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verfound · 7 days

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FIC: "Of (Not) Telling the Parents" (MLB; Lukanette; LBSC Lukanette Month 2024)

@lovebugs-and-snakecharmers is doing a Lukanette Month for September 2024, and we all just kinda tossed some prompts in the disco to compile a list? We ended up with 71 prompts, so I decided I’d roll some dice to pick a prompt, do a twenty minute (ish, bc we all know sometimes they run away from me) sprint, and try to get some short fics out this month?

Direct continuation of Of Lost Luggage, Shirts, and Other Things. Quick & Rierse know what they did. 😂🖤

Read on Ao3

Prompt 63: Stage Fright

Luka wasn’t used to having this problem.

He was a professional rock star.

Like…still starting out on his solo career, sure – he had a handful of EPs under his belt, and he was working on his first full-length album. He had opened for Jagged friggin’ Stone – had played in Jay’s own band! – before sold out arenas across the globe. He’d been on TV – he’d been on Saturday Night Live!

And every time he took the stage it was…effortless. Making music had always felt like breathing to him. Playing was second nature. There was nowhere that felt more like home than behind his guitar.

…well.

Maybe one place.

Marinette’s arms were starting to feel more and more like home with every passing day.

…which was probably what had led to the current problem.

Standing outside her parents’ bakery.

Marinette tucked against his side, her arms wrapped securely around his middle.

And scared absolutely shitless to go inside.

“…I can’t do this,” he said, shaking his head. “We should come back tomorrow. Darning, I am not rested enough for this. I am not caffeinated enough for this.”

“Well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” she giggled, looking up at him. “Breakfast. Decent coffee. Exciting news.”

“We can come back tomorrow,” he insisted, squeezing her hand. “Or the day after. Technically, there is no news yet.”

“Bullshit,” she said, tugging him down for a kiss. “There’s news.”

“I haven’t technically asked yet,” he insisted.

“There is news, Luka Llewellyn Couffaine,” she huffed, kissing him again. “You aren’t taking this one back.”

“I can’t take back something I didn’t –” he tried again, but she just pulled him into another kiss that…honestly? Left him a little dizzy. It probably wasn’t safe for public display, either – even in Paris. Especially in front of –

“SABINE!!!! SHE SAID YES!!!!”

…shiiiiiiiiit!

The next thing Luka knew, Marinette’s mouth had been jerked away from his own as Tom hoisted them both up in a bear hug. The world started spinning around him, and he groaned as he ducked his face against Tom’s shoulder in an attempt to calm his flipping stomach. That probably wasn’t the best idea, because Tom was still whooping and hollering and was entirely too exuberant for the way his head was pounding.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” Tom whooped. “See, Luka? What did I tell you, son? There was no possible way she’d ever say no – she’d be crazy to!”

He clapped a hand on his back, and Luka hadn’t even realized he’d put them back down until his knees buckled under him and he went tilting towards Marinette.

“Luka!” she cried, rushing forward to catch him. He groaned as he slumped against her, and she laughed breathlessly – maybe a bit manically – as she rubbed his back. “He’s had a long couple of days – maybe…go easy on him?”

“Isn’t that what I should be telling you, mon choux?” Tom asked with a wink that had Marinette shrieking at him as her face lit up with a fiery blush. “Oh, relax – I’m not that ignorant to what young people in love get up to! Especially young people in love who are about to be married!” He leaned in even closer, and Luka wasn’t looking but he was pretty sure Tom winked at them. Winking would be a very Tom thing to do, especially when he followed it up with: “Besides, where else are my grandbabies supposed to come from?”

“…kill me now,” Luka groaned, his voice just low enough that he hoped only Marinette heard him. She smiled and patted his back, and he almost smiled when she kissed his shoulder.

Until Tom laughed, grabbed his other shoulder, and pulled him back into a half-hug.

“Now, now, Luka, none of that,” he chided gently. “This is good! We need to celebrate! Have you two thought about any details yet? Themes, colors, your cake, a date…?”

“Tom, please,” Sabine chided as she followed a customer out the door. She waved goodbye to the woman, who was giving her a knowing smile, and turned back to her husband. “He just got in today – within the last hour, from the looks of it. Let the poor boy find his footing first.”

“Oh, pah – he’s fine!” Tom said, shaking him. He turned to Marinette with a grin. “Well, mon choux? Let’s see it! I’ve been waiting years for this!”

“Papa…” Marinette sighed. Luka looked up just in time to notice Sabine’s eyes had looked to Marinette’s obviously, painfully bare fingers.

“Marinette, sweetheart?” she asked. Marinette looked up, her eyes widening when she saw Sabine’s pointed look. “Is…there something you maybe don’t need to tell us?”

“What? No,” Marinette said, quickly tucking her hands into her pockets. “We’re engaged.”

“We are not,” Luka groaned, dropping his face in his hands. “We can’t be engaged until I ask you, and I’m not asking you until…just tell them, darning. This day can’t get any worse.”

“Luka, stop it right now,” she huffed. She stepped over to him and pulled him into a hug, thwacking the back of his head before bringing it down to her shoulder. “Dummy. I don’t want to wait for a stupid ring – yes, you dummy, it is just a stupid ring,” she bit when he tried to argue, because it wasn’t. It was her nonna’s ring that she’d been in love with since she was a little girl, and using it as her engagement ring was supposed to be this big, stupid, romantic gesture that she was going to love, and he’d gone and lost the damn thing like the damn idiot he was. Why would she want to marry him after he lost her nonna’s ring? “I want to be engaged to you now. I want to be married to you now. Stop making such a big deal out of this – it’s just the jetlag talking.”

“It is not,” he insisted, but then he shook his head and pulled away, blinking at her. “…you still want to marry me?”

“Yes, you idiot,” she laughed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since the airport!”

“But I lost the ring,” he insisted.

“You what?!” Tom yelped, and he winced as he glanced back at him. He leaned closer to Marinette, whispering probably not quiet enough as he kept his eyes on her father.

“…don’t tell Tom,” he said. “Marinette. He’s going to kill me.”

“Oh, son, I’m not…” Tom sighed, his expression crumpling, but Marinette was already turning Luka’s face back towards her for another kiss.

“You didn’t lose the ring, Luka,” she said. “The airline did. You just…made a rookie mistake.” She looked around him as he slumped against her, smiling sadly at her parents. “He left it in his suitcase. And the airline put it on the wrong plane – we’ll have it back in a few days. He’s just…it’s been a rough couple days, and he’s too tired to be sensible about it. Or to accept that I’m saying yes with or without a stupid ring.”

“He was really excited about…” Tom started, but he shook his head and chuckled. “It’s all right, son. These things happen. Next time you’ll know to keep the important stuff in your carryon.”

“Ask him about the time he lost his lucky rolling pin sometime, dear,” Sabine said, reaching over to rub a hand along his back. “It took us a month to get it back, all because he was afraid security would consider him a terrorist. He was inconsolable.”

“All right, all right – don’t get me started on questionable packing choices, sweetheart,” Tom said, smiling fondly at his wife, “or I’ll tell them how your brother got us hung up in security for three hours for smuggling contraband into the country.”

“Oh, he’s already done that,” Marinette teased. If he was more awake, he would probably beg her to not spill his secrets like that. Especially the embarrassing ones. Especially to her parents he needed them to keep liking him… “He loves his Lucky Charms.”

And he might have laughed, if he didn’t feel like they were all ganging up on him.

“Why do I feel like I’m losing here?” he asked, sighing as he pressed his forehead against her neck. She was too comfortable – he was going to fall asleep where he was standing, if he wasn’t careful.

“You’re not losing,” she said softly, her fingers running through his hair. “You get to marry me. How is that losing?”

“…I can’t marry you yet, though,” he sighed. “Stupid Crusher. Stupid Fang. Stupid airline. Stupid me.”

“I should get him home,” she sighed. “I thought coffee might help, but I think sleep will work better.”

“Of course, dear,” Sabine said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Get him home. We’ll celebrate later – because we are celebrating, yes?”

“Yes,” Marinette said, nodding firmly. “It wasn’t how he wanted to…ok, fine, technically he didn’t ask, but you can’t tell someone you have a ring waiting for them and then…yes, we’re celebrating.”

Tom laughed and scooped them all up in one last hug, and Luka groaned as he lost his balance again. It was all right, though: Marinette was still holding him, and Tom was holding all of them, and Tom would never drop them on their asses like that. He was pretty cool like that.

“Of course we are,” Tom said, and Luka groaned as he ruffled his hair a bit too enthusiastically. “You two are getting married!”

Luka glanced up at Marinette as those words sunk in, and a stupid smile filled his face as he saw the grin on hers.

Suddenly, he wasn’t so afraid anymore. They were going to get married.

And that…that was pretty damn cool.

#miraculous ladybug #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #tom dupain #sabine cheng #lukanette #endgame lukanette #lukanette endgame #ml fic #ver fic #lbsc lukanette month 2024 #prompt: stage fright #engagment announcement #fluff #silliness #sleep drunk luka #luka couffaine is a fucking idiot #tom dupain ships it #get the boy a nap

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kitmon · 2 years

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Let's Dance! | Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Chaperoning the middle school dance isn't what most would consider a weekend well spent and Eddie is inclined to agree. That is, until he formally meets you.

Pairing: Eddie Munson (Stranger Things, 2022) x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Tags: fluff, like the fluffiest fluff that has ever existed, vice president!reader, swearing (I genuinely don't even know if that's actually true, just assume that with all of my writing comes swearing), cringe? ok, some of what the reader does could be considered cringe but I DON'T CARE, IF IT'S CRINGE THEN I LOVE CRINGE, written out dance scenes (writing a lot of movement is hard, guys), that should be it, there's definitely no hard warnings for this, it is just pure, unadulterated fluff

Author’s Note: This idea came to me while I was listening to David Bowie's "Let's Dance" and maladaptive daydreaming hard. And it's been rattling around in my head for months and I'm glad that it's finally finished and it's way better than I could have ever hoped! @queenimmadolla did such an amazing job beta reading (she always does) and this is as much her work as it is mine and I would really love it if you could go send her some love because Tumblr's being mean to her right now and she could really use it. This is probably one of my favorite fics I've written and I really hope that you guys enjoy it as much as I do. I think that's all I have to say, as always, happy reading!

With your hands clasped in front of you, your hips sway to the beat of whatever mainstream, upbeat pop song the DJ was playing—the pristine white skirt of your dress shifting like the branches of a willow tree, caressed by gentle gusts of wind—you can’t help but admire your hard work; streamers and tinsel flow down from the ceiling, framing the slow-to-twirl disco ball that you stubbornly bartered for at a flea market in Indianapolis, and the glittery sign you painstakingly crafted by hand even though it took you all night and you’ve been finding flecks of glitter in your tissues every time you’ve sneezed for the past two days. Totally worth it, you think with a pleased smile.

You still remember your Snow Ball (though, arguably, it wasn’t all that long ago); December 15, 1980. You’d been stuffed into a poofy, absolutely ridiculous gown that you adored with all of your heart, dancing to the Bee Gees with Pat Rafferty, a foot-and-a-half of space between your bodies as you stepped, stiffly, from side to side. The scene had looked just like this, right down to the plastic flowers you arranged in the center of each table and, even though it’s entirely trivial, you remember that night being one of the best you’ve ever had. It was the sole reason you begged Principal Higgins to let you join the planning committee amongst the middle school staff and PTA. And now, here it is: all blue and white and shiny, having come to fruition.

Your smile softens as you lose yourself in the memory of that night but it isn’t long before you’re jolted out of the past when you catch a large, clumsy movement from the corner of your eye, followed by the sound of someone tripping and nearly falling. Your head whips around to find a man—definitely not a boy considering he stands at least a whole foot above the rest of the attendees—with his ankle caught around one of the tinsel cords. As you watch him struggle, you realize that you recognize him. It’s kind of impossible not to; the messy nest of hair, the randomly spaced tattoos along his exposed forearms. The only thing you don’t recognize is his attire, it’s still definitely… him. His lean torso is sporting a wrinkled dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the slouchy pinstripe pants he’s wearing are assuredly a size or two too big on him. It’s a far cry from his usual harsh leather and denim.

He’s hopping a bit, trying to untangle himself and you figure you better step in before he falls and crashes into the concessions.

“Here! Just—Let me,” you insist, chuckling as you step closer and crouch down to unwind the ribbon from around his shoes, finding a mangled knot. Jeez, how did he manage to do all this just by tripping?

You manage to undo the binding and he steps free with a little bounce, stumbling a couple of steps. He clears his throat as you stand and pat your hands over your skirt, “Sorry about that, can barely see anything a foot ahead of me in here.”

“It’s okay,” you assure, giggling at the red hue that paints his cheeks, noticeable even in the dim light. “Can I help you with something?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” he shifts his weight a bit, looking over his shoulder and licking his lips before continuing, “I’m supposed to be chaperoning, or something like that.”

“Oh!” You didn’t know any other high schoolers were chaperoning tonight—because why would they?—but it’s not like you’re going to refuse the help. “Well, you’re in the right place.”

Before he can properly respond, you shove your open palm towards the center of you both and introduce yourself with a confident flow of words. He’s a little taken aback by how quick and concise you are with your actions.

“Eddie,” he says as he accepts your smaller hand into his own, intrigued with how shockingly cold your fingers are.

Your handshake is a firm one and he takes a step back once you release his hand and clasp yours together, suddenly aware of just how in your space he’d been. You watch with an amused smile as he purses his lips, nodding his head and surveying the small array of finger foods.

“Soooo,” he drawls, lips still comically pursed, “what exactly do we do for the next three hours?”

“Well,” you sigh, “we basically just watch the concessions and stuff; make sure the punch isn't getting spiked or whatever happens in movies. Though, I highly doubt any one of these kids managed to get their hands on a bottle of booze.”

Eddie seems to get the gist of the job, looking out over the sea of children.

“Oh, we also have to make sure no kids are getting too handsy behind the bleachers—Jenny! Ryan!” you shout, having caught sight of the two eighth graders kissing a little too aggressively for their weight class. “I see you two!”

You jut your finger out and as the clap of your voice reaches them they scramble away from each other and hold their arms at their sides like they’ve been caught with their grimy mitts in the cookie jar.

“Got it,” he says, eyeing the eighth graders with a sideways glance.

You huff and look back towards Eddie, eyes wide and features soft as you ask, “How’d you get roped into this?”

He dips his head and stares at you from below his brow.

“No offense!” you’re quick to defend. “It just… doesn’t seem like your kinda scene. I’ve seen you around school, you know. You wear those band tees and the vest and, well, your hair. . .” You chuckle and mimic ruffling your fingers through your own mane.

“What d'you mean?” he starts, voice laced with sarcasm, “Chaperoning a middle school dance is my idea of a perfect Saturday!”

You cock your head and send him an unimpressed stare, blinking your eyes with a heavy slowness.

“Okay, fine, you caught me. I don’t actually like watching a bunch of preteens awkwardly shuffle to crappy pop music on the weekend. I made this stupid deal with Higgins so that I could start a club.” His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares down, face shrouded with his wild hair as he watches his toes nudge at the legs of the table.

“What kind of club?” you ask, angling your head to try and catch his eye.

Your question raises some suspicion in his mind, almost hesitant at your interest and he shakes his head before answering.

“A D&D club. You know D&D?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. You shake your head slowly with an apologetic look over your face as you bite your lip and it’s clear that was the answer he’d been expecting from you but he isn’t upset, just a little disappointed.

“Well, it’s like a tabletop roleplay ga—actually, it doesn’t matter, all you need to know is that I came to Principal Higgins with it and he shot it down, as soon as he saw me walk in.”

That makes your brows furrow and your lower lip jut out as an unpleasant emotion settles in your stomach. That’s definitely something you’d have to bring up with your cohort of student council members later.

“He said, and I quote, the only way he’d let my ‘band of hooligans congregate’ is if I showed that I was ‘committed to the community,’ or something like that, which means… chaperoning the middle school dance.” He finishes and you nod your head in understanding, feeling slightly sympathetic towards his cause; it's a bit unfair that he has to go through all this trouble just to start a club when you were able to start up the Photography Club with no questions asked.

“And you?” He questions, causing your head to perk up and your eyes to widen, “What are you in for?”

You smile and respond with a cheeky tilt of your head, “I’m actually here of my own free will, if you can believe it.”

“Ohhhh,” he draws out, faux-interest candying his voice before it drops down to a playful dullness, “you’re right, I can’t believe it.”

“Hey!” A smile is consuming your face even as you realize you have to defend yourself against his teasing. “Some people actually like to give back to the community. Plus, it’s a part of my Vice Presidential duties; to show I care about stupid things like the middle school Snow Ball.”

You draw your stare down towards your toes and share a shy smile with yourself as you toy with your fingers. Eddie smiles down at you for a moment, his hands stationed along his hips before his gaze drifts to the scene ahead of him, taking in the neat decorations and the hordes of prepubescent children that jabber amongst themselves and it’s clear the awkward shuffling of feet on the dance floor is here to stay. Despite that part of it being unbearably hard to watch, the rest is quite impressive.

“You sure do know how to plan a party, I’ll give you that much. Looks way better than my Snow Ball.”

That causes your head to snap up and an entirely dumbfounded look to paint your face.

“You went to the Snow Ball?” you ask in disbelief.

You know better than to judge a book by its cover but it seems so out of place for him. You’ve heard all of the stories and the rumors; that he’s a shut-in who dedicates the weekends to his cult-leading responsibilities. You’ve never thought to believe them, even for a second. It just felt so thoughtless and cruel and a genuine waste of your time to be gossiping behind peoples’ backs just because you didn't understand them. It was beyond lame. But you’d see him at parties, all broody and intimidating in the corner with a rusty metal lunch box he’d pop open and not-so-discreetly demonstrate his stock. He never danced, never talked to anyone unless it was to discuss prices, and he never smiled, not unless he was flipping through his wad for the night and counting his bills.

“Mmhm,” he smiles, almost proud for dispelling any preconceived notions, “got all dolled up in a monkey suit and everything. Even managed to work up the courage to ask Andrews to dance; she did not seem too impressed, I can tell you that.”

“Paula Andrews?” Again, the disbelief laces your tone but this time for good reason. Paula Andrews was vile, not for her looks or anything like that—she was actually ridiculously gorgeous—but for her nasty attitude. Anyone with a cowardly bone in their body would turn tail and run at the sight of her for fear of being ridiculed for even breathing in her direction. Even now, she was catty and prissy and mean.

“Yup,” he sighs like he’s already predicted your criticism and agrees with all of it.

“Ugh!” You visibly recoil, squinching your nose and wrinkling your lip. “Why would you ever want to dance with Paula Andrews? She’s… evil,” you shudder. “She once put gum in my hair because I wouldn’t let her cheat off of my science quiz.”

“I dunno,” he chuckles before simmering down, his voice becoming uncharacteristically hushed as he twists his rings up and down his finger. “Because she was pretty… and popular.”

You can't really fault him for that; everyone either wanted Paula Andrews or wanted to be Paula Andrews.

“What’d that witch do?” you ask tentatively like you’re afraid of the answer.

“Oh, nothing original,” he reminisces, “called me a freak and cackled that witch laugh of hers before stalking off with her flock of flying monkeys.”

You snort and move to cover your mouth with your hand, giggling behind it, “She does kind of laugh like a hag, doesn’t she?”

He laughs with you until you both calm to huffs and gentle smiles.

“Well if it’s any consolation,” you begin, “I would have danced with you.”

He looks you in the eye for a moment before dropping his gaze and sucking his lips in slightly towards his teeth, nodding with a pleasant grin on his lips.

The conversation merges into a comfortable silence as the both of you assume your chaperoning chores, Eddie picking at the charcuterie platter, exclusively the buttery crackers and tiny cubes of American cheese, tossing the morsels into his mouth while you survey the room, both with the intention of monitoring any misbehavior and gauging the room’s energy. Your findings are rather disappointing; the dance floor is empty! Not a ghost town, by any means, a few couples took to dancing but the walls are much more saturated with middle schoolers than the actual space meant for dancing.

You watch as the boys chat amongst themselves, throwing a few fleeting glances over their shoulders towards where the girls are cliqued up every once in a while. It's obvious they want something to happen but lack the confidence to be the ones to start it. Why not give them that extra little push?

“Do you want to dance?” you hurriedly blurt out, twisting to face Eddie beside you. His eyes are glassy and saucer-ish as he stares at you, mouth stuffed full of crackers and cheese as he addresses you. He twists his head over his shoulder only to find the spot behind him empty, pointing to himself and humming a muddled question.

“Duh!” you giggle. “Who else would I be talking to?”

He swallows his mouthful with some difficulty and begins stammering for a response.

“I don’t, um, really think that’s a good idea,” he laughs with a nervous tinge.

“Come on! It’ll be fun!”

You’re already winding your fingers around his wrist and leading him to the dance floor, weaving past and around the few brave couples that were dispersed about the court.

He’s babbling the whole way, noncommittally digging his heels into the ground and leaning away to slow you and when you’ve found your spot on the floor, turning to face him, he leans forward and whispers to you, “I can’t dance.”

His words are panicked as his eyes flit around you, hyper-aware of everyone’s stare on the two of you. He’s less so worried about his reputation as much as he is yours; you’re a sweet girl, people like you, like you enough to have voted for you and he’s… him. And in this town, being him or anywhere near him is social suicide.

But his warning does hardly anything to stop you. You can't dance either but you keep your head held high and your back straight as you feign confidence to encourage him.

“You’re in a band, right?” It was an odd question for the situation but he knits his brows and nods anyway. “You like music, you go to concerts. What do you do in those situations?”

