your back to her and threw her a glance over your shoulder. That was all the invitation she needed.

Placing her hands on your hips instead, she pulled you against her front for a moment, and you gasped at the contact and her forwardness. You deliberately moved your hips more seductively against her, your intentions becoming infinitely more clear. You knew you couldn’t keep this up in front of your co-workers, so you turned to face her once again as the song ended, tossing your head back with a throaty laugh.

You looked up to find her smiling down at you, that hint of something more never leaving her glare. You crooked a finger to beckon her down to you, and she quickly leaned down to catch your whisper. “Do you wanna get out of here?” It sounded so cliche, you knew, but in that moment your arousal was almost unbearable. Straightening up again, she nodded in agreement and even in the dim light you swore you saw her cheeks redden. You bit your lip and jerked your head in the direction of the door.

Waving your goodbyes to everyone in attendance, you passed off the excuse to Thornhill that you were too tipsy to drive in an attempt to avoid suspicion and practically darted out the door, Larissa hot on your heels. Hopping in the passenger side of the school’s van, you waited while the principal buckled up and started the engine.

“You’re quite the little tease, aren’t you,” she said, her own voice coated in arousal. Her words shoot straight to your core. It was nothing you hadn’t heard before, but it sounded so much better coming from her. Her gloved hand came to rest on your thigh during the drive back to the school, her thumb stroking the sensitive skin. You were ready to hop into her lap just as she pulled into the parking lot, and she quickly cut the engine and got out.

--------

Once inside, you let her lead the way back to her quarters, your eyes glued to her backside the entire walk there. She unlocked the door and ushered you inside, locking it behind you both before pressing you against it with her hips. You gasped and looked up at her, her pupils blown so wide you could practically see your reflection in them.

“Is this what you want?” she asked, making certain you’re on the same page before proceeding.

“God yes,” you breathed out, hands coming to rest on her lower back.

She wasted no time in leaning down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing a deep moan that rumbled from your chest. Her thigh pried your own apart, coming to rest between them and you gasped into her mouth wantonly, your hands grasping her ass.

“I’ve wanted this from the first time I laid eyes on you,” you husked.

Her lips worked your neck, making your eyes roll back. “Then that makes two of us,” she whispered, pressing her thigh to your center.

You let out a breathy moan, your legs threatening to give out. All at once she pulled away to examine her work, her eyes burning into you and you licked your lips in anticipation.

“Take off your clothes and get on the bed for me.”

You loved the idea of following her orders. You didn't hesitate, tugging at the buttons of your shirt hurriedly and dropping it to the floor, followed by your pants, leaving you in your matching set of black lace panties and bra. You climbed onto the bed and knelt at its edge, and Larissa turned her back to you, silently prompting you to unzip her dress.

You took your time in doing so, kissing down her back in the zipper’s wake. You eased the garment off her shoulders and she removed her gloves, tossing them onto a nearby chair. She turned to you to reveal her choice of lingerie; a cream-colored set that complimented her skin tone perfectly. You felt your mouth water at the sight.

Sitting up on your knees put you at her height at last, and you pulled her into another kiss, this time softer. You passed your tongue over her bottom lip and she granted you entry immediately, a small whimper escaping her throat. You allowed your fingers to tangle themselves in her perfectly pinned-up hair, her own exploring over your body. You arched into her when her fingers found your nipples through your bra, her lips quirking into a playful grin at your reaction.

“Someone’s eager..” she teased, pinching them experimentally, earning her a gasp from you.

“Lay down for me,” you whispered against her lips.

With a chuckle she obliged, lowering herself beside you. You quickly took your place between her thighs, placing open-mouthed kisses from her knee up to her inner thighs. Your fingers danced over her core through the fabric, and she shuddered at the contact, spreading her legs further for you.

“Someone’s eager,” you teased, throwing her own words back at her.

Larissa covered her face with a giggle, but it quickly turned into a gasp as you finally made contact with her center through her underwear. The heat of your mouth drove her mad with need, and she tugged the offending article off, revealing just how aroused she was for you. A low growl left your chest at the sight and you dove in without a second thought.

Flattening your tongue against her clit, you finally got a taste of her, and it was well worth the wait. Her sweetness coated your tongue as you devoured her, and you glanced up to watch her writhe beneath your touch. Her back arching as her hands grabbed for anything that would ground her, eventually landing in your hair. Her whimpers were heavenly, you could listen to them all night long. And you planned to.

Just as her breaths started to quicken, you circled two fingers over her entrance, before easing them into her. She let out a high-pitched moan, and you moaned against her in response, her sounds and the tugging of your hair spurring you on. You began pumping and curling them inside her in time with the strokes of your tongue, and you could tell she was already getting close by the way her walls were tightening around you.

