#had little compunction

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

While the 12th Inspector was very new and still working out who he was,

he seemed to have little compunction of pushing a cyborg off a very tall building, even when said being answered his questions.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Nine

Eddie let Steve dry his hair after the shower. He knew Eddie understood the concept of the hair dryer, he’d felt it before and understood what it did. He’d watched Steve dry Eddie’s book after all, but practice and theory, apparently, can be very different.

Actually having the warm air pointed at Eddie’s head was not the same, and Eddie had, initially, behaved like a startled cat. It hadn’t helped that Steve had laughed so much he’d had to turn it off again and simply stand and wait for the laughter to pass.

He thought he had his shit back together but, no, one look at Eddie’s affronted face and he was gone again, actually crying tears of laughter. Eddie was much braver the second time, so they got there in the end.

They brush their teeth together, elbow to, well, more shoulder than elbow, in the mirror.

Eddie apparently has decided to just skip some steps tonight, and he has no compunction about getting straight into Steve’s bed.

Steve honestly doesn’t mind. He has genuinely slept better the last two night’s he’s spent with Eddie, and, well, he must just like the company.

There’s no breakfast this morning; Eddie is still sleeping. He’s pretty silent when he sleeps, no snoring or breathing sounds really, but Steve can feel that Eddie’s breathing just fine, considering Steve’s woken up spooning him, Eddie’s tail threaded back through Steve’s legs.

Steve has a face full of Eddie’s hair; the shampoo and conditioner routine are definitely making an improvement; Steve wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s soft, but it’s way better than the wiry mess it had been.

Steve rubs idle circles with his hand on Eddie’s tummy, and he can easily tell where the skin changes from...well, kind of human, to...kind of fish. It’s a little tougher, a little firmer.

Steve brings his hand up over what would be Eddie’s hip and back down; he thinks vaguely that he probably wouldn’t be touching like this if Eddie was equipped like a human.

Well, at least not without taking Eddie to dinner first.

Eddie shifts under Steve’s hand; waking up probably, so Steve withdraws. Except he can’t; Eddie gets Steve firmly by the wrist and puts his hand back, the message clear. When Steve doesn’t immediately move, Eddie moves Steve’s hand for him, tracing the same loop, “good, good,” Eddie tells him, “called?”

“Touch,” Steve says quietly to the back of Eddie’s head, “it’s called touch. I’m touching you.”

“Touch many many many good.”

Steve snorts a laugh, “that many goods is...perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Good good good. Many many good. The most good. All the good. Perfect.”

Eddie makes an assessing noise, thinking, “Stee perfect.”

Steve snorts a laugh, but can also feel himself blushing with it, and hides his face against Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie melts into the touch. Which, it makes sense really, doesn’t it? By the sound of it, Eddie was alone in the upside down, pretty much always fighting for his next meal, and then in that tank under Starcourt…Eddie’s probably never known a nice touch...well, ever. It makes sense he’d like it now.

Steve thinks Eddie may have actually fallen asleep again, his body is so lax and still, Steve himself snoozing a little, soothed by the hypnotic movements of his own hand, but then the phone rings and they both startle.

For a split second, Steve considers ignoring it, but he knows he can’t. Not with everything that’s happened; it could be important.

Steve sighs, sitting on the couch next to Eddie, trying to figure out what the fuck they’re going to do.

“Out?” Eddie asks again, pointing down the hall, “Eddidie not safe?”

“No, I know buddy, but you won’t be safe here either.” And fuck the pool should be drained for the winter by now, he’s going to have to do that too, before his parents get back tomorrow.

“Not safe Hawkins Indiana?” Eddie queries.

“It’s just for a few days, hopefully. I just need to figure out what to do, just let me think.”

Eddie sits quietly, plucking at the ruined bottom edge of his sweater.

Steve growls with frustration, “parents.”

“Parents?”

“Yeah buddy...uhm,” Steve gets a photo off the mantelpiece and brings it back, “this is my mum and dad.”

“Mum dad,” Eddie points, just like when he learned the kids names, “friends?”

“No. No not friends,” Eddie frowns tilting his head, “not safe?”

“Not safe for Eddie,” Steve confirms, “I’m going to have to call Hopper.”

“Grass Hopper?” Eddie immediately perks up. He’d followed one across the lawn when the weather was still warmer, and the memory has obviously stuck.

“No, different Hopper,” but Steve can’t help but smile.

Eddie perks up when the doorbell rings, “Hopper? Kids? Birdidie?”

“It’s Hopper, Buddy.”

Steve goes and gets the door, only when he opens it, he's greeted by Joyce and Hopper, “Oh. Hi, Joyce, I wasn’t, uhm, expecting you.”

“You have a mermaid from The Upside Down living in your pool and you think my boys didn’t tell me? After everything?”

“Right,” Steve says, backing up to let them both in, “so you knew too?”

“She rang me when Jon and Will confessed.”

“Right, no wonder you didn’t sound surprised.”

“Oh no,” Hopper takes off his coat, “I already knew, El told me the night Starcourt burned down.”

“Right,” Steve sighs, “of course.”

Hopper helps himself to a beer, eyeing the picture on the fridge, “Eddie drew it,” Steve tells him.

“Huh.”

Eddie sits patiently on the couch. Hopper eyes him like he might sprout tentacles any second, but Joyce says, “Hi Eddie, how are you?” In her kindest most motherly voice, and Steve knows he’s already won Joyce over without even doing anything.

“Hi. Good,” Eddie replies, and watching Eddie engage in conversation with a total stranger, even if it is only a few words, fills him with pride.

“Eddie, this is Joyce, and Hopper.”

“Joyce. Hopper.” He slurs a little over Joyce, but it’s more than recognizable.

“Joyce is Will and Jon’s mom. Hopper is El’s dad.”

Eddie frowns, and Steve recognizes Eddie’s processing face immediately, Eddie shakes his head, pointing at the mantle, “mom, dad.”

“Yeah, they’re my,” Steve taps his own chest, “mom and dad. Hopper is Els dad. Joyce is Wills mom.”

Steve almost sees the light bulb moment, when it clicks for Eddie what Steve means, “book,” Eddie leans over, retrieving his now really rather worn encyclopedia from amongst his stack of work books on the coffee table.

Hopper’s watching him like he might suddenly become a bomb that needs diffusing, but Joyce is learning forward in her chair, eyes kind and focused, hands clasped, clearly enamored of Eddie and what he’s doing.

“Stee?”

“Yeah Buddy?”

Eddie has the book open, and Steve leans over to look. It’s a page about frogs. The picture shows artfully drawn frogspawn, then tadpoles, then something Steve is just now learning is called a ‘froglet’, which is just basically a tiny frog with a tadpole tail, and then the final arrow points to a fully fledged frog.

Eddie points to the tadpoles, “El, Will, Stee,” and then he points to the big frog, “Hopper. Joyce. Mom. Dad.”

“Yeah Buddy, that’s right! You got it,” Eddie grins big and proud, finally figuring it out.

“Oh wow, he’s so clever, could he talk at all, when he first got here?”

“No. He didn’t understand anything, really.”

“Steve that’s so impressive, for him to come this far in, well, weeks, really, is amazing.”

And it has been pushing a couple of months, really, but yeah, Steve gets what Joyce means.

Eddie eyes Hopper and his drink, “Stee. Not later.”

It takes Steve a second, but he gets there, “no, but we could have later now.”

Eddie nods, so Steve goes and gets a beer. Both Hopper’s eyebrows are in his hairline, “you let him drink beer?”

“We only share one,” Steve says, a little defensively.

Eddie grasped the idea of going somewhere in the car really fast. That part was easy. Explaining that the tent needed to come down? Not so much.

Joyce and Hopper have gone again, Hopper with the promise of rearranging the cabin a little with El, and then getting Eddie appropriate groceries. Hopefully it’s only for a couple of days, but Steve has no idea with his parents.

He didn’t want to just send Eddie off with a stranger, even if it is Hopper, so he agreed to bring Eddie over this evening, after he set the pool draining and removed all traces of Eddie from the house.

He wanted to just put Eddie’s things in the bottom of his closet, show Eddie that he wasn’t getting rid of anything. That it would all be there for him when he gets back. Even the tent can be folded and squirreled away in the garage; even if Steve is already dreading putting the thing back up again.

Eddie had packed a bag with no problem, and then watched out of the window as Steve had put it in the car. There wasn’t much he wanted; his book and a coloring book, his walkie (with fresh batteries), some notebooks, his four jerseys and some pencils. His toothbrush.

Steve felt a little bad that Eddie hadn’t somehow accumulated more stuff, but Eddie didn’t seem fussed about it.

He seems fussed about this though, where he’s planted himself squarely in the mouth of the tent and just...won’t move.

He has his hands on what must be a vague approximation of where his hips would be, and Steve figures he’s done that to himself; there’s only one person Eddie could have picked that up from, and it’s him.

“Buddy,” Steve sighs, “we have to go to Hopper’s, okay? So I will put the tent back as soon as I can.”

“No.”

Steve gets up, goes and gets a box from the garage and brings it back. Eddie has stuck his head out to watch Steve, but otherwise hasn’t moved, “look, you can pack it yourself, okay? It’ll be safe, I promise. But we have to do this. No tent. Tent bad for Steve.”

“Why?”

Steve closes his eyes for a second, he really, truly, hates the ‘why?’

“Because...my dad he...he won’t like it. And it’ll be...bad.”

Steve doesn’t know how to explain that the house has to be exactly as they left it, even though the only come back for four weeks a year, if that.

“Bad?”

Steve nods, “dad might...be angry,” Eddie’s frown deepens, “he might...tell Steve bad.”

Eddie frowns, wrestling with the concept, “tell ow?”

“Yeah. Yeah probably,” Steve admits, even though he really doesn’t want to.

Eddie relents, backing up into the tent. He looks unhappy though, as he starts handing Steve things. Two folded towels; Steve replaces these periodically when Eddie brings him damp ones and asks for fresh ones. The slinky. The rubber duck. The Rubik's cube.

Eddie’s bucket, filled with short bits of twig, pine cones and tufts of dried grass, things that may have been flowers at some point.

An antler. Which Steve just, honestly, stares at for a minute, “where did you find this Buddy?”

Eddie points, “tree.”

“Right,” and Steve’s left wondering just how far Eddie goes when Steve’s not here. A delicate, perfectly clean, bird skull follows immediately after, and Steve decides to not even ask. He nestles it carefully in the bucket.

The ground mats follow, and then Steve watches as Eddie reaches up. He frees something from the middle pole, the one that runs across the top of the tent. A necklace, shining silver. Four rings follow, still tangled with the long stems of dried grass Eddie had used to fix them up there. Steve recognizes it all immediately; Eddie’s been in his parents room.

More specifically, his mothers jewellery box. Eddie looks so dejected, so guilty, “buddy, it’s okay, but I have to put these back. You know that, right?”

“In?” Eddie asks, pointing to the house.

“Yeah buddy but...you can have them back, after, okay?” Steve carefully slips Eddie’s treasure into his pocket.

Part Eleven

[gutsby]

Best Served Cold

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Since your fiancé can’t seem to keep his hands off of Lori, you decide Daryl is the perfect way to make him pay. Revenge sex has never felt so good.

Warning: NSFW. Attempted SA. Unprotected p-in-v. I don’t condone cheating (unless it’s on abusers lol). Semi-public sex and getting caught doing it in a tent 🫣 Based on this kickass idea from @dilfsandmartinis (I'm so sorry it took this long for me to post the story) !! 💓

Your man returned to your tent that night like he did most others: slick with sweat and too tired for sex. At least not again, not with you. He would undoubtedly claim to have been checking the perimeter, standing guard like a good leader should, but any blind man in that quarry camp could’ve seen he was just boning Lori.

A lot.

You were really more offended that he thought you stupid enough to abide by his lies than the fact he was fucking someone else. That part wasn’t new—his dick never knew how to stay in one hole longer than a month or two—but in an apocalypse? With his newly-deceased best friend’s widow? That was low, even for Shane.

Which was why you felt no compunction yourself as you slipped quietly from your tent toward the water’s edge that night, pink vibrator clutched tightly in hand.

Useful little thing that it was, a six-setting suction device that worked wonders on your clit, even underwater. You figured since Shane couldn’t be bothered with you or your sexual pleasure so long as the former Mrs. Grimes was occupying his time, you’d make use of this sex toy instead and start really leaning into the “self care” you’d been craving for so long.

The water was warm all the way up to your chest, and the air around you tepid. You moved around, treaded in place, and finally reached comfortable bearings a couple yards from shore. You relished the solitude and silence.

The moment you felt the toy come to life in your hand, you couldn’t help but smile. Exhaling as you brought the tip close to your center.

“Shit.” Even the gentlest setting too harsh on your clit, you nipped your lower lip and bit back a whimper.

You swirled it lightly on your inner thigh, tried painstakingly as ever to acclimate yourself to the buzz of the rubber, but damn were you sensitive. Almost too tender to be touched, too ripe with excitement and aching for the feel of something on you, or in you, or just barely skimming the surface of your skin underwater.

A low moan escaped your lips the second the head drifted back to your clit. Your toes curled into rough, rocky terrain underfoot, and your breaths started to quicken. You made a gentle motion with your hips—a sweet, semi-circular thing you’d been doing over Shane’s lower half as long as you could remember—begging for more friction, needing more of that mechanical hum.

You pressed the button for a higher setting. The peaks of your pleasure soared to new heights.

You were helpless to the trembling of your knees and felt immensely grateful for the water’s aid in keeping you straight. You pressed the rounded tip of the toy even tighter to your core and didn’t heed a thing around you as you sighed several expletives under your breath. A jolt of bliss washed over your body.

Your eyes had just started to close in the first throes of that wild sensation, when a new sound startled you.

“Ya done pissin’ or what?”

You shot a look toward the shore and saw a slightly less-than cheery individual standing at the edge of it, the toes of his boots grazing the incoming waves.

You froze in place. You hardly knew what to say.

“Ain’t safe fer you out here ‘n you know it. Come on.” Daryl beckoned you with one hand and started to turn.

At what point was it appropriate to tell him you were naked?

You thought he could surmise from the fact you were neck-deep in the water and refusing to move that maybe something more was keeping you in. Daryl seemed clueless, however.

“I ain’t got all night, kid,” he snorted, “’f you don’t hurry, Shane an’ the rest of ‘em’ll be out and— ah.”

Ah.

At the last, he stepped on a pile of clothes folded neatly on the shoreline nearby, undergarments and all.

So this wasn’t a midnight swim or a late night piss at all, but a full-blown skinny dip. He should have known you weren’t the bikini type.

Awkwardly, almost begrudgingly, Daryl gathered what clothes of yours he could and chucked them closer to the lake. Then he turned on his heels and stalked up the beach without another word—fuming, it seemed to you. Once averted, though, Daryl’s face betrayed a look of horror. Like a parent who’d just stumbled upon a box of condoms in their daughter’s sock drawer after swearing she was still a virgin.

In the few short weeks since you’d been thrown together in this mess, Daryl had practically taken to you like family. He hated Shane ‘Shit-for-Brains’ Walsh most days, it was true, but the fact that you were you, and times were tough, and nothing seemed to occupy Daryl’s mind quite like the thought of keeping you safe, that he had to keep you close at all times. He just hadn’t imagined your proximity would turn this intimate so suddenly.

“Keep up,” he spoke more sharply than usual. Didn’t even wait for you to dry and dress completely before snagging your hand in his.

You glanced at your taut, hardened nipples poking up through the damp material of your tank top and suddenly wished you’d brought a towel. Or a bra. Your shorts, too, clung to your ass like a second skin and made you feel extra bare before Daryl’s eyes—even if he hadn’t spared a look at you once as you’d traipsed behind him through the woods.

When you tripped, he held you up; when you nearly ate shit over several rocky spots, he carried you over them. His eyes never strayed toward your body, though.

Once you’d made it to the clearing where your group had made camp, Daryl lowered you to the ground and still couldn’t find it within himself to look your way. You shuffled uncomfortably on your feet, now standing inches away from the tent you shared with Shane.

“Thanks for...that,” you said, flatly.

Daryl managed a curt nod.

Before you turned in, you decided to venture a look at Daryl’s chest, and you felt an influx of embarrassment. The taupe-colored cutoff he wore as a shirt was soaked with water. Instinctively, you brushed your fingers over the stain—as if touching it might dry the fabric, or else mask your humiliation at being the cause. You tried not to evince a hint of surprise at how sturdy he felt.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Daryl.”

You hadn’t thought any man was capable of looking more afflicted than Daryl did before, but somehow, incredibly, he appeared even more ill at ease when you touched him. You immediately retracted your hand.

“’S’okay,” he managed. He would’ve given anything not to be where he was, or who he was, at that moment.

Just when another apology leapt to your tongue—feeling even worse that you might’ve crossed a physical boundary you shouldn’t have—a twig snapped close-by.

You and Daryl jumped in your skin. You turned toward the source of the sound.

Shane was tugging his pants into place, pulling the zip up in haphazard fashion as he marched out of the woods.

He’d either been blowing Lori’s back out (again) or off to take a piss in the bushes. By the looks of his dazed and drowsy expression, you guessed it was the latter.

“Got a nice rack, doesn’t she?” Shane observed, careless as ever.

He walked past the two of you and unzipped the tent.

“I was jus—” Daryl started.

“Don’t care,” Shane cut in, “Goodnight.”

You were amazed at the level of nonchalance your fiancé exhibited. On finding you soaked to the bone and touching another man in the middle of the night, the old Shane probably would’ve laid Daryl flat on his ass.

But overprotective, possessive Shane was no more.

Before disappearing into the tent, Shane reached for your elbow. You barely got another glimpse at Daryl as you were ushered inside.

The tent was re-zipped in an instant, and you assumed Daryl would be quick to leave the scene, too.

You turned and saw Shane fumbling to unscrew the lid of his canteen. Taking several big gulps before re-fastening the top, tossing the jug to the side, and letting out a sigh.

“You get a look at the hard-on he had?” Shane chuckled.

You almost choked on your spit.

“What?”

“Pitched a tent in his pants bigger’n this,” he returned, gesturing to the polyester enclosure overhead. Then he got back to his feet, walked over to you, and kept going, in spite of your perplexed expression, “He must really wanna fuck you.”

You blinked up at him, unsure if you were more baffled by Shane’s serene demeanor or the fact that you hadn’t noticed Daryl’s boner. You decided to overlook the erection for the time being.

“And you don’t...care if he did?” Instantly chiding yourself for the twinge of indignation in your tone.

“Nuh-uh,” Shane said. His hands came to rest comfortably on your hips, and he seemed to be hearing your words without really comprehending what you meant. As usual.

If he picked up on the irritation in your voice, he didn’t show it. He just rolled the denim of your shorts between his fingers and pulled you closer.

“This,” he hummed, fingers sinking between your legs, “is not for him.”

And Shane was community dick. Made sense.

You didn’t attempt to conceal your annoyance this time as you rolled your eyes and pushed his hands away.

“Well maybe if Daryl asked nicely…” you trailed off, starting toward the bed.

Shane stopped you before you could. He took a firmer hold of your sides and showed the first real hint of jealousy in his eyes. You were almost glad to see it.

“No,” Shane said, shaking his head. Then, snaking his touch back down your legs—with the fabric of your shorts fisted in his hands this time—he continued amidst your quiet protests.

You were gripping his wrists, trying to keep them from moving any further. But Shane was insistent.

“He wouldn’t get to ask nicely, because I’d blow his fucking brains out before he ever got the—”

“Shane.” You were actively shoving his hands off now. You didn’t mind this envious side coming back to the surface, but you would not, under any circumstance, be Shane’s sloppy seconds the same hour he’d fucked Lori.

“No. You— you smell like—” you cut yourself off before the woman’s name could leave your lips.

“Like what?” Shane snapped. Suddenly intrigued to hear what you had to say.

You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but when you couldn’t, and when he pressed you again, you sputtered some nonsense about his drinking—how he reeked of booze, not Rick’s wife.

“Thought you liked it when I fucked you drunk,” Shane grinned, voice dripping with condescension, “Said it gave me stamina.”

You’d said no such thing. You groaned lightly as Shane managed to pull your panties and shorts, together, to your ankles. When he started to take them off at your feet, he hardly seemed to notice your nails dig in his shoulders, silently begging him to stop.

“Think I should invite Daryl back over? Let him watch me fuck you stupid?” Shane’s mouth was hovering close to your center, hot breaths fanning over your lower half.

In any other situation, you would’ve craved him here: on his knees, ready to suck and lick and dick you down like he always used to do. But things were different now, you had to remind yourself. Apart from the walking dead invading your world, there was no Rick in the picture, no semblance of platonic feelings between his widow and your fiancé—you felt physically sick at the thought of Shane touching you now. You tried to stand the instant he threw you on the bed.

“Shane, I don’t wanna—”

“Fuck? Yeah, I figured,” Shane shrugged as he tried to peel your shirt off your body.

“Then quit,” you hissed. You were starting to fear the fabric might tear if you held on any tighter.

When it seemed evident you weren’t going to give in on the top, Shane let go and turned to his pants instead. Pinning you down with one hand, he unbuckled his belt as you whimpered and pleaded that he stop. The sounds only made the mound in his pants more pronounced.

The two of you had dabbled in CNC before, but this was not that. No safeword, no fallback, no trace of consent between you, and to be frank, you were starting to get scared. The second Shane freed his cock from his boxers, you felt a surge of panic rise to your chest.

“Fuck— STOP!” Without thinking, you jerked your knee.

You hadn’t meant to hit his balls so hard. But you did. And he folded in half, seizing with pain, while you took that as your chance to slide off the bed, slip on your panties—and hightail it the fuck out of there.

Shane’s cries pierced the night air like a blade through rotted flesh. You stumbled, half-blind in the dark, and blazed a reckless path through the tents all around you. Weaving in and out of neighboring spaces, searching desperately for any lone, dim glow of a lantern to tell you someone was awake to hear your pleas if needed. But sadly, no tent was alight but yours, and the entrance to that was presently being torn open once more as Shane staggered out there himself.

“Y/N!” he bellowed.

In your haste, you’d tripped over Glenn’s knapsack. You scraped your knee, scrambled back to your feet, and tried with everything in you not to make a sound as you retreated further from Shane’s voice.

You probably looked feral, weaving in and out of tents with your knee leaking blood and your pupils grown wide with fear. You scampered fast across the rocky campgrounds and made a beeline for the woods.

Until Shane’s footsteps fell heavy mere feet away.

Quickly changing course, you dove for the nearest tent and ripped it open. When you slipped inside, zipped it up, and went crab-walking backward like a panic-stricken animal, you hardly saw much of anything else.

Had your pulse not been pounding in your ears and your gaze not glued to the front of the tent, you likely would’ve gotten a pretty good laugh at the sight behind you.

At the very least, a chuckle or a smile or a slightly sheepish blush would’ve been supplied in a second, seeing someone wide-eyed and holding his cock in a death grip just inches from your rear.

You’d unwittingly scrambled into the tent of a man who’d just been beating his dick off furiously to the thought of you—and there you were, sitting pretty in pure, unadulterated fear for the sight of your fiancé any second now. When you turned your head, your hand flew to your mouth.

“Dar— oh!”

Like before, your heads snapped in the direction of a new sound, quick to sense that it was Shane, and this time, you went crawling over to the archer without a second thought. Hardly noticing his pants were down, you leapt into his lap.

“Y/N—” Shane hissed as he tripped over something outside. You heard a clatter and a bang, the sound of a few curse words sputtered in vain, and a groan. Daryl’s arms snaked around your sides and pulled you closer.

“What’ve ya gone and done this time?” he whispered.

“Told him no,” you murmured back.

You pretended not to feel the singe of Daryl’s gaze boring straight through the side of your head. Then a little lower, to your near-bare lower half and shaking legs. It didn’t take long for him to piece together what had happened.

“Y/N,” Daryl started, far louder than you could bear. You shushed him swiftly, ignoring the flare of anger in his eyes that told you he was currently conjuring up fifty different ways to kill Shane and just aching to act on it.

“Don’t. Please,” you said.

“Did he—”

“No. I...kneed him in the balls before he got the chance.”

“Oh.”

Shane was pacing outside, like he knew you were somewhere close. He called your name every now and then, drew near enough to send you rigid with fear. Then Daryl would hold you tight, stroke your hair, or else just graze his lips on your shoulder to let you know he was there, and eventually, the fright would subside. You nestled yourself into that touch and felt something far kinder than fear for the first time in a long time.

You felt aroused.

Ever more inspired by the sound of Shane stewing, fuming outside within earshot and the nudge of Daryl’s member against your barely-clothed core. Well…you were tempted, to say the least. You just weren’t sure if Daryl would be on board for being your lightning-quick rebound fuck of the night.

You sighed as his hips moved gently against your own.

“You think maybe—” you started.

“Yeah?”

“—you might…tell me what you were doing before I barged in here?”

Even in the dark, you could sense a blush creeping up his neck. You loved to see a man like Daryl flustered.

“Oh, uh, that?” he said in half a chuckle. Glancing down at his groin and going back and forth between two thoughts in his mind, most likely. Tell you the truth or come up with a half-assed lie on the spot.

“Just…jerking off to you.”

He never had been any good at a bluff.

Your face visibly brightened in the dim glow of the tent. You tried not to let your elation get too far ahead of you, though, lest your voice raise above a whisper and draw Shane’s attention.

“Yeah? What about?”

Daryl never thought it possible for a woman’s enthusiasm in a question to turn him on, but yours did. He looked to your lips and swallowed, suddenly at a loss for how to answer.

“I…well…”

“You’re fucking dead to me, Y/N. If you don’t—”

Your fiancé’s voice was as close, and as terrifying, as it had ever been. You eased Daryl onto his back.

“Were you thinking of this?” you teased.

You made that soft semi-circular motion with your hips and watched a brand new face contort with pleasure. The footsteps outside hardly registered in your mind any longer, as your attention was singly focused on Daryl.

He fought a groan in his throat as you grazed your slick heat over his length.

You coated him with your arousal quicker than even you had expected. You knew you were turned on, but never had it been like that, where you were damn near dripping sweet nectar all over a man’s cock. You let a little whine leave your lips.

You couldn’t help it; your cunt rocked back and forth over Daryl’s fat, throbbing cock and made obscene sounds as you did. The archer’s hands found your hips and gently guided you up and down as his own moans struggled to break loose.

You could’ve stayed like that forever, you figured—if you hadn’t been so fucking wet that the head of his cock slipped inside of your heat the second you and Daryl bucked your hips together. An inch was quick to stretch to seven before you could think or blink or do anything else but groan in pleasure, and suddenly, he was bottoming out inside you.

“Fuck!” Daryl hissed.

“Daryl!”

“Daryl?”

Fucking Shane, of all voices you didn’t want to hear in that moment. Fortunately, he’d heard Daryl’s voice alone and not the sound of your moan, calling his name at the same time, for entirely different reasons, it seemed.

Daryl gritted his teeth as you bounced on his cock,

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Y/N. You seen her, brother?”

Seen you, felt you, fucked you, yeah—he had.

Daryl closed his eyes and tried not to blow his load on the spot as you squeezed around him.

“No— no, I haven’t. Not since earlier,” he grunted.

“You sure?” Shane pressed, dissatisfied, “I heard her running around this way.”

You braced your knees against the ground and rode the man beneath you even harder, taking every ounce of resentment you felt toward Shane out on Daryl’s cock. Fuck if revenge sex didn’t feel nice when the object of your ire was standing right outside the tent.

