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pullhisteeth · 1 year

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classified | eddie munson x reader

summary at your wits end, you put an ad in the classifieds for a special kind of tutor. Eddie finds it and takes you up on the offer. (nsfw) [13k]

contains smut (18+ minors dni!) – p in v sex, oral (f receiving), lots of praise, virgin!reader, fem!reader, hurt/comfort. eddie's a sweetheart, fluff, first time turned something more (?).

author's notes this one's a long one! the idea made me laugh and then it took on a life of its own. I want to say this is meant to be somewhat lighthearted and is not a suggestion that anyone should be having sex if they haven't already – your body's yours, baby, do whatever you want! no one should ever make you feel rushed into anything!!! anyway Eddie is an angel and I want one. bye!

Eddie's not sure why he's reading the newspaper. Boredom, perhaps; he's been waiting for Wayne to get home from his shift for over an hour. He's thought about calling the plant, but the walk from the couch to the phone seems to be the perfect amount of time to convince himself that he's probably on his way home already.

It's the Hawkins Post. It gets delivered by a snot-nose boy on a bike every week, thrown far too hard at their tin front door. Wayne reads it some weeks, others it gets used to wrap his lunch. Apparently this one he'd read it, flicked through the pages half-heartedly before leaving it open on a centrefold about the local elections. Trust Wayne to get bored of small-town politics, Eddie thinks.

So he picks up where Wayne left off, slowly pulling the pages apart, skimming stories about the endemic of teen pregnancy, or columns about the rejuvenation plans for downtown Hawkins.

Finally, he reaches the only bit of the newspaper that Eddie has ever found interesting: the classifieds (and, on the back of the classifieds, the call-girl ads).

He skims them, eyes brushing past ads for cleaners, dog walkers, nannies. Finds the ones hidden at the bottom – the letters written in code, ads for attractive female friends and women seeking younger men. He's never actually interested in them, but they provide a glimpse into the underbelly of Hawkins, a small town that is, for all intents and purposes, entirely normal. But nowhere is ever truly normal, and Eddie likes to seize the opportunity to pry into the scandalous goings-on of his boring hometown.

He's reading one about swingers when the one beside it catches his eye. It's plain – whoever paid for it kept their costs to a minimum. All it says is:

WOMAN, 23, SEEKING FIRST TIME.

He stares at the bold ink, the statement in all caps that, despite being maybe the lowest cost ad in the whole paper – it's in a box about three inches tall in the very corner of the page – jumps out at him anyway. Underneath the title, it reads: young woman looking for judgement-free first time. Min. age 22, max. age 28. Must have experience. At the very bottom, in almost imperceptible print, is a phone number.

Eddie hadn't realised how close his face was to the page until he hears the familiar sound of Wayne's car pull up outside. He throws the paper down onto his lap and sighs before scrambling around to at least try to look casual, and not like all the blood has rushed to his face. In the few seconds he has between the sound of Wayne's car door closing and him coming up the stairs, Eddie tears the page out, folding it quickly and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans as he stands.

The door opens just as he gets to his feet, and Wayne comes trudging in with his steel lunch pail and heavy boots.

"Hey, Wayne," Eddie says, breathless, trying his best to sound level. Wayne eyes him as he closes the door, before turning to dump his stuff on the table.

"C'mon, kid, you promised me a burger."

The piece of newspaper stays in Eddie's pocket for three more days.

Wayne had been late getting home – something came up, but Eddie wasn't listening too hard, brain on that stupid ad instead – so their weekly trip to Benny's had run until the early hours of Friday morning.

And then Friday was work and Hellfire, which Eddie still leads despite having graduated two years ago, and this time the kids kept him going for hours. By the time he got home he hadn't even thought about the page before crashing into bed.

And then Saturday is family day, as Nancy puts it. Eddie had woken up late, rolled out of bed into the freshest clothes he could find, and into his van to act as bus driver for the morning. His little gaggle of unruly teenagers crammed into the back of it one by one, laughing and teasing and shouting. Steve's home became louder and still, Eddie relished in that feeling of peace he gets once a week with all these misfits he calls friends.

By Sunday morning, the newspaper had been long forgotten in the pocket of his jeans that he'd left in a pile on his bedroom floor. He's laid on his back on his bed, head dangling off the edge, puffing mindlessly on a spliff he'd rolled for himself two days ago that had also been forgotten. The room's a little fuzzy round the edges, just the way he likes it, the sunlight creeping warm paws up his arms. It smells funny in here, he thinks, so he turns over, pushes himself off the bed, and reaches up to open his window. On his way back to his bed, he trips on something, landing with a huff as his ribs hit the corner of the mattress.

"Fuck," he hisses, reaching down to pull the culprit off the floor. It's just an old pair of jeans, so he throws them into the corner, out of the way, and resumes his position, splayed out across the bed.

From this angle, with his head hanging upside down, he spots something by the pile of denim he'd just discarded.

His brain's ticking over slowly under the haze of being stoned, but after a second he realises what it is, and clambers all too quickly off the bed and across the room.

Maybe it's that haze, coating his brain with thick fog; maybe it's the fact that, in the year since he graduated, he's had to settle for quick fucks behind the Hideout after a gig; or maybe, just maybe, it's dangerous curiosity.

Whatever it is, something motivates him to move through his room, down the narrow corridor into the kitchen. There's something hijacking his limbs, and it reaches up to the phone on the wall. With eyes on the page in his hand he spins the dial, listening to the tone as it rings, rings, rings.

The longer he stands there, the more convinced he becomes in his intoxicated miasma that this is some kind of prank; he's going to be met with a stupid kid on the other end, laughing at him for bothering to call at all.

When he finally decides that this is just that, a practical joke, the line clicks. There's a low buzz on the other end, so low he thinks maybe the line just went dead, but then a voice.

"Hello?"

He's taken aback by the sound of it, but not so much that he doesn't notice the sleep coating it. Despite his stupor, he can't help but apologise.

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you?"

"Who is this?" You're sharper now, coming to, and he kicks himself for fucking this up already.

"Oh, shit, uh, sorry. I called about… I got this number, uh, in the paper."

"Fuck," he hears you whisper. He's not sure if he was supposed to hear it. He feels bad.

"Sorry, I'll go, this was-"

"Look, I put that age range in the ad for a reason. I'm sick of gettin' calls from middle aged men, I-"

"I'm twenty-three."

You're silent on the other end for a moment, but he can hear your breath hitch.

"Well, shit," you finally say. "Y'don't sound it."

He laughs an awkward, stilted laugh, unsure what to say.

"Sorry, I've had so many guys – men, old men – callin' me up, tryin' to flirt with me down the phone, I just… The ad was a mistake, clearly."

He likes the way you talk. You've got a pretty voice.

"Uh, thanks," you say.

Shit.

"Fuck, sorry, did I say that out loud?" Moron.

You laugh, the sound fizzing down the telephone line, and it eases some of his insecurity.

"I'm sorry," he says, starting fresh. "I'll leave you be, have a good-"

"Wait," you bite, and he can hear you shuffling around. "Wait just a sec, I- fuck, where the fuck is it? I… Sorry, can you just wait for a second?"

"Sure, sure," he murmurs, trailing off when he realises you've set the phone down. He listens to the faint sounds of you rummaging around and swearing under your breath. He must look like an idiot, stood in his kitchen, smiling at his phone, waiting for a stranger he found in the paper.

He hears you coming back, footsteps getting louder, before you pick the phone back up.

"Y'still there?"

"Yeah," he laughs. You speak to him like he's an old friend and it keeps catching him off guard.

"Okay," you say. "Here's the thing. I put that stupid ad in the paper because I was sad, and my life has been a misery since then, because literally every guy who's called me has been, like, at least forty, which some people are into I guess but I'm not, and- Sorry."

You're rambling, stumbling over your words even though he can tell you're trying to be professional or something. He stays quiet and hopes you'll keep going.

After a beat, you say, "I guess, 'cause you called, you'd be up for it?"

"Uh, well," he stammers. "That's kinda why I called. Care to explain what it is you want, exactly?"

He's not sure where the sudden confidence has come from; maybe the weed's wearing off.

"Okay, yeah," you breathe. "So, uh, my plan, I guess, was that I'd… You'd take, uh, my virginity."

You almost whisper the last part, like it's some kind of slur, and Eddie can't help but laugh on the other end.

You start to sound exasperated, frustrated, so he tries to claw you back.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just so… frank."

"Well, bein' all coy about it hasn't really worked out for me so far."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Okay," he says, trying to ignore the excitement bubbling inside him. You're a stranger, he's a stranger, and this whole thing is kind of weird. Shit, he thinks. Am I a perv?

"How do you want to do this?"

"Well," you start, sounding like you've got this part planned out. "First I need to know you're not gonna murder me or something, so I'll give you an address near my house but not at my house, and we can meet there whenever… and, uh, what year were you born?"

"What?"

"Just… So I feel a bit more sure you're actually twenty-three."

"Hah, okay. 1965."

"Okay, sweet. You got a pen?"

"Shit, yeah, one sec."

His eyes dart around the room. With the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he moves as far as the cord will let him, to a drawer by the front door. At the back there's an old pencil and some scraps of junk mail.

"Got it!" he declares, too enthusiastic but it makes you giggle so he laughs too.

"Okay," you start, and you tell him an address he vaguely recognises, closer to the nicer side of town, halfway between here and where Steve's house is.

"It's a park, kind of. It's pretty public anyways, so if you were, y'know, planning to kill me or whatever, don't bother."

"I'll take that off the to-do list," he tells you through a smirk.

"Very funny," you say, your sentence half-formed like you can't find the words to finish it. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Eddie. Munson."

"Okay, Eddie Munson," you say before telling him yours and deciding that you'll meet him later that day. You tell him it's easier that way, that you can't bear to have to wait all week, sitting on the nerves that might make you change your mind.

That's exactly what Eddie does all afternoon. You'd decided on six that evening, when it's still light but late enough that you both have time to back out, and so he sits, stoned out of his mind on both weed and the phone call, feeling something he's rarely felt before.

It's like cola in his gut, bubbling and frothing every time he tries to move. Is this what people feel when they say they have butterflies? Because it doesn't really feel like that; it feels instead like the madness inside him is floating upwards, fizzing around his heart, prodding and poking at it at uneven rhythms. His mind is reeling, too; he hadn't really thought this through at all. What if, even after that call, you're still planning on playing some kind of trick on him? What if this is an elaborate scheme to publicly humiliate him? Maybe you get a kick out of that kind of thing.

There's another thing, creeping around at the back of his mind, lurking. It's that horrid hopefulness, the what if that feels so far from likely that if he lends too much time to thinking about it, he feels stupid.

What if you're great?

He shakes himself out, standing up off his bed. He'd been lying there for the past two hours, sobering up, dwelling on every detail of the call, lingering in particular on your voice and your laugh and the way you say sweet so often.

He doesn't know who you are. He didn't recognise your name when you told him, even though you're his age. He didn't recognise your voice either, but he likes it, and he wasn't lying when he (accidentally) told you it's pretty.

He looks at the clock beside his bed. The red numbers flicker as they change to 16:52.

One hour.

He's early.

It's ten to six, and he's early.

The sun's low but not gone yet, and the park you sent him to is actually kind of nice. He's in his van, waiting until it's a socially acceptable time to get out and wait for you. What is the socially acceptable time to get out and wait for the girl you've got an agreement like this with?

Before he can decide, he sees someone. They're in jeans and a jacket, red Chucks and hair lifting up in the breeze.

Without thinking about it too hard, he opens the door and hops out, slamming it a little too hard. The person looks over, catches his mop of hair over the top of the van, and stops walking.

"Eddie?"

He hears you call his name over the sound of his boots crunching on the ground as he rounds the front of the van. He looks over to find you, the person he saw walking over, looking at him with your hand at your brow, blocking the sun.

You're pretty – really pretty. He still doesn't recognise you, but he has decided that's surely for the best.

You don't recognise him, either, but he's hot. He's not what you expected; truthfully, you really had expected someone older, lying about their age to get in your pants, someone you'd have to turn down in this very public space, going back to your apartment alone and unsatisfied. This is not what you had in mind at all, but you're not mad about it.

As he comes towards you, you watch the way he walks, chest-first like he's exactly where he should be. His hair's long and a bit wild but it matches his style – ringer tee, messy black jeans, obnoxious denim jacket. He's got his hands in his pockets but when he lifts one out to wave at you awkwardly, you see the rings and know you're a goner.

You wave back, laughing lightly as he nears you. He's taller than you so you really have to squint to see him against the setting sun.

"Hey," he says softly. His voice is even nicer in person; he does sound older than he is, and he has an air of maturity about him, like he's too sure in himself to be 23, but there's also a boyishness somewhere underneath that endears you.

"Hi," you reply. "You're Eddie, right?"

He looks around himself, head whipping back and forth.

"No, doll," he says, looking at you with a blank face. "I'm Keith."

"Oh," you say, trying to hide the flush in your cheeks and the way your face drops, but then he laughs and reaches out to hold your shoulder.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke." He squeezes. "Yeah, I'm Eddie."

You choose to ignore the overly familiar touch and the way it sends your knees all funny, and instead you laugh, a little awkwardly, and hold out a hand.

"Nice to meet ya," you say, firm.

He looks down at your hand as he drops his own from your shoulder. His eyes move between it and your face, but he shakes it anyway.

"Well?" he asks, and you watch as he smirks, staring you down, his hand still in yours.

"What?"

"Do I look like a serial killer? Scared I'm gonna murder you?"

With those final words he pulls on your hand, bringing you closer to himself. His confidence is only making that funny feeling in your knees worse, but what you don't know is that he's bluffing; before you stands a terrified boy struck dumb by a pretty girl.

"Hm," you hum, dialling up the dramatics to ponder his appearance. You take the chance to scan your eyes up and down his body, taking in the scuffs on his shoes and the pretty silver chain around his neck. From here you can smell weed and cigarette smoke, pretty aftershave and something deeper. "I don't think so."

"Damn," he quips, finally releasing your hand to run his own through his wild mass of hair. "I was really tryin' to look scary."

"You didn't do a very good job," you tell him, laughing softly, and he looks at you with a smile.

"Oh well," he says. "Maybe next time."

Ignoring the way that makes you feel, you take his hand again. It's your turn to pull him, dragging him behind you. The move startles him and he drags his feet for a moment before catching up, refusing to let go of your hand when you try. He swings them between your bodies theatrically as you walk him across the park, through a line of tall oak trees and onto the street on the other side.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "We goin' to your parents' or somethin'?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head slightly with your eyes on the ground. You drop his hand and stuff yours back in your pocket. "I have an apartment, up by Main Street. This's just a shortcut."

"Oh."

You don't say much more after that. The walk is short; you were right, this is a shortcut to Main Street, one even he didn’t know about. It takes you past Steve's house, and Eddie prays he doesn't happen to be looking out the window at this precise moment.

You live above the pharmacy. You scramble with the lock for a moment, so he stands behind you, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around; it's quiet, the usual lull of a Sunday evening, the sun lower than before. He looks at the back of your hair and the way the light catches in it, hears the low curses under your breath as you struggle with the door. And then it's open, and you're inside in the dark, and he has to bring himself back down to Earth.

Your apartment is small. Behind the door there's a narrow staircase, and at the top another door. It brings him into your living space, which is cramped but clearly well-loved. You offer him a drink and step into the kitchen when he says yes.

He lets his eyes pass over the room. The ceiling is low, reminiscent of his own home, though the walls are more solid than the trailer. They're painted a muted, pale blue, a colour he's sure you didn't choose because you've covered as much of them as you can in things: paintings, framed photographs, postcards. The furniture is more to your taste, he assumes. It's all soft, rich greens and pinks.