He thinks about it for a moment, turning his head to survey his memory but stops himself when he reaches a conclusion, not thinking it a good idea but you seem entirely oblivious as you hearten him with an eye-squinting smile.

He shakes his head, taking in a large breath before huffing it out. The calm, collected act is disrupted by his whiplash energy shift as he starts violently moshing, headbanging, flicking his hair all over the place while he jumps and kicks around. The sudden burst makes you jump in your spot and blink your eyes at him. You watch for a second or two, lips ticking up at the corners at his very… passionate expression and as much as you’d like to keep watching him bounce around, you figure you should start with something a little more… pedestrian-safe.

You cautiously reach your hand out, a little afraid to approach him in fear of getting taken out by a stray limb or a particularly aggressive clump of hair but you manage to touch your fingers over his shoulder without injury, halting him. He slows his movements to a controlled bouncing of the toes, breath panting, hair wild, and shirt wrinkled—well—more wrinkled than it had been.

“Maybe not like that,” you cringe with a bunched nose and lopsided twist of your lips. “Try this instead.”

You trail your hand that was over his shoulder down his arm to take his hand into yours, scooping the other one from his side to guide the both of them to your waist, coaxing them to mold there. He looks a little afraid, eyes owlish as his tongue sprints out over his chapped lips too many times in a single moment.

“And I'll put my hands over here,” you narrate, placing your forearms over his shoulders as you link your fingers together behind his neck. You begin shuffling your feet, your white mary janes clicking against the lacquered gymnasium hardwood as you foster some movement.

“See, it’s not that hard.” Almost like you’ve jinxed it, as the words exit your mouth he steps right over your toes, and your face twists with a wince you do your best to suppress.

“Sorry, “ he winces with you, his eyebrows bunching with an apologetic look.

“It’s okay!” You’re quick to reassure him, a laugh and a smile embossing your words. “Just—look at me; when you look down you only end up tripping yourself up.” You release your fingers and bring one of your hands from around his neck to cradle his jaw in your grasp and angle his face upwards so that he’s gazing at you with those large, glazed cow eyes. You smile when you capture his rich chocolatey stare. “There, much better.”

The two of you sway glacially, Eddie relaxing under your touch after meeting your eyes, the shy lilt of his lips making a warmth bloom in your chest. You stay like this for a while, remaining committed to your designated square where the two of you can rock from side to side without disruption before you attempt to perform something a little more difficult. You slide your hand down over his shoulder and along the cotton of his shirt until it's grasped in his own, twirling yourself and gracelessly switching your feet before stumbling back into his chest with an uninhibited chortle, head thrown back as you laugh at yourself. He’s laughing too, his eyes trained on your ruched nose and crooked smile as you press your forehead against his chest.

As the song builds in energy you separate your hands from his chest and step away, starting to clumsily dance. It’s a gentler sort of moshing, he thinks as he watches you hop in place and shake your head, completely uncoordinated but entirely adorable. His posture slouches to the side as he watches you move, wholly mesmerized.

“Come on!” you laugh, breaking him out of his trance, taking his hands and moving them to simulate dancing.

He smiles before he's splitting from you and doing his own goofy thing, illustrating a botched and lumberly take on The Twist as he shakes his mane of wild hair this way and that.

The two of you are one of four couples on the dance floor and the army of children that trace the edge of it and surround you throw their estranged glances your way and could you really blame them for it? You had two high school seniors—one the predicted Valedictorian of her graduating class and the other the school pothead and resident freak—tearing up the dance floor of the eighth grade Snow Ball. But as the chatter of your embarrassing antics grows louder, a few brave souls make their way to the dance floor to join you and Eddie, hopping and shaking and twirling like unhinged maniacs, but they were giggling and tittering and having fun and that’s all that really mattered.

As you dance with Will Byers, holding his small hands in yours as you twist and twirl him, Eddie smiles to himself and stands with his hands on his hips, admiring the precious sight. As he watches, a particularly rowdy couple crashes into him and sends him flying towards you.

Just as he collides with you and knocks you a bit off balance, the previous song fades into a brief silence, a slower, calmer, more romantic song following; "How Deep is Your Love" by the Bee Gees.

“I’m sorry!” he’s quick to remedy, stabilizing you by holding your waist.

You chuckle, clearly high off of the endorphins that come with exercise, “It’s okay—”

“Are you hurt? Did I step on your foot again?” He’s rambling now and chasing each worried sentence with another as he’s examining you for any hidden injuries that could come with being bumped and stumbling three steps.

“Eddie!” You raise your voice to grab his attention, that same laugh twining your words at his ridiculous worry as you place your hand over his bicep. “I’m okay! Promise. Scouts Honor,” you say sucking your lower lip in and holding up your first three fingers.

“Okay, good,” he sighs, relaxing into a smile, “Good.”

Will looks between the both of you and smiles with a glint of understanding in his eyes.

“Hey,” he touches your arm to grab your attention, “I’m gonna get some punch and sit down, you really wore me out with that last song.”

You smile down at him and ruffle his hair, “Okay, Little Byers, you let me know if you're up for another one, you’re probably the best dance partner I’ve had all night.”

Will flashes a toothy grin and exits, weaving his way past warm bodies towards the abandoned snack table.

“I cannot believe you just said that.” Eddie reclaims your focus.

Your brows furrow as an anxiety of misspeaking clouds your features, “What?”

“And to think I thought, for even a second, that we shared something special, dancing like idiots,” he says with a smirk, the sarcasm now dripping from his words.

“Oh, shut up,” you scoff, landing a punch to his shoulder.

“You wanna give me another shot at redemption?” he offers with a smirk, reaching his open palm out to beckon you towards him.

You smile, an air of bashfulness consuming your actions as you stare down at the floor before taking his hand and assuming the same position as before: your hands twined together, behind his head, fingers slithering under his hair as you play with the scraggly strands at the nape of his neck, winding and unwinding them around your digits.

“So,” you start, “how d’you feel about chaperoning now?”

“Mmm,” he hums, looking out at an unseen point in the distance to ponder on it, “still on the fence.”

You gape at him, “We just danced like crazy! You were laughing like a madman!”

“Well,” he laughs, “is chaperoning always like this?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know—fun, exciting, metal?”

You giggle as you stare down at your feet, lifting your head to send him a suddenly heavy look in your eyes, the rest of your expression at once sober.

“When you have the right partner.”

There’s a silence as he takes a moment to ruminate on your words before concluding, “Alright, tell you what: I’ll chaperone every dance if you're there.”

He looks down at you with fond eyes and you glow under his gaze, dipping your head to hide away from his abruptly intimidating stare and lay your temple against his chest. You can hear the rhythmic thumping of his heart against his rib cage and sigh at the comforting noise.

“That’s a deal, Munson.”

The air is empty and silent, a calm, welcome quiet that permeates after all of the kids have left and gone home, likely recounting the events of the night with their friends or family. You and Eddie, on the other hand, are working to tidy the place; you're climbing onto chairs and tables to swipe paper streamers and tinsel ribbons from where they’re taped to the ceiling and pillars, and Eddie sweeps up fallen snacks and any glitter that has trailed along the floor. You hum David Bowie to yourself as you crumple the paper and the plastic into your hands and toss it into the bin.

You do the best you can with only two pairs of hands and figure what you’ve accomplished is substantial for the night as you walk towards the bleachers, plopping yourself onto one of the benches and leaning back against the one behind you to rest your head in your folded arms. Eddie trudges towards where you sit, after tossing the broom into the corner, and slumps into the space next to you, propping his elbows along the same bench you rest your head on.

He slants his head to look down at your weary body and lets a tender smile pull at his lips and dimple his cheeks.

“You have a fun time, kid?” he appeals, luring you out of your burrow.

You nod into your arms and hum, turning your head so your face is revealed to him as you peel your eyes open and offer him a sleepy smile. You reach a groggy hand out and place it over his.

“Thank you for dancing with me.” It comes out hushed and a little raspy.

He takes a better hold of your hand, flipping his and wrapping his fingers around yours to rub his thumb over your knuckles and the soft joints of your fingers, the skin radiating a healthy warmth.

“It was my pleasure,” he smiles, before teasing, “Gave me a hell of a workout.”

You giggle at his joke before righting yourself and stretching your arms out in front of you like a cat, releasing his hand as you do it and scrunching your face as the tension releases from your body. When you finish, you stand, taking his hand back in your hold and encouraging him up with a ginger tug.

“C’mon, time to clock out.”

He complies and stands with some effort, creaky joints groaning as he places his free hand on his knee and lifts himself. As you walk to the double doors and click off the remaining lights you don't feel the need to let go of his hand, even if it makes locking up the gymnasium a little bit harder.

Taglist:

@guessthestrangers

@dadsbongos

@lunatictardis

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pollyypockett · 2 months

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Beloved Miss America

Well, well, well, [PAULINE “POLLY” JOHNSON], after that stunt you and your friends pulled, half of town didn’t think you’d make it to graduation! Let alone turning [19]. You’re getting a reputation as [MISS AMERICA] you know, it’s all the talk around [MIDWAY AND, MORE NOTABLY, SALLY’S COSMETICS STORE!] Nevertheless, Principal Grauss announced your postgrad plans to [STUDY EDUCATION AT GEORGIA STATE UNIVERSITY OR … DITCH THAT PLAN ALTOGETHER FOR THE OBVIOUS PATH] when you walked across that stage and got that diploma. Folks around Midway will always remember you as [CONFIDENT + AMBITIOUS] and [CONTROLLING + VINDICTIVE].

Name: Pauline "Polly" Johnson Pronouns: She/Her Hometown: Midway, Georgia Occupation: Recent Midway High graduate. Works part-time at Sally's Cosmetics. The rest is ... up in the air. Big Three: Sag Sun, Leo Moon, Cap Rising Era Appropriate Song: Shirley Bassey, Killing Me Softly With His Song (1973). I realize this rp is set in 1971. Shoot me < 3

Writing Sample: Note: I inserted other characters just to play around with the world.

Polly descended the makeshift stage carefully, holding the hem of her baby blue dress so as to avoid trampling on it underfoot. The fabric shimmered with every step she took, sequins catching strays of an obnoxiously large disco ball to create a dazzling display of turquoise. Her boyfriend, [Terry Bradshaw], was nowhere near her side in the post-crowning glow. She couldn’t even stand to look back at him, focusing only on the roar of his football buddies somewhere deep in the crowd. Their howling overshadowed gentle clapping and the live band that picked up from where they left off before the announcement. Irritation that had been sitting in her chest since the moment her boyfriend rolled into her cul-de-sac intensified. Polly didn’t even need to glance back to know that Terry was probably taking in the moment on stage. Pumping his fist in the air or showing off the crown in some other obnoxious display of muscles. If it weren’t for the bickering after [Terry Bradshaw] picked her up with a disgustingly pink corsage, maybe Polly would have dared to share the limelight with him … Give the crowd an encore with a wistful kiss to hum and haw over. Create a great visual of Midway’s most beloved couple to kickstart the summer … but the only thing on Polly’s mind at this moment was her boyfriend’s stupid grin as he showed up to her house 20 minutes early. His clammy hand groping her waist for a picture … The way his choice of a pink corsage clashed against her entire outfit … Normally she could compartmentalize the annoyance and stand by his side but tonight was her night. The night of all nights. She needed air. Pronto. Polly flounced forward with only one destination in mind. Anywhere but this unrecognizable gymnasium draped in twinkling lights. Streamers hung from the rafters, cascading gentle waterfalls of glitter atop the heads of hair sprayed updos and slicked back mullets. Equally nauseating was the heaviness of B.O. overlaid by layers of cheap cologne. It mingled with freshly cut flowers that adorned every table to create something entirely vile. Polly’s smile grew tighter with every “thank you” muttered in response to congratulations from classmates, desperation at the forefront of her thoughts as she hunted for an exit sign. A second of fresh air to recenter her thoughts and adjust the crown that was definitely messing with her hair. She strutted the perimeter of the gymnasium until her eyes caught a shadowy corner where [The Dirtbag] stood. He was, for a lack of better words, a murky glass of water in a drought. The thought alone was vomit inducing. Polly approached quickly, a vein soon about to pop in her forehead.

“Well, well, well …” [The Dirtbag] drawled, smirk widening as she got closer. “Should I be saying congratulations or are you-” “Shut up.” Polly snapped. The edge in her voice was real, not half-hearted with amusement as usual. No eye roll, either. She moved closer to where he leaned against the wall, arms now crossed against her chest, inching forward to avoid eavesdroppers. “Is there a cigarette somewhere in that moldy suit?” [The Dirtbag’s] smirk faltered. He reached into his suit for his pack of Wintsons, wordlessly offering a stick to her. Polly unfurled an arm to snatch it, throat tightening as she swallowed away a thanks. The best she could muster was a pursed smile, straightening her shoulders to pivot towards an exit sign. The promise of cool concrete ahead. Unbeknownst to Miss America, the entire trajectory of Polly’s night was about to change with the turn of her shoulder. She glanced back at [The Dirtbag], not bothering to meet his gaze in her periphery. Radiating indifference. “I’ll be needing a lighter. too.” Provided that [The Dirtbag] wasn’t already wasted on shitty punch, he’d understand it was an invitation.

#fast:intro #banner credits 2 nikki

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queen-beefcake-sqx · 1 year

Note

I just realized someone already said 69 :(

So in that case I say 42(0)

42 "Leave Out All the Rest" by Linkin Park

GOD I LOVE LINKIN PARK AND THIS SONG HOLDS A SPECIAL PLACE IN MY HEART I was such a fucking edgy emo kid who went through a whole string of break ups with close friends and I wound up listening to this song a lot and thinking about how ~*terrible*~ my old friends must think of me after what an ~*emotional mess*~ I was. And one if that isn't big fucking Harry Du Bois energy I don't know what is.

But also like on a more real note --

This is a half-formed thought, but there's a whole thing going on in Disco Elysium about legacies. Histories. The things people have done that have left a lasting impact on the world around us, both on a global and local scale. I've already talked extensively about my thoughts about Harry's memory loss and how it allows him to have a positive relationship with Kim specifically BECAUSE the Harry Kim meets has no concept of history! Harry threw away his legacy with his clothes and his car and his gun!

And I think that's partially because Harry was so fucking ashamed of himself. Harry was a violent drunk who was doing work his ex-girlfriend had convinced him would be good for him and now saw no way out except to attempt suicide. multiple times. in a variety of styles and with various degrees of publicness. the Harry who stumbled into his room in the Whirling-in-Rags that night was one who felt he'd left behind nothing good or glorious or worth staying for.

... And then Harry wakes up again, faced with the wreckage of a life he doesn't remember but one with Very Real Lasting Consequences none the less. And Harry has the face the reality that the person he was before the Kineema woke him was Not A Great Person At All(tm). hurting and desperate, sure. desperately in need of care no one could give him, absolutely. but he also abused his power and, if we believe Jean's vitriol toward Harry had some kernel of truth, didn't fully take advantage of the people trying to offer him help. (Which like, regardless how deserving or not Harry was of Jean's whole Deal(tm) at the fishing village, it is... really, really hard to care for someone mentally ill. Which isn't saying don't do it, but you need to know when to step away. And I think part of Jean being Like That(tm) is Jean not knowing his boundary, and Harry not knowing his boundary which is JUST as necessary, and Jean burning himself out trying to help Harry then resenting Harry for not getting better despite all the work Jean was doing. I've seen this EXACT situation happen and it's 100% how they read to me, and it would explain why that "I want to get worse" comment was so CUTTING to Jean.)

Anyway my point is that Harry wants to leave behind those things that were terrible about him. Intentionally or not, he's gotten a chance to reinvent himself, and he does! He grabs onto whatever thoughts catch his fancy and discards the ones he dislikes, the ones that poke too close at something vulnerable and painful. He can tell whatever outright lies he wants to and the most people can do is call bullshit and move on, because god knows Harry doesn't know the truth half the time! And if you play with Harry wanting to be a Good Person in Some Sense(tm), I think by the end of Martinaise he really wants to prove he can do something good. Maybe it's "good at his job", or "good for the people", or "good for Kim, who truly trusts him", or whatever. But Harry wants to be more than the ghosts that lead him here.

...I don't know!!! I don't know!!!! I could probably sit here and talk forever about memory and history and the Grand Reinvention of Harry Du Bois but just think of how Harry must have felt bleeding out on the ground of the Tribunal and thinking the last several days are going to be all that's left of him --

#say more sadie #i have emotions about harry du bois and his special little meow meowness #sadie writes meta

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theghostpinesmusic · 4 months

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youtube

Alright, I was putting off dealing with this beast of a video yesterday, but now I think it's time.

The backstory here is that in addition to surprise-announcing a four-night run at the Capitol Theatre with their new drummer two months before the start of their summer tour, Goose also had a surprise theme for night two of the run, which was also the night of the lunar eclipse: they would play through their 2016 album Moon Cabin in its entirety (with a few theme-appropriate songs at the beginning and end of the show to round things out). This resulted in a) us getting to hear Cotter play on a lot of "classic" Goose songs for the first time and b) lots of long jams, since turning one CD-length album into a three-hour show necessitates a bit of stretching out.

The centerpiece of the show arguably came in the first set, with this nearly 50 minute "Into The Myst" -> "Arcadia" pairing. I'm a huge fan of both songs, but haven't yet written any posts about either.

"Myst" was one of my "first favorite" Goose songs, back when I was still getting familiar with their catalog. It and "Creatures" are maybe the most notable examples of the part of the band's repertoire that dips into electronica/EDM territory. Back when I first started listening to the band, these two songs really set them apart from the other jam bands I was familiar with and so I gravitated toward them. And yes, I know that the Disco Biscuits and Lotus and Spafford exist and that Goose didn't "invent" jamtronica out of whole cloth, but still. They were/are good songs and I did/do enjoy them.

"Myst" tends not to get jammed out very often (with a few notable exceptions), but it usually features a sort of breakdown after the main song that slowly gets built back up to the song's peak-y outro over the course of a few minutes while staying firmly in "Type I" territory. This version is...not that.

If Goose has a "hit" song, it's probably "Arcadia." It's catchy, the lyrics are fun and good but also a little allusive, and it's designed to end with one of those bring-the-house-down resolutions that we jam band fans love. Like many, many other Goose fans, what made me a fan in the first place was watching the band's 2019 Peach Fest performance on YouTube, and in particular that "Arcadia" grabbed my attention and is still a version of the song I come back to almost five years later. It's also on Alive and Well, which is cool.

Improvisationally, "Arcadia" tends to follow a similar path as "Myst": the band plays the song proper, drops down into breakdown mode, and builds momentum and intensity back up to the song's peak. There are a ton of great, unique versions of this song out there, though, and I'd argue that the journey to the destination varies much more with "Arcadia" than it does with "Myst."

I'm excited to dive back into this particular section of this particular show because I actually had some weird video/audio problems with this show originally when livestreaming it, and so I missed a bit chunk of this "Myst" and part of this "Arcadia," and spent most of the rest of the show playing catch-up technologically. The show as a whole definitely warrants a full relisten on my next big road trip or something, but for now, of course, I'm "just" covering this 47 minutes of it.

I always love getting to see Peter ham it up during the "Myst" intro. I also always love when the song's intro drops into the verse chords. It takes awhile in this version, as the whole band jams over the intro for longer than usual. But it's cool, because there's some great Trevor/Rick interplay during this section. Eventually, the "drop" happens at 3:45 and we're off and running.

The little solo break in the middle of the song is way more bass-heavy than usual, as Rick lays back a bit after seeming to have some sort of guitar/tech malfunction right before (?). Hard to tell from the camera angle what was going on.

Anyway, we make to the end of the composed part of the song at 11:25, and immediately the move into the jam is a little different than usual. Instead of a drop into a breakdown, Cotter starts playing a quick beat and that makes the transition instead. I like Peter's pecking at the Vibe here. I also like that there's no pretense of playing the rest of the song the "normal" way: the band immediately swerves into weirdness with no hesitation.

Something about this section of the jam (Rick's noodling, the rhythm both drummers lock into) sounds very Dead-ish to me. I love how much the camera focuses on Cotter early on because he's killing it during this part.

Also, Peter being a ham again at 15:05.

I know I'm probably getting a little repetitive at this point about this, but what strikes me (again) about this first section of the jam is the patience the band shows in slowly exploring this space. Certainly, a lot of Goose jams from earlier years also stayed in this or that sonic space for five or even ten minutes at a time, but there was often little feeling that they were developing particular ideas or moving toward something; instead, it often felt like the rest of the band would just settle into a background that Rick could play guitar over. If there's ever been anything about this band that I've been inclined to criticize, it was that. It seems to have sort of...gone away...since last fall?

For example, nothing much has changed dramatically in this jam by 18:00, but there's a sense that we're picking up momentum, aided by small changes in what Cotter and Peter in particular are playing. Moving forward not by a sudden key change or dramatic tonal shift, but by slow degrees. It's cool. It's also a major way in which New Goose is reminding me more and more of Phish: not that they're "copying" Phish's sound (as naysayers will often say, naying), but that their improvisation is taking on more and more of that smoothness and hive-mindedness that I love so much in the best Phish jams.

A great example of this is at 21:00 or so here, where Rick locks on to this neat, looping riff that ends up sort of serving, through magical telepathy, as the end of this jam section: when we come out on the other side a few seconds later, Cotter is playing a much more driving beat and then the rest of the band moves to match him in intensity. Pete moves over to electric piano shortly after and we've achieved full-on Bliss Goose Mode for the next few minutes.