You almost wanted to moan, wanted to whimper, but were quick to think better of it the longer you spent moving up and down his length. Seeing shades of lust in his eyes like never before, you just couldn’t bear the thought of having to pry yourself off any time soon.

Daryl sank his fingers into your thighs and sighed, leaving ten perfect crescents in their wake.

“Don’t you fuckin’ stop,” he murmured.

“Could ya— could you come outside and help me look?”

‘Come the fuck on’ seemed to be the silent, shared sentiment between you and Daryl as your bodies writhed fast against each other and your highs came close into view. You braced your hands against his chest and begged him not to answer with your eyes, but you also knew Daryl couldn’t not say something to him, either.

“I…I’m sure she’s fine.” Daryl tried, weakly.

He flipped you over so you were flat on your back, hands careful not to make much noise or cause you discomfort as he did. Cock never leaving your wet, greedy hole, he found it easier than ever to resume the pace you’d made above him—now pounding you quietly into his sleeping pad.

You gripped his back and, simultaneously, bit down on his shoulder to keep from letting out a shriek when he grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you. Tried not to whine when he hit it again. And again. And again.

Shane was growing impatient. Hovered close to the front of the tent so you could see the outline of his shadow.

“You got something better to do, Dixon?” he snapped.

Yeah, fuck your fiancée, Daryl thought with a smirk. You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him even deeper.

That light, airy feeling preceding ecstasy was close at hand. You wanted to give in—let the levee break and just relish the sweet sensation quick to follow—but you knew you couldn’t. Knew yourself too well to be a screamer not to hold on a little longer, until Shane had left.

But the way Daryl’s cock was pumping in and out of you at present made it hard, to say the least.

“Just…tired, ‘s’all,” Daryl groaned close to your ear.

“Tired from what?!” Shane jeered, “Wrist been hurtin’ from how hard you’ve been jerkin’ it to Y/N, huh?”

You almost burst out laughing. Daryl quickly cupped your mouth. Fucked you harder to shut you up.

And shut up you did; but not for long, you feared. The faster he pounded you, the more that coil in your stomach came to swell, and soon enough you might—

“Eat shit, Walsh.”

“Just help me out. Please.”

Daryl shook his head and fucked you harder, much to your chagrin. You didn’t want him to stop, but you needed him to, in truth, or that swollen thing inside of you just might get the better of you and burst. You pressed your hands to his chest and tried to whimper something softly, but Daryl just hushed you with his hand to your mouth and kept on at that breakneck pace. Your eyes rolled back, your legs started to shake, and if Daryl hadn’t had to tear his attention away to say something to Shane, he might have seen how close you were to blowing your cover…before it was too late.

With one more stroke inside your wet, sensitive hole, you felt a cord inside you snap and a flurry of wild, unbridled bliss take over, stronger than you’d felt in ages.

A shriek desperate to escape your throat, your teeth raked down Daryl’s flesh with the force of it, and, instinctively, the man yanked his hand away and yelped.

You hated to do it, but the feeling was just too good. Your lips parted to release one of the most lewd and obscene sex screams of your life—with Daryl’s name following over and over as you came.

Daryl’s eyes grew to half the size of his face, it seemed. Stilling inside you, feeling your sweet, hot juices flow down him in waves, he sat there and couldn’t quite decide if he was more turned on or terrified.

When Shane tore through the fabric of the tent and charged inside, he figured it out pretty quickly, though.

[kur0m1sblog]

If you are okay with writing this, do you think you can write a Miguel x F!Reader (whose a Spider) oneshot where Miguel finds out the reader is pregnant due to his hearing, and the reader reveals she kept it a secret because she didn’t know how to tell him.

Not Meant To Hear Yet.

summary: Miguel had came back from a meeting with the spider-society and overheard you panicking in you’re shared bathroom. He continued to overheard something he wasn’t meant to hear yet…

characters: Miguel O’Hara. Jessica Drew.

warnings: crying. reader having a panic attack. angst. implied smut. little love confession.

genre: angst. romance. fluff.

reader: fem! spider-woman! reader

REQUEST ARE OPEN!

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

This was not what you wanted to happen, you didn’t want a to have a child this young. You were 24, your boyfriend of 4 years, 27. And a couple months ago, you’d found out you were pregnant. At first you didn’t believe it, until all the test you took all came back positive. You didn’t want this, well you did want a child, just not this early..

And how were you going to tell Miguel this, you were sure he wouldn’t take the news good. You’d thought at the time you were for sure on the birth control..

He was at a ‘meeting’ with some members from the spider-society while you decided on staying home. After he left you did your normal routine, house chores, out chores. Miguel always insisted that you didn’t have to do that whenever you stayed home, he didn’t want you to be worked up and more tired then you normally should.

After your ‘chores’, you rush to your shared bedroom that was up the stairs. Dialing your phone, you call Jessica. She answers in a calm tone, while you answer in a worried tone. “Hey are you okay? What is it you need help with? You seem worried..” She said, a version of her showing up infront of you, she was on her motorcycle on a street in her universe.

You clack your nail repeatedly on the counter repeatedly, deciding to tell her what happened once she’d stop at a light. “Okay don’t get to excited or anything since your riding your motorcycle, but.. I’m pregnant..” You say waiting for her response and reaction.

As Jessica sat at the light, she started asking you a dozens of questions, “Do you know the gender yet?”, “Top 5 names if it’s a girl or boy?”, “Does Miguel even know yet?” You didn’t say anything after that question. Just from a minute of silence, she knew you hadn’t. “You haven’t told him have you..?”

Miguel had teleported into the house, he took his costume off and replaced them with comfortable clothing he’d left from the previous night before on the couch, while doing so, he heard you talking to someone. He figured it was important so he shrugged it off and started taking the ingredients out for dinner you were going to be cooking on this bittersweet night. “I just don’t know how to tell him that there’s a baby on the way.” He paused his movements. Had you just said what you said was truly real. It seemed seemed specious, but it wasn’t. It was true, real. “I don’t know how he’ll take the news, I want him to be happy about it and all but, what if he’s not, what if he’s angry about it..” That made him feel egregious and compunctioned. You thought he wouldn’t react well or good to the news..? He frowned and sat on the couch, still ‘eavesdropping’, but not on purpose of course.

After the conversation you had with Jessica, you pranced down the stairs to see Miguel on the couch, you froze halfway on the stairs panicking, you hoped he didn’t hear that whole conversation with her, and that he’d just gotten home. You continued your way down the stairs, he looked up to see you. God, he thought you looked so seraphic. “Hello Mi Rey, how was your day?” You say as you walk up to him and give him a sweet kiss onto of his forehead, after you ran your hands through his hair and smiled sweetly at him.

It took him a second or more to respond to your daily question, “It was good baby, do you feel okay right now? Your red..” He says. He knew what he was doing, he already knew what happened now.

You look in his eyes, look down and chuckle. “Yes dear I’m fine, I’m going to start dinner now.” Kissing his cheek, you walk to the kitchen to see he put what you needed out. “Aww, thanks for putting everything out, thank my hombre guapo. Would you like to help me with dinner tonight?” You say peaking your head out of the kitchen into the living room.

He stands up and walks over to you, “Only if that means we can play music?” He says as his large hands wrap around the small of your back and butt. Whenever he meant “play music”, he meant while the food was cooking and the both of you had time to waste to dance around in the kitchen and plant gentle kisses on one another.

You look to the side and frown for a second, debating your words of choice. “Miguel?” You say looking up at him.

After you just saying his name, he got quite worried. “What is it mi amor?” He said looking deep into your eyes.

“Whatever happens, I just hope you know I love you, so so much.. Your the best thing that’s ever happened to me..” You say, feeling different waves of emotions coming over you.

He was surprised. He thought that something bad was going to happen, but surprisingly it wasn’t anything bad. You were having one of your moments where you just wanted to say that you loved him. “God I love you too y/n..” He says shoving you into his broad chest.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

After making dinner the both of you sat down at the table, across from eachother. It was quiet, that weirded you out a little, he was always the one to start a conversation at the table..

You clear your throat and look up at him, “Soooo, did anything interesting happen with them today?” You say, taking another sip of your soup. Your mind was racing with random question and things you had to finish after eating.

He looked up, didn’t say anything, until a couple moments later. “Nope not really.. But there is something I’d like to talk about with you.” He said in a significant tone, as he pushed his soup bowl to the side, with his glass of water.

You took note of this, his tone was never like this unless there was something wrong or serious we needed to talk about. “Okay…” You drag out as you do the same gesture as him, pushing your glass and bowl out of the way.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant..?” He asked. His shoulders were tense, as he stood properly in his chair.

Oh god, he knows..? But how, that shouldn’t have been unless he heard me upstairs, is that why he was so tense when I came down the stairs.. “Look Miguel, I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how to break the news to you.” You felt a sense of compunction rush over you. “I didn’t know how you would react, or how you felt about having a child.. I just..” You didn’t finish anything, tears ran down your cheeks, as you didn’t look at him but at the cleared area in front of you on the table.

You didn’t see him, but he got up and started walking towards you. He wrapped his strong and well-knitted arms around you, you cried and cried in his chest. You felt horrible, you were gasping for air at this point from crying.

He let go of you and took your flushed face in his hands. “Look Hermosa, I’m not angry, I’m just a little sad that you’d think I’d feel that way. I’m happy that you are okay?” Staring at you, he waited for you to nod. When you did he gave you a kiss, picked you up, and carried you to the bedroom where the both of you would go to sleep. And clean up the both of you made from cooking tomorrow. “Goodnight, Mi Amor.”

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

notes: Thank you so much for requesting, I truly hoped you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Have a great morning/afternoon/night!

June 4, 2023

9:30am

[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 3. Little Freak

Series Masterlist; Chapter: 1, Chapter: 2,

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Parental Neglect; Angst and Fluff; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Possessive Behavior; Brat Taming; Extremely Bossy Old Man; Rough Sex; Size Difference; Spanking; DD/lg Dynamics; Dom/Sub Undertones; Forced Orgasm; Dirty Talk (like really forreal); Small Boobie Rep; Biting; Over Stimulation;

A/N: really sticking my finger in the father wound and wiggling it around in this one :))))))

Word Count: 10.3K

Read on AO3

3. Little Freak

You pull your sticky fingers from the damp bed of your underwear, the not enough little orgasm you’d been able to rub out still pulsing hot and cold through your cunt. 

Horrible man—you’ve never wanted anyone or anything as badly as you want him to need you. And no, not a wanting sort of thing, not a wanting sort of desire—that’s not what you’d demand from him. It’s specific, this thing: it’s that you want him to have no choice in the matter, you want him to be forced, to see no other recourse but you because that’s just how necessary you feel to him. 

You want there to be no thought, no compunction in him—only you. 

Even more, because lies are worth nothing here in your own mind in your cold bed—

—You want him to love you. 

The way your father never did. The way no man ever has, not really. 

Face buried in the dark for a moment, you groan softly before sliding belly first off the silk bedding onto your knees, pushing yourself up off the floor unsteadily. You toe your boots off and then step tiptoe on the end of each sock to pull them from your feet. It’d not been a lie—you’re not drunk, limiting yourself to only one tonight, and no liquor, because you knew you needed to be able to focus on the taste of his tongue when you inevitably got your hooks in him, hoping, knowing he’d take your bait and follow, but now, it’s a wholly different sort of buzz zinging through you. 

All him. All man. All Joel.

He’d been flavored of smoked whiskey and mint, a hint of tobacco, and you wish you could’ve been more faithful in your pursuit of enjoying the chewing of the leaves he always has, you’d tried for years but couldn’t bear the texture, the green gnashed between your teeth, earthen and organic. It’s not for you, your tastes veering to something hotter and sweeter. But you’ve always wanted to be just like him anyway, and every endeavor at a connection, no matter how small, had always seemed like a valiant one. 

Stupid birthdays. Disgusting leaves of mint. Dead fathers and daughters and all the different ways we hurt each other. 

Stumbling coltish and uncoordinated, newly birthed down the staircase, you push your way out the back door. He’ll have gone to bed now, you know they’re going up the mountain early tomorrow morning to check on one of the herds, but you’re desperate for one more second of him, being spit out of the house of your dead parents, hunting for the last hint of his presence riding on the fresh air off the Tetons and all this land that’s all yours now. 

You veer left then right, a zigzagging dance across the green lawn until you’re far enough away from the house it’s like you can pretend to ignore the ghosts you’re readying to exorcize. One knee hits the ground hard and stinging, limbs loose and strengthless, you feel the stab of a little rock against the curve of round bone beneath easily broken skin, catching yourself on a palm, another too hard scrape and then you’re rolling over into the grass, settling on your back to look up at the stars. 

There are so many, an infinite number of lights winking like watchful eyes back at you, and you wonder at the sort of childhood that lends itself to laying in the grass like this beside a parent that loves you and wants you and carves space in their life for a child they'd forced into the world. It should be some sort of crime, you think, immediate execution sort of barbarity, to have a child and not love it the way it demands. 

Back of your hands open at your sides, palms to the watching sky, you close your eyes and imagine what it’d be like to have the hand of a father holding it, one that would want you—not a mother because what is she in reality to you but an imagination figure you can’t even truly conjure up? That much of a stranger is what she is—such an alien thing you can’t even bother to dream her. 

Drawing your knees up, you press your bare heels into the earth and the wet placket of your panties is ice cold and sticking uncomfortably now, breeze against it. You shouldn't be thinking about this shit, but you think you might cry anyway, sucking in too fast breaths, forcing them out in attemptedly slow little puffs through your nose. A wave of sudden grief, then a plateau, the nauseating up and down of it all. You should be thinking about him, about your victory tonight, about making him so angry he can’t help himself, about what’ll come next—his skin. But that’s the thing about him, Joel, isn’t it? Always has been—the incongruous, make-no-sense feelings he’s always pulled out of you since you’d first set eyes on him, fourteen years old and tender and so alone you didn’t even know there was another way to be but abandoned. 

A laugh then—huffing and sardonic and again, incongruous, because now you really are crying. Tears leaking back, hot and fat to pool in your ears and salt the earth beneath you—unloading your grief into the grass as if God were beside you. Nothing will grow here again because of you if you’re not careful, and that’s the next worry—

If he never needs you the way you’re demanding of him, you won’t be able to stay here. 

You won't be able to live here and love him and not have him, and you could force him, perhaps, in your own ways. But you’ve done so much of that your whole life—forcing unloving men to look at you and take you into their arms when they’d never really wanted to give you the thing you’d always wanted most. 

The tender truth: it would be so much better if Joel decided to need you because he wants to, because he can’t fathom another way than just that. 

And you don’t think you’ll ever be able to live with anything else besides such. 

Another forced out laugh again—just to feel the feeling of it, go through the motion, mountain air a roundabout gust in your lungs, then to your left:  “What’re you laughing at, weirdo?”

Ellie, long and loping and beautiful, come to your rescue. She throws herself down onto the ground beside you and doesn’t even have to ask a thing about it when she places her rough hand in your soft one. 

Working girl, mover of mountains, changer of lives. 

Ellie has always known how to know you, and it has always been an incredible comfort. 

The two of you lay there for a few quiet moments. Friendship as an entity has always been a strange thing to you who have never understood love in a non-transactional way. But the thing that Ellie has always given you, it has always been an incredibly straightforward sort of understanding, simple—that of one abandoned child to another, perhaps. 

“Are you drunk?”

“Why’s everyone always fucking asking me that?” Said with another laugh but of the real sort this time, despite the bite in your voice. 

“You’re a hazard. What can I say?”

Undeniable. “Oh, shut up.” You dig your nails into the back of her hand, trying to scratch her but probably ruining your manicure instead, she squeezes your knuckles in sideways, hurting you way more than you could manage her. A yelp, and you say, “You know what I’m excited for?”  

“What’s that?”

“Skijoring.”

“Fuck no, dude. I almost died last time.”

You snicker, “Yeah, that was the fun part for me.”

Elbow to the ribs, and, “Asshole,” she laughs. And then you’re quiet again together, still gripped by the hands, and it’s the sort of comfortable only two girls who’ve been together since they were truly girls can be. 

“You see Cassiopeia?” She points her finger way north. 

“Do you think I should stay?” You see it, and easily, and you know if you were somewhere not here, it wouldn’t be so simply found. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Because of Joel.” It isn’t a question. You’ve never said it with words to her, but she’s always known. 

You hum instead of answering, can’t say it out loud anyway just yet. “So you finally asked her.” Dina, she knows what you mean.

And Ellie hums now in turn too. The both of you are so fucked up. Can’t say a thing out loud. 

“And?” 

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

Ellie groans loud and long, baying goat, and you tell her so, which gets another knock to the ribs. “Turn around and don’t look at me so I can tell you.”

You roll over towards the mountains and feel her face the house where she doesn’t see ghosts like you do. 

“But you’re not allowed to say anything—just say okay. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I think—well, you know…,” she gruffs, voice dipping low and dropping off before she can say the words out loud again also. Everything’s a secret code here, even the stuff that shouldn’t be.

“You think?”

“You’re such a fucker. I know.”

You hum again but the good and happy sort, pressing your lips together to keep the misty eyed smile at bay. “Okay,” you say back just as low and just as gruff. 

“S’why I think you should stay,” she adds. “If I can find happy here, so can you.”

“I’ve never been able to before.”

“But you’re different now.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah—can see it, you know. And this place is different now too—will be different.” 

“I was afraid to come back for such a long time. It seemed like the worst thing in the world.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, before she says: “You’re not supposed to be afraid of your father.” A very obvious thing—or at least it should be. 

You feel her turn to look at the back of your neck, and you peer over your shoulder at her and when your eyes meet, she looks so sad, like she’s so sorry for you but without the pity, and you do understand what it is she’s saying despite never having had that fearless experience. 

“Aren’t you?” A shrug of your shoulder and a helpless laugh but also maybe with real humor accompanying it. Because yes, you’re not supposed to be. You always were anyway. It’s funny in an impossible to understand way. 

A beat and then, “Can I say something fucked up?”

“Yeah.”

“He isn’t here for you to be afraid of anymore.”

Funniest of all, you’re the most sad about this. And what you don’t say to her, perhaps for shame or that child’s feeling of having done something wrong but not necessarily understanding what that wrong is—sometimes it’s inevitable, missing the monster. 

“Maybe you needed him to die.” Yeah, fucked up. You’d already thought the same thing and were chock full of guilt for it. “Maybe it was like—like I don’t know. It was never going to be the way it should have between you, but now you can remember him, fuck, I don’t know—different. Not that you wanted him to die, but now the reality of him isn’t here for you to see, so you can just remember it all however you like or not.”

“So I should lie to myself?”

“Why not? There are worse things you could do. There are worse things you do do.”

You snort. “Is this what your method is?”

“Yeah. Like—like sometimes, when I’m so happy I can’t believe it’s me feeling it because she makes me that happy, Dina,” she says her name with love, “I pretend nothing from before was ever the way it was, and it’s only here and now and me and Dina and the ranch and there was no shitty, abandoning father and no dead mom and no nothing and only Joel is my dad and it’s all always been okay.”

Joel. 

At the center of everyone’s happy dream, why is it always him? 

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll try it.” She reaches behind her back then, pawing at your hip until you give her your hand again, and you were wrong. She’s changed too. She can say things now. She’s always had those too perceptive eyes and that too big heart, and she’s changed now in a way that makes her not afraid to let it out and use these things anymore. 

You tell this changed Ellie now: “You know that like— that like… I don’t know how to say it. When a person’s life seems like it should be perfect, and you have everything. Everything should be good, right—but it’s just not. Your parents should be kind, they should be loving. They should be attentive and give a shit what happens to you, and it probably seems that way to the whole rest of the world except for the people that have to witness the humiliation behind closed doors, but it’s really just not, and then they probably look at me and wonder how my life could be anything but rose colored, and it all just seems a little silly and empty. Doesn’t it?”

“Nah—don’t know. My life was always shit before I came here and found Joel and Dina and all of them and you. And I'd seen enough to recognize what you were and how it was. Nothing ever looked rose colored to me—just looked like more shit.” You laugh again out loud now and for real, squeezing more tears out over your hot cheeks when she joins you in the sad hilarity as well. 

When her voice is finally steady from the belly laughs again, she says, “It’s a grief pyramid, we’re all just going around hurting each other in the name of our ghosts and call it an excuse, an offering to their memory and act like it’s okay. But it’s fucked up. That’s why I decided to stop. I stopped pushing her away, I told her—well, you know. I told her.”

“Say it, loser.” You bump your butt into hers. 

“Not to you—leave me alone.”

Say it, say it, say it, you sing. 

“I love her, fuck off.” And a little clog of emotion sticks wetly in your throat.

That’s the real question, honestly: How do you make someone love you? How do you make yourself into someone people can love?

“It’s a grief pyramid,” she repeats. “You have to choose to stop adding to it.” And she’s quiet again for a long time, and you can’t fathom how it is one stops building onto something they’d been born into. You think on it so long the feel of her palm clutching yours starts losing itself to sleep in the grass and the breeze comes off the mountains like a blanket over the two girls who’d become women before them until she says again, “Anyway, that’s usually the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid.”

-

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nope. You’re definitely doing something.” He angles the phone away from her prying eyes, trying to shield his shame with the palm of his hand. 

“Mind your own damn business, kid.”

“Is that an Instagram account?” Ellie howls like a banshee, Tommy coming up behind him to reach over his shoulder to try and rip the phone out of his hand. He holds it out of his reach. 

It’s just that he couldn’t help himself. He’d heard the boys all talking about it on the ride back down after their long day of work—your Instagram page—as if he knew what the fuck that was. He’d had to search it up on the internet when he’d gotten a moment alone in the bunk, cracking open a beer, muscles exhausted from the hard ride and having to haul a heifer out of a bramble she’d gotten herself caught in, he’d realized it was a thing young people put photographs and such on, a social media thing. But when he’d gone to search your name, it’d told him he’d needed to make an account of his own. Growling in frustration, he’d slowly made his way through the process, too big fingers punching at the too tiny keys of the stupid phone you’d forced on him. 

“Can you shut up and just show me how to work this thing. And stop your goddamn howling—Dina’s gonna think she’s dating a hyena not a girl.” She slides into the seat next to him, taking the phone from his grip to finish setting up the account and type in your name, a deck of pictures loading up for him to hunt through like a vandal. Photographs of you in all sorts of different places, draped in fine clothes and jewels and your fucking perfect ass right there for everyone to see. 

Oh my God.

“How many people can see this shit?” He asks Ellie, angling the phone back towards her. 

“You’re so nosey, man,” she chastises. “Thirty-seven thousand followers.” And a long, impressed whistle from Tommy who he’s going to punch in the face after he’s done with this. 

He swallows hard. “What’s that mean?”

“That thirty-seven thousand people are following her and looking at her pictures, Joel,” his brother says. “Man, how fuckin’ old are you?”

“Yeah, you’re not that old, Joel. Come on.”

“Go away now. I’m busy,” he tells the both of them, going back to doom scrolling through your pictures. One’s of you in barely any clothes at all, an itty bitty orange bikini, hands on your ass and sand where his tongue should be.

Joel feels insane again. 

“Pervert.”

“Joel… I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think there’s steam comin’ out of your ears, man.”

“Fuck off.”

Blessedly, they leave him to suffer in peace after a while, and thank Christ for that because eventually, the ex-boyfriend shows up in the scroll of pictures too. There for everyone to see in posts dated several weeks back—even one of the two of you kissing, you on his lap, fuck that. Good looking, shiny-boy sort. Joel’s left eye twitches at the sight of the sort of man he has never been, could never be for you, someone of your caliber. 

The memory of your cunt grinding against him last night flashes through his mind and his cock throbs once and hungry. He stretches his long legs out in front of him, adjusting in the suddenly too tight seat of his jeans. 

A clusterfuck is what it is—this sudden melding of the memory of the girl-child you used to be, the one that up until only recently lived in his mind, good and golden, and the woman you are now. With both figures meeting together with all the characteristics he’d always admired in you, your kind heart, your honesty, your generosity. You’ve turned out to be an exceptional woman, and it’s difficult to let the distant perception from before meet the lust he feels for you now and grapple with it without feeling sick to his stomach about it all.

It’s all an inevitability though, anyway. He knows this just from the rewind memory play of last night, the taste of your mouth and the little sounds you'd made for him, because of him, the way your hips had rolled over his lap desperately seeking. 

You’re ending up on his cock one way or another—inevitable. 

He’s never claimed to be a good and honorable man—never played the part of one either. He’s not about to start now. 

Clicking on the picture of your sun bronzed ass in the tiny bikini again, he imagines himself biting and eating it, shifting his legs restlessly, taking another long pull of his beer. Tapping twice on the image, he tries to zoom in to the apex of your thighs—he’s going to hell, he’s so fucked up, doesn’t matter—when a little heart appears in the center of the image. He clicks it again and the heart appears once more, refusing to zoom into what he wants to see up close. Fucking piece of shit phone and fucking Instagram—frustrated and hard and pissed off at the fact he’s yet to see you all day, he locks the phone, slamming it face down on the kitchen table, and downs the rest of the can. 

If he doesn’t get a hold of himself soon he’s going to burst, gut all twisted up into a hot knot of coal. Sick with jealousy and anger and lust, aggressive, the taste of your sweetness ringing in his ears and the sound of your moans on his tongue—his head is not on straight and he better get it fixed quick or all this pent up frustration is going to come out with teeth to take a chunk of flesh out of you. 

Groaning loudly, he lets his head fall back, thumbs digging into the sockets of his eyes until he sees stars and not the sight of your slick swollen mouth made that way by himself. He wonders if you slept well last night, if you thought of him, if you’d made yourself come the way he’d ran home to the little foreman’s cabin Kelly had given him years ago, to do himself. Jumping in the shower to jack his leaking cock to the image of what it would’ve been like if he’d been brave enough to pull that flimsy little tease of a thong to the side, let his cock out and force it inside of you, make you take it until you were crying and coming so hard you’d never think to even look at another man again, much less kiss him. 

He should’ve hit that fucker harder. He should’ve kissed you longer. 

He needs to force you to take all of those goddamn half naked pictures down. No one should get to look at you like that except for him, and he doesn’t give a fuck how insane he sounds. 

Outside, he can hear the cowboys hooting and hollering at something, egging each other on louder and louder, the scuffle of them shoving each other and horsing around. He sighs once and long, too tired to deal with their shit right now. All he needs is an evening of peace to get his head on straight and relax and will his boner down for a few hours. He’s acting like a goddamn randy teenager, walking around hard and aching half the day. 

Heaving himself out of the chair, back hurts, he grabs another beer before he’s pushing the bunk door open to the sight of half the team huddled together and peering around the corner of the bunk towards the house. 

“The hell’s got y’all clucking like a bunch of hens?” He asks, coming around them to stop dead in his tracks when he lays eyes on what it is that’s got them all worked up. 

That same ass he’d just been trying to zoom in on, right there in the flesh for the whole ranch to ogle at. Stretched out on one of the sun loungers from the deck, dragged out into the center of the lawn with a little table set up next to you. You’d even gotten someone to scrounge up a huge umbrella, a misting fan spinning lazily, spitting a damp sheen of water every few minutes, a drink and a speaker playing some girly song, whole goddamn set up for all of these fuckers to stand here and take an eyeful of your perfect ass. 

Joel tries to take deep breaths, counting back from ten in his head—fails. He’s going to be calm and cool and collected—not. He isn’t going to lose his temper—sure. 