“Are you gonna come for me baby?” you coaxed, your fingers brushing that sweet spot inside her that drove her wild.

“Y-yes, I’m- fuck-”

You could get used to hearing this woman curse. Especially if you were the cause. With a few more gasps and breathy moans, she reached her release, flooding your fingers and mouth with her intense taste. You helped her down from her high before removing your fingers carefully, climbing up beside her and flopping onto your back to catch your breath.

After a few minutes Larissa wordlessly straddled your waist, lowering her lips to yours to taste herself on your tongue. Whining against her, you squeezed your thighs together for some much-needed friction and she chuckled against your lips.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m not done with you yet,” she teased, her fingers trailing up your thigh.

With practiced skill she pulled your panties aside, quickly finding your clit and circling it with featherlight touches. You gasped and bit your lip, the coil inside you already wound tightly. She kissed up your torso, her soft lips finding your hardened nipple through your bra with ease. You leaned up on your elbows and removed it for her, the movements of those damned fingers making it a nearly impossible feat.

She caught the sensitive peak of skin in her teeth before you could lay down again, causing your head to fall back in pleasure, a desperate whimper leaving you. Her tongue circled it in the same pattern as her fingers below and you felt entranced by her touch. You cupped her cheek, encouraging her to meet your heated gaze.

“I need you,” you all but begged, your cheeks turning pink at the nature of your words.

“That’s all I needed to hear, darling.”

Her words in such a low tone nearly drove you over the edge, but as she pressed her fingers into you, it took everything in your power to keep from crying out. A pathetic whine still managed to leave your throat despite your efforts.

Her digits filled you up in the most delicious way and she knew it. She pumped them slowly, finding the same spot in you as you did in her, massaging it as you fell back onto the mattress. You knew it wouldn’t take you long to finish at this rate, but the sudden ascent toward your orgasm took you by surprise.

“Larissa.. so.. so close,” you whimpered, your eyes squeezing shut in an attempt to stave it off a bit longer.

Your hands gripped her shoulders, nails digging in. Your vision gained a few black spots when you opened your eyes again, only to find Larissa’s lustful stare looking back.

“It’s alright dear, I want you to come.”

Her words sounded delectable in your ear when she whispered them to you, and you couldn’t help yourself when you came undone on her fingers, a moaning mess beneath her. You moved to cover your mouth but her hand caught your wrist, pinning it above you. She wanted to hear you, so you let her.

Once your pulsing around her slowed, she pulled her fingers from you and looked deep into your eyes as she sucked them clean, groaning at your taste. A smirk played on her features, proud of her handiwork as she regarded your now disheveled demeanor.

“Perhaps I’ll make a habit of going to Staff Bonding Nights.”

You both burst out in laughter before settling into a comfortable silence, soon after falling into a deep sleep, wrapped up in each other.

#larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #gwendoline christie #requests #my fics

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stvharrngton · 11 months

Text

a lesson in romantics; lesson two

summary: a multi-part series where reader is the new art teacher at hawkins high and the history teacher, mr. harrington, takes a shine to the new girl. mutual pining ensues on their road to love 🥀

a/n: lesson two is here! i'm going to try and update this at least once a week (hopefully!!!), if anyone would like to request any scenarios or tropes they would like to see in this series then please feel free to drop me an ask! <3

characters: steve harrington x fem!reader, robin buckley, nancy wheeler

word count: 1.1k

warnings: none

taglist: @inkluvs @dukesmebby @sweetbabygirlsworld @kennedy-brooke @pbs-theundeadmaggot @alana4610

SERIES MASTERLIST

HAWKINS, 4TH SEPTEMBER, 1992

The rest of the school week went as normal. You got to know your kids a little better, figured out who was out to impress and who the trouble makers were. But you were looking forward to finishing for the weekend and to meeting your co-workers at the bar later. Just a little.

You were a little nervous too, you didn’t know who else was going to be there or if you would be stepping on any toes by being there. You hoped you wouldn’t be.

So when you walked inside the bar you couldn’t remember the name of you were pleasantly surprised to see Steve stood to attention, waving you over to their booth when he spotted you.

You smiled shyly as you made your way over, Steve greeting you with a one armed hug which earned a surprised look from Robin to the person sat opposite her in the booth, which didn’t go unnoticed by you.

Steve introduced you to that person, who turned out to be Nancy, Ms. Wheeler, who taught English at Hawkins High. She offered you a kind smile as you raised your hand in a wave, urging you to sit next to her as Steve made off to the bar to get the next round of drinks.