Wow. This was the part that I missed when watching live and it's really, really good. When you can hear the crowd screaming over the webcast you know the band's really tapping into something.

Rick finally turns the hose off at 27:00, a full sixteen minutes after the jam started. If there's one tiny complaint I have about this nutso jam, it's that they don't return to the end of "Myst," which is usually a pretty badass, cathartic moment. Again, it's a tiny complaint in this case, though, because instead we get a really smooth segue into the spacey intro for "Arcadia."

The jam out of "Arcadia" starts around 31:55. At 32:05, the camera catches Peter feeling the groove, and it sort of seems like Rick picks up on his reaction and drops out as well, letting the rhythm section do its thing for a bit. You know me: I'm never going to complain about a Trevor solo. Goddamn. Eventually the rest of the band joins back in around 33:25.

This funk breakdown bit is pretty typical of the type of jamming the band does during Arcadia, but this version has some extra oomph to it, in my opinion. Part of that is probably Cotter adding a different touch to the percussion section and, again, it almost feels like Rick is trying not to play that much, letting everyone else come through more clearly.

I really like the riff that Rick locks on to at around 36:00. I think he does, too.

Peter moves over to the clav at about 38:30 and while this doesn't dramatically change the tenor of the jam right away, it certainly makes it crunchier and seems to at least start driving the band toward a build. It takes another two or so minutes for Rick to warm up to Full Shred Mode, but by 42:00 the whole band is going full speed, Peter's banging out something crazy and dissonant on the piano and we're well on our way to a classic "Arcadia" peak.

If you're not familiar with "Arcadia" already, the jam usually builds up tension until it releases into a minor key progression that is the actual ending to the song. So you get, in a sense, two huge peaks for the price of one in most versions. Which is probably why everyone likes "Arcadia" so much.

Here, the change happens at 43:57. I really like Cotter's swinging during the early part of this build. It's one of those many little things that he does differently that makes old songs like this one feel new in a cool way.

The smoke machines are a little intense and I'm not sure how I feel about them. This "Arcadia" peak, though, is fantastic. If your ears get burnt out on Rick losing his mind, listen to Trevor instead.

And that's the story of how Goose turned two five-minute tracks from Moon Cabin into a forty-seven minute cave diving expedition/ear slaughter!

#goose #tour journal #videos #writing #jams #jam band #music #live music #Youtube

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anthonysstupiddailyblog · 7 months

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Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (706): Wed 21st Feb 2024

Watched a documentary about American diners which I’ve always had an affinity for. I normally hate sitting in restaurants when there’s music blaring but the kind of music typically piping over the speaker systems in diners is rockabilly and rock n roll which I am a fan of so I wouldn’t be complaining about the music spoiling my vibe. Also I don’t think diners normally sell beer so I wouldn’t have to worry about drunk cunts making loads of noise and putting me off my veggie burger and blueberry pancakes. I can see why the specific kind of diner with the light coloured booths, the jukebox and the black and white checkered floors more or less died out because they were closely associated with the rock / rockabilly era. When that kind of music fell out of fashion the diners would have also felt outdated and I don’t think that trying to keep up with the times by starting to play newer music like disco or metal would have fit the decor. If I was a billionaire I would set up my own American style diner and spend all my time in my own booth reading and listening to my favourite rockin’ tunes. I’d let my friends and family come in obviously but I would also hire a few MMA fighters to work the door and if I saw anyone I thought was going to spoil the atmosphere I’d shake my head and have Knuckles and Scarface chuck them in a dumpster out back with the rest of the scum.

Read more of The Stranger Diaries. The first part of from the perspective of Clare the teacher who was a friend of the murdered woman. Part two now focuses on Detective Leah who is investigating the murder and Part Three is told from the point of view of Georgie, one of the murdered teachers students who’s boyfriend reveals he went to see her on the night she died. I’m happy to report that I’m enjoying this a lot and I’m glad that there is going to be at least one more book added to the “must read” section of the Edgar challenge before it’s over. I hope the remaining three books are as engaging.

I set off in a taxi to the town for my train to Newcastle for a chiro appointment. The driver I got was a big conspiracy theory fan and told me all about how the vaccine was responsible for the rise in autism while I smiled politely and tried to resist the urge to put my headphones in and start blasting some Slayer to try and drown out the bollocks. What makes me laugh most about conspiracy theorists is whenever they’re relating information they’ve been given by another believer in the theory they subscribe to they always punctuate it with “this guys backing up everything he’s saying with facts”. I always think “how do you know that these things your sources are saying are facts? Have you looked into it yourself to see if it’s actually factual? More importantly have you checked more than one source to check if it’s a fact?”. Anywho I thanked him as I got out and when I was about to go catch my train I turned around to give him a wave he had gone. Some might say that he drove off for his next job but I reckon the global media and the pharmaceutical companies probably done him in for speaking the truth. I told the chiropractor that my neck was feeling much much better since I started adding the toe touch exercises to my regimen and now there was only a tiny bit of pinching in my left shoulder blade which she said was a good sign and that we’re probably safe to start scheduling these appointments once every three weeks.

Fuck me today was a long day. But that’s a good thing

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mjlovescm · 3 years

Text

8- Welcome home, 🍋

Completed, 27 chapters, “She’s an angel” Rodrick Heffley x black fem reader

Content - Slight nsfw, kissing, sitting on his lap,

The drive to Rodrick's house was one that he as used to. It had been engraved in his mind for years. Normally, on days when the band was practicing, Rodrick would go straight home. But today his curiosity peaks once he sees a large moving truck a few houses from his. He almost speeds off when he sees his parents, but a familiar face catches his eye.

“y/n.” He calls from his car.

Turing around to face the distant sound, you turn around and see Rodrick. You set aside the box in your hands, giving him a wave as you walk towards the car. You go to start a conversation but according to your mom there's no time. Something about needing to return the truck on time.

And before he can run away, Rodrick is dragged into helping. The rest of the day is spent unpacking. Per their request, most if not all the heavy lifting is done by Frank and your dad. While you and Rodrick spent most of the time in your room. Rodrick flipping through your book collection as he puts them into your shelves. Wondering which one he'll read with you next.

After many stressful hours, your instinct was to check the fridge, but you knew it would be pointless. Thank god, Susan invited your family over for dinner. It was quick, mainly because you spent more time eating than joining in on the conversation.

“You have to visit this new bar. They do these fun little couple games nights and even give out real prizes.” Susan suggest.

“I don't know if we'll have anytime. Things are just all over the place.”

“We could go tonight.”

“What about the kids?”

“Oh come on, Susan, they're old enough to watch themselves, right?” Your mom says.

“Well … maybe one drink won't hurt.”

Luckily it wasn't too late, and they didn't plan on staying out too long anyways. With the parents gone, and the three boys preoccupied with a movie, Rodrick took you to his room.

“Wow, it looks exactly the same.” You say, standing in the doorway. “Well, maybe it's dirtier than I remember.”

“And the bed frames different.” Rodrick says, taking a seat on his bed.

You took a few minutes to fully take in the atmosphere. Asking Rodrick about the decorations and other random items that filled the space. It was all so Rodrick. From the many rock band posters and ripped out magazine photos. To the broken and awfully tapped together drumsticks and even the disco ball hanging from the ceiling.

Bored and nosey, you decide to look through his drawers. You knew it probably wasn't a good idea, but then again, Rodrick had spent most of the day going through yours. Opening the first drawer you laugh seeing it was fulled with Löded Diper merch. Closing it, you move on to the next one. Your eyes go wide at the sight, almost forgetting what had happened not too long ago. But once you remember, a wave of embarrassment came over you.

Noticing how long you'd spent in one place, Rodrick got up from his bed to see what had caught your attention. His hands creep from behind you, fingers grazing your arms before laying them on top of yours. The touch freezes you, a small gasp caught in your throat, and you drop the black material.

“Told you I wouldn't lose it.” Rodrick says, hooking his finger into the fabric.

“You never actually promised me.” You said, voice low.

You can't see the smile on his face, but you can almost feel it. Envisioning the slow curl of the corner of his lips. The soft pink skin stretching in satisfaction as he senses how easily he makes you nervous.

Your skin lit on fire, watching the way his finger peaks out through the dark color, reminding you how thin the material was. You could tell he'd done it before, maybe even a few times. Then again, what did you think he would do with it. A haze clouded your mind, wild thoughts quickly consuming your nervousness. This is exactly what you wanted, a small voice told you.

“How much longer do you think they'll be gone?” You say, turning to face Rodrick.

His tongue rolls over his bottom lip.

“I think we have time.” He pauses. “If we make it quick.”

Your expressions soon match, and before you can think rationally, Rodrick is all over you. That same satisfied smile now moving against your lips. You shudder at the feeling of Rodrick's hands grabbing your waist and pulling you towards his bed. He takes a seat once the bed hits his legs, swiftly pulling you onto his lap.

“Did you miss me?”

He whispers between kisses trailing down your neck. You gulp, unable to answer the possibly rhetorical question. Your silence gives Rodrick his answer, but it's not enough. He wants to hear you say it.

“Because I missed you.”

“You did?”

“Mmh, I missed…”

He continues to tell you how much he missed you. How much fun it was to sneak around and meet late at night. You grid into him easily, getting lost in the moment. Body buzzing with heat, mind hazy, but through the whispers you hear something else. Enjoying the feeling of you on his lap. The pressure of your thighs and ass pressed into him.

The sound snaps you to your senses, and you quickly push Rodrick away.

“What.” He says confused.

You shush him, trying to listen. An again you hear a familiar voice call your name, you jump out of Rodrick's lap once you realize it's your fathers. Rodrick quickly adjusting his clothes and sits away from you in an attempt to look more causal.

“We're going home.” He says in standing in Rodrick doorway.

You mumble a small “Okay” and make your way down the stairs. Downstairs, you say goodnight to the Heffley's, thanking them for dinner and going to the car as quick as you could. Buckling your seat belt, you let out a sigh of relief, throwing your head back. What were you thinking. The first time you see him in weeks, and you almost throw yourself at him. A notification dings from your phone. Picking it up, you go to read it, eyes widening once you realize it was Rodrick.

𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 -𝚛

𝚈𝚎𝚊 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 -𝚢/𝚗

𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 -𝚛

Right next time...

Next chapter ;)

All chapters :)

#mjlovescm #rodrick heffley #black fem reader #rodrick x reader #diary of a wimpy kid

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akallia · 2 years

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how to preserve a building, part 1

heyyyyy :> I definitely didn't disappear for a few weeks or anything haha. ummm school has been extremely stressful, but I really was feeling the need to write, and this just sort of ... came to me. idk. this is a part one so look out for the next part. I'm not planning on making a full-fledged fic out of it, but it was just going to be too many words for one part. so it's a two-parter (maybe three). as for the story itself, consider it a crossover between my year of rest and relaxation and anything dark academia. enjoy Levi nation ily

Pairing: Levi x fem!reader

Word count: 3k

Concept: deciding to let yourself go while maintaining your reputation as the university's star student was probably the worst mistake you've ever made. but things get even more difficult with the entrance of transfer student Levi Ackerman, the only one who seems to be able to out-talk you...

CW: language, alcoholism, depressive episode, elitist academia environment, ego problems (???)

Content UTC!

It had gotten bad. A little bit out of control, maybe. You weren’t sure how to talk about what had happened, because nothing really did happen. Maybe you burnt yourself out, did too much too soon. Either way, it didn’t really matter; the Freudian rationale was inconsequential, for in this moment you were too gone to care.

Eddie’s wasn’t always this packed, but tonight was the homecoming football game, and you had the misfortune of attending a Big 10 school. Homecoming wasn’t just a football game, but also an excuse for the entire student body to get blackout drunk and party no matter the final score of the game. Though you had to admit, the winning streak your school’s team was on definitely helped the atmosphere. It was… nice, in a way. Twice the size of the typical Friday night crowd. Yes, you decided, it was nice. More people to lose yourself in. Just a cog in the machine that was the dance floor.

These thoughts attempted to pierce their way through your alcohol-addled brain, your conscious side only grasping at the vague sentiment of what you were feeling rather than the entire phrase the hidden sober part of your brain had conjured up. It didn’t matter. You were wearing a new pair of heels you’d found at a vintage store along with the tightest dress to ever grace your closet, and you felt marvelous. Originally, your aforementioned wardrobe only knew muted grays and creams and blacks, all turtlenecks and blazers and wide-leg slacks. Oh how scandalized they must have been when they were unceremoniously pushed to the side and folded away to make room for bodycon dresses, tiny strappy tops and platforms. You felt a perverse pleasure in the despair those clothes must have felt.

The errant limbs pulsed in time with the beat, doused in an array of never-ceasing lights that caught on the old disco ball in the center of the ceiling, antiquated in this pub-turned-nightclub that had become so popular tonight. A small part of you perhaps felt a little bit sad at the thought. Poor little disco ball. You danced in the center of the floor, heat pushing up against you from all sides, small swipes of varying garments catching your ever-bare skin. As you danced, you pondered the old disco ball. The fancy club lights almost pierced straight through it, and it was sort of… beautiful in its pathetic state.

As though it were never there.

–

The mornings after were always the worst.

There was a point in time when you adored mornings. Your proud parents always called you an early bird, and your teachers in high school praised you as a go-getter. Student leadership workshops, NHS meetings, club presidency and officer elections, extracurriculars galore, immaculate grades–it didn’t get much more perfect than that. And on top of that, people liked you. At least you thought they did. Everyone smiled at you and said hi in the hallways. You were even prom queen one year. You were… social. High school was good.

College was good, too, up until a point.

Yes, mornings were always the worst. You and your body both agreed. You rolled yourself unceremoniously out of bed, barely missing the heels from last night. You kicked them under the bed. You were not having it today. You stretched, cold not-under-the-blanket air latched onto your stomach from your shirt riding up–wait. This was not your shirt. At all.

You panicked a bit, you won’t lie. It’s one thing to lose yourself almost every night to alcohol and dance the night away, but it’s an entirely different thing to lose yourself to a person. All your newfound vices aside, you would not let the vice of lust overcome you. You weren’t a virgin, but you had told yourself that while you let yourself go on your present downward spiral, the one thing you would swear off is men. You’d promised yourself a lot of things in the past few years and had broken most of them, but for some reason this one stuck around in your brain. So why the hell were you wearing a button down and why the hell was there a man in your bed?

“Don’t look so surprised,” the man in your bed said in response to your small gasp, facing away from you. He was bare chested with only a muscular shoulder and bicep visible from under the twisted covers, a shock of black hair standing out against the cream of your bed sheets even in the dim lighting of your pit of a room. “You were the one all over me.”

The man stood up, running long fingers through his hair, still not turning to you. He was wearing slacks and still had socks on.

“Did…did we…” you sputtered.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” And with that, he slipped into a hoodie he picked up off the floor (your favorite hoodie, you bemoaned internally), picked up his loafers from by the door, and left your bedroom without even a glance your way.

You stood in absolute shocked silence for about a minute after hearing the distant telltale creak of your apartment door opening and closing before stumbling your way into the kitchen for a much-needed glass of water and some Advil, still pondering what had happened.

What had happened? As you put some poptarts in the toaster and vaguely regarded the abundance of empty takeout boxes from the Burmese place downstairs, you decided you wouldn’t dwell on it. He said you hadn’t done anything, and the fact that he was still wearing pants relatively calmed you. So, as you had a habit of doing lately, you forgot all about it and continued on with your day, mostly unaffected by this anomaly in your daily routine.

Ah, yes. Your daily routine.

Today was just like any other day, though it was a Saturday which meant you had no classes. No, you thought, brain still fuzzy. That doesn’t sound right. You chewed your overcooked poptart as you reached in the depths of your memory for what you were forgetting. Oh yeah! I proctor a midterm today. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks and completely destroyed any progress the Advil had done, a headache already forming. You hated proctoring. Standing in a room for two hours at a time, reading instructions, and actually monitoring the students. It was so terribly dull, and you hated having to rat people out for academic dishonesty. At one point in time, it would have boiled your blood to see someone cheat on a test, but now that you just didn’t care anymore, you just didn’t care anymore. Who cares if Johnny So-and-So looks off Miranda Don’t-Know-Don’t-Care’s test? Not your concern.

You sighed and threw the second poptart away, feeling slightly nauseous from the sugar. You hadn’t been eating much lately, which was fine by you; it took much less alcohol to get you drunk when you hadn’t eaten all day, and that meant your night was considerably less expensive. Seeing as it was almost one, you decided it would probably be a good idea to go through the motions and get ready for your job.

Your room was a pigsty. Even in your current bender you were mildly disgusted by it. Your desk was a disaster, textbooks and random papers irreverently stacked and disorganized and covered in miscellaneous makeup brushes and wipes from the night before. Not a single surface had been dusted or vacuumed or cleaned in any manner in months. You forced yourself to do laundry at least once a week, so your closet wasn’t too terrible, but there were still clothes everywhere that you had only worn once and couldn’t bring yourself to put in the hamper.

Oh well, you thought. You grabbed a turtleneck that was slung over your desk chair and begrudgingly forced your head through the stretchy opening before grabbing the first pair of semi-professional pants from the back of your closet. That was good enough. You checked your phone, which was at around 20% due to your late-night disarray and subsequent… encounter with whoever you had woken up next to. What a pain. You’d have to charge it while proctoring and then you’d really be miserable.

You didn’t even glance in the mirror on your way out.

One bus stop later and you were in Handen Hall. For being the main front and lifeblood of the university’s literature department, they sure had gone without creativity in the naming process. You scoffed. Just another dead rich white man’s name in gold. Give me a break. You were a few minutes ahead of schedule, arriving precisely at 12:55. Old habits die hard. You may be a loser and a borderline alcoholic throwing away your academic prospects, but you would always be punctual.

“Ah, Miss Reader,” Professor Minn greeted you as you marched through the rows of occupied lecture hall seats towards his desk. “Are you sure you’re alright to proctor today? You don’t look quite well.” His old, kind eyes were a sight for sore eyes and you felt a tug in your stomach at the geezer’s concern for you.

Your continuously misplaced daddy issues had landed on this guy full force when you first arrived at the university. Professor Minn recognized your prowess from the beginning, placing you in advanced classes reserved for honors college upperclassmen as a freshman, helping you every step of the way. You supposed you had attached feelings of a familial sort to him early on when you were new to independence and feeling a smidge lost in the academic mumbo-jumbo. You had known him for five years now, as you were a grad student now, and even in your current half-year state of misery he had never asked questions and only ever been there to support you. If anything could get through to you, it would be him. But you’d never tell him that.

“Yes, Professor. I’m fine,” you grumbled. “Just had a bit of a rough night. Couldn’t sleep, you know?” You tried to laugh it off. Nobody in the department knew what was up with you, but you knew they were all talking. Everybody knew there was just something off. You had put in painstaking work to make sure that nobody ever found out about your midnight charades and growing alcoholism. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“If you say so,” he responded, looking dubious as he adjusted his perpetually crooked glasses. He definitely had been wearing the same pair since the beginning of his academic career.

Professor Minn prepared himself to leave, shuffling papers and storing them away safely in his trusty leather messenger bag. As you plugged your phone into the outlet behind his desk, he cleared his throat.

“One more thing,” he said, looking a bit off-kilter. Not physically ill, you thought as you turned around to face him, just… concerned? “A very good friend of mine said that they were worried about you. I would just like to say that if you need anything, anything at all, I will do my best to help you with it.” His eyes were so earnest. You wished he’d just shut his mouth. If he said much more of that gushy stuff you’d absolutely fall apart, and your charade had been so perfect for so long that you couldn’t afford for it to crumble now.

You pushed down those feelings and responded with a chipper, “I’m fine, grandpa. Thanks for the concern” and an irreverent eye roll.

Minn looked distressed briefly before nodding and slowly moving his old bones out of the lecture hall.

You looked at the clock. This was going to be a long two hours.

–

It wasn’t as bad as you were anticipating. In fact, it was just what you needed. The two and a half hour long silence felt great after the hubbub of the previous night and the confusion from your morning. It was like a nice, relaxing lie-in that you were getting paid for. And seeing as this was a senior seminar with most students only a year younger than you, they were perfectly well behaved. It was marvelous.

The same could not be said of the rest of your weekend.

You stayed in your apartment the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday, occasionally going downstairs to nab leftovers from the buffet. Netflix played whatever it wanted without stopping once, and you took a quick five-minute shower at 2 am Saturday night to stop yourself from falling asleep while drunk–there was no way in hell a cop would find you dead because you’d choked on your own vomit. You think you’d simply die. Ha. Ha.

In all honesty, you don’t really remember the rest of your weekend. It wasn’t because you were drunk. On the contrary, you only drank Saturday night because you were bored. You weren’t drowning your sorrows, so you just sat and stared at the TV and completely shut down for a glorious 36 hours. For some reason, you didn’t feel like going out. You didn’t feel like doing anything at all, and so… you didn’t.

But Monday morning did eventually arrive in a flurry of falling leaves and biting winds and gray skies, and your responsibility as a student arrived in equal force. You wished academia would choke and die.

It was like any other morning. You got up, barely brushed your teeth, braided your hair so you didn’t have to brush it, and threw on a random borderline acceptable outfit for your class that wasn’t really a class. As a grad student, you mostly taught 1- and -200 level classes, did independent research, and talked about intellectual bullshit in small groups with other grad students and professors. The intellectual bullshit was your favorite part. You’d learned long ago that many people in academia did not actually have the intellect for their fields and that you could talk circles around them. Thus, your “classes” were a perfect opportunity for you to not put in any real work and spout nonsense for hours at a time to a rapt, adoring group.