Fuck that. 

He’s going to spank your ass so hard you can’t sit for a week.

“If you all don’t find something to do in the next thirty seconds,” he growls at them all through clenched teeth, “I swear I’ll have you slingin’ shit for a month.” The can in his grip pops loudly between his fingers. 

They all take one peek at the look on his face and scatter like chicken shit until it’s only Ellie left smirking beside him.

“Take this,” he shoves the can at her and starts towards you. 

“Bro—” He ignores her. Hey! She calls after him, voice demanding now, stopping him in his tracks before he can go get exactly what he’s been denying himself from the moment you kissed him two nights ago. 

Giving him that look she gets when she needs to remind him she knows exactly who he is and that he can’t ever hide it from her, she chews on her cheek for a second before she says, and he doesn’t mistake it, it’s a warning: “She’s a real peach. You know that. Pretty and soft and sweet, but easily hurt. Needs gentle handling, even when she wants to pretend otherwise.”

It pisses him off. Bad. “You think I don’t fuckin’ know that? I understand her—” thumb to chest. Because he did—does. Because he thinks that he really always has. It’s undeniable that he has what you have, what Ellie has. Even what Oswald Kelly himself had had and what he’d seen in Joel when he’d decided to save the life of a no good man in a no good spot with a no good future in front of him—that sadness, that lost doggedness about you all that makes you so like one another, even despite your immeasurable differences.  

The two of them look at each other for another long moment, and Ellie knows, Ellie always understands. With a roll of her eyes she spins on her heel, muttering to herself, slugging back Joel’s discarded beer.

Slowly, he rounds back towards you, afraid as if he were looking down the barrel of a gun, just as dramatic, as well. Objectively, he knows you’re doing this on purpose, to piss him off and rile him up and get a blow out reaction out of him. He tries to remind himself of it as he marches towards you, and if he were smarter or less inclined to take your bait, he’d take a beat to finish that count to ten reversal in his head and calm the fuck down before he gets to you—but honestly, he just doesn’t feel like it. 

All he sees instead is the baby pink barely there string bikini you’ve got on, the slope of your back gleaming in the sun, slicked in something shiny, the damp from the mister, the lush curve of your ass and the shine of your hair resting face down on your folded arms. 

You’re all sunkissed everywhere, and he’d really rather just give you what you want already. 

“Get up,” he growls down at you. 

One eye winks open, peering up at him before you press up on your elbows to take in the sight of him scowling down at you, and he can’t help it when his eyes flit down to the sight of your breasts cupped precariously in the tiny bikini, skin all sun flushed red against the soft baby pink fabric. You look like you’re made of sugar and sweet fruit and like you’ve come here specifically to ruin him and his whole life and all his self control. 

Hmm? You smile up at him wide and teasing. Oh, he’s feeding right into your shit, and you piss him off so badly. 

He’s never been this hard in his entire life, he’s even made dizzy with it. 

The little wisps of hair at your temples are sweat soaked and curling, looking silky soft. A thousand little details about you and your body—the white of your smile and the flushed heat of your cheeks, sun burnished bridge of your nose starting to freckle—that he can’t help but notice. 

Get. Up, he grits through clenched teeth. No one in the whole world deserves to see you like this, looking so beautiful, especially not him. Shading your eyes with the palm of your hand, you scrunch your nose up at him, and he’s got half a mind to bark at you to not do that when he’s around or he’s really gonna lose it. Your smile beams brighter. 

“What’s wrong, Joel? Havin’ a rough day?”

“I swear to Christ, if you don’t get your ass up and in the house right this minute, I’m going to put you over my knee right here in front of your whole ranch to witness, little girl.”

You smile up at him again and a muscle at the corner of his jaw flutters madly, he’s about to crack a fucking molar. “Hmm, I don’t think so.” And you flop back down again so that the soft of your ass jiggles slightly, arching your back just a little so that he’s growling once, right before he’s gripping you by the elbow and pulling you upwards against his chest and dragging you all bare and slippery limbed to your feet. You smell like coconuts and sweet sweat and saliva pools heavy beneath his tongue. 

“If you wanna act like a brat, I’m gonna treat you like one. You get me?” He yanks you towards the house screeching like a banshee, let go of me, you fucking psycho, you howl. A too little fist swings towards his face, and he catches it in his palm, squeezing tight and feeling your thumb tucked inside your fist. 

“Stop that—you’re gonna hurt yourself.” More squawking and howling, skinny wrist slipping from his grip to take another swing at him. “Don’t even know how to throw a goddamn punch—Jesus fucking Christ. Don’t tuck your thumb.” He hauls you up higher against himself, getting a better grip around your waist so he can carry you bodily up the steps of the deck. 

You jam your heels into his shins, and he huffs and puffs, trying to keep his hold on you. I’m gonna kick your ass, you screech again, scratching and pinching at his forearms. 

Joel is too old and too goodman tired for this. 

“No, you’re not. And if you think I’m gonna let the whole goddamn ranch and all the boys stare at your bare ass all day, you’ve got another thing comin’ for you.”

“Well, I’ve gotta show it to someone, don’t I?” You sass back, trying to elbow him in the throat while you’re at it. Blood boiling, catching you by the small joint, he pulls your arm bent behind your back, other forearm banding against your stomach so that his hand is splayed at your hip, feeling the satin soft skin, slippery in your suncream. 

And sure, he might be too old or too tired for this, but his cock is still hard as anything at the feel of you all against him like this. 

Pushing the door open with his hip, he shoves you inside. The late afternoon sun paints the cool interior in shades of gold and beaming white; everything is beautiful and pristine as always, and yet tinged with the red of his temper and lust. His temples beat in tune with his too fast, pumping heart. 

“Where’s Dina?” He’s still got you caught in his grip. He does not plan to let go. 

“Let me go, you mother ffff—” He gives you one hard shake, hearing your teeth click and rattle. Little doll caught in his grip. He can do anything to you—and you won’t be able to stop him. 

“Where is she?” He asks again, and something in his voice must snap you alert because you settle for a brief second, a little shiver skipping down the length of your spine that he follows to your full ass. He tugs you back, barely moving and slow, just that little bit further into himself so that the lush curve presses against the hard length of his cock—and there it is, the little knowing gasp, finally understanding what it is you’ve gotten yourself into.

-

“She—” Your belly is suddenly so hot and tight, heartbeat starting up behind your navel. Suddenly knowing what it is this is about to be, and yet now finally confronted with the reality of it for the first time, you can’t even begin to imagine what it’ll be like. “She—I don’t know. She went into town, I— I think,” you stutter, brain short-circuiting, desperate to feel that hardness again. “Waiting for Ellie—they’ve got plans there tonight.” His entire hand is wrapped around your forearm pressed against the small of your back, long, thick fingers overlapping against each other, and you roll up on your tiptoes, trying to arch your back further into him. 

He grunts once, exasperated, and then shoves you forward again, rough enough you’re stumbling over your own two feet, full on aggressive panting bull at your back. 

That’s good, he says so low you barely catch it before he’s pushing you up against the wall by the front door, cheek smushed against the silk printed wallpaper. 

Your mother decorated this room years ago, melding the masculine taste of your father and her love for European decor. The walls, wrapped in hand painted English wallpaper on the top half, and paneled at the bottom with a mahogany so fine it gleams an amber golden glow when the afternoon sun shines in through the windows just so. 

Everything beautiful; still, even after all this time. 

He holds you there for a long moment, his breathing quick and shallow, bellows of hot air at the nape of your neck, disturbing the escaped hair from your claw clip curling there. 

“Joel?” You ask once, voice wavering just a little bit because he suddenly feels so large and imposing behind you that something like trepidation beats behind the soft of your kneecaps. You know he worked all day, and his big body is a steaming blaze of heat, waves rolling off of him to burn the naked length of your back and limbs. 

He pulls your arm trapped between his forearm and your stomach to the small of your back to join the other, holding you there in a lock pinned against the wall, reaching up slowly to let your hair down, long and swinging. You listen to the clatter of your clip against the hardwood floor, and then he’s circling the side of your neck, the tiny beating pulse held in the cup of his palm so that it feels as if it’s reverberating back into your head, a staccato rhythm, and echoing all through your body. A chiming bell, ringing and ringing and ringing, telling you that it’s time now. His hand smooths down the slope of your throat to your shoulder, and you listen to the rumbling half humming moan he lets out at the feel of your sweat sticky skin, then down the flat wing of your scapula, thumb nail scraping against the edge of your jutting bone for the way he’s got your arms trapped behind you. 

You let out a high pitched whine, almost a scream, another puff of sound in the assimilation of his name, pleading now, rolling up onto your tiptoes again to push your ass back against the hard of his cock. Everything is so, so sensitive. 

Quit, he snaps once and mean. Ordering. In a tone that says he’s in charge, and finally. 

It’s such a relief. 

You whine again, higher, needier, like you’ve never felt before, and there’s a nauseating thrum of electrified butterflies in your tummy, sticky sweet and cloying for attention. Joel, please, again and the wings beat faster. You’re sure he’ll enjoy the sound of your begging, it’s just something you know. Tiptoes straining higher so that the soles of your feet ache, he smooths that work roughened palm down the slope of your spine, thumb against your vertebrae, feeling the round little notches of bone beneath sensitive skin until he’s reached the twin dimples at the low of your back right above your ass, and presses there and hard—mean—so it hurts. Keening loudly, you crush your cheek harder, harder against your mother’s wallpaper until the bone aches, until there’ll surely be an indent of your shape left in the wall, and his thumb digs even harder anyway, gripping you tight enough to bruise. 

This is how it’ll be—surprising, but also not. In all your years of imagining, you still don’t know what it is you expected.

“You’re carved so fine,” whispered against your skin and gooseflesh spreads like wildfire, nipples going tight and aching. His nose skims the slope of your nape, smelling you. “S’like you’re made of sugar. Is that what you’ll taste like too?” And his words are slurred, drunk-like and you feel the same way also, legs on the verge of giving out.

You press your hips back again, desperate for any sort of pressure, and he jostles you once, hard enough you bite your tongue. Quit moving, he snaps, shoving his knee between your legs and spreading you wide and immobile, thigh hooked over his own so that the toes of that leg barely skim the ground and now you’re precariously balanced on one foot, held up and pinned entirely by him. 

 Caughtcha, he murmurs.

You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. 

The palm at the low of your back splays wide, his long fingers reaching from side to side and pressing hard against your skin and then all of a sudden he’s gone, and only for a second, before he’s back and slapping you hard and painfully stinging on the ass. A downward swipe of his thick fingers so that it really fucking hurts, and then the palm is back at the small of your waist, hooked thigh over his leg, unable to move, unable to do anything except take it. 

He presses your belly into the wall, and the pressure is so intense and so deep—his breathing is so rough behind you. You know he worked the mountain all day, he should be exhausted, but the strength he’s trapping you with belies the possibility. 

His hand goes away from your back again, and he’s spanking you once more, and you can’t tell if it’s harder or not this time, if it hurts worse than the previous, but the fire pain of it snaps all the way down from your thigh to your calve, pooling there in a knot of painful ache. An animal baying noise warbles in your throat, he tuts once, a cooing click of his tongue and cups your ass right at the rose of pain he’s left, kneading the skin gently, palpating the hurt like he’s looking for the physical imprint of it beneath your skin. 

“Yeah, baby? Like that?” You sing the little animal song for him again. “S’what you needed, right?” His voice now is not the Joel-voice you’ve always known, but it is the one you’ve always dreamed of. The kneading fingers slide whisper soft down the back of your thigh, up again, down again, callused skin scraping. On the up again, his thumb catches at the edge of your bathing suit wedged between the cleft of your ass.

And lest he thinks he’s bested you, you say, “Yes, that’s what I needed,” and he laughs a rough laugh that makes him sound like he’s been gutted. 

He squeezes the thick of your ass between his thumb and forefinger, an almost pinch and then smoothes his thumb beneath the pink edge along the curve, precariously close to danger. The sound of his name loses meaning, you’re praying it in a litany almost, over and over, begging. Hush now, he gentles, more in a sort of voice you recognize while your heart beats so hard against the wall it must surely sound like someone’s knocking on the front door for entry, like it must surely send echoes all through the ghost-house. 

His smoothing thumb continues its journey until it’s between your thighs, pulling the wet lycra wide away from your skin so that he can tuck the rest of his fingers flat against your cunt, and now he’s there. 

One of you says the word fuck another lets out a whimpering sort of noise—you’re not sure which is who, it’s all only a cunt-throbbing need you know he’s feeling leak and pulse against his hand. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs all reverence like. Joel—touching your cunt and sounding like he can’t believe it. His hand slides back along the curve of your sex, and you really are so wet the sound of it is slick and lewd, his fingertips at your entrance, a gentle probing and then forward again, a circling not touch around your clit, like he’s learning for himself this new little place that belongs to him now. Your mouth falls open on a spit-full moan, your eyes closed because you don’t even have strength now to keep them open and watchful. You’re so wet for me, he says again and again like he can’t believe it all either. 

He drags his finger flats against you once more and then another time and then taps twice with all four of them, two little almost slaps to your clit that make a sticky wet splashing sound. Good girl, and you don’t know which part of you he’s talking to. You’re practically leaking onto the floor, trying to widen your hips, arch your ass back further and present your cunt to him for fucking. And then his fingers side to side in a swiping motion and fast. 

Oh God. Oh God. Inside, inside, you need him inside. He needs to go inside. 

“Please, pleeease, Joel. Oh, please.” Delirious.

“Please?” His fingers move fast and your vision goes entirely away. “Please what? Please what? You, please.” He switches front and backwards again, and then two fingers draw a little ghost circle at your entrance. You, please, he says again. His hand flips over, palm facing downwards, and he starts to slowly, slowly press a single tip of one inside. “Please behave. Please don’t— don’t—fuck— please gimme a second to breathe, to think, to catch up. God, fucking tight little cunt. I’ll never fit in here, baby.” 

Your vision whites, then blacks, then goes blinding bright and colorless—zero frequency. Up to the first knuckle, and he wiggles the tip inside, making you cry and squirm, pulls out and then two fingers are pressing inside and downwards. “We’re gonna have to take it so slow in this little cunt.” Shit—shit.

“Oh my God, yes.” 

Your hips shiver and shake as he penetrates you, his forehead tucked against your shoulder so he can look down at what he’s doing, and drool slides along your mother’s wallpaper from the corner of your mouth as he pushes his fingers in and out of you so slowly, the slick slide, the pressure against your front wall so heavy, and spread so wide like this but held so immobile—it all makes you feel like you’ll wet yourself with such little control over your body. A few slides in and out again, “Good girl, just a little more,” before he’s wedging a third into the mix, trying to put it inside of you as well. A little more? The stretch is too much, burning, and you wail and cry, arching again but this time to get away instead of steal more. 

“Okay, okay. It’s alright,” he soothes. Hush. “It’s okay.” He pulls his fingers entirely out and covers the slick mess of your mound with his entire palm possessively. Rubbing soothingly at your wet, his fingers slide over the satiny smooth skin of your lips. 

“You’re all bare,” he whispers, shocked.

You swallow hard once, shoulders and neck starting to ache. “I— I got lasered.”

“Lasers?” Voice confused. 

“Yeah.” You swallow again, can’t catch your breath. “Yes.”

“Gotta see.”

He pulls you from the wall, shuffling you like gambling cards in his hands, that’s what this is, a gamble, so that you’re facing him as he walks you backwards, bikini bottoms askew and cunt bare to your parents living room; your dead father’s best man about to fuck it raw. 

Pressing up on your tiptoes at the same time that you’re tugging him low by the collar and the slightly too long hair that curls over it to press an open mouthed kiss to his lips with eyes kept open. You need to see his face, his reaction, that even though he’s all rough, he’s still Joel and he’ll still take care of you now. 

One strong forearm bands around your back, pressing you up high and close to his chest, fingers tangling in the bikini string at your back so that it pulls tight and bites into your skin, the other reaching around the back of your thighs to take a squeezing handful of you ass as he lifts you clean off the ground, lumbering slowly towards the couch while the two of you stare at each other with something that smells suspiciously of wonder. 

On the high ground now, you stare down at him, held as you are and kiss him again, for real this time, with tongue, an eating of his mouth. Trying to taste him as deep as you can go, digging your manicured fingernails into the rough whiskered planes of his cheeks until he grunts roughly.

Showing him that you can hurt him too. 

His knees hit the edge of the couch, one palm going to the back to hold himself steady as he sets you down, following your path to fold over you nose to nose. Watching each other for a blink, predator, predator, lashes tangling and then his mouth is sliding wetly over your burning cheekbone, drawn out groan like dying. Down to the hinge of your jaw where he sucks sharp once and his tongue flutters down the column of your throat, tasting your pulse, his palms everywhere at the same time too. Over your shoulders and down your goosefleshed arms, cinching at the nip of your waist to slide around your hips and to your ass, pulling you forward and open when he goes to his knees on the floor at the edge of the sofa between your spread thighs, with you draped diagonally across the cool leather that sticks to your sweaty, coconut flavored skin. 

One palm slides down your chest, dragging over your breast, the other catching at your nipple with this thumb, nail scraping and pulling the wet fabric along with him, baring you to the first glance of his eyes. A sound that’s a little like a whimper precedes his latching mouth, sucking hard and with teeth so you’re arching and crying and when your head rolls to the side, eyes bleary and barely seeing, he’s got your small breast in his mouth, jaw hinged wide and hungry. His teeth scrape, one wide palm sliding over your thigh to the back, pushing your knee up high and open to your shoulder, lips skim over your belly, smell so fucking good, sharp edge over your hip bone and the lave of his tongue, taste so fucking good.

“I’m gonna eat your cunt.” Bikini askew, one little tit bared to the cold AC, nipples hard enough to hurt, he pinches it once and mean and stretches the soaking wet center gusset of your bottoms wider.

He looks and looks and grins and everything inside of you pulses. 

Boyish smirk and a cocky glance up at you, oh, pretty, “Perfect little princess pussy, huh? I see now.” He sticks his thumb into his mouth, pulls it out with a pop to rub it spit slick against your clit. Yeah, yeah, like that, and you can’t help the whining cry. 

Pushing your other thigh up high, the grin turns to something a little more menacing before he bends to your cunt, whole mouth covering you there like he’d swallowed your breast. His thumbs dig painfully into the backs of your thighs like they’d dug in your back, leaving little spots of hurt all over your body is what he’s doing, spreading you wide open.  

Every touch is possessive, full of ownership. 

“What are you doing to me?” He groans as he eats your cunt, doing exactly as he said he would, flat of his tongue licking all over you, dipping inside. Purse of his lips then and he’s sucking hard and pulsing in quick successions, and there’s your first one—little gush of slick and your belly so tight it hurts, you need something inside of you so bad—your first orgasm forced from you and onto his tongue, swallowed down into his stomach. He groans like an animal—doubles his efforts, tongue spearing inside, pulling away to press two fingers in—fuck, fuck, and you grab hold of your own thigh to keep yourself open for him, knees trembling beside your ribs. 

The hand not inside slides across you, smearing slick over your belly, it’s everywhere, and presses down as he crooks those two fingers forward. His hair’s all fucked up, eyes glazed a maniacle shade of hazel that makes him more intimidating than you’ve ever seen him and also hotter than you could’ve ever dreamed, that boy’s smile again. 

His mustache is soaked in you. “Little pussy’s so small ‘nd wet, baby.” He wiggles his fingers, pets against the blindingly sensitive place inside of you. “Feel that?” Fingers twisting—almost too much, the stretch burns already and just like this. 

“Please, put it in,” you beg stupidly, a tear leaks and then another, not at all smart of self preserving. 

He clicks his tongue, and you can’t tell if it’s soothing or condescending or both, your eyes screwing shut at what he’s doing to you, trying to paw at his shoulders and pull him towards you at the same time. “Can’t—too small.”

No, no— His palm at your belly presses down, fingers petting forward, again, again, head bent once more to suck on your clit, licking it roughly if a tongue can be rough because it’s heavy and strong and intentional—I can take it. There’s your next one, obeying the come here order of his fingers. Mid-come and he’s forcing that painful third one from before inside, and now it’s split open and sloshing wetly—your cunt—hiccupping into another left over shaky orgasm, fucking hurts a little bit. More tears and his soft chuckle—you’re really in it now. 

When he slurps at your leaking again, fingers leaving you to gape empty and wanting, your hips shiver, trying to shake him away and rock against him at the same time. He says something you can’t make out, can’t even open your eyes, you just need a second, you swear, and then the clink of his belt, the shuffle of clothes, and he’s pulled his shirt over his head—you’ve enough mind left to open your eyes for this. 

He’s so strong, built for fucking and working and heaving. You knew this already, you hadn’t needed to see him without clothes to know. 

And all yours now, too. 

Your fingertips paw greedy at his chest, muscular, the thickly corded arms and shoulders. One hand wraps around the slim of your ankle, manacling you while he undoes his fly, your heart skips with the split of the zipper’s teeth and pulls his cock out, letting it fall heavy on your stomach—a threatening, aggressive thing. It drags against your cunt, so big it doesn’t stand up straight and jutting like the others you’ve been used to, but bobs low and hanging.

Reaching forward you flit the tips of your fingers over the wide head—barely there butterfly touch—and your hand looks comically small next to the thing as you pet at the dark head swelling out of the thick skin around it, soft and burning hot—he growls like a wolf at your touch.

 “I’ve never— I’ve never… with one like…”

He pulls your hand forward, wrapping it tightly around the thick length with his fist over yours. “Nah, baby. You’ve never had one like this. It’s alright—I’ll show you how to take it.” 

You’ve half a mind to roll your eyes at him, but he distracts you with the soft touch at the split indentation in your knee from your romp in the grass last night. “What happened here, little thing?” His words and his touch are so soft, eyes warm and caring, as if he weren’t threatening at all, as if that thing that’s about to split you in half and make you cry hasn’t started to slick itself back and forth between your legs, parting the lips of your cunt, sticky sound on every pass with his fist wrapped around himself—too many things happening to you all at once by his hand. 

“A rock hiding in the grass last night.” You start to roll your hips minutely against him, presenting your similarly torn palm for his appraisal, no, no, my poor baby, he kisses the little hurt while the fat head swipes over your clit, pressing against your hole—a little gasp and you circle his wrist at your knee, anchoring yourself. 

He frowns. “Last night when?”

“After you left me.” Pouting back. 

Cooing once and low, “You shouldn’t go out alone at night, anything could happen,” pressing again at the mouth of your cunt. Fuck, now— 

“Wasn’t alone—”

The head notches and stays, “Without me then— Deep breath now, baby.” He grunts on the first push inside, and your back arches tight as a bowstring, hand splaying wide at the center of his belly and his long fingers wrap around your breast tight, holding you in place, deep breath, he says again. 

“Oh God. Oh God. Oh my God.”

He pitches his hips forward once, just a little, just a small shove, and you tense, sharp whine hiccuping through you. “Oh, it’s too big,” pressing harder at his belly as he edges deeper again, an inch and then another, literally splitting your cunt open for himself, thumb swiping slow and gentle over your clit, forcing little shudders of pleasure out of you amidst the pain. 

“See, told ya.” It’s slow, slow until he makes it fit, watching himself sink inside of you the entire time, until you’re rooted on his cock, breath coming is quick, sucking pants, puffs out through your nose, body flushing hot and then even hotter. He folds over you, groaning loud and long, deep grinds and small shoves, and then it’s so much, too much until there’s no room left inside of you at all, that dull ache pain of his tip pressing against your cervix. 

You’re going to be so sore tomorrow, it hurts, it hurts, but he plays with that place anyways, covering you with his body to press his face against your breasts, mouthing wet and hot at your nipples, biting hard to distract you from the pain inside. Your fingers twist in his hair, hot and damp at the roots, sweaty musk smell of a hard day's work, masculine, making you wetter for him. “It’s alright… it’s alright. You can take it. You’re such a good girl.” And then a fuck, and he’s mumbling your name, how good you are again, how well you’re taking your fucking. 

“This what you wanted, right? To get caught on my cock?” The palm cupping your ass tips you up and forwards, forcing him inside just that little bit more. Your knees are at your shoulders, folded entirely under him, and the tip of his cock is still there where it hurts the most while he pants and sweats on top of you. A cramp of heat moves like lightning down your back and something goes loose in your cunt, your womb contracting once, accepting its fate as you start to come around him, milking him deep inside of you. You start to cry for real now too, fingernails dragging against his naked back looking for blood—sobbing, actually, not just crying. 

He bites your breast hard, grinds further not letting the orgasm stop, “God—I’m so fuckin’ deep. No one’s ever been this deep, right? Tell me, baby,” he begs, sitting back and dragging you boneless, still coming, into his lap, little girl splayed wide over his knees on the floor. You sink further down onto his cock, and he kisses your hot cheeks, letting your cunt drip down him. His belt digs bruisingly into the back of your thighs and it all hurts—he really is so deep now, head tucked firmly at your cervix, and he feels like he’s getting thicker, harder, like he just needs to be sunk deep like this, as deep as he can get so that all your cunt needs to do is work him until it milks the come right out of him. 

Your head lolls back on your neck, supported at the edge of the sofa. “No more—” You don’t know if you mean it, but it is just on the verge of too much now. You’re so sensitive. 

“Yes more.” He starts to lift his hips again, pulling back and shoving, not a lot, but enough that it’s like a little punch inside of you each time. “As much as I say.”

Whining, “No—I can’t.” You roll your hips against him though, the both of you moving, straining against each other, his wide hands around your waist shifting you up and down like a doll on his cock. Your eyes finally open again, and the sunlight spears in through the windows in buttery blinding shafts, sparkling dust motes dancing above as he fucks you. The sound is all so wet, everything from his lower belly to the open front of his jeans is soaked. “I don’t like it anymore,” you lie. 

“I don’t care,” and he gives you the first really rough thrust, not a pounding but with enough strength behind it that you get that heat cramp again, feel like you’re going to wet yourself again, there’s so much pressure in your belly. 

You’re going to come again. You are coming again. It feels like you should say thank you. 

He laughs, little cock sleeve, and you can’t understand how it’s so intense when the fucking is so slow—so good anyways—who cares about anything. His name slips through your lips without them moving, and he’s laughing again, a little mean and you tell him so, but still tender, still endeared by you. 

You push his face away weakly, a mumbled, “Nasty old man.”

Nuh uh, he hums, taking both of your wrists in his grip and pressing them back to the leather edge on either side of your head, forcing you into an arch so that he can latch his teeth at your throat and suck. The rolling of his hips pick up speed, just that little bit, the heat coming off him boiling up to steaming and his sweat drips onto your skin and disappears inside of you—everywhere you’ve got him inside of you. 

“Birth control?” All broken up with pants and your jugular between his teeth. 

Flexing fingers, hands going away to numbness, he’s got you held so tightly, not being so careful of his strength anymore, his cock drags and it’s so wet and sensitive and swollen inside of you, it feels like he barely fits even more than it did before, like there’s definitely no more space inside of you for him at all.. “Yeah—ye—ah, ahh,” can’t get your voice to come out right with your clit grinding against his pelvic bone like that. “Implant right here.” You turn your face towards your left arm, tipping your nose the hidden little bump right beneath your skin. He clicks his tongue, kissing it softly.