You bring him a beer as he sits on the couch, sinks into the cushions, toes off his boots.

"Thanks," he says as you pass him the bottle and take a swig of your own. You take your own shoes off and leave them by the door, hanging your jacket on a hook there too.

"So," you begin, padding back over to him and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. "I don't know how this works."

"Well," he says, turning to you with one arm up on the back cushions, "I can talk you through it, but I need t'know where you're at."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, how far have you gone before? How far do you want to go today?"

"Uh-" You shuffle, squirming into the couch, clearly looking for the right words. "I've never… This is as far as I've ever got."

He breathes a gasp though he's trying to hide it, trying to stick to the agreement of judgement-free. "You've never been kissed?"

You just shake your head and the way your face creases, brows turned down, makes him ache.

"Okay."

"And I want to go all the way," you say quickly, all in one breath, finding your words. "Not too far, no extra shit, like, kinky shit, but the standard."

"O-kay," he says again, smiling this time. "So you know it's not as easy as… As in and out, right?"

"Yes," you spit. He flinches. "Sorry, it's just… It's hard not to feel a bit, like, insecure about all of this. Makes me a bit defensive, I guess."

"It's okay," he soothes, and his tone really does make you feel better. "No judgement here. I'm not new to sex, but I'm just as new to this whole… situation as you are."

"Okay," you sigh.

"Why don't we just chat for a bit? I'm not in a rush if you're not."

"Yeah," you agree. Eddie is easy, you're finding; no dancing around the point, but you feel you're being handled gently. Exactly what you want.

"So did you grow up here?"

Okay, so maybe the 'chatting' suggestion was a bit of a façade for the fact that Eddie has found himself fascinated by you, even in the short time he's known you. Sure, it's only been ten minutes if you're not counting the phone call, but there's something about you that piques his interest. And, if he's honest, he's not sure why he wouldn't recognise someone his own age in Hawkins.

"No, no," you say, leaning over to put your beer on the table. You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand. "I'm from Illinois."

"Why are you here then?" He takes your que and puts his own beer down too, deciding that being intoxicated probably isn't the best idea.

"I dunno," you say, sighing again. Your shoulders go lax as you let yourself sink backwards and look up at the ceiling. "I wanted to go somewhere new, but not somewhere big. And the middle school here was hiring a tech assistant, so I applied."

"And you got the job?"

"Uh-huh. I start in September, figured I'd just move here early, try to find my feet."

"How's that going?"

"Alright, mister questions." You laugh as you say this and sit up, looking at him again with a smile. "It's going okay so far. People are friendlier here, but I haven't exactly found my people yet."

He hums, nodding, and you say, "My turn."

He looks up at you. "Do your worst."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Kind of. Somewhere near here, til I was eleven."

"Why'd you move here?"

"Hah." He goes all rigid and awkward at your question, shrugging his jacket off with his eyes on the ground. You take note of the ink you can see crawling up to his neck under the collar of his shirt. There's something else there, too; something pale and stretched, like a scar.

"It's complicated." That's the answer he settles on, keeping his cards close to his chest. "But I moved in with my uncle when I was in middle school. Been here since then."

"Is that why you're still here? Your uncle?"

"Kind of, but that's also complicated."

"Wow, okay, is everything complicated with you?"

"It doesn't have to be," he says. It throws you for a loop, the way his voice has dropped, fried and kind of… sexy?

You find him looking at you, and suddenly he feels really close. You feel this urge to climb out of yourself, away from this situation that isn't for you; it's never for you. No one has ever wanted to get this close.

"You okay?" he asks, his friendly tone back.

You're grateful he seems to be able to read you so quickly.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's okay. If you want to, y'know, stop this at any point, just let me know, okay?"

"We haven't even-"

"Will you?" he presses.

"Yes," you promise him. He looks back at you like he's waiting, yearning for something and you don't quite know what.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Mm-hmm."

"Why are you so far away right now?"

He's gone soft, leaning forward toward you, his arm still up on the back of the couch. Your eyes flicker to his fingers and the rings on them, the way they're sparkling slightly in the dipping sun coming through the window.

It fills your mouth with glue. The combination of his proximity and the question leaves you breathless.

"I just…" he continues. "You're hiding from me over there."

He's got a sticky smirk on his face, like he knows the answer and knows you don't want to tell him. He shuffles forward ever so slightly, letting you breach into his space if you want to.

You do, you really, really do – he's a kind stranger, doing a kind thing for you, even if it is a bit odd. You want nothing more than to relinquish yourself to him, and yet you can't.

There's a momentary staring contest between the two of you. The couch feels miles long and yet he's closing in. You feel suffocated.

"I'm gonna come to you," he says after a minute. "Is that okay?"

All you can do is nod at him. It's like your body's on fire, affronted at the idea of being touched by him and yet harbouring some primal urge, deep under the surface, to let him do it anyway.

He pushes his jacket onto the floor with his elbow as he moves himself down the couch toward you. Your eyes follow his arms and the way they stretch, and then the way one of them lifts. He plants his hand firmly on your knee and it burns through the denim of your jeans. You can't tear your eyes from it, staring blankly at his fingers, the way the tendons flex when he squeezes.

"We don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna do, okay?" he tells you. He's watching you, how you're watching his hand, how your hair still lights up in the sun. You're sweet, and pretty, and most of all he longs to know more.

"I'm gonna talk you through it," he continues, "kinda like a teacher, if that's what you want."

When you don't reply, he calls your name softly, and says, "Is that what you want?"

You look up at him and nod again.

"I need to hear it, sweets."

You tell him yes, that is what I want, trying desperately to keep your voice as level as possible, not letting on that it kills you every time he uses a petname like that.

His fingers dance up your thigh and back down to your knee, a repeating pattern that sends you dizzier the closer he gets to you.

"Eddie?"

His hand stills and he looks at you.

"Yeah?"

When he responds, you feel his breath on your face. He's close enough, now; you can really look at him, at the crow's feet by his eyes, the freckles across his cheek, the bend in the bridge of his nose that looks like maybe he broke it once. His eyes are really pretty, browned sugar and syrup, flitting around as he tries to read you.

"I've never been this close to anyone before."

He's watching your eyes as they move over his face, admiring the slight sense of awe in them.

"That's okay."

There's a sudden absence on your leg where his hand leaves it and it aches, like the bone is realigning. You swallow a whine and close your eyes when his hand finds your cheek.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he whispers. "That okay?"

You nod again and he lets the pads of his fingers smooth backwards into your hair where they take root, his thumb beside your eye. You feel him pull you in and his breath on your nose and then the strange sensation of his lips.

It's new but not unwelcome. He's soft with it, light as anything and quicker even, gone before you really know it's happened. Some kind of sudden urge takes over, though, because you don't like how quick it was, so you chase him. You plant your lips back on his, firmer than he had, your nose nudging his as you get the angle right. This one's longer and it startles him; you have to pull back when he starts laughing.

"Alright, alright, slow down," he says as you sit back, deflated. "You liked that, huh?"

You nod, giddy, desperate to feel it again.

"Can I show you somethin'?" His hand is on your neck now, burning its fires once more, and you can barely concentrate on him.

"Yeah," you breathe, a sigh of relief as he comes closer again. But as you close your eyes, expecting his mouth on yours, you can't help the whine that escapes when he misses, landing beside it. You feel him chuckle, a puff of air out of his nose, before he dots more kisses along your jaw. It feels nice, gentle and slow, like he's scared to break you if he goes too fast or comes on too strong.

The whine, lingering in your throat, moulds into something like a sigh – or even a moan – when he makes it onto the column of your throat. You swear you feel his teeth graze the skin there, lips following them over your pulse. His kisses turn hotter, heavier, and you can't help the way you keen into him. Without thinking about it, you paw at his shoulders and let your back arch as you breathe thick pants into the air of your living room.

When he pulls back again, you whine his name, gripping tighter where you've pulled his shirt into your fists. He laughs at you, head tipped back, as he smooths his hands up and down your arms; the gentle touch makes you relax and your hands unfurl.

"Good, huh?" His words are viscous, thick with want, but he daren't go too fast.

"Mm-hmm," you agree, nodding, breathing quick. Now that he's stopped, you have time to consider that, actually, you might be a bit overwhelmed; without thinking about it you sit back, returning to your comfortable distance by the arm of the couch, watching as his face falls.

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I just-"

"Yeah, take a second."

"Mm-hmm, just need a minute."

You watch him stiffen, awkward in the wake of the moment, and take the chance to admire him a bit more until you sense his eyes are back on you, and suddenly you feel very small.

"You alright?"

You nod, looking back at him, finding his face all soft and concerned, turned down so it makes you twinge.

"You're being so nice to me," you say. It comes out more as a breath, a string of words tied together with insecurity, all in the same exhale. You're not even sure you said it at all, but his face twists into something like shock.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh. "I dunno, I… You're just being very… kind. Are you always like this?"

He seems taken aback by the question. His hands are in his lap where his left fingers toy with the rings on his right. He looks away from you to stare instead at the beer on the table and the drop of condensation running a race down the neck of the bottle.

"You've really never done this before, huh?" he asks you, and now it's your turn to be taken aback.

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're getting at," you say with perhaps a bit too much venom.

"No," he responds, stern. "I'm just… Finding it hard to believe. I'm sure it's true," he says quickly when you open your mouth to fire something quick at him again, "like, I know you're not lying, but it's so surprising."

"How so?"

He sighs this time. He twists in his seat to face you, bringing one leg up under himself, the other dangling off the edge of your couch. "I'm gonna be honest with you right now, if that's okay."

"Okay."

"'Cause I feel like that's the best way to do this whole… thing, right? Nothin' in it for you, really, if we're not honest, or whatever…"

For the first time since you met him in the park, he's showing his nerves. It gets him all wound up, stumbling through sentences like the words are quicker than he can keep up with. It's endearing, really; nicer in some ways than confidence.

"When I saw that ad it obviously caught my eye, I mean, I called, but I just didn't know what to expect, obviously, and you're… Well, you're… normal? So far, anyway." He huffs the last three words out in a laugh, but you don't return it.

"What does that mean?"

"I just think I expected someone who puts an ad like that in the paper to be weirder, or something."

Your gut twists. Red flares of anger lick up your insides, popping and wheezing in your throat.

"What the fuck, dude?"

You stand, backing away, feeling that familiar creeping isolation; distance, walls up, get away. His face has dropped to something wider, fear in his big stupid brown eyes and mouth agape.

"I didn't-"

"I'm not weird for being a virgin. And just because you think I'm 'normal' doesn't mean this-" you gesture between the two of you with both hands, "-should be surprising."

"No, shit, sorry," he pants, desperation oozing, "fuck."

"I think you should go," you finally say. Your arms are across your middle, hands gripping your forearms. You don't dare look at him, even when he says nothing.

You flinch when you feel him come nearer. He steps over the threadbare rug on your floor and over to the corner where you've parked yourself.

He calls your name and you despise the way you soften at the sound of it.

"I'm gonna touch you, 's'that okay?"

You scoff, turning away from him.

"Stop fucking patronising me, Eddie."

"I'm not patronising you. You wanted me to talk you through it."

"Yeah, that. Not this."

"This is part of that."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Well this isn't getting me very turned on," you spit, turning back to look at him, your arms still crossed over your chest and the rising fire of anger flares when you find that cocky smirk on his face.

"Will you come sit down with me? Please?"

His hands are hovering awkwardly between the two of you, forbidden to come any closer but refusing to give up completely. You offer him an olive branch, dropping your own arms and taking his hand in yours.

He walks you back to the couch and sits beside you, turning your hand over in his on his lap. You both watch it, the way his thumb grazes your palm, tracing the lines up and over.

"Sex isn't just sex, you know," he says frankly. "Even when it's like this."

"I know," you whisper, eyes transfixed.

"It's about all the emotional shit too, and I'm gettin' the feeling there's a lot of that to get through."

"Mm-hmm." It irks you, the way he seems to know you without really knowing you. "You sound very wise."

He laughs at that, and you find yourself grateful for the reprieve, for the way the tension seems to lift just a little.

"I'm just being honest," he admits through a laugh. And then he turns to look at you, dipping his head to meet your gaze because you won't look up. His gaze on you is oppressive, unfamiliar, but you don't dislike it.

"You're really pretty, you know."

You just look at him.

"Hm?" he tries, dipping even lower to catch your eye properly. "It's true."

"A boy's never called me pretty before," you admit, words too quick for you to call them back. This is dire, this hole you're digging; after all this time, being honest is still so difficult, though it seems to come so easily to him.

"That's a crime" he says. And then he does that thing, the one you've read about in books, daydreamed about, thought about late into the night. He brings his hand to your face and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, a light pressure but enough to move you to look up at him, sat upright, with your mouth dropped open in shock.

It's just as electric as you'd imagined; more so, even. Two points of contact. Who'd have thought it?

"I'm sorry I said something stupid," he tells you. "It was dumb."

You giggle as his fingers shift across your skin. Soon enough he's holding you in his hand again and you feel yourself leaning into it, again.

"Thank you for apologising," you say. "I think I can forgive it for now."

"Good," he says. And then, more coy, the act dropped for a moment, "Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes, but…"

Just like before, the words stall in your throat.

"You can tell me what you want, you know. It's why I'm here." Christ, his voice is like honey when he's this close to your face.

You pull a long breath in through your nose and close your eyes.

"I have this… fantasy," you begin, and you hear (and feel) him chuckle.

"Go on."

"I guess it's not really a fantasy, just something I've always wanted to try…"

"That's the definition of a fantasy."

"Hey," you scold, opening your eyes and swatting him on the arm softly. "You wanna hear it or not?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, laughing again. "Continue."

"Can I sit on your lap?"

"Is that it?" he asks, laugh lingering, threatening to fire up the heat in your cheeks.

"Yes," you say pointedly. "I wanna try it."

"Go for it, baby."

He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the nickname; in fact, he smiles, grins almost. He moves his hands down, leaving your face for now so he can hold your waist as you move onto your knees and lift one over him.

It's funny, you think, how hard all of this feels; really, this is a very normal thing for two 23-year-olds to be doing, and yet something within you makes it feel mechanical, intentional. Perhaps you just need practise.

"Okay," he says as you settle, your hips halfway down his thighs. "You gonna get any closer, or am I gonna have to lean over an' break my back?"

"Am I okay to get closer?" you ask, not taking much notice of how your fingers are dancing around his chest, toying lightly with the chain around his neck. Maybe it does come naturally after all.

"'Course you are, here-"

His big hands pull you in by the waist so that you're seated on him, hips to hips. Your faces are closer now, too, so you can admire those lovely crows feet again and the bend of his nose.

"Gonna kiss me, Munson?"

"O-kay," he says, smirking again. "I like the attitude."

"Oh, for fu-"

He shuts you up with a kiss, takes your breath away like they all say in the magazines; this kiss brings the fire up to the hilt, pulls on the smoke and the kindling and sets everything ablaze. His lips move against yours like molten gold, hot and rich and bright, quick but tender all the same. You feel the heat of his stuttering breaths on your cheek and lean inwards, arching your back slightly, until you feel him moan.

It's a sensation you could get used to, for sure. It's fizzy vibrations on your lips, makes them tingle, all electric. And then, before you can really know it's happening, you feel his tongue on yours.

You're not even sure when you opened your mouth for him. But it's there, the new feeling. It feels wetter, less familiar, but it pulls an involuntary moan out of you and you arch your back even more without thinking.