As usual, you were the last person to arrive. While you were still on time, making your way up the ranks of overachievers meant that you were often outshone in punctuality and ass-kissing. This maybe used to bother you, but now it didn’t. In fact, your newfound self awareness made the social observation that much more fun. You could laugh at not just other people, but also the stupidity you yourself once had! Hilarity ensued in your mind.

The classroom was a small conference room in the archaic school library. The library itself was ancient, but the new additions were wonderfully modern and oh-so fancy. You loved the way the projectors retracted into the ceiling and how the blinds were remote-controlled. The central library would always have your heart, but you just felt so damn important in the new conference rooms, even if they lacked the charm of the long oak tables you once studied at during your undergrad days.

You flung yourself down into one of the two remaining available seats at the table with nothing but your phone on your person, your classmates giving you wary looks. Everyone else had laptops and books open, already scribbling god-knows-what on their university-sponsored portfolios. More intellectual bullshit, no doubt. You smirked inwardly. You hoped today would have something or someone interesting.

“Good morning, Miss Reader,” the department head greeted you warmly. You knew her name at one point at the beginning of the first semester, but you couldn’t recall it now. It had been filed away into the “unimportant” section of your brain, along with the names of most of the people in this class, which was a smattering of arts and humanities grad students. You knew most of them were working towards a master’s in literature or language, but many of them were history students as well. You were a bit of a special case due to the nature of your relatively obscure degree, but you knew you’d show them up in Jeopardy on any day.

“Good morning to you too, ma’am,” you replied cordially. While you had convinced yourself you didn’t care, you would still talk the talk when you had to. This was one of those times.

“It’s so rare to see you here these days. What have you been up to in your absence?”

The room went still and everyone looked up from their business. You were a smidgeon surprised. What balls. Everyone in academia knew that you didn’t pry into personal lives. You were there to study and to learn, not to uncover everyone’s skeletons. While you were a bit of a celebrity on campus to the intellectual crowd, you hadn’t expected this at all, and least of all from the department chair.

But alas, you were saved from having to answer as the door closed noisily and someone entered the room, taking the final open seat next to you.

“Sorry for my lateness, some shithead made my tea wrong.”

Your world turned on its axis. Not only was the newcomer already speaking your language, but he was also the man who you’d woken up next to Saturday morning.

Next Part

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cjsinkythoughts · 3 years

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Flaws

Written for @honeysucklesteve’s 4k writing challenge! If you haven’t, go check her out because she’s amazing!

Pairing: Mickey Henry x fem!Reader

Summary: You hate his music taste. He hates yours. You have a bad habit of stealing his gigs. He has a bad habit of fucking you until you can’t walk straight. Everyone has flaws. What are you to do about it?

Word Count: 3822

Warnings: Cursing, hate sex, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, slight edging, there’s a mirror involved, drugs, alcohol, clubbing, smoking, one mention of lung cancer, mentions of Monday’s plot, so slight spoilers; (I hope I’m not forgetting anything. These kinds of warnings are new to me. If I am, feel free to tell me.)

18+ PLEASE!!! MINORS DNI!!!

A/N: I know I haven’t posted in a while, but here you go! I’m so nervous about posting this. Honestly. I feel like I kinda rushed it a little? I dunno if it’s good. Uhm, I will say that Mickey is not soft in this. You know how he’s all cute and flirty in the movie? Yeah. Not here. I have plans to write for him later on where he’s more on character and adorable and all that, but it’s enemies to lovers and he hates reader and reader hates him. So. Yeah. Have fun with that.

This is a few firsts for me; first published smut, first Mickey Henry fic, and first enemies-to-lovers ever! I’m attached to friends-to-lovers (my parents’ fault), so going in the opposite direction is exciting and I hope it works out! (We’ll see what it can become after it’s been written.)

Also! Yes, I’m adding the link to the inspiration of the remix here. You’ll see what I’m talking about. I imagine more bass, but that’s basically it.

As always, all mistakes are mine and please excuse them as it’s not beta’d! Be kind to yourselves and others! Stay tuned and enjoy!

Part Two - Addictions

My Masterlist

*****

Between the tumultuous, voice losing cheers and the pounding, headache inducing bass, it’s a miracle the occupants of the building can hear anything at all. The large room is doused in bright pinks, purples and blues, glitter getting into every pore and crack, the smell of cigarette smoke and booze lingering in the air.

Bodies pressed together uncomfortably tight, breath and sweat mixing in a way that can’t be enjoyable, but no one notices because they’re all too high and drunk. There’s a couple swallowing each other in every dark corner of the room. A group of guys looking to get some are laughing rather obnoxiously at the bar, having consumed far too much alcohol to be safe.

Bouncers are escorting people out left and right; a streaker who decided to get on a table and dance, a couple who took it a bit too far over the bar counter, a group of girls who were no doubt too young to be in such an environment. Boisterous, chaotic, borderline dangerous.

There’s no place he’d rather be on a Friday night.

Up on the center stage, playing around with his tracks, messing with the turntables, pulse connecting to the music, head bobbing with the beat. He’s in control.

Every party. Every Friday, Saturday, Sunday night. Every weekend.

He’s in control.

It’s what he liked so much about doing what he does. Once he’s booked, he’s booked. It’s his night. He controls the sounds people hear. He controls what they dance to. How they dance. The pace of the night. The feeling of the night. And no one can take it away from him.

No one, that is, except you.

He hears you before he sees you, which is nearly impossible considering how loud the music is, but you somehow manage to take control of the room the moment you walk in it. You always get what you want with a bat of your eyelashes. And if you aren’t given it, you take what you want without regard for other people.

It really really pisses him off.

You’re laughing with a group of your friends, guys and girls’ heads swiveling to stare at you, captivating every heart in the room as per usual. You always show up with the same group, but he doesn’t even know any of their names even though you run in the same circles. It’s not like you end up hanging out with them for long, and you never leave with them. No, no. You always leave with him.

And that pissed him off too.

He can’t help it. He has absolutely no control over himself when it comes to you. And he hates you for it. He hates that he lets you take over with only a few snarky comments in his defense. He hates that you always get into his head. And he hates that you’re the best fuck he’d ever had and he can never get enough of you.

But most of all…he hates your music.

“Hey, hey! There he is!” You send him that infuriating smile of yours, a drink in your hand. It’s a flaw of yours. One of many, but probably the biggest. Alcohol. Like him and his cigarettes. He watches you with narrowed eyes as you effortlessly move through the crowd, your girls and guys seeming to vanish into the mob with every step you take.

You end up in front of the stage, leaning on it and giving him a smirk as you sip on your beverage choice of the night. It’s always something different. The only common factor is the alcohol you crave, letting it wash over your tongue, burn down your throat and slip into your veins.

“Heya, Mouse!”

“Don’t call me that!” He shouts with a growl over the music, pulling his headphones down around his neck. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

“I got called this morning! Said there was a gig tonight!”

He shakes his head, gesturing to the set up. “You’re a bit too late there, sunshine! Gig’s booked!”

You shake your head back at him. “I’m taking over from here, Mouse!”

“Says who?!”

“Argyris!”

His jaw clenches, his forehead creasing, a skeptical scoff leaving his lips. “Fuck you! No he didn’t! He said this one’s mine!”

You just give a shrug, no cares in the world, downing the rest of your drink. “You can fuck me later! For now, if you wanna whine about it, Daddy’s over there!”

Another growl leaves his chest as he scowls at you, eyes darting to where you’re pointing. Argyris is by the bar, of course, swaying on the seat. Barking out a laugh, he looks at you with a shake of his head. “He’s so drunk he probably shit himself again! You can’t take his word for it!”

“I can when he called me this morning, sober as he can get!” You shoot back, hopping up to stand besides him. “Besides! Someone’s gotta make sure these people have an actual good time!”

“Don’t touch anything until I get back!” He snaps, pointing warningly at you as he starts to walk towards Argyris.

You smile innocently, even though he knows you’re anything but. “Yes, sir!”

He marches over to his asshole friend and grabs him by the shirt, turning him around. “Mickey! Havin’ a good time?!”

Mickey glares, feeling his blood boil and his ears heat up, not from the proximity of strangers around him. “What the fuck?! You told sunshine over there that she could have my gig?!”

“I thought you’d wanna break! Dance and relax for a little bit! It’s only a two hour slot I gave her!”

“You should’ve fucking asked, Argyris! I don’t want her anywhere near my-” His sentence is cut off by a change in the music and he whips over to the stage where you’re grinning and jumping with the crowd. You catch his eye and throw him a wink, holding one of the headphone cups over your ear. “ Oh for the love of - she’s messing with my stuff!”

“I thought you liked her!”

Spluttering, Mickey gapes at the other man in disbelief. “Like her? I can’t stand her! She’s so fucking annoying!”

“What’s so annoying about her?!”

Mickey snatches the drink Argyris was about to gulp down and slams it on the counter. “She’s a spoiled fucking brat! Everyone lets her do whatever she wants! She steals half my fucking gigs! And her music is shit! Listen to this!”

Argyris looks around the room and shrugs. “Everyone else seems to like it! Sure it’s different than your disco-”

“It’s not disco!”

“But it’s a crowd pleaser! Just relax! Have a drink and go dance!”

“Argyris!” Wanting to scream in frustration, he watches the man stumble off to get another drink down the bar. “Dammit! This is fucking shit.” Grumbling to himself, Mickey storms back over to the stage, easily pulling himself up.

You bite your lip and raise an eyebrow at him. “So?! How’d your date with Argyris go?!”

“I hate you so fucking much! Use your own fucking headphones!” He snatches the pair from your neck, pulling the cord out. “Why do you always have to steal my gigs?!”

You shrug, leaning forwards to brush your lips against his ear. “Yours are so much fun.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyebrows furrowing. This always happens. Every time. The moment he feels in control, you do something and he feels every ounce of himself slipping away. It’s the reason he fucks you. To take back that control he so easily gives to you. To make sure you understand that on the weekends, he’s in charge.

But not tonight. No, no. Not tonight. He refuses to get caught up in that game tonight. You wouldn’t end up in an alley or some bathroom with him. He wouldn’t end up on your couch or in his kitchen with you. He refuses to let it happen. Again.

Instead, he lets out a chuckle and nods. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever sunshine.” He takes a step back, giving you a smirk as your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You have fun playing your shitty music!”

“Have fun moping!” You call back, turning to the table and ignoring him completely as he groans and jumps off the stage.

Good God. You’re infuriating.

But so is he.

You hate Mickey Henry. You just do. You hate that he has zero responsibilities and gets away with it. You hate that he can charm his way out of any situation. You hate how immature he is and how no one ever forces him to grow up. And you hate how easily you let him take charge when he’s with you. After a life full of people making choices for you, you crave control, but with him? The moment he tells you to get on your knees, you fall, no matter where you are or what you’re doing.

But most of all…you hate his music.

You take his gigs to save people from listening to it, but also so he knows he can’t talk every situation into his favor. That Argyris can’t always take care of his job for him. He never checks up on gigs once Argyris tells him he has them. So it’s really his fault for not taking some responsibility.

Watching from the stage as your music flows through you, vibrating your bones and sinking into your skin, you’re not surprised to see him get out a cigarette as he heads to a mutual acquaintance of yours. He has many flaws, but that’s a major one. Like you and your alcohol. Him and his cigarettes. You wouldn’t be surprised if you learn a couple months from now that he has lung cancer.

Mickey is talking low to the guy and you already know what’s going on. That was a flaw you both shared. Drugs. He is much more intense than you though. While you’d be fine with some pot, he almost always hits hard with cocaine. Not that you’re innocent from that type yourself - you’d done it multiple times with the man himself if you ended up at each other’s place. Never in the bedroom. You never made it that far, and you don’t really care to. But after those times bent over the table, being pounded into the couch, hanging against the wall, you’d get high with him before one of you takes off.

You’re not exactly sure what happened earlier. You were a bit shocked when he stepped away. Not that you usually left so early, but he didn’t even stay to bicker some more.

Not that you care. You’re just…curious. Maybe he’s finally growing tired of the game you’ve been playing. You’ve been playing it for a few years now. With that weird little pause last year.

You actually thought he had changed.

Having run into him at a party, you prepared yourself for the arguing that no doubt would end in sex. But it didn’t. It didn’t even start. He was with someone. Like, steady with someone. As in dating someone. Living with her. To the point where his baby mama actually agreed to let him keep his boy in their apartment as long as they were together.

It was a weird six months. You two actually had real conversations. You knew how soft and goofy he could get; you had loads of mutual friends and often went to the same parties so you’d seen that side of him. It was just…odd because it never came out with you. But it did then. And you…liked it. You didn’t see him as often, especially once his kid was cleared to live with them. He stopped going out on weekends, started just attending the small shindigs your friends hosted, worked from home instead of DJing.

But then his girl - what was her name? Claire? Caitie? You can’t remember - left for a job in the States just a few months ago and he was back to square one. His baby mama took back the custody privileges, he went back to partying every weekend, and you fell right back into your petty bickering and rough fucking.

You feel bad. Really, you do. You heard that he’d actually loved that chick. And you know he wanted to see his kid more. You knew about the room at his place. But that almost made you hate him more. That he went right back to his old self. He didn’t even try. He got a taste of being a responsible adult, and then let it go.

Because no matter how hard people try, flaws are flaws. And no one can change that much.

As the night goes on, more booze enters your system, while more cocaine enters his. There’s the occasional glare or immature finger raising between you two. Mickey even sticks his tongue out at you while dancing with some broad, a smirk lifting up the corners of his mouth as yours twist down and your eyes roll.

Your features quickly morph into smug amusement as an idea pops into your head and his eyes narrow. What are you up to? He quickly finds out as you stop the music and bring a microphone to your lips.

“Hey, hey, party people! Everyone’s night going fantastic?!” Cheers are your response. Mickey scowls, not liking where this is going, and starts heading your way. You wink at him. “I’m gonna change it up for just this one song! It’s a dedication song to a good friend of mine! It’s a bit different than the usual stuff, but it’s a bop, I promise! Here’s to the Mouse!”

He immediately freezes as the song starts. “Meeska! Mooska! Mickey Mouse!” He feels his face heat up, his fists balling up at his sides, glaring at you and your shit eating grin as you roll your body to the beat, his feet taking him to the stage.

Effortlessly lifting himself onto it once more, he grabs both your wrists in one of his larger ones to stop the music without you interfering, his rings digging into your skin. “Aww! But, Mouse! We didn’t even get to the roll call!”

“Shut. Up.” He grits out through clenched teeth, putting something else on absentmindedly. He didn’t want Argyris on his ass later for leaving the crowd without music. “God. Stop being a fucking pain in my fucking ass for one fucking minute.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s pulling you away before you can reply. Next thing you know he’s shoving you into the bathroom, growling at the girls that were smoking up the place to get out.

“You think you’re so cute, don’t you, princess?” He hisses in your ear, slamming you against the door once the girls left. He’s so tired of giving in to you, but he can’t help it, crashing his lips against yours messily. Teeth and tongue, the taste of smoke and the fruity drink you had chosen for the night mixing, only making him press closer. Your hands get pinned above your head and he’s pulling your skirt up, bunching it at your waist. It’s rough and careless and fueled by loathing, but when is it not? “Think you’re so funny? Huh?”

“Yeah.” You breath, smirking as he slots a thigh between your legs, squeezing your hips and pressing you down against him, flexing the muscle and making you squirm.

His teeth are biting at your bottom lip and tugging, his hands dragging your clothed core along his thigh. “Let’s see how funny you think you are when I’m fucking you so hard you forget how to breathe.”

Your breath hitches and your hands previously above your head clutch onto his shirt at the friction against your clit. It’s not enough and he knows, but you don’t tell him. “All this over a silly song?” You jest.

He sneers back at you, ignoring your tease. “Did you get jealous, sunshine? Is that what happened? Is that why you decided to be a little shit?”

“Jealous?” You scoff as he attacks your neck, your hands quickly undoing his belt before he shoves his pants down, his briefs following along with your panties. “Jealous of you, maybe. That girl was hot. Way outta your lea - oh shit.”

You always forget how deep he reaches inside you, how much the stretch is. He’s not soft about it, entering you in one swift thrust, your hips connecting. His hands are dimpling your bare thighs, hefting you up so your legs wrap around his waist, rings on his fingers no doubt making imprints. The door against your back starts rattling with every movement, but the music outside was too loud for anyone to hear it.

“Not so mouthy now, are we?” He snaps in time with his hips. He can feel you tightening around him, your fingers dragging down his chest, trying desperately to pull his shirt off.

“C’mon, Mouse. That's all you got?” You pant out, a little whine leaving your lips when he leaves you suddenly, dropping you to your feet. “Mickey! What-”

He cuts you off by pushing you against the counter, a shout leaving your lip when he takes you from behind, making you surge forwards, your head almost hitting the mirror, pelvis hitting your ass with every piston of his hips. His hand is tangled in your hair and he tugs, making your head snap up. “Look at you. So fucked out. I did that. I’m the best fuck you’ve ever had and we both know it.” He isn’t wrong. Your makeup’s a mess, your hair is wrapped around his fingers.

“You’re the one who keeps fucking me.” You argue back, your spine arching as he hits that perfect spot inside you. Over and over and over.

He growls, leaning forwards to fold over you, his lips by your ear. “And who keep being a fucking brat? Huh? Who keeps coming to my gigs, fucking up my weekend? Practically begging me to fuck you.”

You scowl at him in the mirror. “I don’t beg.”

The chuckle that leaves his lips makes you shiver and you whimper when he tugs your hair harder, the sting of your scalp mixing with the pleasure his cock was giving you.

“You will. You may get everything you want from everyone else, princess, but I’m in charge here. Don’t. You. Forget.” His words are punctuated with a hard thrust, making you lurch forwards, your thighs pressing harshly against the counter.

“Oh God…Mickey,” that familiar tightness in your stomach appears, your eye clenching shut as your toes curl. “I’m so close…”

“Open your goddamn eyes. Look who’s doing this to you. Who fucking owns this pussy? Huh?”

Your eyes snap open and meet his again, his breaths fanning across your face, rapidly becoming less steady. “You.”

“That’s right. You wanna cum, sunshine?” You nod vigorously. He takes your lobe between his teeth and tugs as he stills his hips, keeping himself inside you. “Then beg.”

And, just like the many times before, you do. You do because you don’t actually care about begging. You care about him ruining you. That’s what you want. And you always get what you want. Fuck your dignity.

He starts up slowly again as you plead, stopping a couple more times when you feel yourself getting close. “Mickey! Please, for the love of God!” He’s never edged you this much. Not this intensely. And not in the bathroom at a club. Usually it’s just a quickie before you take him home or vice versa.

But you pissed him off tonight. More so than usual. It was a good night and then you came along. Took his job. Played that dumb song. So he needs to remind you. Put you in your place. “You may be spoiled by everyone else, princess, but I’m the only one who can give you what you really want.”

“God, you’re so annoying.” You grind out through your clenched teeth.

He just smirks. “That wasn’t a denial. Let go, Y/N. Make a mess of my cock. Watch yourself fall apart for me.”

You do as he says, watching your jaw go slack in a silent scream, your body tensing, your legs shaking, as he finally lets you have what you want. Body going slack against the counter, he keeps rutting into you until he groans, a string of profanities leaving his lips as he spills inside you.

The both of you stay there, with him folded on top of you, his forehead resting against the nape of your neck, his grip on your hair loosening.

“That was fun. A little different.” You hum as he gets up. He’s glaring at you as you straighten and fix yourself. “Good orgasm though, so thanks for that. But I gotta get back to work now.”

“You’re such a pain in my ass.” He mutters, tucking himself away and pulling his pants up.

“Kinky. Maybe next time.” You wink at him through the mirror and his jaw ticks. He’s so fucking tired of it. Of you. How you let him have that one bit of control and then your right back to controlling the room once you get what you want. There’s so many nights where he wonders if he should just stop giving it to you. But then he’s inside you and he can’t help himself.

He watches you touch yourself up, although you still look thoroughly fucked, but you don’t seem to mind. This is new. You going back to the gig you stole after sex. He wonders if that was the last time for tonight, or if you’d be leaving together later too.

“I fucking hate you.” He spits out as you open the door, wanting to get the last word in.

You just smirk the same way he did to you earlier. “Yeah…but you love fucking me. Later, Mouse.”

Just like always, you’re the last comment as you walk out nonchalantly, even though he could see the slight wobble in your steps, the door shutting behind you, leaving him alone.

You hate Mickey Henry. You loathe him. You wish you never met him. But you can’t get enough. No matter how many times you convince yourself you have him where you want him, you know you don’t. You’d let him do anything to you. But you can’t stop. Like him and his cigarettes. He’s your flaw. And no matter how bad he is for you, you’re addicted.

Mickey Henry hates you. He loathes you. He wishes he never met you. But he can’t get enough. No matter how many times he convinces himself he’s in control, he knows he’s not. He always gives you what you want at the end of the day. But he can’t stop. Like you and your alcohol. You’re his flaw. And no matter how bad it is for him, he’s addicted.

*****

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wiypt-writes · 4 years

Text

Rock ‘N’ Roll People In A Disco World

Part 2- Panic At The Disco

Intro: You head to the hospital as Paul’s life hangs in the balance and as you wait for news, you start to reflect on the early days of your relationship.

Pairing: Paul Diskant x Reader

Warnings: Bad language, Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar the reader and any other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

A/N: So, you migh recognise a few familiar names/faces in this as well- I can assure you this isn’t an Avengers/Diskant AU, just a way for me to pay tribute to a few of our faves…because, why not!

