#THE BELL BOTTOMS ARE SO IMPORTANT

[theygotlost]

some fits

[wildflowercryptid]

i wish i could wear my rainbow bandana to work, but it's against dress code. 🙄

[bubble-dream-inc]

under your skin.

The last walk-in you expected to see in your tattoo parlor in one rainy day was a massive masked behemoth of a man. It came as even more of a surprise when you wanted to see him there again and again; and a final time when he kept coming back.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Tattoo artist reader

rbs greatly appreciated!

WC: 7K

a/n: listen, as a tattoo artist irl, the first thing i did when i discovered ghost had a tattoo was to think how i had to self indulge. i’d kill to tattoo this man personally. shoutout to @117s-girl, @somnibats and Eddie for the tremendous help when i had writer’s block, and @deafeningcat for the amazing beta read as always <3

tags: fluff, reader being horny for ghost, ghost being slightly ooc, mentions at verbal abuse, slightly suggestive and slight angst.

You remember the first time Simon Riley walked into your shop.

It was a cold and rainy day - like most days in Manchester - and you were idling by, doodling on a notebook by the front desk and listening to whatever was playing on the radio without paying it much attention. Glancing at the clock on the wall where the empty loveseat was, you were starting to wonder if you should go get something to eat while you waited, when the bell on the front door chimed, indicating someone had come in.

At first, you thought he was going to rob you, and in a second you were already kissing your expensive equipment goodbye in your head, cursing the fact you had decided to buy that pricey tattoo machine you were eyeing for so long just last week, but those thoughts vanished when the figure just stood in front of you. Silently, you eyed the skull mask and sunglasses that covered his face, wondering what was this guy’s deal, since it was way too grey outside to be wearing any sort of eyewear. Trying not to let his huge stature looming over you be intimidating, you were about to say something when his gruff voice cut the silence.

“You take walk-ins?” 

So he really was a client, you thought. Rummaging through the notebooks in the desk, you quickly glanced at your schedule, seeing your next client wasn’t supposed to come for a few good hours, and decided you were curious about the masked man.

“Well, it depends. What were you thinking of getting?” 

He stood still for a moment, and you wondered if he heard you at all, but suddenly he reached for something in the pocket of his jeans, extending a neatly folded piece of paper in front of you. His voice filled the silence again as you unfolded the paper, and you found the thick accent oddly calming coming from him. 

“I want it to be a sleeve. Covering my left forearm.”

You opened it to find a surprisingly intricate design, and it seemed like whoever did it made it with the intention of actually getting it as a sleeve. Not taking the masked guy for an artist, you found a signature on the bottom of the page, a chicken scratch that read “Tommy Riley”. Usually, you’d make light conversation and ask about the design, especially when it looked important, but something told you not to pry into this man’s business. Assuming he’s this “Tommy” fella, you just smiled politely, deciding you could fit the first session of it into your work day.

“Sure. It should take a few sessions, though, is that alright with you?” He simply nodded, wordlessly, and you decided that was good enough of an answer. 

Leading him into the procedure room after getting his approval on the price, you made sure to give him a consent form for him to fill out and sign while you traced the design to a stencil - making sure to cut the right adjustments to wrap around his visibly huge forearm. You wondered if he was a weightlifter of sorts, or maybe just a gym rat. 

Transferring the stencil to his skin and prepping your materials for tattooing was a completely silent ordeal, and your client seemed more than content in just letting the silence linger for the remainder of your encounter, and even if you were getting antsy by it, you were glad he didn’t comment on how visibly nervous you were when you wrapped your gloved hands around his arm to make the stencil stick - feeling his warmth and the protruding veins even through the latex that covered your own skin. 

“You have any other tattoos?” You asked, stepping on the machine pedal to make sure your tattoo machine was at the right voltage while he got comfortable setting his arm on the arm rest.

“No.” 

“Cool.” God, you felt awkward. “I’m gonna start now, tell me if it hurts too much.”

“Right.” 

You felt stupid saying that to a man that had arms the size of your head and was at least 6,4. As expected, he didn’t even flinch when the needles touched his skin, but you weren’t about to give up on your mission to make conversation with your mysterious client. While tracing it with the machine, you analyzed the design a bit closer.

“That’s some interesting art.” It wasn’t. It was tacky as hell, all missiles and skulls and other edgy elements, but you were not going to say that to him. “You like guns?”

“Something like that.” 

You gave up trying to chat him up shortly after. Even with the weird dad sunglasses on, you could still feel his stare on you, unnerving at best, and you wondered what was up with the mask. In your line of work, you’d met some interesting individuals, and you considered your shop a safe haven for all outcasts and misfits; you’d known, after all you did decide to pursue tattooing as a career. Still, something about this man - Tommy? - made you feel an itch to see what lied beyond the mask - both figuratively and literally.  At least it would take a few more sessions to finish his piece, hopefully he’d say more than five words at once to you at some point. 

It took you two hours to finish tracing it, and you deemed it was good to go and begin shading another day. Getting into professional mode, you gave him directions on how to care for it and asked him to come back after a month to start on shading it, and, as expected, he only nodded to you. Going back to the front desk, he handed the bills containing the price you had settled on, and turned around, leaving without another word. Out of curiosity, you picked up his file. The first thing you noticed was that he had left the “Occupation” space blank.

The second thing you noticed was that the signature read “Simon Riley”.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

Simon didn’t come back after a month. 

A good few months later, you just figured he’d given up and was now walking around with an unfinished tattoo, or, worse, he had picked another artist to finish the job, and the thought made you angrier than you’d like to admit. Despite your annoyance, whenever you’d organize your clients files, you’d find yourself lingering on his, weirdly curious and feeling like he was a puzzle you were dying to solve.

A long time passed - you don’t know how much, but you’d say it was more than a year - before he showed up again, and, once again, it was unannounced. You were finishing a client’s tattoo when your friend - and coworker - knocked on the procedure room door, and when you’d told her to come in, she looked like she had seen a ghost. 

“There’s a guy in the waiting room asking for you. Said you were doing his sleeve…” She quietly announced, and you just stared at her quizzically, waiting for her to continue. "He 's…Big. Tall guy with a creepy skull mask.” 

She whispered the last part so he wouldn’t hear it, even if he was a good corridor distance away and the metal music coming from the radio would drown it out, and after a few moments you realized she was talking about Simon.  You remember answering something to her and finishing the tattoo on auto pilot before heading to the front desk, and, sure enough, Simon was standing there menacingly, in his whole huge aura, seemingly unbothered by how his height, frame, and mask were making the other clients in the shop regard him with uneasy looks. His eyes met yours once you showed up. You noticed he wasn’t wearing the sunglasses anymore, and his fabric mask had been replaced by a simpler balaclava and a hard skull mask on top that you hoped was made out of a synthetic material. 

Now bare, his gaze revealed its intensity to you, the dark hues following your every move in a way you supposed you could find intimidating if a small, very weird part of you didn’t find it attractive. He seemed tired, eyes cast downwards and with bags surrounding it, and you wondered what had happened when he was gone. 

“Hey.” You breathed, straining your neck to look up at him and completely forgetting about the other people in the room. “Riley, right? I’m guessing you’re here for the sleeve?”

He seemed slightly surprised you remembered his name, but the impression of seeing emotion in his eyes was gone in an instant as he simply nodded at you.

“Yeah. You got time?”

You didn’t. But you’d make it work, you weren’t about to send away the man who had, for some reason, plagued your thoughts so much for the last months. 

“I got a few more clients, but if you don’t mind waiting, i can fit you in?”

You hated how uneasy you sounded, your hands fiddling with a stray loose line of your ripped jeans as you waited for his answer.

“That works.” 

With his gruff reply, he turned and sat down in the waiting area, and you released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. 

The hours went by, the clients came and went to and from your procedure room as well as your colleague’s, yet, every single time you left the room to go to the front desk have a sip of water or check your next client’s name, Simon was still there, patiently waiting, the loveseat seeming oddly small under him, and his all black, dark getup blending perfectly with the black walls of the studio. If anything, it made you even more intrigued, since most people would have left by now, considering how long a tattoo takes and he could just come back another day, but he didn’t show any signs of having anywhere else to be. The people traffic started to wind down, and soon enough, you dismissed your last client of the day as you were the only artist left in the shop and the sun had already hid in the horizon. 

“Glad to see you again. I was wondering if you had gotten another artist.” You laughed somewhat nervously, taking a breather by the glass door while Simon finished filling out another responsibility form, and you had to ignore how nervous you felt when he turned to glance at you with those dark and intense eyes of his.

“Got busy, that’s all.” He murmured, setting the pen down on the front desk and turning to the wall where your flash pieces were displayed. “And I like your work.”

Feeling your eyes widen, you tried to conceal how flustered the comment made you feel behind a cool chuckle, but something told you Simon could see right through you. Going back inside and pointing him towards the procedure room, you briefly glanced at the fresh consent form and realized he filled out his occupation this time, the words “Army” surprisingly not phasing you one bit.

Simon was the same as the last time, quiet as a grave. But, seeing as you were wrapping up the shading quicker than you’d anticipated, you decided this time you would not let this mysterious man walk out of your studio - possibly forever - without at least getting one piece of information out of him.

“So…does it mean anything?” You nodded towards his arm, trying to play it cool. Being in this field, you quickly realized not everyone gets tattoos that mean anything, and most of them are really just for aesthetics, but the signature below the original design had you wondering, even if the newfound information that he was in the military made the over the top missiles and dog tags inked on his arm make a lot more sense. He stared at you from behind the mask for a moment, making you feel queasy under his stare and suddenly very aware of how much you were draped over his arm trying to get the shading on one particular skull to look just right.

“Yeah.” After a few moments he replied, a wave of sudden relief washing over you upon realizing you had not, in fact, crossed a line. “My brother made it.”

“He’s quite the artist.”

“He really was.”

Oh. 

You decided to drop the subject after the implication.

“And what branch are you in?” Not looking at him, you spoke in a low tone, too concentrated on the machine in your hands to realize you were maybe asking more than he was comfortable talking. “You know, uh, in the army.”

“Special Air Forces.” You realized he tensed almost imperceptibly, relaxing once you only hummed.

“Cool. I’d reckon you guys had tattoo parlors closer to base, though.” 

“We do.” He huffed. “But I know the guys. Not nearly as clean as here.”

At that, you chuckled gently, missing the way Simon’s eyes softened at the sound.

You continued the piece in comfortable silence, distantly registering the pitter-patter of the rain that had just started falling on the street beyond the front doors. Finishing it up, faster than you would have liked, you decided the corny design looked good - really good - on him, and he might have been the only guy possible to pull it off, which could have been related to how big and strong his arms looked. Wrapping the tattoo in plastic film and reminding him to not keep it on for too long, you had to focus on acting professional and not let him know you were ogling at the recently inked piece of skin. The long sleeve shirt he had rolled up to his forearms did not help you one bit, nor did the way his eyes followed your every single movement.

When you got back to the front desk - relieved to find the rain had stopped - you expected Simon to just pay and leave silently the same way he did the last time, but he actually lingered, letting his eyes wander through the flash pieces displayed in a neat corkboard in the waiting room - this one with your name written on top. You actually don’t know when he got your name - something told you it was when he asked your coworker for you. He seemed quite interested in one particular design that had been gathering dust for a long time on the board, considering how big it was.

“See something you like?” You followed his gaze, realizing it was a ram skull chest piece you had completely forgotten about; it looked too dark and menacing for most people looking for walk-ins and flash tattoos. “That one was meant to be a chest piece. Works for the back, too.”

Simon studied it for a few moments. What was up with this guy and skulls? Finally, he turned to you.

“When can you do it?”

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

The third time Simon Riley walked into your studio, it was, by far, the most memorable one. 

Unsurprisingly enough, he had decided to set an appointment for the chest piece to be the last one of your day, a week later; whether he enjoyed the night time better or just wanted to not be bothered with other people around, that was a mystery to you. There was a third option in the back of your head, but you told yourself it was delusional, and your fascination with the masked man was, in fact, one sided. That didn’t stop you from greeting him with a cheery smile as you looked up from where you were doodling on your notebook on the front desk, pretty much like your first encounter. However, you didn’t think too much of what exactly the chest piece implied as you headed to your procedure room with Simon in tow. It hit you like a ton of bricks when you freezed for a second, holding up the carbon stencil in your hands.

“Uh, you might wanna…take off your shirt. It’ll be more comfortable for you.” 

Preparing the stencil gel, you tried your best to ignore him and not let your eyes wander too much as he lifted the unnecessarily tight black t-shirt over his head, careful as to not remove the balaclava and skull mask combo, folding it neatly and setting the piece of cloth over your table before standing next to you in front of the full body mirror. 

I’m a professional. I’m a professional. I’m a professional.

If you thought Simon was huge before, that was an understatement. 6,4 feet of pure, naked muscle stood inches away from your much smaller body, and you were extremely relieved to realize that he had, probably out of consideration for you, shaved his chest beforehand - the same couldn’t be said for the faint happy trail very clearly peeking from his jeans, sitting way lower on his hips than you’d like. Scolding yourself over and over for fawning like a horny teenager, you hoped the nervous tremble in your hands as you delicately smoothed the gel over his collarbones wasn’t as obvious as you felt it was. Even through the latex gloves you could feel the heat coming from his pecs, as well as a few minor scars that shouldn’t give you too much trouble. You decided to ignore the very visible and very big bullet scar on his side. As he adjusted his dog tags to hang behind his neck so as to not get in your way, you finally peeled the stencil off, trying to calm your frantic beating heart as he analyzed it in the mirror to make sure it was in the right placement. 

It got worse when he actually laid on the tattoo table - comically dwarfed under his enormous frame. Sure, you had tattooed a fair share of chests along the years - both men’s and women’s - and it never really flustered you, after all, it was your job, seeing skin was a very big part of it. However, as you lowered your torso on the bed and tried to adjust your hand to sit as comfortably as possible on his chest, you thanked the gods it was such a big tattoo; you had no idea how you wouldn’t mess it up if it was a tiny one. But you doubted Simon would ever get a tiny tattoo. Above all, you could appreciate how he maintained his breathing slow and steady and, again, didn’t even flinch as the needles touched him, making you like him as a client even more. 

“I’ve heard you guys in the army got…codenames?” You started, desperate to start some conversation before your intrusive thoughts won. “What do they call you?”

Slowly, you were getting used to his brief silence before answering you. It seemed like his way to decide if your question was worth answering or not, and you were glad he had found them all to be so far. 

“Ghost.”

“Very fitting.”

You were surprised to hear him exhale in a way that resembled a very weak laugh, and you felt giddy knowing you made your ever so quiet and serious client laugh - or something like that. Feeling calmer, you continued the very big piece, strapping in for a long next couple of hours.

They passed quickly, your hand working almost in autopilot as you traced the tattoo’s lineart and made light conversation with Simon - Ghost. You learned he was a Lieutenant, liked bourbon and the mask never came off. Granted, it was mostly you speaking and him answering, but you were glad he was entertaining your nervous ramblings, and you were only slightly embarrassed to admit to yourself you found his southern British accent very soothing on his deep, gruffy voice. In turn, you told him a little more about yourself; why you got into tattooing and even a few funny stories from dealing with past clients. 

Finally deciding it was enough strain on his skin for one session, you set your machine down and admired your work, smiling under your mask. Taking a generous amount of the tattooing balm on your fingers, you swallowed your nervousness before gently spreading the substance on his chest so it would heal nicely, not missing the way he relaxed under your touch. If you weren’t so busy panicking by having your hands on such a massive and attractive man, you could ponder on how he seemed to be enjoying that as much as you were. With your approval, he got up to examine the piece on the mirror, and you caught yourself staring into his strong, chiseled, and scarred back, before averting your eyes, choosing to focus instead on cleaning up the inky mess you made on your trolley. You once again went through the now familiar ordeal of him silently thanking you, paying, and leaving into the night.

As Simon Riley left the studio that day, carrying an unfinished piece of your work right on his chest, you realized something clearly had changed in the air between you two. You just had no idea if it was a good or bad thing.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

The next time Simon showed up, a month later, you were stressed out of your mind.

You were booked, so you didn’t really have any open spots next to closing time the way he liked it, so he had to settle for coming a bit earlier than usual, which meant there were actually other people in the studio for once, including the one on the front desk yelling in your face.

You couldn’t really remember what he was yelling about, just that you were suddenly regretting your decision of working with people and wondering if it was worth it to stoop down low and insult him back the way he was doing to you. You figured the moment he started yelling about his already finished tattoo that it was most likely another scam attempt coming from him, but it didn’t really matter anymore once you zeroed in on the hulking figure that showed up unexpectedly behind your unpleasant client in the form of your masked savior. For a moment, you were scared things were going to get violent, but Simon didn’t have to do much. It took one glower from him, his gaze sharp enough to cut from way above the smaller man, and he was suddenly stuttering apologies and leaving the studio in a hurry. You ignored the looks the other people in the waiting room were giving the two of you, offering a tired, but extremely grateful smile, to Ghost.

“Hey, Riley.”

He was still staring at where the man had left, and the annoyance on his usually so stoic gaze came as a surprise to you. 

“What happened?” 

You were already heading into the procedure room, too shaken to deal with the stares of the people in the waiting room any longer, and shot him a sheepish look from over your shoulder. 

“Just a rude client being difficult. Not the first time he gave me trouble, either, but it happens.” 

Simon didn’t seem too happy with your answer, but he let it slide, for the moment. Heading into the room and closing the door behind you, the air fell into a familiar silence, broken only by the cluttering sounds as you set up your supplies, and, to you, your still frantic heartbeat in your ears by the less than pleasant interaction just a few minutes earlier. It was unlikely, given how observant he was, but you hoped Simon didn’t pick up on just how shaken you were. Still, you took a few moments to calm yourself down as you tested the machine with your feet; Simon had already made himself comfortable on the table, and soon enough you fell into the rhythm of inking him, the same way you had grown used to in those last few months. Focusing on a particularly stubborn piece of skin where the ink didn’t paint as easily, you were lost in thought when his voice pulled you back to reality.

“Are you scared of me?” You heard him ask quietly from above you, instantly knowing he was referring to the way your earlier client had run off on the sight of him. Pausing your ministrations, you looked up from his chest to find him already staring at you in a way that made your heart skip a beat. Since you were currently working on the details on his collarbone, you haven’t realized how close you actually were to his face, and suddenly you were hit with the realization you could feel his breath through both your masks; and an intoxicating scent of cigarette smoke and cologne. Caught in a trance by his dark gaze, you realized a little too late you were gawking and not really answering his question, which made you feel very glad for the surgical mask covering your suddenly very red face and flustered expression. Looking down to continue your work, you tried to find your words once again.

“Not really. I mean, the mask was off-putting at first, but I've had some odd people as clients. You’re cool, though. You remind me of those big, scary guard dogs, but in a good way.” Cringing at the lame answer, you felt like a kid talking to her crush in middle school all over again, and the huff-slash-chuckle that left Simon only made it worse. It seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t, and in your flustered stupor you couldn’t find any words either, so you just let the air around you fall into a comfortable silence over again. If it were anyone else, you’d be wary of the constant quietness, but, for some reason, Simon’s presence was enough to make you content, even if no words were exchanged. 

Blacking out the parts that had to be inked was a piece of cake for you and your enormous needle - which you were glad was being used on Simon, since, most of your other clients would have been crying from the pain only halfway done with the black - and soon enough you were heading out to the front with him, readying yourself to bid him goodbye and, disappointedly, only see him again in the next month, once his tattoo was healed enough for another session, however, as you approached the waiting room, he made no move to leave. You thought maybe he was, again, inspecting your work displayed on the wall, the prospect of continuing to tattoo him after his chest piece was done getting you giddy already, but he was looking nowhere but in your direction, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask.

“I’ll wait until you close. Who knows if that asshole won’t come back expecting me not to be here anymore.” 

Blinking up at him, it took you a few moments to process what he had murmured under his breath, and, in an instant, your heart rate shot up as you tried to wrap your head around the implications. Had it been any other client, you would have laughed it off, telling him not to worry and that you could take care of yourself, but it wasn’t just about anyone. It was him. And for some reason, the fact made you only wordlessly agree with a nod of your head and wide eyes, certain he could now see how clearly flustered and red your face looked. An intrusive part of your brain was screaming at you that he was just being nice, and that the protectiveness was just because of his job and nothing else, but you’d entertain these thoughts later - if ever.

So, much like the second time you’d met him, the rest of your afternoon was spent with seeing Ghost’s massive figure patiently waiting in the way too small loveseat in the front room of the studio, living up to the scary guard dog imagery you had joked about to him, except, this time, in between clients you’d sit besides him to catch a break and make light conversation, the deep rumble of his voice soothing all of your worries in a minute. 

As the hours went by, it was way past nightfall when you closed up, everyone else had already left and you were exhausted after washing the studio on your own. True to his word, Simon loomed behind you like a shadow, quiet and intimidating, refusing to leave until he had walked you to your car in safety. You remember thanking him profusely, and him not making a big deal out of it, and the way your heart thrummed in your throat as you drove on autopilot to your house, trying to ignore the way Ghost’s figure walking besides you on the quiet sidewalk a few moments before felt just right. 

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

It was early August when you woke up in a very good mood that one morning.

Later you’d realize it was because it was the day of Simon’s appointment, but at the time you had chalked it up to just being a sunny day that brightened your spirits.

Business as usual, you went along your day, anxiously waiting for the place to empty out and you’d get your newly discovered favorite customer, not that you’d admit it outloud to him, or even to yourself. It was actually a slower day, with a big break between clients, which you were glad about, so between coffee and water breaks and chit chatting with your coworkers, soon enough the sun went down and the enormous figure of Ghost could be seen crossing the threshold of the studio’s glass door, responding your enthusiastic wave with a nod of his head, eyes relaxed behind the mask. As usual, he followed you inside the procedure room, and you remembered something.

“Lemme see how your sleeve is healing.” Extending your hand, you smiled cheekily at him, giddy after seeing his half-hearted eye roll, and he gave his left forearm for you to inspect. With his busy way of life, you’d have expected to be worse, but it was actually very well taken care of. “Wow, this has healed up perfectly, good job, Simon!”

You beamed up at him, but your smile faltered once you saw his eyes widening at the praise. Oops. He grumbled something in response and you decided to save him the embarrassment, releasing his arm with a chuckle.

No matter how many times he did it, every single time Ghost took his shirt off it made your brain short circuit, but you remained professional and fell into the familiar routine of tattooing him in comfortable silence, only this time it was broken not only by you talking first, but also him. It surprised you to hear him ask you questions first or tell you some non-compromising stories about his job, - making you chuckle a few times hearing about the shenanigans of this “Soap” friend of his - but you weren’t about to complain. You were lost in the familiarity of it all when you realized that you were actually almost done with the shading - meaning his chest piece would end one session earlier than expected. Trying to mask your disappointment, you wrapped it up, forcing a smile to a suddenly very confused Ghost. 

“I thought we were going to need another session but, uh, turns out it was…faster than i expected!” You gave him a slight, nervous chuckle, and you swore you saw his eyes widen behind the mask. 

As usual, you wrapped the ink in the plastic film - finding it very hard to make the masking tape stick to his large pecs - and gave the same instructions in a robotic way, following him to the front desk where he finished paying for his piece, all in absolute silence and with unreadable eyes. As the transaction was finished, he lingered, standing silently in front of you, looming. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“So, yeah, i guess that’s it…” You gave another chuckle, offering him a gentle smile. “Hey, don’t be a stranger-”

“Do you want to go out with me sometime?” He blurted out, shutting you right up, and that stopped you dead in your tracks. You stared up at him, unsure if you had heard him correctly, and were waiting for him to say something else or even backtrack, but that never came.

“Uh. Yes? I mean, yes, sure! I’d love to!” You stammered, certain you were wide-eyed and a flustered mess, not expecting him to be so straightforward, or, even say anything at all. Simon seemed a lot more composed than you, even if the way he blurted his question out made it seem like he could be slightly nervous. You doubted he ever got nervous, though. 

“Great. Does this weekend work for you?” 

Thinking back on your schedule, you remembered that no, it didn’t.

“I’m booked with work…But, the next one I should be free.” You hated how awkward you sounded.

He nodded, and took his phone out of his pocket to extend it for you, and you assumed he was asking for your number in the Ghost-est fashion possible. You unlocked it, noticing the lack of a password and the factory wallpaper, realizing it was probably a personal and barely used phone, punching your number in and saving the contact. As you returned the device to Simon, you found solace in realizing he probably felt as awkward as you did.

“I’ll see you in a fortnight, then.” 

With a last nod of his head, he left, leaving you flustered, confused, but extremely giddy, and with a heart pounding against your ribcage. 

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

Simon came back a week before he was supposed to.

As usual, you were closing up shop when he showed up, distractedly walking around the front room of the studio as you organized everything for the night, the sound of the heavy rain outside covering up the creaking of the glass door, so when you turned around, his presence startled you. 

“Hi Simon! You’re early.” You chuckled once you recovered from your scare, but he didn’t match your energy. He was just standing there, stiff as a plank, and staring silently at you. Growing increasingly worried, you were about to ask if he was alright when he beat you to it. 

“I’m leaving for a mission. And i’ll be gone for…some time.” 

Your heart dropped, and you could only stare at his mask trying to process his words and find words, but ultimately settling on a quiet and disappointed oh. He finally approached you, and in less than a second he was standing towering over your figure, holding you in that familiar eye contact you’d grown to look forward to so much, even if you'd realized by his gaze that he seemed just as upset as you. 

“Will you…be in danger?” It was a dumb question, but you couldn’t help yourself, everything you told yourself the days about moving slowly and waiting for your first date to decide how much you cared flying out the window as you openly worried for him for the first time. Ghost sighed, and suddenly you were hyper aware of how close you stood.

“I always am.” 

Not breaking away from his intoxicating gaze, your words lowered to a whisper, a plea.

“Be careful. Please.” 

The air stilled around you, thicker in tension that got worse with each passing millisecond, all of those feeling like hours. Simon’s height had never seemed so intimidating, and you never chastised yourself so much before for liking how his intense aura made you feel, something that increased tenfold once he boldly got even closer to you. Opening and closing your mouth like a fish, hoping something would come out eventually, you stilled upon feeling his gloved hands gingerly touching your face - dwarfing you in them - and you swore your heart was about to leap from your chest to your throat in a matter of seconds. His steely gaze flickered downwards briefly before returning to your eyes, asking for permission for something you didn’t even know quite right what it was, but that you’d give him regardless. The rough texture of his gloved left hand reached your now slightly parted lips as he traced the bottom of them with his thumb, moving his other hand to slowly lift up his balaclava just enough to expose his - unsurprisingly - sharp, stubbled jaw and full, lightly scarred lips. You barely had time to admire what you could see of him before his face was merely inches apart from yours, your breaths mingling together from both of your parted lips.

“You don’t even know what I look like.” He mumbled against you. A silent beg for you to stop him now, but you wouldn’t even dream of it.

“I don’t care.” You breathed back, voice barely above a whisper, and that seemed to break his resolve, as in the next moment he was leaning in and finally capturing your lips with his. 

Kissing Simon Riley in real life was so much better than what you imagined. His height made it that he had to lean down an awkward amount to reach you and you actually had to stand a bit on your toes, but none of that mattered as you finally felt his lips move against yours, surprisingly slow and gentle for a man that looked like that, but you supposed he was always full of surprises. He moved his hands from your face to your waist, gripping with a little more force when you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, encouraging him to kiss you harder - it would be a waste not to feel just how strong those huge arms of his could get wrapping around you. Groaning into your mouth, his touch soon became ravenous as he tasted you like a starved man, both of you now knowing it might as well be the last time you’d see each other, but you didn’t want to dwell too much on it, choosing instead to focus on the way he gripped the back of your thighs and lifted you onto the counter as if you weighed nothing, getting even impossibly closer to your smaller frame, never breaking the kiss. You felt like you could stay wrapped up in his arms for hours, but at some point you had to part your lips, keeping your foreheads touching and looking at each other without saying another word.