You get into it, into the rhythm, and let your mind wander to the friction between your hips and the pressure of his fingers under your ribs. They're skirting the hem of your top, his ring finger dipping beneath it onto the skin of your waist. And then you think about it too much, take notice of it too acutely, and you're pulling back and panting, looking down at where his hands are.

"All good?" he asks in a voice that's new to you; it's lazy, his words fuzzy, like he's just woken up. You look up at him and his eyes are hooded, lids low, and he's wearing a dopey half-smile.

"Yeah, just… Feeling lots of things," you say; it's all you can think of to explain this.

"That's kinda the point," he reminds you, and then he's doing that thing he showed you earlier, kissing slowly across your jaw and down onto your neck. It feels just as nice the second time; nicer, even, because you're letting him do it and you're letting yourself enjoy it.

His fingers venture upwards, more of them sliding under your top, until he pulls back and says the fateful words you knew would come soon: "Can I take this off?"

His lips are still on your throat, so he doesn't see the way you wince. When you don't reply he comes back up to look at you. You turn away.

"Hey," he coos, one hand leaving its treacherous territory to hold your head again. "What's up?"

You huff. "No one's ever seen me… naked before."

He smiles, which vexes you. "I'm here 'cause I wanna, baby."

The fucking nicknames.

"I know, I just… Can you just-"

You hold his hand in yours and move it away from your skin, hold it in both of yours to keep it away from you. He breathes an apology but you continue.

"This whole thing, me never doing this before or whatever, I think it's probably got a lot to do with me not really liking this-" you look down at yourself as you speak, "-very much."

You see him take this in, how it melts his features and widens his eyes.

"Okay," he finally says. "We can take this slow, yeah? You wearing a bra?"

"Yes, Eddie, I'm wearing a bra."

"So let's start there. Top off first, and you can see how you feel."

"Okay."

You let go of his hand and he takes your shirt in both. You close your eyes as you feel him lift the fabric, bunch it around your breasts, your que to lift your arms. You do it for him and he pulls up, tugs it messily over your head and throws it somewhere across the room.

"Shit," he hisses.

"What?" you say in a panic, worried something somewhere has gone horribly wrong.

"Look at you," he croons. "So pretty."

The insecurity evaporates, coming off you like a heavy mist, as he dips his head to kiss your collar bones and across the swell of flesh beneath. He takes his time, sometimes pulling the skin between his teeth but never for long enough to leave a mark. At some point he nudges you back and reaches over his head to pull his own shirt off; before he commits, he looks at you. You nod.

This is the most flesh-on-flesh you've ever felt before. It's nice; you're both warm, and he hasn't once mentioned the eighteen thousand different flaws you know are on your upper body.

His is covered in ink – pretty, often in swirling patterns and on his arm there are bats. But between them, there's confirmation of your earlier suspicions: he's got scars everywhere.

You trace them with gentle fingers.

"Don't ask," he says, laughing awkwardly.

"Okay."

You lean back in to kiss him. You��re a lot less confident than he is at initiating, but soon enough you get the hang of it, and he lets you. He doesn't take the reins; instead, he gives himself to you, lets you find your feet by yourself.

You attempt to copy him, kissing his jaw and then his neck, and you enjoy the way he sighs and relaxes under your lips.

As you move further down, teeth grazing his collarbone, he says, "you wanna move? Couch isn't exactly ideal."

You finish your work with a peck to the bump of his shoulder and say, "Sure."

There's some awkward shuffling, and standing in your bra and jeans is somehow more vulnerable than sitting on him, but nevertheless you take his hand and lead him through the door to your bedroom.

He doesn't have as much time to take this room in as the last one, because he wants you on the bed more than he cares to admit. When you flick on the bedside lamp, finally acknowledging how dark it's become now the sun's started going down, all he really notices is how warm the room is.

"Here," he says, manoeuvring you as he pleases. "Lay back, yeah?"

You do as he says, sitting facing him and pushing yourself back so you can lay down with your knees up.

And then it happens: one of the many cataclysmic revelations of the evening.

"Good girl."

Again, you gasp, looking up at the ceiling.

"Good?" he asks.

"Really good," you tell him. You haven't really noticed that your hands have laid themselves across your chest, but he can't stop staring.

"That's it, see? Love when you tell me what you like."

One of his hands joins one of yours where it's fidgeting with your bra, and the other smooths down one of your legs, urging you to straighten them. You do, and again he says those fateful words: "Good girl. Gonna take these off, yeah?"

"Wait," you snap, sitting up and letting his hand fall so you can lean back with your weight on yours. "Can we do it together?"

"'Course."

"And can I… Can I undo yours?"

"Shit, sure you can."

You sit up and he takes your hands in his bigger ones, moulding them so you're tracing your fingers down the plain of his chest and stomach. You follow the dips and creases, the taught skin of his scars, and finally reach his belt.

He's mumbling nonsense at you, too caught up in everything to keep up the teacher façade, pinching your fingers between his so you can pull the leather through the buckle and get to his zipper.

When you unzip and brush something hard, he drops his hands and tips his head back in a sigh. It's an unfamiliar feeling under your tentative hands but it's not unknown.

"Wow," you breathe, not really meaning to say it out loud.

"Shit, gotta get these off-" He pulls back from your wanting grasp to shuffle out of his jeans, leaving his boxers in place for now. One step at a time.

"Your turn," he declares, smiling, jeans and socks gone. He reaches over to you again to return the favour, undoing buttons and the zip and his wide hand on your hip urges you to lift off the bed so he can pull the denim down your legs.

There's no turning back now; you can never again wonder what will happen the first time someone sees you (nearly) naked.

You've thought about this before, turned an infinity of possibilities over in your mind, but this was never one of them. Not one of them included a pretty boy, standing before you, just as exposed as you are, pawing at flesh and telling you you're beautiful.

His lips ghost over you, beginning at your shoulder and creeping lower. When he reaches the middle of your chest he looks up at you, the angle a little awkward. You nod.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, moving backwards again as he crowds you.

"I'm gonna take this off," he says, tugging lightly at the band of your bra, bringing himself level with you so he's breathing the words into your ear. "And then I'm gonna eat you out."

He may as well be a fire-breathing dragon. His words claw at your scalp like flames and fill your lungs with heat, pulling a sigh from within. You lean back, lying flat on the sheets, and let him have his way with you.

But he doesn't move, first admiring the way you respond and then waiting, lingering above you, too far away.

"What?" you hiccup, looking at him, confused.

"Need you to tell me this is what you want," he tells you.

"This is what I want," you repeat back to him. And then, taking the plunge, you add, "I want you to eat me out, Eddie."

You relish in his response, the way you can almost see him shiver, bare shoulders twitching and chest deflating with a shuddery exhale.

"Christ, yes, okay."

His fingers inch around your back so you arch it, letting him toy with the clasp of your bra. He gets it undone quicker than you expected, and you can't bring yourself to focus on where it goes once it's off because he's got his mouth back on your skin and now he's biting marks in places that would make your past self blush.

You feel his teeth on the swell of your boobs, first the left and then the right, and the rough pads of his fingers over your nipples.

"Shit," you hiss, and then, "no, shit, don't stop," when he halts for a second.

"Feel good?" he asks, muffled with his teeth grazing the stretch of skin across your ribs.

"Yes, yeah."

Gripping the sheets, you arch again, keening into him, chasing the buzz of his lips and the goosebumps they leave.

His fingers leave them, too, especially when they dance over your sides, that bit that makes you feel hollow if you drift over it the right way.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, lifting his head to look up at you from where he's sunk to his knees. You're staring at the ceiling, too preoccupied to meet his eye, and the sight makes him huff a laugh.

"Yes," you respond too quickly.

As you feel his fingers curl around the elastic, he says, "Okay, you're gonna have to give me a hand, alright? Tell me if it feels okay or if you want me to move. Or if you want me to stop, obviously."

"Yes, yeah, fuck, please Eddie-"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, pulling the material down over your knees and feet. At this rate, your bedroom floor must look like an explosion at the laundromat; dirty laundry everywhere, clothes all over the floor.

You're not sure why you're thinking about the logistics of tidying right now, though it doesn't last long, because the cool air on your core is a shock that jolts every limb.

Although he's wedged between them, you seem to have an instinctual reaction to the sensation of being exposed, your legs trying to close around him. His firm hands pull them apart, his fingers grasping the fat of your thighs, and then his lips.

They're on the softness between your legs first of all, nipping and pulling the skin between his teeth as he moves upwards. And then you feel them, the strange, wet contact. There's a feeling, something you think must be his tongue, licking upwards, before it makes contact with your clit.

The pressure is a thunderbolt to the centre, a shock that sends you arching off the bed with a gasp. Your grasp on the sheets tightens for a moment until you feel the roughness of his hair instead; without thinking, you've moved both hands to claw and pet at the crown of his head, earning a muffled moan when you tug ever so lightly.

He calls your name, pulling back, his words heard through cotton wool ears. "You're sure you haven't done this before?"

"Fuck, yes, Eddie I'm sure," you pant in response, desperate for the sensation of his mouth on you again. He obliges your unspoken craving, licking upwards again before settling comfortably at your clit. His firm hands dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs until one of them doesn’t, and before you can think too hard about it, you feel it just beneath his mouth.

The new feeling of his rough fingers on your cunt sends your eyes rolling back; you can't help but squirm and it's driving him wild, the way you're listening to him, the way you can't help but move, the way you're tugging at him without realising.

The gnawing tightness in your core nosedives when he slips, warm breaths replacing his mouth and fingers. You whine like a petulant child, making a noise you didn't know you could.

"I'm gonna use my fingers," he tells you, the distance between him and your cunt not enough to save you from the maddening huffs of breath as he talks. "Have you ever had anything inside before?"

It's funny, how nervous he sounds despite the fact he's knelt the way he is between your knees. His mouth was just all over you, and yet he's still a boy, turned stuttering by sex talk.

"No," you pant, "no, never."

"Okay, it might hurt, alright? You just gotta tell me to stop and I will."

"Okay," you agree.

He settles back into position, his weight rested on his elbows and his face and hand inching closer. You feel it, the stiffness of a finger, but the feeling is unusual and a little uncomfortable.

"You gotta relax," he tells you. "You overthinkin' it?"

"No," you bite defensively.

"It's okay."

You huff and lie back, dropping your shoulders.

"Do you ever…"

Another sigh.

"Do you ever touch yourself?"

There's a momentary flush of embarrassment, a conditioned response to being asked about this kind of thing, but you're here, in this position, naked, so you may as well be honest.

"Yes."

"Okay, what do you think about? When you do?"

"I, uh…"

"It's okay," he says quickly, "don't tell me. Just- just think about it now, right? Somethin' that turns you on."

Something that turns you on? What's turning you on right now is the handsome guy between your legs. His pretty inked skin, the stretch across his shoulders and the ripples in his back. His wide, firm hands, those obnoxious rings, the way he keeps telling you you're a good girl.

It swims in your mind, the vision of him cooing sweet praises, the fizzling memory of those words in his voice.

"That's it, you got it," you hear him tut, as though he can see inside your mind, read your thoughts. It pulls apart the tension in your core and across your shoulders, and then it's back, that feeling, the warmth and the fire, and you sink deeper into the pool of euphoria.

With one finger already half-way inside, he adds a second, his eyes trained on your face in case it's too much. But it's not; of course it's not. He knows he's good, but he doesn't think he's made a girl this happy in his whole life.

You feel it soon enough: there's a fizzing current that licks up from your cunt and into your gut where it lights your nervous system on fire. It runs laps around your body, pinpricks in your fingertips and behind your ears. You grasp at the sheets again, pulling, pulling, pulling, reaching for whatever you can to keep your body from floating away, because it really feels like that's about to happen; either that or you're going to implode, pulling the room and everything else with you like a black hole, hungry for more.

You barely notice the pants, your whiny moans and the repeated prayers of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, before you're coming apart. He's still going, riding you through it, basking in the sound of his name as it crawls from your mouth. So far he's kept his composure, ignored the searing pain under his boxers, but he doesn't think he'll hold out much longer.

"That's it," he coos, slowing down, rubbing soothing circles into your hip. You're panting, your breath hot and skin even hotter, and you can barely hear him when he speaks. The words carry, though, somehow; his praises of you did so good, and you're driving me wild, and, worst of all with the way it slaps you silly when it comes, I need to be inside you.

You sit up at that, holding yourself up on wobbling elbows to look at him. He's still knelt between your knees, hands resting on them, looking back at you with eyes turned dark and glistening skin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it takes you a minute to understand that he's waiting for your answer.

"Right," you breathe. "Yeah, okay." You scramble to sit up and twist yourself so you're lying the right way but he laughs and it makes you go cold.

"Chill out, take a minute, yeah?"

His hand hasn't left you; it's on your ankle now, rubbing those same circles over the bone.

All you can say is, "That was insane."

He laughs again, a softer noise this time, and says, "It was, huh?"

"Yeah." You flop back, head in the pillows and eyes on the ceiling above you, your own fingers tracing up and down your stomach.

He watches you from the floor. You're all flushed, glowing something rosy and sprinkled with dewy sweat. And then he watches your fingers, their absentminded journey up from your belly to the dip between your boobs, and back down. You repeat it over and over, and though it's an innocent, repetitive stroke, it's not helping the pressure between his legs.

"I'm gonna take these off," he tells you, giving your ankle a comforting squeeze and tugging his waistband with his free hand. "That okay?"

It dawns on you, as you look at him, that not only are you lying naked in front of a stranger, but that you are about to see that stranger's dick. A stranger who responded to your stupid ad in the paper, who's agreed to this for some stupid reason, and who is stupid handsome and stupid nice.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He says your name again and it sounds so pretty when he does, and then he says, "We can stop if you want, you know. You don't have to do anythin' you don't want to."

"No, I want to," you say. "I just… This is a lot."

"Yeah," he says with a smile, that one that drips with charm and tugs at your gut. "But you're all good. Done so well so far."

Your body keens at the praise, your back lifting off the bed and it's then that you notice the feeling of want biting ugly marks into the pit of your stomach. You look at him, and he looks back at you, and all you can feel is a gnawing emptiness, a need to be full.

"Let's do this," you declare, sitting back up on your elbows and watching him with needy eyes. He sees it, the darkness that has settled in your irises, the itchy fidgeting of your hands on your sheets.

"Yes, ma'am."

Slowly, he stands and tugs his underwear down his legs and onto the floor. It all feels very real, now that he's stood before you like this.

He laughs at your wide eyes, trained on the straining erection he just let loose. You've never seen a dick in person before, and to be truthful you're not sure you've ever really seen one in a photograph or a video – the adult section at the rental store isn't exactly somewhere you often find yourself – so you have nothing to compare this to, but objectively it looks quite big.

"Will it fit?" you say before you can stop yourself. It comes out a squeak and makes him laugh yet again.

"Yes," he tells you, "it'll fit. But thanks for the ego boost."

He's on his knees on the bed beside you now, moving towards you until he can use his hands to move your legs apart. He settles himself between them and sits back on his heels, leaving one hand on your left leg and using the other to take one of yours. He intertwines your fingers, squeezes, and pulls you to sit up.

"Here," he says, bringing your hand to sit flat on his ribs. He's controlling his voice as best he can, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate as he feels right now. He can't help but stare at you, at how you're looking at him.

"I'm gonna show you how to touch me, okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. His hand moves yours down until it reaches patchy hair and then he curls your hand around his dick, his own hand still holding yours.

It's a new feeling, sure, but you're mostly enjoying the short hisses of breath he's letting out. When you move upwards without his help he almost moans, and you decide you'd like to do whatever it takes to make him do it again, and louder.

"Shit, okay, wait. Here-" He brings your hand away and lays it flat, palm up. "Spit."