Rock ‘n’ Roll People Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Part 1

"All units, we have a possible 2-4-5 in progress at 4223 E Palm, South of Figueroa and 1st. Unit responding is requesting back up, 11-9-9, Code 3."

"Unit 613 responding, Code 3."

The call went out over dispatch and you felt a slight relief at the fact support was on its way. You took a deep breath, held firm, your weapon poised as your partner stood next to you.

"LAPD, drop the weapon and come out with your hands up. We will fire." Officer Barton, a long time veteran on beat called out. "Panny, hit the porch."

You nodded and walked the short steps, bracing yourself against the stucco near the jam.

"Come on Garcia, your old lady called it in, I have back up coming, bro. You don't want this to go down worse than it is," Barton shouted. "Don't make my Rookie work hard today, man."

Lights and sirens filled your ears and soon a second unit had arrived on scene. The suspect, now surrounded, soon surrendered, his weapon dropped to the ground as he came out of his home with his hands up.

The second unit to respond to the call was helping Barton with the arrest while you headed inside to check on the girlfriend who'd called it in. She was beat up and bloodied, a bullet graze across her upper left arm. Paramedics were treating her as you wrote down everything she could tell you for the report to be filed later.

You gave the woman’s hand a little squeeze as you promised her you’d be right back and headed outside where you saw Barton stood talking to one of the duty sergeants from the second unit and another officer who you hadn’t seen before.

"She's requesting an escort, both medics are male," You said to Barton.

“Okay.” Barton nodded. “You good to take it or do you want me to call back and request someone take over?”

You shook your head, “Nah, I’m good, I could use the overtime. It’s no problem.”

"Rookies, always looking for the pay out," Barton laughed at you and you snorted before you looked back at the house.

“Well, to be honest I wanna make sure she’s okay, she’s beat up pretty bad.”

"Yeah, well this isn't their first 240 but now, it's bumping to a 273D, if she keeps the chargers." Barton nodded. “Okay, go with her and I’ll file the initial report when I get back. You can add your details to it later.”

“See, we’re not always money grabbing assholes.” The officer you’d never met before turned his eyes to the sergeant who met his look with one of his own. “Some of us rookies are simply driven by our social conscience.”

As the two men looked at one another it was clear that the statement meant something, and you could probably take a good guess that the officer in question had also had his fair share of rookie jokes at his expense. It was part and parcel of being a newbie.

“Oooh I’m sensing a little bit of tension there, Barnes!” Barton looked at the sergeant who scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“He’s a wise guy, thinks he’s funny.”

“I don’t think it, I know it.” The buzz cut man shrugged. “Why else does everyone laugh at me when I walk into a room?”

At that you couldn’t help a little chuckle of laughter as your eyes looked over the hood of Sargent Barnes' black and white and caught the name plate of the wise ass, before your eyes flicked up to his face. A pair of shades were pushed up on top of his shorn light brown hair, revealing a pair of blue eyes which were twinkling slightly with good humour. He was clean shaven with a strong jawline, and a pretty handsome profile with high cheekbones and a smattering of freckles over his nose. Two strong arms folded over a broad chest, as he stood tall, a good inch or so above Sergeant Barnes and a fair few over you.

His eyes caught yours, a smirk curling in his lips as he clearly thought you’d been checking him out.

Which, to be fair, you had, and all in all, he was pretty damned hot.

"Don't I know you?" He asked, his hands unfolding from across his chest and coming to rest on his utility belt, either side of the buck.

“I don’t think so.” You shook your head.

“I’m sure I do. I never forget a pretty face.”

You laughed at the blatant pick up line and looked at Barton who was watching, his eyebrow raised. You shook your head and turned back to make some sly quip of your own before the medic interrupted the exchange, telling you they were ready for transport. You nodded before once more switching your attention back to the three men around you.

“It’s been a pleasure, gents.” You smiled, nodding to both Barton and Sergeant Barnes before you turned to look at the other man. "Diskant.”

He feigns a pain to his chest with a hard slap of his right hand over his heart. "Uh, you do know me! That hurts."

“Read your name tag.” You shrugged and with that you turned and left.

The red and blue lights of the black and white bouncing off the concrete exterior of UCLA Medical Centre as you arrived brought you out of your memory. Officer Weiss opened the door for you and escorted you inside where the waiting room had been cleared and you were met with the somber faces of not only Captain Biggs, but Paul's Captain, Sam Wilson. But what brought your world crashing down on you for the second time that night was seeing your own Captain, Steve Rogers, waiting for you. Wilson had to have called him in.

"Steve," your voice quivered as your Captain and friend wrapped an arm around you. Sam, too, pulling you close. "What...." you couldn't even get the words out, each syllable choked back by the closing of your throat, sobs threatening to escape.

"We don't know, not yet. The call came in as an officer down, unit in pursuit. Medics arrived and called in code blue, 10-45C GSW to the neck. As soon as they arrived he was wheeled into emergency surgery," Captain Biggs explained.

The air left your lungs at the news and you near hit the floor, both Rogers and Wilson catching an arm, and had you been more with it, you’d have clocked the worried look that your Captain shot Sam. He'd known you since your training at the academy, his eye on you for SWAT from the get go, and never had he seen your lose control in such a way. You hadn’t on the job, not once. It was something you prided yourself on.

Biggs grabbed a chair from the wall behind him, where a dozen lined the sterile white space, and allowed you to flop into it. Your hands were shaking, legs bouncing on the balls of your feet, the tore up converse you’d slipped on squeaking a little on the clinical floor. You’d dressed in such a haste, your skinny jeans being grabbed straight back off the top of the hamper for you to put on, one of Paul’s hoodies being pulled on over a tight camisole. Whilst you hadn’t given a single thought to what you were wearing, clearly your subconscious had wanted to be near him, and you were glad as you pulled the dark grey item round you tighter, breathing in his smell. And you were reminded of the first time you were able to really be close enough to smell his cologne or deodorant, a smell that was uniquely Paul Diskant.

It was Friday and your shift had just finished. It was the first time your rest days had fallen over a Saturday and Sunday, and you were making the most of it. A few from your team were heading to Jack's Bar for a few beers and, you suspected, a lot of shots and probably karaoke later, apparently that’s how your team nights went down.

You’d been there a few hours and your rounds had all gotten out of sync, as was always the case when everyone had had a few, so you stood up to head to the bar to get yourself a refill, cringing at the cat-screeching masquerading as singing which was ringing around the room. You found a space, placing your empty glass on the smooth wood of the bar and stood waiting for the bar tender. You hadn’t been there long when someone sidled in next to you, their elbow lightly brushing your arm and you glanced up to see the handsome, buzz-cut officer that had attended the 273D you’d dealt with in the week.

“Did you bring your cuffs?” He asked and you frowned, looking at him.

“What? Why?”

He jerked his head over his shoulder in the direction of the woman singing, “because she’s murdering Shania Twain and whilst she may feel like a woman, personally I feel that as police officers, it’s our duty to prevent crimes of this nature.”

You groaned out a laugh, “Jesus, you’re terrible”

“My name isn’t Jesus, but give me a chance and I’ll make you say ‘Oh God’,” he shot you a wink, “how’s that for terrible?”

You laughed and shook your head, cocking it slightly to one side as you studied him for a second. And then, you decided on a little joke of your own. “It’s Disco, right?”

He groaned, dropping his head in a dramatic sigh. “Diskant. Come on, you read my name tag, remember?”

"Diskant." You shrugged, "Close enough."

He chuckled, nodding to your drink that was down to the foam at the bottom of the glass, "what are you drinking?"

"Beer," you replied.

"Any beer? Or..."

"The Heff," you nod to the taps.

Diskant waved the bartender over, "Jack, can we get another round, one for me and one for Officer...."

"Y/L/N."

"Officer Y/L/N. Whatever she's drinking."

"It's Paul by the way," he smirked at you while dropping some cash on the bar top as Jack returned your beers.

"Thanks for the beer, Disco," You winked and walked off to join your partner and the rest of the shift team.

“Woah, it’s like that? I buy you a drink and you bail, without even telling me your name?” He scoffed and you turned to look at him over your shoulder, giving him a smirk.

“Yeah," you shrugged, and when you turned away you could feel his eyes burning into your back.

Later, you saw him laughing in a full body tilt, eyes crinkled and his smile exploding. His partner, whom you'd recognized again as Barnes, had said something ridiculous causing the table to erupt.

You headed to the bar and ordered a round of shots for your team and another beer to chase it. But sent one over Paul's way, with a note on the napkin.

When the waitress took the beer to him, she placed the napkin down first, making sure he saw the scribbled note.

'Now we're even. - Y/N'

You watched as he read the note, a huge smile breaking over his handsome face and he turned, bright eyes searching the bar. When they fell on you, he arched his brow and raised his beer in thanks. You gave a sharp jerk of your head to show you’d seen and turned back to your team.

From then on, he was a persistent little shit. He'd somehow figured out your shift patterns, catching you in and out of the doors to the station as you'd be coming off shift and he starting his. Barton liked to give you shit for it as he'd always walk with you out, calling Diskant "your lost, little puppy-dog" and the unit were quick to catch on. It was all in good fun, until one day, you'd worked a tough shift; chasing down a couple of suspects and catching yourself up on a fence, gashing your arm good. Medics treated you at the scene, but told you that it required stitches. You finished you shift anyway and like clockwork, there he was walking in as you were out.

"Hey Y/N, you okay?" He'd expressed concern as your face was blatantly displaying your discomfort and mood which wasn’t great.

You were tired, irritated and in pain, now that the day was over, you wanted to just go home, so you seemed to snap in reply, "What the hell is it gonna take for you to just go away?"

Your response took him back a bit as he raised his hands in defense."Whoa, relax," his voice was soft and careful.

You sighed and stepped out of the way of the different people coming in and out the doors. He followed. "I'm sorry, that was shitty. It's just been a really long day."

"It’s okay, I get it. Look, I'm off today, I was coming in to get some stuff I left in my locker. I'm sorry if I've crossed a line somehow."

You thought to yourself for a moment. He hadn't crossed any line, not one that made you uncomfortable. You had your own reservations about dating someone from work, but it wasn’t like no one else did it, hell, half the entire force seemed to be married to one another, and if you were honest, you were actually kind of attracted to him and you found his flirty way of things to be fun and you liked it.

“No, you didn’t, like I said, bad day.” You shook your head. “I gotta head to the clinic for some stitches, and if I’m honest, I’m not a huge fan of needles so...."

He frowned “you hurt yourself?”

"Got hung up on a chain link chasing a perp through an alley. Finished the shift with the bandages from the medics, now I gotta take care of it."

"Do you... errr...", he moved out of the way of someone leaving the building and scratched the back of his neck, "do you need a lift up there or something, I got nothing else on."

"I could use a ride, sure," you shrugged, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Okay, well gimme two minutes to grab something out of my locker and I’ll be with you in a second.”

You headed out of the way of the various traffic in and out of the station and perched on the low wall that surrounded the parking lot. True to his word, Diskant emerged a few minutes later, sliding his shades down from his head to his eyes, a bright pink gift bag in his hand and for some inexplicable reason, you felt your heart sink at the sight of the item in his hand, it was clearly for a woman.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” You asked, nodding to it as he stopped in front of you. A smirk crossed his face and a brow arched over the top of his wraparounds.

“Is that your way of asking me if I have a girlfriend?” He quipped and you hastily shook your head, lying through your teeth.

“No, I was just…making conversation. Besides, you might be gay for all I know.” You finished lamely and he snorted.

“Well, I’m not, and it’s for my Mom. It’s her birthday tomorrow and she’s a pain in the ass for finding her presents in my room or wherever I hide them. That and I actually only picked it up yesterday and forgot about it.”

"None of my business." You shrugged and at that he sighed, looking down before he glanced at you, chuckling.

"You asked, sweetheart."

The pet name had you feeling a little warm around your neck. Thankfully, Diskant then led you to his car, the conversation moving swiftly onwards as you explained in a little more detail how you’d gotten your injury. By the time you’d finished you were out of the parking lot and had joined the steady stream of traffic on the main road.

“You should count yourself lucky that it was only your arm.” Paul mused, his thumb tapping the steering wheel. “One of the first shifts I ever did ended with the guy I’d been partnered with straddling a piece of razor-wire.”

“Ouch.” You winced and Paul wrinkled his nose.

“Lot of blood and screaming.” He sniffed. “Mind you, every cloud and all that, he said it would save him and his wife a fortune on a vasectomy.”

You blinked before your mouth fell open in disbelief and you scoffed, shaking your head. “Bullshit.”

“I swear down…”

“Don’t believe you, Disco.”

“Well, I’m offended on two counts. First that you think I’m untrustworthy and second you know that’s not my name.” He shook his head, hanging a right.

You shrugged, “I like it, it suits you.”

“I used to get that all the time at school.” He shrugged, “fucking everyone used to sing that damned D-I-S-C-O song in the halls.”

“Okay, now that’s in my head.” You smirked, and you opened your mouth to sing but he cut you off.

“Just, no.”

You laughed and took a deep breath. “Well, if it makes you feel any better my team call me Panny, short for Panic. On account of the fact I never seem to.”

At that he snorted, “yeah, I’m not calling you that, that’s, fucking awful!”

You let out a low chuckle, “Y/N’s fine.”

“Mind you,” he stole a quick glance at you before his eyes went back to the road. “Panic at the Disco, not a bad band.”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled a little. The conversation flowed with little interruption or awkwardness and once you arrived, your time at the clinic seemed relatively fast. You'd figured he'd left as you'd said goodbye to one another when you'd entered the clinic but to your surprise, and catching you a bit off guard, he was still waiting.

"You didn't have to wait." You smiled at him and he shrugged.

“How else you gonna get back for your car?" His eyes flicked down, noting the clean wound and stitches in your forearm.

“Uber?” You shrugged and he paused, before he took a deep breath.

“Okay, you could have but my mom taught me never to leave a lady in need of help.”

"I was in there for an hour," You chuckled.

“Yeah, and now I’m kinda hungry, are you hungry?"

“Diskant…”

"There's a little place I know where we get some great quick food."

"And if I say no?"

"I'm a gentleman and no is no, I’ll take you back to the lot and you get in your car.” He paused, "and then I'll go home and weep into my pillow as I deal with your rejection."

You laugh loudly, genuinely amused, "fine, take me to dinner."

"Woah, I didn't say anything about dinner. I said food."

"Fine, food, let's get some food."

With a grin he gestured for you to lead the way and you headed out of the medical centre back to his car.

It turns out the place he’d been meaning was the Santa Monica Pier. And the food he had in mind was hot dogs and fries, which suited you absolutely fine.

"Alright, I gotta hand it to you, this is a pretty good hot dog and the beer isn't half bad," You tilted back the drink and smiled. "But, it doesn't beat Coney Island."

"Never been," he shrugged, "so I'll have to take you at your word."

"What else do you take me for? Obviously, you're swindling your way into something."

"I resent that accusation, Y/N."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you just suckered me into a date." You teased and he paused, turning to face you. “And, seeing as you said that was what it would take to get you to leave me alone…” “No, this is not a date.” He cut you off, shaking his head.

“Hmm, just the two of us, you bought me food, pretty sure it counts as a date.” You wrinkled your nose, your tone flirty and Paul shook his head once more.

“Nope. Absolutely not. There’s a vital element missing.”

“What?”

“I haven’t kissed you.” He signed dramatically. “So, I’m afraid that if you want me to count this as a date then you’re gonna have to lay one on me.”

“Oh my God-“ You burst out laughing, “You are-“

“Hey, I don’t make the rules, Y/N!”

“So, to be absolutely clear, if I kiss you this counts as a date?”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Well,” You popped a shoulder, stepping a little closer to him, your eyes flicking from his to his lips, “what the hell.”

You brought your lips to his, a littler firmer than you'd thought but the feel of his mouth against yours was soft and in a way delicate and as you began to pull away, his arm looped around your rib cage and pulled you back in for a longer, deeper kiss that if you'd been honest with yourself, made your stomach tilt and your toes curl. The way his tongue dipped into your mouth was delightful, the salty hoppy taste of the beer and fries you were sharing still an essence in his mouth.

Breathless, you pulled away, “You gonna leave me alone now?”

“Not a chance.” He chuckled and leaned in again for a third kiss.

"Y/N..." the voice calling out to you was familiar but your head was pounding and nothing but a fog had filtered over you. Tearfully coming out of your memory, you looked up to see Dorothy, Paul's mom standing before you, her husband Jim in the background talking to Sam.

"Hi," you croaked and stood from your chair. She immediately wrapped her arms around you in a tight embrace. "I'm sorry... I didn't..."

"Its okay, Jimmy called us after Sam had called us both." She tearfully explained. "We came as soon we'd heard." She nodded to James Barnes, Paul's former beat partner who was talking with Jim, Sam and now Steve.

"Dotty, I... I'm scared." You cried and she took hold of you again. Together you cried until Jim came and hugged you both, his eyes tearful but his demeanour strong. As a force veteran himself, Big Jim Diskant knew all too well how these things could happen but never did he want to believe it'd be his own son wounded in the line of duty.

Barnes was quick to hand you a tissue and you accepted with a sad, soft smile in thanks. "He's gonna pull through, doll. Just you watch. You can't get rid of him that easy."

Your quivering lip turned to a wobble until you saw the doctor emerge from the double doors that led into the body of the hospital. His scrubs were bloodied and you feared the worst as he called out, "family of Paul Diskant."

The world around you felt like it was moving at a snail's pace, your stomach in your throat as you, Dotty, Jim and those there to comfort you all made their way to the doctor.

"We've moved him into the ICU. He's critical, however, I'm hard pressed to say stable. He's not out of the woods yet. The bullet hit his carotid artery which supplies the brain, face and neck and while we were able to remove it, he's lost a lot of blood and I feel it's best to keep him medically sedated until some real healing takes place. That's all up to him on how long that will take and how his body works. Unfortunately, until he wakes up, we won’t be able to determine if there will be any long lasting damage due to the loss of blood to the brain. You should know, we nearly lost him once during the procedure and I know he coded twice before arrival. He's a fighter, that's for sure. For now, he just needs time."

"Can we see him?" Dotty asked, the words not able to leave your lips.

"You can. One at a time," the doctor replied. "ICU rules. I can take the first of you up with me now."

Dotty very quickly turned to you, "go on." You looked at her like a deer in headlights. Jim nodded in agreement with his wife.

"Follow me," the doctor nodded to go with him and as he did, he handed you a small plastic bag. "We had to cut it off. I'm sorry."

He placed the bag containing Paul's St. Christopher medal in your hand. It was covered in blood, no doubt from what had happened and the weight of it felt heavier than it ever had before in your hand as you joined the good doctor on the lift up.

It had been a month into your relationship when your parents decided to head out for a week trip to New York, your dad making good on his promise to treat your mom for their anniversary. That meant that you and Paul were playing house for the week.

After seeing them off, you'd proudly tidied up and made sure you pampered yourself before your date night to kick the week off. Fridays post shift were usually spent at Jack's but, you were off and Paul and Barnes were already day shift, as if the stars had perfectly aligned for tonight. Your gut was telling you that after a month of heavy, very heavy petting, absolutely breath-taking make out sessions and a few down the pants moments, tonight just might be the night things would change for the two of you. And if not tonight, then hopefully while the two of you were shacked up for the next five days.

A few hours of primping, preening and a ridiculously relaxing bath, setting fire to that very diamonds and pearls side of you, you picked out your nicest lingerie, a little all black set of bra and panties that hid lines well in your selected sleek black dress. Paul had said the two of you were going for a nice dinner, and he promised it was truly a nice dinner, not like the last he'd said was nice and you two laughed your way through burgers at the Beach Hut. He was going to pick you up at five, and you needed to be ready.

Punctual as always, your doorbell rang and there he was, duffle in one hand, flowers for you in the other. He always brought you flowers on your dates and you loved the old fashioned in him that clearly was a product of his parents love story.

You smiled at him from behind red lips and smoky eyes, your hair down and straight. "Hey! Thank you!" You took the outstretched flowers and welcomed him in.

"Wow," he whispered, getting the full view of you as he stepped inside the doorway. "Sweetheart, you..., wow."

“You said nice... so if you’re taking me to some dive, Disco, when I’m dressed like this there’s gonna be trouble.”

"I promise, it's nice." Dropping his overnight bag next to the stairs, he followed you into the kitchen as you put the flowers in a vase. You turned from the island and his lips were on yours. "You do look beautiful, but if you want to get into trouble, I've got my cuffs in the car."

You didn't miss the fire in his eyes and the feeling between your legs. “I thought only bad girls get the cuffs?”

"Maybe we should see how bad you can get."

"You're gonna have to feed me first."

“Damn, you drive a hard bargain.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss, fingers scratching at the nape of his neck, "You think that's hard, you should..."

His finger covered your lips, "don't, don't finish that sentence or we'll never make dinner. THAT I can promise."

You smirked and pulled away from him fully, grabbing your hand bag off the entry table, "I'm ready, let's go."

The meal was divine, expensive and rich in place and taste, you dined on steaks and lobsters, Paul pulling out all the stops for such a new relationship and start of a fun weekend. You didn't mind, but you also knew that you'd have been fine with something simple too.

"You know you didn’t have to spend so much, I’d have laid on my back for a sub," you sighed contently as he drove you two back to yours.

"Well, in that case, fuck it, next time it's Subway."

"Is that what this was? You buttering me up so I'd sleep with you, Disco?"

“No, that’s...” he stopped and shrugged, “did it work?”