“Poor baby. That’s good. That’s real good, baby. Just be good and lemme come in you now. It’s okay.” He spreads his thighs wider, pushing up with his knees into you now. Oh fuck— “But you gotta give me one more. I want it—it’s mine.” And the way he’s got you arched, the spot he hits inside is more intense than the others. He grunts rougher now, biting your throat so hard you’ll be left bruised all over and on the inside too. One palm lets go of your wrist to grip your bottom, long fingers slotting on either side of his impaling cock, pulling you to him so tightly the orgasm is squeezed out of you forcibly and hurts all the worse for it. You’re limp and boneless now, and he starts to pump his come into you in thick spurts, belly all suffused with heat and your name a groan in his throat.

His fingers, parted around his splitting cock rub at the slippery skin of your labia, back and forth to your asshole, holding and cupping the place he’s claimed, and he comes so long, hunched over and rutting into you, filling and filling until the wet squelch is even louder and you can feel the thick come being forced out of your stuffed full cunt. 

You want to say his name, trying to move your lips, but your tongue rolls uselessly inside your mouth, all you are is a shivering cunt, a muscle spasming and spasming around him. He nuzzles at your throat, finally unlatching his teeth, licking away the hurt, pressing a soft kiss to the sore spot. You can feel him playing in the leaking wet now, fingering at your puffy cunt, well fucked and filled. 

You want to tell him you didn’t think that the bikini was going to make this happen, pull this out of him. 

At least not like this. You don’t think you could’ve ever imagined it’d be like this. 

His mouth, hot on your jaw once more before he finally picks up his head to look at you, and his eyes make you want to cry, all that manic heat is gone now, replaced by some softly smoldering ember. You don’t think anyone in all the world has eyes the color of hazel he’s got. Something that should belong to some fiercely guarded precious stone, they glow, amber opal like, burnished in the setting sun’s golden glow.

“You okay?” His voice is very soft, and only for you.

You nod, chin tipping to your sternum, face flushed with so much unbearably pleased heat you’re unable to find your own. 

Tilting his head to get at your mouth, he kisses you long and soft and open mouthed, licking your tongue, tasting you completely. And when he pulls back he has that same look you feel on your own face—that same unbearable pleasure. Shocked wonder sprinkled into it.

Look at what we’ve done and together and how good it is—

A smile and then a laugh from both of you, giggling like school children into each other’s mouths, and you’ve always thought he has some strange effect of appearing all man one second and then smiling and boyish for the flash of a single moment the next. And you don’t think you understand how someone who’s been through so much can still laugh the way he does. You smooth your finger over the arch of his eyebrow, thumbing at the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. Gorgeously strong man, and you suppose, looking at the wider picture, his life here, Ellie and the boys and a whole full life, you understand it, just a little bit—all the ranch’d given him. He has so much here—centered by the land as its heart. 

You’ve always wanted to be just like him anyway, and finally, voice found—the feel of his heartbeat inside of you—it’s like finding a dream, “I’m okay,” you tell him. 

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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[msgexymunson]

Overwhelmed

Fem!sensitive!reader v soft!dom!eddie

Overview: hyper sensitivity can be awful. But you begun to find out it's a blessing in disguise with Eddie Munson touching you.

AN: This was a drabble which turned into a long one, whoops! No use of Y/N, pure indulgence on my part due to my neuro divergent ass.

Warnings: reader uses she/her pronouns, smutty mc smutt smutt, NSFW (minors I will chase you with a broom) bit angsty, bit fluffy, female oral receiving, lap riding, also I'm english so bear with me and the American-isms!

7k words

Part 2 here Masterlist

Ever since you were a kid you were sensitive. Loud noises got to you. Not necessarily single noises. It was usually the painful overlay of sounds, mixing and mingling, overwhelming you until you couldn't think. Emotions could be problematic. It seemed that everything affected you more than others. Dizzying highs and earth shattering lows. If someone gave you negative feedback it wore down on you for far longer than it should. The pain was palpable, you could almost taste it.

Touch sensitivity affected you the most. It got to you on a daily basis. No one normal really picks up on how much other people touch you. It's constant; an arm brushing against yours in passing, fingers skimming against your own handing over coins or a pen, a hand at the small of your back when inching past you. Every touch from someone you didn't know or didn't like made your skin crawl. Even wearing a slightly itchy jumper could be hell.

It was even worse with someone you liked. An accidental swipe of a hand, a knee resting against yours, it could send lightning bolts up your spine. It was something you've always had to deal with, and managed to control quite well, until you became friends with Eddie Munson.

You befriended the little band of outcasts mostly out of convenience. Safety in numbers. One day a seat was free on their table in the cafeteria and you asked if you could sit there. The teenage boys gawked at you in silence, all except Eddie. He had stood up and flashed a debonair smile at you, bowing and offering you the seat. You took it gratefully, mumbled a thank you, and proceeded to eat your lunch with your head in your book.

Each day it seemed the same seat was free, next to Eddie. Each day you sat, and each day you opened up more and more to the lovable weirdos surrounding you. Little by little you had been indoctrinated into their gang and it pleased you more than you were prepared to admit. It escalated from just lunch, to being a key member of their D&D party, Hellfire, since they were in sore need of a cleric. You were slowly shedding your rough exterior, the walls you placed around yourself for protection. Not completely though, not yet. You never shared how you felt, how things got to you sometimes. How sensitive you were.

That only got more difficult when you realised just how much you liked Eddie. Suddenly that flash of a smile would make you weak at the knees. You'd see him running his hand through his hair, palm coming to rest on the back of his neck, and you could barely breathe. It's like your attraction to him sucked the air out of your lungs. That shoulder length messy hair, the slim but powerful build, that damn smile. It was all too much. The biggest problem of all though? Eddie was a toucher.

You were sure he didn't even realise, but it was continuous. It was like a compunction. It was innocent enough, but it affected you so much. Every time he grabbed you by the arm it made you shiver. If he slung his arm around your shoulder you were practically quivering. Worst of all was the hugs. He would pull you in for a crushing bear hug and it was like your legs turned to jelly.

Last night at the weekly Hellfire meeting it happened again. You were all celebrating your victory after a particularly drawn out battle. You usually held back a bit being the party's only healer but this time you'd had to step up and had managed to land the final blow. The boys had shouted and jumped up, celebrating the victory with vigor. Eddie had beamed at you and reached out, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "Atta girl" he grinned at you. And what did you do? You fucking whimpered. You felt the blood rush to your cheeks and you froze, staring at his deep brown eyes. Eddie stared back, brow furrowed but smiling, like he was trying to figure something out. As soon as the moment happened, it was gone. He moved his hand and you had stared down into your lap, trying to will the blood from your face. It appeared no one else had noticed, too busy making noise to see what had occurred. Eddie had tried to touch your arm again at the end of the session but you had grabbed your bag and high tailed it out of there, much to the confusion of the rest of the party. 

Today you were heading into the cafeteria, nearly dreading it. Why had he stroked your face? What the hell was that about? Was that just Eddie being Eddie? He was always so touchy feely. You tried to shrug it off, took a deep breath and headed to your usual seat.

Eddie beamed at your approach. You flashed a tight lipped smile back and perched on the bench, eyes darting around the rest of the group. Dustin was mid sentence, clearly berating Mike about some video game.

"Seriously, you take the enchanted sword and then move through the forest, defeat the goblins and you're practically at the tower. It's not hard, a five year old could do it!" He gestures emphatically. Mike shakes his head.

You pipe up "Dustin, seriously. Tone."

"What, what did I say?" He shrugs at you.

"Not what you said it's the way you said it." Mike adds.

"I know what tone means moron!"

You ignore the rest of the argument and look over to Eddie. He's not paying the slightest bit of attention to the pair. His eyes are trained solely on you. He doesnt shy away when you catch him staring, if anything it seems to spur him on. Theres a glint in his eye that you aren't used to seeing. You cough and look away.

At the end of the lunch period you move to get up and go to class, but Eddie's hand on your wrist stops you. The feel of his rough calloused fingers on your pulse point sends waves throughout your body. You drag your eyes to meet his.

"Everything OK? You seem a bit, off." His words seem genuine, but theres that grin again. You feel like he knows, he must do, and every move is to torture you.

"Um... I'm okay Eddie, it's just all a bit, much." You struggle out, trying to ignore the way his fingers lingered on your wrist.

He finally gets go, frowning.

"I just wanted to check, thought you were mad at me yesterday or something."

"No no no, opposite of mad! I just get, er overwhelmed is all." You babble at him.

"Oh okay, still not sure I get it but glad you're not mad at me." He stops and looks down, avoiding your eyes for a moment. "You wanna join me and Jeff and Gareth on Friday? We're gonna pile round Jeffs, watch a movie?" He looks up at you and you can't help but be reminded of a puppy, those big brown eyes impossible to say no to.

"...sure Eddie." At that he beams at you and strokes your arm. Your breath hitches, you don't know if he notices.

"Cool, we're meeting at 8. See you sweetheart." And he leaves. You stand there dazed for a second. Sweetheart. That was new. Maybe Eddie does like you. Smiling, you head to your next lesson.

***********************

When Friday rolls around you're a trembling ball of nerves. What if you had misread? What if he was just being nice?

You dress casually; a pair of black jeans, a black tank top and sneakers. Not anything special, but the top was lower cut than the usual plain coloured t shirts you wore at school. You threw on a red flannel shirt leaving it unbuttoned, just in case it was chilly at Jeff's house, and walked your way over there since it was only a couple of blocks away. You had come prepared with snacks. What teenage boy doesn't love food? You had an enormous bag of popcorn and a Tupperware full of homemade cookies. The cookies were probably a bit much but you had made them simply for something to do with all your nervous energy and it seemed a shame to waste them.

Walking up Jeff's driveway you check the time. 20:08. Not too late, you didn't want to be rude, but you didn't want to be the first there. Ringing the bell, you heard footsteps running to the door. Jeff answers, swinging the door wide, and waves at you to come in.

"Stairs just to the left, everyone's in the basement." He shouts over his shoulder, turning to the kitchen to get drinks. You make your way downstairs. It's slightly dark, but cozy. Theres a very old green loveseat with a coffee table in front of it, strewn with snacks, beer bottles and an ashtray. In front of that is a fairly new TV and VCR. Gareth is taking over half of the couch. To one side of the room there's a huge purple beanbag. Eddie is lounging in it.

"Hey sweetheart." He grins and waves a hand at you. Gareth greets you and you move  to put your snacks on the table.

"Hey, cookies, you can come again!" You hear Jeff behind you. You giggle at that. He passes you a beer.

"No worries I had some time to kill you know." Before you can sit on the sofa Jeff collapses onto it ungracefully, handing beers to Gareth and Eddie.

Faltering for a second, you look around the room for another chair.

"Plenty of room on this if you dont mind sharing? I don't bite!" Eddie looks at you, grinning. Shit.

"Not worried about your mouth, I'm worried about your hands." You quip at him. Jeff and Gareth laugh, and Jeff starts putting the movie in the VCR, some slasher flick you hadn't seen.

"Hey, young lady, I'm a perfect gentlemen." Eddie puts his hands in the air as if surrendering, and winks at you.

No use arguing the point. As you are making your way over, he shuffles up. You sit down carefully, but it doesnt seem to matter how you sit, you roll right into Eddie. You were pushed right up against him, your side flush with his. He lowers his arms and drapes one over your shoulder. You sit, legs squeezed together, picking at the label on your beer bottle, trying hard not to think about Eddie's warmth seeping into you. Why was he so warm?

The cookies were a hit, as was the popcorn. About halfway through the movie Jeff gets up to get everyone another beer. You take that as an opportunity to take your shirt off. Eddie was like a furnace and you needed some sort of relief. Sitting back down you nearly sit on top of him, the back of your shoulder flush to his chest.

"Sorry Eddie I'll move-"

"No problem princess this is comfier." And he rests his chin on the bare skin on your shoulder. The arm that was around you now falls to your waist. The feeling was intense. You could feel his heart beating, or at least you thought you could. Maybe it was just your own. The heat emanating from him and the touch of his skin on yours was dizzying. You try and keep your breathing steady.

Jeff returns and hands out the beers and you take yours gratefully, it's something to distract you from the feeling building up between your thighs.

Eddie sips his beer and settles his chin back on your shoulder, watching the movie. You're paying no attention, it was difficult to think when you were surrounded by Eddie.

"Sorry sweetheart can I just-" Eddie says, startling you out of your revelry. He reaches up and strokes your neck, moving some stray hairs of yours that were sticking to your neck and were presumably in his face. The touch is so delicate but it thrums through you. It feels like he's played a chord on your neck and your body has amplified the feeling, sending a shiver all over your skin.

His hand drops back down to your waist and his fingers find a sliver of bare skin between your jeans and your top. Just the feel of his rough fingertips on your exposed skin, after he had given you goosebumps so easily pushed you over the edge. Before you could stop it, a breathy moan escaped your throat. It wasn't particularly loud, but it didnt need to be. It didn't look like Jeff or Gareth heard, but there was no way Eddie didn't. He turned his head towards you so you could feel his breath on your neck which was definitely not helping.

You didn't need to look at him to know he heard. You could practically hear the smirk on his face when he whispered "sorry sweetheart, am I overwhelming you?" Fuckfuckfuck. You could hear your own heart beating profusely. Squeezing your thighs together, you manage to respond.

"No-no, I'm okay," an octave higher than you meant to.

"If it's an issue sweetheart I can sit on the floor-"

"No!" Too loud. Far too loud. Where did that come from? Jeff and Gareth glance over at the sudden noise.

Eddie's grin widens. "Just making sure you're comfy." Jeff and Gareth turn their attention back to the movie, having a discussion about where they recognise the leading actress from.

You sit still, trying not to breathe too loud, alternating between sipping your beer and picking off the label. Eddie moves his head from your shoulder much to your relief, but his hand stays at your waist, gently caressing the exposed skin.

After the movie you hang around for a bit chatting, then make your excuses to get up and leave.

"Hey, wait sweetheart, need a ride?" Eddie stands up.

"I live like two blocks away, it's fine." You turn to the door and start walking upstairs with Eddie at your heels.

"Then I can walk you back. No big deal."

"I'm fine, seriously. I'm a big girl. Tie my own shoes and everything." You smile at him.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" He blurts out suddenly.

You blink at him, surprised. "Er, maybe?" 

"Look, I'll pick you up, 7 o clock, we can come to mine, chill out, maybe watch a movie?"

"Sure Eddie that sounds nice."

He moves towards you, arms outstretched for a hug. Complying, you soften at his touch. It's gentle, much gentler than the bone crunching hugs you are used to from him. One hand strokes your back softly. Before you pull away, Eddie's breath is in your ear.

"Maybe if you're up for it, I can try and get you to make that noise again." He whispers smugly.

You pull away, mouth gaping whilst he stares at you, smirk on his lip, head tilted at you.

"I... erm, maybe" you stutter out and head out of the house before you make more of a fool of yourself.

***********************

Saturday evening finally crawled around. You were excited but were trying to push down the feeling. You didn't want to come across too eager, it was a problem that happened all too often with you.

A bundle of clothes in various states were spread out before you; you were trying to pick something to wear. You decided on a pleated skirt, not too short, and a crop top. Checking yourself out in the mirror you thought you looked hot, but then again, maybe it was too needy? You shrugged your flannel shirt on to try and calm it down a bit, doing up a couple of buttons. Slinging on your sneakers you looked at the time. 18:46.

Downstairs you lay on the couch, feet dangling off the edge, waiting for a knock at the door. The house was quiet, your parents had gone out a while ago for a weekend away. Trying to calm yourself, you make a mental list of all the objects in the living room. Its helps to centre you, until theres a loud knock at the door.

Opening it you see Eddie's huge grin. He's wearing his usual attire; Hellfire t shirt, jeans and leather jacket.

"Jesus Christ you look hot" Eddie says before he can stop himself.

"Thank you" you blush.

"Parents around?"

"No they're away all weekend." You say, grabbing a jacket and locking the door behind you.

"Thank fuck let's go." You giggle as he grabs your hand and you let him lead you to his van.

Eddie starts to drive as Dio blares through the speaker, and you surprise Eddie by nodding along.

"Oh, you like this stuff sweetheart?"

"Yeah, I mean nothing too heavy, but this is great." You grin.

Eddie returns the smile out the side of his mouth. Soon enough he's turning into the entrance to the trailer park he calls home.

Getting out of the van he runs around to the passenger side and opens the door for you with a low bow. You blush and take his hand as he leads you to the door.

"Now, don't get your hopes up, I know it's pretty impressive from the outside but..." he opens the door and let's you go in first.

You take in the surroundings. It's a bit cramped, but homely. There's a sofa and tv, and a small kitchen area. Hats adorn the wall, you assume his uncles. It seems relatively clean, just cluttered. There's something about it that feels welcoming. You sigh, letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

Eddie seems pleased that you haven't run a mile after seeing the place.

"Wheres your room?" You look up at him.

"Steady on sweetheart you just got here" he winks at you.

You hit him playfully on the chest "shut up Eddie."

He gestures to you to take a seat on the couch and you take it gratefully.

"So, what do you want to watch? I rented a few, wasn't sure what you were into."

He gestured to the small pile of videos on the side table. Glancing over the selection you pick out a movie and hand it to Eddie.

"Nightmare on Elm Street? Didn't peg you for a slasher flick girl." He put the film in the VCR.

"Yeah well I've not actually seen it yet." You admit.

"Really? Well buckle up buttercup! You wanna beer? Or a smoke?"

"Is your uncle-"

"-at work. Dont worry." He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Your breath hitched in your throat. 'Lemme grab my tin."

He returns, battered lunch box in hand, and sits on the floor to roll whilst you start watching the film. It's amazing how comfortable you feel around him. Usually you were on edge being at someone else's house, but Eddie made you feel like you belonged there. You kicked off your shoes and curled your feet up on the sofa.

Eddie joins you. Lighting the joint he takes a couple of tokes then hands it to you. You pass it back and forth for a bit until you start to feel an effect. Giving the last of the joint back to him you say "finish it, that's more than enough for me." You smile at him lazily, head feeling slightly foggy.

"Oh, have I got you stoned sweetheart?" He looks at you, eyes full of mischief.

"Maybe, like this much" you say, holding your thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

"Hmm" he says frowning "not buying it. You want a soda, or some water?" You shake your head. He gets up anyway and gets you a glass of water. Taking it you appease him by drinking a few sips. He flops down again and puts his arm around you.

Settling into watching the movie you start to enjoy it, your high mellowing you a little. It's ridiculous but fun, and some of the special effects impress you. The boy on the screen is attacked unexpectedly and it makes you flinch bodily. Eddie sees this and pulls you closer to him, his hand stroking the top of your arm. Eddie starts explaining how they did the blood on the ceiling effect, waving his hand for emphasis. When he stops his hand comes to rest on your knee. You can't help it, you twitch at the feeling, it's like lightning up your leg.

"You okay sweetheart?" Eddie's face is frowning down at you.

"Yeah sure it's nothing."

Eddie's not buying it. He pauses the movie and looks at you.

"Something's going on princess. And it's either good or bad. Or both, I can't tell. Can you let me know? Did I do something wrong?" Eddie looks at you with those puppy dog eyes of his and its almost heartbreaking.

"No Eddie, you're perfect. I like you. It's just... I'm really, um, sensitive. Loud noises and stuff get to me, emotion wise I kinda run hot. Things affect me like, a lot. And I'm really, really touch sensitive." You see some understanding dawn on his face.

"Ah, right, okay, so is that good sensitive, or bad sensitive?"

"It depends. I mean if it's someone gross it feels horrible brushing past them. If it's someone I like, and I'm in a good mood, it's, well it's, hmm... overwhelming." You know he knows what you're trying to say, you dont want to have to say it out loud.

Eddie smirks at you, eyes like the devil himself.

"So, if I do this..." he says, fingertips tracing circles on your knee. Your breath catches in your throat. "It's nice." You manage.

"Hmm" his hand moves higher, onto the inside of your thigh, just under the hem on your skirt, with feather light touches. "And this?" Dark eyes stare down at you. A small moan escapes your lips. "Jesus Eddie..."

Eddie let's out a dark chuckle. He moves his hand off of your leg and you find yourself almost trying to follow the contact. His hand comes to rest on your jaw, guiding your head to turn and face him.

"What about this?" He says, eyes darting to your lips and back again, looking for confirmation. You close the gap and press your lips against his.

You've kissed before, messy, sloppy things, but never like this. His kiss is fire, igniting through you. The press of his lips against yours firm and warm. His tongue tentatively reaches out and you submit to him, allowing him to explore your mouth. You reply in kind, using your tongue to swipe against his, moving your hand to weave into his hair. He snakes his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. He draws a deep moan from your mouth, the pure pleasure of the moment taking over you. You can feel his mouth turn at the corners, smiling into you.

He breaks the kiss first, panting slightly. "Was that okay?" He says, hand remaining on your jaw, thumb gently swiping your chin.

You want to say something sarcastic, or flirty, or, well anything. All that comes from your mouth is a half broken whine. Face flushed pink and breath well and truly taken.

"That bad huh?" He chuckles and drops his hand.

"Wow- I mean, Jesus- it's not usually that, er-, intense. Fuck." You continue to try and catch your breath.

"Gonna take that as a sign that maybe you like me, as much as I like you?" Its not a question, but the head tilt and the look from him make it one.

"Maybe. I mean, I've liked you for a while Eddie."

"I've liked you since you sat with us at lunch." He says to you, eyes sparkling, looking a little sheepish. "Why do you think I saved you a seat every day?"

"Seriously? Why didn't you say anything?" You take his hand in yours, fiddling with his rings.

"You seemed like, really shy. Didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

You smile at him softly. "Not shy, just... sensitive. I've had a lot of shit in the past from people, saying that I come across too keen, so I kinda dial it back. Plus I don't exactly want to invite people touching me, you know."

"Except me?" He says smugly.

"Except you." You nod.

He entwines his fingers with yours, looking down for a moment. "You shouldn't care what people think you know." He looks back at you "don't make yourself less for anyone."

Your eyes well up instantly at that. Wiping a stray tear from your eye you respond, "sorry, no ones ever said that before." You smile weakly.

He presses a soft peck to your lips. "Wanna finish the movie?"

"Okay"

Eddie presses play and this time you lean into his arms, pulling his arm around your shoulders and holding his hand. You hear a soft chuckle from him. His other hand comes to rest on your knee, tracing absent minded circles. You bask in the feeling of his warm body pressed against you for a moment.

After a few minutes it's just too much.

"Jesus Eddie why are you so warm?"

"I don't know, you must bring it out in me princess."

You giggle and lean forward, taking off your shirt, and snuggle back next to him. Eddie's eyes are no longer on the movie. He's looking at you and your exposed midriff. His hand tentatively moves from your knee to your stomach. Before he touches you he whispers "this okay?"

You turn your head to him to say yes, planting a quick kiss on his cheek and keep watching the movie.

Eddie's fingers find your flesh, stroking so softly it sends shivers over you. You feel your skin break out in goosebumps. His fingertips dance over you with such care. He flattens his hand and strokes it across your abdomen, the tip of his thumb just brushing the underside of your breast and you inhale suddenly whilst squeezing your thighs together. He lightly scratches across your stomach with his fingernails and you let out a quiet, low moan.

"Eddie-" you turn and realise he's been watching you the whole time.

"What? This is so much more interesting than watching Krueger, trust me."

"Eddie I didn't tell you so you can take advantage!" You say, but theres no malice in it. You smile at him.

Eddie, ever the dramatic, wobbles his head at you and mimics your voice, "Oh Eddie, I'm like, really sensitive, and the smallest touch turns me on but don't do anything about it!"

"I don't sound like that!" You laugh loudly at him, your frame shaking. "And that's not what I said!"

"That's what I heard sweetheart. What do you want me to do? Sit on my hands??" He wiggles his fingers at you and with exaggerated movements forcefully sits on his own hands, frowning and flicking his head the opposite way.

"Eddie?" You touch his shoulder. If anything he turns his head even further away. You can't help but giggle.

"Eddie..." you say in a sing song voice. Nothing.

"Eddie!" Still nothing. You get up as if to leave, but turn to him and straddle his lap. His head is still turned so you take the opportunity to kiss at his neck, trailing kisses and small nibbles.

"Now that's just unfair sweetheart."

"No" you say, still peppering him with kisses "this is unfair" and you mouth the spot where his neck meets his shoulder and suck, hard.

"Holy shit." Eddie wriggles but realises hes trapped himself, his hands stuck under both his weight and yours.

You release his neck with a wet pop and sit back on his lap with a smug smile. Something hard is digging into you, you wiggle slightly and... 

Oh.

"Had enough revenge?" Eddie tilts his head at you, raising his eyebrows. You shift your weight so he can free his hands, momentarily lost for words. He reaches out to move some stray hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear.

"C'mere." He puts his hand to the back of your head and guides you towards him, mouth finding yours.

God, you could become addicted to this feeling. His mouth on yours, hands caressing your waist and hips, his warmth between your legs. You feel a pulse deep inside you, spreading in your core. You roll your hips, grinding your heat down on his jean covered member, drawing a deep groan from both of you.

You plant one hand firmly on the back of the couch, the other in his hair, and deepen the kiss. Every touch feels electric. His palms pressing into your hips leave tingles in their wake. You grind against him again, feeling yourself getting wetter, moaning into his mouth, the feeling building until you know you need to stop. That was embarrassingly fast. You break the kiss and look at him, chest rising and falling heavily.

"Sorry, I have to stop or I'll..." you blush crimson and look away.

"Or you'll what?" He says until his eyes widen. "Oh, were you gonna come?" The last word a whisper. You nod your head.

"Fuck that's so hot. Please don't stop." His hands move to stroke your thighs, bucking his hips into you. You let out a broken moan. Eddie's hands reach under your skirt and grab you by the ass. You lean forward and kiss him again, with urgency this time, tongues clashing. You grind against him, trembling with pleasure. Breaking the kiss you throw your head back, eyes closed, mouth parted.

"Eddie, fuck, oh God yes Eddie!"

You release; the hot, incredible feeling spreads throughout your limbs. Grinding against Eddie you try to keep the high going as long as possible.

Finally coming to a stop, you look down at his face. You want to feel embarrassed but he nearly looks as fucked as you feel, red in the face, hair clinging to his sweaty brow, eyebrows knitted together, mouth slightly open. Chuckling and smiling shyly at him, you move some hair from his face, mirroring what he did to you earlier.

"You okay sweetheart?" He looks at you, stroking your thighs.

"Yeah you could say that" you laugh "how about you?"

"Me? I nearly came in my pants, Jesus Christ!"

You giggle and hide your face in your hands. "Sorry." You say again as if on instinct.

"Hey" he grabs your wrists, "pretty girl, look at me." You reluctantly turn your head back to face him.

"This might be the best day of my life, so I'd appreciate it if you'd stop apologising." You giggle but Eddie looks at you with a serious face.

"Okay Eddie, I'll stop apologising." You climb off his lap and flop next to him on the couch. When you look over you cannot help but see an unmistakable wet patch on his jeans.

You look at it and your eyes flick back to his face. Staring at him he raises his eyebrows at you.

"No. More. Apologising. That's fucking hot."  He states, gesturing to his crotch.

"We missed the movie" you say lately, pouting at him.

"Well, I think I've just found my favourite thing to do, and it's a hell of a lot better than watching a movie" Eddie says waggling his eyebrows at you. Sniggering, you bat your eyelashes.

"So, you ready to show me your room?"

"Well, how can I resist when you pull that face?"

He gets up off the couch and walks to the back of the trailer, opening the far door.