The evening went particularly normal, you all made small talk about the school and your week with each other, drinking cheap beer as the condensation from the cold bottles trickled down onto the wood table.

You found yourself at the booth alone with Steve a little later on, Robin and Nancy off at the jukebox in the corner arguing over what Blondie song to put on. Taking a sip of your beer, Steve finally spoke.

“So,” he started, leaning in on his elbows, “tell me about yourself Miss Art Teacher.”

Rolling your eyes playfully at him before asking simply, “What do you want to know, Mr. Harrington?”

Conversation flowed easily with Steve, much easier than with people you had known for years, you found yourself thinking. It was never awkward, there were never any uncomfortable silences. It was quite the opposite actually - neither of you could shut up.

You felt like you had known each other for years - when in reality it was a little less than a week.

“What brings you to Hawkins, then?” was his next question.

“Oh, you know,” you sighed, “a fresh start and all that.”

He nodded with an understanding look on his face. A look that said you can tell me more, if you want, or nothing at all. But he wouldn’t judge if you made that choice.

“Shitty ex-boyfriend,” you shrugged, fingernails picking at the damp label on the bottle, “that about sums it up, I think.”

“I see,” Steve said with a nod, fingers reaching to brush over your forearm softly, “that sucks. I’m sorry.”

There was a beat of silence before Steve spoke again, “I can’t promise the gentleman pool of Hawkins will be any less shitty.” He said with a chuckle.

You burst out in a fit of giggles in response, a sound that made Steve beam from ear to ear. “Noted.” was all you could muster in reply.

Steve watched you with a giddy smile on his face as you excused yourself to use the bathroom. Unbeknownst to either of you, Robin and Nancy had been watching the whole scene before them unfold from their corner of the bar.

They shot straight back over to Steve as soon as he was alone, the pair sitting opposite of their friend like an interrogation.

“What’s going on with you two?” Robin asked, eyes narrowing at her best friend across the table.

“Robs, what are you talking about?” Steve was dumbfounded, the accusatory look on his face all but said it, “Me and—?” he gestured towards the restrooms now, “We’re just friends, we’ve barely known each other a week!”

“Steve,” Nancy sighed.

And that’s when Steve knew he was in trouble. His actions had earned him that tone from Nancy Wheeler more than once.

“Nancy, I—“

“You are head over heels for this girl, Steve,” Nancy began, looking Steve dead in the eyes.

“I am not!” Steve exclaimed in a hushed tone before Robin interjected.

She only rolled her eyes in response, “If anyone would know, it would be Nance.” she muttered under her breath, earning her a scowl from Steve.

“Look,” Steve groaned, “I like the girl, sure, but we’re just friends.” Steve was adamant and stubborn, despite what Nancy and Robin could see, “She’s new in town and I wanted to be nice and make her feel welcome at the school and if that’s such a crime then you two can bite me.”

Robin and Nancy shared a look before bursting out into a fit of giggles at Steve’s expense, both holding their hands up in innocence. Steve could only shake his head before pressing his forehead to his hand in agitation.

Neither party had realised you had made your way back to the table to the scene unfolding before you, the details which you weren’t privy to. You awkwardly took the free seat next to Steve, who gave you a sheepish smile, a pleading look that said please don’t run away, this is totally normal.

“Ignore them, please,” Steve begged, chuckling under his breath, cheeks turning a little pink.

It wasn’t much longer until you were all heading home for the evening, Nancy and Robin making their way together, leaving you and Steve standing outside the bar alone.

“I better get going,” you said, finally breaking the silence between you two. Gesturing over your shoulder as you offered Steve a soft smile, “long weekend of lesson prep ahead of me.”

“I hear ya,” Steve replied, sticking his hands in the front pocket of his jeans, “I’m glad you came tonight, I hope you had fun?”

“Oh, for sure,” you nodded eagerly, eyes light and hopeful, “I had a great time.”

Steve returned the sparkle in your eye with one of his own, a cheeky expression playing with his features, “Maybe,” he started, eyes darting to look at the ground before they flitted back up at you, “maybe we could do it again sometime? Maybe without those two embarrassing me at every turn.”

“I’d like that.” you grinned up at him. You weren’t sure what it was about Steve, but he was enticing, his personality addictive. You liked being around him, you liked his jokes, no matter how bad they were. It didn’t scare you one bit that you’d only known him a week.

“Now, are you gonna let me be a gentleman and walk you home?” Steve asked, eyebrows raised with a smirk.