All you did was smirk back at him. From then, until tires skidded into the driveway, Paul drove at lightspeed, making a snarky comment about needing a red light for the dash or wishing he was in his squad car because he couldn't get you home fast enough. You were barely in the door before he was all over you, hands tangled through your hair, you kicking your shoes off at the bottom of the stairs. His strong arms and big hands lifted you off your feet as you clawed at him, your legs wrapping around his slender waist while he carried you up the stairs. It was a mix of breathy sounds and lots of tongue until your back hit the lamp at the landing stair, causing it to tilt, and the bulb to break.

Shit," Paul cursed against your lips.

"I'll get that later," you replied, continuing to fight for dominance in your kiss.

He managed to get you to your room, but your pace slowed down as you entered, the heat lowering to a simmer unlike the two horny teenagers you’d both been in the stairs and hall. Your toes curled into your plush carpet as he set you down. Breathless and chests heaving, you kissed each other softly and slowly as your fingers unbuttoned his shirt, trying to hide your nerves. Your nails raked down the chest of his crisp white tee he wore underneath. You could feel his heart under your palm.

Your eyes looked into his and you saw deep and beautiful blue pools staring back at you, a soft twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He took a half breath and his lips covered yours, his tongue slowly rolling over your top lip to pull you in. It made your stomach drop in need, and you wrapped your arms around his neck to close the space between you.

His big hand splayed over your right ass cheek and held you there against him while the other hand cupped your face. If anyone were to walk in, they'd think you were one person, the two of you were so close to one another. Then you felt his hand trail over the curve of your backside, closer and closer to the start of your zipper. You felt your dress grow looser as he pulled the little metal piece over the teeth of its track.

His lips trailed over your skin, and you could feel his heart now racing through his pulse point in his neck. Your eyes met his as he pulled away a second, "me too," You whispered.

A breathy chuckle left his lips and you pulled your dress away from your body, allowing the fabric to hit the floor. You felt naked despite the bra and panty set, his gaze taking all of you in. By no means was this your first time with a man, but it was your first time with Paul, and so far, you'd never felt or experienced anything like this and he wasn't even inside you yet. It was like your skin was on fire from the inside out, all of your nerves firing at once, causing everything to tingle and your breath to catch as your heart threatened to leap from your chest.

His foot stepped between yours and he placed his hands on your hips, gently backing you into the bed, his lips sealing with yours, your hands holding his forearms to steady yourself. His hands cradled you as the two of you fell into the mattress, his body covering yours, his lips traveling down your neck and nipping at that sensitive spot that made your panties pool and your thighs clench. Your hands shoved the material of his button down over his shoulders and, as his lips carried on toward the swell of your breasts, he flung the shirt wherever it landed.

You smirked as he figured out the bra you had on was front closure and with a snap your breasts were freed.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he said with a tone you'd never heard from him before.

He had his mouth on you before you could reply, your skin flushing and that twist of stomach igniting with pleasure. His hot tongue lolled around your nipple before suckling it between his teeth and giving it a little pull. You moaned as he pulled away, your fingers scratching at his neck. He smirked against your other breast as you arched into him, his free hand running over your hip and behind you to palm your ass as your leg lifted and bent a knee at his hip.

"I....oh God," you purred as his tongue licked and his mouth sucked, alternating between your breasts. "Fuck, I... Paul, please."

He sat back and ripped his shirt over his head, adding it to the pile. You could see he was solid from your foreplay and you knew the size he was packing. Your stomach twisted in anticipation.

"Please... What?" He said softly as he left hot, wet kisses up the inside of your thigh. "You know, for a trained police officer I would expect you to have a little more self-control, Baby.”

"Shut up..."

He nipped at your thigh, and you moaned obscenely, your muscles twitching. "You gonna tell me what you want?" He nipped again, higher this time. "Or.."

"I need you."

“I asked what you want...”

"Fuck me."

Quickly he was standing, undoing his belt and pants while pulling a condom from his back pocket. You laid there amazed and in awe of the thick muscles of his entire body, the bare chest and tight abs he had on display. You'd seen his thick and full length before, hell, you'd even put your mouth around it but now, all you can think of is how it would feel deep inside you. Your eyes watched him with a hunger you could feel coursing all through you, the way he rolled the latex circle down his shaft and kneeled toward you on the bed.

He pulled at your panties, peeling them away from your body, your legs lifting to remove them fully. You were soaked as he tested your folds, slicking the head of his cock. It felt so good already, you were squirming by the time his head dipped inside you. He caged you in with his body as he pressed into you little by little until you were both moaning at the perfect fit as he became fully seated inside you. His St. Christopher medal dangled between the two of you as it ghosted across your chest.

Your hand gripped the medallion as you gave a gentle pull, his lips barely touching yours, "I said fuck me, Diskant." You sealed your words with a hard kiss, nothing but tongue inside his mouth and his hips snapped, again the two of you making lewd sounds as your bodies joined together.

He broke away from your kiss and thrust his hips forward again, slowly pulling out and snapping back in. It was blissful torture, your body experiencing each movement as if it were new. Your walls continuously contracted around him, giving him a pressure around his cock. It was a tight fit, but not painful, not uncomfortable in any way. Your eyes and his never broke away from each other, only lashes kissing cheeks as you would close your eyes for a kiss.

With a deep, intentional roll of his hips, his lips moved across your jaw and neck, settling near your ear. "I love you," he whispered.

You gasped as you felt your body react, "Oh fuck!" You moaned, your orgasm coming out of nowhere, tightening around him hard.

"Fucking hell," Paul moaned as his hips sped up, until he was spasming inside you, his seed filling the barrier.

He stilled while inside you, pulling out and slipping away with a soft kiss, only to come back cleaned up and pulling the sheet over the two of you. He curled his body around yours, your bare skin against his chest, his hand entwined with yours as his lips kissed your tousled head. "You're amazing."

You turned to look at him with your tired but happy eyes, "did you mean it?"

A soft smile splayed over his features as his eyes twinkled a bit, understanding exactly what you were referring to. "I was being ironic, as I was, literally loving you." He took a pause and leaned in for a sweet, all lip kiss. "But hypothetically... if I did mean it..."

You grinned, “then, hypothetically I’d say I love you to."

He chuckled and quickly pecked you again before settling in behind you for sleep. "Good to know."

The bell to the lift beeped and the doors loudly opened, bringing you to the present. It felt like everything took forever since you'd received Captain Biggs' call. You followed the doctor down the hall and after a sharp left, he showed you the doorway to Paul's room.

As you stepped inside, your heart shattered. The first thing you noticed was how small and pale he looked there in his bed. Paul wasn't a small guy, in fact he was six feet of thick muscle and hard strength. A built frame that loved to wrap itself around you any chance he could. Your firm and well taught body fitting like the perfect piece to him. You swallowed hard as you stepped forward, closer to the edge of his bed. There were so many wires, so many leads hooked up to the various machines that ensured he stayed in his medicinal sleep and keeping him alive. A tube for the ventilator was in his mouth and down his throat while monitoring equipment measured his vitals, IV lines and pumps full of medication surrounded him, a feeding tube was stuck in his nose, and not to mention the various drains and catheters. You found yourself cursing all the episodes of ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ the pair of you had watched as you weren't sure if you'd rather not fucking know what the hell they all were.

Despite the sick symphony of beeps and blips on the screens, the only sound you heard was the sound of his heart rate on its own monitor. A steady, morbid mantra reminding you that he was there but not really there with you.

Gone were those beautiful blue eyes you loved waking up to each morning or staring deeply into as his pupils, lust blown with deep passion, love and desire stared back you while you made love. Hiding behind an ugly plastic tube were those pearly whites you loved seeing when he smiled or laughed with his whole body, his cheeky grin missing. Silent was the voice that would make your heart skip its beats, your body ignite, that would meet your voice in reply, 'sugar'.

You held back the sob that was choking you breathless and you sat in the chair beside his bed, facing him. Your warm and soft hand took hold of his, and you were broken at how cold he felt.

As you looked up for some form of help to the heavens above, your eyes looked back at him and you gave a breathy, shaky sigh, "hey, Stud."

***** Part 3

#rock n roll people in a disco world #Paul Diskant #paul diskant x reader #paul diskant x you #street kings #street kings fan fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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moonbaby26 · 3 years

Text

Title: Diamond in the Rough

Pairing: Peter Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Continuation from last chapter. You and the others get some more down time in your last day and night on the ship together. Reader talks about some sensitive things with Peter, culminating in more bonding and fluff at the end.

Warnings: Some cursing, mentions of sex and arousal. Nothing explicit though.

Chapters: Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Taglist: @drikawinchester , @n0obmaster69 , @alexloveskili , @what-a-silver-lining , @bluesprings18 , @weakmoony-stuff , @slytherinsi-mp , @wintwrsoldiwr , @tommy-braccoli , @amourtentiaa , @cringingmemeries , @bi-panicatthe-disco , @himbos-are-my-lifeblood , @simp4mcuwomen

Peter Maximoff x Reader Masterlist

—————————

“So you really weren’t going to tell me that you just said ‘screw it, peace out, guys!’, and pulled the sacrifice card to throw yourself out of a plane?”

Peter’s voice carried through the barracks as he looked at you like you were the crazy one for once.

“Well...it was in the middle of crashing at the time.” You countered, much quieter by comparison and looking to Jean or Kurt for any help here. Some of you were sitting on the floor, others on the beds, roughly in a circle as you talked.

But Kurt only piped up to make it worse. “Yes, I did not like that at all. Next time we must find another way. I thought too that you’d chosen to go down with the plane so we could escape, (Y/N).”

“But you can fly right? None of us could fly.” Scott butted in a bit unexpectedly though, on your side of the argument no less.

“(Y/N) can levitate like me.” Jean corrected. “The flying is newer though, not yet perfected.” She smiled at you then in a way that told you she wasn’t about to let you back out of getting credit for that risk taken in Egypt. “You still hit the ground, hard.” She added. “I went back in your mind to make sure you’d made it after we teleported.”

The others all looked at you, and you tried not to lose your nerve. “My energy field was still up though when I hit. That’s the important part...”

“I mean I could jump off a building with a helmet on, I’m pretty sure it still wouldn’t work out for my head.” Peter retorted, though with a very self aware look before he finished. “And no, that’s not what’s wrong with me.”

Scott actually laughed at that, which surprised both you and Peter at least. Maybe he was different when alone with Jean, but in front of the group he’d stayed fairly no nonsense since Egypt. Though who could blame him for being a bit uptight after all he’d been through recently.

“We did all get pretty wrecked.” Peter admitted after a moment though. “Thanks for the save, Jean. Up top.” He held his hand up in front of her to signal for a high five.

She obliged, but a bit half heartedly. “I had the Professor in my head though, egging me on. He helped me unlock that. But I still couldn’t have done anything if you all hadn’t held that guy in place for that long for me. He just would have escaped.”

“I wonder what happened to the woman?” Kurt considered. “Do you think she learned her lesson too?”

“I doubt it,” Ororo answered then. “We called her Psylocke. But she just wanted to be more powerful. I don’t think she’d care now about who we hurt.” She looked at all of you at that. “I am sorry...if I hadn’t said well enough before. I thought he wanted to make the world better for us, but he didn’t. He really did just want to control everyone, human and mutant alike. I was wrong.”

Scott shrugged. “You figured it out by the time it really mattered.”

“And he probably just would have tried to kill you if you’d shown disloyalty any sooner than that,” You agreed.

“Can’t stay mad at anybody with a sick mohawk like that anyway.” Peter commented too, clearly admiring her hair.

Ororo chuckled. “If I’d known other mutants like you all before, things likely would have been a lot different.”

“Well you know us now.” Jean offered.

“Yes, I’m new here too,” Kurt added. “There’s a lot to learn. I’m glad Raven found me as well to bring me to the school. I never had mutant friends either in the circus.”

“Woah, wait. You were in a circus? Like the whole bit? Elephants and clowns and stuff?” Peter turned his head to look at him, curiosity easily peaked.

“Ja.” Kurt replied.

As those two went off into a separate conversation about whether or not there’d been bearded ladies, strong men, and the like in the Bavarian circus, you just looked back to Jean.

“We’ll definitely have a lot to catch up on when we get home. You think Jubilee is going to be mad that she missed all the action?” You asked, only half joking.

“Oh man,” Jean conceded. “She’ll be all over us wanting details.”

But her next words surprised you a little as her voice so easily transitioned just into your mind afterward for privacy, her lips no longer moving.

“You know as soon as she finds out you met someone, she’s going to go nuts wanting details about Peter.”

You could only look at her for a moment. It was such a strange thing to consider. This had all happened so fast. But with her bringing up that point, it was the first time you’d really thought about what it would be like to potentially introduce him to other friends of yours back home, to try and communicate what he meant to you already.

Could you call him your boyfriend? Would you say you were dating? He’d already called himself that label, but did that mean you could say it? Would the others even believe it was possible to feel these things for someone you’d only known such a short time? Would they think you were naive, or just caught up in the whirlwind of the moment and that this would all fade?

“Hey, relax. I wasn’t trying to send you into a tailspin.” Jean’s mental voice broke back through that wave of anxious thoughts. “I haven’t known Scott for very long either. If anyone wants to waste energy judging us, I would say that’s their problem.”

“Yeah,” You just answered then, remembering you still needed to respond in a way that made sense to the last thing she’d actually said out loud, about Jubilee. But you went quiet afterward, letting the others steer the conversation to new things as you all continued just trying to pass the time.

It wasn’t too very long later though when you’d had another visitor to the barracks. You were all a bit surprised to see Moira walk in, noticeably without the Professor and carrying something in her hands.

“Some new brass arrived today, or officials I mean. They wanted to speak to Charles themselves.” She said quickly, obviously realizing by your looks that you were all wondering the same thing of where he was. “But I wanted to come by and take care of this for the ones that needed pictures.”

As she spoke, she raised up the thing in her hands as if that should also be some clear explanation for her purpose here. It still took you a moment honestly to realize it for what it was, accompanied by what she’d said.

“For your licenses and passports that we’re printing.” She clarified anyway before continuing, the polaroid camera in her hands. “You two,” She pointed at you and Peter, and then at Raven. “And you. You already had valid driver’s licenses. We’ll reuse those photos for a new license and passport. Charles wanted everyone to have both, as you’ll still need to travel within the U.S. as well once we’re back. The rest of you I need current photos of.”

The thought of Peter actually taking the time to get a driver’s license seemed pretty absurd when he could travel anywhere much faster on foot, but before you could ask him anything, Hank was speaking up.

“But I already had a license and a passport,” Hank responded in some confusion.

Moira looked a little awkward, but still answered kindly. “But the pictures were of you before. It won’t match how you look right now for us to get back into the country.”

Raven snickered and Hank shot her an unamused look.

“Uh, but I can’t take off my glasses. You want me to take it with my eyes closed?” Scott asked dryly, though it was a legitimate question.

Belatedly you realized this also meant he’d been completely prepared to drive one of the Professor’s cars illegally then, before you’d asserted yourself to be the one to drive you all to the mall that day. This was a mental note you’d have to save for later.

“Glasses on is fine. We’ll note it as a medical exemption.” Moira answered easily, though already looking for a spot to have them stand against. “And this might actually be better to do in the hallway, if you could- Hey!” Her hands were abruptly empty, as she startled, then looking around.

You blinked after the flash that came almost simultaneously. A hand squeezed your shoulder before Peter pulled back away, the stolen camera in his other hand as the photo began to eject from it.

“I thought you couldn’t move like that with your leg,” Moira chided, now realizing what had happened. “And that thing isn’t mine to break, just so we’re clear.”

“You’re like three feet away, I don’t have to run if I can just lean over and grab it.” Peter responded smoothly, pulling the photo out before offering her back the camera. “So what, that thing is CIA issue? If I push the wrong button is it going to laser me or something?”

“No.” She huffed. But didn’t look as if she wished to extend the conversation any further to get drug into this right now. She just motioned for the others to follow her into the hall as she then turned away. “Come on, guys. We’ll try to make this quick.”

Peter didn’t seem to mind either way, just putting his attention back to the photo he was now holding as if it were a prize. “What do you think?” He asked you after a moment, the image becoming more and more visible as the film developed.

You saw yourself there, though surprisingly not a terrible image considering you hadn’t even been prepared. Your expression in the photo was simply neutral, glancing elsewhere even as Peter’s smile was wide and bright, him leaning in with his face almost touching yours in the photograph.

“I’ve taken worse,” you said truthfully, but then looked back to him, amused at his seeming satisfaction with it. You wondered if he was actually planning on keeping the photo, instead of it just being a little joke. Wouldn’t he rather a better one at least?

“What?” He questioned, seeing your expression. He flicked the photo gently. “It proves you’re real if anyone asks later.”

“Why would you have to prove...” But you ended up just smiling, and gave up before you even really started, seeing how happy he still looked. “If you want a picture together, I’m sure she’d let us take another if we asked. You know, if we asked nicely, and didn’t just steal her camera this time.”

“I like this one.” He insisted though, holding onto it regardless. “It really looks like you.”

“Um...wouldn’t I always look like me?” You asked quizzically.

“It’s real,” He tried to explain. “Natural? If we took another you’d just smile on purpose.”

You still didn’t fully understand. He was smiling in the picture after all. But to his point maybe, he did look almost giddy in the photo. Not something you would be able to replicate on command. “Okay.” You said, fine either way. “If you like that best.”

“There is something I think I’m going to ask Moira anyway though when she comes back,” He admitted.

It wasn’t very long either until you were able to find out what that was.

When the others did start to file back in after taking their pictures in the hallway, Moira had just leaned in the doorway briefly to thank them. “We’ll have these made up in time for tomorrow for your travel documents, thank you.”

She was already turning to leave again before Peter stopped her.

He cocked his head, piping up. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

She did pause, but her look back at him was slightly wary. Likely not knowing if this would be more humor or not. “Yes?”

He didn’t mess around though this time, just getting to the point outright. “Do you think you could send somebody to my Mom’s house? You know, just to say everything’s cool and I’ll be home soon? She’s probably losing her mind right now.”

Moira’s expression changed fully at that, empathy going to the forefront. “Of course. Yes. What’s her name? Her address?”

That mood faded just as quickly though as he raised his eyebrows, teasing. “Well shouldn’t the CIA know that?”

She sighed. Staring at him as the annoyed look returned.

“You’re so serious,” Peter smirked. “Magda Maximoff, suburbs outside D.C.” He rattled off a street address afterward, but still continued, “We’re in the phonebook anyway. Prof.’s been there too, he’d know.”

“We’ll look it up.” She agreed. “See you guys later.”

With that she was gone. The rest of you settled back, just sitting and talking again. And you’d gone off with Peter down by your beds after a while. Just the two of you again.

You’d realized obviously before now by their interactions that the Professor had met Peter at some point previous to his coming to the mansion the other day. But like so many things, in the rush of everything, you hadn’t learned much more.

“So Xavier’s been to your house. Was he trying to recruit you for the school?” You asked, honestly just curious. Though it was a little disappointing to consider you may have had a chance to meet Peter much sooner if he’d accepted any kind of invitation like that then.

You had been sitting on the bottom bunk together again, but he leaned back behind you now, stretching before putting his arms behind his head. He pulled his legs and cast awkwardly back up into the bed as you shifted to try and let him get how he wanted.

He looked pretty content though as he lowered an arm back to put it across your lap. “Well that was years ago. He had hair, he was walking. He didn’t want me for your little private school though. He just wanted me to help them spring my dad from the Pentagon...but I don’t think he knew it was my dad either then. It was all Logan’s plan to bring me. Really I didn’t find out much else. These dudes just showed up at my house, and I went with them to commit a felony.” He shrugged a little. “Probably not that smart, right? But I didn’t have anything else cool to do that day I guess.”

You wondered how much of that story Xavier would really tell you if you asked one day. You could only imagine what reasoning someone like the Professor would have to do something so brazen, even if it was to help Erik. Especially when Xavier had always preached to you all the importance of staying within the law and not using your powers to exploit any rules that would apply to non mutants. For now, you only asked a little bit more though. “How many people actually came to your house to do that then?”

“Oh, it was just three. Prof., Hank, and Logan.”

Well that made it even more interesting really. Hank was also so well known for always following the rules. But then again, he also was one of Xavier’s longest friends, like Raven and Erik. They’d all known each other since many years ago.

But this was the second time Peter had said this name of ‘Logan’. Shouldn’t you know that name? Well yes, you knew at least one. You couldn’t forget the name Jean had told you back in Stryker’s base. The man who’d gone on a rampage, though also cutting you violently from your own restraints before he’d escaped. Honestly you might even have scars from that when this was all said and done. But the name in and of itself wasn’t that unusual of a name. And what Peter was talking about apparently occurred years ago.

“I don’t think I know a Logan,” You said honestly. “Was he a mutant too?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Peter answered, raising up a closed fist. He made a noise, and a motion you didn’t understand as if he was doing something in midair with his fist, before adding. “Three big claws come shooting out this dude’s hand. It was so gross, but badass.”

You stared, the realization finally hitting hard. It couldn’t be a coincidence then. “Peter!” You exclaimed abruptly. There was just no way they were two different people. It was too unique of a mutation. “That’s the guy!”

“Huh?” He looked up at you in surprise. Confused at your sudden excitement.

“The one from the base! Didn’t Jean tell you?” Without thought, you lifted your shirt enough to show him those long claw marks still red across your stomach. They were dry now, already trying to heal. But it was three in a row, still clear as day. “The guy that tore through all those soldiers and freed me, she told me that his name was Logan.”

“She didn’t tell me that.” Peter stammered slightly, definitely caught off guard as you’d raised your shirt. “She just said to expect you to be bloody when I went looking for you.” He was staring at your exposed skin now though. “So Logan did that?”