He waited until you closed up and walked you to your car again; except, this time, as you watched his retreating figure from the rearview mirror, your chest felt constricted, the unsureness of if he’d ever come back alive clenching your throat in fear. 

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

The late june spring air smelled good, and you were in high spirits. 

You hummed contently, cleaning with a paper towel wet with soapy water the last smudges on the inked skin, leaning back to admire your work. The black crow on his upper back turned out particularly good, and you found it amusing how its edgy nature went along well with the other tattoos already on his body. Spreading the hydrating vaseline to wrap the piece up took a little more than you’d take with other clients, since you were busy admiring and feeling up the strong, scarred back beneath your fingertips. 

“All done!” 

The man got up, admiring the crow in an awkward angle in front of the full body mirror, and you couldn’t help but keep staring at the muscular back and pecs that you could see from your position in your chair.

“Quit the ogling.”

His voice sounded gruffy, but slightly amused, which made you chuckle and get up, stopping by his side to lean against his huge arms and stare back at him through the mirror.

“Quit being hot, then.”

Simon rolled his eyes, but you knew he was smiling under the mask and possibly had the slightest red dusting his cheeks - since he was so pale, you’d always notice it when he had his mask off, and in turn, he’d always notice how you’d stare at his face with a smug smile. He looked over the tattoo once more before you wrapped it up, past the stage of giving him the instructions, all of them already second nature to him, considering it had been so many years he started getting tattooed by you.

“You know” You started as he followed you to the front door of the mostly empty studio, the only other sound being the tattoo machine of a single other coworker that was staying late in their own procedure room. “You don’t have to wait for me, you know I still got another client and it should take one or two hours more.” 

Ghost huffed, turning to you with his hands on his jacket pockets, the height difference between you never failing to take all the air out of your lungs.

“Nonsense. He’s not supposed to be here for another half an hour, right? I’ll go grab us some dinner from that place you like and I’ll be right back. I’ll help you close up then we can go home.” 

You shook your head with a giggle, watching as he came closer to you, and were about to protest more but he gave you a look that left no chance for you to be stubborn, shutting you right up. Taking one hand out of his pocket, Simon lifted his mask just enough for you to see his jaw - which you had already admired that morning while he was shaving - and his lips, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on your cheek. You smiled, feeling him murmur just so you could hear it.

“See you in a minute, love.”

With that, he left, leaving you to watch fondly his retreating form from the glass door, as you chuckled dreamily one last time and went back to your procedure room.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Yokai Harem x Reader (I)

This is probably my longest running dysfunctional daydream scenario, so I thought I'd share it here.

As stereotypical as it gets, you've fallen into an old well and found yourself in feudal Japan. Almost immediately, you're attacked by a yokai that calls you by a name you don't recognize. He insists you possess the soul of an ancient priest that would capture demons under a binding contract. Something isn't right, however, so your life is spared until further clues come to light. With two men unwillingly bound to you, you begin to uncover this mess as more 'collection pieces' show up. They might prefer you to their previous owner.

TW: violence, monsters

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Character Guidebook]

You vigorously cough out whatever grass you seemed to have bit into when you hit the ground. Was all this vegetation here just one moment ago? As you get up and dust your knees you're brought back into focus by the loud buzzing of insects. You look above and involuntarily squint your eyes. You didn't expect to see a full, bright sky.

"What the hell?" is all you can mutter.

You and your university friends had planned a quick trip to the neighboring Tokyo, just to visit some trending local cafes and shop around. You somehow wandered into the suburbs and found a very obvious path to a large shrine that was visible from the bottom of the stairs. Now, what's more stereotypical than finding a shrine, approaching it with shy steps, dangling the old rope of the bell and humbly clapping your hands together for a quick prayer that gives you a fake sense of meaningfulness? Then again, you love a good cliché. So you did just that, and then whipped out your phone to snap some artsy photos of the place. In your search for the perfect angle, you spotted a wooden structure among some pillars and zoomed in to realize it's an old well.

Here's where you awkwardly tiptoed away from your friends. You couldn't possibly confess to them that you're one of those anime nerds, and that you immediately thought of a certain classic title, and that this could make a very good impromptu cosplay shoot. You could smell the nostalgia as you carefully swayed your way behind the pillars and under the shade of the tiled roof. You bent over carefully (apparently not carefully enough) to asses how deep the well was. Just as you were about to exclaim its shallowness, you felt the gravity pull you inwards. Within seconds your head made contact with the moist soil and you briefly blacked out as the rest of your body arrived in proper position.

Unpleasant, but you've had migraines worse than this. Though now you're wondering whether you might've damaged some important brain parts, given the sudden change of scenery. Or has your dysfunctional daydreaming finally caught up to you?

You laugh silently and test the walls around you, feeling for some contact point that you can use to pull yourself back out. You finally crawl out, but freeze with your elbows around the frame of the well, looking ahead.

There's no building around, just tall grass and what seems to be the beginning of a forest. You remember to blink, and each time you close your eyes you hope to see the shrine once again, to no avail.

"I thought I'm past the risk age for schizophrenia", you mumble in a humorous attempt. The situation is so absurd that you need to share it with an imaginary audience.

You muster up the courage to step out and onto the ground, with extra caution as if it could vanish at any moment. After brief consideration, you slap a bunch of weeds in front of you to test their consistency. The hard stems hurt your wrist and you nod. This is a little too intense to be just a hallucination.

Alright, so you got trapped in some sort of feudal anime remake. What now? You glance around, almost hoping to see some white haired man sleeping against a tree with an arrow stuck into the chest. You check your phone. No signal, but thankfully it still works. You have a battery and its charger, but the latter is probably useless. Unless this remake comes with electricity. You chuckle at the thought. Who knows, maybe it's one of those isekai otome games instead and some timeline inconsistency or loophole will provide you with an outlet.

After trying the well one last time without success, you decide to at least find another human being. Then you can get some grasp of your whereabouts and situation. You notice a patch of grass that's been bent to the ground, probably from frequent stomping. That's a start. You follow the hints of bipedal movement and hope for the best.

The improvised path slithers downhill and around the mass of trees, and you question whether the fields ahead might have traces of houses on them. You pick up your pace in anticipation.

A sharp swish of an unknown object causes you to flinch and halt, and before you can process it, a thin blade lays inches from your nose. You follow its length and find the source: a tall, horned (???) man with silver hair.

Ironically enough, he seems to be more shocked than you. His facial expression flips from focused anger to unbelievable confusion within seconds. His eyebrows are raised and his lips part.

"Ah!" you yell as the gears begin to turn. "Christ, you almost made me question my sanity!

Now let me tell you, this is some great cosplay. I was about to beg for my life. Hah! How the hell did you pull the whole transition? Is the well a tunnel? I hope I didn't accidentally break into some event."

The man returns his sword into its sheath, still in deep disbelief.

"You're not him, are you? But then again..."

"Huh? Him? I'm sorry, were you expecting someone? If you show me the way out I'll disappear in a moment." you turn around, prepared to be led to the exit. "Who're you cosplaying, anyways? I'm a big fan of historical dramas, but I don't recognize the character design."

"I don't understand what you're saying." the man tilts his head in utter surprise.

"Alright, I get the point" you force a laugh, slightly irritated by the persistence. "You're deep in your acting, I get that. Focus and all the jazz. But my friends are around the corner and I don't have signal, can you please skip the theatre and show me the exit?"

"The exit to...where? You're outside."

You sigh, loudly, and click your tongue. "Enough of this, please. Where's the shrine?"

"Ah, I get it. You're trying to confuse me." he pulls his sword back out. "I've had enough of your tricks. You're in an early stage, aren't you? Not strong enough to fight back. I can sense it."

Oh God, it's one of those maniacs, you think to yourself. You raise your arms as a peace offering and hope you won't be featured in the 5pm news with multiple stab wounds.

"Listen man, I really don't know what you're talking about. I'll leave quietly and won't bother you again, I promise."

You gulp and await a response, but the man's mouth opens and the words are replaced by a foreign, disembodied shriek. There's a rapidly approaching heavy shuffle that sounds like the trample of many limbs. You feel your leg being hooked into something and the ground turns around at a dizzying speed.

Something just grabbed you.

Given the movements of the lips, you're assuming that the mysterious cosplaying maniac is yelling something, but your ears are ringing and throbbing as the adrenalin begins to pump. You're being thrown around by something and you can feel the skin holding your leg together creaking and tearing with every jolt.

You manage to land your eyes on the creature. The teeth are unnaturally sharp and it seems to have many arms and legs arranged in a scattered order along the scaly body. It trashes around in such a fluid, dynamic way, that you doubt it could be the result of any machine. It's a living thing and currently attacking you for whatever reason.

Once the bizarre reality settles in, panic floods your body and you scream for help. If not the maniac, then some godly intervention. You did offer a small donation at the shrine, it has to count for something.

The spectacle doesn't last long, since the silver haired man doesn't hesitate to behead the creature. You can see that he wasn't making empty threats with his sword skills. You'd prefer, however, if you weren't the next one to go under his guillotine. Your body rolls over the dirt, limp from the shock.

You tilt yourself upwards pathetically and let out a groan once you attempt to use your leg to stand. You turn around and notice the aftermath of your little air ballet. There's a deep wound and thick, red blood is oozing out, scrambling to form a protective crust.

"You... really can't fight at all, can you? You weren't lying."

The man is now standing in front of you, the same amount of disbelief he had at the beginning.

"How the hell would I have fought that...that..." you choke and can feel tears forming in your eyes. "I don't understand what's happening. I just want to go back home. I don't know what's happening." you start sobbing and angrily rub your eyes, hoping to trigger some sort of way to wake up. But your eyelids burn and you feel awake. This was never a dream.

Your sudden meltdown startles the man and he awkwardly hovers his hands over you, unsure of how to handle this.

"Sorry, if I had known, I would've stopped it earlier. I genuinely thought you're..." he sighs. "I'm really sorry. You got hurt because of me."

"Can you please tell me where I am? I feel like I'm going crazy. It's year 202X and I was out with my friends and fell into a well. I've never seen a creature like that in my life. I somehow ended up here and I can't go back. Where the hell is this?"

"I... I don't understand what's happening either. I came here because I sensed he's back. I didn't expect to see... well... you." 

You scan his face. His frown is sincere. Which, truth be told, is even less helpful. You're back to square 0, it's getting dark and your ankle is trashed. 

You just want to sleep.

You stare at the ceiling, hands locked together over your chest. The improvised hay mattress isn't exactly comfortable, but it's certainly better than nothing. You sheepishly glance at the horned man. He's sitting by the window, idly looking outside with hooded eyes. He seems to be tired, too. 

"Try to get some rest", he'd told you earlier. Easier said than done. After the monster attack, he carried you on his back until you found an abandoned hut. His way of apologizing for letting you get mauled. As you walked, he narrated his reasoning to you. 

His name is Kiritsubo. When he was a child, a human dressed like an onmyouji took him in for training. Said to be the successor of Abe no Seimei himself, the man was feared throughout the country for his supernatural powers. Most of his strength, however, came from the collection of yokai he'd gathered to work for him. None of them had agreed to it, but no one knew how to break the bond subduing them. Eventually, the old man succumbed into his eternal slumber, yet the yokai were still not freed from the contract.

Some of them suggested he wasn't truly gone. Merely reincarnated. And today, he felt it for the first time. That's how he stumbled upon you. You appear to have part of his soul within you, whether you realize it or not. But if you truly have no knowledge of it, he doesn't have the heart to slaughter an innocent. 

"What about the rest?" you blurt out, quietly.

Kiritsubo turns to you, mildly startled.

"What do you mean?"

"You said the man owned 12 legendary yokai. Are you the only one left?"

"No." He frowns. "They most likely know about you already. Let's try to send you back to your world tomorrow, because they will not be as forgiving."

A shiver runs across your spine. This one is scary enough already. You pray you'll be home before you can meet any other beast.

"This is where I found you, so the well shouldn't be far." 

The silver haired man surveys the horizon and you limp forward. 

"I'll check the area, since you can't walk much."

As soon as he says that, he vanishes. You're left with the heavy buzz of afternoon cicadas. You might as well do your own search. Keep yourself preoccupied. The idea of leaving this behind fills you with excitement and you find enough strength to push ahead. 

A few minutes later, you hear a shuffle behind you. Could it be that Kiritsubo already found the well? Enthusiasm fills your chest and a burning heat spreads out. Although it speedily pools in your left shoulder, and you notice in horror that it wasn't enthusiasm taking over your body. A blade is sticking out of your shoulder, avoiding anything vital as some sort of mockery rather than omission. 

"Found you."

The voice is deep and foreign. You barely manage to tilt your head and meet the glowing red eyes of a black haired man. Dark horns are twisting menacingly from his crown and his expression is that of pure wrath. As fresh blood drips down your chin, you wonder if this is the next yokai in line to seek his revenge.

How will you get out of this?

[pilotispunk]

bell bottom blues (joel miller x f!reader)

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Summary: you're the town seamstress and you've had a crush on joel miller for ages. when he gifts you a pair of bell bottoms, you go to his house and finally confess your feelings leading to a night of whiskey and fun. Inspired by the song 'bell bottom blues' by eric clapton/derek and the dominos

Rating: M, 18+

Word count: 6.5K

Content: a fluffy smut, if you will. shy joel, joel playing guitar, age gap (20+ years), pining, miscommunication, alcohol use, dirty talk, fingering, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

A/N: I've been on a bit of a writing hiatus due to work and personal obligations, plus some fandom drama. but when the bug calls, the bug calls. I hope you guys enjoy and remember to like and reblog! <3

“God I wish I had her tits.” You bemoaned, raking through an old magazine. You found it with a film of dust in the safety hideout you had all primarily used when patrolling and you just couldn’t keep your eyes away from it.

“Way to keep your eye on what’s important.” Your watch partner, Joel, deadpanned while surveying the area.

“It’s my break time so no judgment, old man.” You looked up at him from the couch you were sitting on. The door was open to let in the cool fall air and so you could converse with Joel. “I didn’t say anything when you brought your guee-tar on our last watch together.”

"Very funny." Joel drawled. "But I don't seem to recall you complainin' much when I played "Blackbird"."

You huffed, a little smile pulling at the corner of your lips as you turned the page. "That's because it's a good song."

He grinned to himself, looking out the window again. "It sure is."

You two fell into a comfortable silence while you continued to read your magazine. That was the best part about patrol days with Joel, he was a great listener and you felt comfortable confiding in him.

When he had originally shown back up to Jackson with his kind-of-daughter Ellie, nobody had really known what to make of him. You'd heard stories from your community's leader Maria since she was married to his brother, Tommy, but she had never actually met him until they had stumbled upon the commune for the first time. As far as Tommy's advice on what to make of him? "Give him some space but make sure you get to know him. He's not as bad as he might come across."

You hadn't understood at the time what he meant by that but after spending more time with him around the town you had started to figure him out. For instance, he was a great listener, a hard worker, and had a very dry sense of humor. Also, he was incredibly handsome in a rough-around-the-edges type of way. You two had fallen into a comfortable friendship whenever you'd seen each other around or had to patrol together. In the world before the outbreak, you couldn't have imagined being friendly with a man twenty years your senior. But that was the world before the outbreak, you thought, smiling a bit to yourself.

"You got something good there, darlin'?"

You glanced up at him, your heart jumping at the sudden noise after the quiet for the past half hour. You could feel a blush crawling up your neck.

"Uh, not really." You flipped the page, trying to play it cool. "I just like to look at the models and dream."

Joel turned his head to look at you, one brow raised. "Dream, huh?"

"Yup. I mean look at these bright fabrics and patterns. Can you imagine having a wardrobe with any of these colors in it?" You held up the page you were on, showing Joel the vibrant pink dress the model was wearing. It was a halter top with tight jeans and a flare at the end and the woman's long, dark hair cascaded down her shoulders. The image made you ache for a world that was long gone.

"God, I would kill for those jeans." You moaned.

"They're called bell bottoms." Joel corrected you.

You sat up, your mouth dropping open. "How did you know that?!"

He smirked at you, returning his gaze out the window. "I wasn't always an old man, ya know. I used to wear them back in the day."

"No shit?"

"No shit." He confirmed, chuckling a bit. "I was about ten when I wore 'em but those were the style back in the day. I think I had a pair in green."

You stared at him in amazement. "Can you imagine that? Green bell bottoms?"

Joel's face turned into a grimace. "More of my momma's fashion choice for Tommy and me."

You smiled fondly. "If I had a pair like these I'd stich them up and wear them out to the bar. I can't believe they made things like this."

Besides patrolling, you had also used your skills in the commune with clothing and it was no secret which one you preferred. You loved taking old, worn, and ragged pieces of clothing and fixing them up to give them a new life. The thought of being able to take something that was broken and give it new meaning and purpose was exciting and thrilling.

"You've got quite a talent, y'know. Those clothes you make look like you took them right outta the magazine." Joel said, glancing over at you. "You should be proud of yourself."

You smiled at him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Thanks, Joel. It's nice of you to say."

"Well, it's the truth."

The sound of a twig snapping approaching made the both of you jump. You sprung up and grabbed your gun. Joel was already at the door, looking out the window.

"What is it?" You asked, your hand steady on the gun.

"It's a damn deer." He said, shaking his head.

"Thank god." You sighed. You placed your gun down and joined him at the window, looking out to see the animal. The deer was grazing and seemed unconcerned about the two of you. You watched it move with a sense of tranquility and ease.

"You scared?"

You glanced up at him. His brow was creased and his lips were drawn. You realized this was the first time you'd ever been this close to Joel Miller. You took a moment to study his features. At first glance, his eyes, dark and deep, are the most captivating. They have the kind of depth that has his entire story - joy, sorrow, and everything in between. You've seen them twinkle with mischief specifically with Tommy and Ellie, and cold and impenetrable when talking to someone he doesn't particularly like.

He's got the faintest scars, a reminder of the life he lived before Jackson, and a smattering of freckles on his chest that are barely visible. You can see the fine wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes and wonder how many times he's smiled in his lifetime and how many more smiles you could give him.

He calls your name. You shake your head, breaking yourself out of the fantasy. "No. Should I be?"

"Nah. Not with me here." He smiled.

Your stomach clenched, and you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. He kept his eyes on you, searching for a reaction.

"We should probably finish our watch." You said, tearing yourself away from the moment.

Joel stood there, unmoving. He was studying you. A silly little girl with a stupid crush, you thought. You could feel his stare but ignored it, picking up your weapon and returning to the couch.

"We should." He finally agreed.

And as much as you wanted to focus, you couldn't help but continue to study Joel when your nose wasn't in the magazine.

---------------

Joel should've known you weren't interested.

You were young, beautiful, talented, and easy-going. Even from the first day he was back in Jackson he could see the way people were drawn to you. When you walked up and talked to him for the first time he was surprised there were still people out there that were still so friendly and warm. He was so used to being the suspicious asshole, the guy who always had a plan and a reason for being, but not with you. You'd just come up and started chatting him up like he was one of your good friends, expecting nothing in return.

That's the thing about you that's always amazed him. You don't expect anything. He doesn't have to go out of his way to prove his worth to you or show you what a good man he can be. You just trust him.

When the two of you got closer than you ever had on that afternoon patrol, Joel felt a stirring in his gut he hadn't felt since Tess. The tightness in his pants was a sign, too. An unfortunate sign at the time you were supposed to be patrolling for clickers but a sign nonetheless. He'd noticed the way you'd looked at him as you watched the deer. He wasn't that old, yet. He could still recognize a spark when he saw it.

But he also saw the way other men in town looked at you. Men closer to your age, men with more to offer. Men without all the baggage and darkness and secrets. Men who could treat you right.

So, he buried the spark and kept you as his friend. It was better that way.

------------------

"Look alive, you old fucker." Tommy nudged Joel's arm, walking up to the abandoned house. They were doing a scouting mission in the outskirts of Jackson. There had been a small group of raiders spotted the night before by a patrol.

"I'm more than alive. I'm kicking your ass."

Tommy rolled his eyes, smiling. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

They both pulled out their guns, ready to clear the place.

"You ready?" Tommy whispered, nodding towards the door.

"Yep." Joel responded, grabbing the doorknob and opening it.

It was a pretty standard scene for a raider's camp. There were blood splatters on the floor, bullet casings, and empty cans everywhere. Joel had seen it many times before and he was certain Tommy had too.

"It's like a fucking pigsty." Tommy remarked, walking towards the stairs.

"No kiddin'." Joel responded, looking around. "I don't think anyone's here."

"Let's check the upstairs and then head home. I wanna tell Maria about this."

They checked each room upstairs. Most of the bedrooms were empty, except for one. The last room they had to check had the door locked.

"What's this?" Tommy said.

"Let's break it open." Joel suggested.

"No. We'll try to pick the lock."

"Fine." Joel said, crouching down and grabbing Ellie's bobby pin he always carried. "This won't take long."

Joel inserted the bobby pin into the keyhole, moving it around to jiggle the mechanism inside. After a minute or two he opened the door.

"Well, that's not what I was expectin'." Joel said.

"Were you expectin' blood and guts?" Tommy responded, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, pretty much."

The brothers surveyed the bedroom. There was dust swirling in the air and a thick layer on every surface. It looked like the room had been abandoned for a while. A queen sized bed sat against the wall with a nightstand beside it. A dresser and a full length mirror were in the corner.

"We should still check everything out, just in case." Tommy motioned Joel into the room.

They searched the area and found nothing but the normal. They were almost done when Tommy found the closet.

"What do we have here?" He said, pulling the doors open.

"Just some clothes." Joel said.

"Looks like we've got a few treasures. What's that?" Tommy pointed at the back of the closet.

Joel pushed some clothes aside and a pair of jeans with a flair at the bottom fell to the ground. "Bell bottoms."

"Well, I'll be." Tommy smiled. "Do you remember these things?"

"Yeah." Joel replied, immediately remembering your conversation.

"What're those doing all the way out here?"

"Probably left behind by the original owners." Joel mused. Without hesitation, he grabbed the pants and tucked them under his arm.

Tommy turned and looked at him, his brow furrowing. "What're you doin' with those?"

"Gonna bring 'em home."

"To who?" Tommy had a shit-eating grin on his face. "Last time I checked those ain't really Ellie's style. I could think of someone who might be able to fix those up, though."

Joel's gaze shot to his brother. He glared at him. "Don't you dare."

Tommy raised his hands, surrendering. "All right, all right. I won't say a word. But I'm sure she'll love 'em. You could bring her a goddamn necklace full of teeth and she'd love it because it's from you."

Joel's heart raced at the implication. "What're you talkin' about?"

Tommy rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Joel. Let's just get outta here so you can give her the goddamn pants."

------------------

Joel stood outside of the door to your house, the bell bottoms neatly folded in his hand. He could hear you rustling around inside and was nervous to knock.

"You can do this, old man." He told himself.

He knocked on the door, a quick rapping sound, and stepped back.

A second later, the door opened, and his face dropped. You hadn't answered the door. Instead, it was Nick, a tall, handsome young man who works at the stables. He had the kind of face that Joel used to see in cheesy teen movies he would bring Sarah to see. He had a strong jawline, sandy blonde hair, and broad shoulders. He looked at Joel and then down to the pants.

"Can I help you, Mr. Miller?"

Mr. Miller. Jesus Christ.

"Uh...." Christ and he couldn't even find his words. "I came by to uh..."

"Joel?" Your voice cut through his thoughts. He could see the confusion on Nick's face when you walked up. You smiled at Joel warmly, like a ray of sunshine. "Hi."

"Hey, darlin'." Joel smiled, his nerves disappearing.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I was just bringing these by." He said, holding out the pants to you. "I, uh, found 'em and thought maybe you could work some of your magic."

Your face lit up. "These are bell bottoms! Are you serious? Where did you find these?"

Joel could feel the smirk tugging at his lips. "Out and about. Tommy and I cleared a place the other day and found 'em."

"Joel, this is incredible!" You looked at him, your face shining with excitement as you went in to hug him. He was frozen, the warmth and scent of your body enveloping him. "I can't wait to get started."

"I'm glad you're happy."

You pulled away, giving him a quick smile before turning back to Nick. Joel could see his face drop a bit, and his stomach tightened.

"You can keep them here and work on them tomorrow. We've got a dinner date tonight." Nick said, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close. Your eyes remained on Joel, though and your hands stayed at your sides.

Joel's chest ached. You were going on a date. With Nick. A boy, not a man. And not him.

"I, uh, don't want to hold ya'll up." Joel said, taking a step back. "Enjoy your night."

"Thanks, Joel." You said. He could feel you studying his face.

"Yes, thank you, sir." Nick added.

Joel nodded, turned, and walked away.

------------------

"....and then nobody else could catch that thing but there I was, deep into the lake with that fucking fish." Nick said, taking another sip of his drink. "I had no idea how I was gonna catch it but I couldn't let it go. So, I just dove in after it."

Nick was going on and on about some story that you couldn't even remember how it was brought up In the first place. You just knew Nick liked to talk about himself. A lot.

A lot of girls in Jackson had liked Nick. He was young, handsome, charming, and worked hard. He had the potential to be a catch for any single woman, but that didn't mean he was yours.

But then he showed up on your doorstep earlier that day with a charming smile and asked to come In. He'd told you he was interested in you and wanted to get to know you better. You were hesitant, especially considering the feelings you had for someone else, but you'd also remembered what had happened on your last patrol with Joel. You knew you couldn't compare with an older, sophisticated woman that might come his way one day. So, you accepted. What's the point in waiting on a fantasy?

You excused yourself to go to the bathroom when you'd heard someone knock on your door and Nick open it. You were annoyed at the immediate audacity he had to open your door without asking but then heard a familiar voice. Joel's.

You rushed out of the bathroom to see him standing there with fabric on his arm.

"These are bell bottoms!" You'd said excitedly. "Are you serious?"

And when you went to hug him, his body was tense and frozen. But the smell of him, a mix of pine and tobacco, filled your nostrils. And for a brief moment you'd imagined yourself pressed against his chest and kissing him.

That feeling only intensified when he looked at you. His face was a mixture of pain and jealousy and you realized that maybe he had felt something for you, too. But it was too late. He'd turned away and left.

It was the sweetest gesture and you couldn't even properly thank him because Nick had interrupted and ended the conversation about your date. You hated the way he slid his hand around your waist, it was such a gross power move. He acted like he owned you before he had even bothered to take you to dinner.

You tried to stay present with Nick but he wasn't making it easy. He had barely asked you about yourself, but you also were guilty of not engaging much.

"What do you think, doll?"

"What?" You snapped out of your thoughts, looking up at him. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"About the lake? The fish? The dive?"

"Oh." You'd said, a wave of relief coming over you. "Wow, that's a crazy story. I'm sure the whole lake was shocked."

"They sure were." He laughed.

You forced a smile, looking down at your half-eaten meal.

"You know, I think you're the most beautiful girl in Jackson...." Nick started as your eyes started to wander across the room. You kept scanning for Joel to see if he was coming to have dinner in the dining room but he wasn't there.

You kept looking around until you saw Ellie, she was saying something to Dina and laughing and then heading out.

"Ellie!" You called out. She turned around and smiled, walking over.

"Hey! What's up?" You looked at the plates she had wrapped up and her heart sank.

"Just saying hi. I see you're wearing the flannel I fixed up." You pointed out.

"Yep, I love it." Ellie smiled, holding her arms out to showcase it. "Thanks again. Joel was happy you helped."

"Where is he, by the way?" You tried to act as nonchalant as possible but you heard Nick scoff.