And you weren’t about to say no to that.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #teacher!steve #alir #k.fic

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soft-girl-musings · 6 months

Text

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps - CHAPTER 2 (I've Got You Under My Skin)

Noir!Jake Lockley x WOC Lounge Singer!Reader

written in collaboration with + header by @mrs-lockley

chapter 1 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5

cross-posted to ao3

tags: late 1940s Noir AU, Reader is WOC coded but with no physical description besides being slightly taller than Jake while wearing heels, no use of Y/N

wc: 2,326

fic summary: Of all the gin joints in all the world, Jake Lockley walks into yours. Unfortunately for him, it's not quite the start of a beautiful friendship.

chapter summary: another night, another guest.

----------

The Paper Moon is open to all walks of life– every culture, creed, and color is welcome through the doors of your lounge. This is usually a happy truth, but these days you’ve been harboring a clockwork headache when that cab driver stops by.

He gives you the base courtesy of sticking to a schedule: around 7pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Jake will waltz in on the heels of James Wesley and whatever company he has in tow. Every Tuesday and Thursday, Jake sits at the same back table while Mr. Wesley conducts his business. And every Tuesday and Thursday, you play nice as you check in on your patrons. Including the cabbie.

“Another stellar set, Ms. Songbird,” he lilts as you give a courtesy nod, brushing past his table in the hopes of keeping things brief.

“Thank you, Mr. Lockley.” Your voice is tense as you breeze by. Jake Lockley, you’d learned from the wait staff: the legal name for the thorn in your side.

In all honesty, you wouldn’t mind his presence as much if he didn’t insist on making it known every evening. You had learned to expect him in the crowd whenever you’d hear a high-pitched whistle ringing above the applause each night. The sound grates at your resolve and forces you to plaster on your stage-ready smile a bit longer every time you make your rounds.

“Hey Songbird,” he calls out after you. “Have a drink with me?”

“A drink at my own bar? How inspired.” You press your lips into a firm line, the rest of your face broadcasting your disinterest to no avail. Every week he asks; every week you say no.

“Suit yourself,” he sighs, always backing down but never taking his eyes off you. It’s one thing to be watched onstage; it’s another to feel his gaze on the ground level. You feel a bit of relief every time you see him walk out with his client, tipping his hat to you at the end of each evening. His smile remains undeterred, no matter how cold a shoulder you offer.

It’d be damn near charming if you trusted it.

----------

Today’s not the day to let your guard down, the unmarked letter in your hand reminds you as you pace around the backstage corridor. It’s the third of its kind you’ve received this month. You worry your lip between your teeth as you pour over its contents, even though you know them by heart.

“To whom it may concern….” “...property acquisition…” “...would be in your best interest…” “...other businesses under our care …”

“‘Our care,’ that’s rich,” you mutter. “Remind me to stop opening the mail during business hours…”

“Uh, okay?” Mauricio agrees hesitantly as he rounds the corner. “Was wondering where our ‘fifteen-minutes-to-curtain’ call was, but I see you've been busy.”

“Oh good golly, is that really the time?” You fumble to put the letter back in its envelope. “Haven't even finished my makeup…” you trail off as you head to your dressing room, your drummer right behind you.

When you open the door, you see a small bundle of flowers sitting on your side table. Oh for crying out loud.

“How many times do I have to–” you're muttering to yourself again as you take the flowers in hand, moving swiftly across the room.

"What are you doing?" Mauricio sputters.

"If that man thinks he can weasel into my good graces with a few pretty flowers-" you huff as you drop the bouquet in a wastebasket. "–he's going to be sorely disappointed."

"Those were– those were mine." Mauricio admits softly.

You freeze, turning to him. "Really?"

He scoops up the bouquet. "I wanted to surprise you. Guess I should've left a note," he chuckles.

"Oh, Maurie, thank you." You rush over to bring him into a hug. Sometimes he's too sweet for his own good.

".... This is from Mr. Lockley." Mauricio breaks away to hold out a single white rose he'd been hiding behind his back.

You sigh. "He's a persistent son of a gun, isn't he?"

He nods, dimpled smile growing by the second. “I think he's swell, miss. The boys think so, too.”

You turn the rose over in your hand. “I want you to be careful around him, Maurie. We don't know what he's about.”

“I think he's made it pretty clear,” he laughs.

“Hm. Perhaps.” You raise an eyebrow. "And I suppose you both brought flowers because...?"

Mauricio brims with excitement, taking the rose back and bundling it with the bouquet he'd gifted. "Mr. Lockley sounded real set on gettin’ you something sweet," he starts. He puts the flowers in an empty vase on your vanity.