You look up at him and find his wide brown eyes looking down at you, waiting.

So you spit into your palm, and he brings it back to himself, and moving is easier now.

"Fuck, okay… Yeah, just like that, that's it, shit-"

He drops his hand from yours and leaves you to find your own way, so you copy his pattern of up and down, slowly, twisting your hand as you go.

"Here, move your thumb over the- Fuck-"

You do as he says, perhaps too eager to please, and watch in awe as the muscles in his abdomen tense and he leans forward, resting his weight on one hand planted right beside your hip.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," he says, taking your wrist and pulling you away, ignoring the way you whine.

When he says, "We can worry about me another time," you try to ignore the brief fluttering it elicits deep within your chest somewhere. Dwelling on things said in the heat of this moment isn't fair, you decide; he surely doesn't mean it.

With warm, now familiar hands, he helps you lay back down.

"You got condoms?"

"Oh." You don't, and the truth you're about to tell him is mortifying. "No. They all expired a few months ago."

"That's fine," is all he says, and the fluttery feeling returns when he doesn't ask any follow up questions. No judgement, as promised. "Just wait here."

His hand leaves you at the last possible moment. As he moves off the bed it runs smooth down your leg and over your foot, like he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear. You watch him hop awkwardly across the room and into your living room, the sight a refreshing injection of humour, helping you relax into the mattress again. He comes back with his jacket in one hand, which he drops on the floor after rummaging in the inside pocket and pulling out a red foil square.

He pulls it open with fingers that you realise are shaking slightly, and you wonder if he's really nervous, and if so, if he's as nervous as you are.

It takes a few seconds but soon enough he's rolled it on, breath stuttering and dry, and then he climbs back to you and his hands return to your body almost as quickly as they left.

He's hovering over you now, his long hair tickling the sides of your face and the tops of your shoulders, all the places the sun hits on hot days. You're too caught up in watching his every move, too keen to really realise what you're saying before you ask: "Will you kiss me again?"

He smiles and dips down wordlessly, letting his lips slip against yours. It brings back the fluttering and the fizzy feeling, the craving for him. As your tongues move as one, you feel his hand by your thigh, and when he pulls back he says, "You ready?"

You nod, and then, remembering what he said earlier, cement it in words: "I'm ready."

"Alright, I'm gonna go slow, okay? It's gonna stretch more than earlier, but you just keep me clued in, yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a new sensation at your core, of wetness and something rigid. He's moving against your folds, finding no purchase in the remnants of earlier on, but then he nudges your clit and you jolt upwards and that's when he finds what he was searching for.

He nudges in quickly at first, enough to make you whine a pained sound. He matches it with a low grumble, a vibration right by your ear.

"You okay?" he's quick to ask, head rising to look at you.

"Yeah, yeah, just- slow, please."

"I've got you."

He doesn't move for a beat, eyes trained on the scrunch of your nose. He kisses it and feels you relax, so he keeps kissing, quick flashes over your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Each one brings new relief and as your back hits the bed again, he eases himself in a little more.

The stretch is definitely different; more. There's a burn, but it doesn't completely hide the wave of pleasure you get in the fullness.

"Gonna go a bit more," he tells you, and he does just that, going half an inch further, still watching for any sign of discomfort.

When you bring your knees up by his hips, he knows you're past the worst of it. He chants praise, telling you that you're doing so well, taking me so well as he keeps going, all the way until he's seated inside you, up to the hilt. You breathe in a gasp, filling your lungs, realising you'd been holding your breath for too long. And as you open your eyes, you find him staring down at you with concern and something else.

"You good?" he whispers with his face so close you feel the words as they settle on your cheek.

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

He punctuates this with a kiss, and then another, over the hill of your jaw and onto your throat. Your hands claw up his back, pulling him in until you're sure that if he were any closer, you'd fuse into one.

"Okay," he finally says, lips against the peak of your shoulder. "I'm gonna move. I'll go slow at first."

"Okay."

The feeling of him pulling out is new and nice, but it's nothing compared to the opposite. The combination of the two, the repetitive motion he picks up, is something you want to chase forever.

As he moves, he quickens, trying his best to keep his eyes open and attentive; it's difficult, though, when you feel this good.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' tight, shit-"

"Eddie, this feels amazing, uh-"

Your stomach twists into a coil again, quicker this time, and tightens as he picks up the pace. Above you he's all guttural moans and pretty groans, his lips grazing your cheek each time he moves, and soon his thrusts become too much. You're panting his name and he's panting yours, and along with the sound of skin on skin, that's all you can hear until he speaks gravel-churned words into your ear.

"Shit, 'm so close, fuck- Gotta get you there, baby, huh? C'mon, need you to come for me."

His words are joined by sloppy fingers between your bodies. They fumble in the dark, prodding your belly before finding slippery purchase on your clit. Sparks light up your body and all you can do in response is let it arch into him with a yelp of his name.

"You close?" he asks.

"Yes, yeah, shit, yes," you splutter back. It's like a chase, and you're catching up, quickly, quickly, quickly.

All of a sudden there's a white-hot flash that burns every inch of your insides. You tense, your body yawning open for him, wide and wanting; he doesn't relent, thrusts harder than ever, chases you in return as he feels you tighten around him. You release, the coil snapping, and he brings the pace down to see you through to the end.

There's cotton wool in your ears again but you make out his praises: "That's it, that's it, atta girl… C'mon, I've got you, you did so well."

When your breathing turns regular and your eyes ease open, you feel a warm knuckle on your cheek. He's still going slow, rutting in and out of you with ease now, and when you finally look at him he asks, "Gonna keep goin', that okay?"

You nod, throat closed for the time being so you make it as certain a nod as you can muster. His thrusts become quicker again, and the more he speeds up the sloppier he becomes. You feel sensitive, too warm but also too desperate to see, hear, feel him come undone inside you. It's not long until your wish is granted; soon his groans turn to whimpers and whines, and he calls your name as he shudders to a violent halt. It's intoxicating, experiencing this from underneath him; if this is what everyone's been talking about all these years, you understand why.

The room sways and whistles as he rests his weight on you. His breath, right beside your ear, is like a hot, damp rag, pulling at your sticky skin and the thrum of rushing blood. You hear him groan and then the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. The bed bounces gently as he huffs and flops down beside you, and, god, you wish so badly that you could keep those flutters under control because his clammy hand finds yours between your bodies and it's nice to feel the affection he's so devoted to giving you.

Sighing, he says, "Shit."

You laugh, scrunching your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "shit."

He squeezes your hand.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. Really liked it."

"Okay for your first time?"

"Yeah." You turn onto your side to face him, looking up at his face. There are a few curls stuck to his pretty pink face, and you admire the bob of his throat as he swallows and the squeeze of his hand in yours.

"You're really pretty," you tell him. You're not sure if this is the post-O haze the magazines talk about, or if it's some kind of clarity, or if it's just that you have this boy in the palm of your hand and you suddenly can't bear the thought of letting him go. Instead you want to plant anchors, heavy lines that will keep him right where he is.

He turns his head to look at you and you see him flush even more.

"So are you," he whispers, with another squeeze and a kiss to your forehead.

There are a few minutes of quiet after that. The light outside is gone for good, so he's glowing a low golden in the light of your bedside lamp. He kisses you again with a fondness that surely shouldn't come with this exchange, which you had rationalised as just that: a transaction, a mutual agreement to get something done.

You see him open his mouth, as if to speak, but close it again, so you reach a tentative hand up and brush some hair from his eyes and trace your knuckle down his temple, urging him.

"My friends," he begins, hesitant, "they're having a party, next weekend. Steve, he only lives round the corner, we passed his house on the way here... You wouldn't wanna come, would you?"

"With you?" you whisper into the fizzy darkness.

"Yeah." He smiles, eyes fluttering shut under your sweeping fingers. "With me."

"Is it a date?"

"It can be, if you want. Or we can just, y'know, go as friends, or whatever."

"No one's ever asked me on a date before."

He smiles, and it's soft and curled with an affectionate pity; one that says I'm sorry, that's not fair, it's nothing to do with you.

"Well, wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

He pulls your hand up and brings it to his mouth, where he kisses your knuckles. Goosebumps raise across your thighs and arms, and you realise you're cold.

He seems to sense your discomfort because you feel him shift beside you. He pulls you up with him and helps you climb off the bed on wobbly legs.

"I should pee," you tell him, heeding the warnings of girlfriends past.

"You should," he says, a little deflated.

You don't move, though. To move would be to acknowledge the end – the end of the transaction, of the favour. It's not something you want.

"I, uh," you begin, stumbling, "Don't- Do you want-"

"I can go now, if you want-"

"No, no, it's okay, I mean, you can go if you want, that's fine, I just-"

Your eyes are darting all over the carpet, skimming discarded clothes, so you don't notice him reach up until he's touching your face, holding it in his palm.

"I'll stay, if you want me to."

"Yes, please."

He smiles at you, sticky with fondness and you can't help but smile back.

"I'm gonna shower," you tell him, leaning further into his grasp.

"I'll be here."

"Munson! You made it!"

In the middle of the busy room, there's a tall guy, broad and burly, like all the jocks you went to high school with. He's startlingly pretty, with golden hair and honeyed skin, a wide, bright smile plastered across his face.

He steps on unsure feet over to Eddie, who is stood partially in front of you; you're cowering behind him, willing the courage to lift you and push you into the arms of strangers. For now, holding his hand will do just fine.

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie greets, meeting him in one of those boyish embraces. You look around, taking in the faces; it's not the level of the high-school parties you used to go to, and definitely not the circus of the frat ones you've sometimes found yourself at, but it's busy enough. Where the guy – Harrington – came from, in the living room, there's a circle of people who are all smiling in your direction.

"Who's this?" The guy is looking at you over Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie tells Steve your name, and then turns to you. "This is Steve."

"Hi," you say to him, smiling, trying your best to hide the cruel nerves.

"Nice t'meet you!" he beams back. It's infectious; your smile turns firm and genuine in return. "Here, come meet the gang."

"C'mon," Eddie whispers to you with a kiss to the crown of your head. He pulls you through the entryway, into the large living room, following Steve. He drops your hand to give and return hugs, saying hello to each person. You stand and watch, unsure of what to do, until one of the girls – the first one Eddie greeted – appears by your side.

"Hey," she says, perhaps a little too close.

"Hi."

"I'm Robin." She sticks her hand out and you shake it clumsily.

Eddie's back, with his hand in yours again, on your other side. He calls her Rob and tells her your name, and then does the same for each person – Nancy, Jonathan, Will, Mike, Max, Lucas, Dustin, El – too many for you to remember tonight, but you have a feeling you'll see them again.

"Hi, guys," you return with a wave.

Everything settles after that. You take a seat next to Eddie on the couch, legs up and over his own, making conversation with Robin who you like a lot. Nancy comes over and introduces herself again and you find you like her, too.

And then Steve appears, having disappeared twenty minutes before. He's a little drunker, and he hands you and Eddie a can each. You take it gratefully and open it, taking a swig.

"So," he begins, sitting on the opposite side of the circle to yourself and Eddie. "You from Hawkins?"

"No," you tell him, and repeat the story you told Eddie.

"Sweet! So how'd you meet?"

You turn your head to look at Eddie and find him having done the same thing. His eyes are wide, just as wide as you're sure yours are.

"Uh," you begin, drawing out the sound to buy yourself time.

"I did her a favour," he says, to your surprise, turning back to look at Steve with a sickly smile. "Just somethin' she'd put in the paper."

"That's so cute," Nancy says from behind you, her words chased by Robin adding a sarcastic, "Adorable."

The conversation moves on after that, and you turn around to Eddie again. He's looking back at you, his face pink and a smile tugging at his mouth. Before you can stop yourselves you're laughing, bursting into happy noises, bent double giggling.

He gives you another kiss, on the cheek this time, and quickly you settle back into conversations. The night is long and for the first time in a long time, it isn't lonely.

Hello! This is SO long - it really did take on a life of its own. I considered splitting it but couldn't find somewhere to do it, so I hope you enjoy this absolute beast nonetheless. I love you!

#ha ha I am sorry!#god it's long #I hope you love it <3 #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson angst #stranger things #stranger things 4 #st4 #eddie fic #eddie x fem!reader #eddie #eddie stranger things

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bisayawa · 6 months

Text

freckles & blades & helping hands

✎___ husband!diluc × spouse!reader

✎___ a/n: domestic fluff (literally just a soft scene of diluc shaving his scruff), i aged diluc up a bit i think. use of the pet name honey. somewhat inspired by @/mmmairon's art of beefy, gentle, kind diluc :> 730~ words, not proofread; art by ary scheffer.

"do you need any help?"

legs swinging on the counter top, you lean in & stare, eyes glazing over the handsome lines of your husband's face on the mirror. he has a few crow's feet near his temples. whenever you point it out, he'll always say the wrinkles are evidence of you, you who make him smile & laugh & chuckle until his stomach hurts. it's evidence of a life laughter, he'd say.

the sharp stipple of the razor cuts through the silence.

"no, honey," he says, turning his head & angling the blade to the scruff on his jaw. "it's alright."

the words are spoken softly. it was jarring a few years ago, hearing words of buttercream & sweetness come from a man such as diluc, hulking, dignified, broad-shouldered, almost always with a dour expression on his face.

there was a handsomeness to the gloom before. the sharpness of brows, the bite of his frowns, the particular wrinkle when he scrunches his nose... but you have to admit, the allure is multiplied tenfold when he's all honeyed & dewy-eyed, softer than a cloud.

"i could do it for you, you know?"

his eyes never leave the mirror.

"i still don't understand this... fixation you have," he angles his face in an almost-quarter turn. "i'm just shaving, hon. it's no event you have to witness."

"of course, it is." you lean a little closer. "it's like an unveiling. my husband is showing his true face, one without scruff or stubble."

"an unveiling― ?" his shoulders shake & he puts down the razor for a few moments, small bouts of giggles floating through the room.

he rights himself.

"behave. i'm never gonna finished in time." his stern voice is all for show. he's smiling as he says the words.

a beat passes.

"but isn't it though? they'll finally see all your face. happy wrinkles & all."

he's struggling to fix his lip into a line, unable to stop it from curling into a smile. he's repeating your last few words, mouthing them out as he brings down the razor.

the silence after then is sweet, filled with curious looks towards his face filled with foam & other little chuckles.

"so..." your voice cuts through.

"so...?"

"could i do it for you?"

he taps the razor on the marble sink, shucking hair & foam off the blade.

"you don't know how..." another swipe of the razor.

"you could teach me." tap tap.

"i've..." swipe. "already started." tap

"just the basics." swipe. "an impromptu lesson, yeah? against the grain & all that?"

"it's with the grain, honey."

"right, yeah... i knew that... so are you gonna teach me?"

"hm..."

"oh? usually it's a big, disapproving hrrrnn..."

"you've catalogued my grousing?"

"yup yup, because i am a good spouse who tends to the needs of my husband."

he laughs at that, quietly. another wrinkle on his temple.

"alright, alright... here..."

he gives the razor, grasping it in your hand. he's gentle, careful, righting your hold of the blade.

"okay... here's how it should be..." he guides your hand towards his cheek, speaking in soft murmurs. "just like how my father taught me. listen."

he pulls down, a swipe against his face. hair & foam give way for his pale skin.

"there. let the blade do the work, honey. don't push too harshly."

he makes another swipe, his hand still guiding yours.

"here, just like this." swipe swipe swipe. "you wanna try?"

your small palm finds the back of his neck, pulling him close. brows furrow in concentration as the razor anticipates the next swipe.