"He's at home, actually. He wasn't feeling too well so I'm gonna drop him off some food before I come back to hang with Dina and Jesse."

You frowned. "Oh."

"If you'll both excuse me, I gotta use the John." Nick said, standing up. Not even remotely pretending he was interested in the conversation.

"He seems like a keeper." Ellie deadpanned.

"The kind of boy you bring home to your mother." You rolled your eyes, and she snickered.

"Is there a reason you're asking about Joel?" Ellie inspected you. For someone who was so young, she had a knack on picking up on things like that. And she had absolutely no filter about it.

"No." You shrugged. "He was just at my place earlier and gave me some bell bottoms. I just wanted to check on him."

"Ooooh." Ellie's eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Stop." You said, glaring at her.

She turned her hands up in defense. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But all I'm gonna say is this, if you wanna check on him I don't think he's going anywhere all night and I'm sure he'd appreciate some company. Especially your company."

"Thanks, El." You beamed at her.

"Anytime. Enjoy the rest of your date."

You smiled, watching her leave the dining room.

Your stomach was still in knots and your nerves were going haywire, but you had made up your mind. You were going to visit Joel.

When you got up to talk to Nick and you saw him leaning down on another table to talk to another girl, It was clear he had made up his mind too.

-----------------

Joel strummed his guitar on the front porch, a glass of whiskey sitting beside him. His leftover plate from Ellie was next to him.

He had decided to eat at home instead of eating in the dining room because he couldn't deal with the embarrassment of seeing you again, especially across the table from another man.

So, he ate and played his guitar and drank his whiskey.

It was starting to get dark, and the stars were becoming visible. Joel was trying to focus on the stars instead of thinking about you. But it was hard, especially when he could hear the laughter and conversations going on in town.

He picked his guitar back up and started to strum.

Bell bottom blues, you made me cry

I don't want to lose this feeling

And if I could choose a place to die

It would be in your arms

He continued to sing, closing his eyes and focusing on the song.

I don't want to fade away

Give me one more day, please

I don't want to fade away

In your heart I want to stay

"Nice song."

Joel straightened up and peered out into the darkness. He saw you walking up towards his porch, a shy smile on your face.

"Didn't mean to interrupt." You said, climbing the stairs. He couldn't help but notice how beautiful you looked, even in the dim light. You had your hair down and a thin sweater covering a flowy dress. He could make out the shape of your body and the curves of your breasts, and the way the dress fell at your hips. He cursed himself for noticing and then cursed the fact that his cock stirred when he did.

"You're not." He said, standing up and putting his guitar down. "How was your date?"

You sat down next to him, taking a sip of his whiskey while rolling your eyes.

"Well, he talked a lot. I talked a little. He was rude and didn't ask about me. And I was really distracted."

Joel grunted in acknowledgment and continued to strum as the two of you fell into a warm silence.

"What's the song you're playing?" You asked.

Joel took a deep sigh. He knew once he told you, it was over. He couldn't lie to you.

But fuck It, he'd had some whiskey and it was now or never.

"The song is called 'Bell Bottom Blues', actually."

"Interesting." You mused, leaning back in your chair. "What's the song about?"

Joel stopped strumming. He looked at you, and you were staring at him.

"It's about a guy who has this woman. He knows that they could be great together. She makes him feel happy and good, and everything that a man wants. But the problem is, she doesn't want him."

"Well, that's depressing as shit."

"Yeah." He chuckled, his heart heavy. "It's depressing, but it's also true."

"So, she doesn't love him."

"Right."

"But why doesn't she love him?"

"Because he's old. He's not her type. And he's just a grumpy sonofabitch."

"Who wrote this song?"

"Eric Clapton."

"Well, did this Eric Clapton guy know he wasn't her type or did he just assume she thought he was a grumpy sonofabitch?"

"He assumed."

"Okay. So, maybe the girl is just confused."

"Or maybe she's just not attracted to him."

"I don't know about that. I'd be attracted to a man like that. If he was honest with me and treated me right. That's the important part."

"Yeah, I guess so." Joel replied, his heart racing.

"You guess so? You're an interesting man, Joel Miller."

"I've been told." He smirked, taking another sip of his whiskey. "So, why did you come here?"

You stared at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Well, I came here to properly thank you but now that I'm here I think I'll just drink some more of your whiskey and listen to you play more about how wrong this Eric Clapton is."

Joel laughed. He looked at you and saw the warmth radiating from your face. He couldn't believe his luck.

"Whatever the lady wants."

"The lady does indeed want." You beamed, and Joel got up and opened the door inside, leading you in.

"All right, darlin', come on in."

--------------------

After a few more glasses of whiskey, you were feeling warmer and relaxed.

Shyness had gone completely out of the window and you were curled up next to Joel, a blanket over the two of you as he strummed the guitar. You were close enough that his knee was against yours. You could feel the heat between you and it made your head spin.

You leaned into him and rested your head against his shoulder. He smelled so good, and the warmth of his body radiated onto yours.

"I'm glad I'm here." You whispered.

"I'm glad you're here, too."

"Joel...Do you think I'm like the girl in the song?"

Joel paused. He put the guitar down and turned to you.

"Well, first of all, you're not a girl." He whispered, his voice low in your ear. "You're a woman."

You closed your eyes, feeling a shiver run down your spine.

"And secondly, I don't think you're anything like the girl in the song. At least, I hope not."

"I'm not." You assured him, your voice soft.

"Then why did you ask?"

"I just want to make sure you're not writing me off because of a song. I'm not some immature girl. I like the way I feel around you, and I'm not afraid to tell you anymore."

"Anymore, huh?" Joel asked. He moved his hand, placing it on your hand. You could feel the warmth and roughness of his palm. "So, if I were to kiss you, would that scare you away?"

"Not at all." You whispered, turning to him. Your eyes met and you could see the fire behind his. You'd seen that fire before, but never so close.

"Good."

Joel placed his hands on your cheeks and brought his lips to yours. Your body stung with excitement and you melted into him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His beard tickled your skin, but the softness of his lips against yours made your body ache. You kissed the open patches in his beard you had daydreamed about kissing and ran your hands through his hair.

There was no chasteness in your kiss, thanks to the whiskey. Instead, you slipped your tongue into Joel's mouth as he groaned.

He pulled back for a moment, staring at you.

"This is not what I thought would happen." He admitted.

"Me neither." You grinned. "Should we stop? What time is Ellie coming home?"

"She's stayin' the night with Dina actually."

"Well, if that's the case. I should really thank you properly for that gift you showed up with."

Joel's eyes lit up.

"I'll accept whatever thank yous you have."

"I bet you will."

You straddled him, looking down at him as he kept his hands safely on your waist. You could tell he was restraining himself, always the gentleman, but you were tired of holding back how you felt.

You kissed him, hard, and bit his lip, eliciting a groan from him.

"Fuck." He growled, his fingers digging into your waist, pulling you down further onto his lap as you felt his hardening cock against you. You grinded down onto him, and fell into a rhythm while you kissed him and he gripped your waist tighter.

You removed your cardigan and Joel's hands instantly moved up your torso, toying with your straps.

"Joel...it's okay." You grabbed his hand and removed your dress straps with him. Your dress fell, revealing your breasts, and Joel's eyes darkened with an intensity he'd only saved for a hunt. You felt like his prey, and it only made you more aroused.

Joel's hand came up, gently cupping your breasts.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful." He murmured, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. The sensation shot right to your pussy and your hips continued to move in reaction.

You started to undo the buttons on his shirt, and he helped, throwing it to the side. You pulled him closer, feeling his hot chest against yours, his muscles tense and his arms around you. You kissed his neck, and his collarbone, and then kissed his chest.

You could hear his heavy breathing as you trailed your hands down his torso and his cock strained against his jeans.

"Joel." You whispered, moving off him to kneel in front of him.

"You don't have to." He said, looking at you with a pained expression. You could tell he was still trying to be a gentleman and hold back, but you were done holding back with how much you wanted him.

"I want to. I want you." You said as you slipped his jeans off. His erection was prominent through his boxers and you could see the wetness at the tip of his cock.

Joel let out a soft groan, watching you take off his boxers. His cock sprang free, and he hissed as the cool air hit him.

You had been guilty of spending nights thinking about what Joel Miller would feel like on top of you, inside you and in your mouth. But nothing could prepare you for the real thing.

His cock was thick, a beautiful length with a slight curve. Precum was leaking from his tip, and you wrapped your hands around his base, stroking him up and down.

"Jesus." Joel groaned. You felt his hand reach out, gently grabbing the back of your head and guiding you closer. You licked the precum off his tip and he moaned.

You licked down his length and then took his cock into your mouth. Joel's breath caught, and his fingers tightened in your hair.

"That feels so good." He said, his voice gravelly and low. You took more of him in your mouth, swirling your tongue around his head and hollowing out your cheeks. Joel's hand pushed down a little harder and he let out a moan.

"Am I bein' too rough?" Joel asked with concern.

You looked up at him with full eye contact, your pupils blown. You started to ease his cock further into your mouth until you could feel his tip at your throat. You stayed there, and then started to move slowly up and down, the pressure from your tongue making Joel gasp.

"Jesus Christ, girl." He whispered, and then he started to push his hips upward, meeting you as you bobbed on his cock. His thrusts became faster, and his breath caught in his throat. You could tell he was getting close and you wanted nothing more than to feel him lose control in your mouth.

Suddenly, Joel's hand left the back of your head, and his cock left your mouth. You looked up at him with a dazed expression and watched as he stood up.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothin' is wrong." He growled. "Take off your dress and get on the couch."

You got up and slowly peeled off the rest of your clothes, his eyes never left your body. You saw his chest rise and fall with each breath as the two of you stood for a moment, studying each other's naked bodies.

Joel stepped forward and kissed you, hard. His tongue found yours and you tangled together, tasting each other. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer to him, his cock pushing against you.

"Get on the couch, baby." He ordered, his voice gruff. "Let me fuck you."

You lay down on the couch, spreading your legs. You had been dripping wet since you'd first straddled him, and now, it was dripping down your thighs and you couldn't help but run your fingers through it.

"Fuck. You are so goddamn beautiful." He said, his voice a low grunt. He knelt down and took a finger, running it through your wetness and then pushing it inside of you.

You gasped, the sensation of his thick finger hitting you differently than your own. He pushed a second finger inside of you, feeling an overwhelming stretch.

"You're so fuckin' tight. I gotta make sure you can take me." He said, pushing his fingers deeper inside you and curling them up. You gasped, arching your back as his fingers hit a spot inside of you that you can't normally reach.

You bucked your hips towards him. "I used to dream about what your fingers would feel like inside of me."

"Is that right, baby?" Joel asked. He added a third finger and the pressure was almost unbearable, he moved at a faster pace and the sounds of his fingers pushing in and out of your wetness were filling the room.

"I'm so close." You whined, bucking your hips against him. But he could feel it, he could feel your tightness clenching around his fingers.

He positioned himself quickly to lean in and suck on your clit. It was gentle, and his beard brushed against the skin around it. It was the final thing to send you over the edge, and you came hard.

"Joel." You moaned as you reached your climax, arching your back and riding his fingers. You could feel the wave of pleasure rolling over you as you gripped his hair. He slowed his pace and then pulled his fingers out, wiping his face.

"Did I do okay?" He asked, looking at you, and you saw the softness behind his eyes.

"You did better than okay. Take me to your bedroom?"

Joel nodded, picking you up and carrying you upstairs.

-------------------------

Joel laid you down gently on his bed and stood, looking down at you, stroking his cock.

He climbed on top of you and leaned down to kiss you. You could feel his hard cock against your stomach.

"Are you ready, darlin'?" He whispered in your ear, nibbling your lobe.

"Mmm, please." You murmured, lifting your hips towards him.

Joel grabbed his cock and rubbed his head along your wetness. He pushed it inside of you, slowly, and groaned.

"Fuck, you're tight." He muttered, his body stiffening. He eased himself in further, the stretch of his cock was intense, but the feeling of fullness was unlike anything you'd ever experienced.

You felt him start to move his hips and you arched your back, taking him deeper as you opened your legs wider.

You could feel him deep inside you, hitting that same spot he'd touched earlier. Your hips bucked against his and the sound of the slapping of his hips against yours echoed in the room.

He was breathing heavily and his eyes were half-closed.

"You're so tight. Jesus Christ, you feel so good." He moaned. "Like you were meant to take my cock."

"I want it all." You whimpered, grabbing his ass to pull him closer. "I want it deep."

"God damn, baby." Joel grabbed your legs and placed them over his shoulders, giving him a better angle to thrust deeper. He slammed into you and the feeling of him against the back of your walls and the way his pubic bone pressed against your clit made you gasp.

"You wanted it deep like this?" He growled, his grip on your thighs tightening, the slapping of your skin and your moans getting louder.

"Yes." You gasped, feeling yourself reaching another climax. "Oh fuck, I'm cumming again."

You felt your walls tighten around his cock, and he moved down to press his thumb on your clit. He pressed and swirled his thumb against you, and the sensation was overwhelming. You came hard, moaning and writhing beneath him.

He slowed his thrusts as you rode out your orgasm.

"Fuck, I can feel you cummin' all over my cock." He murmured, his voice low. "It feels so fuckin' good. It feels so fuckin' good, darlin'. You're gonna make me cum."

His thrusts were becoming sloppy and frantic, and his breathing was coming faster. You were so sensitive and each thrust made your body twitch.

Neither of you had said it but you had both had the desire to have him cum inside you. You wanted to feel all of him and the thought of him filling you with his cum while you looked like a pornstar underneath him turned Joel on more than he'd like to admit.

"Cum in me." You pleaded, and that was enough. Joel's head fell back and he moaned, his body twitching.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He said, slowing his thrusts as his cum dripped down his cock and into you. You could feel him cumming, his cum hot and thick inside of you.

He stayed still for a few moments, the room filled with the sound of the two of you catching your breaths. Then he slowly pulled out, watching as his cum mixed with yours, dripping out of you and onto his sheets.

In one final move, he took two fingers and took your dripping cum to thrust it back inside of you.

You watched him, dazed and exhausted. He got up, panting and dazed and left the room for a few moments. When he returned, he had your clothes in one hand, and a towel and a glass of water in the other.

He placed your clothes on the floor and handed you the water. You gulped it down while he cleaned you off. You winced a bit, feeling the warm washcloth between your legs and Joel looked up at you with concern.

"Did I hurt you?" He asked, his voice low.

"Not in a bad way." You grinned.

Joel smirked and lay down next to you, pulling the blanket over the two of you. He put an arm around you and pulled you into him.

You rested your head on his chest and ran your fingers along the grooves of his muscles.

"I think this was a better gift than the bell bottoms." You joked.

Joel laughed and kissed the top of your head.

"I don't know, I did go through a raider camp for those jeans. That was pretty heroic and dangerous."

"Yes, Joel Miller, you are a hero in the name of fashion." You yawned, nestling into him. You could hear the steady beating of his heart and felt his chest rising and falling with his breathing.

You closed your eyes and were starting to drift off when Joel's voice brought you back.

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for comin' over and doing somethin' I was too chicken shit on doing for a long time."

You smiled.

"Don't worry, I'm here to do the things we're both scared to do. You just have to promise to keep the whiskey and the bell bottoms comin'."

"It's a deal." Joel kissed your head again and pulled you in closer.

You drifted off to sleep, content and safe in Joel's arms. Finally feeling the relief and acceptance of what you had tried to ignore for so long.

And the feeling of Joel's arms around you felt more like home than you could ever imagine.

[brae-brae]

RODRICK HEFFLEY X READER (SMUT)You know where I live, neighbor

rodrick heffley. your loud and annoying neighbor, not to mention, a total ass hat that just seems to LOVE harassing you at school. whether it's snarky remarks or "accidentally" bumping into you in the hall. but what happens when you see something you weren't meant to, through a window...

(god hes so fooken cute)

Scrolling through TikTok, I suddenly had my ears invaded by the loud music of my neighbor. I rolled my eyes, throwing my blanket off of me and jumping off my bed. God, he does this like every other night. This is getting ridiculous. I try to keep my cool, but tonight? Is not the night. I’m sick of not saying something. This ends tonight. I walked over to my curtains and threw them to the side, opening my window. 

Just as I was about to yell at him I stopped in my tracks. There he was, Rodrick fucking Heffley, with his blaring music, laying on his back, cock in hand. I couldn’t stop staring. His legs shaking slightly, head thrown back, biting his lip, hips slightly bucking into his hands, everything. I felt like such a creep, especially when my thighs closed together, fuck. I was enjoying this… I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I couldn’t help but watch, the sight of his mouth hanging open, his other hand wrapped around him, gripping the sheets, it was too much. 

I felt my thighs become wet as I rubbed them together for any friction. I couldn’t control myself. My hand slowly made its way down, rudding circles on my clit. I held onto the window sill, as I leaned back. I sat on my bed, legs spread slightly, as I inserted a finger pumping it inside of me. I gripped my bedsheet, adding another finder. God if only it were Rodrick doing this to me… I began quickening my pace, the thought of Rodrick over me, his hair in his face, sweaty, kissing my neck, god it was wrong but it felt so right. 

“Fuck, Rodrick…” I tried to be as quiet as I could, but I couldn’t help myself. I let a louder moan out as I added a third finger. Curving my fingers inside me, I could feel my abdomen tightened as I came undone. “Shit…” Out of breath, legs trembling, guilt washing over me. Just as I removed my fingers from myself, I heard a deep voice, almost a whimper, call my name. “S-shit Fuck! God Y/N!” my head shot up, looking out the window. 

Seeing Rodrick, head still thrown back, mouth even wider, legs shaking violently as he shoots cum all over his hand and stomach. His breathing is heavy, hand running through his hair while he licked his bottom lip. I quickly shut my window and curtains, turning my back to them. What the fuck did I just do. 

______________________________________________________

The next day at school, I tried to avoid Rodrick at all costs. Normally, I would “avoid” him, hoping to have some interaction with him. Now? No, never. Even my friends started to notice. Anytime they tried to ask me, I would try to play it off as not enough sleep. As the bell rang for lunch, I stayed in my last class as long as possible, hoping Rodrick wouldn’t be in the halls. As I saw the last few people in the hall, I walked to my locker. As I was putting my books and grabbing my lunch, an arm came crashing down next to me. 

Looking up, I felt my face go red. “Hey, darling, I have a question,” he said with a smirk. Trying not to react to the name. I tried to play it off, rolling my eyes. “Don’t call me that. And what? This better be important” I said with my arms crossed. He looked at me up and down, then cooing me, crossing his arms as well. “Have fun last night?” my face dropped, going pale. He just laughed, clapping his hands together. “Oh god! Your face! Ha!” he cackled. I looked around, embarrassed. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about..” I looked away. His face lent down to mine, that shit-eating smirk, toying at his lips. “Yeah, I think you do.” he looked at my lips and back at my eyes. I rolled my eyes and slammed my locker, causing him to jump. “Nope!” I turned on my heel and began walking away. He grabbed my wrist, turning me around to look at him. “Then why don’t I remind you..” he bent down to my ear and whispered the words he had said last night, “God Y/N..” he chuckled and looked me in the eyes. My face had regained its color and then some. “Shut up!” I whisper-yelled, “I don’t need the whole school to know!” he threw his head back laughing, holding his stomach. “You know,” he paused, and leaned on a locker, “you should come over later… to my place” he winked. “You know where I live, neighbor.” he walked away, saluting me as I stood there in complete shock. 

Like I would ever even consider that! What an asshole! 

I turned and shot him a look. “9 o’clock! If you don’t answer, I leave!”

[bethanythebogwitch]

Welcome to a topsy-turvy Wet Beast Wednesday where I'm discussing one of my favorite cnidarians, the upside-down jellyfish. These are 8 species of jellyfish in the genus Cassiopea, which is the only member of the family Cassiopeidae. What makes these jellies notable is the fact that they spend most of their time lying upside-down on the seafloor.

(image: an upside-down jellyfish swimming. It has a light brown and white striped bell and multiple tentacles that are tuck and white. The tentacles branch and are lined with feathery, light brown structures)

While the majority of jellyfish are predators who drift through the water at the mercy of the currents, upside-down jellyfish have essentially become farmers. Their eight branched oral arms that contain symbiotic algae called zooxanthellae. These algae are photosynthetic and live in a mutualistic relationship with the jellyfish. The jellyfish gets food from the zooxanthellae and they get protection from predators and a place to live. Upside-down jellyfish can survive entirely on the nutrients produced by the zooxanthellae, but they will still feed on zooplankton and other small prey. Upside-down jellies are not the only jellyfish to utilize zooxanthellae, many other species also survive primarily on their symbiotic algae, but they are the only ones to have adapted the benthic lifestyle. They can reach a bell diameter of up to 25 cm (10 inches), or as one source for this stated: about the size of a pie pan.

(image: multiple upside-down jellyfish lying on sand. They are ov various sizes and mostly light brown, but have thicker, green tentacles sticking op)

Upside-down jellyfish are found in warm coastal waters in Florida and the Caribbean and in Micronesia, Melanesia, and parts of Polynesia. They require shallow waters to allow enough light to reach their zooxanthellae and are usually found on shady or muddy bottoms. They are highly associated with mangroves and may play an important role in the mangrove habitats by mixing the water to recirculate oxygen and nutrients. They are rarely found alone, instead congregating in large groups that can cover portions of the seafloor. They attach by using their bells as suction cups and rhythmically pulse using the edges of the bell. This pulsing forces water over the gills and can force zooplankton into the stinging cells to become food. Stung prey will fall on the oral tentacles, where it is broken down into fragments that are then intaken through the numerous tiny oral openings on the tentacles. Interestingly, some species have cycles of reduced movement, which is believed to be the first known example of sleep in an animal without a central nervous system. While upside-down jellies can swim, they will usually only do so to escape predators or if their environment becomes unsuitable.

(image: an upside-down jellyfish swimming. The majority of its body is light brown, but it has many tentacles that are dark blue and outlined in white)

While a very neat thing to see underwater, many snorkelers avoid upside-down jellyfish due to a phenomenon called stinging water. This is when people will receive the symptoms of a sting by the jellyfish without actually touching it. While the cause of this was a mystery for a long time, it was solved when a 2020 paper was published in Communications Biology by Ames et al. The scientists discovered that upside-down jellies release clumps of mucus into the water. This mucus is filled with zooxanthellae and stinging cells and many of these clumps also have ciliated cells that allow for limited swimming. These clumps, named cassiosomes, are the source of the stinging water. The paper, titled "cassiosomes are stinging-cell structures in the mucus of the upside-down jellyfish Cassiopea xamachana" speculated that the cassiosomes are used for defense and feeding. The cassiosomes could be released to sting a potential predator from a distance, discouraging it from approaching the jellyfish. Presumably snorkelers trigger this defense when they swim over the jellies, resulting in stinging water. They could also be used to catch prey as zooplankton killed by the stinging cells would have a high likelihood of falling onto the jelly that released them. Because the cassiosomes have zooanthellae in them, they could survive for likely up to several days after release.

(image: a microscope image of three cassiosomes. They are irregularly-shaped blobs somewhat similar to popcorn. They are a dark color with grey outlines. Spots of green algae and white stinging cells dot their surface)

Upside-down jellyfish are threatened by habitat loss as many mangrove forests are torn down for development. They are also threatened by pollution. They are not considered dangerous to humans. The sting of an upside-down jellyfish can result in mild to severe rashes and itching, but is not lethal.

(gif: a lone, light brown upside-down jellyfish on black sediment. The edge of its flat, circular bell regularly pulse upward to move air over its gills and tentacles. This one's pulsing has slowed, which is speculated to be the result of it going through its sleep cycle)

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 16

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 16/? 9k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Frustrated by inconclusive endings, Eddie takes a seat behind the wheel. 

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

✏︎ Chapter CW: general angst, paternal angst, drug mention

Thursday, December 12th 1985

Before the first morning bell, Eddie gave Judy at reception his best impression of Wayne over the phone. He wasn’t totally lying, he was in fact, quite sick. Sick of all the taunting looks from meathead jocks. Sick of the way Ms. O’Donnell cleared her throat every five minutes. Sick of waking up so goddamn early. Sick of wasting his time. So after hanging up the phone, he stuffed a few essentials in his backpack and made for the door. 

Like clockwork, Wayne always came home at around 8:10 AM, and though it would be far from the first time he’d skipped school, Eddie would rather not have to explain himself. Besides, he could use a change of scenery. There was no denying winter anymore, the ice he scraped off his windshield made sure to remind him. On a typical hooky day he would drive down to Lover’s Lake and toss open the rear doors, catch a breeze, light a joint, sit back and take in the ripples on the water and the rustling leaves. But that had all frozen over, so unless he intended to burn through his whole tank of gas, he would need to get creative. 

That was how he found himself at Benny’s at 7:58 on a Thursday morning, setting up camp in a booth at the back of the restaurant. He ordered his usual — bacon, scrambled eggs, and a stack of pancakes in addition to white toast. Tossing his fourth emptied sugar packet beside the leaning tower of creamers, he sat back in the sticky, padded seat and took his first deep breath all morning. 

The diner was bustling lowly, a handful of regulars perched on silver, spinning stools at the bar. From the frosted window leeching cool air beside him, he watched the funeral procession of headlights down Washington under a mournful sky. Just another day for the upright citizens of Hawkins, Indiana. From his cozy booth, Eddie sipped the top off his very full mug and smiled to himself. 

Sprawling his belongings around the piping hot plates, he popped on his headphones, cracked open his monster manual, and got to work. The first hour flew by like his pencil across the graph paper. Between the bacon bits that had leapt from hand to page, a formidable lineup of foes was taking shape. Bottom line; the boys were in for a world of hurt tomorrow. He did his best to resign the grease to the flimsy napkins, but by the time he was finished, syrup tacked the gargoyle and gorgon pages together. 

“Anything else I can grab for ya besides the check?” Sheri—according to her name tag—asked with a tired lean as she reached to clear his plates. 

Eddie glanced down sheepishly at his freshly topped off mug. “I uh, think I might be staying for lunch.”

Sheri forced a hot pink smile, catching the fork with her decorated finger when it threatened to slide off the plate. “Y’ want me to get a room set up for you too?” she joked with a wink of her spidery lashes. “Just teasin’ sweetie. You just flag me down when you’re ready.”

Switching out his tapes, Eddie shut the cassette player and stared out the window as the men at the bar tossed their napkins and fished out their wallets. Snow was falling in lazy clumps, clinging to his windshield. Somewhere behind the overcast clouds, the sun was rising steadily. It was dismal, a fitting backdrop for the opening track of Black Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell. Of all the seasons, winter belonged to metal. Like it was made for cruising down a quiet, snow-covered street in the middle of nowhere. Made for drowning out Bing Crosby crooning from the speaker in the corner above him. Tinsel glittered on the small tree perched on a cloud of fake snow beside the cash register. Ornaments on swags swayed to the thump of footsteps passing. Eddie sighed and stared into the changing street lights.

Glancing at his watch he figured you were probably wrapping up the film with second period, knitting your brow and drawing your pen across the papers you were grading. He wondered what you’d think when the bell rang for fourth and you found his seat empty. Would you think he was upset with you? There was a small part of him that hoped so, and another part that hoped you would understand. After all, he was giving you the space you asked for, was he not?

Like a siren, your story—tucked between his notebook and the magazines he’d exhausted twice cover to cover—called to him. Cracking open the plastic spine, he dove headfirst into the typewritten pages.

For the whole narrow path into Rower’s End, Cybelle had sat in the front of the caravan, breathing the briny air unhindered by a barrier. Lazarus admired the brilliant fullness of her smile as she watched the seagulls soar overhead, under the clouds she had only ever seen from above. The sunlight had graced them then, beaming down in golden rays, glinting on the distant waves as they approached the sleepy seaside town. 