"I didn't mean to steal his thunder, but I like it when you smile." He wipes his hands on the front of his pants and his expression drops a bit. "You haven't been smilin’ as much these days, Ms. Songbird."

You busy yourself with the fallen petals at your feet. “I smile all the time, what do you mean?”

“I guess I'm saying… there's you onstage, then there's, I dunno, you -you. They smile differently, s'all.”

He's right, as much as you hate to admit it. You look over at the flowers. “Well, thanks for giving me a reason to smile for real, Maurie.” You press a kiss to his forehead. “My mind's a bit out of sorts tonight. So thank you.”

The youth's dark brown eyes fill with concern. “Anything we can help you with?”

You shake your head, moving back to your vanity. “Nothing to worry yourself over, darling. Just make sure the boys are set. We have a show to put on.”

He nods and leaves your dressing room. As you apply your lipstick, your hand trembles.

----------

Wednesdays have become your favorite part of the week: the day you catch your breath between visits.

In the time before the first half of your set, you make your usual rounds to each table. Eventually you work your way to the front of the seating area, where you see a familiar silhouette beside the stage. A pair of dark glasses are perched on his nose, which crinkles as he smiles at the sound of your footsteps.

“Mr. Murdock,” you greet him warmly, taking his extended hand. “Always a pleasure.”

“Hey, kid.” He squeezes your hand in response, still beaming up at you. Even in the dimmed lounge, Matt Murdock’s smile can light up a room.

“Come off it,” you huff in mock annoyance. “Thanks for stopping by on such short notice.”

“It sounded urgent, of course I’d be here. Do you have all the paperwork together?”

You eye the empty seat next to him. “I have a whole file waiting for you backstage… I’m sorry, is Franklin not joining you this evening?”

“Not tonight, but I do have another guest coming. Is that drink still on the house for a new plus-one?”

“Any friend of Nelson & Murdock is a friend of mine.” You brush a few stray hairs from his forehead. “Is this a guest for business or pleasure?”

He laughs, waving your hand away. “I suppose that depends.”

“Well, as long as they’re a fan of good music, they’re welcome here anytime,” you hum as you straighten his collar. “I swear, Matty. It wouldn’t kill you to dress to impress.”

“You dote too much. I’ll catch up with you later.” You leave him to his drink, making a mental note to demand his dress shirts for a routine tailoring.

The dinner rush brings the usual crowd, and you eye your friend’s table every so often. The seat beside him is still empty. You wonder if Matt was just pulling your leg and wanted to keep both complimentary drinks for himself.

But you don’t have time to ponder that. Instead, you scribble a few notes down and pass them out to your bandmates.

“Ah gee, boss, changing the setlist again?” Your pianist whines, scanning your notes. He didn’t ask tonight, but last-minute song requests are a longstanding favor to Matt when he has a lady to impress (which is often). For the sake of his mysterious guest, you swapped in some softer, more romantic pieces.

“Jackie, don’t tell me you’re not up to the task?” You eye him sternly. “Half the gig is improv anyway, and these are all songs we’ve done before.”

Jackie’s budding protest is silenced by the bassist via an elbow to the ribs. Arguing with you is never worth it: a lesson everyone learns sooner or later. Some take longer than others.

Rubbing his side, Jackie concedes. “Whatever you say, boss.”

You wink. “That’s a tune I like to hear.” Smiling sweetly, you lead the band's procession to the stage.

“Good evening,” you croon into the microphone, “and welcome to The Paper Moon. I’m Ms. Songbird, this fine-feathered crew beside me are The Jays– let’s have some fun tonight.” You flash a rehearsed smile so dazzling it can be seen from the farthest table in the lounge, and you scan the room with anticipation. The moments before a performance are so precious; even with a setlist, anything can happen the moment that first note is played. Every night, you revel in the possibility.

A familiar two-toned whistle draws your gaze to Matt’s table right below the stage, where the seat beside him is no longer empty.

Hat resting on the table, chin propped in his hands, you find yourself staring down at the face of none other than that infuriating cab driver bearing a grin so wide you hope it splits his cheeks.

Fighting to keep your smile from turning into a grimace, your eyes snap back to the middle of the room. “This first song goes out to one of our favorite patrons… and his company,” you add, your voice betraying your restraint with a crack. You don’t look down, but you just know that damned cabbie is smiling even harder.

Despite the rocky start, you and your band pull together another unforgettable night of music. You perform with your eyes closed more than usual; you refuse to give Jake Lockley the satisfaction of serenading him with your best love songs.

Once the music portion of the night is through, all the frustration you’d pushed down swiftly rises to the surface as you watch them pal around right under your nose. You rush to the floor level to get this over with.