"careful, honey, okay?" the warmth of his hand leaves. "i trust you."

shaking fingers steel themselves. the blade goes still before landing on the softness of his skin. it coasts across his jaw, cold metal kissing warm flesh. the line is carved against the shaving foam, no longer obscuring his face.

the swipe is finished. the trust was not betrayed. the result of your work is there upon the blade, as patches of coarse hair & crisp shaving foam.

"how was that?" you murmur.

"wonderful." he's staring into your eyes, not at the razor like you expected. "would you like to keep going?"

"yes, please." you poke at his newly shaven jaw. "i've never noticed your little freckle here."

"i have a few." he pinches your nose. "let's keep going. maybe we can find a few more."

#my fic.#diluc x reader #genshin x reader #diluc x you #diluc x y/n #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact drabble #diluc ragnvindr

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 10 months

Text

IV ║ Notch

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part III: Edgestitch | Behind the Seams: Part IV | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E, but not that explicit

Summary: While Ellie works her first shift at the Outfitters, Joel drops by yours to return the blouse you left behind at the baby shower. Turns out, there's plenty around the house to keep him occupied until the teenager clocks off.

Warnings: Sexual tension, body insecurity, some language, inaccurate descriptions of gardening, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, undervest supremacy, flirting, dry humping, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!domestic!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.9k

Notes: Once I started writing this chapter in earnest, it came together a bit more quickly than I expected! It's extremely self-indulgent, with plenty of white undervest and belly action because you guys deserve all of that goodness for being the most patient, loving readers a writer could hope for 🥹 Thank you, I love you all! ❤️

Notch – diamond shaped marks that stick out beyond the edge of the pattern to line up all the pieces when sewing the garment. They come in pairs to be matched up.

Joel is sleeping - which is not something that could be said until a couple of months ago.

After the outbreak, sleep as a concept ceased to exist. What took its place is literal ‘shuteye’, either engineered by pills knocked back with moonshine, or a preventative shutdown by his body to avoid total failure, having pushed his physical form to the living limit.

It’s the kind of sleep that is destitute and provides no relief. It keeps the cogs turning just enough that he doesn’t expire, standing in his boots - which, on most days, are not the only things held together by duct tape.

But after the hospital, even that turned out to be too much to ask for. Some nights, the itch for chemical-induced relief got so bad that Joel entertained the thought of asking Tommy for illicit pills, ready to crawl on all fours to his brother’s house two streets down because he was shaking so hard he couldn’t lock his knees. But he didn’t trust him not to tell Maria, and with Ellie in the picture, he wasn’t about to tempt fate.

So instead, he asked Maria to assign him to night patrols. She hmmm’d at his request like she knew something he didn’t, but she humoured him, letting him take the graveyard shift for a couple of weeks straight. She didn’t have to tell him that she could see the way he tripped over his own feet and hear the slur in his voice. She’s too sharp not to notice.

But she didn’t say anything.

What she did do though, was not so subtly wean him off the late-night patrols. It started with a couple of random, last-minute changes, and then the next thing he knew, he was working morning shifts exclusively. When he tried covertly swapping stints with another guy, he showed up at the guard tower at midnight to find his sister-in-law standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her pregnant belly.

As he trudged home begrudgingly with his head down and her stern reprimand in his ears, he couldn’t help a chuckle. Gotta hand it to her.

Banished back to his bed, Joel went back to staring owlishly at the ceiling, watching the moonlight slide across the plaster until he knew all the cracks in it with his eyes closed (metaphorically). He’d listen to Ellie snoring away two doors down and marvel at the fact that she somehow still slept like the dead, even after… all that.

And then, one night, it happened for him too.

Admittedly, he ate a bit too much at Tommy and Maria’s - on top of running the town like a well-oiled machine, she makes a mean chicken fried steak - and Ellie had not so subtly plonked a second helping on his plate without asking. He was lying in bed, steeling himself for another long night, when his eyes drooped. The motion was so alien that it jolted him wide awake, but he couldn’t shake the weight that clung to the seams of his lashes. The next time he opened his eyes, it was morning.

Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks.

It’s nowhere near consistent, and more often than not he wakes up in a cold sweat in the small hours, but in between, he’s sleeping. For once, he’s feeling rested. And it’s a nice fucking break from the relentless exhaustion that he’s convinced is fused into his bones.

He always wakes up earlier than Ellie though. She never stomps down the stairs until he’s already had breakfast, and hers has gone cold.

So on the Saturday morning following the baby shower, with his face plastered into the mattress, body curled around a pillow - old habits die hard - Joel nearly falls out of bed at the banging on his door.

‘Joel! Get the fuck up!’

For one disconcerting moment between sleep and wake, he’s in his bedroom back in Texas. He half expects to look up to see the posters on the wall and the perpetually overflowing laundry basket at the foot of his bed.

Blinking through the urge to close his eyes, the colours fade and he stares blearily at the digital clock on his bedside table.

7:30.

What the fuck? More often than not he has to drag the teenager out of bed by the ankles, kicking and swearing, at 7:50 to get to school at 8:00.

His knees groan as he staggers onto his feet, grabbing yesterday’s jeans from the floor and pulling them on. He finds a passably clean shirt about five deep on a chair, which he shrugs on over his white undervest. With a grunt, he yanks open the door and heads downstairs on bare feet, frowning at unfamiliar sounds coming from the kitchen.

Joel pauses in the doorway, hands on hips. ‘What do you think you’re doin’?’

Deeming his question unworthy of a response, Ellie tosses him a roll of her eyes over her shoulder and resolutely ignores him.

Shuffling closer, he asks, ‘Are you - cookin’?’

Brandishing the spatula at him, she snarls, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

He goads her with a smirk. ‘To be honest, it looks like you threw up in the pan.’

Ellie elbows him hard in the stomach. ‘Fuck you, man!’

He grins. There’s nothing like winding her up first thing in the morning. Grabbing the pan, he bins the ruined eggs, scraping off the burnt bits stuck to the bottom. ‘Crack some more eggs, I’ll make ‘em.’

Ten minutes later, in their usual seats at the kitchen table, they tuck into scrambled eggs and buttered toast.

‘Slow down,’ warns Joel as Ellie wolfs down hers. ‘You’re gonna choke.’

‘You hurry up! Can’t be late for my first day,’ she garbles through a mouthful of food.

‘Why can’t you be like this about school?’ he grumbles, then he winces as his teeth catch something crunchy. Picking it out, he gives her a pointed look. ‘Eggshell.’

‘Calcium,’ she shoots back without even looking up, too busy shoving the rest of her breakfast into her mouth, stuffing her cheeks like a chipmunk.

That one word stops Joel in his tracks and hurls him twenty years back in time.

But then Ellie is jumping up and practically throwing her empty plate into the sink, sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor as she dashes out of the kitchen. ‘C’mon, old man!’

Joel smiles, the memory warm like sun on his face.

He shakes his head, slowly finishing his breakfast - like he wishes he did that day.

They turn out to be fifteen minutes early.

To his chagrin, Ellie admits freely that she lied about the time so they wouldn’t be late. He’s a punctual guy, thank you very much. He certainly doesn’t need to be schooled by the little brat.

Joel sits on the stairs, while Ellie has her face squished up against the door, unabashedly leaving smudges on the glass panels as she keeps up an uninterrupted running commentary on every last piece of clothing she can see.

He tunes her out easily, shifting in his seat so that his right ear is to the door. In his hands is the blouse that you left behind at Tommy and Maria’s at the baby shower. He’s been meaning to return it to you, but the week got away from him, and there’s no time like the present.

Considering the state of his knees, he impresses himself with the speed at which he stands at the sound of footsteps on the otherwise quiet main street. Squaring his shoulders, he discreetly pulls on his shirt, suddenly seeing wrinkles everywhere in the fabric, and runs his fingers through his hair, wishing he’d taken another look in the mirror before he left the house -

But it’s Lucy who appears at the bottom of the stairs with her unfailingly sunny smile.

‘Hi, you must be Ellie,’ she chirps.

She eyes Lucy cautiously, lips pinched to one side. ‘Where’s Pin?’

Joel growls. ‘Manners.’

Ellie puts her hands up in surrender. ‘Sorry. I meant - nice to meet you, where’s Pin?’

Lucy beams good-naturedly and fiddles with the lock. ‘She’s off today, and it’s all my fault because I made her work three weekends in a row. You’ll be helping me in the front anyway, so I’ll show you the ropes.’ Stepping aside and swinging the door open, she prompts, ‘In you go now, hon.’

Ellie doesn’t even look back at him, rushing into the shop like a thoroughbred fresh out of the starting gates.

Pocketing the keys, Lucy smiles. ‘Hi Joel.’

‘Hey,’ he nods back. ‘Sorry about Ellie.’

‘Don’t be, I was exactly like her when I was younger. Still am sometimes,’ she jokes. Then with a sly side eye, she remarks, ‘And honestly, you look more disappointed that I showed up than she does.’

He splutters, ‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’

She smirks knowingly, gesturing at the blouse clutched tightly in his left fist. ‘I can pass that to Pin for ya.’

Joel hesitates for just a second, and Lucy bursts into laughter, elbowing him teasingly. ‘The way your face fell! I’m joking, Miller. Relax.’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s fine, guess I’ll give it to her next time she’s ‘round.’

Just then, from the depths of the shop, Ellie gasps dramatically and yells at the top of her lungs, ‘I want thissssssss one!’

Meeting Lucy’s eyes, Joel asks, ‘Sure you gonna be ok left alone with her?’

She shrugs. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

He flashes her a thumbs up. ‘I’ll pick her up at three then.’

He’s about to walk away from the Outfitters when Lucy’s voice stops him. ‘Hey, Joel!’

Looking up at the wraparound porch, he raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

‘She lives in the yellow cottage on the same street as the shoe shop. Keep going north, you can’t miss it,’ she says with a two-finger salute and a parting line that he’s heard before. ‘Say hi to Pin for me!’

You’ve always had a soft spot for the turn of the season, when late spring blooms graciously give way to summer buds. The grass smells greener, and the air is pregnant with pollen and nectar. It’s not overly warm yet, but you can feel the intensity in the sunlight, muted only by the early hour. Good thing you’re starting early.

It’s unseasonably warm for June, and the vegetable patch on the far end of your garden has suddenly burst into life. The cauliflower has finally come through after two failed crops in a row, and both the tomato vines and pepper plants are thriving. Closer to the ground, the onion and garlic shoots are patiently waiting to be pulled, and asparagus shoots spear through the earth in tidy lines one after another.

Pulling on a hat and gloves, you get to work.

You’re halfway through the second row of onions when there’s a faint knock on the front door. Even though you’ve only been in the sun for a little while, the coolness inside the house feels like a balm to your skin as you pad inside, peeling off your gloves before reaching for the door.

Swinging it open, you’re stumped by the sight of Joel Miller on your doorstep.

You haven’t seen him since the party, where you’d agreed on a start date and time for Ellie’s first shift, and -

Since the kiss.

You’ve felt his absence keenly. You’ve caught yourself loitering on street corners, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, knowing you’ll be able to spot him just by the way his shoulders swing with his long strides. You’ve kept an ear out for the southern lilt that has chased goosebumps across your skin, or any mention of his name, but all in vain.

Jackson has a habit of growing in size, usually in direct proportion to one’s desperation.

Now that he’s somehow here, you’re aware you’re gaping at him, so broad that his shoulders are blocking out the daylight. Too many years out of practice to count, you have no idea what the protocol is when you next see the man who literally made your knees buckle with just his lips and nothing else.

‘Mornin’, he finally says with a small smile.

You stammer. ‘H-hello. What, um, I mean, how -’

‘I dropped off Ellie at the shop and Lucy told me where you live,’ he explains, shaking out the blouse in his hands. ‘Thought I’d come ‘round and return this.’

Your palm twitches with the urge to smack yourself on the forehead. Of course that’s why he’s here.

Taking the top from him, you smile back gratefully. ‘Thank you. And of course, it’s Ellie’s first day. I’m sorry I can’t be there, but I’ve been subbing for Lucy on the weekends for a month straight and I needed a break.’

He waves away your apology. ‘Count yourself lucky. She was just ‘bout bouncin’ off the walls.’

‘Bless her heart,’ you chuckle, breaking off when his eyes flicker over you, as if he’s just registered your very minimalist ensemble of a white cotton tank top and denim cut-offs. Your skin prickles under his scrutiny, flattery winning out against self-consciousness at the deliberate drag of his gaze over you, a thoughtful weight behind it.

That is until something catches his attention, and you flinch when he peers under the brim of your hat. ‘What -’

Before you can even articulate your question, he’s taken one step towards you, his work boots heavy on your creaky wooden porch. His voice is low but rough around the edges, just the way you like it.

‘You got some dirt -’ he swipes his index finger firmly on the end of your nose. ‘Right here.’

Your jaw hangs open, then clamps shut, in quick succession, the shell of your ears burning hot at his fleeting touch. Throat suddenly dry, you barely manage to squeak, ‘Thanks.’

One day, you will at least try and keep your cool around this man. But alas, it is not this day.

Rearranging himself, Joel leans on the doorframe with his arms crossed and remarks conversationally, ‘You look outdoorsy this mornin’.’

Flashing the soil-stained gloves at him, you try to keep your voice steady. ‘I’m just doing some gardening out back. The vegetable patch needs harvesting.’

He purses his lips at that. ‘Didn’t peg you as the gardenin’ type.’

You don’t know where the bravado comes from, but you swat him on the arm with the gloves and quip, ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

‘You got me there,’ he huffs a laugh and gestures towards the back of the house. ‘Anythin’ I can do to help?’

The refusal is on the tip of your tongue. You don’t say yes to a whole lot nowadays, other than when Lucy makes you. But then you hear yourself ask, a challenge in your voice that you didn’t know you had. ‘I don’t know. Are you any good with your hands, Joel Miller?’

At the boldness in your words, which you don’t take back, Joel’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. Biting your lip but standing your ground, you watch him grind his jaw as he considers his response.

‘Why don’t you try me, sweetheart?’

‘Like this?’

‘Wait - slow down.’

A shuffle of hands. ‘How about now?’

‘That’s it. Yes, that’s good. Keep going.’

A raspy grunt. ‘I think I’m almost there.’

‘Yeah, that’s right, don’t stop -’

‘Alright, you ready?’

‘Come on, Joel -’

With one last flick, the knife slices clean through the base of the stalk, and Joel plucks the cauliflower head out of its leafy cradle with a triumphant grin.

‘How’s that for good hands, huh?’ he crows.

‘I’ll get back to you in the fall when we see if the cauliflower grows back,’ you tease.

He huffs, squinting up at you through the sun. ‘You’re hard to please, sweetheart.’

You preen at the playful turn of the conversation. If you were a little braver, you’d give him a mischievous wink - but for now, you gesture at the patch. ‘Can you handle the rest? I’ll get started on the peppers.’

He nods. ‘Leave ‘em with me.’

The pepper plants are having a great season, standing at four feet tall and heaving with fruits. You’ve left them alone on the vine for the last three weeks to sweeten, and they have dutifully ripened into a beautiful red. Settling onto your knees, you methodologically comb through the peppers from top to bottom, cutting off each one by the stalks.

It’s a big harvest, half of which you plan on giving away to your neighbours in exchange for their berries and lemons. Some you will cook. Lucy is due to come over for dinner, and she loves your stuffed pepper recipe. The rest you’ll have to find time to roast, skin, deseed and preserve in oil, which will last the rest of the year -

A shadow falls over you, stilling your hands and drawing your eyes upwards.

The sight is familiar - feet planted shoulder-wide by your knees, chin tucked in as he stares down at you, your nose level with the front of the jeans that you picked out for him - you’ve seen it all before, except for one small detail.