"Well, you coming sweetheart?" He gestures at you to follow.

Stepping into his room, you don't know what to expect. It's a mess, not exactly dirty but theres stuff everywhere. Posters adorn every available wall space. Tapes flow over the small desk to one side. Theres note paper and clothes on the floor, and an overflowing ashtray on the bedside table.

"Yeah, wasn't expecting you to come in here, maid's day off and all." He grabs the ashtray and a couple of empty bottles and jogs out the room to dispose of them. Returning with a clean ashtray, he places it on the bedside table and comes behind you, holding you at the waist. His lips press on your neck, sweeping open mouthed kisses from your jaw to your shoulder and back again, hands pressing firmly into your hips as if he thought you might slip away.

Leaning back you bask in the feeling, tipping your head back and smiling.

"Stay" he whispers, almost too quietly; so quiet you're not sure you heard.

"What?"

"Stay." A little louder this time, still peppering you with kisses.

"You mean stay the night?" You question, turning your head to face him, butterflies exploding in your belly. Fingertips ghost your sides, tracing your figure.

"The night." Still kissing your neck, he continues, "the weekend," trailing kisses down your back, meeting the exposed skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake, getting down on his knees to kiss the small of your back, "forever."

Turning to face him he looks up at you, huge brown eyes boring into your soul. Giggling and mussing his hair with your hand you stare back, the question burning in your mind.

Eddie knows. Eddie always knows.

"What's on your mind sweetheart?" He smiles into your skin, nipping and kissing where your skirt meets your stomach.

"Not much when you keep doing that, Jesus."

"Sorry," he grins, smug smile spreading across his face, "it's hard to stop myself."

"It's just... is this real? I mean, you said you like me, but do you... I mean, is this..." you wring your hands, trying to make the words surface in your head.

"Hey, hey, look at me." Eddie grasps your hands; you have no choice but to turn your head down to face him.

"When I said this might be the best day of my life, I fuckin' meant it. You're literally the girl of my dreams. I've been dreaming of you, actually." He presses his mouth to you again, running his fingers along the waistband of your skirt. You sigh in response, legs shaking slightly.

"Jesus Eddie-"

"Not Jesus, just me." He chuckles, hands drifting to your legs, stroking your thighs.

"Fuck Eddie wait..."

"Sorry, you just, you do things to me." He smiles up at you.

"Are we, are we a thing now?"

"What like a couple? Sure, I'm not letting you go anywhere."

Your tummy does a backflip, hoping, longing.

"Well maybe I can stay. I just, I want you to be sure, you know. And I've never, done much with boys. In case you think I'm not... any good."

Eddie gasps at that, his eyes soften. "Oh sweetheart, theres no universe out there where you could possibly not be any good, in any way. You're amazing."

"So, you gonna get up off the floor, or..." you giggle.

"I'm pretty happy here, unless you don't want me to." He flips your skirt up and sees just how wet your panties are. A low groan escapes his throat. You shut your eyes for a second, trying to gather yourself.

"Eddie, I'm trying to say..."

"Yes, I know baby I know. Seriously, if you want me to stop, tell me. I'll stop. You can still stay. We can just go to sleep. Or cuddle." His eyes meet yours, brow furrowed.

You back up a little and you see the disappointment Eddie tries to hide written over his face. Smiling, you sit on the edge of his bed, wriggling your hands down from your hips to your ankles. Eddie looks at you in confusion until you open your hand, your underwear in your palm.

"Now that's the best magic trick I've ever seen!" His eyes wide, grin threatening to split his face in half. You can only blush in response. Waddling over to you on his knees, Eddie grabs your hand and takes your panties. Before you can say anything they've been shoved into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Eddie!"

"What?"

"I hope I'm getting them back..."

"Getting what back?" Eddie grins wolfishly,  pressing kisses to the inside of your knee.

The will to argue dissipates when his kisses trail higher and higher. With deft movements his rough fingers are rubbing the insides of your thighs, travelling towards your throbbing pussy. Leaning back onto your elbows you gaze at Eddie through half lidded eyes, wondering how you could have possibly gotten this lucky. As if he could sense your attention he glances up, running his tongue dangerously near your sex. You moan at the sensation, fingers grabbing the comforter underneath you.

"Fuck, you're just so responsive," he plants a kiss to your mound and you squirm, moaning.

"Oh, we are going to have a lot of fun sweetheart." Eddie smirked at you, eyes shining.

"Eddie please..." you wriggle, skirt riding up to your hips, cunt on full display for him.

He lifts your legs up and over his shoulders. The swipe of his tongue over your tender heat is sudden, sending rivers of pleasure through you. Gently he laps at you, his thumbs pressing bruises into your thighs. The feeling is immense, flowing, molten fire running through your veins. It's both too much and not enough, you need more, more feeling, more Eddie.

"Oh God Eddie..."

He takes your clit into his mouth and sucks softly. Licking and kissing at you; you buck into him, chasing the feeling, unimaginable heat coiling in your stomach, chest, wrists. Nothing matters except this moment. Incoherent babble escapes your lips, telling him not to stop and how good it feels, then just his name, over and over and over.

Eddie's groaning into you, the vibration nearly sending you over the edge. With a final suck to your swollen bud you come, clenching around nothing. You buck and writhe against his face, using it to chase never ending pleasure. Lewd, erotic noises fall from your mouth but you can't find it in you to care. All that matters is you, and Eddie, and the feeling.

Shaking and whimpering you start to come down, well and truly spent. Knuckles white from how hard you were clinging to the bed clothes. Realising this you finally loosen your grip. Eddie moves your still twitching legs off of his shoulders and looks up at you. Your slick is coating his lower face, shining in the light. Eddie literally looks like the cat that got the cream. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

"I've changed my mind, that is my new favourite thing to do" he says with a roguish grin.

Your smile at him, arms reaching out, making grabby hands at him. Chuckling he climbs over you, straddling you. You kiss him full on the mouth, lingering tang of you on his lips. Fingers stroke down to his waist, fiddling with his belt.

"Woah princess no need. Literally." He looks you in the eye, and you stare back, hand reaching to his manhood, and glance down.

Oh.

"Did you-"

"Cum in my pants? Yup." Literally no shame in his voice; he almost looks proud.

You giggle, hand to your mouth. It's almost a relief, having no real idea of what to do with it anyway. Plus, it's nice to know you have a similar effect on him.

"So, I'm gonna clean up and get changed. You need something to sleep in?"

"I'm ok, I usually sleep naked, if that's not a problem?" Your eyes meeting his.

Groaning, Eddie throws his head back, hands to his face, and falls backwards to the floor. You gasp, then realise this is Eddie being his usual self.

"Holy shit sweetheart you cannot say shit like that to me. I've died. I've literally died, and I'm in heaven, and you're some sort of angel." He splays his arms wide, tongue out, eyes closed. Shaking your head you throw a pillow at him, jerking him out of it.

"No need for the vicious attack, I'm having a moment."

He jumps up to go to the bathroom. Stripping off and climbing under the covers, you take a minute whilst he's away to think, really think. It's so hard when he's so near, clouding your judgement. You know you can be impulsive. Is this too much too soon? Am I gonna make a fool of myself? Does he really like me as much as I like him? Your emotions usually get the best of you and the constant struggle is exhausting. Maybe you don't need to think about this tonight. Enjoy tonight, let tomorrow be what it is.

When Eddie returns, all doubt is erased from your mind. He's standing there in a pair of plaid boxers, and his eyes light up at the sight of you in his bed. The look he gives you makes you feel like you're the only girl in the world.

Smiling shyly at him, he stands at the foot of the bed, continuing to stare.

"Something on your mind Eddie?"

"No I'm good, just a bit... overwhelmed." Knowing smirk plastered on his face.

"I can probably help you with that, you know."

"Well, it seems like we've got all night." The look on his face is pure sin.

[trashogram]

He Chose You (P. 7)

Lucifer/Reader: You’ve been chosen to be the Mother of the Antichrist. Rated E.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

Your sleep had become fitful with dreams that, while not full of violence, left you waking in a cold sweat most mornings. You couldn’t remember most of what happened aside from a parade of images and feelings of discomfort. Sometimes, downright fear. 

The blonde woman was still the star, but you couldn’t remember a word she’d say. The sight of her frowning at two men replayed in your head between sleeping and waking. She frowned at you with dewy wide eyes. 

The woman held her arms out to you: beseeching, sheltering, hurriedly hiding but you were able to escape the gaze of one of the men. 

Fear had spirited you away from unconsciousness when the man’s brown eyes sparked into an unnatural gold. They heated with anger at the mere sight of you. 

—

The only equivalent you could come up with for how you awoke was being jump-started like a car. It took a solid moment of gulping in air and eyeing your surroundings before you could calm the beat of your heart.

“Lucifer?”

It took too much energy to turn and look for him, but you saw that the sheets beside you were disturbed, but duck-less. 

You were overly warm, hopelessly reaching out to run your hand down the opposite side of the bed despite what your eyes told you. 

For a while there was nothing to do but lay in the silence of your darkened room. Eventually your hand drifted into your belly. 

It had become a reflex to pet your own tummy, to feel the bump that had formed there, as small as it was. 

—

You faced forward, looking directly at the screen of your TV without really seeing it. Beside you, Lucifer giggled at whatever was happening between Kermit and Gonzo onscreen. 

His bare hand was latched onto yours, fingers entwined, claws digging into your skin just enough to hurt. Not a lot, just a little bit. Strangely, the discomfort kept you grounded and away from the outlandish yet very real fear that you’d float away without it. 

‘Is it dissociating or disassociation?’

You’d gone long enough with it happening multiple times now but you couldn’t even remember what it was called.

You were pregnant. 

Well, you’d been pregnant for about a month and a half. And your partner in crime had been excited. So excited he’d literally exclaimed ‘oh my golly’ at the news. 

Then he’d had a panic attack, complete with big yet shallow gasps for air and arm flailing, hands flapping, short legs in knee-high boots pacing a hole into your carpet.

You were somewhat grateful for his outburst, if only because taking the steps to placate him was placating unto itself. 

— 

The memory made you smile weakly. A memory that seemed so long ago, even if it had technically happened only a few months prior. 

Everything that had happened afterward had made it seem rosier than it should’ve been. Before things soured so thoroughly that you could barely get out of bed. 

Now, you were exhausted day and night, plagued by not-quite-nightmares during your hibernation-like snoozes, and — when awake — eaten at by fears and doubts. 

You’d never thought seriously about having children. 

There was this permanent barrier to the very idea that lingered in the back of your mind. You don’t know when it formed, or if it was merely a protective mechanism of some kind (God knew you had plenty of those already). Nonetheless, you’d stuck to it, never straying… until now. 

You weren’t the motherly type. And technically you weren’t going to be. As much as Lucifer mooned over you, whether for his own entertainment or because he was genuinely fond of your stupid sarcastic comments and bouts of literary trivia, you would not allow yourself to trust him completely. You had no compunctions about raising the Antichrist once you had fulfilled your end of the deal. 

So you told yourself. Especially when you cycled through detachment and guilt about the creature growing in your womb. Especially when Lucifer was curled up with you, basking in your warmth and bringing you little trinkets and laughing with you at whatever was on TV. Especially when he dropped everything to lay down with you in your sickness, and did anything he could to make you smile, be it with magic tricks or stories from lifetimes ago.

Last night he’d held your hair as you threw up, courtesy of the raw beef you’d craved (thank you, you freaky little fetus). Then he entertained you by shape-shifting into cute animals until you’d cuddled up with his duck self and fallen asleep.

The little slope of your stomach quivered with the rest of your body. You felt the sudden urge to cry. 

—

“Lucifer?”

You braced yourself against the wall to get out of your bedroom. Standing was enough to make you dizzy, skin growing clammy and perspiring while you struggled to move. You were winded after five steps through your rather small apartment. 

Your curiosity was the only thing keeping you going after hearing a series of beeps from outside your door. 

“Aw, shit. Shit, shit, shit! Hold on!”  Lucifer called from a few feet away. 

He was here, in your apartment, more often than not. As a matter of fact, you had the feeling that if you didn’t push him to return to his duties, Lucifer would’ve been with you 24/7. 

Speaking of, he appeared from around the corner just as you buckled and slid against the wall. 

The Devil sprang forward, arms out and ready to catch you. Had you been more yourself, you’d have laughed at the absurdity as most of your weight sagged against its surface and he’d more or less landed on top of you from the side. 

“I’m so so sorry!” He cried, jerking away when you winced. 

“Sorry.” He whispered loudly. “I got your tea and I was trying to make it without waking you but the darn thing wouldn’t stop beeping.” 

“Cassie was here?” You let yourself sway to Lucifer’s side instead of the walls. He was practically carrying you into the living room. 

Unnames illness aside, you found an additional slight against your existence that you still had to keep in contact with your weirdo neighbors. They were both their own flavors of bizarre, but Cassie in particular was extroverted and nosy. 

She brought you tea from her kitchen garden — 

“Just bits and bobs from my little spice garden, things I’ve been growing ‘round the house. Pretty basic stuff: you got your chamomile, mint, there’s rosemary in there too, some cinnamon, ya know.” 

— and wanted to brew it for you while having chats at your kitchen table almost every day. 

Even Lucifer was annoyed by her persistence. 

“Here as in ‘at the door’ but not inside. She actually got it through that thick skull that I didn’t want you to be disturbed.” Lucifer said, equal parts irritated and triumphant. 

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Thanks.” 

Your eyes closed to avoid the sudden onslaught of more tears when your companion tensed. He stopped short of the couch to relish in the contact. His wistful sigh made your heart throb painfully as you wondered for the umpteenth time how the fucking King of Hell could be so effortlessly sweet. 

‘Just to make pulling out the rug from under you later a bigger betrayal.’

The intrusive thought brought more tears, from eyes screwed up as you wished it away. 

“… can’t make tea as a duck.” Lucifer had carried on while gently lowering you on the cushions. “I did try though, to be fair.” 

He had yet to notice your tears, but your laugh was wet. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

It was sudden when cold hands cupped your face and turned your gaze up. You were met with deeply worried crimson eyes. 

The cold was so nice that you had to snuggle into that touch. “It’s ok.” 

Lucifer’s maw opened and closed a few times, helplessly. 

“Do—uh… do you want me to do that? I can try it again!” He jumped back, getting ready to shift in a puff of fireworks. 

“No, come sit with me.” You held up a shaking hand, trying to ignore your own ashen skin. 

The blond hesitated. 

“Please, Lou.” 

—

Lucifer melted at your request. He came to you immediately and took great care as he rearranged your frail body against his own. 

He was grateful that he’d thrown on his velvet robe that morning twicefold now — once to avoid his elderly worshipper seeing his dick, and twice to be able to pull it to the side so that you could lay your forehead against his cold chest.

The King’s skin would warm up with time and human contact, but he knew that his natural icy exterior did wonders to help your over-warm skin. 

Lucifer fought to not chuckle at the ticklish feeling of your hair against his neck. You laid there against him for a long time, breathing lightly and letting him hold you close. The silence was easy for once, not awkward or uncomfortable. Just one person relying on another for quiet solace.

When you finally spoke, it nearly scared him. “What’s it like? In Hell?” 

“Wh-why’re you asking?” Lucifer tried to play it cool. “That’s not really a fun o-oo-r relaxing…!… topic.” 

“Mmm,” Your head slowly lifted until he count easily count your individual eyelashes. 

“I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a little guy in here.” You pointed between yourself and him, to the little slope of your stomach. “And they're gonna call Hell their home soon. It might be good to know what that’s like before I ship them off.” 

“Oh!” Well, that was easier. “It’s uh, it’s red… and warm.” Lucifer wracked his brain. “Well, my Ring is. See, there are 7 Rings total, and technically I rule them all, but my brothers each kinda made their own homes out of them.” 

“Mine though — mine is full of Sinners, which is what we call the humans that died and were condemned to it. They’re all kinda packed in there, heh. Like, uh, tiny fish. That reek.” 

Your lips pursed. “But no one is burning in molten lava at all times or anything, right?”

“No-oo! Well, I mean it’s not impossible. But it’s not the norm. Nah, people go about their way like they do up here, but even more selfishly and violently.” 

Lucifer smiled at your frowning face. 

“It’s like on Earth? So people work, sleep, eat?”

“Yep!”

“They pay bills? Go to parties? Fuck?” Your brows were nearly to your hairline.

“Mmmm-hm!” 

“And they do it for all of eternity? Forever?”

“Pretty much! In a nutshell…” Was his jolly reply. He squeezed you to him for extra measure.

It was your turn to look flummoxed by the picture he painted, the words he spoke that sounded both improbable and spot on for what Hell would be if it was real. 

Well, not if. 

At last, you sighed. 

“I guess it couldn’t have been all that bad if… if you’ve been there for so long and you’re still so sweet.” Your words were barely audible, muttered into Lucifer’s chest when you gave up on making sense of anything.

But the Ruler of Hell had to stop the last-minute ejection of his own wings at your words.

***

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[jamespottersdaisy]

Sweet Nothing

Remus Lupin x fem!reader

And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more."

To you, I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it.

based on a request

content- fluff, sickness, hurt/comfort?, established relationship.

3.2k

author's note- this is actually several blurbs put into one fic, no use of y/n, english is not my first language so beware <3

You feel a hand on your lower back, guiding you through the throng in the Quidditch Pitch to the castle. Raising your head, your eyes catch Remus's soft but rapt expression. His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes opting for the best way to get you from the packed crowd with the least malaise.

You don't bother to speak; most probably, he won't hear you. Hell, you don't even hear your own thoughts in all this ruckus. However, you would always hear his calm and tender tone.

"This way, dove."

You let your body comply with his hand on your back.

"You guys are a menace," your disapproving timbre curls up his lips into a subtle smile, one that he tries to hide from you. "And I don't believe for a second that you had nothing to do with this."

He chuckles, his brown eyes catching yours for a moment. "I was with you the whole time, wasn't I?"

"They're not brilliant enough to think of a way of hexing the whole–" Your words are cut off when Remus pulls you to his right. You stumble from the sudden shove, feeling his tight grip on your arms.

You see a group of brooms whooshing from where you were standing only seconds before. "What are they doing?"

"Bastards," Remus mutters, agitated that they almost knocked you out.

"Your fault. You shouldn't have given them a reason to celebrate."

You know you are wrong; of course, the Gryffindor players would celebrate with or without the Marauder's prank on the opposite team. However, a little compunction wouldn't hurt. 

"It's not my fault that I'm a mastermind," Remus grins, pulling you closer by the waist. You can hear the cheerful shouts and music from afar, knowing that James is probably capering around, frisking on Sirius or Peter. 

"Should we go and celebrate with them?" you ask Remus, even though you despise the hubbub, everyone pushing and pulling others, stumbling to one another, hurting each other's toes. Who needs that? You can very well express your cheers in the common room celebrations. And Remus knows you well enough.

"No, we'll see them in the common room," he says, holding your hand tightly. "Are you hungry?"

"We just ate."

"Do you want snacks? I can get some from the kitchens if you do."

You chuckle at his tone, so soft but also pampering you. "Are you hungry? You certainly sound like you want something to eat."

"You?"

"Remus!" you elbow him, blush painting your cheeks. He laughs, a sound that manages to flutter chords in your heart no matter how many times you hear it. He brings your hand–which is entangled between his fingers– to his lips and places a tender peck on it.

"I'll bring you some chocolate from the kitchens."

That is how you know he craves chocolate.

"You two should break up."

"Come again?"

"I said, break up for a day, you're making Prongs sad," Sirius repeats shamelessly at you, going through a cookie bowl.

Remus is ambling down the stairs with a book in his hand. A book which he uses to smack Sirius on the head. He winces, scowling at your boyfriend.

"Prongs being sad is none of our business."

You let Remus sit on the sofa and put your head on his lap. Under a mere second, another hand, belonging to James, plunges into the bowl. 

"No matter what I do, Evans won't go out with me on Valentine's Day," he continues to inspect every cookie meticulously, looking for the right one. Your heart aches at the sight, and you decide that enough is enough. You snatch the bowl under his hand and lay back on Remus's lap with the cookies on your stomach. Remus smiles at the sight of you, his hand roaming through your hair.

"Stop sampling the cookies with your filthy fingers."

"They're my only comfort. Give them back," James attacks, ready to grab the bowl back, but Remus's hands stop him. He playfully swats James's hand away from the bowl. 

"She's eating them."

You grin at James, visibly smug about your boyfriend's demeanour. "I am eating them, Potter."

"You haven't touched them since Peter brought them from the kitchens."

"I will eat them, Potter."

You don't comprehend what happens next, or you simply don't remember. Maybe James groans and leaves your side, or Sirius starts teasing you again. Who knows? You just feel Remus's fingers tousling between strands of your hair. 

"What are you doing?" you whisper, a tiny smile adorning your lips.

"Braiding your hair," he drawls, his eyes glancing at your lips before averting back to your hair. 

"You know how to braid?"

Remus chuckles, shaking his head. "No, but I'm learning right now."

"By ruffling my hair?"

"I'm not ruffling, dove. I'm braiding."

"No, you're definitely ruffling. I can feel it."

"I'll comb them later tonight. Sounds good?" you smirk at his raised eyebrows, hearing your heart singing. Moments like this are what soothe your worries and take away the weight on your shoulders for that week. His quiet whispers and tender touch, adoring tone and smiling eyes always manage to find their path to your heart, warming it in an instant.

"Will you also bring me milk and kiss me goodnight?"

He smiles, bringing one hand to your chin. His thumb caresses the skin and journeys to your lips.

"If that's what you want."

You roll your eyes at him, taking his hand from your face in your hand. You start to fiddle with his fingers, oblivious of the beam in his countenance. You love playing with Remus's hand. They are larger than yours, as Remus enjoys pointing out with every chance he gets, but also so soft. 

Your eyes forcefully move from your intertwined hands to Remus's brown eyes. In a few seconds, your mind feels his finger resting under your chin. You gaze at him with confusion and affection as he leans in and puts his lips before yours. He doesn't kiss you, merely placing his lips inches away from yours. You know he is waiting for you. 

You smile for a moment, your warm breath hitting his lips. You know it puts him on the edge when you josh him, his breathing getting heavier, the black in his eyes widening.

But you relish it more than anything.

"Don't tease, dove," he whispers, and you can feel the anticipation in his tone.

You giggle, your smile growing against his, your fingers running through the hair on his neck. You don't torture him any more, crashing your lips to his. You let out an amused breath when you feel Remus return the kiss in a second, his hands wandering your body.

No matter how long you've been together or how many times he has kissed your lips, it is the same feeling every time. The burn in your core, the desire for more and the joy of his touch. You are too familiar with all these sensations, and yet you welcome them every time with a smile on your face.

"Get a room!"

You are familiar with Sirius's shriek, too.

Your throat burns with pain, your nose itching with an urge to sneeze, which never comes. You know for sure that you look terrible in your bed, with dishevelled hair, a red nose and swollen eyes. However, all this doesn't seem to phase Remus even a bit. 

"You're a mule."

He is annoyed and maybe slightly worried. His eyebrows are furrowed, and displeasure has gained a seat on his visage. He is staring at you with irritated eyes and a scowl beside your bed.

"And you're rude," you say, barely managing to raise your voice from a whisper. It's not your fault that your throat hurts when you talk.

"Dove, let's just go to Madam Pomfrey."

"For a cold?"

Remus groans, sitting next to you. He puts one hand on your right thigh before speaking again.

"You'll have a fever if you keep up like this."

"I'm fine, stop worrying," you say, even though you're happy that he does.

You're happy that he worries for you and cares for you. You're happy that he never leaves your side or your hand. You're happy that even though he rarely uses the words, he still manages to tell you he loves you with actions.

You don't need to hear it. You never need to hear it; Remus makes sure that you can feel it.

"You know I can't do that," he shakes his head, persistent with his efforts. "And you know I can't take care of you all by myself."

You chuckle at his words. For the last seven hours, he's been bringing you warm soup, making sure you're hydrated enough, and he hasn't let you stand up for even a second.

"You've done well so far," you smile despite the ache in your temples. "Remus, it's just cold. I'll be fine in the morning, especially with your pampering."

You don't see the point in visiting the hospital wing for a seasonal cold; it seems like overreacting. Remus, on the other hand, seems distraught seeing you in pain. He doesn't want to agree; you can see it on his face, but he agrees anyway. 

"It would help if you took a warm shower, you know."

You smile at him, knowing damn well that he wouldn't let you get on your feet without his help.

"Maybe."

Remus nods several times, immediately rising to his feet. "I'll run a shower for you."

You watch him sprint to the bathroom, and the next thing you hear is the water running. You are lucky that your roommates are not in your dorm room today. Or maybe you're unlucky that you got sick on Saturday.

You slowly start getting out of bed, your head throbbing. Remus comes back and helps you get to the bathroom. In reality, he merely follows you from place to place, as you're perfectly capable of walking. 

"You're acting like I'm a toddler," you laugh at his concern, which earns you a frown. 

"You are a toddler. Why else would you refuse to go to the hospital wing?"

"Because I'm fine," you grin, getting out of your clothes. Remus watches you, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. "If you're waiting for me to ask you to join me, I'm not gonna do that."

He smirks at your tone, pushing himself off the doorframe. "I'll be there if you need me."

He leaves you alone, and you let hot water embrace your bare skin. By the end of the shower, you feel lighter and better, happy that your headache has eased a bit.

Remus waits for you in the room, and you notice that he has brought you another soup. 

"How many times do I have to drink that?" 

"Enough times for you to get better," he pushes the blanket on top of you when you lay down on the bed. "Cooperate a bit."

He takes the soup bowl in his hand and lifts the spoon. You grimace at the steam rising from the spoon.

"I'd rather not drink–"

"Open wide, the train is coming," he pushes the spoon to your lips.

"Remus!" you pull your head backwards, laughing involuntarily. "It's hot!"

"You haven't even tasted it."

"I can see from the steam."

"Fine," he groans, huffing at the spoon. "It's good now, come on."

Now that you're out of the excuses, you comply with him. Still, you pull a face when your tongue meets with the soup, albeit it is delicious. 

"It can't be that disgusting, dove."

"It is," you lie when Remus offers you another spoon, a bit of liquid dripping from your lips to your chin. 

"Let me see," he says, and before you can deny it, his lips are already on yours. 

You let out a disapproving sound from deep in your throat, even though your stomach tingles at the feeling of Remus's soft lips on yours. He pulls back an inch, but still close enough for you to feel his warm breath. 

"It was delicious," he mocks. "Liar."

"You're gonna be sick, baby," you whisper, your lips smiling a bit. 

He kisses you again, this time quicker and shorter than before. "You'll take care of me."

And you will take care of him the next morning because he definitely will be sick.

You don't feel your legs, nor do you remember how you got to the castle yard. You're in a trance, unable to hear or feel anything as you stride to a distant tree that will provide you solidarity. Anything except the suffocating weight in your lungs and the burning urge in your throat. You want to cry. You want to drop to your knees and wail, letting tears pour down your eyes, allowing the agony to leave your heart with your every cry.

But you don't cry.

You don't cry until you know you are alone. You don't cry until you are sure that no one can see you, no one can hear you. You don't cry until you are sure that you are out of everyone's sight who will pity you if they see your tears.

It feels too much. You feel too much. You feel too much, but you don't feel enough. You never feel enough. 

You run, but you never flee. You swim, but you drown. You smile, but you cry.

The moment you see the tree, your legs give in. You fall to the ground, a cry leaving your lips. You don't scream, you don't wail. You simply welcome the tears as you sit on the ground, pulling your knees to yourself.