Eddie could feel the corners of his mouth tug as Lazarus regaled Cybelle with a story of a time when he’d accidentally taken a crab home with him after spending a day at the beach, followed by an explanation of what a crab was. Cybelle seemed delighted with the prospect of seeing one, even more-so when he told her how he’d discovered the little hitchhiker when it pinched his rear in bed that night. Eddie noticed the way Cybelle leaned closer whenever Lazarus told stories, the way her hand came to shield her bare face with a giggle when he mentioned his rear. The way her delicate, copper fingers lingered over the soft skin of his forearm when she checked beneath his bandage. The wound was healing nicely — no sign of infection and not a thorn in sight. She warned that it might scar, but Lazarus did not appear concerned—rather the opposite actually—as if a strange part of him was pleased with the idea of having something to remember her by. 

As they dipped over the final hill toward Rower’s End, Lazarus told her another story. A dream, rather, of a little cottage in Shantiglade with a full sized bed, and a garden, and a goose egg omelette big enough for two. A dream that would likely never come to pass. Cybelle seemed equally enchanted by it. Sitting back against the boxy, wooden seat of the caravan, she breathed in the salty air and imagined how good it would feel to do so every day. To experience the feeling of sand between her toes, of the ocean at her ankles, of propping her elbow against their shared kitchen table and gracing Lazarus with a naked smile before trying whatever an omelette was. It was good like this too — bumping along under a clear blue sky as Turnip plodded down the scarcely trodded path, watching the wind caress the wild grass and Lazarus’ even wilder curls, hearing his tales and his laughter.

Around the time he would be slumping into his desk in the back of your classroom, the bell dinged over the door of the restaurant. Eddie cranked the volume on his headset to drown out the chatter of a family of four clambering into the booth in front of him. The little boy had brought a pair of plastic drumsticks with him, beating a rhythm on the steel-rimmed table much to the annoyance of his little sister, who was clutching her book the way Eddie was yours. Dipping his few remaining fries into the smear of ketchup, he wondered why they weren’t in school on a Thursday afternoon. As he focused back on the type-written letters, he figured he should be the last to judge. 

Eddie felt for Lazarus, he really did. The way he looked at Cybelle as she emerged from the cave, cradling the ghostfern like a pale, translucent child. The scene was as beautiful as it was somber — waves lapping at the rocky shoreline as the setting sun cast its deep orange hues on both of them. The rocks—slick with algae—had Cybelle stumbling, but Lazarus was quick to offer his arm. She accepted without hesitance, clutching the plant like a bouquet as her deep earthen fingers braced the pale angles of his. He lead her down the cascading stone as if it were a chapel aisle, slow and steady until they reached the flat edge of the water. There—in the golden remains of the day—seagulls dipped and soared over the glittering ocean, clasped hands swayed in the lapping wind, and for a moment, they had everything they came for.  

After what seemed like both a small eternity and an aching second, it was Cybelle who broke away, tracing the ridges of his fingers as hers fell, stating out loud what both of them knew — that night was coming soon. 

The journey back to Torgaard proved easier than the journey out, at least in terms of natural foes. No fenfinks or villainous vines, but the sky seemed to hang much lower. Dark, stormy clouds loomed overhead, casting its pale grey light over the moss curtains outside of Fenwood, over the verdant  forests that shuddered in the gusting wind. There was a tension, a dread looming on the horizon that grew with each passing day. Even Eddie could sense it — the way Cybelle stared out into the swath of shifting green like she was attempting to soak up enough for the rest of her life. The way that Lazarus’ jokes were swallowed the creaking of the caravan. How nights that were once spent laughing over a roaring fire were now spent silently watching its crackling embers.

One day—just a few outside of Torgaard—the sky came crashing down. It sobbed in sheets, heavy enough to soak through Cybelle’s coat, to find the tear in her tent and make a lake of it. Lazarus ushered her inside the wagon, offered her a shirt that fit like a dress, offered to sleep on the floor. Assessing the size of the bed, and then the hard, narrow walking path, it was Cybelle who insisted they share it. She was small enough, or at least that was what she rationalized out loud. Lazarus did not argue. Her logic—unlike her tent—was water-tight. And so she climbed in between the soft linen sheets, tucked herself under the weight of the down blanket, and rested her damp, weary head on a pillow that smelled just like him.

Eddie glanced sheepishly around the restaurant, shielding the binder with his arm as Lazarus climbed in beside her. He hinged on each type-written word, lingering over the ones that stirred a fuzzy feeling. Written with careful attention to the way Lazarus’ chest rose and fell, how stiff their bodies were in hyper-awareness of the nearness to each other. How solid his shoulder felt under Cybelle’s cheek when the corner of pillow no longer sufficed. Slowly, they relaxed into the feeling. Not enough to sleep, but enough for Lazarus to free the arm that she was crushing. Enough to wrap it around her shoulder, to relish in the feeling of her cold nose in the warm crook of his neck.

It was good like this. Better when her fingers draped across the landscape of his pecks, felt his chest rise and fall like waves. Best when they awoke in the morning to the sun steaming in through the small, stained glass window above them. When their giggles shook the wagon. When their eyes met, closer than they’d ever been before. There, in the dim cocoon far outside the turning world, the smile that she had hidden for so long finally grew brave enough to capture his. And by the time they reached the towering stone walls of Torgaard, there was nothing more to hide from one another. 

Eddie flipped the page to find only a black, plastic pocket. He rubbed it with his fingers to make sure it wasn’t sticking to another. When it failed to separate, he sat back and fumed. That was it. There was no more. No ending, no closure.

Sheri leaned against the top of the booth seat opposite him, hand on her hip, shifting between her dirty white sneakers with a tired sigh. “Listen sweetie, I’ve got ten minutes left of my shift. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but I’ve gotta cash you out before I leave.”

Eddie glanced at his watch, almost 2:00. “Yeah—yeah, no problem. Sorry for the trouble.”

“’S no trouble, just the way it goes around here. Hope you enjoyed your stay,” she said with a wink as she dropped the check. 

After six hours and two meals, Eddie had gotten his fill of watching the world turn through an old, frosted window. His head was spinning enough on its own. With a frustrated huff he peeled his graph paper and manual away from the sticky table before shoving them into his backpack. Slugging it over his shoulder, he grabbed the grease-stained check and made his way to the register. That was when he noticed it — the lonely, half-eaten omelette on the bar.

“Alright that’ll be ten seventy-five,” chimed Sheri. 

Tinsel glittered on the tree. Red, metallic bulbs swayed in the echo of his footsteps. Judy Garland caroled on about a merry little Christmas and he wondered if your characters would ever enjoy anything over their shared kitchen table or if that dream would be abandoned for their duties as well.

“Sir?”

Snapping out of his trance, he fished for his wallet and palmed her a twenty. “Keep the change,” he muttered before turning toward the door with a hoist of his backpack.

Her jaw hung open. “Oh my word, are you serious?” she called to his back, but the bell above the door was the only answer she received.

______

Main Street Vinyls was a ghost town on a Thursday afternoon, and Eddie preferred it that way. Aside from Jerry at the counter, it was just him and his noisy thoughts, accompanied by the slow plod of his own heavy boots as they weeped against the carpet. At least in this store he could escape the onslaught of Christmas tunes. Jerry—old hippie that he was—at least had some sense. Sometimes even sense enough to play some halfway decent rock music, but today Eddie would settle for Neil Young over the jingle bell garbage blasting through every speaker in Hawkins.

Glancing down the rows of plastic cassette spines, Eddie perused the M section as he kicked himself for giving away almost ten dollars. There was an album by a new band he’d only read about in magazines called Megadeth. Turning the tape over in his hands, he examined the cover. Everything about it spoke to him — the skull with its mouth chained shut surrounded by knives and candles, the title — Killing Is My Business. Flipping it over to the back, the phrase continued in haunted red letters …and Business Is Good! 

The change he gave away in a fit of blind stupidity would have easily afforded it and left him with some to spare. With a bitter sigh, he shoved the tape back in its slot, knowing for a fact that the cash register at Benny’s had eaten the last bill he had in his wallet. Padding slowly down the aisle, he began his calculations. 

He had a few regular deals lined up this weekend but would need to dig into his “savings” in the bottom of an old tobacco tin and pay Rick a visit before any of that happened. He might make eighty bucks if he was lucky. Maybe eighty more over the course of the week between the deals at school. Nobody wanted to spend too much time outside this time of year, so the park bench location was always iffy depending on how bad it was. He would resort to other classic meetup spots, like under the bleachers or the back of his van. 

If he networked enough he might have some left over after helping Wayne with the bills. Scanning past the Tina Turner and T-Rex tapes, he wondered how much Wayne suspected about his little business. Surely he had to have some suspicion. Gig money, odd jobs, and oil changes for neighbors couldn’t possibly afford the kind of gear he had, or the ink in his skin, or the cash he contributed monthly. Wayne was sharp, and though he was no saint himself, he shuddered to think what he would say if he discovered his nephew was straying down the same path his brother took.

Peering back over his shoulder, he eyed the Megadeth tapes again—only three in stock—lined up like gifts wrapped in cellophane. They were such tiny things. Small enough to hide beneath his palm, to slide into the pocket of his coat with room to spare. Glancing up at the angled surveillance mirror in the corner of the store, he saw Jerry at the counter, humming obliviously as he stuck price tags on a fresh shipment of tapes. Over the tall shelf that separated them, he expected to meet his own eyes, but instead saw another man. A man he hadn’t seen in quite a while.

Eddie remembered finding a G chord for the first time; how big the fretboard felt in his small hand, how awkwardly his fingers had to stretch, how a larger set of hands had helped him find it. He earned a broad smile when the chord rang out, one he would search for again and again with every strum. 

Sometimes in the late evenings as he crept past Wayne with a lunchbox full of drugs while he was watching reruns of Bonanza on the couch, Eddie would tell himself that at least he wasn’t stealing cars, or drinking himself half to death, or rotting behind county bars. At least he was still in school, something Warren Munson couldn’t say even at sixteen. At least Eddie could say he was trying.

With a bitter shake of his head, he continued down the aisle, leaving the tapes behind for the record bins that lined the walls. Mindlessly he walked his fingers over the cardboard spines, glazing past titles he’d seen a dozen times. Nothing new. Nothing different. Few things ever were in Hawkins. Every day he’d wake up and slog himself to a different type of prison, sit in a classroom for eight hours and actively feel his brain rotting. He would crumple up his failed tests and shove them in his backpack, endure the stares from kids whose parents cared enough to give them a ride to school, day after day. And every day he would come home and see the twinge of pride on Wayne’s face for the fact that he’d gone at all.  

There were a few perks to sticking around, like running his club, and saving lost sheep, and seeing his friends everyday. Like having a swath of potential customers all in one place. It was safe and familiar, like a cage. His little business might be dangerous and criminal but at least it could afford him one thing he valued even more than ink or gear — freedom. Time, for another thing. Flexibility. It sure as hell beat making three dollars an hour flipping burgers or having to answer to some corporate boot-licker telling him what to do. Eddie huffed sharply, wondering what you would think if you knew. You, with your tightly buttoned blouses and endless patience. You, the very last person he wanted to disappoint. 

The last look he’d seen on you destroyed him when he thought about it; the pain in your eyes and bitter line your pretty lips became. You were just about the only reason he had left to show up to class anymore, and now that was getting in the way of the one thing that actually had potential in his eyes. Way more potential than a stupid piece of paper that says, congratulations, you’re a real member of society and not a complete disappointment. 

You had asked him a question back when you’d first made the arrangement to help him, one that rattled around in his brain ever since. Why did he want to graduate? If his memory served him, he’d given a relatively bullshit answer: to prove all the assholes in this god-forsaken purgatory wrong. It still held a fair amount of truth, but when he glanced up at the surveillance mirror again and saw himself this time, the real answer was abundantly clear. But was proving a point worth the risk of losing you?  

The smell of cardboard and cellophane kissed his face as air puffed between each record falling forward. Each a different picture, some repeats of the same. Rock gods wielding wicked weapons, bathed in holy stage lights somewhere in New York or Los Angeles probably. Somewhere important. Sometimes at the Hideout he would close his eyes and imagine he was on one of those stages, but when he would open them as the last note rung out, it was always the same — just Bill and Drunk Sam, maybe a couple of bikers perched at the bar with their backs to him. Empty stools and sticky tables. A weak applause.

Eddie stepped back from the record bin with a heavy sigh and glanced at his watch. He’d killed about thirty minutes in this store, which meant he had at least twenty more before he could return home without triggering Wayne’s suspicious questions. The walls were starting to close in around him — posters like windows into a world far out of reach. Every million dollar strum reverberating through the speakers like a mocking reminder. With a half-hearted wave to Jerry stocking shelves, he left the store. Empty handed. 

The drive down Randolph was always dismal, especially in the bleak winter light. Storefronts with yellowing signs that hadn’t changed in twenty years selling mattresses and televisions. A gas station with a rusted awning, dusted with snow. Architecturally speaking, the church was about the most interesting building, but only because it was brick and made up of more than just four flimsy walls. Even that was being generous though. The most exciting thing to happen to Hawkins since the housing development over by Factory Lane thirty years ago was the shopping mall that opened this past summer. Thrilling. 

No matter where he drove within a fifty mile radius, it was all the same — a tomb where dreams went to die. 

Gripping the steering wheel, he watched the car in front of him make grooves in the dirty slush, hypnotized by the spray off the sides of the tires. It wasn’t until he saw the high school approaching in his peripherals that he even looked up. It always felt good to be on the other side, especially when he wasn’t supposed to be. He could almost see you in there; brushing the chalk off your hands, shifting between your tired feet as you glanced at the clock, gazing out the window with a longing he’d seen in his own reflection — caught sometimes at night in his drivers seat window as he cruised the highway, dreaming of where it could take him. 

As the squat fortress faded in his rearview mirror, he pictured you five years from now. Ten. Twenty. Wasting away in front of that chalkboard. Rattling on about stories written by dead people while your own collected dust inside a closet. While your talent withered like the dead, crumpled leaves under the snow; buried and forgotten. 

With a hard right onto Prospect, he set out on the final stretch towards home. Sometimes he liked to imagine what might happen if he just kept going, just drove into the sunset and only stopped for gas. He had a vague idea from the movies and the maps that swayed in the wake of Ms. O’Donnell’s lumbering footsteps. Sometimes in the height of his boredom he would lose himself in them, imagine he was at a diner in the desert on his way to a gig with an actual sound system. Because somewhere out there—beyond the flat horizon—there were mountains, and canyons, and cities where names couldn’t follow. 

______

“How does it end?” Eddie asked you on Friday between the fourth and fifth period bells. You glanced up from the stack of papers on your desk, cocking your head with narrowing eyes. “Your story,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Blinking, you sat back to ponder. “You know, I don’t think I ever fully decided. Cybelle is in a difficult position. The whole reason she set out on this adventure was to save her brother. I imagine she would want to fulfill her quest, but if she returned to Myrne, it may be difficult to leave again. Plus, she may receive some sort of punishment for leaving in the first place. I had written the laws to be quite strict, if I recall. And then if she chose not to return, her mother would lose two children. No matter what, she loses.” 

Eddie furrowed his brow, shifting between his boots with a pained sigh. “I would hardly call a life with Lazarus losing. She seems happy with him.”

“Right, well, of course that would be ideal, but…” you tsked, “it’s complicated, and honestly that’s partially why I abandoned it. I really wrote myself into a corner. Well, that and student teaching started to eat up my time. Then it was finals, and moving, and then after that I met…” you trailed off with a bitter shake of your head. “Anyway, I guess life got in the way. It has a way of doing that, I’ve noticed.” 

Eddie looked at you, really looked. You, in your cable knit sweater with pen on your hand and sandbags under your eyes, casting them down over your work with the same amount of hope he’d seen from players rolling threes with even fewer hit points to spare. He racked his brain for something he could offer—a dramatic death speech or a new character sheet—but you weren’t playing and he wasn’t prepared. Any words of comfort forming on the tip of his tongue were swallowed by the ringing bell, and he exited your classroom feeling the same as when he entered; unsatisfied. 

______

It was starting to close in around you — the colored lights and ornaments, the mall Santas and fake green swags draping from shop windows. It was the first Christmas you’d truly spent in Hawkins since you graduated college, outside of day trips for visits. Surprisingly little had changed, the main thing being the fact that there even was a mall for Santa to post up in. Duplication must have been one of his many powers because he was still at Sears too, at least he was on Saturday when you dragged yourself out of the oppressive quiet of your apartment and into the bustling chaos. 

You had no idea what to get your relatives for Christmas. You never really did, but this year it seemed insurmountable. This year you had no one to bounce ideas off of, and the constant mental chatter left little to no room for inspiration. As you scanned the shelves of cookware and appliquéd dish towels with snow men and reindeers, nothing really seemed to jump out at you.

What did jump out at you—or rather, jumped out at his sister—was a little boy across the aisle hiding in a circular rack of women’s bath robes. Pressing apart the terrycloth like curtains, he would retreat into his makeshift cave to the complete oblivion of his mother, who seemed more preoccupied with the price tags on a set of lingerie than with the whereabouts of her children.

A fantasy tugged at the corners of your mind, more sinfully indulgent than the one you had in class last week involving your desk and Eddie’s tongue. This time the set was the same as the scene before you, only the little boy had a mess of dark curls and Eddie was diving in after him. Not to scold him, but to play. You could almost see those fraying knee holes widening from contact with the carpet. Almost hear the giggles and the shushes and the click of his rings against the metal pole in the center of the rack for balance. You could almost turn around and see them popping out at you, feel the laughter ripple up through your very full belly and into the corners of your eyes as you feigned surprise to both of their delight. You could almost feel the glares from the other shoppers, the regular people eager to get on with their Saturday in peace, same as any other. It wouldn’t matter though, not in your little world.

The real mother in the real world did eventually turn around, grabbing the boy by the wrist and demanding he stay by the cart. Turning a dish towel over in your palms, you lowered your eyes to the machine-embroidered stitching of a corn cob pipe and a button nose as the fantasy disintegrated. You left the store shortly after, your cart just as empty as when you’d arrived. 

On Monday it was hard to look him in the eyes. It was easier to meet Diane’s. At least this week you could hold a conversation without crumbling like Ms. Click’s half-eaten fruitcake up for grabs in the teachers lounge. But the coffee was bitter on your tongue, like a lie you were telling yourself. 

In accordance with your wishes, there had been no rap of knuckles on your door frame after school, no screeching of chair legs dragged across the tile, only the dull thud of folders sliding into your bag, the surprising click of a magnet under the flap. 

On Wednesday you left behind footprints in the parking lot before it had even half cleared, only to be swallowed by the emptiness of your apartment. You filled the space with what you could manage — an early dinner, and an early bedtime. Sleep seemed to be the only thing that quelled the battering ram thoughts, the scales tipping back and forth so much it made you queasy. You would lie there and dream of swirling smoke and plush lips, of arthritic fingers punching numbers on an office phone as you sat and accepted your fate. You would toss and turn, back and forth until your sheets became a tangle, and when you faced the mirror Thursday morning you barely recognized the person staring back. 

When the final bell rang on Friday, the hallways cleared out like someone had yelled fire. A mass exodus of students and staff, flowing into the parking lot like a tidal wave outside your classroom window. You watched them as snow fell in clumps, as bright colored backpacks disappeared into the back of sedans, as cars peeled out like a parade into the street. 

Assessing the paper mountain range framing your desk, you made an educated guess at how you would be spending your two week break. In hindsight, it might have helped to make the due date for the senior creative writing project last Friday instead, but deep down you knew you would have hardly made a dent by now. 

When Ms. Click popped her head in to wish you a merry Christmas on her way down the hall, she seemed surprised to find your hand still moving across paper, not swaddled in mittens like hers. You brushed it off with something casual, the type of thing any regular person would say before the holidays. That it was too much to take home. That getting work finished now would leave more time with your family. You omitted the more personal details like how empty your apartment felt and the small, naked tree your mother brought over last weekend. This seemed to placate her, and with a cheery wave she left you in the silence of your classroom with only the ruffling of paper for company.

It was eery how quiet it was, but it afforded you a small hill of graded papers in the last hour, double what you would typically accomplish in front of the television. Thumbing through what remained of that stack, you counted each staple. Five, six, seven… you stopped when a certain name jumped out in MLA format. 

Eddie Munson American Literature — 4th Period 20 December 1985

No title. 

Papers fluttered to the desk as they fell from your hands, leaving only his. You held it gingerly between your fingers, as if it was alive. As if it could feel you, or rather, you could feel him through every type-written letter, through the thumb-sized grease stain in the top righthand corner. You could almost hear him too, shifting into a deep, dramatic narration.

Mount Myrne loomed on the horizon like a dark omen. Towering over the bustling docks of Torgaard, it disappeared beneath the ominous clouds with a formidable presence. Merchants scattered about, hauling their wares in heavy crates and barrels onto the many zeppelins. 

This was where Lazarus first met Cybelle. In his mind’s eye he could almost see her stumbling about in her clean silk boots and glimmering gold coat. But her appearance today told a different tale. Her boots were caked with mud, her coat was splattered with muck and tattered by claws, her mask hung crooked on her face. Those large eyes that once glimmered with hope and wonder now stared off into the distance with oppressive sadness at the looming mountain. 

This was where he was supposed to leave her. This was what they had agreed upon many moons ago. Cybelle just stood there, shifting back and forth between her tired feet as she dug her thumbs under the straps of her heavy knapsack that now held the rare and precious ghostfern. She finally had what she came for. Any moment now she would be moving those muddy boots toward the docks and use what little coin she had to barter a one-way trip back home.

That was the plan anyway..

Cybelle was frozen though. Fearfully, woefully, bitterly, she gazed upon her gold gleaming home in the sky with a sadness that was only dwarfed by Lazarus looking down at her. He looked at her beautiful face like it was the last time he was ever going to get the chance to. He memorized it in his mind as he shuffled his own dirty boots against the cobblestone. He didn’t have eyes for anything else. Not the zeppelins, nor the merchants, nor the mountain. Only her. After a moment that felt like an eon, Cybelle took a step forward.

“Wait.” said Lazarus. Cybelle turned around with surprise but also a hint of relief. “You don’t have to do this.”

Cybelle looked up at him with a mournful frown. “Of course I do, my brother will die if I stay here.”

Lazarus shook his head bitterly. “No, he will die if the ghostfern stays here.” he said.

Cybelle sighed as she looked out across the docks, “But how is it going to get there if I do not deliver it? No one is allowed within the city walls if they are not from Myrne.”

Lazarus furrowed his brow as he watched the merchants at work, hauling their wares aboard the large, formidable aircrafts. Suddenly he had an idea. “There are docks in Myrne, correct? And Myrnish merchants who take goods into the city?”

The gears were starting to turn in Cybelle’s head. “Yes, there are.”

“Well then, can we send the plant with like, a note or something? Some instructions and directions for the merchant to take where it needs to go?”

Cybelle thought for a moment. “I do know a few of the merchants by name. Arturo and I grew up together. He was my neighbor for a long time. He would know where it needs to go, and my mother would know what to do with it.” The brightness in Cybelle’s eyes dimmed suddenly as she had another thought. “But… I would never seen them again. My family.”

“Never say never, Cybelle.” Lazarus said. “Do you know that for a fact?”

Cybelle frowned heavily, “The laws in Myrne are very strict.”

“What if in the letter you told your family to meet you on the docks some other time? Perhaps in another moon or two once your brother has recovered?” Lazarus offered.

Cybelle sighed bitterly, “Only merchants are allowed on the docks. It is strictly prohibited. I was only able to come here because I snuck inside a crate. It was a miracle that they didn’t notice me.”

Lazarus kicked a stray pebble and huffed. There was a long pause before he spoke again. “I cannot tell you what to do, Cybelle. Only you can make that choice. But what I can do, really the only thing I can do, is tell you how I feel.” 

All of a sudden there was a knot in his stomach. Because if he was going to say anything he knew that this would be his last chance.. 

“All my life I’ve dreamed about that cottage by the sea with the garden, and the bed, and the omlet. When I saw that pendant you were wearing I knew that it would be my only shot at ever getting what I wanted. Magic tricks are….. not exactly lucrative. And actually, if I’m going to be totally honest here, I figure you should know the truth about me. The whole truth.” Lazarus sighed, swallowing the bile creeping up his throat at the mention of the truth. He was going to be honest though. Maybe for once in his whole life. “This is difficult for me to say, but I owe it to you if nothing else. I’m a thief, Cybelle.” 

Lazarus winced at his own words and Cybelle’s fallen expression, but he bravely continued..

“I confess that for a moment when I first saw you I thought about stealing that pendant, but once I heard your story and saw so much of my own I simply couldn’t. There is a goodness in you that I admire, how selfless and pure your cause is. Over the course of the last few moons I have had the privilege of spending with you, I have come to discover how beautiful the woman beneath the mask truly is. How kind, and curious, and patient you are. I have been all over this land. Traveled far and wide, through forests and over mountains. I have swam in lakes and oceans and gazed out over countless valleys. But never has the world looked quite so hopeful than when I saw it through your eyes. It made me believe that if you could see the beauty there, if you could see the goodness in me, then perhaps I can as well.”

It was startling — the tear that leapt over your lash line. Violently enough to hit the page, to blur the Os in goodness. 

“If you choose to stay I promise you that I will never steal another coin or pocket watch. It may leave me poor for the rest of my days but if they’re spent with you, then I would be the richest man of all. It is all that I can offer you. My honesty, and a promise that I will show you more beaches, more mountains, more of the world than you could ever imagine. And since I intend to keep my promise, here is my honesty: I love you. Regardless of what you decide.” 

With a trembling hand, you turned the page only to discover there was nothing on the back. Sitting back in your seat with a ragged sigh, you stared out into your empty classroom. Your nose stung, fluorescents flaring in your tear-blurred vision. Separating the pages with your thumb, you flipped back and read it again. The last paragraph. The last two sentences. Those three type-written words. Over and over, wedging in the cracks of your armor as your sniffles echoed off the tile. 

The sun was dipping below the treeline, flooding the near-empty parking lot with a wash of somber pink. The snowfall had ceased, settled into the footprints and tire tracks. Glancing up at the clock and back down at the papers, you tried to imagine lifting another, scanning over sentences and writing in the margins like you hadn’t been completely upended by the one that trembled in your grasp. You couldn’t. 

Tears dripped down your cheeks as you donned your coat, as you shuffled overstuffed folders into your satchel and slung its weight over your shoulder. You swiped at them with your scratchy wool sleeve, flicking off the lights and shutting the door.

The soft pink had cooled to twilight blue when your boots met the blanket of snow, leaving tracks in the clean, fresh powder. Your breath trailed behind you in heavy clouds. It was quiet here too, barely a scattering of cars in the parking lot. Not even the wind disturbed the limbs of the orderly saplings between the curb and sidewalk, dusted with a glittering powder. 

Your hands found your keys, and the key found the hole, and soon you were sliding into your frigid leather seat, tossing the weight of your satchel on the passenger’s side with a dejected thump. You sat there a moment with only your breath for company before flicking your wrist at the ignition. 

Nothing.

Stomping on the break, you lurched forward with conviction this time, as if you could convince it you were serious. All it awarded you was a weak, persistent click. It’s fine, you told yourself through gritted teeth as you lunged again, snapping your wrist with a startling anger, like the seal had been cracked on a two liter pop bottle that had rolled around in the trunk for a week and a half. Still, nothing but a pathetic click. A split second thought crossed your mind—that the ferocity of your stomp might actually damage the car—but the logic was quickly snuffed out by your rage. The hard plastic key bit into your numb fingers. Over and over — stomping, twisting, cursing. Cursing yourself most of all for being stupid enough to let this continue for months. You were paying for it now. 