Joel is sweating. A lot.

His thin plaid shirt - you’re not sure if you’ve seen him in anything else yet - is sticking to him like a second skin, clinging to the solid outline of his biceps as he holds onto the basket full of cauliflower heads. The sunlight glances off the perspiration dotting his hairline, and the wispy grays that normally curl away from his face have wilted in the humidity.

There’s a flush under his skin as he swipes at his forehead with his shirt sleeve, and your gaze follows a bead of sweat dripping down the prominent vein on the side of his neck, and into the deep V of his shirt - wait, is that the outline of an undervest that you can just make out underneath -

‘Should I take the cauliflower in?’

‘Um -’ you stammer to a halt, eyes still plastered to the front of his chest, just like his shirt.

He clearly mistakes your gawking for something else, flashing you an apologetic smile at his state. ‘Sorry, I work up a sweat real easy.’

Oh, come on. Now all you’re thinking about is how else he works up a sweat -

Seized by the sudden need to get out of the heat in more than one sense of the word, you rip the basket from his grasp and turn on your heels to sprint into the house with a choked, ‘I’ll be right back!’

You nearly trip over your own feet running into the kitchen, your heart thumping so loudly in its ribcage it feels like the whole house is shaking to the beat.

And all that man has done is sweat in front of you.

‘Pull yourself together, Pin,’ you mutter to yourself as you tip the cauliflower heads onto the kitchen table. Grabbing a jug from the cupboard, you put it in the sink and turn on the faucet. Watching the trickle of water, you make yourself take three deep breaths.

Joel’s kind enough to do you a favour, you could at least have the courtesy to not perv on him while he helps you out.

Nodding determinedly to yourself, you pluck two glasses from the drying rack, putting them inside the empty basket that you hook on your elbow, and march back outside -

Only to almost swallow your tongue and drop the full jug of water right at your feet.

Joel’s sweat-soaked shirt is now hanging on your washing line like a white flag, having surrendered to the heat. And just like that, the very image that has been inconveniently seared into the back of your eyes since the party is suddenly before you in all its glory, in the morning sun, out in the open air.

The white undervest stretches over the breadth of him, and if he didn’t look so good in it, you would’ve laughed at the comical way the flimsy straps are clinging onto his shoulders for dear life. Then he bends over to inspect the tomato vines, the bottom of his vest riding up with the movement, teasing a flash of skin above the waistline of the jeans pulled tight over his behind. One big hand reaches out, the outline of his arm flexing as he does, and he palms the bottom of one tomato, testing if it’s ripe for the picking.

Except in your head, it’s something else he’s cupping with such rapturous attention.

He doesn’t notice you until he stands up with a low grunt of effort. Pointing an apologetic finger at his shirt, he says, ‘I hope you don’t mind, I’m sweatin’ right through it like nobody’s business.’

You make a noise in your throat that you pass off as an answer, and with shaky hands, pour him a full glass of water which you shove in his direction.

‘Appreciate it, sweetheart.’ He salutes you and takes a long drag, tipping his head back. You watch, transfixed, as the sunlight bounces off the lines of sweat criss-crossing down the strong column of his neck, and the hard bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

Suddenly, you’re parched. But you don’t trust yourself to stay upright, let alone pour yourself a drink.

‘It’s hot today,’ Joel breaks the loaded silence, though it’s possible that it’s unilaterally so on your side.

‘Uh-huh,’ you croak, still holding onto the water jug like a shield.

He peers at you with a touch of mischief. ‘You ain’t gonna swoon or anythin’ are you?’

Probably. And definitely not for the reason he has in mind.

You attempt a weak smile that may have come off as a grimace. ‘I’ll try not to.’

Reassured, he nods towards the garlic patch. ‘C’mon. Let’s get our hands dirty, sweetheart.’

By the time the vegetable patch has been thoroughly picked and the baskets crammed full, the sun is high in the sky, the morning clouds burned off with the heat.

Joel isn’t the only one who’s sweating through his clothes - your light cotton top is now clinging uncomfortably to your skin, sweat dripping down your sternum and dampening the cups of your bra. You heave a sigh of relief when he helps you move the haul to a shaded corner near the porch where you have an outdoor sink and wheel hose installed.

Emptying the root vegetables into the sink, Joel steps back and casts a critical eye over the rain gutters that line the eaves of your house. Fingers spread over one jutting hip, he leans his weight on his right leg, the stance creating all kinds of angles that are completely unnecessary in this kind of heat.

He points at the leaves and branches that are clearly sticking out from the channels, but you’re only really interested in studying his large hands. The bumps and veins on the back of them, the watch with the broken face on his left wrist, the dirt coating his thick fingers, pushed under tidily trimmed nails. The logical thought that follows is how he would leave dark streaks on your white top when he pulls you in by the waist -

‘Looks like the gutters need cleanin’,’ Joel declares.

Well, the gutter your head is currently dunked in can certainly do with a good scrub.

‘Rainy season doesn’t start for another few months, they can wait.’

He uh-uh's sternly. ‘I’ve heard that before. Do you have a ladder?’

‘You really don’t have to -’ you protest, but he won’t hear it.

‘It’s no big deal, I’m sweaty anyway,’ he replies. ‘Besides, you’ll be doing me a favour keepin’ me occupied. I don’t pick Ellie up till three.’

You bite your lip. ‘But I feel bad working you so hard.’

Without skipping a beat, he winks. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head, sweetheart - I like workin’ for it.’

Jesus Christ. This man needs to be locked up and the key thrown to a colony of clickers.

The inner contractor in Joel comes out to play as he climbs deftly up the extension ladder propped up against the eaves, gloves on and a tarp bag tied to the top rung for collecting the debris. Discreetly, you shuffle around the freestanding sink so that you have a clear view of him as you turn on the water and start washing the dirt off the onions.

He’s starting close by, just a couple of feet away from you, patiently scooping out the dead leaves and twigs by the handful. Up on the ladder with his side to you, you’re eye level with the swell of his belly, which stretches the seams of the vest, and the underside of it peeks out every time he reaches up for the gutters. Your cheeks warm with the memory of how the soft folds felt against you, so warm and solid that you ache to reach out, push the flimsy vest up and nuzzle the tender skin with your nose -

It takes you a couple of minutes to realise that you’re not even pretending to be washing the onions anymore, the hose running in your idle grasp as you stare, head cocked to one side.

You don’t hear him when he turns to you. ‘Can pass me the hose?’

You stare dumbly back at him. ‘Huh?’

‘The hose, Pin,’ he repeats, a playful condescension in his smirk, like he knows exactly what you’ve been looking at. ‘That onion looks sparkly clean.’

You’re not sure what happened. One second you’re holding onto the hose with the intention of turning off the water before passing it to Joel, but your brain skips that crucial first step, and the next thing you know, you’re pointing it straight at him, spraying him in water from face to chest.

As he splutters, you shove the hose into the sink and screech, mortified. ‘Oh my god! I’m so sorry!’

You watch in horror as the water trickles from his hair, down his stubbled chin and onto his chest - okay, that’s a lie. It’s definitely not horror that’s twisting in your tummy and then much, much lower between your thighs.

And if you thought this man looked good sweaty, well - you’ve seen nothing yet.

He might as well put you out of your misery and take off his undervest right about now. It’s completely see-through, pebbled nipples and the firm ridges of his pecs showing through the wet fabric, rounded out by the endearing soft pouch of his belly.

He wears the early summer tan so well, and for the first time since the outbreak, you think about the swim club in your old neighbourhood. Watching the water drip off his skin, it’s not a stretch to imagine this man pulling himself out of the pool after a quick dip to cool down, before stretching out on a sunlounger to dry in the sun - all in slow motion, set to the track of a corny sax riff.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say on reflex, but the apology rings hollow with the way your gaze lingers over his chest, and he notices.

He chuckles, carding one hand through his wet hair to slick it back, standing taller under your eyes. ‘As I said - never a dull moment with you, sweetheart.’

Joel takes his time, clearing out all the blockages and hosing the gutters clean so that you don’t have to worry about them for another six months. He dumps the leaves and sticks in the compost post, rinses the soiled gloves and his hands clean, before taking his shirt off the washing line and heading into the blessed shade.

He finds you in the kitchen, back to the door, putting away clean plates and cutlery from the drying rack, porcelain knocking together and metal clanging.

This is the most he’s seen of you, in a tank top and shorts, bathed in light spilling in from the large windows that open out into the backyard. He sees touches of your workshop right here in the kitchen - dried herbs and seasoning in mismatched but tidy boxes on the shelves, knives organised by size on a magnetic knife block, plates and bowls arranged in neat stacks behind glass cabinets.

Not wanting to alarm you, he deliberately scrapes his shoe on the tiled floor to make his presence known.

Whipping around - and just a touch startled - you smile with a quiet hey, and Joel’s not sure if he’ll ever get over how the sweet shyness still clings to the curve of your lips despite the fact that he’s kissed you right there.

He stays by the door for now and says, ‘I put the ladder back, and the gutters are all done, but I spotted some shingles missing on the roof while I was up there. I’ll come back to fix ‘em some other time.’

‘Thank you so much Joel, but really, don’t worry about the roof. You’ve done enough.’

‘You basically got Ellie outta my hair every Saturday for the next few months, so I’ll have plenty of time to kill,’ he half-jokes.

A comfortable lull sets in, and he looks up at the ticking clock, surprised that it’s almost noon. Shifting his feet, he opens his mouth and is about to excuse himself when you blurt out, ‘I’m sorry I soaked you.’

The jury's out on who's more taken aback by your phrasing. Exasperated, you groan, ‘I did not mean to say that.’

Joel’s kept a respectful distance since he arrived at the house, the pliant weight of you in his arms and your taste on his tongue kept firmly at bay in the back of his mind, not wanting to bring up anything that would make you uncomfortable in the light of day. But now, he pushes himself off the threshold of the door and crosses the cosy kitchen, pleased that you stay put when he plants himself in front of you, toe to toe.

Brushing a finger under your chin so that you’re staring up at him, he deliberately pitches his voice low and gruff, the double entendre almost crude in its delivery. ‘Just so we’re clear, you can soak me any time, sweetheart, in any way you want.’

Your lips part and your gaze darkens, and he feels his body instinctively react, invisible threads reeling him bodily into you. When you speak, your voice quivers, his name at once a single-worded reprimand and a needy whine that takes him right back to his brother’s spare bedroom. ‘Joel -’

‘Yes, Pin?’ he baits you playfully, just like he did that night, taking one last step so that you’re crowded against the countertop, bookending you with his palms planted on the wooden surface.

Finally shedding that last bit of shyness holding you back, you retort with no real bite, ‘You’re such a tease, Miller.’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,’ he quips easily, his attention on your mouth. He hears your shaky intake of air, the whole moment suspended on tenterhooks as you skirt each other on the brink -

Just then, a breeze drifts in from the open window above the sink, providing instant relief from the humidity that hangs heavy in the air. All of a sudden, he’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s sweaty all over, so much so that he might actually smell.

Self-conscious, he clears his throat and murmurs ‘I should probably go, I need a shower and a change of clothes -’

‘You can shower here,’ you interrupt, stumbling over your words in your haste. ‘I have a spare shirt somewhere.’

You don’t need to ask him twice.

He smiles. ‘Sounds good, sweetheart.’

Your ensuite bathroom, like what he has seen of your house, is clean and organised. There’s a neat stockpile of soap bars in the cupboard, and he spots the familiar bottles of regulation shampoo and toothpaste that the town mass produces.

The water is plenty hot as he efficiently lathers himself top to bottom and front to back, but the pressure is a bit weak for his liking and can be easily fixed. Something else to add to the list.

The towel you left on the rack is soft and smells like the sun. Patting himself dry and rubbing it through his hair, he wipes away the condensation off the mirror above the sink. He peers at his reflection, ruminating that it’s time for a shave, and pushes back his wet hair so the strands don’t get in his eyes.

Out of his clothes, only his jeans are passably dry, so he forgoes his boxers and pulls them on, carefully doing up the zipper. Using his shirt as a sling, he bundles up all the dirty clothes and opens the bathroom door.

He catches you coming into the bedroom as he steps out, and your jaw drops at the sight of him in just his jeans before you slap your palms dramatically over your eyes, the tshirt you’re holding onto covering your whole face and muffling your voice. ‘I’m so sorry! I should’ve knocked!’

Joel chuckles at your reaction. ‘Sweetheart, it's your house. And I’m not exactly naked.’

Lowering your hands sheepishly, you still clutch the tshirt to your chest like a security blanket, admitting, ‘Sorry, I just - I just realised I’ve never had a man in here before.’

Something wraps itself around his stomach and pulls, and it takes him a beat to put a name to it because it’s been so long. It’s possessiveness that rushes through his veins and goes straight to his head, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep his voice from wavering. He demands, ‘Never?’

‘Never.’

He lets the word wash over him, appeasing the beast in him for now. With a slow nod, he takes three measured steps towards you, stopping just an arm’s length away. Gently coaxing you to let go of the purple tshirt, he snorts at the huge Lakers logo blazoned across the front.

He quips, ‘I’m more of a Longhorns fan myself, actually.’

The tension cracks, and you grin back, ‘Well, not anymore.’

After your confession, it’s probably redundant, but he wants to hear you say it. Flashing the tshirt at you, he asks, ‘Old boyfriend’s?’

It’s the most personal question that’s been exchanged between you so far by a mile, and it’s probably none of his business, but you can’t explain why your pulse spikes at the way his normally warm gaze hardens with something unfamiliar.

‘No,’ you answer. ‘I keep some of the stock here when there’s not enough room at the shop, that’s all.’

Joel rasps, ‘Good.’

With that one syllable, his shoulders visibly relax, suddenly drawing your attention to his topless form, which you’ve been too mortified to actually look at. It’s a lot to take in, and even though you’ve seen most of him already, there is one conspicuous part that you haven’t yet -

But before your eyes can trail that low, Joel turns. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll just -’

You’re slow to catch onto why he trails off in the middle of the sentence, still far too distracted by his general state of undress to notice until he’s already made his way to the top of your neatly made bed. And then you see it…

The flannel peeking out from underneath the duvet.

Oh. Fuck.

With an almost flippant flick of his wrist, Joel peels back the corner of the bedspread. Wordlessly, he stares down at the red plaid shirt he lent you at the baby shower, tucked snugly in your bed, buried half under your pillow.

He stares at it for so long that you interrupt the silence for once.

‘I’ve been meaning to return it,’ you squeak, hands flailing awkwardly, desperately wanting something to hold onto. ‘I just - forgot.’

Joel half-turns to you, arching an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been keepin’ it in your bed?’

Backed into a corner - and you’re not proud of it - you lie. Outrageously. ‘I don’t know how it got in there.'

He picks up the shirt by the collar. It’s wrinkled all over and obviously worn in. He smirks, ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

You’re this close to swivelling around and making a break for it, but as soon as your axis of balance tilts backwards, Joel grabs you by the wrist and pulls you in, hauling you firmly into his bare chest.

‘You’ve been wearin’ it to sleep, haven’t you?’ he asks in a tone that brooks no argument.

Your fingers curl into his chest, his skin blazing warm under your palms. There’s no point fibbing anymore, and you admit, ‘Yes.’

His voice is hoarse when he asks, ‘You wear anythin’ underneath it, sweetheart?’

You hold your breath for one long moment, the tension in the room swelling so quickly that your ears pop. Eventually, under his patient yet heated stare, you shake your head, lips sealed.

His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, and you feel his grip on your hips tighten.

‘No bra?’ he prompts.