Your mind echoes each and every word that pulls you too deep into the ocean.

"I expected more from you."

You thought you did enough.

"It's your fault."

You thought you did the right thing.

"You'll do better next time."

You thought you did better this time.

You hear your pained sob, pitying yourself. Your nails dig into your skin hard enough to leave a mark. You want to leave a mark. You want to feel something, something other than the pain burning inside your chest. 

"Dove?"

You whine at your lover's voice, so soft and tender, afraid to startle you. You don't question how he has found you. Somehow he always does.

"Go away, Remus," your tone sounds weaker than you expect, full of agony and desperation. You don't look at his face; you don't look anywhere but your hands. 

You don't want him to see your red eyes, tear-stained face and shaking hands. You don't want him to hear your heavy sobs and breathless cries. You don't want him to pity you.

"No," he sits next to you, still a bit hesitant to touch you. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Go away," you cry, "please."

"I am not going anywhere, dove," he shakes his head, his eyes glancing at your hands. He knows it may backfire, and he knows you may draw up your walls even higher, but he takes the risk. He puts his hand on yours, parting your nails from your skin. 

You scrunch up your face when he kisses the skin where your nails dig deep, ready to burst into tears once more. You lower your head, refusing to let him see your pain. 

He doesn't let you. 

"Talk to me," he pleads, holding your hand close to him. "I hate seeing you cry."

Of course, he does, you think. Why would anyone want to put up with your bawling? Why would anyone want to put up with you?

You can feel the hatred poisoning your veins, darkening the light in your heart. You know this hatred, this darkness. You know who it is aimed at. You are too familiar with its burn. You know it is going to mock your weakness and insult your very being because you know you feel that hatred for none other than yourself.

When you talk, you want to drown your voice just to never hear it again.

"I'm sorry."

You don't see Remus's confused face. You don't feel his bafflement. You only hear his loving pitying tone.

"For what?" he asks and doesn't wait for your reply. "Dove, come here."

You despise your body for betraying your mind. You abhor your heart for betraying your will. You hate your frailty when it comes to Remus.

You let him hold you close to his chest, sobbing into his touch. His hands caress your hair, his lips leaving kisses on your temple as comfort. Your body trembles under his affection, the tears staining his shirt. 

"It's alright. You're alright," his tone hugs the scarred part of your soul. "I'm here."

"I'm sorry, Remus, I'm sorry–"

"What for, dove? You have nothing to be sorry about," he cuts you off, feeling that you're spiralling. "Tell me what's wrong. Tell me, we'll fix it together, yeah?"

You shake your head, clinging closer to his chest. This is the part you hate most. The part where the words line up against your tongue but don't know how to get out. Your feelings mock you, and you're afraid that if you talk, he will mock you, too.

Remus knows you. He has learned you well enough to know that you are struggling. He strokes your back, encouraging you to speak. 

"Come on, dove. You'll feel better," he kisses your hair.

"No, I- It's not.." you mumble something between your sobs, and Remus tries so hard to understand you. He waits, patiently giving you the time you need to organise your thoughts, all while embracing you tightly. 

"It's alright. Take your time."

You inhale a deep but shaky breath, your chest trembling from all the hiccups. You wish to speak, to share your pain with your lover, but it's just too heavy. So heavy that letters are like a burden to your tongue. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you don't know you're crying again until you feel teardrops on your hand. "I can't. This is it. This is all I got. It's not enough, I'm not enough."

"Hey, hey, hey," Remus pulls away, taking your face in his hands. "You're more than enough."

"No, no, I-I can't…I can't do better. I need to do better, I have to do better–"

Remus doesn't understand what you're talking about; your words don't make sense to him. All he knows is that your every tear is like a knife to his heart, your every sob is like a hit in the gut, and your every word is like a storm hitting his mind.

"You don't have to do anything. You're doing enough," he says, his heart clenching in pain at the sight of you. "Listen to me."

He puts his forehead on yours, closing his eyes. "Listen to me, dove."

He waits for you. He waits until your breathing calms down, your tears slow down, and your body stops shaking. You close your eyes, inhaling his scent.

"You're enough for me," he whispers, his hands still caressing your body. "I love you, and you're enough for me."

You feel the burn in your chest at ease, the burden in your tongue walking away. You feel your tears come to a halt, your soul finding comfort in his words. 

"I love you, too," you whisper back. 

"Then talk to me, and let me help you."

So, you talk. You tell him every word in your mind, every pain in your heart and every burden in your soul. You know he can't possibly solve all your problems or take away all your pain, but what he can do is always let you know he loves you, whether with his words or his actions.

I love Remus, I wish men were real.

Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!

and if you please, buy me a coffee <333

[hoarding-stories]

What do you want me to say? I brought you into my home to nurse you back to health after the coma that you put yourself in after Steel offered to assist with the breaking of the curse. You were down for a month, we had time to talk.

And when you decided it was time to leave, you had no compunction destroying and wreaking havoc in my home in your efforts to leave even though she was on her way.

And you had no reason to believe anything other than that her and my intentions were pure. All we've ever done is help you.

And now I'm here, I've crossed the world and risked my life, again. For you. And you still can't get that smart ass little tone about wizards out of your fuckin mouth.

But yes, continue to preach about not judging the witch on first appearances. Is that what you wanted me to say?

[yuesya]

Far beneath the royal capital of Leyndell and its myriad splendors, there lies a sprawling maze of darkened waterways and shadowed tunnels; antithesis to all that is good and gold upon the surface. All creatures who are shunned dwell down here, to while away their days within the dark.

Morgott and his twin brother, Mohg, had been cast down here upon birth. Demigod children of Queen Marika the Eternal and Elden Lord Godfrey they may be, even such godly, royal blood did not prevent exile. For they both were born Omen –wretched creatures who were not blessed with the grace of the Erdtree. The blood that ran through their veins was cursed, a quality that manifested upon their physical bodies as monstrous deformities. Hulking figures, and bestial horns.

It is a mercy that they still draw breath. That they are only chained and bound beneath the cavernous depths of the royal city. Other Omen are not so lucky; their horns are forcibly excised at birth, an act that more often than not results in death.

And death is something that Morgott is familiar with, too. There are corpses floating in the sewers, those of Omen and vermin alike. Bloated, deformed, crawling with maggots. It is a common sight, this scenery that is ever-present and ever-constant in the dreary darkness of this world.

(The only world that Morgott knows.)

“Brother!”

The distinct clink of chains is preceded by his twin brother’s booming voice. Loud, and echoing. Rats are sent scattering at his approach, fleeing in a messy wave that rattles Morgott’s own chains. The shackles upon his limbs hang heavy, as does the collar affixed around his neck, but this does not stop Morgott from lifting his head to heed his brother’s call–

–what is that?

… Wading through the foul sewer waters, Mohg’s towering, horned figure does not strike an unusual sight. What is unusual, however, would be the child sitting docilely in the crook of his arm, gathered haphazardly to his chest. No visible signs of any distress, or even any alarm at all.

It is a girl. Pale white hair, standing out starkly against the gloom of her surroundings. Blue eyes, abyssal and ringed with a distinct glow. Her appearance is one that is free of any blemishes and other such deformities –she does not appear to be cursed, so it is utterly baffling that such a child is here.

What madness is this?

“You –what have you done?” Morgott demands.

Mohg smiles. “Nay, ‘tis not I who is to blame for any of this! A little stray seems to have managed to wander down here on her own.”

“‘Fell,’” the girl corrects, tugging at the hem of his brother’s tattered sleeve with no compunctions. “I didn’t wander. I fell.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Mohg promptly acquiesces, readjusting his hold on her for better balance. “She seems to have slipped and fallen through the cracks –is that right?”

The girl nods agreeably.

… Except one does not just fall down into the bowels of glorious Leyndell like that. What is this child? And, more importantly–

Morgott clicks his tongue, “How are we to return her to the surface?”

Benign visitors from above are quite vanishingly rare, and for the most part the denizens of the depths below are simply cast aside and left to their fates. Morgott does not know when, or if their Lord-Father would choose to visit them again, and should this child expire during that time–

“Why?” Mohg asks. “We should just keep her.”

Morgott scowls. “Do not say such things in jest. You cannot just keep a child –surely she has family on the surface who are searching for her!”

Mohg peers down at the girl in his arms, “Do you?”

The white-haired girl shakes her head in clear dismissal of the notion. “Queen-Mother would only search for Godwyn.”

Morgott stares at the girl. So does Mohg, for that matter.

Queen-Mother. Godwyn.

The implications of her words–!

“… Your parents,” Morgott finds himself saying slowly, “You are a daughter of Queen Marika?”

“Yes.”

This strange child –one whom Morgott cannot sense any trace of divinity or his mother’s power from– is their younger sister? Half-sister?

This is… certainly unexpected.

[solarmorrigan]

For the dialogue prompt, how about “What happened doesn’t change anything” for either Steddie or Newmann?

Thank you!

Hello hello hello I finally have something for you! I chose Steddie for this one, since I was on a roll. I hope this suits!

[post-S2 Steddie AU; CW: Outing, transphobia, some internalized transphobia; soft ending guaranteed, though]

-

When he sees Hagan meandering over towards them in the parking lot after school, his queen bee tagalong, Perkins, in tow, Eddie knows nothing good is going to follow. The way he feels Steve shift beside him says that he suspects much the same. The rest of the Hellfire guys, all gathered around Eddie’s van, talking and joking before heading home, have fallen silent.

It’s a small consolation that Hagan isn’t trailing Hargrove; since putting Steve in the hospital (briefly, Steve always interjects) last November, Hargrove has mostly given him—and the members of the Hellfire Club, once Steve had been taken into their fold—a fairly wide berth. Hagan, however, has had no compunctions about hassling Steve whenever he gets a bug up his ass about something, and he’s only become nastier since he started toadying for Hargrove.

So Eddie expects trouble, but he hadn’t expected–

Hagan starts small, crowing about how Steve has finally found his rightful place: among the freaks. Steve doesn’t give anything away, no displeasure, no anger, just bored indifference – the same mask he’s always hidden behind (the one Eddie had learned pretty quickly to see past, once he knew what to look for). But Hagan pushes.

“I guess the freaks already have a king,” Hagan snipes, cutting a glance at Eddie, “but I’m sure he needs a lady to rule by his side, right, Stevie?”

It seems like an unoriginal sort of dig—calling Steve a girl, how creative—except Steve goes pale. The mask slips, showing wide and frightened eyes for just a moment, but for Hagan, who’s known Steve for years, it’s long enough. He knows he’s hit something good.

“Do all your new little friends know, Stevie-boy? What makes you fit right in with them?” Hagan glances around the group, apparently enjoying the fact that if looks could kill, he’d be dead four times over. Then he leans in and practically spits at Steve, “Do they know that they got into your pants, you’d be less of a King Steve and more of a Queen Stacy?”

And that does it – shatters Steve’s mask so thoroughly that he actually takes a step back, staring at Hagan with a kind of disbelieving betrayal frozen on his face.

The full meaning of the words hits Eddie about three seconds before Hagan hits the side of the van, one of Eddie’s hands fisted in the front of his t-shirt and the other held firm at the base of his throat – not hurting, exactly, but heavily implying that he could.

Eddie doesn’t even have to reach for one of the many theatrical voices he uses to rile people up or cow them into submission; he’s so thoroughly taken by a type of rage he hasn’t let himself give into in a long time that his tone comes out perfectly threatening all on its own.

“If you ever repeat what you just said to another person, I will find out, and I will make your life a living hell,” he hisses.

Somewhere behind him, someone—it might be Jeff, though Eddie isn’t sure—clears their throat, and when Eddie tosses a glance over his shoulder, he finds the rest of Hellfire standing firm at his back (even tiny underclassman Gareth, with his arms crossed and the meanest look on his face the poor kid can muster).

“Ah, my apologies,” Eddie says as he faces front again, flashing a manic little grin, “we will find out. And we’ll ruin your life, Hagan. Same goes for your girlfriend.”

Perkins, who had been standing off to the side as the snickering peanut gallery right up until Eddie had pinned Hagan to the side of the van, makes a choked noise of offense that goes entirely ignored.

“Tell me you understand, Tommy-boy.” Eddie punctuates the command with a flex of his fingers near Hagan’s throat, until Hagan reluctantly nods, and Eddie releases him. “Glad we’re in agreement.”

Hagan and Perkins hightail it the other side of the parking lot, leaving them be with nothing more than a nasty look from Perkins, but no one is much in the mood to chat after that. No one really knows what to say – except Steve, who offers a quiet thanks to the rest of the guys and, having caught a ride in with Eddie that morning, then asks to be taken home.

Even with the radio playing quietly as Eddie drives, the atmosphere in the van feels silent and stifling.

Asking Steve if he’s alright feels like kind of a ridiculous move. Eddie wouldn’t be alright if he was in Steve’s position – hell, Eddie’s not alright. He’s pissed. But from the way Steve is sitting rigidly in the passenger seat, staring out the window like Eddie is driving him to his execution, Eddie’s anger—even on his behalf—isn’t what he needs right now.

Slowly, Eddie forces himself to let it go (for now, at least for now) and follow the familiar roads home.

It feels perfectly natural to simply head back to his place, where they’d been planning to go before that shitshow of a confrontation, though the surprise on Steve’s face when they pull up to the trailer says that he’d thought otherwise.

“You could’ve just taken me back to my house. I wouldn’t– I’d get it,” he says, and Eddie frowns at him.

“Did you want to go back to your house? We can hang out there if you want, I just figured…” Eddie tilts his head regarding him carefully. “You seem more comfortable here.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment, blank and uncertain, before he breaks back into motion with a shrug. “Okay,” he says, moving to get out of the van.

They head inside and nod a quick hello to Wayne, who looks like he’s just woken up in preparation for his shift, and then they go straight back to Eddie’s room. Eddie’s bag goes on the desk, but Steve’s goes by the door. Eddie sits down on the bed (admittedly one of the few places to sit, but also an invitation for Steve to come sit next to him) but Steve – Steve hesitates before leaning up against the wall, by the door with his bag, arms crossed and gaze cast towards the floor.

He looks ready to run at any moment, and Eddie sighs. This thing between them is new – so new that they’ve been afraid to put a label to it, dancing around each other uncertainly for months before sharing their first kiss barely a month ago. They’ve spent almost every available moment since with their hands on each other in some way or another, though Steve has been a bit skittish about moving past making out (Eddie had thought that maybe it was the unfamiliarity of being with another guy, but he thinks he might have a better understanding of the picture now).

Eddie doesn’t want to break things by pushing too hard, but somehow, he thinks leaving it unaddressed would be worse.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it,” he says, watching Steve, though Steve still isn’t looking back, “but if you want to…”

Steve shrugs. “I wasn’t hiding it from you,” he says, finally glancing up at Eddie. “I mean, I was, but not– I was going to tell you.”

“You don’t owe me any kind of explanation,” Eddie says.

“You would’ve found out eventually, either way.” Steve lets out a sound that suggests he may have been trying to laugh. “But it was – I should’ve been the one to tell you. That was – that was mine to tell.”

A little bit of Eddie breaks as Steve’s voice does. He’s almost vibrating with the desire to hold and to reassure, to go over to where Steve is standing, still propped against the wall, practically curling in on himself (trying to make himself smaller), but he’s not sure how well it would be received. He tries words, instead.

“Steve, I’m so sorry–”

“That was the one thing,” Steve snaps, anger tearing across his tone, “the one thing Tommy would never touch, the one thing that was off limits, even he knew– and he just–” As quickly as it had come, the anger goes, taking Steve’s energy with it. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and lets his hands slide down to cover his face; when he speaks again, he sounds small. “I wasn’t ready.”

Eddie couldn’t keep himself from crossing the room if he’d tried – though isn’t trying, after that. He’s up off the bed and into Steve’s space before he’s even realized, and it’s probably only his proximity that allows him to hear what Steve says next.

“I’m not ready for things to change between us.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, low and careful, “what happened doesn’t change anything.”

Steve pulls his hands away from his face with a derisive little huff of a laugh. His cheeks are red and his eyes are bright; he’s not crying, but it looks like a near thing.

“It’s – like, I get it. You’re fully into guys, and I’m…” He waves his hands down at himself, sharp and frustrated. “Most people wouldn’t call me a real guy, if they knew.”

“Since when am I most people?” Eddie asks. “You say you’re a guy, you’re a real guy, fucking end of. Anyone who thinks otherwise can fuck off.”

Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes, clearly trying to hold back a much more emotional reaction, and Eddie chances resting his hands on Steve’s shoulders. Steve doesn’t move away, even eases a little into the touch when Eddie starts circling his thumbs at the skin right where his shirt collar ends.

“You don’t have to believe me right now,” Eddie says softly. “But I like you, Steve. I like you, andI’m gonna stick around and prove it to you.”

Something about the declaration makes Steve’s eyes snap right to Eddie’s, searching, anxious and cautiously hopeful, and Eddie lets him look. Whatever he’s after, maybe he finds it, because he uncurls from himself a little after that, just enough to lean in for a hesitant kiss that becomes much more certain when Eddie himself doesn’t hold back.

Eddie pulls Steve back over to the bed after that, poking and prodding him around until they’re both settled, Eddie’s back to the pillows and Steve’s back to Eddie’s chest (Steve’s never said as much, but Eddie’s gathered that this is one of his favorite positions to cuddle in; he doubts if Steve’s spent much time being the little spoon).

“Tell me something else,” Eddie says, once he’s got his arms wrapped securely around Steve’s waist.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Tell me something that you want me to know.” Eddie leans forward to press a kiss to Steve’s temple. “Anything.”

For a moment, Steve is quiet, thinking as he traces absent patterns over Eddie’s forearms. “I could tell you why I picked Steve,” he says finally.

“If you want to, I’d love to hear it,” Eddie says.

“It wasn’t because it was sort of close to my… old name. That was actually kind of a coincidence.” Steve lets his head fall back against Eddie’s shoulder, the tension that’s been wound through him for the last hour finally starting to ease. “Steven was my grandad’s name.”

“Yeah?” Eddie prompts softly.

“Yeah. My mom’s dad. I used to spend a lot of time over at his house when I was a kid. Before he died. I kind of got the feeling he liked me more than my parents did.” Eddie gives Steve a squeeze around the middle. “But he used to tell me all these stories about fighting in World War II. Probably not very age-appropriate, now that I think about it, but at the time I really ate it up.

“He didn’t really, like… glorify it, I don’t think? He just kind of told me what happened, good or bad, and whatever the story was, I always thought he sounded, y’know – strong and brave. And when I wanted to pick a new name…” Steve shrugs against Eddie. “I kind of hoped he wouldn’t mind sharing his with me.”

“Bet he’d be honored,” Eddie says, giving Steve another little squeeze.

“Some days I’m not so sure,” Steve says quietly.

“Well I am. I’ll just have to stick around and prove that to you, too,” Eddie says decisively.

Briefly, Steve’s hands tighten where they rest on Eddie’s arms. “I like the sound of that,” he says, and Eddie turns so he can press another kiss to the side of Steve’s head.

“Good,” he says. “Me too.”

[lucygxybaird]

warning: caliente cowboy content

your first time (ever) with billy

You had been so shy to tell Billy that you were a virgin. Although Billy is your first everything — your first date, your first kiss, your first proper relationship— you know that isn’t the case for him. Sometimes, the thought of him with other woman makes your heart ache, just a little; it’s beneath you, and you know that, but you can’t help it. 

It isn’t jealousy, so much as…as a longing to have him all to yourself. Your time with Billy is so precious; both of you are achingly aware, like two tightrope walkers balanced precariously in midair, that Billy can be taken away at any moment. 

You fully believe he’s doing the right thing, fighting against Riley and Murphy, against Jesse and his infernal gang. And you’re proud of him. But it means he draws danger down on himself as surely as a lightning rod will draw down a blazing bolt from the sky. 

Which, in turn, means that every day — every moment — with Billy is like a gift, eked out from a world which has shown time and time again that it did not care about the two of you. But you don’t care if anyone else in the world gives a damn about you, as long as you have Billy. 

So — not jealousy, but a febrile, futile wish to hoard as much time with him as you could, even if you have to reach into the past to do so. As selfish as it is, you have no compunctions with the thought of clawing his memory away from others, women you don’t even know, just so you don’t miss a thing.

You remember the way you blushed, hiding your face against his chest, as you admitted that you had never…been with a man like that. His chuckle reverberated against your cheek, his arms still snug around you. Your hair had fallen forward like a veil,  and you made no move to brush it away; but he did. His fingers gently tucked a sheaf of strands behind your ear, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of your expression. 

“Baby, it’s not anythin’ to be embarrassed over.” He’d pressed his lips against the crown of your head. “You just gotta tell me what you’re ready for. I don’t wanna push you.” Another soft kiss against your hair. “I want you to feel safe with me.” 

You had lifted your head then, peeking up at him, and you were rewarded with his smile. “I do feel safe with you, Billy.” 

“Good.” Another kiss. “You promise you’ll tell me if we get too close to somethin’ you don’t comfortable doin’.” 

You’d promised, and he’d kissed you, over and over again until you were supple underneath his hands, molding yourself against him. After that, you kept your word, putting your hands against his chest to gently press him back, or turning your head so that his kiss landed on your cheek instead of your mouth. He never once intimidated, by so much as a sigh or a downward twitch of his mouth, that he was disappointed — let alone angry — that you wanted to stop. Instead, he would just lay back against the pillow, drawing you against his chest and holding you there. 

He would stroke your hair, or run the heel of his hand up and down the length of your spine, and the two of you would just talk. About nothing, about everything. If you hadn’t already been head over heels in love with him by then, those soft, meandering conversations would have pulled you under completely. 

You aren’t sure what makes tonight different. Maybe it’s because it’s the first cool night after the merciless, broiling heat of summer, where the air feels like a gentle caress, and you can smell the comforting scent of woodsmoke on the breeze. Billy has built a fire and laid out your dinner on a blanket in front of the hearth, and now the two of you are nestled together on the flannel, your bodies twined together. You look up at him and realize it’s not the beautiful night, or the romantic dinner, but just the fact that you love him so fiercely and can’t get enough of him.

You want him to know that. 

“Billy,” you murmur against his lips. You finger one of the buttons at his collar, slipping it open. “I…I want you. Tonight. Now.” You look up at him, undoing another one of his buttons. “Please…”

He freezes for a moment, as if unsure he’s heard you right. Pulling back just a little, propping himself up on an elbow, Billy frames your face between his hands. “Are you sure? I need you to be sure. Don’t just say yes cause you think it’s what I want.” 

You draw your fingertips over the angle of his cheek, although your gaze falls on his lips. Those impossibly plush, soft lips. “I’m sure.” 

He looks at you for a moment more, as if measuring the strength of your certainty. And then he stands up and draws you to your feet, pulling you flush against him. “Listen,” he murmurs. “If you wanna stop, you tell me, okay? No matter what we’re doin’. Just say the word, and we’ll stop.” 

You nod. “I’ll tell you,” you say, because it seems like he’s waiting for confirmation right from your mouth. “I swear.” 

His hands find your waist as he leans down to kiss you again, this time even hungrier than before. And you thought you knew the passion in his kiss. You had no idea. He must have been holding back, tamping down his own desire just to make sure you were comfortable. His kisses have always made you burn in the most delicious way, but now — it’s like comparing a candle to a wildfire. 

You wind your arms around his neck, fitting your body against his. It’s almost physically painful, like tearing a bandage away, to pull back just enough to keep working on the buttons of his shirt. Your hands go to the bare skin of his chest, and he lets out a soft sigh against your mouth, the sound of someone returning home after a long journey. A sound of relief and an intense happiness that’s as keen as a knife’s edge. 

Your fingertips brush over his ribs, and you’re surprised when he huffs out a laugh. “That tickles,” he mutters. Of course, you do it again. He giggles, the sound deep and husky, but undeniably a giggle for all that. You smile as you reach up to slide his shirt off his shoulders. He lets it fall to the floor before he reaches up to grasp the shoulders of your dress. 

“Can I?” His expression is earnest, his eyes beseeching, and you know he’ll only keep going if you give your assent. So you nod, keeping your gaze on his, and his palms gently caress your shoulders as he slides the dress off, exposing your from the waist up. He waits, looking at you; when you nod again, he reaches down and pulls the material around your waist down. The dress pools at your feet.

“Let me look at you,” he pleads. “I just wanna look at you for a minute.” 

“You can,” you say. 

Only then do his eyes leave your face. You can almost feel his gaze as if it’s a physical caress, brushing your breasts, your waist, your hips. He lingers between your legs, his lower lip catching between his teeth. He’s looking at you as if he’s fighting the urge to drop to his knees, the pose of a man worshipping at the feet of a goddess. 

“C’mere,” he says, his voice rougher than before, rumbling deep from his chest. He takes your hand and leads you to the bed. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you against him and kissing you hungrily; the sensation of your bare skin against his sends such a strong sensation surging through you that you gasp softly against his lips. “Billy…God, I want you—”

“I’m right here,” he promises you, lifting his head to look you in the eye again. “You’ve got me, honey, I promise. You have all of me.” 

You lay down against the pillows, fighting the urge just to part your thighs in invitation. He must read something in your expression, because he grins at you, and you grin back, a nervous giggle bubbling over your lips. He moves over you, holding himself up; he kisses your lips again, feathering kisses over your jaw, down your neck. 

Billy trails kisses down your body, starting at your collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the hollow at the base of your throat. His hands brace themselves against your hips, and his grip tightens as his mouth ghosts over your breasts; you feel his breath shudder against your skin, and you think you can see a quick thrust of his hips as he grinds against the bed. “Billy…” 

He looks up at you from underneath his impossibly dark lashes, a question in his eyes. 

“More,” you breathe. “Please…” 

In response, he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, sucking as his tongue flicks against the sensitive bud. You moan softly, encouragingly, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair. The other reaches up to grip the pillow behind your head. You’re already aching, yearning to touch yourself, but you want him and only him. Even your own fingers would break the spell. 

He moves to your other breast, and when you whimper, you see his hips rock again. Billy kisses each rib where they press against your taut, feverish skin, and when he reaches your waist, his hands move down to your thighs. His fingers dig into the flesh, massaging, thumbs brushing over your inner thigh. The thought of him touching you there has your back arching, the ache only building. You think soon it will be unbearable. 

“I wanna put my mouth on you, baby,” he says, his voice low, throaty. “I wanna make you feel good.” He nips gently at your hipbone. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you say, without hesitation, which makes him grin. “Yes, Billy, please…”

He smooths his hands under you, gripping your ass and lifting you up to his mouth as he settles between your legs. Billy keeps his eyes on yours as his tongue sweeps over your slit, and you cry out, your head falling back. He starts up a rhythm, tongue lapping at your core, sucking, kissing, and then— 

“Oh, God—” 

His nose brushes that bundle of nerves you’ve shyly explored with your own fingertips before, as his tongue delves into you. Your mouth falls open and your eyes scrunch shut, and you grip his hair tightly, hardly aware of the way your hips are bucking frantically. “Fuck! Oh, God — oh, Billy — Billy, Billy, Billy…” 

He moans against you, which only intensifies the almost agonizing pleasure surging through your veins. You open your eyes, looking down to watch him devour you. He keeps grinding against the bed, fitful thrusts, before he stops himself, as if he’s trying to keep control but he can’t hold onto it. “Oh, Billy — I — I’m — oh — ”

You can’t speak anymore. The only sounds falling from your mouth are desperate, raw cries, and everything is building, building, building, until — 

A wordless scream tears itself from your throat as you reach your peak, an animalistic cry that trails into desperate whimpers, almost sobs, as you come down. He keeps swiping his tongue against you, as if he’s drinking in your peak, and you keep rocking your hips to meet his tongue. Finally, he lifts his head, and you fall limp against the bed. 