The tears were already waiting, primed behind your eyeballs, hardly dried on your cheeks when you left out the back door. They spilled over again, cooling as they dripped past your lashes, down the slope of your nose. One more time, you begged. Just one more time and I’ll be good, I swear. But the white Chevy Nova sat unmoved, offering only a vacant whine where there should have been a roar. You tossed back in your seat and huffed, chest heaving, filling the cramped space with the furious steam of your breath. 

Snowflakes glittered in the floodlights, shining like flares through the blur of your tears. It might have been beautiful on any other evening — one where the engine was warm, and your mind was clear, and your heart didn’t sink like a pit in your chest. It was hard to notice anything outside your bitter sobs, most especially the shadow that appeared in the window beside you. The rap of rings on the glass had you jumping, whipping your head to face the set of eyes you’d been avoiding most of all. 

“Need some help?” Eddie offered, bracing his knees in a crouch, eyes brimming with concern. 

Your stomach twisted with relief, then embarrassment, then a million other things rolled into one, sick knot. Wiping the evidence from your cheeks with a futile swipe of your sleeve, you cranked down the window with your left hand. You must have looked like an absolute basket case, jerking your arm in tight circles as the barrier lowered with the urgency of a tortoise. When where was enough space for him, Eddie braced against the top of your door and ducked his head inside. 

“Hey.” The warm sigh of his greeting kissed your cheek, thawing the sting of the cold. 

“Hey,” you mimicked, sounding just about as stable as you felt when it came out. “W-what are you doing here so late?” 

“Hellfire,” he stated simply. “You know, I could ask you the same question.”

Despite how true it was, it still felt pathetic when the answer left your lips. “Just… trying not to take so much work home with me.” You said it as casually as you could muster, but your voice betrayed you. Your cheeks were still cooling from the remnants of your tears, framing the heat from your dripping nose. 

Eddie suddenly looked very serious, splintering your armor with his softness. “You ok?” 

You gestured dejectedly at nothing, offering a hollow laugh. “No.”

Eddie filled the cabin with his sigh, eyes narrowing like he wanted to lunge through the window. Instead he just thumbed at the rubber and tipped his head closer, creaking your chest plate with the weight of his gaze. “You know, I could hear you clear across the parking lot,” he joked softly. “The car—I mean. Mostly. You leave your lights on or something?”

You shook your head. “It’s been doing this for months, ever since it started getting cold. I should have taken it to get checked out, but it usually starts after a couple tries.” 

“Sounds like it might be the battery, or maybe the starter. I won’t know unless I try and jump it. I’ll swing around—if—if that’s ok.” 

The wind ushered a curl toward his lips, and you clenched your hand to subdue it. “Yeah, it’s ok,” you sighed. “Thank you.”

With a nod, Eddie ducked out of the window and pivoted swiftly on his heels. From your side view mirror, you watched him make tracks in the blue snow with his heavy boots, hands shoved in his pockets as he glanced left and right, the ghost of his breath trailing closely behind. The seat creaked as you sat back and blinked like the cursor on a computer monitor; processing. One glance in your rearview mirror told you how disheveled you looked. Even in the twilight there was no masking the puffiness around your eyes, the mascara bleeding toward your cheeks. You swiped at them again, this time with a napkin from your glove box.

With a yank of the frigid handle, Eddie slid across the plaid and pleather padding into the drivers seat of his van. He froze for a second, glancing in his rearview mirror toward your small white sedan. Butterflies tore through his stomach, churning like a tornado as he flicked the ignition. Out of all his ridiculous fantasies, he hadn’t entertained this one. Not exactly anyway. One where you were the damsel in distress. One where he got to be the hero. 

The parking lot was vacant enough to drive across the lines. Ploughing through the naked patches where cars had spent the afternoon, he rumbled up beside you. Your stomach did a summersault when he stepped out, plodding around to the front of your car with jumper cables slung under his arm. 

“Can you pop the hood for me?” he asked.

The summersault rippled south through your abdomen. Reaching down under the console, your fingers found the leaver and obeyed. You felt kind of useless, just sitting there while he propped the hood onto the stand, shielding him from vision. Before you could form another thought, your hand was moving on its own, finding the plastic leaver of your door and opening it to the cold evening air. 

Eddie gave a shy look from behind his curtain of curls before stepping back with a nod. “Well, good news, there’s no monsters,” he joked. 

A smile cracked across your face, so genuine it almost felt foreign. You tucked your hands into your pockets, stepping closer to assess the engine like you knew what you were looking at. Your aura prickled with proximity, like his heat could thaw you even from where you stood. Eddie’s glance was soft and quick before procuring a small flashlight from his inner coat pocket. He held it in his teeth, flipping up the red and black plastic covers on the battery terminals. 

“I have hands too, you know,” you said with a smirk.

With a playful side-eye, he clamped the appropriate cables onto the terminals. Removing the silver torch from his mouth, he made room for his retort. “Mmhm, best keep ‘em warm. It’s uh, kinda chilly out.”

You shook your head as a laugh escaped your nostrils in a plume. Sauntering over to his van like a dark knight, Eddie leaned in the door to pop his own hood. Your boots made tentative tracks in the snow, drawn like a magnet as he hoisted the metal. From the light pinched in his teeth you could see the expanse of the massive engine, the shadow of his furrowed brow as he unscrewed plastic knobs. What you saw more than anything though—like a filter laid over the scene—were three type-written letters. The hands that typed them fumbled with the cables, squeezed around the thick, jaw-like clamps. When they bit right where he wanted, they released; tendons flexing, knuckles pinking from the freezing air. Reflexively, he wiped them on the chest of his black hoodie peeking out from his open coat. 

It might have just been the cold, but even in the twilight—in the absence of the flashlight he was tucking into his pocket—you could have sworn his cheeks flushed when he caught you staring. “Alright, um, go ahead and start your car. I’ll do the same.”

Following the tether that joined the two vehicles, you did as he told you. Nothing came of it though, just more incessant clicking. Exasperated, you tossed back in your seat before slumping out of the car once more. 

“Shit, it must be the starter. Probably cracked, that’s my guess anyway by the sound of it,” Eddie explained as he stepped around to face your engine again. Clicking his flashlight, he peered into the compartment. “See, if you follow the positive terminal line all the way down, that’s where the starter will be. Only problem is it’s tricky to get to without a lift.” 

You followed his grease-stained finger down the dirt-dusted tangle of tubes, drawing nearer under the subtle guise of interest in your engine. You stopped just inches from his solid leather frame, close enough to brush him with your elbow. “You seem to know your way around a car.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he muttered. “Wish I didn’t.” But before you could comment, he was shutting the hood. “I’m sorry, but I think we’re gonna have to call a tow truck.” 

Your defeated sigh rose toward the clouds as you glanced at the squat school building. The lights were off. Judy’s car was absent from the lot, as were all but a handful, including the two of yours. Glancing at your watch under the floodlights, the big hand tipped past the golden dot where a five should be.

Eddie stepped closer, filling the gap with a heavy exhale before meeting your eyes. “You know I could, um—” he scratched the back of his neck, words evaporating quicker than his breath. What could he do? What could he really do about any of this? For most of his life he’d been a leaf on the wind, scuttling across the pavement toward the gutter, struggling to steer himself away. But you were stranded, and if there was anything he was good for, it was a ride. “I could—I could take you back to your place. If you’re ok with that, I mean. We could—fuck—I mean you could call from there a-and I could—”

There were chinks in your armor, cracking with each bumbling word. You looked at him, really looked. Eddie Munson, with grease-stained hands and eyes that pierced like arrows in their pleading. Straight through to the softest part of you, the place between your ribs that cries I want. And oh, how desperately you wanted. Wanted to soothe his worried lips in yours again, to feel his pounding chest again, to be thawed by his heat again. But you just stood there, frozen.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his open coat, he shifted on the balls of his feet as he searched for more words in the snow. “Look, I know you said you wanted space, a-and it probably seems like—shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing with a sharp sigh. “I just want to help you. Will you just let me help you? Please?”

Your chest plate clattered to the concrete, gauntlets falling in a heap beside your greaves. There was no white flag to wave. No sword to relinquish, or shield to discard. Your surrender was nothing but a soft “okay,” barely heard above the howling wind. 

______

A/N: After over a year and 100k words, the smut chapter is finally upon us! Thank you for coming with me on this very long journey and sticking it out. I have no idea how long this next one is going to take me to write, but I can promise you that when it’s finished you will experience every moment in exquisite, delicious, poetic detail. 

You might have noticed that I’ve pulled a few small details like character names and places from Flight of Icarus, but I will not be retconning any of Eddie’s backstory. 

Also random, tumblr decided to make that one paragraph bold once I changed it to chat font with no ability to unbold it, but that wasn't intended. It kind of worked though so I'm not mad.

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @raccoonboywrites @storiesbyrhi @trashmouth-richie @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @mrsjellymunson @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

[zorrasucia]

Teach Me Tonight - Part 6

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Deleted Scene] [Part 4] [Part 5] Part 6: [Part 7] [Deleted Scene] [Part 8]

Reader x Carmy Berzatto (The Bear FX)

Rating: Explicit (5k)

Tags: Smut, Set sometime after the opening of The Bear, Porn with a little plot, Virgin!Carmy, Jealous!Carmy, SoftDom!Carmy, Fluff, Miscommunication, Make up Sex, Sex Toys, P in V sex, Oral (M and F receiving), Both Carmy and Reader have a bit of a praise kink

Summary:

You were in over your head.

Some fashion vlogger had recorded a video in your store, giving it a glowing review and it had been good for business. Maybe too good. The store was now full of stylish teenagers with baggy jeans and designer bags, you had a new hire to train, and a local journalist had emailed you to ask for an interview.

He showed up a couple of days later, tall with dark hair, and every bit as stylish as you would expect a reporter from a fashion magazine to be. You had shown him around, let him take photos, talked about your favorite brands and decades of fashion, and complimented his printed shirt.

"It's from the seventies," he commented bashfully. "I'm a little obsessed."

And he talked about his ongoing quest for the perfect pair of bell bottoms. You showed him what you had in the store and promised to be on the lookout.

"You know, it's weird," he gestured to the side, where The Bear was. "I used to come here when they did sandwiches."

"They still do!" you beamed. "The fine dining is really good too. Well, I'm biased but-"

"Right! Being their neighbor and all," he concluded. You simply nodded along - no need to let him know the intricacies of your personal life.

"Let me buy you lunch," he offered. You were about to refuse when he added. "I'd love to try their food but I hate eating alone."

You accepted. It seemed harmless and it could be good for the restaurant too - maybe he knew a food critic and would recommend the place too.

Richie guided you both to a table with a smile, quickly catching up with your plan once you mentioned the interview, offering the journalist a sampler of the menu.

It was good - the food, the conversation. It caught you by surprise when Carmy stormed out of the kitchen, something angry in his stride.

"Are you enjoying the food?"

It was a simple enough question, it was the way he said it-

"It's excellent, thank you!" the journalist said earnestly, which only seemed to wind up Carmy even more.

"Good, great," he rasped, then turned towards you. "Can I talk to you?" it was said in that clipped tone that meant he was stressed and he didn't have good news.

You followed him to the back and touched his wrist briefly, trying to convey how important this was.

"Carm?" you asked, your face wrinkling in worry and confusion.

"You mad at me or something?" he asked.

"No! Just nervous, stressed... I don't even know - it's just the interview," you tried to reassure him. "Can we talk later, baby?"

"Sorry to interrupt," the journalist had walked up to you without either of you noticing. "I just wanted to know - are you the chef here?"

"He is, yes!" you smiled, thinking everything was going according to plan.

“Carmen Berzatto,” he said without offering his hand, his frown furrowed and something deadly in his stare.

The journalist gave one look at Carmy and his face shifted from friendly to scared. "I'll give you guys a minute."

Carmy was burning holes on the back of the guy's skull and you couldn't be more embarrassed.

"What's wrong with you?" you whispered.

"That fucking guy."

"He's the fucking journalist! Are you out of your mind, Carmen?" you were losing the last shred of patience you had left. "I was trying to do a nice thing and you- We can talk about this later at home, okay? Now leave, please."

You turned away from him and didn't look back until you had paid for lunch and walked the journalist out the door.

"I'm so sorry about him," you explained. "It wasn't personal."

"Don't worry about it. I worked as a server once. I swear working in a kitchen does things to your brain..." he mimicked a spiral by his temple. You winced.

"Yeah."

"Hope he doesn't bother you again," he said, which made your stomach drop. "I'll send you the article when it's done. And you have my number if you ever find those bell bottoms."

He waved goodbye and you huffed in defeat.

Suddenly, you were being hugged by Nat, her arms around your shoulders.

"Did Carmy send you?" you asked, patting her forearm.

"Kind of," she let go of you with a sigh. "He walked in the kitchen and kind of lost it? I had to get it out of him. And when he explained, I came over."

"Thank you," you said softly.

"He can be an idiot," she said.

"Yeah," you nodded.

"He loves you, though."

"I know," you said, rubbing your temples. It had been a long day. "I'll text him."

You were pacing the carpet, waiting for Carmy to get back from work. You had a list of things you wanted to tell him ready to go: that making a scene like that had been embarrassing and hurtful, that he had probably ruined the whole interview acting that way -

Your train of thought and frantic pacing was interrupted by the key in the door. Carmy walked inside, a defeated look on his face, and every cell in your body wanted to go and hold him but you stood still, arms crossed while he closed the door behind him.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey, I, uh," he stumbled. "What I said... What I did... I mean, even Richie thought that it was fucked up so..."

He let it hang there, in the air between you two, keeping his distance.

"Carm," you took a deep inhale. "I need you to understand the store is just as important to me as the restaurant is to you. It's finally going well. And maybe that means I have less time for you. I need to know that you'll be okay with it - with me being busy sometimes - that whatever that was won't happen again."

"I know, I know," he said looking at the ground. "I'm happy it's working out. I am."

You tilted your head. "Then what the hell happened?"

He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

"It's so stupid," he mumbled, embarrassed. "I got jealous. So fucking jealous. I had never- I didn't know what to do with it."

You uncrossed your arms - you actually hadn’t thought of that.

"No need to be, Carm," you reassured him.

"I just-" he blinked hard like he sometimes did when he was stressed. "This tall as fuck guy, with the fancy fucking shirt, just being charming around you..."

"You think I care about that shit?"

"I don't know, maybe?" Carmy looked at you with wide eyes. "I'm an asshole sometimes, I cancel plans, my family is a fucking mess-"

"Hey, I like Nat!" you interrupted his spiral.

"And I think she likes you better than me."

You stood in silence for a while.

"I'm sorry. I am," he said in the end.

You moved one step closer and pressed your forehead to his. "It's okay if you're jealous, Carm. Just- keep your cool if it happens again. Please," you said softly. "I don't know if I can handle you acting like that again."

He nodded. "Promise."

"I'm coming home to you, baby. No one else," you emphasized, running your hands over his chest.

"Mhmm," he tilted his head, eyes closed, like he wanted to kiss you but needed your permission. You surged forward, trapping him in a tight embrace and a searing kiss.

It got heated quickly.

He cornered you towards the kitchen, grabbing and pressing, until you were sitting on the counter, legs bracketing his hips, hands in his hair.

"Carmy," you gasped, as he kissed your neck like only he knew how. His tongue traced the contour of your collarbone and you moaned.

He undid the first few buttons of your blouse, burying his face between your breasts, kissing and nipping. You carded your fingers through his hair, and crossed your legs behind him, keeping him close. The heat between your thighs was getting more unbearable as time went by. He started kissing down, like he would eat you out, atoning for what happened, but you didn't want that.

You pulled on his hair and made him look up. "I need you inside me," he exhaled shakily. "Now."

He took a condom out of his back pocket while you unbuttoned his slacks, undressing him just enough to free his cock. His hands went under your skirt, eager, and moved your underwear to the side. When Carmy leaned to start fingering you, you grabbed his wrist.

"I need your cock inside me," you clarified.

You didn't want the tenderness of foreplay. You moved to the edge of the counter, taking his cock in hand and putting the condom on yourself. You guided his head to your entrance and felt him fill you out. It hurt a little, your pussy tight and unprepped, and weirdly that was what you wanted now. You whined once he bottomed out and he groaned at the feeling, the sound making you roll your eyes.

"Fuck," you held him close, arms around his shoulders, clinging to him for dear life. Without knowing where it came from, you said to the side of his face: "Show me I'm yours."

He inhaled sharply, his hands shaking where they held your waist. Then his hips moved back and forth in one long, agonizing stroke. You moaned. Again. And you held him tighter, letting drowned out cries pour out from your lips. He kept going for a little while, the pace so slow that it made you wonder whether all his anger had fizzled out by now.

Except he started going hard, hitting that spot that made you dizzy. Your breasts and legs were shaking with every thrust. You covered your mouth to stop from screaming.

"Holy shit, Carmy" you mumbled.

His hands touched all over, scratching your thighs and up, squeezing your hips, tracing your sides, caressing your arms and holding your wrists. You shivered. His cock kept hitting just right, his mouth exhaling on the side of your face. His hand traveled south, finding your clit like it was second nature, thumbing at it in small circles, just the way you liked.

"No one can fuck me like this," you whined. "No one makes me feel this good."

His hips stuttered and he moved so that your foreheads were touching and his eyes were staring right into yours, you could feel the sweat on his brow.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah," you replied, your jaw slack as you kept panting and moaning. His pace was so steady that it felt like Carmy could go on forever. Then, impatient, you started thrusting your hips against his, making it go twice as fast, making him groan into your mouth and start losing control.

"Fuck," he cursed, grabbing your hips, steadying himself. "I'm so crazy about you."

"Carmy," you managed to say, desperate, your voice getting high, and your nails scratching at his scalp.

His free hand squeezed your breast over your bra and you slipped your hands under his shirt, caressing the hair on his navel, and up his chest, pinching one of his nipples hard.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned again.

You were so close you could almost taste it. Just then you grabbed his face with both hands.

"Tell me," you pleaded. "Tell me you'll never do that again. Tell me I'm yours."

"Never. Never, I promise," Carmy breathed into your mouth, little desperate sounds escaping his throat. "You're mine, you're mine, you're mine."

He came with a strong exhale, drowning every other sound into your neck. His thumb on your clit kept moving until you joined him, completely spent, bracing on the edge of the counter to stop yourself from falling back.

He placed gentle kisses on your throat while you both recovered your breath. You clenched your walls around his cock, drawing a satisfied moan out of him.

"Did you get the guy's contact?" he panted against your skin.

"Yeah, why?" you replied ruffling his hair with your exhale.

"Thought I'd send him a cannoli or something," Carmy looked up from his place on your chest. "Make sure what I did doesn't make you look bad."

You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing.

"I don't think that's necessary but I'm sure he'll appreciate it. He said something about wanting to marry whoever made the desserts," you teased.

"Don't think Marcus'll be interested," Carmy inhaled deeply, his nose on the exact place you sprayed perfume every morning, though by now it had probably faded into a saltier scent. "When's the article coming out?"

"Couple of weeks," you hummed, caressing his back under his shirt.  "We have time, baby. So much time."

~

You were leaning on the kitchen door, watching as Carmy and Syd posed against the counter. A photographer was giving them vague instructions about where to stand and where to look. She was also complimenting Carmy and hitting on him like she was getting paid overtime for it.

"Sydney, lean forward, yes, nice! Carmen, hit me with those blue eyes! Gorgeous, what a handsome guy!" she said with a cat-like smile.

The restaurant was going to be featured in Food & Wine, which entailed a photoshoot.

They had both started wearing their chef's whites, going for a more professional approach. Then, to make them more comfortable, the photographer asked them to change into their street clothes. It had done wonders for Syd, who was now showing off one of her mother's beautiful shirts with a proud smile on her face. It hadn't been quite as successful with Carmy - he had a tortured look in his eyes. Now he was standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, even more withdrawn than when they had started, every wink and cheesy one-liner from the photographer making him wince.

"Okay, Sydney, a little to the side. Exactly, chin up, please! And Carmen - why don't you stand this way? Yeah, let's show off those arms."

You bit your bottom lip.

"Carm?" you called him - he turned with wide eyes. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

He nodded. "Sorry, excuse us," he mumbled, leaving the kitchen quickly, trailing behind you. He grabbed your hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry," he said, his blue eyes pleading.

"What for?"

"All the things she's saying..." he turned briefly, making sure the door was closed. "Fuck, I don't mean to-"

"You're not doing anything wrong, baby," you reassured him, cupping his face gently. "It looked like you needed a break, is all."

"Yeah," he exhaled heavily. "It's a lot."

You nodded. "The kitchen looks really nice," you commented to lighten the mood. They had done a deep clean the day before that had run into midnight.

"Thanks," he smiled. Then added: "This is a fucking nightmare."

You intertwined your fingers with his. "I think-" you paused, "that she wants you to look confident. That's why she keeps saying nice things."

"They don't feel nice," he bit his cheek.

You remembered how hard it had been for him to accept compliments for anything other than his cooking when you had first started dating. He would scoff and dismiss every word. Even now, sometimes it felt like he didn't quite believe them and maybe was just humoring you - which broke your heart. There wasn't enough time to unpack all that, so instead you leaned forward, placing one hand on his hip, whispering to his ear, flirtatious.

"Carm, I want you to go in there and eye fuck that camera like you would if it was me," he took a sharp inhale. "I will make it worth your while. Let you do anything you want to me," you promised.

He gulped. "Jesus," he mumbled, his pupils dilated.

You gave him a brief kiss on the cheek. "I'll tell them you'll be back in a few minutes," you said with a satisfied grin and went back to your place by the kitchen door.

"He went for a quick smoke," you lied to Syd.

When Carmy returned, he was in control, hands on his hips, like he had suddenly remembered he owned the place.

"Okay, guys, let's get this over with," he took his place next to Sydney, leaning on the counter and staring right into the lens, something defiant in his stance.

Your heart started racing. Even the photographer seemed affected by the shift.

"Uh, yes, good," after a few clicks she said: "I think we got it. Mmm, one more from this angle and we'll be good to go."

She led them to the main entrance to The Bear, Sydney crossing her arms and Carmy mirroring that same stance. They looked like they had stepped out of a magazine, modeling some understated and ridiculously expensive brand. Carmy looked in your direction for a second and licked his lips, before he turned back to the camera, unflinching and determined.

Another few clicks.

"Thank you guys, that would be all," the photographer went up to shake their hands and say her goodbyes. You were about to follow her out when Carmy took you by the wrist.

"See you tonight," he drawled and you felt yourself get wet.

"When I said you could do anything you wanted to me, I wasn't expecting this," you panted, your hands buried in Carmy's curls, as he kept kissing and licking every inch of your pussy. He was taking his sweet time too, biting on your thighs and going up to give some attention to your breasts and neck whenever he felt you were getting too close to your release.

"What were you expecting?" he asked, an amused glow to his face while he rested his chin on your hip, his mouth and nose shiny with your arousal.

"I don't know," you sighed, frustrated but so turned on. His hand caressed your pussy gently and you moaned. "Give you a blowjob, wear a silly costume, something like that."

"And are you into that?" he asked.

"I do like to suck your cock," you said honestly. Sometimes, with other guys, it had felt like a chore, not with Carmy, you loved to see him come undone, let go completely.

"See, the thing is," he kissed the curve of your hip, "if you gave me a blowjob it would be over so quickly," he exhaled right on your spread out clit which made you shudder. "And where's the fun in that?"

You giggled giddily when he squeezed your ass, manhandling you closer to his face, keeping his focus on your pussy.

"So you're just going to edge me until I beg?" you asked, half wanting for him to say yes.

"Don't worry," he gave a long lick, from the bottom of your lips to the top, making you arch your back and curse. "You will come," there was something dark in his eyes again, that same determination from the photoshoot back in his face - he was in charge. "When I want you to."

You shivered. "Fuck, Carm."

He started sucking on your clit, his tattooed fingers curling inside of you. You melted under his touch, feeling your pussy squeeze his fingers.

"Please, Carmy..."

He stopped sucking, messing with the rhythm, keeping you hanging by a thread.

"You will come," he repeated, "when I want you to," the speed of his fingers increased. "As many times as I want you to."

You moaned. His mouth latched onto your clit, licking until you were thrashing on the bedsheets, his forearm kept you in place on the mattress.

"Fuck, shit, baby," you mumbled. Your gazes met, his blue eyes fiery. He nodded and you came in a blur, desperately grabbing at anything - his hair, the bedsheets - the feeling all the more intense for the time he had spent working you up. He kept kissing and sucking until you stopped moaning and started chuckling breathily.

"Just like that," he praised, something playful in his voice and you would have teased back if you weren't so completely spent.

He kissed the outside of your folds, staying away from your clit and your entrance, just worshipping the skin around them and you caressed his hair lovingly.

"You make me feel so fucking good," you exhaled.

He climbed up your body and kissed you hard, mouth open, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock, hard inside his jeans, grazed the lower part of your belly, it made you tremble in anticipation. "You gonna fuck me?" you asked between one kiss and the next, your hips lifting up to ground on his.

He clicked his tongue. "Not yet," he got up and opened the drawer of your bedside table, taking out your rabbit vibrator. "This charged?"

You nodded, biting your lip.

"Good girl," he praised and your hand squeezed your breast almost unconsciously; something happened to you whenever he talked to you like that.

He lowered himself next to you, held up by one arm; his hand teased your pussy, his calloused fingers spreading wetness around.

"D'you need lube, baby?" he asked, more out of politeness than anything since he knew the answer very well.

"I think I'm okay, Carm," you laughed and he kissed the side of your face.

"Mhmm. So fucking hot," he whispered and you felt the dildo poking at your entrance.

You placed your hand on the side of Carmy's face, your thumb near the edge of his mouth. He sucked on it thoroughly, then let go with a pop. You whined needily.

"Please, please, please..." it poured out of you.

He bumped your forehead with his, his gaze was intense and hungry.

"Keep looking at me," he ordered, and you obeyed, keeping your eyes open even as the dildo went all the way inside you and filled you up deliciously. The coldness of the toy reminded you it wasn't Carmy's cock - but he was holding it, he was right there next to you. Your face contorted in pleasure.

"Yes, like that," he encouraged you, his words tickling inside your belly. He seemed to be overcome just looking at you - it made you feel wanted, adored, beautiful. You wanted to make him feel that way too.

"Carm," you gasped. "I need you to know- Oh, fuck," he pumped the toy inside you, slow, so slow. "I need you to know," you repeated through the fog of pleasure, "all those things the photographer said. They're true. Oh, my God, baby," his expression softened even as he buried the dildo deep inside you. "Your eyes are beautiful," another thrust, you caressed his face. "Your arms are so hot," you held onto the arm that was fucking you, squeezing the muscle there. "Shit. You're handsome, gorgeous, fucking- oh!" you blurted all at once, turning the compliments into moans. "I swear - fuck!" you held his gaze. "Can't believe you're mine."

He leaned forward, kissing you tenderly, swallowing your moans.

"I love you," he said softly.

"I love you," you replied, a choked out sound leaving your lips.

He turned on the vibration and watched you lose control, becoming desperate with lust, thrusting your hips wildly. He kept you there a bit longer than necessary, torturing you a little with how long he was drawing it out. It was so good, so fucking good.

"Carmy. Please," you begged.

"I know, I know," he soothed. "You're doing so good."

It sent a shiver down your spine and made the very last thread inside you snap.

"Oh," you exhaled, coming harder than you ever had, scratching at his forearm, screaming into the skin of his shoulder.

"Sound so nice," Carmy mumbled, looking as pussy drunk as a man could be without actually fucking one. "Baby, baby, baby."

You stayed there for a while, the dildo still inside you, and Carmy's hands touching your waist tenderly while you kissed.