“What are you doing here?” you blurt out, glancing between Jake and Matt. Your friend’s eyebrows raise at the outburst.

“Last I checked, this is a free country. I’m allowed into most businesses.”

“No, I mean– it’s not Thursday. You come on Thursdays.”

“Why Ms. Songbird, I didn’t think you cared enough to keep tabs on me.” He leans his head on his hand and stares up at you. “Sorry I didn’t call ahead.”

You want so badly to snap back at him, but instead you look at Matt. “ This is who I changed our set list for?”

“In my defense, I never asked you to,” he grins.

“You didn’t tell me you were so familiar with our lovely hostess here, Murdock. Seems you have more pull with the house than you let on,” Jake muses in surprise.

“A privilege he’s bound to lose if he's not careful,” you say through gritted teeth. Like it or not, Jake is a guest. And you still have an image to uphold. “How’d you have the pleasure of running into this one, Matthew?”

He barely has time to respond before Jake's leaning in farther, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, chin up, doll– can’t say I’m too surprised he’s a friend of yours. Always has a knack for finding the pretty ones, this guy.” He nudges Matt’s side, who’s far too quiet for your liking.

“I’m not sure what you’re implying,” you huff.

“‘Course, I keep him around for that brain of his, not so much the mug.”

“He's my lawyer,” you say in unison. What makes your brow furrows leads Jake to bark out a laugh, shaking Matt in his grip as he tugs him closer.

“What are the odds of that, eh Murdock?” He beams up at you. Your frown deepens. “He's helped me with the occasional run-in with the law.”

“Oh, so you're not just a smart-mouth but a criminal, to boot?”

“Nothing but a few civil suits, doll. Got off clean every time.” He winks as you cross your arms, glaring at Matt.

“You have interesting taste in company, Mr. Murdock.” You turn on your heel and head backstage.

“No kidding,” Jake continues to laugh as you walk away. Once you're out of sight, his smile falters. “So when you said you had a friend in show business–”

“Yeah.”

“And when I told you about the dame I've been eyeing at this new lounge–”

“–I knew exactly who you were talking about.”

“So you've been letting me parade around like a putz this whole time? ” A smack upside the head earns Jake a kick to the shin beneath the table.

“That, my friend, was all you. I mean bravo, you were in rare form tonight.” That signature smile returns as Jake pushes a hand through his hair. “I should probably go smooth some feathers. Catch up with you in an hour?”

Jake downs the rest of his drink and stands when Matt does. “You know I love our little talks.” Casting a final glance towards the stage door, he adjusts his jacket and moves from the table.

Matt catches his elbow. “She’ll come around.” He almost sounds convinced of it himself.

“Yeah, well, we’ve got other fish to fry tonight. Promise I’ll save you the big ones.”

Shaking his head, Matt makes his way backstage. “I’m starting to think some of that vitriol isn’t unearned.”

They part ways– Matt heading backstage, Jake to the moonlit streets.

Bigger fish to fry, indeed: all swimming in the Kingpin’s tank.

----------

A/N: thank you to everyone who has expressed enthusiasm over this little passion project!! it's been so fun putting it together, and i'm looking forward to sharing more with you. expect to see more of our favorite lawyer in the future (we have fun here)

as always, thank you for reading <3

tag list: @importantnightwerewolf, @cupidysm, @queerponcho, @nerdieforpedro, @fandxmslxt69, @shadystarlightgentlemen, @lunar-ghoulie, @casa-boiardi (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)

#my works #moon knight #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight au #jake lockley #jake lockley fanfiction #noir!jake lockley #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x fem!reader #jake lockley x woc!reader #jake lockley x poc!reader #jake lockley/reader #jake lockley/fem!reader #jake lockley/woc! reader #jake lockley/poc!reader #matt murdock

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gravid-transluna · 3 months

Text

Two Birthdays: Part One

words: 1430

content: masturbation, birth denial, fpreg

It was a very uncomfortable day to be a lesbian with a fetish that especially appealed on an older woman.

This wasn’t the worst of it, though.

Mari first noticed it when Noemi reached across the table for her drink.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Of course!” Mari squeaked.

Then Noemi’s face changed. Her reaching hand flew to her belly, and Mari followed it to see visible tensing, muscles clenched on either side, misshapen around her huge baby.

“Oh!” she said. There was something in her face now. Surprise, but also a slight urgency.

“Ms. Noemi?” Mari asked. “Are—are you okay?”

“Mm,” Noemi said, and took her glass. “I’m fine. Thank you, Mari.”