“Fuck, honey, you taste so goddamn good,” he groans. The evidence gleams on his lips, his chin, even his cheeks. He moves over you again, leaning down to kiss you greedily. You barely have the strength to wrap your arms around him, but you do, holding him as tightly as you can. 

When you feel his fingers brush against your inner thighs, you give a soft moan. He meets your eyes again. “Can I touch you? I gotta get you ready for me.”

You whimper softly. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, oh, Billy…I want you inside me so badly…”

With a soft groan of his own, he drops his head to your shoulder, tucking his face against the crook of your neck. “You have no idea,” he breathes, “how bad I want you. Shit…”

His fingers stroke your folds, thumb moving in gentle circles over your clit, barely applying pressure. But it still doesn’t take long for you to start whining, gasping against his lips. He kisses you over and over again, almost in rhythm with his touch, and then you feel him brush against your entrance. 

“Baby?” he whispers, and when you nod, he slowly, slowly, presses a finger in. 

It burns, but his lips moving against yours and his thumb working against your clit help to relax you.  “More,” you breathe, and he adds a second finger, beginning to move them in and out. You moan as the stretch becomes less of a surprise and more of a pleasure, and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body acting independently of you. 

“Billy,” you gasp out. “Billy — I need…I need more…” 

He groans, immediately starting to move his fingers faster. Harder. You cry out, head pressing back into the pillow. “Yes! Oh, yes, yes, like that, just — oh, Billy, just like that — don’t stop, please, don’t stop, don’t stop…” 

Your only answer is another groan. When your gaze flashes to his face, you think his beauty alone might be enough to drive you over the edge. His cheeks are flushed, his blue eyes burning, his lips swollen and deliciously pink from your kiss. You reach up one hand for him and pull him down, the gesture almost rough, certainly possessive, and you kiss him again as if you would pour all the passion filling you up right back into him. 

“Oh, God — ” It’s building up again, the throbbing ache in your core, and all you can think about is having his length buried inside you. You can feel it against you every now and then as he moves over you, a hard ridge pressing against his pants. God, you can only guess at how big it is; the very idea makes you rock your hips down on his fingers. 

“I’m gonna come,” you mutter. “Billy — Billy — fuck — oh, I’m gonna — ”

He nips at your earlobe, sucking against the skin. “Come for me, baby,” he whispers. “I love you. I love making you feel good, I love you, I love you so much…” 

His pace intensifies, and your back arches, your legs trembling. His thumb presses harder against your clit, still moving in circles, and you let out a helpless half-sob, half-moan as your second orgasm hits you like a thunderclap. All you can think of is wrapping your legs around Billy’s waist, digging your fingernails into his shoulders, marking him up, writing on his skin in a language that only the two of you can understand. 

Billy carefully pulls his fingers from you, and as you watch, he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers greedily, like a starving man will like a plate free of crumbs. This time, your thighs do part, and you whine helplessly. You never imagined you’d be like this, wanton and needy, barely aware of yourself as anyone or anything more than Billy’s lover. It’s like desire and pleasure — and love, God knows — have merged into a great ocean, and the waves have closed over your head. But you don’t mind sinking into it. 

He groans at the taste of you, and then moves back, getting to his feet. You watch with ravenous eyes as he undoes his pants, shucking them in a moment; you swear to God, your mouth waters at the sight of him. He is big — and he’s so hard for you, his length laying flat against his stomach. 

“Shit,” he breathes, looking down at you. “Baby, I — I need to be inside you so fuckin’ bad, please, tell me I can…”

As if he really needs to ask by this point. But you love that he asks, anyway. You reach for him. “Please, Billy…” 

He moves on top of you again, urging one of your legs up over his hip. Without prompting, you wrap the other around his waist, lifting your hips to him. “Ready?” he murmurs, and you nod, so desperate for him that you might actually begin to weep if he’s not inside you in a moment. 

And then — 

Oh. 

Your lips part in a silent moan. The head of his cock presses inside you, and then he stops, watching your face. You nod, and he presses in a little more — slowly, slowly, pausing every now and then, always waiting for you to signal your assent somehow before giving you more of him. When he’s pressed in to the hilt, you grasp at his shoulders, writhing a little beneath him. “Billy, fuck me,” you whisper in his ear, and you’re rewarded with an immediate thrust. 

He presses his cheek against yours as he starts to move — again, slowly at first, a gentle, exploring motion of his hips. You gasp out, encouraging, pleading, tugging at his hair with one hand and raking your nails down his back with the other. Billy grunts softly with each snap of his hips, an animalistic sound, rich with pleasure, with possessiveness. It’s like he’s saying mine — mine — mine — with each rough, deep noise. You rock against him, your cries intensifying as your body becomes used to him, and the only thing you feel is a pleasure so intense you find your eyes stinging. 

“Harder,” you beg. “Faster. Fuck me.” 

The groan he lets out rumbles up deep from his very core, and he obeys you instantly. He takes one of your hands, and then the other, pinning them above your head as his hips slam into you, over and over. His cries get louder and so do yours. You’re so close, and as yet another orgasm races toward you, you whimper in his ear: “Billy, Billy, I wanna ride you.” 

He whimpers, and rolls the two of you over, settling you on top of him. “Baby,” he breathes, looking up at you as if you’re made of starlight and lace, something beautiful and delicate, and more importantly, all his. “Fuck — like this, like this — ”

His hands on your hips guide you in a rocking motion, and it isn’t long before you find the rhythm yourself. Billy’s eyes shut tightly, his brow furrowing, his mouth falling open. He braces his feet against the bed and rocks up into you. “That’s it, baby, just like that — fuck — you’re so fuckin’ perfect — ”

You want to warn him again, tell him you’re about to come, but the only sound you can make is a desperate moan, repeated with each movement. You brace yourself against his chest, working your hips on his length, feeling every inch of him so deliciously deep. In another moment, you’re coming hard, your thighs shaking as your throat goes raw from crying out. Billy keeps rocking up into you, both of you gasping, and then he rolls you onto your back again. 

You go to cling to him, not wanting him to leave, but he pulls out and strokes himself once, twice, before he’s coming all over your stomach -- up to your chest — with a cry of your name. “I’m — I’m sorry, baby,” he blurts out. “I didn’t…if I’d…” 

“I know,” you manage, despite still struggling to catch your breath. You smile sleepily as he digs a rag from the bedside table and cleans you off, before pulling you into his arms, burying his face against your hair. 

“Did I…did I hurt you?” he murmurs, his tone soft and shy. 

“No,” you assure him. 

You snuggle closer. There is an ache between your legs now, but you find it easy to push to the back of your mind. More important is the contentment washing over you, loosening your muscles, making you melt against Billy’s chest as you wrap an arm around his waist. Not that you ever wondered, but now you know for sure Billy is the one you’ve been waiting for all your life. Your first, your only, your everything. 

You lift your head and smile at him. Relief washes over his features as he smiles back. “I love you,” you tell him, and he reaches up, brushing a strand behind your ear. 

“I love you, too, darlin’.” 

[goodlucktai]

okay just because we were talking about this - how do you think an asl reunion at alabasta would look like?

i hope its ok that i took this as an excuse to write an au no one asked for :')

read on ao3

x

A lot of the problems in Ace’s young life—most of them, if he was being honest—could be attributed to the shitty choices that adults around him made. 

When Bluejam grabbed Luffy by the scruff, the business end of a pistol jammed painfully into the nape of his neck, he was talking a bunch of shit about how Sabo’s dad ripped him off. He was paid to kill Ace and Luffy but he’d been short-changed, and for a man who seemed to think he was entitled to a certain lot in life, it rankled. 

“But that noble brat doesn’t make a bad ransom,” the man said, shaking a weepy Luffy in one meaty hand to shut him up, like Ace’s baby brother was nothing but a piece of dirty laundry. “If his family won’t buy him back, I’m sure someone will.”

Ace’s blood turned to ice in his veins. Whatever time Ace didn’t spend in the jungle he spent in the gutters and outskirts of the city, where every unwanted, street-sharpened child knew the risk a certain kind of stranger brought with them. 

If Sabo ended up with a slaver, Ace would never get his brother back. Pieces of him, maybe. But not the same golden boy he was right now. Not the brave, proud, secretly soft-hearted person Ace loved so much. He’d come back different if he came back at all. 

He had to compartmentalize. He couldn’t act rashly until he had Luffy back. His mind raced frantically, but he made sure it didn’t show on his face. He snatched Luffy up when Bluejam finally let him go and made his own body a wall between his brother and the men who had no compunctions about hurting him to prove a point. 

They were left to spread gasoline throughout the terminal, while the pirates made their way back down to the beach. Not one of them lingered to make sure Ace and Luffy did as they were told, and Ace should have wondered about that. Should have wondered why they were making themselves scarce, why the city gates were barred, what all those fuel canisters are for, but his thoughts were too full of other things.

That was why, the second the coast was clear, he tossed his gasoline drum aside and seized Luffy by the arms. He stooped to look right into his eyes, trying to ignore the way his chest panged at how wide and red they were. 

“I have to go get Sabo,” he said firmly. “You have to stay here.”

“Let me come!” Luffy cried immediately, predictably. “Don’t leave me behind!”

“It’ll be faster if you wait,” Ace snapped, because he didn’t want to say that Luffy was going nowhere near any ship bound for the slave market, because then he would have to explain why. Even without the Fruit that made him a special novelty in the Blues, Luffy would be snatched up by evil hands in a heartbeat. “You’re too little, you’ll just slow me down,” he said instead. 

It wasn’t nice, and when Ace had time later, he would feel bad about the way Luffy’s lip trembled. But for now, it was important that he got his point across. Every second he lingered was another inch ahead Bluejam’s crew got. Ace’s world would literally end if their ship left port without him. 

So he gave Luffy’s shoulders a push that propelled him back a step. Then he pointed in the direction of the treeline. He made his face mean and forbidding. 

“I mean it, Luffy,” he said. “Go wait for me at home.”

Luffy finally tucked his chin in a miserable little nod. Ace gentled despite himself and reached out because there were two people he would always reach out for and one of them was right in front of him.

He flicked the brim of Luffy’s hat up enough that it fell off his head, and then ruffled his hair. A gesture so familiar and well-practiced it was like muscle memory to him now. Luffy didn’t smile, but it kept the tears at bay for a bit longer, and Ace left him with another firm point back at the jungle. 

Ace was a child, doing his best to keep his tiny family together. He had a half-formed plan that he would sneak about Bluejam’s ship and find Sabo wherever he was and they would fight their way out and escape together and reunite with Luffy in time for a midnight dinner. He was a pragmatic youth, and was made wiser by the world than any ten-year-old should have been, but he was still only ten years old. He couldn’t have guessed what was going to happen. 

He would piece it together later—that Bluejam had been commissioned by the kingdom to make sure the Gray Terminal burned down, a noble title he planned to come back to collect once he had auctioned off Outlook’s eldest son to the highest bidder—that Ace had chased after one brother and left the other alone in a place that was about to go up in flames. 

When he climbed aboard the Blood Batako, he didn’t realize it would be the last time he saw Dawn Island for almost half a year. 

He didn’t realize that Luffy would wait for him right there where Ace left him, even as the fire spread into walls of flames much taller than a scrawny seven year old—frightened and crying, little hands bunched in the front of his own shirt as he choked for each breath in the thick, acrid smoke. That Dadan would find him there and haul him away kicking weakly but not screaming, because there wasn’t enough oxygen left in his body to scream. That the asphyxiation, not the fire, is what nearly killed Luffy that night. That he would spend the next week in Foosha Village tended to by their only doctor and wake up with some of his memory intact, but not all. That he would recognize Makino, but wouldn’t know Dadan. 

Ace had no way of knowing, when he and Sabo finally made their way home, well-traveled at the tender young age of freshly eleven, and relieved to see journey’s end for the time being, and looking forward to reuniting with a certain crybaby who had probably been miserable cooped up in Dadan’s country or at Party’s Bar without them, that Luffy will have been gone for months by then. 

“A cruise ship docked further up the island,” Makino says fretfully, “and a little boy who worked in the kitchens came down here to play because he said he didn’t like the way the kingdom smelled. He and Luffy were fast friends. I had no idea Luffy was planning to leave with him until I found the note he left in his room, and by then they were long gone.” 

It’s a good thing Sabo is there, because Ace’s head is just a roar of white noise. Sabo is the one who chokes out, “But—what—did—did you call Gramps? What did he say? Is he going to find him?”

“I don’t have his direct line. I’ve left a dozen messages with his office, but you know how he is,” Makino says, forgetting that they don’t, actually. “He hardly remembers that he has an office. And the number Dadan has for him is no good.”

“Why would Luffy wander off like that?” Sabo says, progressively getting louder. “Why wasn’t someone watching him?”

“He’s just been so restless since the fire,” Makino replies. “There wasn’t anything keeping him here anymore, and it seemed like he just needed one good excuse to leave.”

Sabo looks as gutted by that as Ace probably feels, hurt and confusion racing their way across his face. And Ace finally makes his contribution, in the form of a choked, “What do you mean?” which is when Makino realizes there’s something they still don’t know. 

She sits them both down at a table and holds one of each of their hands in hers, and gently explains that while they were gone, the world as they knew it had changed forever, and the happy little boy who always ran to catch up to them wasn’t running after them anymore. 

———

Ace still forms the Spades, and Sabo still falls in with the Revolutionary Army, and the only reason they don’t sail together the way they promised when they were young is because the ocean is awfully big. They have a lot of square footage to cover, and splitting up is the only way they could even hope to cover it all. 

It doesn’t occur to either of them to give up at any point. As Sabo climbs ranks, as Ace gathers a crew, both their bounties increasing every day, they continue to search faithfully. Either they’ll find him one day, or they’ll simply spend the rest of their lives looking. 

Masked Deuce says, “What about the cruise ship he left on? Did you track it down?” 

“Boarded by pirates that same year,” Ace replies. “According to the official report, it sank in a storm.”

The loaded silence says everything Masked Deuce will not say. Ace doesn’t care what someone who has never met Luffy thinks about his odds of survival at sea. If Deuce knew Luffy, he would understand. Since he doesn’t, Ace’s first mate can believe his captain is delusional all he likes as long as it doesn’t keep him from doing his job. 

Deuce turns out to be a better friend than Ace deserves. One day when Ace leaves his crew to party with some locals and sets off into town to distribute flyers and put his ear to the ground, he hears someone rumble something under their breath about a hopeless cause. He doesn’t even have time to turn around before Deuce has seemingly teleported across the bar and knocked the dissenter out cold. 

“Anyone who shares his opinion is free to get their shit and leave,” he says calmly. 

The only voices that rise up are ones who sound very offended that Deuce would lump them in with that guy, and Ace refuses to look as touched as he feels. 

When he hears word of Red-Hair Shanks in nearby waters, he tracks the man down to a wintery island and leads his crew up a small mountain to meet him. In part, he wants to thank this man who saved his little brother all those years ago. But also…

“I heard about the fire,” Shanks said grimly. “And Makino kept me updated about little Anchor until he disappeared. I’ve got eyes out looking, too, Ace. The world is big, but not so big that we’ll never find him.”

It’s a relief to know that Luffy is so loved, that more than just his brothers care if he’s ever found. But in true Luffy fashion, he explodes onto the scene when he’s good and ready. 

Ace is woken up by Deuce kicking the door of the captain’s quarters off its hinges and shoving a crinkled Wanted poster into Ace’s bleary face so that a toothy, stretching smile is the first thing he sees. 

He accidentally sets half the room on fire, a slip-up the likes of which hasn’t happened since the first week after he ate his Fruit, and there’s a lot of screaming, and someone shoves a baby Den-Den at him so he can call Sabo. From the way his nakama were carrying on, you would think it was their long-lost brother in the paper.

“I was about to call,” Sabo says breathlessly in lieu of a hello after only barely half a ring. “You saw it?”

“I saw,” Ace replies. The newspaper is rattling noisily in his hands but he can’t get them to stop shaking. “He took down Arlong Park. There are all these witness statements from the villagers. They’re saying he did it all for his friend.”

“If anyone even thinks about coming for his bounty, I’m killing everyone on the Grand Line and then myself,” Sabo says. It takes knowing him as well as Ace knows him to be able to tell over the phone that he’s crying buckets. 

“Get in line,” Ace says. If anyone so much as looks at Luffy wrong he’s burning this goddamn planet down. He can’t tear his eyes away from the poster for more than a few seconds at a time. At the urchin grin, the pencil-mark curve of a scar, this bright young man he’s never met who is so, so familiar. 

“They’re calling him Straw Hat Luffy,” Deuce says. He’s a pillar of serenity in a sea of absolute chaos, leaning on Ace’s shoulder to read with him. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now I’ll finally get to meet him.”

Which turns out to be easier said than done, because Luffy and his merry band of lunatics won’t seem to stay in one fucking spot for longer than an hour. It takes weeks to finally track that cute little caravel down to a summer island about halfway through the Grand Line, and by that time Sabo has taken a leave of absence from the Army to join him. They’re close now. They’re so close. 

Wait for me, Ace would beg him if he could, wondering if this was how Luffy felt all those times his big brothers ran ahead and left him behind. 

———

Ace never knew how heavy a heart could be when he was a child, a half-feral, angry, touch-starved thing. But now his heart is full—now it bursts at the seams, spills through his ribcage, until there’s no part of him that isn’t touched by it—and it’s the heaviest thing he’s ever carried. 

A precious burden. He’s twice the man he would have been without it. He will never, not one time in his life ever, entertain the idea of putting it down. 

But gods, Ace thinks, it would be easier, so much easier, to rip the stupid thing out of his chest and walk around a hollow shell of someone once-loved than it would be to stand here for one more minute and look down at his baby brother looking up at him like he’s a total stranger. 

“Who’s this guy?” a blond man behind Luffy mutters. With the touseled hair hanging in an artful curtain over half his face and the cigarette between his teeth and the well-cut linen suit that makes it very clear he never skips leg day, blondie gives off an air of Do Not Fuck With Me just by breathing in a way that reminds Ace of Sabo at that age. 

The swordsman beside him, called Roronoa Zoro on his bounty poster, is scowling outright, gray eyes sharp, ready at any moment to leap over Luffy like a faithful hound and dig into Ace with his teeth the second he presents as danger. 

It makes Ace feel kind of nostalgic, like he’s looking at an old photo of himself. 

He tries to focus on the nostalgic feeling, because all the rest of his brain is drowning in guilt and grief. 

Somehow, he wasn’t prepared for this moment. Years of searching, nearly half his life, and he’s finally standing in front of the person whose absence tore a hole clean out of his whole future, and he has no idea what to say. 

You look well, springs to mind, because Luffy does. His hair and skin and eyes are all different shades of brown that gleam with good health under the desert sun. He’s still skinny, but not in the waifish, underfed way of all the Gray Terminal kids. He looks like he’s been eating well. It settles something in Ace’s heart in the one tiny corner of it that isn’t breaking. 

I should have been there, is the next-most immediate thought, and it almost takes Ace’s knees out from under him. He should have been there to make sure Luffy ate well. He should have been there to save him from the fire, to help him recover from the smoke sickness, to hold him when he cried in his sleep and to take his hand when he wandered aimlessly around the village with no one to play with and nothing to look forward to. 

I’m sorry I left you, is what it boils down to, what Ace has held close and carved into his heart over the years, hating himself, hating the child he was who thought he knew better, who thought he could conquer everything without losing anything. I never should have left you. 

But Luffy doesn’t know him from any other person in this busy marketplace, his head tilting to one side like a curious little bird’s, and Ace can’t think of anything to say to him that he’ll understand. 

He needs Sabo. He’s about to become a walking fire hazard, and he’s about to mess this whole thing up, this reunion that was almost a decade in the making. Luffy’s two friends are eyeing him with mounting suspicion the longer he stands there and stares at their captain, every line of their body still the way a predator’s body stills in preparation for a pounce. Luffy, for his part, is still engaged, but only barely. His interest is slipping away—there are too many sights and smells and things bustling all around for him to want to stand still for a gawking stranger that doesn’t even have anything exciting to say.

His little brother. Crybaby Luffy. The boy who crawled under Ace’s blanket when their treehouse quaked in a storm, who held Sabo’s hand when they stayed out too late and walked home through the jungle in the dark. He’s a pirate now, a Wanted person, with a crew and a ship all his own, and he got this far without them. The last time Ace saw him was that last night in the Gray Terminal, when Ace was being mean on purpose to make sure Luffy stayed away from certain danger. 

It occurs to Ace, for the very first time, that Luffy doesn't need him anymore. That tiny seven year old grew up. 

“I saw you in the paper,” he finally says, making a concentrated effort to sound like a human being. “You’re pretty cool.”

Luffy brightens immediately. “Yeah? Are you a pirate, too?”

“I am. Made a promise to my brothers when I was a kid that we’d sail the seas together one day.”

“Wow!” Luffy says, suitably impressed. “We made a promise like that, too.” He loops both his arms through one of Blondie’s and one of Roronoa’s. “We decided way back when we were little that we were gonna stick together and become the pirate king, and the greatest swordsman, and the man who discovers All Blue!”

So one of his two guard dogs must be the little kitchen boy from The Orbit who spirited Luffy away from Foosha. The other must have come along not much later if they were all children together. Ace wants to hear the story so badly he has to clench his jaw to keep from asking. He wants to hear about everything. 

Instead, ignoring the way Roronoa’s hand closes around the hilt of one of his swords, Ace reaches out and flicks the brim of Luffy’s hat so that it slips backwards off his head. Luffy squawks, and tries to free his arms in time to catch it, and then freezes in place at the touch to his hair.

Ace ruffles it fondly, muscle memory that hasn’t corroded even after a decade, and says what he should have said the first time that sunshine child in a worn straw hat shared a wild, impossible wish; 

“I hope I’m there to see it when all those dreams of yours come true.”

If he had stayed a second longer, he would have seen the way Luffy mirrored Ace’s touch with his own fingers, frozen in place. 

Instead, Ace has officially reached his emotional threshold, and formally retreats to find his twin. They take turns being the stable one and Ace is calling dibs on being a basket case for the next month. Masked Deuce is just going to have to deal. 

Sabo got back to their meeting spot first, an outdoor table outside a tavern that hasn’t yet opened for the day, and already has their map rolled out and pinned down at the corners by various junk from their luggage. He’s marking something down and calls over a distracted hello, and Ace bleakly replies, “I found him.”

His tone is all wrong for the remarkably momentous occasion he’s announcing, so it’s not really Sabo’s fault that it doesn’t click right away. Sabo says, “Found who?” and Ace just looks at him with all his helplessness and weariness plain on his face, and Sabo drags an ink mark all across Sandy Island on the map as he whirls around and says, “You found him?” 

“It’s not going to be how we thought,” Ace says, trying to manage his brother’s expectations. They share everything, but Ace would keep this heartbreak to himself if he knew how. “It’s—I think we took too long.”

“What do you mean?” Sabo asks, hands clenching into fists and unclenching. The fountain pen is dripping ink, ruining the fine leather of his left glove. 

“He didn’t know me. I knew he wouldn’t, not really, but he—he didn’t recognize me at all,” Ace tries to explain. He feels stupid and childish and ungrateful, but really he just has no idea what to do. Luffy doesn’t know him and doesn’t need him and how is he supposed to fill a place in that kid’s life that doesn’t exist anymore? “We’ll have to—to start over from scratch, but how? How are we supposed to make someone like Luffy care about people like us? He’s sunshine personified, and deserves to have everything he wants and the best this shitty world has to offer, and we’re just—two selfish idiots who couldn’t even take care of one little kid between the two of us.” The awful truth, delivered quietly: “Luffy doesn’t need us anymore. I can’t see why he’d want us around now.”

Sabo is watching him like something carved from marble. Ace would never tell him, because it would hurt his feelings in a way nothing else ever could, but there are times when Sabo looks every bit the nobleman his biological family wanted him to be. The line of his jaw and the fall of his hair and his deep set eyes are regal, especially when he’s focused, when he’s working through a problem, when he’s the last sane voice in a room and he’s waiting for the morons wasting his time to run out of breath. 

And then his eyes flicker past Ace’s shoulder, and his expression transforms. The breath leaves him in a rush like it was punched out of him, his lips parting, blue eyes widening in a way that seems to shave whole years from his face. 

Something causes him, impossibly, incongruously, to smile. 

“Would you put money on that?” he asks. 

“What? Yes,” Ace says, thrown off by the inappropriate lightness of his tone. He feels himself start to bristle defensively. “Are you even paying attention?” 

“One of us has to,” Sabo says, only smiling wider, and Ace feels sparks falling off his fingers in sheer aggravation as he turns around to see what is so—

He has three seconds at most to take in the sight of Luffy hurtling up the hill at top speed. It’s been years and years, but three seconds is all he needs. His arms remember how to reach out and catch him. 

“I waited where you left me, but you never came back!” Luffy shouts. “You can’t be mad! I waited and waited, and then I went out to find you instead! I didn’t remember you but I had to find you! I still don’t—I still don’t know some things—but I know it’s your fault for taking too long!” 

Sabo lurches over and Luffy’s rubbery hug wraps around them both and Ace is too shell-shocked by the last minute to do anything but hug back. 

Luffy shoves his face in Ace’s shoulder, and there’s a hot, wet smear of tears there. It gives away that Straw Hat Luffy, the pirate captain worth thirty million berries, is maybe not as grown-up as Ace had initially feared. 

Sabo presses his face against the crown of Luffy’s head, too overcome to do anything but hold him. The regal young man from moments ago is long gone. The one standing here with them is that street-rat from Dawn who knew the best places to steal food from, who always made sure they never went hungry, who once shrugged off his fine winter coat at the market and traded it to a vendor for a pair of sturdy boots for Ace and thick woolen mittens for Luffy. He had shivered all the way home, where there was an extra coat in the treehouse he could use, until Luffy had the bright idea that they should all bundle into Ace’s oversized cloak together for warmth and whined until Ace agreed just to shut him up. That had been the most annoying hike up Mount Colubo in history. It’s a memory that Ace cherishes beyond reason. 

Ace whispers, “Of course I’m not mad, Lu.” It’s been ages since he was that hostile, hateful little thing who would take a bite out of anything that dared to show its soft underbelly to him. He presses as close as he can, cheek to cheek with this piece of his family that’s gone missing for far too long, and adds, “You’ve never been obedient a day in your life. If I expected anything different, that’s on me.”

Luffy laughs, and it’s snotty and choked and pure music to Ace’s ears. The kid worms closer, makes himself smaller, and lets himself be held. 

He doesn’t need his brothers. His shoulders are broad, and his arms are solid and strong. He’s already made a name for himself, and even now those two friends of his are lingering watchfully further down the road—far enough away to give the respectful illusion of privacy, near enough to make Ace and Sabo’s day a living hell if they try anything fishy. It’s probably been a long time since he’s needed someone to hold his hand or carry him home. 

But if, by some insane, undeserved miracle, Luffy still wants them…

It’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s more than Ace has had in ten years. 

What one piece? he thinks, arms full and aching. I’ve got it all right here. 