After a long while of that, he got up from the bed, and started getting undressed while you watched. You bit your lip and put your head on your hand, enjoying the sight. He caught you staring.

"You really meant all those things you said," it began as a statement and ended as a question, Carmy's voice going up slightly.

"Every word," you said, taking out the dildo as Carmy showed you his cock. You licked your lips. "D'you mind? Me saying things like that?"

You wanted him to be confident but you didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

He shook his head. "I liked it," he admitted. He stood right by you, beside the bed, fiddling with the condom he had retrieved from your drawer. "Made me feel good."

"I'm glad, Carm," you reached out to caress his leg, following the line of muscle there. Saying he was beautiful once while you fucked wasn't going to change his mind, but you were willing to keep trying.

In the meantime, you could show him. Even with the exhaustion of everything Carmy had done to you, you wanted him inside you, wanted to see him roll his eyes in ecstasy. You crawled to where he was, kneeling, near the edge of the mattress. His cock was hard, pulsing, and it made your mouth water. He stood still, dropped the condom on the mattress, probably guessing what you were about to do.

When you were an inch away from his cock, he pulled your hair and stopped you.

He gestured at the vibrator. "Put that back inside you," he said in that demanding voice and you rushed to do as he said, only uttering a small moan when you had it inside you. He leaned over, tracing a long line from your neck to your ass, reaching to turn it back on on the lowest setting. You writhed a little but after a moment of adjusting to the feeling you were able to stay still and look at Carmy.

"Good girl," he said again and you keened, leaning forward to suck his dick. The sound he made once your mouth was on him was heavenly. "Holy fuck."

His hands were tangled in your hair and you wished you could deep throat without choking, just to watch him lose his mind completely. You settled for going as far as you could, getting every inch of him slick with saliva, making him groan and sweat. You looked up, his eyes were white and his face was flushed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to breathe. You hummed with satisfaction and that woke up his competitive streak.

He pulled on your hair lightly. "Gimme a second," he panted. You thought he needed a breather, but he actually moved to turn the vibrator up a couple of notches. You trembled and reached for his ass, bracing, leaving red scratch marks on the tender skin.

"Fuck, baby," you said between moans. "Not fucking fair."

"Mhmm," he smirked, caressing your scalp. It took all your willpower and concentration but you moved forward and went back to sucking his cock, feeling a pang of pride as he threw his head back and uttered some curse you couldn't quite decipher.

The vibrator set a pace you could follow, rocking forward as it pulsed, letting you give Carmy pleasure while you were ridiculously close to losing your mind yourself.

"Shit, baby," he gasped, his knees buckling for a second. "Make me feel- Fuck, y're so good, so good," he mumbled.

The steady pace of the vibrator was building up a tense knot inside you - you were close, and so it became a race of making Carmy come before you did. You doubled your efforts, speeding up, hollowing your cheeks, moaning into his skin.

"You're fucking killing me," he growled, pulling on your hair just the way you liked it, making you roll your eyes as you sucked on his length. You were completely overwhelmed; you couldn't help but whine over and over. "Holy fuck."

He stared right onto your eyes as he came. He had told you he didn't mind if you spit his cum but sometimes you felt like drinking it all, consumed with lust - today was one of those times. You stayed there, licking his slit, caressing his balls until he pulled you away.

"Fuck, baby," he sighed, kneeling on the carpet to look at you.

He was completely wrecked: face red and sweaty, hair messier than you had ever seen it and a glazed look in his eyes. He tilted his head to kiss you thoroughly, tasting the cum leftover on your tongue. You could finally let go. You put your hand between your belly and the mattress, maneuvering the vibrator so it hit right where you needed it and you came immediately, kissing Carmy, biting on his lips, and humping on the bed. It was too much and just enough.

Carmy helped you take it out once you started whining from feeling sore. He moved your body to lie comfortably on the bed, your head on the pillow and him next to you.

"Fucking insane," he exhaled. You chuckled in agreement, fucked out senseless. "D'you need anything?" he asked gently after a moment.

You shook your head, raising a hand to caress his face.

"I feel perfect, Carm."

You moved your index finger, tracing the contour of his eyebrows, the line of his nose, and the curve of his cheekbone. 

“Pretty,” you managed to say.

He smiled and brought you closer, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, his arms around making you feel safe.

~

[Part 7]

~

@th3h0nkz

[reve-writes]

—dense; kaz brekker.

ʚ kaz brekker x reader | grishaverse | 2,2k words. ʚ you're a bit clueless as to why the dirtyhands do the things he does, like call you schatje and pay you to steal something when he clearly doesn't need to. ʚ fluff. ʚ a/n maybe ooc kaz im sorry. more at the end!

Ketterdam is a marvel from afar, a pretty little flower offering promises of its nectar—new life, new opportunities, debauchery—only to catch you in its trap and swallow you whole. All the way up on the clock tower, roughly centralised in the port city, the Barrel is nothing more than bright lights emanating from bar signs and glittering roofs.

The bell rings, reveberating to signal the change of the hour. It's time to work, finally.

Your boots thump as you make your way down the spiraling concrete staircase, paying attention not to step on the chunks flaking off of the edge. Whoever was responsible for building this was clearly cutting cost, the concrete is about as fragile as clay.

A painting. It is an annoying job to do on your own, but your contractor offered a lot of Kruge for it—perhaps too much, but if Mr. Kikkert is willing to scrape his pockets for it, then you're more than happy to accept. It is more Kruge than you would ever need for a while, so you won't have to scrounge for scraps in this Ghezen-forsaken town. Moreover, it's been a while since your last job and you're frankly not doing too well.

You step lightly over the rooftops, hopping from building-to-building with sure, steady steps. You have done this for most of your lives, to avoid being stomped into the vile muck at the bottom of the Barrel, you learned to hide near the skies.

Where the painting is being kept isn't far from the Canal, just on the rows of overpriced apartments for rent. You were told that it was housed on the third floor of the corner building. Everything is going well. Your journey is uninterrupted and the stadwatch aren't on alert.

Until you spot him.

The familiar curve of his black hat. The high collar of his coat. The shining leather of his gloves.

Brekker.

You strut towards him as if you are neighbours crossing paths on your evening walks. When in truth, his Crow Club is on the other side of the town and you never come to this area without reason. You call his name sweetly. His head whips around immediately, finding you in the dwindling foot traffic of the street.

He says your name in a warning tone, suspicious of your being here.

“What? Can't I come and see an old friend?”

Brekker scoffs. “I don't know. Can you, schatje?”

You almost turn around and leave when you hear the term of endearment. He knows it gets under your skin—it always does. Your heart skips a beat or two and your train of thoughts gets interrupted whenever he calls you that. He means it as a jeering nudge and your head is wholly aware of that. Your heart, though. What a fickle little thing.

“A bit of a walk from the club, isn't it?” you say, falling into step next to him as he turns the corner towards the apartment building. “I assume you must be up to something.”

“Ah, but I'm always up to something.”

“I can't say I disagree,” you snort. “You don't happen to have a job around the area, do you?”

He halts, his cane knocking against the stone pathing. He turns to look at you and your elbows brush against each other. “Do you need anything? I have important matters to attend to.”

You bring a hand to your chest exaggeratedly, feigning a frown. “How callous. Call me schatje and throw me aside. Is this how you treat everyone, Kaz?”

“Only you, mijn schatje.”

You roll your eyes, unsure how to behave. Huffing, you say, “Stop calling me that.”

“I was under the impression that you liked the nickname.”

Oh, you do.

“I'll be going now. I've something to do. Stay off my job,” you warn. “You still owe me literal crown jewels from last time.”

Kaz's neutral expression shifts into fond nostalgia as he recalls the incident you're referring to. The crown jewels in question were under dispute by a pair of soon-to-be divorcees. One of them hired the Crows' help. The other called on you. One thing led to another and the item ended up in Kaz's hands and you went home empty-handed.

“I won that fair and square,” Kaz retorts. “Your current job wouldn't involve a certain painting, would it?”

Judging by his smug thin smile, you know that he knows.

“Tell me it isn't what you're here for.” You sigh exasperatedly. “Stay off of it, Brekker. I can't afford to lose another job.”

You think to be threatening, bluff your way out and tell him you'll tear down his Crow Club if he gets in your way, but you doubt it will work against the Dirtyhands. After all, you're one person and he has the whole Dregs behind him.

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow for a moment and for that terrible moment, you think that he may be there for the same reason you are, but he shakes his head lightly. “Fortunately, schatje, no. Stop looking as if you're going to murder me in my sleep.”

An involuntary smile blooms. “I wouldn't dream of it, Kaz.”

“Go on, then,” he says. “Be careful.”

You bite the insides of your cheeks to keep from smiling. “You too.”

With that, you part ways with Dirtyhands, entering the building. Your acquisition of the painting goes smoothly and the deal is closed swiftly a few hours later. It's too easy. You know it is. You're missing something.

Miss something, you did.

You push open the door to the Crow Club carelessly. The loud chatter mixed with atmospheric radio surges to meet you as you push your way past sweat-slicked bodies and drunken patrons. Your eyes dart back-and-forth, trying to spot the familiar curve of his black hat or the shiny glow of the head of his cane.

Jesper spots you from one of the open gambling tables.

“If it isn't my favourite thief,” he says, inclining his glass towards you. “Fancy a game?”

It isn't until you stop by his table that he sees the downward slope of your frown and the sharp glare you're giving. He instinctively sits up straighter, taking his shoes off of the corner of the table.

“Where's Brekker?” You ask, to-the-point, without indulging in your usual chit-chat whenever you visit.

The other three patrons on the table freeze—sensing the tension on your shoulders, too. They look between you and jesper, both confused and intrigued to know more. What is Ketterdam if it doesn't have rumours and secrets whispered about?

Jesper's brow furrow. “Are you okay? What's going on?”

To Jesper's knowledge, you and Kaz are on friendly terms, despite the frequent bickering. Hell, he assumes you're more-than-friendly, with the way Kaz gives you a nickname—an endearment, to be specific. Is it possible that you're going through a lover's spat?

“Brekker, Jesper. Where is he?”

A familiar rasp cuts through the rowdiness. “Here.”

Your head whirls around and you shoot an accusatory stare at the source of the voice. You stomp your boots as you make your way towards him. As you pass by him, you tug on the sleeves of his coat.

“We need to talk.”

“Hold on, schatje,” he says, still trailing after you. His cane knocks against the hardwood of the floor. “About what?”

You make your way up the stairs, to the second floor and swing the door to his office open as if it belongs to you. He has an eyebrow raised when he enters after you, closing the door behind him. He leans back against it, waiting for you to speak whatever it is that's on your mind.

“Kikkert,” you snarl. “You paid him to pay me.”

“That's quite a conclusion. How did you come to it?” His voice is level, not betraying whether or not you've spoken the truth.

You're pacing in front of him. “He says, and I quote, ‘If you're so close to Brekker, why doesn't he ask you himself to do this?'”

His eyes furrow and he runs a hand through his combed hair. He sighs, holding a hand up in a you-caught-me gesture. “Kikkert clearly has no idea what discretion means.”

You glare at him. “Do you think this is funny?”

He seems taken aback. “I don't see why this is a big deal, schatje. It's a job. You're paid. I get the painting. What's wrong with it?”

“Why are you doing this, then? Pay me for something you clearly are able to do yourself? Hell, whose painting was it? Was it yours? Did you pay me to steal from you?”

He doesn't reply, but the way he shifts his gaze away from you let's you know. It's as clear as a verbal admission.

“It was yours. That's why you were there. From your safehouse, wasn't it?” You stare at him in disbelief. “Is this amusing to you? I'm sorry if I don't quite see it as such.”

“Schatje—”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

You can't wrap your head around Kaz Brekker's thinking process. He pays someone to pay you to steal a painting he already owns. What's his plan in the long run? To embarrass you? Hurt your pride? Is this some sort of ploy to rope you to be indebted to him?

He sighes. “You were struggling. I only wanted to help.”

“Dirtyhands doesn't help people. You don't run gangs the way you do charities,” you retort.

Is that all you see him as? The demjin? The one who's willing to stain his hands for the right price? Is there no other version of him in your eyes?

“You're forgetting the man behind the monster here,” he says softly.

“Am I?” You approach him, leaving a little over two steps in-between the two of you. “Who exactly is the man behind Dirtyhands then?”

He pushes himself off of the door, taking one step forward. The thump of his cane practically echoes in the room. The hustle bustle of the Crow Club is nothing more than a muffled sound. There's a sudden tension in the air—the same one that hangs over you whenever he calls you his schatje, but this one is heavier due to your lack of light-hearted banter to parry.

“Do you really not know?” he asks, as if the question is staring at you in the face. As if it's the most obvious thing in all of Kerch. His stare is heavy, dark irises acting like magnets that pull you in. He scoffs, “You really are dense.”

“Well, enlighten me, Brekker! None of this is making a lot of sense to me.” You let out a frustrated huff of breath. Your hands move wildly to stress your points. “You know what? Whatever it is, I don't want to know. Just — quit doing it. I'll never take another job from Kikkert. I'll stay away from your damned club and all your friends. I'll stay away from you. I'm a capable enough thief without your pity, Brekker. I don't need it. You can shove it up your—”

His gloved hand wraps around your wrist as it's flailing in the air. Your speech immediately comes to a halt and your eyes widen.

“You are impossible,” he says.

You snort. “And you aren't?”

“At the moment, no,” he retorts.

His stare is intense. It isn't until then that you realise you've taken a step forward during your rant, decreasing the perfectly amicable distance and turning it into a heart-thundering one.

“It wasn't pity,” he says. “You're capable, I have never doubted that, but even the most capable ones struggle sometimes. My intention is to help. Trust me on this. I know you're too prideful to accept any, so I paid Kikkert.”

“But why? Why bother?”

“Why?” He blinks, sighing loudly before continuing. “Why? Have you ever stopped and thought, for a moment, that I've been calling you schatje. Do you think that was out of pity?”

You bite the insides of your cheek and shake your head. “It was something else.”

“Has it ever crossed your mind that it's because —ghezen forbid— I may actually harbour fondness for you?”

You blink once, twice. Kaz thinks he much prefers breaking into the ice court than having this conversation right now. His hand trembles when he brings them to brush your cheekbone lightly. He lets out a relieved sigh when you don't pull back. Your hand wraps over his gloved one, the leather cold on your skin. You lean into the touch.

“I thought it was one-sided,” you say finally. “I'm quite fond of you, too, you know.”

“You do a horrible job of showing it.”

“Says you,” you argue. “Just—don't do it again. Let me handle my own problems, Kaz. I'll let you know if I need your help.”

He hums in agreement. “You'll let me know.”

“I will.”

The two of you jump apart abruptly when there's a loud knock.

“Boss?” Jesper's voice sounds muffled through the door. “Everything okay? I hope ___ hasn't murdered you yet.”

“I haven't,” you answer, half-chuckling. Turning to look at Kaz, you say, “It's funny how he doesn't assume you'll murder me instead.”

Kaz shrugs. “He knows I can't.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Can't or won't?”

“Both,” he answers. “Can we not talk about murdering each other after what just happened?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. What just happened is you practically professing your little (well, maybe not-so-little) crush on him.

“So, is Kaz okay?” Jesper shouts again.

“Fine,” Kaz answers. “You can go back to your table.”

[ ]

i wanted to write something cute. schatje is taken from google and inspired from a kaz fic i read that used 'schatz' as a nickname. the plot is slightly ehhh? because it didn't really end the way i intended it to and i didn't proofread (when have i ever?). i was hoping to turn it into a two or three part series, but this is what we've ended up with & im quite happy with it. thank you for reading!

[lunaroserites]

Stunning

Pairing: Established Castiel x Winchester!Reader (Fem)

Summery: Based after Castiel became human, and loosely based off a post I seen about how after he became human he say Dean's face for the first time.

Words: 1365

Warning: Fluff, Kissing, a little sad with a happy ending, Canon Divergent (Canon is a suggestion). Not edited we die like Winchesters.

She sat comfortably on one of the plush couches in the library. Her coffee mug clutched between her hands, she was trying to absorb the heat from the ceramic mug. The bunker was cold in the mornings, the fans above that pulled fresh air in were noticeable in the quiet of the morning. 

Her morning tea brought her the heat she needed to get ready for the day. Her brothers had left her in a hurry last night after getting a frantic call from Castiel telling them the angels fell and he lost his grace. She wanted to go but her brothers said it would be best if she stayed home and manned the phone, hunters would be calling for assistance and she was best to answer their calls. 

Her job as a hunter was picking up for Bobby, she would spend days on end researching with him, learning from him, she took over for him when he passed. Her heart clenched thinking back to the elder hunter she viewed as a father.

Her brothers had called an hour ago to tell her they would be home soon and they had her angel in tow. Well he wasn’t an angel anymore she figured. Losing his grace meant he was pretty much human now. 

The bunker door banged open, making her jump as the peaceful quiet was shattered by the sound of heavy boots and grunts as three of the most important men in her life made their way to where she was curled up. One of Dean's flannels covered most of her upper body, the sleeves rolled up. She never slept well alone so she would wear one of Dean’s flannels and she would use Sam's blanket and pillow that Castiel would use during the night as she slept next to him. She would surround herself in their safety. 

She looked at her brothers, Dean was the first down the stairs he gave her a grim look, she searched his face for something to indicate what she should be prepared for. He gave her very little. Sammy was right behind him and his face was less grim but not much more optimistic looking. The last was Castiel, and he looked awful. He looked exhausted, he looked cold. He looked completely lost. He hadn’t looked at her yet, his face downcast as he made his way down the stairs, he gripped the rail harder than she had ever seen him grip it before. 

She stood before Castiel made it to the bottom of the stairs, she walked forward and stood just behind Dean, her hands wrapped around his arm, he brought his free hand up and rubbed soothing circles on her hand. Sammy stood beside her and put his hand on her shoulder, he leaned down, “he’s a little overwhelmed,” he whispered to her. 

Castiel was at the bottom landing still looking down but focused on his hands in front of him. She nodded at her brother and took slow steps forward before she stopped a couple paces from the former Angel. He still hadn’t looked up from his hands. She reached out and put her hand on his, she wanted to sooth his fidgeting fingers, ease his worries. Make him feel better. 

“Cas,” she said quietly, his heart fluttered at how softly she spoke to him. Her voice brought him some peace, it didn’t sound much different from while he was an angel. The brothers had sounded different. Much more gruff, not as smooth. Her voice was still like little bells that chimed in perfect harmony. Her voice was music to his ears. 

She moved closer to him, her other hand touching his cheek gently, she was trying to coax his face upwards so she could look at him fully. He leaned his cheek into her touch, her touch was feather light, gentle and soothing. Her skin felt like a warm blanket to him, her fingers trembling against his cheek. He could feel her worry roll off her in waves. She always wore how she was feeling on her sleeve, he always knew how she was feeling. She was always one of the easiest to understand even while he was Angel. 

“Castiel, look at me” she cooed gently at him, he lifted his face and had his eyes closed. He was afraid of her looking into his eyes and not seeing the Angel he was and only seeing the shell that was left. She ran her thumb across his cheek, a few of his tears slipped past his closed eyes. That was a sensation he was not going to get used to anytime soon. “Please love.” 

He opened his eyes and looked at her face. He truly looked at her face, for the first time he saw her face. She was beautiful. Her skin was speckled with years of living, laugh lines, crows feet. She looked like she truly lived. While an angel he had never seen her face for what it truly was. But now he sees every pore, every wrinkle, every freckle. Her eyes were a beautiful green like Dean’s, her lips a soft pink and her hair was a lovely mahogany color. 

He took his clenched hands from her and placed them on her face, inspecting her, feeling her skin for the first time. He had touched her before but never had it felt this real. It was so overwhelming, his heart was beating loudly in his ears as he stared deeply into her eyes. Her lips parted as she took a sharp breath when he touched her. 

Then she smiled at him, “Castiel.” 

“You are stunning,” Castiel said breathlessly. He brought her face towards his and kissed her gently. The feeling of her lips on his was almost too much for his mortal heart to handle. He hadn’t imagined what it would be like, to feel life like a human, he hadn’t imagined she would feel this perfect. 

Someone cleared their throat behind the two, Castiel reluctantly pulled back from her and she gave him a sweet smile. 

“So this my Castiel now?” She said softly, her eyes searching his face. 

“This is your Castiel now,” his voice sounded the same, he looked the same, a little rugged and his lips felt the same. The only difference was the lack of soft thumb she would feel buzzing under his skin. The thumbing would get stronger under her touch. That was the only thing that was gone. 

“Well I’m okay with that,” she pulled him to her side and wrapped her hands around his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. She was just happy he was alive and he was here with her.

Dean looked between his baby sister and Castiel, when they first started dating he was against it. Hell he still didn’t like it. Castiel promised him he would protect her with his life. Something he truly meant as he had risked his life more than once to keep her safe. Now that Cas was human he didn’t know how protecting her would go, but he knew Castiel would do whatever it took to keep her safe. 

Sam had left the library and went to find some food for the four of them. He had noticed his blanket on the couch, knowing she stayed there the whole night, waiting for them to come home. Dean’s flannel hung loosely off her frame, and he figured the pillow that was next to his blanket was Castiel’s pillow. 

He hated leaving her here alone, she was never good with it, someone always stayed with her or she was with them. Ever since her Castiel got together he always made sure she wasn’t alone for long periods of time and he would constantly update her on his whereabouts. Something Sam appreciated greatly from the former Angel. He looked at the fridge, being held up with a piece of electrical tape, there was a picture of the four of them. They were all smiling, she insisted it be taped to the fridge, a reminder that no matter what they had each other and there was room for happiness in this fucked up world. 

[ginnsbaker]

fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (3/?)

Part summary: Leigh develops an unhealthy habit as she hits closer to rock bottom

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 5.370 | Warnings/Tags: Some hetero stuff | A/N: Things will pick up after this part. I think there's going to be a total of 6 parts, but let me confirm that in the next update :)

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Next

-

Leigh is ten minutes late. 

It makes sense. Her willingness to attend this meeting was surprising, because if you were in her shoes, you doubt you'd have agreed to it. Listening to the entire history of a relationship can be exhausting, and it's hard to imagine what it feels like to hear about one that arguably should never have existed.

But just as you're about to think she's bailed or intentionally left you hanging, you spot her sprinting toward the cafe from across the street. She's a mess—hair soaked and sticking everywhere, face bare, missing its usual touch of makeup. But even like this, Leigh doesn't look much different from her usual self. You can't help feeling a bit envious of that.

She rushes into the cafe, attracting a few curious looks, but she barely registers them, her wide green eyes quickly finding you.

“Sorry I'm late,” she pants, struggling to catch her breath, “I got caught in the rain and then missed my bus.” The lie slips out effortlessly. True, it had rained, but the real reason was far more personal—something you didn't need to know.

You shrug off her apology with a smile, signaling the waiter for a menu for Leigh. “No worries, I'm just glad you made it,” you say.

Leigh gives you a quick once-over, then forces a smile and thanks you. Once her coffee order's in, she gets right down to it. “So, Matt,” she starts, her voice dropping to a whisper, “how did you two meet?”

You lean back, carefully thinking about what to say next. You didn't practice your answers ahead of time because you weren't planning to lie about anything. But you're wary of how you word things, not wanting to upset her. Being caught up with a married man is embarrassing enough as it is, and having to relay the details to his widowed wife only adds to it.

“Actually, our first meeting was totally by chance,” you say, bringing your steaming cup of tea to your lips. “I quite literally bumped into Matt one day. It was so brief, I barely gave it a second thought.”

You take a deep breath before continuing, “Then, about a week later, Matt showed up at my clinic with the same friend from before. It turned out, they were there for his friend's dog, who needed a check-up. Matt was just tagging along, helping out.”

Leigh’s face remains passive, making it hard to read. 

“The friend was the one who interacted with me the most that day. He even asked for my number, saying they were grateful for the help with the dog. I assumed he was interested,” you say, the memory coming back to you clearer now as you speak. “But, to my surprise, it was Matt who texted me later, not his friend.”

You barely manage to suppress the slight twitch of your lips, recalling how everything once seemed magical to you. Leigh on the other hand, takes a slow sip of her coffee, buying a moment to process.

“Who was that friend of Matt's? Do you remember his name?” she asks.

You pause, racking your brain for the detail, feeling its importance to Leigh. “Yeah, I think his name was Nick or something,” you say, scratching your head. Whether the name ‘Nick’ rings any bells for her or not, she doesn't let on. 

“Strange,” you mumble under your breath, but then shrug it off. “It doesn't really matter, he's not the one I—” You stop yourself just in time, realizing you're about to say something potentially hurtful about a situation that still feels raw, especially to Leigh.

Instead, you quickly pivot. “Anyway, that's how it all started. On the day of the dog’s follow-up, it was just Matt who came by. We struck up a friendship from there, and one thing led to another until he, uhm, asked me out for dinner.”

At this, you notice a subtle change in Leigh's demeanor. Her entire frame becomes more timid, the first real sign of emotion she's shown since this conversation began. 

You’re about to go on with your story when Leigh suddenly speaks up.

“So, you just said yes, even though he was your client? Don't veterinarians have professional boundaries?”

Ever since meeting Leigh, you've found it challenging to predict what might trigger her reactions—it's like navigating a minefield. Occasionally, you’d find yourself wondering what it would be like to know her without the complications currently defining your interactions. You think about the roles you both involuntarily play in each other's lives, roles neither of you auditioned for but somehow ended up performing.

You feel a lump form in your throat, and your gaze drops to your lap. “Well, he was persistent,” you say, feeling the need to defend your decision. Nevertheless, it sounds weak to your own ears. “But I made it clear nothing could happen until the dog's treatment was complete. And I insisted he'd have to find a different vet for any future appointments. It was... complicated.”

“I bet,” Leigh scoffs, crossing her arms. After a beat, she asks, almost too casually, “So, how quickly did you two... you know, have your first kiss?”

The question hangs awkwardly between you. You know you can’t answer it in any way you could avoid her judgment, so you just decide to spit it out. 

“First date.” Under Leigh’s scrutinizing gaze, it feels like admitting to a minor crime.

Leigh stares at you with unblinking eyes. “And how long after meeting him did this first date happen?”

You draw in a slow breath. “Three weeks,” you mutter. “It was last fall.” You add that bit, proactively laying out the timeline as if it could somehow soften the blow or make the situation less complicated. Leigh, however, looks like you've just knocked the wind out of her. She looks away, her expression shifting into something like shock or deep pain. Alarm bells ring in your head at the picture before you.

“Hey, did I say something wrong?” you say in a rush. “I mean, this whole situation is messed up, but if I—”

Leigh’s eyes are glass as they return to you. When she speaks again, her voice is so soft you almost have to lean in to hear. “Last fall... That's when I told Matt we should start trying for a baby.”

The words drain the color from your face. And suddenly, all the pieces of your story with Matt feels even more tainted.

You're not sure what your face gives away when you hear this news, but Leigh's expression quickly shifts from tearful to furious. “Stop feeling sorry for me,” she hisses. “I don’t need your pity.”

Leigh's tears start to spill over, and it's only 7:30 in the morning. It feels way too early for tears, especially here, in the middle of a coffee shop where the day is just beginning for most. You try to shrink into your seat, wishing you could make both of you invisible as the few other patrons start throwing curious, if not outright concerned, looks your way.

You never realized a simple conversation could cause someone so much pain. You thought providing Leigh with answers would help, but it looks like you're just making things even harder for her. Maybe keeping your distance from her is the kindest thing you can do.

“You know the worst part?” Leigh brushes away the tears that keep streaking down her face.

Clearly, she isn't looking for an answer, so you stay silent.

She makes sure she catches your eye before saying, “He agreed, and we started trying.”

-

Leigh catches her breath after wrapping up her class at the Beautiful Beast. 