You tensed slightly as you felt his fingertips graze your abdomen. It wasn’t unpleasant, just a bit unexpected. You lowered your shirt back down, but noticed obviously when he just let his hand stay under it.

When you didn’t show further aversion to the touch though, his hand continued idly wandering on the skin that was unbroken. “Well damn, that’s super screwed up then. I know they said a guy went full rage mode and tore the place up. And yeah, I saw the bodies he left when I went looking for you. But they didn’t say his name. I didn’t see him either before he took off.”

“It has to be the same person.” You reiterated. “But if you really want to be sure, you can always think of those memories of him, the Logan that you knew. If you let Jean look into your thoughts later, she could tell you for certain if it was him.

Peter looked a little disconcerted, but just agreed anyway. “Yeah, sure. I just, man how long did they have him there then? What a dick that Stryker guy was. Fuck him.”

But after the little bit of anger, he was only looking back at you. That thought of Stryker seeming to also remind him of your initial meeting with him. “How’s your ribs?”

You felt his fingers trail up across them at the question. “Sore,” You admitted. “But what isn’t?”

His voice was quieter then though, his hand moving back down before it reached your chest. “Then don’t jump out of any more planes please.”

You paused, wondering if he really was so bothered about that to have brought it up again. You’d all played so fast and loose that day though, doing whatever you felt you had to do. “It was a big day of firsts that’s for sure.”

“No kidding.” He agreed.

And nothing was ever going to be the same again was it? Even when you were all home again and the mansion was finally rebuilt. Were you all just going to go back to class like you hadn’t almost died? Would you just pretend that you didn’t know there were still entities out there that wanted you dissected, destroyed, or both?

“I think it gave the Professor a lot to think about too.” Is what you finally said. “I feel like he’s going to change some things going forward. But I don’t know how much yet. I don’t know if this could really mean the resurrection of the X-Men.” It was a crazy thought. Xavier and Hank never really liked to talk about that part of their past. They’d lost a lot then, or at least that’s always what you’d inferred from the bits and pieces you had heard over the years.

“X-Men...” Peter repeated, making a face like he wasn’t sure if it was a decent name or not. “Guess it’d still be better than being called Charlie X’s Angels or something like that.”

You smirked. “You know they used to all have codenames too.” Though you were sure not all of them were self named. “Xavier was just Professor X, Hank was Beast, Raven was Mystique, Scott’s brother Alex was Havok, your dad was Magneto of course. But there was Banshee, Darwin, and Tempest as well.”

He gave you a contemplative look. “Can I call you Lite-Brite then?”

Your look must have clearly said no, but he just kept going, very amused at your reaction.

“Glo-Worm?” He offered instead.

“Seriously? You’d name me after a bug?”

“Nah, they’ve got these super cute toy ones. Wanda had one. She slept with that thing all the time. They glow when you hug them.” He was grinning again now. “I mean, you’re comforting too right? Think I could make you glow?”

“I don’t think it works that way.” But honestly you might be lying to save face as he was now rubbing his hand further up into your shirt again.

“Don’t we all lose a little control when we get excited?” He countered, his tone getting a little more dangerous. “I know I do.”

You felt that statement was likely a bit of a trap, hesitating as your curiosity swelled. What could happen with his powers if he did have an uncontrolled moment like that? He was likely right though. Just like the onset of mutant powers came for most of you around the same time as puberty, they could also be triggered by intense emotions or stress. So it was reasonable to think that another powerful feeling such as arousal could also lead to some issues for those of you already less experienced in controlling yourselves.

“Brings a whole new meaning to safe sex doesn’t it?” He said as he let go of you then, putting his hands back behind his head. He still looked too amused, even though he seemed to sense when you needed another break from the touching to process your own thoughts.

“Did that happen with her?” You asked though. Not afraid, but yes, maybe some concern in your expression. You really hadn’t considered any of this before.

His smile faded at the unexpected mention of Crystal again. But he only hesitated a little, looking at you as he answered honestly. “Sometimes. She uh, burnt me a couple times. In the literal sense. She was like the band, Earth, Wind, and Fire. I mean she could control water too, but I liked the band joke better.” He frowned slightly. “She always hated that joke though.”

“Did you do anything to her?” You responded quietly before you could think better of it. Was this really any of your business? No, not really. But, it could be a part of your future.

There was a little surprise in his eyes, but his answer was immediate. “Babe, I’m the last person you’d ever have to be afraid of.” He looked bothered still as he continued though. “And no, I never hurt her. She would have knocked me into next week if I had.”

“So what does happen if you lose control that way?” You still asked, deciding you still did want to know.

He gave you an awkward look. But if he was going to offer out this information, it seemed there was going to at least be a small price for it. “If I’m really riled up? Turned on? You can say it outright you know.”

You weren’t going to say it in any more explicit way than that though, but you nodded at least. “Yes, you know what I mean.”

He sighed at your modesty, but reached out his hand after a moment. “Let me see your wrist then. Way easier just to show you.”

Well, if it was anything dangerous, he wouldn’t be so casual about it would he? You did offer him your wrist, not knowing what to expect as he clasped his hand around it.

You could tell he was focusing on something for just a moment, before the oddest sensation you’d ever felt shot from your wrist, down into your fingertips, and all the way up into your shoulder before you jerked your hand back in surprise.

Your reaction didn’t seem to faze him at all though as he’d easily let you go. It looked like you’d only done exactly as he expected. “You’ll still feel it for a bit after, just so you know.”

And you could still feel it, fading but definitely there as you flexed your fingers. “What did you do?” It wasn’t painful, but it was like a tingling, instantaneous whenever he’d done it. Not just through the skin, but into the bone, the muscle, everything. The only thing you could liken it to at all is when a limb woke up from being asleep, yet it wasn’t as uncomfortable as that and it was far deeper.

“Well you asked what happens if I get too excited. I, uh, vibrate?” He tried to call it something without really knowing what to call it. “I’m no science guy, but I’d guess it moves everything I’m touching down to what, the atoms right? So that’s what you’d feel. But it wouldn’t just be from my hand. I was doing it on purpose there. If it wasn’t on purpose it’d be literally all of me doing it.”

So that would mean, well...that would be a very intense sensation to say the least if you would happen to be having skin to skin contact in more places than one when he would accidentally do that. You tried not to let your expression change much at the realization. The last thing you wanted to do was to throw this very personal dialog further down into the gutter.

“I still think you’d glow though.” He added confidently. “And if your energy deal is always as warm as it was in that elevator shaft back at the base, I think it’d feel really good too. Just for the record.”

Yes, this was definitely teetering on that edge of going fully into a place you weren’t ready for just yet. But you only had yourself to blame. You asked him to elaborate, and he did. You knew your powers could be a lot more than harmless though. Much more than warmth. You didn’t know if it’d be too pessimistic to mention that right now though.

“I don’t know what I would do.” You finally said, just speaking the truth when you didn’t know what else to say.

“We can talk about something else you know if you want.” He poked you gently in the arm, seemingly offering you an escape route if you wished to take it. “Like we’re still going to the mall at some point right?”

“Definitely.” You answered gladly.

“You should come over too, play some video games when we get back. I’ve got an Atari and a Nintendo. Or we could watch a movie. You like Bruce Lee? Karate Kid? Stuff like that?”

The genuine eagerness emerging in his tone was something you really appreciated. A reminder that in reality, even though he evidently enjoyed any physical contact he was allowed to have with you, it was only a part of the whole picture. He just wanted to be around you too.

“Yes, I think that’d be awesome. I haven’t seen many of those movies, but usually Jubilee picks for movie night. Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles...over and over.”

He laughed. “Oh, no way. There’s more to life than Molly Ringwald. Time to expand your horizons!”

You were smiling too, about to say something back when Scott’s voice carried from further down the barracks.

“Hey, they brought dinner if either of you want to eat!”

“But is it even worth a crap!?” Peter called back immediately and just as loudly.

“Heck if I know!” Scott answered and you could swear you heard a lot less loud Jean tell him to quit yelling in her ear.

“I’m still salty about that fake strawberry garbage from earlier.” Peter said, just to you then as he sat back up.

It wasn’t much of a surprise to you though that the food would be brought to you all this time, considering the episode in the mess hall before. The only thing that did surprise you was that it would already be dinner time. Though it was hard to have much concept of time right now really, especially when there were no windows to see the sun or sky below deck.

But it did give it more of that prison feel too. The hours running together, locked away in close quarters, and now with government mandated food being dropped off impersonally. It either felt like prison or being in a rare species exhibit at the zoo.

“Well, you said you’re like a hummingbird metabolism wise, right? You have to eat something.” You spoke, while hanging back to give Peter a chance to get up on his crutches.

Really the hummingbird analogy you were liking more and more though as you personally thought they were adorable, and they literally were the bird equivalent to him in your opinion. This flamboyant little bird that beat its wings so fast it could actually hover in place or disappear in a blur once they did decide to take off. Not to mention the exclusive high sugar diet.

“Glo-Worm,” Was all he replied back, but very pleased when it still got a strong reaction from you.

“Please don’t make that one stick. It’s a lot less cute than Hummingbird.”

But he just offered a non-committal smile, walking past you. “We’ll see.”

——————————

Some few hours later, when it was time for lights out again, Peter had wanted to take a shower so you were already in the bottom bunk alone.

You tried to stay awake to wait for him, but you must have already been asleep for how bad you startled when you felt something pressing down against the mattress beside you.

And when you shot up, you were even more confused at the sudden pressure against the top of your head before you finally woke up enough to realize Peter now had his hand splayed there, pushing your head back a little.

“Woah,” He whispered in the dark. “You about nailed the top of the bunk. It’s just me.”

You relaxed, trying to look at him before you felt him let go, laying down beside you. As you laid down as well, he shifted several times, trying to get comfortable.

“I hate this damn cast.” He complained. “Do you know how weird it is to have to shower with a garbage bag tied around your leg?”

You could feel his still wet hair though on the pillow as he nuzzled in closer with you. You’d both joked a little earlier about looking forward to getting to share this bed one more time tonight before heading back to the U.S. and your sort of more normal lives tomorrow. The emphasis of the joking though had been about getting to continue the kissing that had been interrupted on the flight deck.

But now that you were here, you found you really just wanted to hold him and enjoy the warmth and quiet together. Because you didn’t know when this chance would come again. Would you go your separate ways tomorrow? You back to New York and wherever the other displaced students were now staying, and him back to D.C. to reunite with his mother? He wouldn’t be able to run and come to find you again until his cast was off. And how many weeks would that take, even with mutant healing factors?

You didn’t really know what the exact plan was after you’d arrive in the U.S. either, but maybe there was something you could do after all. “Hey.” You said quietly after a bit, hoping he was still awake.

“Mmm?” He made a questioning noise, hugging a bit tighter to you.

You took it as enough response to say that he was listening. “So they said that we’re landing in New Jersey tomorrow, right? Well everyone else is going to want to go north to get back to Salem Center, New York.” You didn’t really need to clarify where the school had been though, he’d obviously already found it. “But you’ll need to go south to get back to D.C., and it’s not like Xavier is going to expect you to find your own way home. Someone’s going to have to drive you and-”

But Peter didn’t even let you finish, already very on board with the idea. “And we give Prof. the old puppy eyes and beg for it to be you.” You knew he was grinning again then just by his tone. “I like it. Road trip.”

You felt relief that he approved of your spur of the moment plan, but then again he’d already said he wanted you to come over to his house sometime. You wouldn’t be able to stay very long you were sure, but at least you’d get the car ride together if this all worked out. And you’d get to see where he lived, maybe even hang out for a little while before having to drive back to New York.

It was funny how just like that you now had something to look forward to again. But would Xavier really be on board? Would he feel comfortable letting you drive back alone? You’d just have to convince him that you were old enough now and capable.

“I guess I should have cleaned my room a little better before I left.” Peter mused. “Can be a bit of a train wreck, just like the dude that lives in it.”

“Oh, someone else lives there too?” You teased slightly.

But Peter only played along. “Yeah, a real piece of work. Guy just plays video games all day, and wears out the same shitty records playing them over and over with the volume up. Maybe reads some comic books or jets off to nab some Twinkies from the convenience store down the block. Real outstanding citizen. I heard he’s dating now though. Who the hell would want that charity project?”

“Hmm.” You knew he was only half joking, Peter really still seeing himself in the way he just described to a large degree. But you were patient, and determined to keep working on building his self confidence little by little. “I think if he met someone then, it’d be someone who believes in the old ‘diamond in the rough’ expression. They must really just like him for him. They probably even see his real value even when he can’t yet.”

Peter was quiet for a few moments at that before you felt him run a hand through your hair. “I guess that would make him really lucky then. He probably should bust his ass to make sure he doesn’t disappoint them then and screw that one up.”

You smiled softly. “All he has to do is be himself. If you have to fight too hard just to maintain a relationship, it likely was never right to begin with.”

“Been there, done that.” He at least agreed, but was now running his fingers down along your face.

You knew what he was hoping for and leaned in to meet him as you kissed. It was very soft though, like he was still thinking of what you’d said. He didn’t press for much more either, just a few more kisses before he nuzzled his face back down against you.

“I’m still going to do the best I can.” He spoke quietly against your neck. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am.” You said. Feeling every bit of those words as you stayed warm against one another. It felt safe. It felt right.

And no one said anything else. You were both content to leave it that way, falling asleep just as you were.

———————————

(Continued in next chapter here)

#quicksilver #quicksilver x y/n #quicksilver x you #quicksilver x oc #quicksilver x reader #quicksilver xmen #peter maximoff #peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff x you #peter maximof x reader #peter maximoff x oc #x men #xmen #x men fanfiction

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there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years

Text

Night Crawling

Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~3350

Warnings: Some explicit smutty goodness in a dive bar bathroom, some recreational drug use, some Sam feels.

A/N: I really thought I was going to write PWP for once. As usual, some feels snuck in. Set at some vague point in Season 5.

I’ve had the new Miley Cyrus album on repeat all day; inspiration, title, and bathroom graffiti quote all came from “Night Crawling.” Listen to that and “Gimme What I Want” if you want maximum ~atmosphere~ or whatever while reading.

“Another?” Sam asks, leaning in to make himself heard over the music. He gives me a twisted, wicked version of his usual dimpled smile. There’s a drop of tequila clinging to his lip, and I want to lick it off. He’s so close.

My head is still spinning from the last shot and from his attention. I shake it off.

“Bathroom, I’ll be back,” I tell him.

Sam’s in a fucking mood tonight. Not that I blame him. Time is ticking away, faster by the day it feels like; if Lucifer was after me, I’d take whatever escape I could get.

Dean’s at the motel, hopefully putting some ice on his twisted ankle or maybe sleeping, and normally Sam would be fussing over him like an overgrown fucking mother hen. Instead, he suggested that we go “blow off some steam,” looking at me with this glint in his eyes, like he was daring me.

So… here we are, getting fucked up in a grimy rock club, watching some Nine Inch Nails wannabes wail like a porn soundtrack over a dirty industrial bassline.

Sam fucking Winchester. Always full of surprises.

It’s one of those single-occupancy dive bathrooms where I don’t want to touch anything or, like, inhale too hard. It’s impossible to tell what color the walls originally were under the layers of concert flyers and graffiti. There’s probably enough cocaine residue on the chipped porcelain sink counter to get an elephant high. That kind of place.

He wants me almost as much as I want him, I’m pretty sure, but I never thought either of us would act on it. Too many complications, too many ways to fuck it all up… now, though? The entire world is fucked. Might as well get laid before it all goes to shit.

Two lines of red Sharpie scrawl next to the mirror grab my attention: night crawling, sky falling, gotta listen when the Devil’s calling.

Yeah. Well.

I don’t think either of us will make it out of this alive, but he doesn’t want to. That’s what this is all about, really. He started this apocalypse. He’ll never forgive himself if he lives through it. I’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t.

I wash my hands and splash some water on my cheeks, bracing myself. I can feel the chemicals kicking up my spine, now.

If Sam fucking Winchester needs to indulge his self-destructive streak and get out of his head for a night, I’ll keep him company. Fuck knows I’ll never say no to him. I’ll stay with him til the end, if he lets me.

It hits me again: this is the end. The world is about to end, and that sweet, sexy, puppy-eyed motherfucker out there is at the center of all of it. Heaven, hell, good, evil… and Sam. If tonight is what we’ve got — if this is all we’ll ever get — I’ll take it. I’ve always wanted more, but… this’ll do. It’ll have to do.

He’s slouching against the wall, right outside the bathroom hallway. He gives me this dark, hungry grin when he sees me, and maybe whatever was in that pastel blue pill is making itself known, or maybe it’s just Sam that’s sending a wave of prickly heat over my skin… either way, it feels good.

“C’mon,” he says, passing me a cup of ice water, and then he’s gripping me by the wrist, pulling me into the crowd.

Sam doesn’t dance, and he sure as hell doesn’t dance with me, but he’s not fucking around: hands on my waist, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at me, cheeks flushed, moving with the beat. I rest my free hand on his upper arm, right where the swell of his bicep flexes against the soft cotton sleeve of his t-shirt, and I can’t help but squeeze slightly, feeling hot skin and muscle under my palm. I swallow hard.

Sam leans in closer. I can smell him, the natural scent of his sweat under the spice of his deodorant, and it’s so overwhelming that I shiver.

He gets his lips right up against my ear, the deep rumble of his voice a physical thing that I can feel as well as hear: “Ever just get sick of being yourself?”

Jesus.

“Yeah,” I mumble, mouth dry. I don’t know if he hears me but it doesn’t really matter.

“I think too much. I don’t want to think tonight. Is that okay?”

I suck in a breath. “Don’t need to explain, Sam. I get it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, heavy-lidded, golden skin shining with sweat in the flecks of light coming off the disco ball. “Dance with me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Sam, anything you want.”

I toss back the cup of water, gulping it down, too eager; some of it trickles down my chin. I don’t care. I drop the cup and run my hand up Sam’s chest. His eyes flutter closed and he licks his lips, sinful, gorgeous. For a moment I think he might say something but instead he spins me around and hauls me closer, my back to his chest.

The song is filthy, all thudding funk hooks and wild drums. There’s this frantic heat behind it that has me sinking under the surface, swimming through the riff, and the pulse of it wriggles down my spine and works itself out through my hips as I toss my head. It’s the kind of rhythm that’s made for sweating all over a stranger.

Sam might as fucking well be a stranger right now. I never knew he could move like this.

His hips swivel and twist, and his hands slide down to my thighs, pinning me against the solid muscled heat of his body. I feel reckless. I feel high and overstimulated and utterly fearless, and I can feel his touch echoing through me, inside me, throbbing down my belly to where I’m empty and suddenly aching.

As soon as I think about it, the emptiness hits me hard. My cunt is clenching around nothing in time with the gritty slap of percussion. I arch my back and rub myself against Sam shamelessly.

He’s hard against my ass, hard and getting harder with every shrieking lick of guitar, and the awareness of it sends a thrill down through the core of me, like a bolt of lightning striking between my legs. My breath catches and hisses out of my lungs like I’m a punctured balloon. I feel dizzy.

It’s all so intense right now. Every inch of my skin is fizzing, and the simple curl of his fingers around my wrist has me shuddering like he’s stroking something much more intimate.

On any other night I would try to step back, to get myself under control… I’d start thinking, and I wouldn’t be able to stop, and I’d get stuck in my head instead of giving in to the mind-blowingly intimate thrill of his fingertips pressing into my pulse.

We’re not thinking tonight. I couldn’t think straight even if I wanted to.

The beat changes, segueing into something low and slinking and goddamn obscene. I’m dripping with sweat — mine or Sam’s? I can’t tell — and my skin is on fire, and I want Sam in this awful, all-consuming way that I’ve never wanted anything or anyone.

So I don’t think about it; I just turn, twisting in his arms until we’re face to face, or rather, face to chest. He’s biting his lip, expression almost pained as he grips my waist and slots a thigh between mine. I snake my arms around his neck and roll my hips, feeling the seam of my jeans dragging up the sensitive spot between my legs, and I’m absurdly grateful for the way the music drowns out any embarrassing noise I might make.

There’s a drop of sweat sliding down the corded muscle of his neck. It trickles to a glittering halt right at eye level, in the hollow of his throat, and I can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. I could fall down and worship whatever god invented the v-neck.

I don’t fall to my knees, but I do lean forward and taste his skin. Salt floods my tongue.

Sam’s hand runs up my back, cups the nape of my neck, and he doesn’t so much guide me as yank, tilting my head to meet the rough urgent sting of his teeth and the soft slide of his tongue. I groan into his mouth, and his hands flatten at the small of my back, pulling me impossibly closer. I want to shove myself against him until I can burrow under his skin.

His mouth. He nips and sucks and explores, lips on mine with crushing force one second, whisper-sweet the next.

I’m melting. I must be melting.

I hold on for dear life, delirious, drunk on the way he’s kissing me. I’ve imagined this before, but I never imagined it like this.

We’re still dancing, or something like it anyway; his hips swivel, and I rut against him, my entire body throbbing with animalistic need. Sam shifts his weight, grinding against me, and I can feel the fat stiff length of him right up against my center. I whimper, desperate and wanton.

One hand slides up my back, around my ribs, up, until he can trace the curve of my breast with his thumb and then pinch my nipple through my bra. When I buck against him, he does it again. My knees don’t want to support me any more.

I’m a half-second away from coming just like this. I’m shaking.

“The fuck are we doing?” Sam says roughly. He nips my earlobe.

“Not thinking, remember?” I snap, and then I’m stumbling back, almost falling, tugging him by the wrist as I start to weave through the crushing press of bodies. My heart is pounding. Everything blurs together. My skin feels too cold without him all over it.