[poorlittleyaoyao]

An Exhaustive Explanation For Why Qin Su Took Her Life Of Her Own Volition

(Or: For God's Sake, Please Just Let Her Have This One Thing)

Okay, so let's leave aside the fact that Wei Wuxian is an unreliable narrator. At the point in the novel at which he insists that Jin Guangyao must have forced Qin Su to kill herself somehow, Wei Wuxian has also insisted that Lan Wangji would totally hate it if he knew they'd made out while drunk. Let's also leave aside that Wei Wuxian himself will reassess his opinion of Qin Su's death later on, and IIRC says nothing about it either way in the drama, because the people who insist that JGY Definitely Killed Made Her Do That sure do. A narrator being unreliable doesn't mean we can't trust anything they tell us, after all; it just means we need to compare their views to outside evidence, the way you would with a primary source document.

AND WHEN YOU DO THAT

IT STILL MAKES ZERO SENSE

Picture all this from Jin Guangyao's standpoint. Let's assume for funsies that you don't care about your wife who is also your half-sister, and have no compunctions about killing her to keep the incest secret. Wouldn't you just... do that? Wouldn't you kill her the second that little paperman flies away and you hear the alarm?

"He obviously couldn't do that! The paperman saw her alive so it'd be weird if she suddenly was gone!" Yeah, and everyone at the cultivation conference saw her alive when they came into the treasure-and-torture room, and it would be even weirder if she suddenly stabbed herself to death in front of them.

"Ah, but he needed to know who sent her the letter! He can't afford to kill her!" Wow, hey, that's right! You, Evil Jin Guangyao, have just spent the preceding scene wheedling and then threatening Qin Su so she'll tell you who send the letter, and she stood firm the whole time! So forcing her to kill herself in front of everyone when she still hasn't told you that important piece of information would be PRETTY DUMB, wouldn't it? (Almost as dumb as giving her the opportunity to interact with all the people you're trying to keep the secret from, but hey, maybe it took you longer to hide da-ge's head than anticipated.)

"Maybe he'd given up on getting her to tell him anything so her killing herself was to divert suspicion away from him!" Okay, first of all, how is "your wife (whom nobody but you has seen recently) kills herself with no warning" going to make things look LESS suspicious? Second of all, things were going JUST FINE. You hid da-ge's head. People were buying your "this cursed cabinet is where I keep my former boss's soul-stealing knife" story. You haven't even subtly brought up Suibian to change the subject. The narrative misogyny means that nobody has directly talked to Qin Su and "of course my wife also hangs out in our house, lol" is flying just fine as an explanation. You had almost put out this fire! Why would you throw gasoline on it by making Qin Su kill herself?

Honestly, the smartest thing for you to do in this situation would be to knock your wife unconscious and move her to her sleeping chambers or a couch or something in the main part of the palace. That gets her out of sight and renders her unable to talk in a way that won't raise suspicions, and gives you the option of going "omg guyyys my wife is sleeping :( this totally unwarranted search of our home is gonna wake her up :(" to make people leave!

But, okay. Let's shift our perspectives here. Jin Guangyao has a history of making deranged choices when he's in Panic Mode. Maybe his brain short-circuited and, somehow, he decided that MAKE QIN SU KILL HERSELF IN PUBLIC was the best course of action. Wei Wuxian himself tells us that she wasn't under the influence of talismans or anything, so somehow Jin Guangyao convinced her to do this with his words. Never mind that we just saw Jin Guangyao deploy an ungodly combination of feigned ignorance, gaslighting, actual sincerity, veiled threats, and manipulation with zero impact. Somehow, he used his words successfully.

What could he possibly say?

Picture all this, now, from Qin Su's standpoint. Your entire world has been shattered. Your husband who is also your half-brother has been lying to you for your entire marriage, has done nothing to reassure you that he didn't murder your son, and has sealed your meridians to prevent you from fleeing. He then brought you into a secret room in your home that you didn't know existed and which, you discover, houses his sworn brother's severed head. All you know is that you cannot tell Jin Guangyao who gave you the letter because you're certain that he will have her killed. Shit's real fucked and you have nobody to help you.

Now every sect leader in the jianghu--including your husband's remaining sworn brother, your young nephew, and your nephew's maternal uncle--has shown up to search your husband's home. His top priority in this moment is quashing their suspicions so they leave him alone enough to regroup.

One of three things must be true for you.

1.) Your top priority is survival. You don't want to die. If you care about your reputation, you know that you're as screwed as he is if word of this gets out, and unfortunately the only way to survive is to play along with your husband's weird shit, at least for now. In that case, the best way to assure him that you're on his team is to help him assure the other sect leaders that Everything Is Normal And Fine. If you don't want to die, then you're not going to be susceptible to any insistence that you kill yourself.

2.) You're so furious that you don't care what happens to you or your reputation as long as you take Jin Guangyao down with you. In that case, you'd tell him whatever he wanted to hear and then IMMEDIATELY scream to the other sect leaders where Nie Mingjue's head is currently located, or you'd drop the incest bomb yourself hoping that the paperman is somewhere in that room and can back you up, or you'd grab that dagger and stab your husband, or some combination of all three! You're not going to quietly kill yourself at his request, because you've suffered enough for his bullshit!

"Well, maybe he didn't threaten her. She's going to be worried about Bicao and her father. Maybe he threatened one of them!" Yeah, maybe, but that's a threat to get someone to cooperate. You can't make sure they're still alive if you're dead! And if you're convinced that this guy has lied to you constantly for the past 10+ years, you're not going to believe him when he says"kill yourself and I'll be niceys to them." There is nothing at all that he could say to make her harm herself if she hadn’t been so inclined.

And that leaves

3.) You're in such despair that you actively want to die. You can never trust your husband again. You can never trust anyone again, honestly, because he wasn't the only person you loved who kept this secret from you. You don't trust that the other sect leaders will do anything to help you, just as your mother didn't trust that anyone would do anything to help her all those years ago. (When they barge into the palace and walk straight past you as though you were a piece of furniture, your distrust is confirmed.) Maybe, despite everything, you still love your husband too much to kill him. Maybe you fear that, without evidence, he will be seen as an innocent victim and you will be seen as his mad, murderous wife. Maybe you don't care what happens to anyone else, but you know that you don't want to deal with this anymore, and you are the only one you trust to help yourself escape it.

The tragedy of Qin Su is that she is never permitted to make a fully informed decision about her life. At least let her final action be something she knowingly chooses.

[talesofadragon]

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬

Summary: Like the ebb and flow of the tides, matters of the heart prove to be fickle. When love finds itself at a crossroads, each step forward holds the potential to either mend the fractured pieces or shatter the fragile bonds. As the path ahead becomes a dwindling maze of secrets and emotional infidelity, Y/N realizes that some promises need to be shattered for others to be forged anew.

Warnings: hurt/comfort

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader, Theodore Nott x Reader

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort

Word count: 1.9K

ACT TWO I miss what we never were.

Silver Promises Masterlist | All Masterlists

ACT ONE (You can also choose to read this part as a stand-alone)

“𝐈’𝐦 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧,” Y/N whispered in my ear, her words like a mantra that never ceased to fade. 

Hours ago, when I was forced to agonizingly watch Draco propose to her, I felt as though the entire Wizarding World lacked enough air to fill my lungs. I didn’t recognize who I was, losing parts of myself to the enmity I felt toward Draco, the compunction that gripped me as I realized I had no right to hate him at the moment, and to the wistfulness of having to watch my little sprite potentially become something I could never offer her. The privilege to become somebody’s wife, somebody’s jewel, somebody’s Y/N.

I didn’t think it could get any worse. In hindsight, Y/N's answer, be it acceptance or refusal, would’ve been more merciful than watching her eyes roll to the back of her head. If I couldn’t breathe before, the moment made sure I was on the brink of death.

One moment, Y/N was falling, and the next, my feet crossed the distance, completely ignoring Draco kneeling above her unconscious form.

Waiting for her to wake up was pure torture. Partly because the sight of her frail body twisted my insides and majorly because the thought that she might wake up and accept Draco’s proposal made bile rise in my mouth.

“You’re not, Y/N,” I reassured her while playing with her hair as her head rested against my chest. “Breaking up with him doesn’t mean you’re horrible.”

She didn’t respond, and I knew she had drifted away to the memory of her saying no.

After she had woken up, she asked to see Draco. He harbored a scowl during his entire time waiting outside, and had it not been for Pansy’s intervention, Y/N wouldn't have been the only one lying unconscious under a healer’s care.

The Malfoys didn’t take too kindly to my behavior either. Luckily, Narcissa had calmed Lucius enough, too worried about Y/N’s well-being to reprimand anyone.

Watching Draco be the first to cross the distance between the waiting hall and her room at St. Mungo’s was torturous. Waiting outside for them to finish the conversation was worse. But then Draco walked out, tucking the velvet box in his suit. His face, always the veneer of apathy, revealed nothing to anyone.

Silently, Draco asked his parents to leave. Narcissa followed, albeit bemused, with Lucius in tow. Immediately, and without thinking about her parents or our other friends, I marched into Y/N’s room, searching for that bloody ring. Perhaps it was selfish of me not to look at her first, but I knew my resolve would crumble if I laid eyes on her, knowing she would be Draco’s wife in a few months.

When I looked down at her beautiful, nimble fingers, the absence of the emerald filled me with enough relief to look at her bejeweled eyes. But my heart reverted to its broken state when I saw the tears welling up in them.

Before I could help myself, I pulled her tight and kissed her forehead. Her sad eyes lifted. With a gentle nudge to her nose with mine, I blurted the first words that came to mind, “I missed having you in my arms, little sprite.”

I looked at her after noticing the slip-up, and I swear I saw her eyes light up. It was an unspoken rule between us that whenever one of us got into a relationship, we would refrain from getting too close to the other due to several misunderstandings in the past.

Nonetheless, Y/N smiled. She snuggled deeper into my chest, placing a hand on top of where my heart supposedly lay. “I missed this more than you know, Theodore.”

My fingers absentmindedly found their way back into her hair, weaving in and out, making her heart and mine fall into the same rhythmic pattern. The side of my lips lifted slightly at the reminder of my name tumbling from her lips. While everyone called me Theo, the little minx opted to address me by my full name, claiming that she wanted something that was her own. The thought alone made me smile.

“Little sprite?” I ventured, and she hummed in response. “Why did you say no?”

She fiddled with the hem of my shirt.

Nervous. Y/N was nervous as she supplied in a meek voice, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

I scoffed. “Figures you’d answer a question by asking another one.” She gave me a glare as if to say, “I’m serious,” and that immediately shut me up. “Alright. I do,” I sighed, catching her gaze drifting to the bed sheets.

“When I was thirteen, you told me something. Do you remember what it was?”

“You have to be a bit more specific, love.” She shivered, and I had no idea if it was because of my voice, the unexpected nickname, or something else. But I wrapped my arms tightly around her regardless of the reason.

Y/N kept her gaze low, replying shyly, “You told me I was your soulmate.”

“You broke up with Draco and refused his marriage proposal because of something I said ten years ago?” I asked incredulously without a second thought.

She glared at me again, which made me immediately drop the judgment and, to put it nicely, shut the bloody hell up.

Y/N cleared her throat. “When I asked why you said that, you told me it’s because a soulmate is supposed to make you feel whole. They’re supposed to be the missing piece you subconsciously yearn for.”

“I remember that,” I nodded.

“I know you didn’t mean it romantically,” she quickly added. “But the thing is, you were right about how a soulmate makes you feel. And I guess I never felt that way with Draco.”

I never recalled seeing Y/N’s eyes shine bright when it came to Draco. He was... is her friend, too. We’d known each other since infancy. Yes, she was happy-ish, but whenever he hugged or kissed her, her eyes remained the same. And I know, more than anyone, that Y/N’s eyes change color whenever they light up with excitement or wonder. It’s not a noticeable change, just a slight color shift; perhaps that’s why no one other than me ever noticed it. Not even her.

She tugged on my shirt, pulling me away from my thoughts. “Draco can’t be my soulmate,” she admitted. I waited with bated breath to hear her reasoning. “I don’t love him. Not in the way I—" she cut her sentence short, unaware that I was on the edge of my seat. But then, she added determinedly, "Not in the way a lover does.” 

A part of me knew, but another part refused to believe it. Every time Draco told Y/N he loved her, I never once heard her say it back. She'd kiss him instead, a chaste peck on the lips that lasted two seconds at best. Whenever he pulled her in for a long kiss, she’d pull away and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, preferring to hide her face in the crook of his neck. I don’t even think they were intimate with one another; the thought alone made me want to punch that bastard in the face.

“You’re such a sap,” I blurted, earning a slap across my chest. “Ow! Stop harassing me!”

“Not until you stop making fun of my misery!” Y/N retorted.

“I’m not! I just don’t understand why you dated him if you knew you didn’t love him!”

“Because...” she started angrily, cutting herself off, the word hanging heavily between us in the silent night. “Because,” she stated calmly this time, “he was like a haven. He was honest about his love for me, and he is one of my best friends. Not like you, though! No one can be like you,” she whispered the last part, and my stomach flipped. “He’s a good person. But that’s not the kind of love I want.”

“You want a partner in crime,” I said matter-of-factly, taking in the soft gasp that escaped her lips. “Someone who wakes up at three in the morning and spontaneously apparates you to the top of the Eiffel Tower to eat the best croissants, undetected. Someone who isn’t afraid to distract the receptionist at a restaurant while you discreetly search her list for the guests who have a reservation, owl under their names, and cancel to get the table yourself.”

Y/N laughed, probably at the fact that I know her better than she knows herself. I tucked an errant strand of her hair behind her ear, memorizing the faint blush coating her cheeks. “But you also want someone who will welcome you home after a whirlwind of a day in the typical life of Y/N Y/L/N. And that someone could never be Draco.”

After moments of silence, with us staring at each other, she opened her mouth to speak. “Have you found her?” I raised an eyebrow, urging her to explain further. “Your soulmate. Have you found her?”

Something in her bright irises flickered. I couldn’t help but lean in to plant a soft kiss on her nose. She closed her eyes in response “I’ve been looking at her since I was fourteen.”

“Romantically, Theodore,” Y/N opened her eyes then. “That’s what I meant.”

“I won’t tell you before I tell her. It wouldn’t be right.”

She rolled her eyes while I smirked. “You’re insufferable!”

“I hope you know, little sprite, that leaving Draco was a brave thing.” She looked down at her lap, ashamed of the rejection she made our friend endure, disbelieving every word I told her. I hooked my fingers under her chin and lifted her face. “Your heart doesn’t beat for him, and even if you tried falling for him, I wouldn’t allow you to.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on her face, and I took that as a sign to caress her cheeks, coaxing out that smile I adore.

“I love you, Y/N. I hope you know that, too.”

I could see the familiar switch in color in her eyes, along with hesitation swirling in her irises. But she sighed, and the hesitation vanished. “I love you too, Theodore.”

I wondered if she loved me like I loved her, as I pulled her back to her rightful place in my arms and played with her hair. We stayed there for a couple of minutes before I felt her breathing even out. Glancing at the sleepy witch in my arms, my eyes drifted down to her hand resting on the bed sheets. Lost in our conversation, I hadn't realized our fingers had interlocked. The action was so second nature that I never questioned it. 

“You’re my soulmate,” I whispered, planting a soft kiss on the crown of her head. “I have lost you, and I have found you. And I’m never letting you go again, love.” The corner of her lips rose, giving me that sleepy smile I had missed so much. “I promise to make you my one and only. And no one will ever take you from me.”

I closed my eyes, my thoughts of her no longer just thoughts but reality. If there was one thing I missed more than having her in my arms, it was sleeping and waking up with her in them, always close to my heart.

Hi witchlings!! This marks the completion of this small two-shot! Although, for the first time ever in the history of my fics, the Silver Promises verse will remain open for extension. I plan to make this series a wealth of interconnected one-shots, linking back to the original two-piece storyline. I hope to come to this fic every once in a while to update it with snippets. So share with me your thoughts/ideas about any particular scene you wish to see before or after the story's main events via the owlery! 🩶

All-Works Taglist: @xxrougefangxx

Draco Taglist:@imabee-oralizard@ameliaphoenix@arcana-greenleaf@dittos-blog-dylanobrien@ye0nvibezzn

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Nothing is Black and White (Leonora Lesso x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Lesso never thought evil could have a soulmate. Luckily, you were there to prove her wrong

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: swearing, blood

The black fleck on Lesso’s cheek had been mocking her for the entirety of her life. She’d known, deep down in her blackest of hearts, that the black would never explode into a galaxy of colour over her cheekbone. True love was insipid and stupid and only for the good. Evil was not given a soulmate, only the tautening of the mark left unfulfilled on their skin.

It’s what drove evil to destroy the happiness of all those awful princes and princesses.

She swept out of her quarters, avoiding looking at any reflective surface. She’d done her best to avoid looking at herself since she’d arrived at the school all those years ago. All that did was make her stomach feel as if it was trying to escape her body.

The school was changing. Her lip curled up as she saw the sheer amount of pink now littering her halls. The smiles, all beautiful and kind. The way the dark and the light was beginning to curl around one another in her school.

So many fucking shades of grey.

She stormed through the halls, forgoing breakfast, making for her office. Students jumped out of her way, melting into the shadows to keep from feeling her wrath. She slammed the door to her office open, enjoying the way some of the students jumped.

Settled behind the desk, she could feel the power coursing through her veins. She lent back, surveying the paper work on her desk with a critical eye. Still in charge, still in control, this change of the system was not going to drive her crazy. She was better than that.

Her eyes flicked up when the door was opened, depositing a smiling Dovey in her lair, glancing over her shoulder. She sighed, placing her pen down, sentence unfinished, thought broken off. Her sigh was enough to bring the godmother’s attention to her.

“There you are,” she said, practically trilling it across the space.

“In my office,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every word, “how surprising.”

“When we didn’t see you at breakfast we began to worry you’d hauled another student down to your doom room,” she said.

“We?” She raised a singular eyebrow.

Her face fell as you walked in, the end of a laugh lifting your lips, making your eyes sparkle. The smile didn’t dim as those sparkling eyes landed on her and her blood froze in her veins. Because there was another reason just the thought of soulmates made her want to retch. And it was staring right at her.

“Did you need something?” she drawled, tearing her eyes away from you.

“I was wondering.” Her eyes darted up to you as you spoke, “if maybe I could sit in on one of your classes today? You’re so good at commanding a room.”

“You want to watch me teach?”

You nodded, bridging the space between her desk and the door. Dovey, always more reticent in Lesso’s space, hung back but you’d never had such compunctions. It was one of the things that infuriated her so much. The way that she seemed to scare of everyone but you. Where people kept their distance from her, you seemed to be drawn into her personal space.

“I know I’ll never manage to capture your whole…” Your eyes ran over her body then back to her face, “everything but if I watch I might be able to pick up on some tricks for my own classes.”

She considered you. Your smile was unmoving and your face was so open with hope. She wanted to crush it. That would destroy the odd feeling in her body, like her heart was growing too big for her chest. You in your stupid little dress and your pretty hair and your beautiful face.

“No.”

She turned back to her paperwork, assuming that would be the end of the discussion. Feet shuffled in front of the desk. She glanced up. You were still there, looking down at her, smile a little dimmed but no less alluring.

“Please,” you asked, and she could see what it would be to have you on your knees begging. Just the thought made her heart beat a little harder.

“What’s in it for me?” she asked.

The smile on your face settled more comfortably on your face. She stood, just as you began to make your way around the desk. You paused, eyes gliding up her body, lips parting before they stretched back into a smile.

“What do you want?” you asked.

Oh, how she could answer that question. With you standing in front of her, the only kind of want filling her mind was one that led to you screaming her name. Your eyes found hers and there was something so addictive in the way you looked at her. She scoffed.

“There is nothing you could give me,” she said, turning her head away from you.

“Are you sure?”

Her eyes flicked down to you again. Your teeth had sunk into your bottom lip, stopping that smile from spreading further. Her mouth grew dry at the sight, wanting to do the same until she tasted your blood. You were far too tempting, and you seemed to know it.

“Fine,” she snapped, “observe my class. But don’t come back afterwards.”

“Thank you.” You made it sound like she’d given you something more than permission to watch her teach, “oh.”

Your hand reached up, brushing against her cheekbone. She shuddered, something warm sparking from that touch. Her breath caught just for a moment. You held up your fingertip.

“Eyelash,” you said, “make a wish.”

She managed to drag her gaze down to it, eyebrows drawing together when she saw the dark lash resting on a rainbow on your skin. A horrifying realisation was dawning on her. She knocked it aside, snarling at you. Your eyes widened before you drew back, averting your gaze.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

“Get out,” she growled.

You nodded, turning on your heels, brushing past Dovey to leave. The other dean offered her a disapproving look before sweeping out of her office, closing the door politely. Lesso waited a moment, long enough to be sure you had left, that there was no chance of being interrupted again.

With a flick of her finger the door locked, ensuring no one would be able to surprise her as she did what she had to. She sat behind her desk again, hand rummaging through the drawer until her fingers closed around something small and cold. She pulled it out, leaning back in her seat as she spun the small hand mirror, considering it before she could bring herself to look into it.

If those colours meant what she thought they did… They couldn’t. There was no way.

She flashed the mirror up, reflecting her cheekbone back at herself. A splash of colour, small and insignificant if she couldn’t still feel your finger brushing over it, following the line of it exactly. She ran her own finger over it, her insides beginning to feel as if they were eating themselves.

Evil didn’t have soulmates. Just like they didn’t get true love. That was what made them evil.

She pressed her lips together. She had no idea if you’d noticed but she was going to do everything in her power to make sure you never did. She picked up the black pen from her desk, inking over the mark until it looked just as it had that morning.

She cursed you and your inability to do as everyone else did and keep your distance from her.

When you walked into her last class of the day, the unsettled feeling that had begun in her stomach when she’d looked in the hand mirror had grown into something intolerable. She needed it gone and she needed it gone now. But there you were, standing at the back of the room, that same smile on your face that made her heart beat fast and her skin feel warm. You straightened your spine when her eyes alighted on you.

“Keep quiet and don’t interrupt,” she snapped at you, slamming the door to the room closed.

She then spent the entire hour ignoring your presence hovering just on the periphery of her vision. It was as if you demanded her attention, desperate for her to remember the matching rainbow on your fingertip. She kept averting her face from you, refusing to give in to the tugging in her chest.

Because it was wrong. It had to be wrong. Evil wasn’t given a chance at happiness.

She ended the lesson, dismissing the students. With her back turned to the room she could listen to their chatter as they left, assuming you’d slip out with them. Silence descended and she let out a long breath.

A warm hand touched her shoulder, practically burning her through her coat. She spun, face turning into a snarl. You blinked up at her but didn’t flinch back the way any normal person would have. It left her feeling on the back foot.

“Watching you is like a masterclass in being the boss of a classroom,” you said and she had to do her best to not allow herself to bask in the compliment.

“You would be too if you were a better teacher,” she said.

You shouldn’t have laughed but you did.

“Ouch.” You were still laughing, “but I suppose that’s a fair assessment.”

She gave you what she thought was a withering look but you were still laughing. She could not understand you. You were like a puzzle that she hadn’t worked out yet, something to pull apart to see if she could put it back together again. She shouldn’t want to, but it burned through her veins with an intensity that was hard to ignore.

“So,” you said and she didn’t like the way your voice changed. Not so light and yet still playful, “are we going to talk about what happened this morning?”

She stiffened.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your smile turned indulgent and you took a step back, fingertips trailing over the surface of one of the small students’ desk. You looked away, turning your gaze to the chalkboard and the notes she’d left written on it but she got the feeling it was to give her privacy. She didn’t like that at all.

“Nothing happened this morning,” she growled.

“Okay,” you laughed.

“It didn’t,” she snapped.

You circled around her, fingers still trailing along the surfaces you passed until you were standing behind her desk like you were the teacher and she was the student. Something about it felt wrong and yet the way you were looking at her was also thrilling.

“So if a certain mark on my finger changed colour this morning, right after my meeting with you, you’d say that was nothing?” you asked, said finger resting on your chin in a mock thoughtful position.

“It could have happened any time,” she scoffed.

“It made me realise that we’d never had skin to skin contact before,” you said, beginning to circle back around the desk, “all this time and it’s not as frequent as the stories suggest. You keep everyone at arms length.”

“For good reason.”

You were advancing on her and she was backing up. Giving up ground was not something she enjoyed doing, but having you so close to her was also unacceptable. Her head never worked right when you were in her personal space.

“It makes me wonder if you’re afraid of finding your soulmate,” you said.

“I’m not afraid,” she snapped.

Her back hit the cool metal of the window. Your chin tilted downwards, eyes sparking when they met hers, lips curling up at the corners in the most enticing manner. Her breath left her as you closed the final foot of distance.

“Then why have you covered it up?”

She froze when your finger ran over her skin, in the exact same place as that morning. It still sent heat coursing through her veins. When it drew back she could see black ink staining your skin, hiding the colours she’d seen that morning. Your eyes flicked down to it then back to her.

“Well, would you look at that,” you murmured.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said but her voice had lost the edge she wanted.

“We can play this game of pretend for as long as you want,” you said, leaning towards her until she could feel your breath ghosting over her skin, “but you and I both know what this means.”

“No,” she growled.

Her hands landed on your shoulders, nails digging in and she spun you until it was your back against the window, pinned to it as she stared at you. You said nothing as her eyes roved over you, taking in all of you. Taking in everything. And you just let her.

She crushed her lips to yours, needing to take control back of the situation. But then you sighed into her mouth, and your hands pressed into her lower back, soft and sweet and she needed to stop it. Or else you’d drag her under and she’d drown.

Her teeth sunk into your lower lip, waiting for you to begin to struggle. Instead, you arched towards her, submitting as the coppery tang of blood coated her tongue and you whimpered. Your hands pressed her to you more insistently until there was no space between your two bodies.

“Evil doesn’t get soulmates,” she hissed into your mouth before you kissed her again.

“Then maybe you’re not as evil as you thought,” you murmured.

She kissed you again before the thought could burrow too far into her brain. With her lips on yours all thoughts faded away. It was so easy to focus on how soft you were, how malleable, how warm. When she was kissing you something within her chest ignited and she wasn’t sure she wanted to put it out.

“We’re not soulmates,” she groused.

You pushed her back, just a step. With your own blood smeared over your lips and your eyes blown wide you’d never looked so delectable. She just wanted to taste every inch of you.

“Keep telling yourself that,” you replied, “I’ll let you pretend whatever you want as long as you keep kissing me.”

“We’re not,” she insisted.

“Of course not.” You were smiling again.

“We’re…” You brushed your finger across her cheekbone again and her heart thudded hard enough to make her feel winded, “we’re…”

“Soulmates,” you whispered.

“Soulmates,” she echoed, more mouthing the word than vocalising it.

Your finger was still running along her cheekbone, following the line of her soul mark. She caught it, staring down at the swirl of colour. You held still as she considered it, taking in what the knowledge actually meant to her. She had a soulmate. It wasn’t a myth. Evil could have soulmates and she’d found hers.

You lent up on your tiptoes, lips softly brushing against her cheekbone, right over the mark. Her heart fluttered, such softness still strange to her. She couldn’t look away from you when you drew back. You were so beautiful it was almost physically painful.

So instead of telling you, she kissed you again, leaving you pinned to the window, her fingers in your hair, your arms around her waist. But she thought you might have known what she was thinking. And she thought you might have been thinking the same thing.