She took a day off yesterday, immediately after talking with you, spending the whole day in bed just trying to sort out her thoughts and feelings. Surprisingly, wasting away for a whole day seemed to help, and her concerns gradually drifted back to her fight with Jules. It’s been days, and Leigh feels the urgency of reconciliation pressing on her. By this point, they should be on speaking terms again. By now, Jules should have let go of her anger, right? Leigh knows she can't afford to have her sister hating her. At least not right now. She needs her family, or what’s left of it—on her side. 

“Hey, Jules, got a sec? About the schedule…” Leigh tries, hoping work might be a safe enough topic to get her sister to acknowledge her existence once again.

Jules barely glances her way. Her hands keep moving, adjusting a strap here, aligning yoga mats there, as if the very act could shield her from having to engage. “Sorted. Check your email,” she replies, her voice cold and detached.

Leigh nods, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. “Great, great... um, did you consider adding that beginners' workshop we talked about?”

Jules stops for a beat, and Leigh thinks, maybe she's going to drop it. But no, Jules resumes fussing over items that hardly require any attention. Then, without even looking up, she says, “Yeah, it's on the list. Anything else?”

Leigh tries to keep her cool, wishing Jules would just cut to the chase and tell her what needs to be done for all to be forgiven. 

Trying a different tactic, Leigh goes, “Hey, found a Starbucks card in my bag. How 'bout I grab us some coffee? My treat.”

Leigh’s trying. She really is. Why can’t they see that?

Jules just gives her that look, the kind that doesn't need words, and heads back to her desk. And there's Leigh, offer of a beverage truce just floating in the air, going nowhere.

Getting ignored really gets under Leigh's skin. Back in the day, Matt's habit of brushing her off would drive her to the edge. She'd respond with over-the-top demands or twist things around just to make sure he’d always pay attention to her. She didn't start off wanting to be that person, but looking back, she sees the lengths she'd go to just to keep his attention from straying. 

Unable to control herself, she heads straight for Jules, grabs her arm despite her trying to wiggle free, and yanks her into the backroom.

“What the hell is your problem?!” Jules explodes, not caring if anyone’s heard her outside.

They're both standing there, kind of shocked by how heated things got so fast. Jules’ shout might've turned a few heads outside, but right now, that's the least of Leigh's worries.

“How many times do I need to apologize, for you to get over this?”

Jules’ eyes are wide in disbelief, her mouth twisting into a sardonic smile, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself, Leigh! This is exactly why I’m not talking to you,” Jules hisses, but keeps her voice down this time.

“What—”

“Do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

Leigh's initial scoff dies in her throat as she watches Jules' expression twist with hurt. “Yeah, okay, I said sorry about the crap I pulled the other day. I know I was out of line, talking about your past like that—”

Jules doesn't let her finish. “You weren't just being ‘out of line’, Leigh. You threw the worst time of my life in my face! Do you have any idea how hurtful that is? Coming from my own sister? From my own family? What, just to win an argument? To cover up for acting like a jerk at the club?”

Leigh goes quiet, but her face hardens, trying not to show how much Jules' words hit her right in the gut. What she said, laid out like that, it sounds…well, unforgivable.

“I'm trying, okay?” Leigh blurts out without thinking.

“Shouldn't be that hard to just be a decent human being, should it?” Jules shoots back, her dismissal sharp as she exits the cramped space, leaving Leigh reeling.

Under her breath, almost like she's talking to the walls, Leigh mumbles, “I'm really sorry…” It's quiet, almost lost in the room, but she means it the most at this very moment, even if no one's around to catch it.

-

Leigh clocks out from work, her day's fatigue hanging off her shoulders like a weighty cloak. Instead of heading straight home, she veers off her usual path, her feet bringing her to places that made breathing difficult the first few weeks after Matt's death. She's walking the same old route she always did when he was still around, back to when her home address was different and she'd pick up takeout from his favorite places along the way.

There’s the park first, the one where she and Matt spent countless afternoons sprawled on the grass, lying side by side as they watched the sky blush into shades of orange at sunset. She allows herself only a fleeting glance at the familiar paths and the bench they claimed theirs, feeling the same regret, the same hollowness as she remembers the good times they had there. 

In the back of her mind, she can't shake off the worry that maybe you've been here too, making your own memories with him. She doesn’t feel the surge of anger at this thought however. Instead, a part of her is almost willing to share these sacred memories if it means holding onto him in any form. She wants to believe that her jealousy has faded into a quieter acceptance that others might also carry pieces of him, pieces she's learning to live with.

Pulling herself away from the park, Leigh's walk inevitably leads her past Matt's favorite Italian restaurant—a quaint, cozy place where they celebrated most of their birthdays and, on occasion, anniversaries, especially when neither felt like cooking (which became an increasingly common choice in the months leading up to his accident).

She remembers how Matt's face would light up at the prospect of their rich, creamy carbonara and the tiramisu he claimed was unrivaled in the city. She recalls the numerous times she attempted to recreate the restaurant's tiramisu at home, aiming to surprise Matt at least once a month. Despite her efforts, if she truly wanted to indulge him, she knew there was no substitute for the real thing. So, on special days, or whenever she felt an extra burst of affection, she'd stop by the restaurant on her way home, picking up takeout. 

A waitress from the restaurant notices Leigh's lingering gaze and asks if she'd like a table. With a shy smile, Leigh declines, then pauses before finally deciding to order a tiramisu to go.

When she returns to her mom's house and eats the tiramisu alone, it tastes different. 

Leigh can't decide if the difference in the tiramisu's taste is good or bad, but that doesn't stop her. She finishes the entire slice in minutes. But instead of feeling full, it makes her feel emptier. Perhaps, it’s not the flavor that's changed; it's the experience of eating it without Matt's enthusiastic commentary, without him lighting up at the first bite or playfully claiming the last one, despite his generous offer to let her have it.

Suddenly, tears just start pouring out of Leigh as she sits there with an empty plate. She didn't see it coming, no chance to stop it or shove it down. Then, she finds herself laughing—a deep, throaty laugh—because she's grieved for him in countless ways, but this, crying over a dessert, has to be the most absurd. It's exactly the kind of moment they would have laughed at together.

Deciding that that would be her dinner, Leigh cleans up the small mess she's made and considers the evening ahead. But just as she’s about to sink into the couch for a quiet night, her phone buzzes, making her jump.

Seeing your name flash on her screen, she sighs, sensing a familiar bitterness creeping back in, disrupting the soothing moments she had just spent reminiscing about Matt. She lets it ring a few times more before picking up.

“Hi, Y/N,” Leigh says, managing to keep her voice steady over the phone.

“Hey,” you start, unsure how to break the ice after everything. Especially with what you’re about to say next.

“Listen, something happened today at the clinic. Someone came in looking for their lost French Bulldog, and they had a picture,” you pause to breathe. “Leigh, it looks a lot like Visitor.”

On the other end of the line, you can practically hear Leigh's heart skip a beat.

“Hello?” you ask, checking to make sure she's still there after she doesn't respond for several seconds.

“Are you sure?” Leigh’s voice cracks slightly.

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure,” you say softly, feeling a surge of empathy. “I'm sending you the picture now. Check it out and tell me what you think.”

You hit send and then wait for Leigh’s confirmation.

“It's him. It's definitely Visitor,” she says a moment later.

You're relieved but also concerned about what comes next. “So, what are you going to do?”

Leigh hesitates, and when she speaks again, she doesn’t give a direct answer. “Thank you, Y/N,” she says, and you pick up something in her tone. Something somber. 

“Everything alright?” 

But the line's already dead, leaving you staring at your phone, wondering what she is up to.

-

Leigh stands outside the community center, her hand lingering on the door longer than usual.  It's been weeks since she last came to a session. First, there was the shock of uncovering Matt's darkest secret, and now, there's the issue of the man inside, already looking her way, waiting to see her next move.

Danny appearing at her doorstep earlier in the week caught her completely off guard—and not in a good way. The moment she realized it was him, Leigh didn't hesitate to close the door in his face. After she shut him out, it escalated to the point where she threatened to call the police because he wouldn't stop pounding on the door and shouting for Leigh to let him in, insisting he just wanted to talk. His last attempt to get through to her fell flat when he flooded her inbox with texts and missed calls, pushing Leigh to the point where she blocked his number for good.

Despite the problem of Danny being here tonight, Leigh isn't willing to walk away from this just because of him. She's already given up so much lately, most recently Visitor—or Chico, as she found out his real name was—and his absence carved a fresh ache in her heart that she hadn't seen coming.

So, she takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, ignoring the smirk on Danny’s face as she proceeds to pretend like he doesn’t exist.

-

Somehow, after the meeting, Leigh ends up saying yes to a quick chat with Danny. He reels her in with the news that he submitted Matt’s remaining works—which he got custody of—to his publisher, and they were keen to publish them posthumously. 

Leigh can't help but throw in a bit of shade. “That's nice of you, doing something good for your brother, even if it's a bit late.”

Danny's face drops a little. Her words were sharp enough to hurt him, but he doesn't bite back or get in her face about it, which totally throws Leigh for a loop. After all the time she'd spent ignoring him, she had expected him to be at his worst around her.

And then he surprises her even more when he says, “Let me give you a ride home? It's the least I can do…”

Leigh arches an eyebrow. She didn’t bring the car tonight because Jules had a thing with Tommy, and she didn’t want to give her sister another reason to resent her. A ride from Danny beats the alternatives of walking or shelling out for a pricey cab, especially now that her phone's battery has given out, nixing the option of booking an Uber.

But this is Danny. Matt’s brother, and the guy she hooked up with because she thought she’d get back some semblance of her dead husband. After Jules pointed out how messed up it was that they'd slept together, Leigh's been all over the place. The rules around what they were doing either turned her off or, weirdly enough, made the whole thing more enticing, taboo and all. That's a big part of why she's been steering clear of him. Hanging out with Danny feels like reaching for a cigarette long after she's sworn off smoking.

Even with all that swirling in her head, Leigh ends up saying, “Sure, why not?”

Before she knows it, she's also agreeing to a drink at his place.

-

The second they step into his apartment, something inside of Leigh snaps. Acting on impulse, she grabs Danny by the collar and kisses him fiercely. She clenches his shirt in her hands, practically tearing it in her grip. Danny's initial surprise melts away in seconds, and then he’s kissing her just as hard, his tongue prying open her lips, taking control of the kiss right away. His hands find her waits, pulling her closer, practically already half-lifting her against the wall.

Leigh, caught up in the moment, begins to move her hips in a rocking motion against him. The action is effective enough to distract him from where he’s kissing every inch of Leigh’s neck, and he retaliates by suddenly pressing her more firmly against the wall, pinning her with his hips, their chests are tightly pressed together.

But as Leigh's fingers begin to fumble with the button of Danny's pants, he catches her hands gently and, panting, says, “Wait, Leigh, hold on for just a sec.” 

Leigh’s eyes fly open at his voice, irritation and impatience coloring them. “What?” she gasps out. 

He ignores the hard edges of her tone. He wants more—something real—and he's hoping she does too.

“I can’t do this again unless I know it’s going somewhere,” Danny says. He gently lets go of Leigh and takes a step back, trying to collect himself. It's a tough task, though, with Leigh looking the way she does—hair all tousled, lips slightly swollen and marked from when he got a bit carried away, her cheeks tinged with a warm flush. He could’ve made her come in the next two minutes, he’s sure of it.

At Danny's confession, Leigh can't help it; she bursts into laughter. The idea of him catching feelings now, of all times, seems absurd to her. As she laughs, Danny's jaw tightens, but he waits patiently for her to finish.

When Leigh finally notices the seriousness etched across Danny's face, her amusement evaporates almost instantly. The realization that he's not joking strikes her, and it doesn't sit well. Not one bit.

“What, you think because your brother's gone, you get to... what? Step in? Take his place?” she spits out, incredulous. “This is never going to be anything more than a quick fuck, Danny.”

In his desperation, he calls her bluff. “You’re lying.”

Leigh's reaction morphs into a cruel sneer. “If you're going to insist on something more, then we're just wasting our time,” she mutters, turning to leave.

Danny's not ready to let her walk away, not yet. He grabs her arm, and for a second, they're just staring each other down, a silent battle raging between them. Leigh’s resolve is impenetrable.

It’s Danny who cracks first, exhaling a defeated, “Fine.”

But Leigh's not having any half-measures. She whirls around, fire in her eyes. “Nope. Say it properly,” she demands.

With a sigh that feels like he's giving away a part of himself, Danny looks at her, worn and resigned. “This doesn't have to mean anything,” he says even if it’s the last thing he wants.

Leigh locks eyes with him, a storm brewing in her look. Just when Danny thinks it's better to just drop it, she throws him a question out of nowhere. 

“Did you know?”

“Know what?” Danny asks, genuinely puzzled.

“About Matt and me... trying for a baby when he... you know.”

“He... he never mentioned anything like that,” he says, feeling the pain she’s radiating. Leigh looks like she’s about to fall apart and all he wants is to be the one to gather her pieces and put them all back together.

No more words follow from Leigh. It's as if the question drained what was left of the conversation. Without warning, she surges forward, her lips meeting Danny’s in a bruising kiss, then she grabs Danny's hands, placing them firmly back on her waist. He gets the message loud and clear, and together they quickly shed their clothes, letting them fall in a heap around their feet. She comes about twelve minutes and thirty seconds later.

-

It's been eight days—not that you're keeping track or anything. But after giving Leigh the heads-up that someone’s been looking for a dog that looks exactly like Visitor, you were kind of expecting she’d at least update you if it really was him or not.

So, when a client strolls in later with Visitor, who's actually called Chico according to the file your secretary slips you, you're a little disappointed it's not Leigh showing up instead. It must have been incredibly tough for her to return Chico to his real family. She invested her heart, time, and not to mention her wallet, into that dog, caring for him as if he were her own.

Thinking she’d be relieved to know he’s in good hands, you send her a text to update her about Chico's visit to the clinic today. You mention how healthy and content he seems, yet you hazard a guess that he's probably missing Leigh too. 

She sees your message right away, and then leaves you on read.

-

Her thing with Danny turns into a late-night ritual, particularly after Drew fails to respond to her following their conversation, not even offering her a guest column in the weeks that followed their talk. Drew continues to invite her for coffee and dinner dates along with his fiancée, but he avoids the topic about the column, so Leigh stops asking.

The hookups are always a post-midnight impulse. She’d find herself sneaking out of her mother's house to meet him, driven by a mix of need and escape, or occasionally, by insomnia. After their moments together, she never lingers in Danny's bed for too long once she's found her satisfaction, eager to shower away his scent from her skin. 

Back at home, she ensures there's no trace of their deed by the time she slips into bed, allowing herself to sleep deep into the middle of the day. This pattern of nocturnal activity and daytime slumber has led her mother to adjust Leigh's responsibilities, moving her to take charge of the afternoon classes instead. This behavior earns her suspicious glances from Jules, but Leigh chooses to ignore them—if Jules isn't interested in reconciling, then she has no right to concern herself with Leigh's personal affairs.

Leigh doesn’t know how she got here, back at the beginning, in an ever messier situation. She can't stop fucking Danny, her emotions for Matt are a rollercoaster—she finds herself forgiving him and cursing him interchangeably a couple of times a day. 

She's astounded this is her life now, seemingly unable to talk herself out of decisions that pull her deeper into chaos.

-

A month later, Leigh becomes a distant memory. Following a series of tumultuous encounters, your life gradually returns to its normal rhythm—quiet, ordinary days filled with clinic work, attending to various cases, meeting new clients, and addressing the myriad issues of small animals. All of these tasks prove easier to deal with than anything involving Leigh Shaw.

The sole noteworthy event in your generally uneventful life lately was your latest visit to a physician for an annual physical exam. The blood tests revealed some numbers outside the normal range, notably elevated cholesterol levels. Consequently, your doctor advised you to integrate exercise into your daily regimen and to reduce your consumption of takeout meals, specifically pizza and Chinese fast food.

It’s a big sacrifice, considering your day usually flies by without much thought for food, except for dinner. It’s the one time in your day you actually look forward to. So, to hold onto that bit of happiness, you've been looking at fitness classes that are actually enjoyable and help burn those extra calories to keep you in shape.

Yoga stands out as the top choice for you, mainly because it all unfolds on a mat. You assume it'll demand the least amount of effort compared to the other options (specifically spinning), which all seem to promise nothing but pain and suffering.

Deciding to give yoga a shot, you choose Beautiful Beast, swayed by its stellar reviews. You secure a slot for a 6pm class, feeling pretty good about this decision.

That is, until Leigh Shaw walks into the said class, clad in a sports bra and tight-fitting leggings that highlight her toned legs. She’s busy on her phone, and without looking up, she walks to the front of the room. 

What are the chances you'd both be in the same class at the same fitness studio? The plot thickens when she pockets her phone and turns to face the class, gesturing for everyone to get their mats ready as the session's about to start.

You swallow hard. Leigh isn't here as a joiner—she's running it.

It takes about a quarter of the session for Leigh to notice you’re in her class. It's only while she's making her rounds, observing each student's camel pose, that her gaze finally lands on you. Struggling through your lack of core strength, you can't quite catch her initial reaction, but then she calls out your name. The surprise makes you gasp as she places her hand on the curve of your spine, just above the small of your back, and gently pushes you upward, deepening your arch. 

The stretch draws a grimace from you, but then she says, “Good, that's it,” and suddenly, you're determined not to let her down. You focus on the pose, on Leigh's instructions, and on not falling apart under her watchful eye. Leigh keeps everyone in the position a few moments longer than expected before instructing the class to transition into the child's pose for recovery. At her cue, your arms collapse, and you find yourself breathing heavily, grateful for the brief respite.

Something tells you it's not the high cholesterol that's going to be the end of you, but rather this yoga class and Leigh's merciless teaching style. 

-

You're all packed up and ready to leave, still reeling from what could easily be the toughest hour of your life, when someone calls out to you.

“Hey, Y/N.”

It's Leigh. Her tone is softer, more fatigued than you remember. She’s still in her gym clothes, looking like the workout barely touched her except for a few strands of hair sticking to her forehead. And somehow, she smells more like a rose garden than the gym floor.

“I didn’t know you work here—” you blurt out, almost apologizing. But before you can add anything else, Leigh just shakes her head, something like amusement in her smile, stopping you mid-sentence. Her smile, warm and a little teasing, eases some of the tension you didn't realize you were holding. 

“Are you a mind reader or something?” she teases. “Cause yeah, I was going to ask if you were following me.”

You’re quick to deny it. “I wasn’t.”

Leigh lets out a chuckle like she's getting a kick out of seeing you on edge. You shuffle your feet, still unsure if she’s trying to scare you off or welcome you to her tutelage.  

“Look, if it's weird for you, me being here... I can find another class,” you offer, the words tumbling out before you can think them through.

Her reaction is swift and a bit surprising, “Why would I want that? So you can duck out and be a rubbish yogi elsewhere and ruin my reputation?”

You’re taken aback by her response. Clearly, Leigh's not pushing you away; it's almost as if she's egging you on, daring you to stick it out. And if there's any hope of moving past this... whatever it is, leaving now because it might get awkward doesn't seem like the right move to make a fresh start.

“All right, I'll stay,” you find yourself saying, more to your surprise than hers. 

Leigh's got this look of triumph, chin lifted just so, when you agree to stick around. “See you at 5:30. Greenway Park,” she throws out casually.

You're there blinking, trying to piece together what she means. But before you can even get a word out, she's one step ahead. 

“We have to work on your endurance,” she clarifies. “Make sure you’re wearing real running shoes. No sneakers.”

[rad-roche]

Pulp Covers And How To Paint Them

With the rise of cheap printing in the early twentieth century, mass-marked paperbacks swept the world, each offering lurid thrills for obscenely low prices. Sex, sadism, and incredible violence for as little as ten cents. An easy purchase to slot in between fifty cigarettes a day and enough bourbon slugs to kill a small garden.

Pulp fiction is where some of the greats of American literature cut their teeth, including the big three, Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald and Dashiell Hammett. The contents of these stories, both the dizzyingly good and astoundingly terrible, have been absorbed and digested and remixed and regurgitated in nearly every permutation imaginable, fuelling pop culture some one hundred years on. This isn't an essay on that. Nobody likes to open a tutorial and be greeted with a wall of text. The history is for another time.

But it is about how to paint it.

Don't let the pre-amble intimidate you, it's not as hard as it sounds. You will need:

Painting software with some image editing capabilities. You don't need all the bells and whistles of Photoshop, but I wouldn't recommend something like MSPaint, at least not to start with. I'm using Clip Studio Paint.

A really beat-up paper texture. The grungier, the better.

A lightly-textured brush. Here are the specific brushes I use, 99% of which is the well-named rough brush. Try and avoid anything with any impasto elements.

Go to your colour-picking tool and use the 'select from layer' option. Doing all the painting on a single layer is going to make your life easier.

A complete willingness to make mistakes and, instead of erasing, painting over them. It generates much more colour variation and interest! Keep your finger off the E key.

Good reference! That painting is a master copy of Mitchel Hooks' art for Day of the Ram. Find a style you really love and want to learn? Have no clue where to begin? Do direct studies!

Let's not worry about whatever is happening in the background. It's probably fine. Let's get started! Pulp magazine art is a lot more varied than you might first think, so don't agonize over having a style that 'fits' or not. I'm also specifically aiming for something you'd see on the cover after printing, not the initial painting they would use for printing. The stuff I'll show here is a pretty narrow band of it, but here are some general commonalities. This is a painting by Tom Lovell.

Let's dig into this.

The colours are very bright and saturated, but the actual values, the relative lightness and darkness of them, are actually grouped very simply! You can check this by filling a layer full of black, putting it on top and setting its mode to colour. If the value of a painting looks good, you actually get a lot of leeway with colour. But here's what I think is the most important thing to keep in mind.

The darks aren't that dark, and the lights aren't all that light! Covers are paintings reproduced on cheap paper. Anything you wouldn't want to happen in the printing process, you lean into. Value wash-outs, lower contrast, colours getting a weird wash to them, really gritty texturing. So let's get painting! Here's my typical setup.

That bottom folder is the painting itself. The screen layer is the grungy paper texture. To get the effect you want, put it down, invert its colour, then set it to screen. That washes out your painting far, far too much, so to compensate, I put a contrast layer up on top. Fiddle around with the settings, but this is where mine ended up sitting.

Note I'm saying this before even starting the painting: you want to do this as early as possible. This is where the 'select from layer' colour picker comes in handy. You can paint without worrying about the screen or contrast layer. Something not looking right? Enable your value check layer and keep painting. When you turn it off, it'll still be in colour. Here's a timelapse so you can see what that looks like.

And when you check the values...

They're pretty simple! This isn't a be all and end all, but I hope it serves as a decent primer. I want thirty dames on my desk by Monday!

[honeysscrapbook]

[🐍] Snape x f!reader

In where you get detention with Snape for being a bad student!

Warnings: Teacher x Student relationships, reader is 18, smut and nsfw, bad english (english isn’t my first language)

Tags: Age Gaps, Cockwarming as punishment, Detention, Dom!Snape, Sub!Reader, Petnames, P in V Sex, Semi-public sex, Bratty Reader (kinda), Degrading Petnames (Slut and Whore), Praise

Authors note: i’m supposed to be studying rn!! first smut fic (i have no clue what i’m doing)

Guide: H/N: house name, Y/N: your name, L/N: last name, E/C: eye color, H/C: hair color.

read on Ao3 — coming soon…

You’ve always been a top student in Hogwarts, you cared about grades and what teachers thought about you. During the last year you sort of let go, you didn’t care anymore. Thought it was the most important year.

You arrive tardy again at Potions class. The only place left was front row, so you sit there next to a Hufflepuff guy.

“Late…again.”

“Five points away from (H/N)”

Snape says with his cold tone. A student from your house groaned in annoyance.

Professor Snape’s broad eyes were burning into your skin, he was walking around the tables before stopping at yours. His tall dark figure made the student next to you whimper quietly in fear, quickly looking down at his potions textbook and pretending to read something.

You look at your professor, almost in a challenging manner. Looking at him up and down.

“Is he trying to scare me? Who does he think he is?” You think, scoffing quietly, looking away.

Severus suddenly leans on your table, his hands slamming against it. You jump a bit.

“If you seem to think that way, Miss (L/N), you might as well have detention with me..after class.”

He says in his usual monotone voice.

Did he just..read your mind?!

Your eyes widen for a moment as you gently nod your head.

“Good..page 367.” He stands up and walks away slowly.

You gulp quietly, suddenly afraid of him, but also kind of surprised and turned on. You bite your bottom lip gently as you open your textbook, the sound of pages flipping filling the quiet classroom. When did you start to think so lustfully about your Potions Master? Maybe it was the fact he was so strict and controlling that made you so hot and bothered.

A reddish pink flush meets your face as you try not to think about that any longer. You stop biting your bottom lip and look up, feeling someone staring at you. It was Snape, his eyes meeting yours for a good 5 seconds before yours snapped away, and he smirked for a second, looking away too.

The bell rang, everyone started leaving the class while you gently closed the textbook in front of you. You were excited, your stomach started turning as you felt butterflies in it. You stand up.

Snape walks up to you.

“So..what? Are you going to make me grade tests or some shit?” You walk up to him, leaning your legs against the table, wanting to make a fight with him for some reason. It turned you on.

“Language, (L/N)”

“No. I wasn’t planning on making you do that, dear” He leans his hands on the table behind you, besides your waists, he lowers his head. Your faces inches apart as you part your lips, letting out a small gasp.

“You’ve been way to bratty. I think you need a punishment..”

He says. You bite your bottom lip and smirk.

“And how do you plan on doing that, huh?” You chuckle. His face darkens as he grabs your wrist and pulls you to his desk.

He slammed you to it, pinning your hips against it, but still keeping a distance.

“Strip for me, whore.”

Your eyes widen again, his words pounding in your head, you blush as you fight the urge to submit to the man in front of you. He gently lets go of your hips as you look away, whimpering quietly, really trying your hardest not to give in to your urges.

You slowly start to remove your uniform, starting from coat, you gently slide it down your shoulders, it hits the floor with a small thud. A smalls smirk meets Snape’s lips as he gets closer to you and cups your cheeks gently, turning you to him.

“Look at me, slut.”

You whimper as you look up at him, continuing to strip, feeling the Professor’s gaze upon your body.

You’re finally in your panties and bra. Snape sits down carefully on his chair as he pulls you down on his lap by your waist. You squirm quietly with anticipation as your hands go on his shoulders gently.

Two of his fingers gently rub your clothed clit. “Severus..” You breath out, pressing your pussy on his hand. It slides away, you whine. “Its Professor for you, darling.” He says, sliding off your panties. You moan bite your bottom lip to keep quiet.

“You can scream as loud as you want, dear. The doors are locked and i used charms.” He whispers in your ear, throwing your panties on the floor. You let out a moan “Y-yes..Professor..”

Two fingers go inside your tight cunt. You moan loudly. “So fucking wet, aren’t you, brat?” Snape says gently pumping his fingers inside your soaking pussy, your fingers grip his shoulders as your nails go in his skin.

“H-haah..Professor..please” You beg, stuffing your head into the crook of his neck. “Please what, slut-face?” He says whispering, his dark tone making you shiver in pleasure. “Need..you in..” You breath out, gently kissing his neck and collar of his shirt. “You want my cock, sweetheart?” He smirks gently, taking his fingers out. “Y-yes! Yes please!!” You beg him as you hear the zipper of his pants getting undone. You look at his boxers; his penis is bulging and begging to be released. You whine in anticipation as he pulls down his underwear, his 8 centimeter cock springs out and hits his abdomen, already dripping in precum.