‘No bra,’ you parrot back.

His jaw clenches so tightly that you’re surprised he manages to articulate his next question. ‘No panties?’

‘No panties -’

You barely get the word out before Joel is kissing you, pushing the syllables right back into your mouth until you swallow them with a whimper.

And then he’s pulling back, growling against yours, ‘And what do you do naked in my shirt, hmm?’

You stutter, ‘I - I think about you -’

An undignified squeal escapes you when he suddenly spins you around, your back hitting the bed, denying you the chance to catch your breath. The ceiling fan turns directly above you, but it does nothing to quell the heat between your bodies as Joel clambers over you on his hands and knees, sliding his mouth over yours again in a hard kiss.

You always thought your bed was a decent size, but now, with the bulk of this man hovering over you, you’re not so sure anymore. His ridiculously wide shoulders fill your entire field of vision, and even though he’s holding himself up with his forearms by your ears, you can almost feel the full weight of him through sheer anticipation of his touch.

His heated words brush by your ear, making you shudder. ‘Tell me what you think about, sweetheart.’

‘Your arms, your shoulders -’ you hesitate, dropping your voice shyly. ‘Your belly.’

Joel looks taken aback. ‘My belly?’

You duck your head almost guiltily. ‘Yes.’

His brows draw together in an endearingly confused frown. ‘Why?’

‘That time in the workshop, when we met, you were sucking it in so hard you could hardly breathe - but you don’t anymore.’

The dots connect, and his lips part in an oh. ‘I didn’t even realise.’

‘I know. That’s why it’s sexy,’ you point out.

He looks at you incredulously, as if you’ve lost your mind. ‘My belly is sexy?’

You grin. ‘Yes, and your confidence. You walk differently now, you know.’

He makes a noise at the back of his throat, a self-satisfied smirk tilting his lips upwards. ‘You been watchin’ me?’

‘Maybe,’ you tease.

You exhale long and heavy through your nose when he sucks delicately on your bottom lip, opening you up so that he can dip inside, stealing a taste of your tongue with his.

‘Been thinkin’ about you all week, sweetheart,’ he whispers, trailing fire across your cheek and the hollow behind your ear.

‘I haven’t seen you around at all,’ you whine, tipping your head back as he nudges the tip of his proud nose down your throat.

‘I know, it took three fuckin’ days to clean up after the party,’ he complains, his disgruntled tone prompting a giggle from you. ‘Never again.’

‘I’m not so sure about that. There will be plenty of birthday parties to look forward to, Uncle Joel -’

An open-mouthed kiss on the side of your neck catches you off guard, the unfamiliar texture of the wet suction and scrape of his teeth jolts you clean off the mattress, sending you body slamming into his ribcage.

Joel hums, pleased at your reaction. ‘So sensitive. I’ve barely touched you yet, sweetheart.’

It’s immediate, the shame that burns under your skin at his remark despite knowing he doesn’t mean anything by it, and Joel frowns at the way you stiffen under him. Regret colours his words as he cups your cheek. ‘Pin, I’m sorry, that came out wrong -’

‘No, that’s the thing. You’re not wrong,’ you interrupt with a shake of your head. There’s no point denying it - you’re a grown woman, and there’s something fundamentally embarrassing about losing touch with that part of yourself over the years. ‘I - it’s been so long, I don’t even know my own body anymore.’

His eyes dip downwards and slowly, over the curve of your breasts and the arch of your back. With an encouraging smile, he argues, ‘I’m not sure about that. Looks like your body’s reactin’ perfectly to me.’

Your lips twitch despite yourself. ‘You’re just saying that to get into my pants.’

He takes the unexpected turn in the conversation in stride and runs with it. ‘Trust me, sweetheart, if I were tryin’, I’d already be in them.’

‘You’re such an ass, Joel Miller.’

His roguish grin has you squirming and fisting the sheets underneath you. ‘I dunno. Somethin’ tells me you like it.’

Wrapping one palm on the back of his neck, you drag him into you again, relishing in the weight of him as he pins you to the bed with the broad frame of his shoulders. He moans into your mouth, claiming it with deep strokes of his tongue, while his calloused palms sneak under the hem of your shirt and pull you into him by the small of your back.

Even as your hips buck, begging for friction, Joel holds back, propping himself up on his knees to keep a tenuous grip on his self-control. Pulling back from your lips with a wet pop, he assures you through heavy breaths, ‘We can stop any time, sweetheart. Just say the word.’

Your response comes fast and sure, but he can read the hesitance between the lines, ‘I - I don’t want to stop.’

He presses a patient kiss to your lips, but backs away before you can deepen it. ‘How about this - we’ll flip you over so that you’re on top, and you decide what you want to do. Is that ok?’

You pause to consider his proposal, sliding your tongue over your bottom lip - he’s this close to kissing you right there and then. You ask shyly, ‘And it’s ok if we - you know, just make out?’

He smiles. ‘I can do with some good old-fashioned neckin’.’

‘Ok then -’

You yelp when Joel turns you over without warning, the sudden movement making your head spin. Sitting up against the headboard, he drags you in his lap and asks, ‘Alright?’

You nod with a nervous smile. It’s intimidating, being so close to him that there’s nowhere else to look but into his thoughtful eyes that are watching you for any signs of discomfort. Catching your breath, you settle into the moment and realise that you’re straddling him, hands clinging onto his shoulders, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His belly is warm and soft where he’s pressed up against you, but lower, nudging insistently between your legs -

Joel is hard.

The revelation robs you of air, want and need rushing like blood to your head, and you stiffen, not knowing what to do.

Joel catches on - you’re beginning to think that nothing ever escapes him - and he reminds you, ‘Just kissin’, ok, sweetheart?’

Snapping out of your freeze frame, you nod, ‘Yes. Ok.’

Giving you somewhere to start, he prompts, ‘Where do you want my hands?’

Tugging on his wrists, you watch his jaw go slack when you place his palms squarely on your ass, where your denim shorts hardly cover the top of your thighs. He lets out a lewd moan at the way your soft curves fill his hands, fingers squeezing and kneading greedily, and you push your hips back into his contact.

‘Not so shy after all, hmm?’ he rasps.

You preen at his praise, and riding the wave of boldness, you tip forward and press your lips to Joel’s before you could overthink it. Over the roar of blood in your ears, you hear him suck in a shaky breath, and you feel the deep groan in his throat taper into a whimper when you swipe your tongue into his mouth.

You’re completely unprepared for the power the sound unleashes in you.

Somewhere in your consciousness, a door is cracked open, and memory crackles at the edges of your mind. Each shuddered breath shared, every slide of skin on skin, brings to the surface what you thought you’d forgotten.

Your fingers burrow into the still wet locks at his nape, earning a loud moan from Joel when you pull on the grays that have distracted you on more than one occasion. He nips his way sloppily down your neck, trailing spit and beard burn as he goes, while your palms skate over his chest and down, down, down until your fingernails drag over the pliant folds of his tummy, hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

‘Sweetheart,’ he groans brokenly at the contact, forehead knocking into yours.

Spreading your fingers over soft flesh, you choke on an inhale when he bodily rocks into your palms. Your thumb catches the hollow of his belly button, fingers tenderly squeezing the creases and dimples of his belly. His eyes crack open under tightly knitted eyebrows, vulnerability etched in every line on his face.

Something shifts - something that neither of you can take back. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore.

Caught somewhere between writhing instinctively under his touch and a deliberate pursuit of friction, your hips find a rhythm that has the seat of your panties quickly twisting and dampening as you grind on the erection straining against the zipper of his jeans.

Blunt nails bite into your thighs as Joel growls, ‘Shit, sweetheart. That’s it.’

You want to bury your face in his neck, feeling too wanton in the way you’re panting in needy whimpers, but he preempts that on no uncertain terms. ‘I want to see everythin’. Look at me.’

You do just that - you can’t deny this man even if you tried - watching him watch you with his pupils blown wide and wild, wetting his bottom lip the same time his eyes drop to your tits, as if he can see right through the thin fabric. He doesn’t touch you anywhere else though, his hands staying where you put them. You can feel his grip dig harder and harder into the swell of your ass, but he doesn’t try to change your rhythm, giving you free rein to ride him any way you need.

When your peripheral vision starts to go, you know it’s not a coincidence that your thoroughly soaked panties shift and strain against your clit, pinching it just so that you cry out, hips faltering.

Joel bares his teeth, and you feel his hips rut upwards into you, his restraint slipping. ‘There you go. You’re close, aren’t you?’

You can only nod, frantically grinding into him now, your whole mind narrowing until the only thought that remains is chasing that high that you can almost taste. Everything swells, electricity fills the air, his name a sacred chant on your tongue as you claw at his back, teetering precariously on the brink of something that promises to devastate you.

‘Joel, Joel, Joel -’

He catches you when you break - you fling yourself at him, knocking into him so hard that the back of his head hits the wall, but he doesn’t even flinch. Tucked safely into the crook of his neck, you whine and wail as you thrash in his hold, and his nostrils flare at your scent. He can smell you, he can smell the slick leaking from your pussy, humid and heady in the air between you, making his mouth water as he aches to taste you - all of you.

One day.

Right now, the hinge of his jaw almost cracks as you milk the last remnants of your orgasm with a needy swivel of your hips, rubbing against his cock at an angle that makes his vision swim, and he knows he’s too far gone. His control slips like shifting sands, and a primal instinct takes over as he bucks roughly into you, fingertips leaving imprints in your skin that you will feel for days after.

‘Oh fuck, sweetheart, wait, I’m - shit, I’m gonna -’

When it hits him, it’s fucking relentless - he cums and cums until his voice goes hoarse with your name, until it feels like his abdomen would cave in and collapse, spurting and spilling until it feels like he’s turned inside out. It goes everywhere, thick, milky strands filling the gaps in his jeans and sliding down his legs in a sticky mess, and he slumps bonelessly into the headboard, panting against your lips as he catches his breath.

Sweetly, gently, he tilts his chin up just enough to kiss you, his nose nudging your cheek intimately when he pulls away, his lungs too deprived of air to keep going. He winces when you shift above him, knowing that you can feel the wet spot pooling under your bare thighs.

Joel breaks the sluggish silence first, cracking a grin. ‘So much for just makin’ out.’

You clumsily climb off his lap and crash land sideways onto the mattress. ‘Is that a complaint, Joel Miller?’

He drapes a heavy arm over you and pulls back you flush into him. ‘Well, these jeans are fuckin’ ruined. I want a refund.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t accept cum-stained returns. Store policy.’

He pffts. ‘Damnit. Should’ve read the fine print.’

You grin. ‘Well, at least there's something deeply poetic about cumming in the jeans that I picked out for you.’

‘Touché, sweetheart,’ he grunts and presses a kiss to your forehead. Glancing down at the unmistakable wet patch on the denim, he asks hopefully, ‘Any chance you got some pants I can borrow?’

Ellie bounces her leg irritably, hunched over on the stairs exactly where Joel was sitting this morning. Where the fuck is he? He’s twenty minutes late, and he had the nerve to get all huffy when she lied about the start time today. Unbelievable.

Moodily looking left and right, there’s still no sign of him. She’s about to give up and wait for him at home when something conspicuously purple comes to a stop in front of her.

Her jaw hits the floor.

‘Oh. My. God.’

She’s never been high before, but she’s pretty sure this is the stuff hallucinations are made of.

This being Joel Miller in a purple tshirt with a tacky logo she doesn’t recognise printed on the front and khaki cargo shorts that cut off at the knees, holding a basket of vegetables that she’s pretty sure he doesn’t eat.

With a roll of his eyes, he snaps, ‘Shut your mouth, you’re trappin’ flies.’

Pasting on the most obnoxious grin she can muster, Ellie croons, ‘Man, don’t you look pretty.’

Turning on his heel, Joel starts walking without looking back. ‘Shut up.’

Jogging to keep up, she cackles, ‘Hey, did you fall into a wormhole and went shopping at a farmer’s market in 1999?’

‘Shut up.’

‘You really should wear shorts more often, y’know, show off those knees. And purple really is your colour, Barney!’

Joel frowns, shooting her a sidelong glare. ‘How the hell do you know who Barney is?’

Ellie shrugs. ‘What do you think they teach us at school?’

He’s the one who starts it. The quake in his shoulders would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but nowadays, there’s not much that he can hide from her. As usual, she giggles first, which trails into a squeal when Joel gives her a shove on the back, sending her stumbling over her shoes.

‘Fuck you, man!’ she snickers and basically rugby tackles him, but he barely budges, lips pulling back into a toothy grin.

Across the street, unbeknownst to the pair, Tommy smiles to himself as he watches his big brother laugh, really laugh - the kind that has him doubling over and gasping for air through watery eyes. For the first time since the world ended, he looks up at the sky with a reassuring nod, and he knows deep down - Joel will be just fine.

Notes: You guys continue to blow me away with your support - I cannot be more grateful for all the reblogs, asks and interaction with my silly Behind the Seams posts and random updates. Thank you so so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I can't wait to hear what you think ❤️

I will be having a think over the next few weeks about where Seams will go from here. This chapter wraps up the first mini story arc, and I'll be dedicating August to wrapping up my Palomino series, so it will give me some time and distance to mull over what's next for Joel and Pin. I'm also a few followers away from a big milestone, so I might have something fun planned! 🥰

#fuckyeahseams #seams iv #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine

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teencopandthesourwolf · 29 days

Text

“Please.”

Stiles stands there, chewing on his pretty crimson lips, pleading.

Derek isn't fully clued in yet, but honestly, the kid is kind of vaguely breaking his heart.

“Please, Derek, I'm really sorry about this, but please just—just don't say anything, okay? And just—let me?”

Stiles had texted Derek earlier, at 3.17am, presumably just before he’d set off from his house to drive his jeep to the loft.

Derek had been lying awake in bed, unable to sleep.

His messages had read:

> dude, i rlly need to come over. that ok?

And:

> ill let myself in if thats cool?

And after a few moments, in quick succession one after the other and before Derek had a chance to respond:

> and i rlly need u to just like. not get out of bed. presuming yr already in bed

> all shall be revealed

> lol i don't know why i put that

> and obvs tell me if any of this is not ok. ok?

> as if you wouldn't lol

> #sourwolf

> and yeah i know im being a weirdo but thats why you like me

And then, a few seconds later:

> right?

Derek had stared at the flurry of messages for a minute or so, then texted back:

Okay, weirdo <

About ten minutes later, Stiles had let himself into the building. Derek listened to the kid muttering away to himself as he rode the old service elevator—except it wasn't really himself he was talking to.

“God, I hope I'm not wrong about this. Like, I think we're close enough now for it not to be weird. I mean, at least I hope we are. I'm just so fucking tired, man, and have got to get me some sleep. Anyways, just—don't get up, okay? Or, like, can you get into bed if you're not already in bed? Sorry, I know I texted you this already, I just really need you to trust me. You do know you can trust me… Right, big guy?”

Derek's trust of Stiles was implicit.

When the steel door had unlocked and slid open, Derek smelled fresh, mostly unscented shower gel over the base notes of Stiles's own cinnamon scent, mixed with the very definite chemo-signals that indicated fear, restlessness, apprehension—and also, the strongest of them all; hope.

Let me.

Here, now, Derek still doesn't know what the kid needs.

Let him what?

Derek doesn't have any more time to wonder, though, because Stiles is taking off his sneakers and pants and is slowly, very slowly—as if giving Derek the chance to protest—climbing into bed next to him.

Stiles is now in Derek's loft in the small hours, in Derek's bed, fully under Derek's covers, with Derek wearing only his grey tank and black boxer-briefs and a probably terrified look on his face.