There’s one open bathroom, no line, no reason to hesitate. The heavy door closes behind us and the deadbolt slides home with a metallic echoing thud.

He’s already crowding me back, hands on my cheeks, tip of his nose brushing mine. I grab at the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in the sweat-damp fabric. My ass hits the counter and I surge up clumsily to kiss him. The angle’s off; our teeth clack together.

We laugh and fit ourselves back together, bodies like puzzle pieces in that fucking song Sam would never admit he loves, and I could cry with relief at the way he feels under my hands. I can feel him breathing, the harsh rise and fall of his chest, and I can feel the heat of him, blood and sweat and bone, solid and real and here and mine, at least for tonight.

He fumbles with the button of my jeans and kisses me like he’s drowning. Then he curls two long fingers up and into me, grinding the heel of his hand against my clit. I lean back, heels skidding on the dirty tile as I try to brace myself and rock my hips up all at once.

“Need you to fuck me,” I bite out, remarkably steady considering the way I’m trembling.

“You gonna regret this tomorrow?” Sam asks. He twists his fingers, knuckles stretching me open, so good my eyes roll back in my head.

Tomorrow… we’re not going to think about tomorrow.

“Might regret waiting this long,” I groan. Understatement of the century.

“You ‘n me both. You sure?” He’s staring down at me and he looks wrecked: pupils blown, lips swollen, hair clinging to his temples where his skin is streaked with sweat.

“Do you feel how close I am?” I grab his wrist with one hand, holding him there, fucking myself on his fingers as I try to pull my jeans down with the other hand.

Sam’s mouth drops open and his eyes go unfocused for a second. Whatever self-control he had left is gone. He pulls his hand away, and I whine at the loss, but together we get my pants down, and I kick them off as he gets his belt open. He’s just as big as I always imagined, proportional to those sinfully long elegant fingers, and my mouth fucking waters as I watch him stroke himself.

He bites his lip, chest heaving, and tugs me up onto the very edge of the grimy sink counter. Before I can find my balance he’s right there, hooking an arm under my knee so that he can spread my legs wider, and he’s guiding the hot velvety head of his cock down my center and in, and the slick blunt pressure of it makes me claw at his back, trying to get him closer even though I can barely handle how good that first thick inch feels.

“Fuuu - unnhhhhh - fuck, Sam, I need…” I choke out, and then all I can do is pant breathlessly, incoherent, as he rocks his hips and starts to stretch me open. I’m helpless like this, no leverage to do anything but sit there and take it, and he moves so maddeningly slow that I’m going out of my skull.

“God, look at you,” he breathes. “So fucking good. Always wondered what you’d look like taking my cock. Always imagined you begging. Are you gonna beg for me?”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up and give it to me, Sam, I swear —”

“Yeah?” he growls. He grips my hips hard enough to bruise.

I wrap my legs around his waist, hooking my ankles together, leaning back on my hands, and then I can arch my back and pull him deeper, working myself onto his cock.

“Sam —” I start, but before I can say anything else he slams home, grinding in hard and fast, and my voice cracks on a stuttering, incoherent whine. It’s blindingly good. He’s steely-hard and so goddamn thick I feel like I’m about to split open, like one wrong move is going to pull me apart. His first rolling thrust sparks this wrenching wave of pressure that fills me up and shakes me down to the tips of my toes, my entire body rippling with feverish heat.

“That’s my girl,” he pants. He pulls me against him and twists up, rough and filthy, and I shudder against him, writhing, mindless and overwhelmed.

“Sam,” I choke out. My voice is high-pitched and squeaky-thin, and the next sharp thrust makes me forget whatever I was going to say beyond, “Nnnnhhhhhyesohgod.”

“There?”

“Fuck. Yes.”

He moans, low and broken, and finds that perfect spot again, grinding into it with eye-popping force.

I can feel it, pleasure cramping through me with every movement, coiling up, building around the deep throbbing ache where he’s fucking into me. I feel like a wild animal, primal and lost.

“Good girl. Fuck, feels so good.”

I clutch at his shoulders, muscles quaking, burying my face in his neck as all that white-hot pressure peaks inside me. I let out an ugly, anguished sob, can’t hold it back, and then all I can feel is the all-consuming spasm of my orgasm, tension rocketing through every inch of me, sending me out into space for a long paralyzed moment. The first pulse of it is so scary-intense that I can’t breathe, can’t control myself, can’t keep track of my own body…

Then it all comes back at once, and I’m exquisitely aware of Sam against me as he fucks me through it, hips surging forward as I squeeze around him and urge him deeper.

“Thought about this so many times,” he’s confessing, ragged and raw.

“Me too,” I gasp.

He sucks in a shaky breath, moving slower as I start to come down, and I can feel him holding back now. “Think about you so fucking much, I can’t —”

“Me fucking too, Sam.”

He kisses me, gentle in a way that could very easily destroy me.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he whispers, forehead sweaty where it rests against mine.

“Fuck, Sam, don’t — this is —”

I feel so strange and strung-out, caught between the shivery aftershocks in my belly and the startling tenderness in his voice as he mumbles, “Wanted to take my time.”

“Sam.”

“Wanted to take my time with you,” he repeats. He moves against me with this slow, snakelike undulation. “Wanted to lay you out and kiss you everywhere and fucking worship you.”

“We can. We can — I want that.”

“Never gonna be enough,” he chokes out. “I knew — I knew, if I did this, I’d never want to stop.”

My skin is lit up with the feel of him, liquid heat gathering in my gut as my body responds to every perfect touch, but I’m afraid my ribcage is about to split open with the way my heart is hammering.

We’re in a goddamn dive bar bathroom, for fuck’s sake, and I’m fucked up, and maybe this will feel cheap and tawdry and silly in the morning, but… somehow I don’t think it will. Somehow this feels like the most important thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Why’d we wait this long?” I ask. There’s an embarrassing wobble in my voice.

“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” he grits out. “Because I was scared.” Before I can respond, he kisses me, all teeth and desperation, twisting his hips and swallowing my moan. He slides his hands under my shirt, sliding them up my back, and drags his fingernails down in trails of stinging heat. It’s pleasure and pain and fucking obliteration, and the sensory overload has me spiraling out again.

“Fuck that,” I half-laugh. My back arches and my voice breaks, and I bite his lip hard enough that I taste copper.

He groans, full-throated and shameless, and ducks his head, sinking his teeth into the sweat-slick curve of my neck. He sucks, nibbles, and it sets off fireworks behind my eyelids.

“Close, Sam. So close,” I babble, breathing harsh and heavy. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull, and I can feel him moan. “Never thought it’d feel like this. It’s — this is so much better —”

He shudders against me, lets out this long, guttural sound, and then he shifts and pounds into me harder, and all I can do is cling to him, pulling him closer like I’m never going to let go. “C’mon, then. Fuck. Tell me what you want.”

“Please, Sam. Just — please. Please.”

“I’d do anything for you,” he growls. “You know that, right?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t leave me,” I blurt out, as the unbearable tension starts to crest. “Don’t leave me, Sam. Please.”

I know he hears it. He gasps like I punched him. I can feel him jerk, twitch, fingers clawing at my back, cock twitching and swelling inside me as he starts to come. I bite down on the meat of his shoulder as I let go. My orgasm feels like it’s ripping something loose, an earthquake in my core, and I don’t trust myself not to say exactly what’s on my mind. There’s a surge of pleasure, one glowing wave of it then another, and I’m dimly aware of shuddering against Sam as he rocks into me one more time, clutching him close… as if I could get close enough to keep him here with me.

It’s impossible to be sad right now. I’m chemically incapable of sadness, still soaring high, but this is so much bigger than sadness anyway. I just feel like I’m about to break.

“That,” he says, with an ugly sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s what I was afraid of. That I wouldn’t ever want to leave.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Let’s just — let’s not think about it. Okay? Can we go back to the motel and — can we do that again? Take our time?”

“Just for tonight?” he asks raggedly.

“Just for tonight. We’re not going to think about what comes next.”

He nods. We both know it’s a lie.

#sam winchester smut #sam x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader smut #supernatural #spn fic

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sunjaesol · 3 years

Text

serendipitous encounters

juke | human au | fluff

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

"I think I met my soulmate!" Luke shouted as he barrelled through the front door, announcing his presence.

Alex, cuddled up with Willie, groaned from his place on the couch. "Not this again. Luke, soulmates do not exist!"

"Well, I'm curious," Willie joked. "What happened?"

Bouncing through the small living space, he propped himself on the coffee table. His eager lips spouted everything he knew so far. "Her name's Julie and she's beautiful and she drinks lattes with caramel syrup."

The two boys blinked at each other, an amused smile growing on Willie as the scowl deepened for Alex. Yeesh. How did these two work?

The blonde tried keeping composure. "You think... you met... the person you want to spend the rest of your life with... in a coffee shop?"

Luke nodded. What was his point?

Luckily, Willie was on his side. "Did you talk to her?"

Sighing, he slumped to the floor. "No. But I'm telling you, it's her."

"This oddly feels like that Zooey Deschanel movie," Alex mused.

"No! She's not some fantasy! She-I can't explain it." Dreamily looking up at the ceiling, he added. "She's it. I'm calling it."

"I think you're horny," Alex deadpanned. Willie snickered.

He rolled his eyes and swatted their legs. "Very cool, you guys.”

The doorbell rang. Jumping up and saving himself from further embarrassment, Luke went to open it.

And it was her. Holy shit.

She smiled up at him, holding up his trusty songbook.

"Hello. You left this journal on your table at Starbucks? It has your address inside."

Gobsmacked, Luke stared at her. Holy fucking shit. Because of his whole daydream about her in Starbucks, he forgot his book and then she took it upon herself to find the rightful owner. That was fate, right? Take that, Alex!

Stammering vowels, he plucked it from her grasp and let out a breathy laugh.

"Y-Yeah, thanks, that's- yup."

An amused smile pulled on her lips, nodding. "No problem. Have a nice day!"

Her goodbye snapped him out of his stupor, calling out for her with a raised hand.

"Wait! I didn't catch your name!"

She turned around, the girl looking so foreign in the grimy hallway of the apartment complex.

"Why do you need my name?"

Cause he knew it already and didn't want to seem like a creep.

He shrugged. "I want to thank you."

"It's Julie," she said after a beat.

"Thank you, Julie." His grin must've been comically wide, heart beating a mile a minute as he was still convinced she was his freaking soulmate.

And then she left. He was certain he'd see her again. In a non creepy way, that was.

— — — — — —

It was wholly coincidental once more.

It was an early Sunday morning, Luke donned in sweatpants and a ratty cut-off and bedhead, as he meandered in the the shop of a tailor. Reggie owed him for this.

The bassist loved buying vintage clothing, but never stuff that quite fit him. Hence, a tailor. His name was Peter and basically Reg’s best friend at this point, based on the disappointed look the man gave Luke as he handed him the the slip. He could hear the question on his tongue - “Where’s Reggie?” - and was happy when he didn’t ask.

One, cause that was fucking rude.

Two, cause Reg was currently fighting for an exclusive comic book on the other side of Los Angeles with a hurdle of other nerds.

As Peter was sifting through the clothing racks, searching the order, the bell jingled behind him.

“Oh, Journal Boy?”

He stilled. Holy shit.

Whirling around, he came face to face with Julie. Just as beautiful as a week ago; maybe even more disarming in sandals and her curly hair up in a messy bun.

“Hi,” he breathed, unsure if he wasn’t just imagining her. It was a pretty hot day. It could easily be a sun stroke.

Her smile widened. She was probably amused by his goofy behaviour, but he couldn’t help it. What were the odds he’d see her again, in a different location, this early after the first encounter? What was the statistical probability of meeting his soulmate twice?

Before he could say anything else, Peter appeared from his rack and placed a leather jacket on the counter. Their attention diverted, Luke couldn’t help but feel heat travel up his back from having her so near.

— — — — — —

No, he didn't want to go to silent disco.

Alas, Willie and Alex were that quirky type of couple that always liked to do the weirdest shit, including the most impersonal activity ever: a silent fucking disco.

They told him to bring a date, as Reggie was bringing his Tinder match Kayla, but he wasn't feeling it. One, because he still couldn't believe he saw Julie again at the tailor-

("It's Luke, by the way," he added.

She smiled and tasted the name. "Luke. Haven't lost your journal again?"

His name sounded heavenly on her tongue. Keeping the blush at bay, he nodded with a grin. "Yup. Uh-"

And then the man came back with her stuff, and that was that.)

-two, cause he wanted to win from Alex. Soulmates did exist and he hadn't lost hope it was her.

So there he was, in some old factory turned disco, with hundreds of idiots wearing headphones as they danced in a frenzy to whatever song was playing. The whole point of art - connection - was lost. Luke wanted to die.

Until he saw Julie from across the space. Again. And she saw him.

They smiled and waved and suddenly, this whole thing wasn't so bad anymore.

— — — — — —

There were about a 130,000 people living in East LA. It had sprawling neighbourhoods and hundreds of communities and subways that connected it to the other parts of LA. She could’ve been anywhere.

And yet, he found her again.

Even though he was still sticking to his guns that Julie was someone special, he also had his own needs. Which was how he found himself slipping out of a redhead’s bed at seven in the morning, dazed from being in an unknown place, and pulling his clothes back on. He was pretty sure her name was Meredith, though that could also just be entirely false. It was a weird, albeit good night.

She mumbled in her pillow he could let himself out, waving half-heartedly and rolling on her side.

Softly closing the door behind him and cracking the knots in his neck, he didn’t notice how he bumped into a person.

Into Julie.

His eyes widened in shock, the two letting out a surprised yelp. Her hand clutched her chest and took a step back.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Sorry!”

Her mouth opened and closed in confusion, about to say something, when her gaze trailed past him to the apartment he just left. She cleared up.

“Meredith? Good choice, she’s nice.”

Luke flushed red. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

Awkwardly scratching the back of his head, he drawled, “Uh, yeah... what’re you doing here?”

It was then that he noticed she had athletic wear on, duffle bag around her shoulder and keys dangling between her fingers. She confirmed his suspicions when she replied.

“I, uh, live here.” She laughed. “So... have a nice rest of the day?”

He wanted to say a lot. He wanted to ask if she wanted to grab breakfast, that Meredith wasn’t his girlfriend, that he had this crazy feeling they were always meant to meet - again and again and again ‘til they got it right.

But he couldn’t. He’d sound insane. Hell, it was insane. Instead, he wished her a nice day as well and scurried out the hallway. He didn’t look back, but he did wonder if he was imagining he felt her eyes on his back.

— — — — — —

Luke was typing on his laptop, the hustle and bustle of Starbucks at three in the afternoon and the methodical tap tap tap of the keys lulling him into a fast-paced trance. As always, he procrastinated some work for Pitchfork and had to get it done in two hours or else his boss would be yelling in his emails.

The bell jingled, Luke looking up automatically and almost rolling his eyes at the sight of her. This was getting insane.

Julie saw him too, changing her course from the register to his round table with a confused grimace twisting her features. As always, she looked pretty; the girl never looked bad and it was kind of messing with his head.

"Alright, fess up," she exclaimed, slipping into the seat opposite of him. "Are you stalking me?"

He snorted and leaned forward with a wry grin. "I can ask the same about you."

Her lips pursed, assessing him for a beat. With a sigh, she mellowed down. "I guess... we live in the same neighbourhood..."

"Still kinda crazy though," he mused. "East L.A. is big."

She nodded, pensive, and then looked over her shoulder to the menu board. "Is it okay if... I sit with you? I was going to grab a latte to go, but since you're here..."

But since you're here - rang in his ears, a careful smile blooming on his lips. Fuck, he really needed to work, but Julie wanted to sit with him, hang with him, be friends with him, outside of all the coincidental meetings they've had.

He wouldn't call it a date yet. He wanted to properly ask her when that day came.

"Sure," he mumbled, biting down the smile from becoming bigger.

His reply satisfied her, the tendrils dancing around her bright eyes as she matched his smile and stood up to make an order.

— — — — — —

Weeks passed with quick meetings here and there, Julie slowly bleeding into his life with laughs and smiles and whirlwind stories about her life. She was always on the go, always bright-eyed and easily matching his energy. He knew his enthusiasm could put people off, but she was never taken aback.

Wit against wit. Snark against snark. A dumb joke met with an amused roll of the eye. It worked. For a while, he even settled on the fact that hey, they might be platonic soulmates. Julie was a great friends and sometimes he felt his emotions fleeting. If they remained friends, he'd be perfectly content.

But then she closed gaps and barriers that had pointedly been kept before. After they got boba, her hand wrapped around his bicep, stretched on her tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss on his cheek. Before he could register it, she was back on her feet waving him goodbye. Luke had a dopey look on his face for the rest of the day.

She kept up cheek kisses, he let his warm embraces linger, their short hangouts turned into hours.

Then one night, she kissed his cheek after they got ramen and he shifted his face 'til their noses brushed. Julie held her breath. Tentatively, their fingers curled together - the simple touch sparking lightning up his arm.

"Is it weird that I've dreamed about you?" he asked, cautious, looking at their joined hands.

Luke wanted to tell her about his initial gut feeling; that he saw her and he knew. But it was too insane and he didn't want to scare her off. But he knew. He's always known.

"No..." Her mouth ghosted his. "I've dreamed about you too."

Luke closed the little space between them, lips slanting together and instantly deepening as one hand came up to cradle her cheek. His heart was bursting with euphoria. It felt as if his body sighed in relief, like it had finally come home. And then he did: he sighed and grinned and giggled when her arms wrapped around his neck.

Oh, man... he might already love her.

— — — — — —

Nothing definite happened afterwards. Though this is what he wanted, he felt weird confirming their relationship when he had always somehow ‘known.’ It had to come from her side, the more level-headed person in this situation.

So, it was casual, even though he was anything but casual.

It was pretty great though, walking past Meredith’s door towards Julie’s, having her yank him inside and kiss him like she’d been waiting for years. Kissing Julie was fucking heaven.

Besides that, they were the same Luke and Julie as before. They got boba or ramen or any new spot that opened up like weeds. She listened to new music with him, sharing earbuds, for his Pitchfork articles. He watched her sing and play the piano at music clubs, becoming more and more enamoured each time simply by the sound of her angelic voice. He built a shelf for her. She taught him how to make friendship bracelets. He met her best friend Flynn. She stayed over for dinner with the guys and got drunk on white wine, giggling along to the jokes.

They fit. But they weren’t exclusive. He had no clue if she was also seeing someone else. He presumed she didn’t, the two constantly revolving around each other, but he couldn’t be certain.

Alex was gobsmacked the first time he properly met her. Stunned that Luke had been right, that it worked out, that East Los Angeles was apparently nothing more than a small town. Luke reckoned he was just jealous he didn’t have to meet his person by getting maimed on the street - ha!

His finger trailed along her sleeping silhouette, gently and drowsy, observing in awe how a smile subconsciously quirked on her lips and shifted closer to his touch. He closed his eyes and pressed his nose in the back of her neck. There were worse ways to wake up.

— — — — — —

Eventually, Julie simply decided for him.

She was moving apartments and he was helping her pack, move furniture, throw shit out, the whole nine yards. For one person, she had a lot of stuff, her cabinets an endless supply of decor, souvenirs and memories.

They were whirling around each other like clock-work, never bumping and smoothly handing things over. Rap music was playing from the stereo, its sound drifting from her opened front door into the hallway.

One of her neighbours popped their head in.

"Oh!" The old man perked up, surprised. "You're moving, Julie?"

She looked up from rummaging through her CD collection to shoot him a tired smile. "Yeah," she puffed, "my lease is up, so..."

"Change of pace, I get it. That's wonderful," he nodded, gaze shifting to Luke walking out of the bathroom. "Hello!"

Luke smiled at him, waving with the box of oddly shaped soaps Julie had for some reason. "Hi."

"This is Luke, my boyfriend," Julie introduced, Luke freezing in his tracks all at once as the words utter from her lips. Boyfriend. Holy shit. It didn't faze her, smoothly babbling more than he wasn't processing.

Boyfriend. Which meant that she was his girlfriend. Which meant that now, he had to threaten the guys to not say a fucking word about how mentally deranged he was the first week after meeting her. This wasn’t planned. This was fully her. This was past fate and serendipity - this was by choice. It felt better than he thought.

The man bid goodbye and left. Luke dropped the box on the coffee table, sliding towards her with a shit-eating grin.

"Boyfriend," he drawled exaggeratedly.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes. ‘Cause you are. I know you well enough to know you can only do exclusive."

"Can you?"

"I said you were my boyfriend, didn't I?"

His smile widened, leaning in to kiss her. She met him halfway, loose curls tucked behind ears before her arms were slung around his waist. I love, I love you, I've loved you forever.

And then the truth tumbled out. Part of it, at least.

"I, uh," he gulped, looking at her through his lashes. "I saw you, that first day, and I thought you were the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Her face turned tender, a pout jutting from her lip as she gauged his reaction, like she was waiting for him to make a joke. He wasn't.

"Really?" she whispered, voice so small it took him aback for a beat.

His thumbs gently caressed her cheeks, withholding himself from saying anything more. This was enough. It was the truth without the crazy - being with her was crazy enough. Luke settled on a simple nod.

Her head tilted, shy amusement lilting her tone. "Good thing I'm moving closer to your neighbourhood then."

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

@blush-and-books @bluefirewrites @willexx @pink-flame @constantly-singing @unsaid-emily @ourstarscollided

#juke #jatp fanfiction #otp: i think we make each other better #queue

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