You eagerly start to sit on it before he stops you and grabs your hips. “Not so fast, doll.” You grab his arms, arching your eyebrows begging him with your eyes to let you ride him. Instead, he slowly pushes you down his hardness, teasing your folds with the tip, pulling out several moans out of you, until he fully plunges you down on him, hitting your g-spot perfectly. You moan loudly “F-fuck..! Snape!”, you start to ride him, pushing your head back and closing your eyes.

“Do. Not. Move.” He commands, holding your hips down. “This is your punishment. Be a good slut and stay still on my cock.” Your eyes widen and you whine, pressing your head on his shoulder again.

“What the fuck?!” You think to yourself, tears starting to fill up your big (E/C) eyes as you grip his shoulders tighter. He starts to correct essays with you on his penis, still very hard. You gently start crying in his shoulder letting out little begs. “Shh..sweetheart. C’mon be a good girl and you’ll get rewarded after.” You gently wipe away your tears and nod as he caressed your beautiful (H/C) hair. You start quietly kissing his neck again, which he enjoys but doesn’t show.

After 10 minutes of fighting the urge to move around, he pulls you up from his hardness and makes you sit on his desk, you moan in relief as a smile meets your red lips. He stands between your legs as he spread them “Such a good little slut. Aren’t you? You took my dick so well.” He kisses your lips as he grabs your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the desk and alining the head of his cock with your vulva. He slams his cock into you as you moan again, hugging his waists and smashing your face into his chest as he spreads your pretty little clit.

He groans in pleasure as he throws his head back gently, muttering curses and grabbing your hips, smashing him into you. You feel yourself getting close. “God..fuck..Professor..gonna cum..” you whimper quietly, hugging him tighter. “Me too, darling..” He groans as his thrusts speed up. “Cum..in me please..” You beg him to fill you up. “You want me to finish into you, dear?” You nod frantically.

“God..so close..mngh..!” You whine. “Come on my cock, sweetheart. C’mon, you’re close i can feel it..” He says, making his thrusts as hard and deep as he possibly can. You both finish at the same time, feeling his hot creamy load full up your vulva.

You’re panting as he pulls out his dick out of you, both of you riding off your high. He grabs his wand and uses a spell to grab a towel, cleaning you up first then himself. He helps you dress up as he pulls up his underwear and pants.

After you’re both fully clothed he kisses your forehead. “You were so good, darling.” He whispers. “Maybe we should do this more of then, mh?” You nod as you grab your Potions textbook and leave the class.

Suddenly, you’re motivated to be a good student again.

[lilac-5ky]

Roommates from Hell, pt.1 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 1: Stolen Fries taste best

(pic from loving yamada at lvl999, adorable manga, recommend)

Chapter 2 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist

Plot: Out of all the women that come and go in Toji's life, you're the only one he calls his friend. But when he suddenly forces his way into your apartment, the feelings you've kept from him are put to the test.

Setting: Pre Hidden Inventory Arc. Toji and reader are both in their late twenties, no Megumi in picture... yet :p

Themes: Cohabitation, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers

Warning: Slight sexual content minus the actual smut.

A/N at the bottom

“You’re late. Again.”

The small silver bell at the top of the glass door notified you of a man’s arrival, his heavy steps refusing to wipe themselves upon entry, spreading mud all over the now-blotted checkered tiles of the dimly lit diner. You’d been expecting the owner of those shoes for the past six hours, his untimely arrival coming as a bitter aftertaste to an afternoon full of childish joy and mayhem— popped balloons, colorful confetti, and half-eaten pieces of cakes swept into one big pile at the room’s southernmost corner by yours truly.

“I never said I was coming,” the voice retorted, its defiant sound overshadowed by the gruesome screech of a metallic chair. “Not interested in celebrating some brat’s b-day, ‘specially if it ain’t mine.”

“How many helpless children must have spent their birthdays without their no-good father, I wonder,” you wiped your hands against your cherry-red apron, pushing the broom back into place. “If your goal is to repopulate Japan, I’m certain you’ll succeed.”

Hefty fingers mindlessly combed through a head of obsidian black, little spikes forming and then settling back down. “None, as far as I’m concerned,” sarcasm dripped from his tongue.

“Well, I find that hard to believe,” you mumbled under your breath, circling through the room to ensure everything was dealt with: leftovers in the fridge, gift wrappings in the bin, and the large aforementioned pile of garbage waiting to be scooped up. “You’ve known Kenzo since birth. Even if this ain’t your thing, the least you could’ve done was make an appearance. He kept asking about his favorite uncle all night long.”

“Except I’m not his uncle. Don’t mix me in with your sister’s family, I ride solo.”

Sigh.

“My sister’s family might as well be your family, Toji. You know how much Hinata and her kids adore you.”

“Good for them, I suppose.”

Another sigh.

“Can you at least tell me what was so important for you to not even pick the goddamn phone up?”

As if the device had grown sentient, a generic tune began tooting from the back pocket of his sweatpants, eradicating your final hope that it’d simply run out of battery.

Without budging from his seat, Toji twisted an arm around his back to pull his flip-phone out, the silver-tinted lid slamming shut as soon as he’d peered at the caller’s number, his next immediate move being to drown the sound in a glass of leftover Coke, fizzy bubbles playing the device’s final requiem.

You didn’t need to ask to know it was a woman, and he didn’t need to answer that she, whatever the name of his latest conquest was, happened to also be the reason for his being unfashionably late.

It was always like that. He was always like that. He went out with one girl after the other; from women of extreme beauty and poise to mindless bimbos who couldn’t tell tea leaves and coffee beans apart. He’d spend some cash to butter them up with expensive meals at overpriced restaurants, or VIP entrance at the hottest club, or even pay for the name tag on their designer clothes, but come next morning, he was either caught stealing straight out of their pockets or checking whether the tag was still attached to the dress for him to return it to the store—at which point, the vast majority gave up, except for those few poor souls who earnestly believed they could fix him, though they never would.

If there were two things in this world that remained unfaltering and resolute throughout the eons, then that was the earth’s orbiting the sun, and Zen’in Toji’s being the bastard of a man you knew and loved— special intonation of that last part.

It was quite the oxymoron. To know him as an irredeemable scumbag with no intention of changing, and to love him for all he was; a sentence as contradictory and controversial as the man before you. What was there to love? He never gave two shits about the people around him dying, and if he could encourage or partake in their deaths then he certainly would. He gambled every cent of cash in his hands away, and his every attachment ended with the disposal of his used-up condom. He was vulgar, cynical, and brass, and he possessed a great charisma of making people dislike him at first glance. His only saving grace was his good looks and even those he managed to scrape on a daily basis.

So, really, what was there to love about a man whose place fitted best among the pile of garbage in the corner? What was the point in all that?

He never answered your question, and when you realized he wasn’t planning to, you dragged a second chair to his side, propping your elbows first and then your chin over the vinyl backrest, feet landing at each side. You took in his expression— sour and undeniably agitated, with a frown tugging at the scarred corner of his lower lip, and a glare too icy to be meant for the wall of American-styled neon billboards he mercilessly studied. Something definitely bothered him, and as a huff stiffened his chin, the reason became evident enough for you to point at it.

“Woman or work?” you gestured at the blood that dribbled below his ear and down his neck.

He followed your forefinger with his eyes, thumb scrubbing where the gush began. He seemed oblivious to his injury, though it wasn’t as if his becoming aware changed a thing.

“So it is a woman,” you gladly seized the chance to rub salt into his wound, drawing a frustrated grumble from him.“What did you do this time? Stole her car and crashed it into a tree? Blew all her savings on cockfight betting?”

“Horse races,” he had the nerve to correct.

“Or… did you by any chance bring an uncalled ménage à trois to her bed?”

“What kind of man you take me for?” Toji protested.

“A very, very, veeeery bad man,” you smirked, and he returned it. You knew him like the back of your hand. There was no need to pretend otherwise after well over a decade’s worth of friendship.

“If a very bad man is what I am, then why’d ya let me in?” he asked. “A young unprotected woman all by herself in the middle of the night letting such scum in never ends well. Thought you were smarter than this.”

“If I was smarter, then I wouldn’t be calling you my friend, would I?”

His grimace turned into a full-blown devilish grin, the kind that secretly had your heart buzzing against the frail set of bones of your chest. He always looked so dazzling when he smiled, that sometimes you couldn’t find fault in those women wanting to believe in his pretty lies, because you, too, wanted to. You hoped that whatever the price for those smiles was, you would one day be able to afford it and gain ownership of his heart, no matter how wretched or blackened it was.

“You are a real idiot to mix it up with me,” he conceded. “Though, you are a greater idiot for letting that term define us. I bet your nights serving meals at some kiddie place get rather lonely. But I could help. I could make you feel really good, Y/N. So good that you’d risk some prick getting in, lest he is me.”

His tongue poked out his mouth, giving his bottom lip a brief lick while he peered at you through half-lidded eyes. He had this way of turning things sexual in the blink of an eye, selling himself so well that your refusal to buy seemed commendable— despite the unmistakable affection you held for his face. Little did he know how much you longed to push that chair to the side and rip his cocky expression along his black-sleeved shirt off his body, making it so that neither of you had a place to hide from the other.

Now, that’d feel good.

“My nights are fine as they are, thank you very much,” you countered your instincts much to his disappointment. “And if I ever needed myself a helping hand, know that you’d be the last I’d call!” Not as if you’d pick up, anyway, you mentally added.

His gust of interest fizzled out as soon as it surged, your rejection forcing him to rock back and forth between the chair’s legs. He wasn’t interested in continuing this. It was enough for him to take in the dusty pink shading of your ears and smile to himself, knowing you were still the kind of woman affected by his charms. Yes, that certainly was enough, for now.

“I’ll clean you up,” you declared, getting off your spot in haste and strolling through the bar in search of a clean towel.

Once you found it, you let it soak under the faucet and brought it back to him, rubbing against his skin regardless of his petty attempt at gritting his teeth. You placed one hand on his shoulder and another at his jaw, pushing them apart to no avail. Every muscle in his body was stronger than your entire bodily force combined, and he was awfully willing to flex that difference between you, just as he was at letting you straddle his hips and climb all over his body like some sort of feral monkey in heat.

A string of profanities that ranged from “bastard” to “shit-eating-asshole-shithead” poured out your mouth while Toji smirked, and smiled, and grinned, and didn’t even try to stop you from knocking the two of you onto the ground, palms barely managing to stable your head over his face. Your pleated skirt had risen, or rather flipped, over your panties, revealing the strawberry pattern panties you were wearing to his greedy hands as they hiked up your flesh without an ounce of shame.

“Wh-What are you doing?!”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he cooed, burying his calloused fingers under the elastic waistband of your underwear.

You felt him trace the inward of your thighs in languid strokes, the fabric stretching the further his hand dipped— closer, and closer to your now-pulsing core, but never so close as to make actual contact. His hot breath tingled your lips, smelling of nothing in particular, but a sweaty tang of a woman’s deodorant that still lingered in his clothes. Had he fucked her before making it here, you wondered, heart tightening at the thought.

Your legs wiggled shut, unable to fully repel his hand, and for a brief moment, you considered letting him go through with this— whatever this was. Even if you came to be another conquest won, you didn’t care. All you needed was for him to hush all logic from your brain, and fuck you senselessly against the checkered tile floor of the “kiddie food place” you served meals at.

“Toji…” you begged, uncertain what you were begging him for until you felt the warmth in your thighs subside.

“Makin’ sure to preserve your maiden’s dignity,” he said as he fixed your skirt in place. “Wouldn’t want some perv catching sight of your cute little ass, would we?”

His condescending tone made you want to throw a slap across his face and then yours; for thinking that maybe this wasn’t a mistake, that you could really move past the pretense of friendship and aim at what you really sought. But he’d been right once before. You were stupid, stupider than all those girls combined, considering you knew and still wouldn’t mind being dragged down with him one bit.

“Fucking asshole,” you blurted as you pushed yourself off him, dumping the cloth on his smug face.

Your lip quivered as you stepped onto your feet, unable to quite shake the feeling of incompletion from your core, walls pathetically clenching around nothingness. You refused to look at him, lest you caved in a second time, and thus you paced around the booths, stopping before the one window whose blinds didn’t block the magnificent parking lot view. Only a black SUV was left— most likely his newest rental.

Following a beep, you watched the lights flicker white, his reflection in the window lifting the chair back up. You crossed your arms over your chest and waited, your impatience and frustration churning into a dangerous mix within your guts, as the asshole whose name wasn’t worth saying moved past you and walked straight to the door, not a single word or goodbye said.

“What about your phone?” you asked, at last paying him a look of spite.

“I’ll text ya my new number.”

“We both know you won’t.”

He glanced over his shoulder and showed you his pearly white canines, his expression not polished enough to be called a smile. You rolled your eyes in the opposite direction, spotting his old device blinking a variety of different lights, refusing to die just like its bastard of an owner.

“What should I do with this?”

“How the hell should I know?” Toji shrugged. “Get rid of it, or toss it in some burger. I’m sure no one will be able to tell the difference. Later,” the bell chimed as the door collided with the frame, chiming a second time as his head popped in a moment later. “Loved the raspberries.”

“They were strawberries, you scatterbrained swine,” you cursed, but he’d heard none of it. The car was gone, and so was he, and it was for the best that he didn’t get to witness the strawberry-colored shadow that loomed over both your cheeks.

Fanning some of that heat away, you returned to the table, surprised to find a white envelope with the name Kenzo hastily written on the front. Cash. Lots of cash. Enough cash to keep a low-end apartment afloat for at least a couple of months. An excuse and simultaneously the answer to all your previous questions.

“You fucking bastard,” you hummed, the term switching to one of utter endearment.

When the first instance of a wintry breeze came charging at the semi-exposed features of your face—a scarf’s fluff tucked right below your nose— you knew that walking all the way to the location where the unknown ID claiming to be Zen’in Toji ordered you to meet up was probably a bad idea.

For starters, you’d turn into an icicle long before making it back to your workplace. Not to mention you had no foolproof way of guaranteeing the person you were about to meet wasn’t some random impersonating psychopath. But when you finally spotted the yellow curvy “M” upon the rectangular red sign that spelled the fast food chain’s name, you narrowed down the psychopaths to that one cheapskate you happened to know.

Walking into the nearly vacant dining area —only the first two booths near the door occupying a family of four each— you detected him almost immediately. He was the only one seated in his wing. Head slightly tilted to look past the window, golden highlights showering the curve of a nose as it arched into thin eyebrows, calm eyes glinting with subtle emerald, and fingers that absentmindedly tapped away onto one of the two paper-covered trays. He had the decency to wait for you before getting into his food, though that didn’t stop him from munching on the occasional fry.

You tugged the handbag off your shoulder and slowly approached him, hesitating to enter his field of view, if just for a moment. He seemed so peaceful and serene, that if you had the guts, you’d snap a picture of him right then and there and make it into your phone’s wallpaper. But you didn’t. You’d never be able to explain it to him in a non-humiliating way, should he catch you in the act, and so, you shook the notion off and marched in his direction, his eyes lighting up in recognition.

“What’s the point of calling me out here for lunch if we are gonna have burgers?” you dropped your bag at the far end of the table. “Why not eat at our place?”

“I like the fries here better,” he bit onto one as if to affirm his claim, licking the salty essence off his fingers. “You should be glad I got you some, too,” he nodded toward the closed dome-shaped box that lay in front of you. “Nuggets over burgers, right? Didn’t know what toy ya wanted though. Cashier girl told me bunnies are quite popular with girls your age, so I went with that.”

Ignoring, or rather postponing your answer to his outrageous suggestion, you peered through the contents of your meal’s box, spotting the wrapped-in-plastic purple-colored bunny key chain right at the bottom between the small portion of deluxe potatoes and even smaller portion of chicken nuggets that still steamed hot air. You were surprised he remembered everything about your order, down to your preference for milkshake over other beverages, and perhaps you would have shown your gratitude if it wasn’t for that last comment of his gnawing at your pride.

“How old did you tell the cashier I was, again?” you gritted, trying to suppress the toy’s cuteness within your fist.

“Didn’t. Just said it’s for some kid I know. Probably thought it was for my daughter or something.”

A pair of googly eyes popped out from their sockets, the bunny’s head in serious danger of coming right off.

“Stop acting like an old man,” you muttered in embarrassment. “A nine-month head start in life doesn’t make you old enough to be my father.”

“Still older than you, kid,” said Toji, his fingers latching onto his wrapped-up burger. “Now eat up. Didn’t pay ya lunch for it to go cold.”

Annoyed by his remarks, but oh-so terribly starved, you decided to let things slide, the two of you lunching in a period of temporal truce. He went through his burger in big bites, clearing it out before you even finished your portion of nuggets. You mildly wondered why he’d held off if he was this hungry, but didn’t press on the reason behind his invitation until after his tray was half-emptied.

“So… why’d you wanna meet up? Got something to tell me?”

“Mhm, I actually do. How would you like us to be room—Nah, that doesn’t sound too right,” Toji shook his head off, dusting the excess salt off his fingers. “I decided I’m moving in with you.”

“You, what?!?” You shrieked, eyes wide with shock, resembling those of your newly acquired key chain.

“What I just said. I’m moving in,” he repeated as if you hadn’t heard him the first time around. “Got everything right here. I’ll pop by later so you can show me my room.”

You glanced down at what he tapped as “here”, spotting a large black duffel bag that rested on his feet. He wasn’t joking, you panicked. He was being 100% serious about this. Directing your milkshake to your mouth, you took a nervous sip, nearly choking on the plastic straw between your teeth, while Toji kept staring at you, awaiting no answer in particular. After all, he wasn’t asking. He was proclaiming.

“Why would you want that?” you asked once you regained the ability to think rationally. “Weren’t you the one who said you ride solo?”

“Numerous reasons,” he stated, drawing his forefinger forth as if to recount. “For starters, rental prices going up, gas too. Inflation in the market and all that crap. Your place is also closer to work, and” he leaned closer, “wasn’t your neighborhood the one on the news recently? You know, those serial break-and-enter cases? As far as I’m aware, the culprit’s still running loose, could be a cursed spirit or something. You can’t see ‘em, but I can. I’ll keep ya safe. Wouldn’t you want that? Sounds like a fair deal to me, at least.”

The repetitive pattern of a catchy pop song blasting from the speakers served as a backdrop to your thoughts, eyes flickering between the table and his face. He wasn’t exactly wrong about what he said. The girl next door was the robber’s last victim, and from what you’d gathered, it seemed like the ones targeted were exclusively single women in their twenties. Curse or not, that was the intruder’s type, and you just so happened to tick both of those boxes.

From a standpoint of reason, his suggestion sounded fair alright, but this was Toji we were talking about. The man whose name was your first thought in the morning and the final afterthought in the night. The man you were coincidentally in love with.

Living with him would entail being around him a lot more than you could handle. Waking and sleeping and eating in the same house as him, spending your days off together, bickering about bills, take-out, and the TV remote’s ownership, doing things that only couples got to do, and of course, sharing a bathroom, which on its own meant seeing him parade through the cramped little space of your apartment in nothing but a soggy towel, hair slick and teeth beaming as he’d be asking if you’d like to join him in the shower—

You hit the break on these thoughts and pressed your forehead flat against both palms, feeling the heat exuding through your fingers. You were only able to keep this relationship platonic because of the distance he put between you. If he were to suddenly close it, what would come of you? How on earth would you be able to hold back?

“Don’t you want me?”

“Huh?” you bit at the straw again, snapping it in half.

“I said, you hate the idea of living with me that much?”

Toji certainly didn’t mince his words, but the way he was looking at you, brows furrowing and lips quivering into a frown despite the edge in his tone, almost made it seem as if hearing your rejection out loud would hurt him, and because of that, you had no choice, but to shake your head in denial. You wanted this. More than words could express, you wanted to be with him like that, even if you refrained from disclosing that truth.

You wanted him.

“What about your girlfriends? Wouldn’t they be against you living with some woman?”

“Nah, I’m done with that. Done with all of ‘em.”

“But my apartment is too small. I don’t think it’d suit you—”

“I’ll manage,” he cut you off.

“I don’t even have a second bed-”

“We can always share,” he smirked, letting out a light-hearted chuckle as he watched color paint your cheeks. “Couch is fine, too. So, whaddya say, roomie?”

“…Fine,” you conceded, very well knowing you’d come to regret this decision. “But we need to set some ground rules! No trashing the apartment, no throwing your ‘work tools’ all over the place, no smoking, no drinking, no loud music, and no bringing in random women. No starting fights either! You’ll help around and pay half of what’s needed, so no gambling your money away. Those are my terms.”

“You drive a hard bargain, roomie,” Toji said, balancing his chin atop his elbow. “Fine by me. Told you I’m done with half those things anyway, and I don’t mind helping you with anything. I mean that.”

But I could help. I could make you feel really good, Y/N.

His words from that night still lingered in your mind like an unfulfilled promise, and when he phrased it like that, you couldn’t help but be reminded of how good his hands felt that night, creeping all over your skin as if he owned it— as if he owned you.

“G-good!” you said, picking up a fry off his tray and tossing it in your mouth, lest you said something stupid.

“No one taught you stealing other people’s food is rude?” Toji shot you a glare unequal to your crime.

“It’s not stealing if you are done with it!” you protested. “You haven’t touched your fries in over ten minutes now.”

His tongue clicked against his mouth’s roof, producing a series of “tsk” sounds while he shook his head in disapproval. “Didn’t take ya for such a brat, Y/N. Disrespecting me in my face right after we came to an agreement? That’s some bad business ethics.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment, barely keeping yourself from groaning. “I’m so terribly sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have stolen your esteemed fries, sir. Won’t ever happen again, sir. Please allow me to express my profound remorse, sir.”

Although Toji knew you only addressed him as such to get on his nerves, he was still pleased enough to grace with you an unsuspecting smile, seconds before you shoved a ketchup-covered potato against his mouth, smudging the left corner of his lips in a way akin to that of his right corner scar. He blinked, clouds of fury gathering in the bleakness of his eyes and cheeks puffing up, painting the most adorable expression you’d ever seen him wear.

“So cute,” you gushed, unable to suppress a hearty laughter that agitated him even more, red blooming across his cheeks— most likely by the lack of oxygen, you interpreted.

“Fucking brat,” he hissed, dipping the last of his fries in ketchup and then stuffing your mouth with it before you could even react. “I’ll show ya how it’s done!” he declared, your lips puckering against his fingers, condiment spreading all over like lipstick. His other hand forced your head in place, stilling your chin for him to work on his masterpiece, making a much bigger mess out of you than you had made of him.

“Hmphmmph!” you hummed while Toji laughed, a deep sound that reverberated straight from his guts, his eyes glinting along with his teeth in sheer joy that convinced you to give up so as to not spoil his fun. It was rare to see him genuinely happy.

“That should teach ya to behave,” he spat, smugness in every aspect of his features as he pressed his thumb onto his mouth, cleaning the ketchup off with a lick. “But you did address me properly, so you’ve earned the right to choose. Napkin or my lips? Which one?”

Stupefied as you were, you didn’t understand the full context of his question until you felt the sudden warmth of his mouth flutter over your skin, the tip of his tongue sloppily gathering the leftover ketchup off your right cheek. Your jaw popped open, a small gasp escaping as a result of his action.

“Too slow,” Toji whispered, hooded green eyes peering right into yours. “I’ll ask again. Napkin or my lips? What’s it gonna be, doll?”

“N-n-n-napkin!” you must have stuttered at least a thousand times before forming a comprehensible answer. He was so close that if he tilted his head any closer your lips were sure to touch. “P-please get me a napkin.”

“Please?” he chuckled, acting as if was really going to kiss you and then pulling away. “Be right back.”

Even after Toji let go, you could still feel the weight of his thumb holding you down, your eyes zeroing in on his black sweater as he set off for the other side of the room where the napkin and condiments stand was located. You heard a few whispers coming from beside your table, catching three pairs of eyes shooting daggers right at your back.

“Don’t they have a home?” a woman’s voice echoed first.

“Kids these days…” a man added.

“Honey, don’t look at their sinfulness, it’s the devil’s work.” A second woman concluded.

You were on the verge of experiencing a cardiac arrest, and you were pretty darn sure you would have if Toji hadn’t returned with the napkins in time, his hand snatched by yours as you forcefully dragged him out of the place, spelling frantic apologies at whoever was listening.

Once you’d made it outside, you sighed in relief, winter’s viciousness coming as a much-needed slap across your face. You took in a few breaths, letting go of his hand and padding a few steps away from the store’s windows, afraid you were still the focus of their attention. Toji followed, one hand stuffed inside his jeans pocket, while the other held the duffel bag over his shoulder in a lazy manner.

“Can you give me a lift to work?” you managed to ask, dodging his stare even as he stepped to the front.

“I would, but I can’t. Gave the car away.”

“You did what?”

Nothing about your reaction was funny in any shape or form, but he seemed amused enough to break into a soft chuckle, his eyes, too, softening ever so slightly.

“Planning to walk around town like a bloodsucker?” he asked, bringing a napkin to wipe your lips with greater care than you’d think. “How dirty,” he cooed, gently tapping at the center. “Next time, I won’t ask for permission to kiss you, roomie. Let’s go.”

“W-Where?” your voice came out so frail that you doubted he’d heard your question, his bag bouncing over his taut body with every step he took outside the parking lot.

“You asked for a ride, didn’t ya? Come.”

A/N: Launching a new series because I have so many feelings bottled up that I'm in danger of farting hearts and rainbows and shit. Decided to take the time off and write this fic for myself cause I needed it, but then I thought why not share it with the world? First time writing for Jujutsu Kaisen and Toji in particular, so hopefully it's received well!

[chrisevansonly]

𝐖𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 101 (𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐣𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜 3)

𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐒𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: why buy christmas wreathes at the store when you can make them yourselves, a craft your boyfriend is more than happy to make with you

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, v cute xmas blurb

𝐚/𝐧: hi hi, so here is fic number 3 for my jingle bell ball! i’m still out of town and seem to have come down with a cold :( booo h8 being sick sm, so this is a tad shorter :(

🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

“Am I doing this right lovie?”

Your boyfriend of 4 years Harry, asked from his place across the large oak dining table. The table that was filled with ribbon, fake cranberries, fake snow and of course the most important part in homemade wreath making, evergreen and spruce sprigs scattered almost everywhere now.

“Oh H, yours looks great!” you replied

“Are y’sure..? It looks a little wobbly…”

You couldn’t help the laugh that spilled from your lips as you took a closer look, sure some little sprigs were sticking out and the fake cranberries were falling off, but that’s what made it special

“I think it looks perfect baby..”

Harry wasn’t so convinced, especially when he looked over at yours which had delicate ornaments weaved throughout and a bright red bow at the bottom.

“Look at yours! Mine is shit lovie, don’t have to lie”

“Now why would I lie? Yours is special and perfect because you made it! Besides…i’ve been making wreaths longer than you baby”

Wreath making had been a craft you’d enjoyed since you were a little girl, and you’d only just asked Harry this year if he felt like joining in on the tradition, after seeing how eager he was to join you, it should have been asked much sooner.

“Well i’m not leaving this table until mine looks like yours, I don’t care how long it takes.”

Letting a laugh bubble out of you, your eyes lighting up in surprise at the sheer determination Harry held in this moment, you couldn’t help but lean forward and press a sweet kiss to his lips.

“Alright my love, let me help you then, we’ll make one together”

When his eyes met yours you wanted to melt, the slight pout on his lips, his eyes soft and full of nothing but love and adoration for you, because that was all he ever felt when it came to his sweet angel.

“Yeah?” he finally smiled

“Yeah baby..”

Sitting down next to him he kissed your cheek sweetly before letting you gather some more supplies, helping to explain all the steps again. These were his favourite moments, the soft and quiet ones with you, especially during the holidays and joining in on your crafts.

Even if he still sucked at making Christmas wreaths…