This happened multiple times throughout the day, and every time she saw that mound tense then sag, muscles relaxing, Mari’s pussy pounded badly, pulsing.

She stayed in the shade, sipping nothing but cold water with ice while her friend and the others ordered drinks at the pool bar.

Fuck, she thought. Fuck, fuck. Her pussy began to pulsate under her slick fingers. Her thighs shook as she came.

“Shit,” Mari said aloud, then she wiped herself down and pulled her bikini bottom back up and exited the stall, washing the slick from her hands in the sink.

“Ohhhhhh.”

A muted, breathless moan and a loud splashing sound.

Mari stood frozen. She heard a small gasping from the other side of the stall door, and approached hesitantly. She rapped a timid knuckle on the door and the gasps stopped.

“U-um, Ms. Noemi? Are you okay?”

There was silence. Then, “Yes, just some Braxton Hicks contractions. I’m sorry if I startled you, Mari.”

Noemi’s voice sounded strained, so uncharacteristic of her usually soft, modulated tone.

Mari hesitated. “Are you sure? Do you need any help?”

More silence. The stall door unlocked from the inside. Mari pushed it open and her heart thumped in her chest at the sight inside.

“Oh my god, Ms. Noemi,” Mari said. “Your water broke, didn’t it?”

“Mari,” she gasped. “I need you to step out, please. I’m—I think I need to—relieve myself.”

Mari shook her head. “I think it’s the baby! Are you feeling like pushing?”

“Ughh.” Noemi’s eyes were squeezed shut. “Yes. I need to push.”

“Oh my—“ Mari trailed off. “We’ve gotta call you an ambulance.”

Suddenly the contraction released Noemi. Her belly slackened. She collapsed onto the toilet seat, thighs spread wide to accommodate her massive stomach. She panted, chest heaving.

“No,” she said. “It will ruin the party.”

“But—“

Mari gulped. “What can I do?”

Noemi sighed. “Thank you. I just need to last until the party is over.”

The restroom door opened and someone walked in.

“Ms. Noemi? Are you in there?” The voice was a little slurred, tipsy from afternoon drinking.

Noemi composed herself and raised her voice. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“O-o-okay. Haven’t popped yet, have you?”

Noemi managed a weak laugh. “Holding it in.”

For now, Mari thought.

They waited until they heard the door close. Then Noemi said, “Could you—I need you to—” was she—blushing? “I can’t go back out covered in my waters.”

“And–” She was really blushing now, Mari marveled. “I’d do it myself but–I can no longer reach around my stomach.”

Then, “you have to close your legs.”

“Mm, trying.” Noemi struggled, the baby lodged in her pelvis making it almost impossible to pinch her knees shut. Her eyes widened. “Oh no…”

Her belly hitched and went hard. Her knees immediately buckled, thighs wide again.

“I need to push,” she said. She groaned as she began to bear down. The sides of her belly sucked in with the force of her pushing.

“No! Ms. Noemi, you have to hold it in, remember?” Mari said.

“Hnnnnfgh,” Noemi groaned. She tried to resist. “Hooh-hooh, god. I need to push.”

“Oh,” Noemi grunted.

“Sorry!”

“No! No–ouugh–please. Don’t stop.”

Noemi closed her eyes and raised her chin, swaying back and forth as Mari stroked the tight, oblong surface. Experimentally, she flicked her thumb across Noemi’s bulging navel, and Noemi shivered.

“I wish–hah–you didn’t have to see me like this, much less care for me in such a compromising–ugh–condition. Modesty is hard enough to maintain when it comes to pregnancy.”

“You’re beautiful,” Mari said honestly.

Startled and disarmed, Noemi looked at her. It could have been the heat flush, or she could have been blushing again.

#fpreg #giving birth #birth denial #labor kink #birth kink #pregnant kink #fxf smut

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annebaby · 6 months

Text

small Billy the Kid / Billy Bonney short story! i am a new writer, please be patient with me!

warnings: some drinking, slight body typing, romantic shit, slight reference to sex! besides that, nothing too serious hehe.

i hope you enjoy!

You’ve been singing in bars and honky tonks as soon as you parents were able to get you in. Your pretty blonde hair, striking brown eyes, and feminine body type determined your fame before you even had the training you needed. A new bar every night, new town every few days, it was exhausting in the least.

Every night was the same. This performance was bound to be the same. Singing your song, swaying on the stage, and listening to the men holler was nothing to you. That is, until you laid her eyes on a tall, blue-eyed slender man. His looks were charming, any girl could admit that. His brown button-down, dirty old jeans, decked out gun on his belt, and his ratty old hat all set the scene for a fun night.

As you closed out your song with the ending note, you smiled and blew kisses to the audience.

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N. Thank yall for letting me sing out here.”

You picked up your dress and slowly exited the stage, making an A-line straight for the bar. Whiskey was necessary after a performance like that.

“Howdy, just let me grab a shot of whiskey please,” you say. Your voice is almost raspy after your singing.

As you wait for your whiskey shot, you feel a presence approaching behind you. Turning around, you’re met with the piercing blue eyes of the man from the audience. You didn’t realize how large the man truly was until now, standing next to him. He had curly brown hair, icy blue eyes, and he was towering over you.

“Why, hello sir. Whatcha wantin’?” You asked. A smile played on your lips, clearly seductively intrigued by his presence.

He smiled as he looked down, hands fiddling with his belt.

“Well, I was a-hopin’ I could get to know you a little better, ma’am. Your singin’, it was just so heartwarming.”

You laughed. His compliment was heartfelt, truly. It was just his nervousness that made it so unserious. His fiddling, slight blush on his cheeks, it all made him look so adorable.

Suddenly, you seemed to recognize him under all the nervousness.

“Wait, are you the man on all ‘em wanted posters ‘round town? What’re you doing out in the open like this?”

Awaiting his answer, your whiskey shot is slid to you from the other side of the bar. You whisper a slight ‘thanks’ before returning your attention to the outlaw in front of you. You’d never encountered a man like this; a man so wanted, but for all the wrong reasons. He quickly broke your train of thought, carefully trying to answer your question.

“Well, I run with a group o’ guys ‘round here,” he says. He points to a gathering of young men sitting at a table. They’re all snickering and minding their own.

“Them boys ‘ere, they’re like my family. They protect me, I protect them. S’ that answer your question, Ms. Y/LN?”

You didn’t realize how hard you had been staring into his eyes until he stopped talking. Snapping out of your trance, you nodded slightly before taking your shot. Feeling the burn go down your throat was enough to amplify the hidden romanticism of your encounter.

“Now forgive me, but I don’t even know your name honey,” you say. You’re smiling harder than ever, trying to tone it down but you simply can’t.

“It’s Billy, Ms. Y/N. I remembered yours from your performance.”

You looked down at your empty glass and placed it back onto the bar table. Standing out of your seat, you put your hands on your hips.

“Well Billy, are you gonna ask me to dance or are you just gonna keep thinkin’ ‘bout it?”

Billy laughs at your boldness, eying you up and down. You really were beautiful. Your hair flowing down, eyes sparkling in the light, how could he not ask you to dance?

“You’ve read my mind, Y/N.”

Billy takes your hand as you start sloppily dancing on the main floor. Despite all your years in the bars, never had you picked up on how to dance. You’ve tried your best, but it’s always ended in a drunken night and a gnarly hangover the next morning.

“Now, I outta warn you. I ain’t the dancing kind of girl myself. Don’t be surprised if your boots got a few scuffs on ‘em before the end o’ the night,” you say, slightly laughing.

You’re looking down at your feet, trying your best to keep up. Billy then puts his fingers under your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“You gotta look at me, hon. Focusing too much on your feet is gonna make you stumble. Just look at me, and focus on me.”

You smile, slowly feeling his hands return back to your waist. He squeezes you slightly, reassuring you that you’re doing fine. Before you know it, you’re swaying and dancing with Billy easier than ever before.

Looking back up at Billy, you suddenly feel the urge to kiss him. Mentally slapping yourself at the thought, you blush and look away. Billy notices your blush, and matches your exact thought, pushing your face to look at him before he slowly leans in and kisses you.

The kiss is slow and sweet, pure feeling and sincereness laced in its addictive meaning. His lips are plump, and they taste like the sting of cigarette smoke and your lipstick.

He grabs the sides of your face, not allowing you to break free. Your hands grab his hat, pulling it off and onto the floor. You grab the ends of his hair and slightly tug, needing so much more. Billy smiles into the kiss, happy that his need is clearly being reciprocated. He pulls back from the kiss, smiling and looking into your eyes.

You smile back, not entirely sure what had just happened. It wasn’t your first kiss, but you had never had one that full of passion and sincerity. Never had you kissed someone so handsome, so dangerous and wild, and you loved it.

Billy bent down to grab his hat off the floor, before grabbing your hand and pulling you to the exit of the bar.

“Need you, now.”

Such a perfect start to a once-in-a-lifetime wild west love.

#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #tom blyth #tbosas #tom blyth x reader #fanfic #billy bonney x reader #i am new to tumblr #i am new here #new writers on tumblr #i love him

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