He silently thanks the universe for the cover of night.

“Like, you should obviously say something if this is completely heinous or whatever, but otherwise just—let me do this?”

And all Derek can think is shit, he's freezing, at the same time he is going into a some sort of dumbstruck shock because Stiles is now wrapping his entire sinewy, beautiful body around the entirety of Derek's.

“This okay?” Stiles asks, the air around them spiking with the smell of his anxiety as he Big-Spoons Derek like some human-shaped octopus, skinny but strong limbs astonishingly everywhere.

And he sounds so unsure, and so small, and Derek can't bear it.

Not giving the stoic part of his brain any opportunity to talk him out of doing this, Derek takes ahold of Stiles's wrist from where the kid had draped one of his long arms around Derek's midriff, and hangs on as firmly but gently as he can, manoeuvring them both around in the bed so that Stiles is now the Little Spoon.

“This okay?” he asks gingerly, mirroring Stiles because his own words are failing him.

Stiles says, “Yeah. Even better,” and his anxiety is melting away into something much more pleasing; something like relief.

Derek breathes out the word, “Good,” and feels a little dizzy and a lot amazed, and kind of like his heart is beating wildly in his throat.

The only reason he knows it isn't, is because Stiles says, “I can feel your heart thumping away in your chest, man. But, uh, I don't have wolfy senses, so… I can't tell if it's good thumping or bad thumping.”

Then he promptly stops breathing.

Derek resists the desperate, learnt urge to run away from this. He mentally shakes himself and figures: After so many years fighting monsters together, maybe he and Stiles can fight this one together, too?

He gives himself a moment to ride out the panic, then screws his eyes shut and, praying to nobody in particular, whispers, “Good thumping,” into the shell of Stiles's ear.

Stiles shivers and breathes again, but doesn't say anything else. For once, he doesn't need to. He just needs to sleep.

As the kid settles into Derek's bed and Derek's embrace and, hopefully, Derek's life, he smells like a mix of serene and content and promise—and also, wonderfully, of Derek, now.

Derek is a strange combination of relaxed and freaking-the-fuck-out because that's just the way he's made. His brain won't stop whirring at a speed of a million miles an hour, worrying about everything and nothing, all at once, and before he can bite into his lip to stop himself, he blurts out, “Cora says I sometimes dream-talk about Cajun Gumbo recipes.”

Stiles's only sighs, then hums quietly, his breathing already evening out almost to the point of sleep.

Just when Derek thinks he's not going to get any sort of real answer, Stiles mumbles, “Okay, weirdo,” on an exhale, and then he's drifting off into unconsciousness.

Derek settles then, and smiles into the nighttime thinking that maybe, finally, he might get a good night's sleep, too.

for @shealynn88, the bestest of friends. i love you and miss you always... <3 (unedited btw—forgive me!)

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delirious-donna · 2 months

Text

Expensive Taste [Extra Drabble]

Your best friend lets you crash at her place over the spring break since you have nowhere else to go. Little did you know that it isn't actually her place. Instead, it belongs to a tall (grumpy) hot guy who finds you in his apartment–her brother

an: I love added detail and I wondered what reader would get up to now she is aware of who’s bedroom she is standing in. If anyone is curious about the watch mentioned, the link to it is here for visual reference.

pairing: Nanami Kento x reader

warnings: none at all

Series Masterlist

“C’mon c’mon,” you muttered to yourself, listening to the incessant ringing in your ear. The line clicked over to voicemail. You cursed loudly, tossing your phone onto the plush bed. A bed that wasn’t yours, not even temporarily.

Your fingers tightened into the fluffy white towel fixed around your chest, a sense of guilt settling in your gut. It was ridiculous. You didn’t know you were in someone’s home. Blowing out a long breath, you spun on the spot. There were details you missed on first entering the room, and finding them now only made you feel foolish.

Set upon the right-hand nightstand was a black leather organiser with an expensive-looking watch displayed next to a retro alarm clock. You padded closer, bending to examine the timepiece without touching it and blinked rapidly as you came face to face with an Omega watch.

Shit, those were expensive.

You didn’t dare to touch the steel links, only admired the yellow-gold detail and navy blue face from a safe distance whilst telling yourself not to pick up your phone and find out just how much money these would set someone back. It wasn’t any of your business. None at all.

Dressing with little care, you hopped around the room to pull your leggings up and caught sight of yourself in the floor-length mirror. What a situation to be in. You couldn’t decide if this was the plot of some rom-com or a horror movie, at this point, it could go either way. Even knowing that your instincts told you to trust him. If he had wanted to cause you harm, then his best opportunity had blown right by.

Suppressing a smile, you remembered how mortified he had looked once the realisation had set in. The look of a man who did not have a clue what to do and that only endeared you to him despite the unsavouriness of the situation.

You fixed your hair into a loose ponytail, thankful that only the ends were wet with your untimely splashing session in the bath, and that’s when you spied the inset doorway to the left of the mirror.

Curiosity killed the cat, or so the saying goes.

Maybe it wasn’t a good quality of yours, this inability to resist temptation, but an open entryway wasn’t snooping, was it? You weren’t rifling through his drawers or looking at anything not openly on display. That was your argument, and you were sticking to it.

“Goddamn…”

For the second time this day, you spun a full 360 in what turned out to be an immaculate walk-in closet. Had you spied this earlier, there would have been no doubt in your mind that this place belonged to a man and a wealthy one at that.

The racks were neatly arranged into categories, with shirts of white, navy, black and grey hung with pristine creases highlighted in the sleeves and the cuffs and collars starched. Another housed trousers with matching jackets in the section next to them. You reached out tentatively, fingertips brushing against the thick expensive fabric. Just how much money did this guy earn?

One thing you noticed was that the area reserved for what you would consider casual attire was remarkably sparse. A few thin-knit sweaters hung with care. A pile of folded t-shirts stacked beneath and one pair of folded light blue denim jeans. Workout shorts and a few Under Armour compression shirts finished your perusal of the more than generous space.

Each item spoke of luxury, of an indulgence in the finer things in life but it did not necessarily strike you as excess. You gathered that everything in here held a purpose, be it to dress to impress at work or get the most from a workout. Nothing seemed like the kind of impulse buys that you were guilty of on the odd occasions you felt flush with money. Whether it was your place or not, it spoke to something within you, and you liked that he was indulgent where it counted.

You didn’t dare to open the drawers beneath, scared to death of what you might find—underwear mostly likely. Instead, you scurried back into the bedroom, terrified that he might return if you took too long.

It would be a lie to deny you were curious about him. He was far from old enough to be Karin’s father, a brother perhaps? You worried your bottom lip with your teeth, eyebrows pinched at the thought you might not know your friend as well as you assumed.

The man had an immaculate taste, but you very much got the impression that he was a workaholic. Even from the brief time you had spent together in the steamy bathroom, the fatigue was evident on his face. He could use a vacation most likely.

With that thought in mind, you went in search of the man in question. Several outcomes were jostling in your brain for attention, and all you hoped was that it wouldn’t end with you out on the streets with nowhere to go.

This Nanami Kento wouldn’t be so heartless, would he?

#delirious writes #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami fluff #nanami kento fluff #jjk x reader #jjk fluff

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kckt88 · 12 days

Text

Let It Be Me I.

Summary:

Aemond and Y.N have been best friends for years, and as they approach 30 years old, Y.N decides that she wants to be a mother, so Aemond volunteers his services.

Warning(s): Language, Angst, Mentions of Past Cheating, Alternating POV, Masturbation, Kissing, Smut – Fingering, Oral Sex, P in V, Misunderstandings, Alys.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x Y.N (PAST AEMOND X ALYS)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Word Count: 5383.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

"Y.N, I understand your desire to become a mother, but using a stranger as a sperm donor-it just doesn't sit right with me," Aemond said, his voice laced with concern. "Why not consider asking a friend instead? Someone you know and trust?"

Y.N furrowed her brow, considering Aemond's suggestion. "You know, I did speak to Aegon yesterday" she admitted quietly. "He offered to help."

Aemond's heart sank at the mention of his older brother. While Aegon was undoubtedly kind-hearted, the thought of Y.N having a child with him filled Aemond with a sense of unease. He couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't right.

Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "Y.N, please-don't go to Aegon. Don't go to anyone else. I-I'll do it."

Y.N's eyes widened in surprise, her gaze locking with Aemond's. "What do you mean?"

Aemond took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say. "I mean-I'll be the father; we are best friends, and we know each other, and I’ll always be around so you’d have support”.

Y.N's breath caught in her throat, her heart thundering in her chest. She had never imagined Aemond would make such a bold offer. Yet, as she looked into his eye, she saw the sincerity and love reflected there.

Tears welled up in Y.N's eyes as she reached out to grasp Aemond's hand. "Aemond, are you sure? This is a huge decision."

Aemond nodded, his resolve unwavering. "I've never been surer of anything in my life”.

“I-I guess we could try it, at least this way the baby would have their father around” replied Y.N smiling.

“So, when do you want to do this?” asked Aemond.

“Next week-it’s supposed to be my most fertile week” replied Y.N.

“Ok-is there anything I need to do to make sure everything goes smoothly?”

“I think it would be a good idea for both of us to abstain from sex with other people, until I manage to get pregnant-“

“-Not exactly an issue for me, I haven’t been with anyone since Alys-” muttered Aemond.

“Me either, I’ve not been with anyone since Jace” uttered Y.N.

Aemond grimaced at the mention of his nephew’s name, if he didn’t hate Jace before he certainly did when he started dating Y.N.

It drove Aemond insane having to listen to that bastard fucking Y.N, he spent many nights wishing it was him instead of Jace.

Not even the woman he brought back and fucked into the mattress could sway his mind away from Y.N, they’d met at university and became friends after an unfortunate incident which led Y.N tripping over and accidently throwing coffee all over him.

He normally would have raged at the stupidity of it all, but the moment he finished wiping himself off and saw those blue eyes he was done for.

Her sweet soft voice apologising to him profusely, but he wasn’t listening he just couldn’t stop staring at the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

Looking back, he should have obeyed his first instinct and asked her out on a date, but he feared that she would reject him, as most women usually did due to the huge scar marring his face, so he settled for friendship instead and never thought to move beyond that boundary even though he wanted to, as the years went by and their friendship grew, he now feared that he would lose Y.N as a friend if he ever dared to reveal his feelings, so he kept them hidden.

He'd rather have Y.N as a friend than not have her at all.

They moved in together after university, she became part of his family, and it was like she’d always been there. His mother loved her, his father never really paid much attention to anyone or anything unless it was about his firstborn child, his darling Rhaenyra who could do no wrong, Aegon the man whore of course tried it on with her, but she quickly rebuffed him, which made Aemond love her even more, Helaena took to her immediately which was nice as it was hard for his sweet sister to make friends, and Daeron liked her too.

Everything was perfect, except it wasn’t because he wanted her, and he was too afraid to tell her.

Even getting involved with other women was an issue as he would always end up comparing them to Y.N and they would never last long, until Alys.

She was older than him, and Aemond liked that. At first things were great between them, he fell in love with her, and he felt for the first time that he could move on from Y.N but the mask slipped, and Alys began to show her true colours. Aemond would like to say he got out of that shit as soon as it started but he didn’t, he was a fool blinded by love and his cock and it wasn’t until his sister and Y.N joined forces to make him see sense, that he was finally able to escape the praying mantis that was Alys.

As always Y.N was there helping him through it, supporting him and providing words of comfort until she brought that twat of his nephew home. It turned out that whilst he was with Alys, Y.N had started something up with Jace.

Dalton, Jason and Cregan were bad enough but Jace, gods above it rankled Aemond to no end to have to see that bastard sauntering around his apartment.

More than once he found his hands drifting towards the knives, just one slip that’s all it would take. But then he’d most likely get done for murder and it wasn’t worth the hassle.

So, Aemond had to resign himself to misery every time Y.N was with Jace, but as always it didn’t last long and it pleased Aemond no end when Jace was given the boot.

Like him, Y.N could never find anyone to settle down with and she eventually gave up.

But there was a sadness in Y.N, and Aemond knew she wanted so desperately to be married and have a family as she didn’t have anything to do with her own and as much as Aemond would fold to the ground quicker than a deck of cards if he ever thought he could get away with asking her to marry him, agreeing to father her child was the next best thing.

And that’s how Aemond found himself a week after he’d made his offer, masturbating in the bathroom.

He was no stranger to self-pleasure, he’d fucked his fist many times to the thought of Y.N, but doing it like this felt weird, he would never admit it, but it did take longer than usual to rouse himself, perhaps it was because it wasn’t something that occurred naturally, Normally he’d wake up with his cock hard and throbbing other times it would happen if he saw Y.N in her short p.js or those damn lycra leggings she was fond of wearing whenever she worked out.

One time her nearly blew his load when he saw her emerge from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, the water droplets still clinging to her-

“SHIT” moaned Aemond, as the need for release quickly shot across his abdomen.

Where was it? that damn pot thingy she gave him. He had to put his seed in there, and then he would hand it to her, and she would disappear off to her bedroom and put his seed inside herself-

“FUUUCCCCKK” roared Aemond only just managing to position the pot to catch his seed in time.

It seemed to go on forever, the jolt of pleasure running through him as he cock pulsed and released endless ropes of seed.

After he washed his hands and cleaned himself up, Aemond took hold of the pot and left the bathroom, Y.N was sitting on the sofa with her earphones in.

“Thank the fuck christ for that” muttered Aemond, his cheeks tinged pink at the thought of Y.N listening to him masturbate, although the thought did make his cock stir in his sweatpants.

“Aemond-is everything ok?” asked Y.N as she pulled out her earphones.

“It’s fine-I guess I should give you this” replied Aemond as he handed her the pot.

“Yes-thank you. I-I’ll be back in a moment,” said Y.N as she quickly disappeared into her bedroom.

Not knowing exactly what to do with himself, Aemond sat on the sofa and thumbed through one of the magazines on the coffee table.

“Tips for women: how to bag your secret crush-what a crock of shit” Aemond as he threw the magazine in the bin.

A few minutes later Y.N emerged from her bedroom, carrying the empty pot in her hand, the knowledge that his seed was now inside her made his cock respond in earnest.

Fuck-he needed to get to his bedroom and fast.

“Is everything ok?” asked Y.N a faint blush dusting her cheeks.

“F-fine, I just need to go to my room. I forgot my phone. Waiting for a work call” exclaimed Aemond as he darted out the room.

The irritated voice of Y.N carrying through the flat when she saw the magazine in the bin.

“Hey-I was reading that”.

As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months, Y.N and Aemond embarked on the process of conceiving a child with optimism and excitement.

However, as time passed without any signs of success, their initial enthusiasm gave way to frustration and disappointment. Month after month, they meticulously tracked Y.N's cycle, timed their efforts with precision, and yet, each negative pregnancy test felt like a crushing blow.

One evening, as they sat together in the dim glow of their apartment, the weight of their unspoken fears hung heavy in the air. Y.N's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she voiced the thoughts that had been haunting her for weeks.

"Aemond, what if there's something wrong with me?" she whispered, her voice barely above a hoarse murmur.

Aemond's heart clenched at the pain in Y.N's voice, his own fears mirroring hers. "Y.N, don't say that" he replied, his voice laced with emotion. "There's nothing wrong with you. We just-haven't been lucky yet, that's all."

But Y.N couldn't shake the nagging doubt that gnawed at her heart. She couldn't help but wonder if her body was somehow failing her if she was somehow unworthy of the gift of motherhood.

"I know we've only been trying for a few months, but-what if it never happens?" Y.N's voice trembled with the weight of her insecurities.

Aemond reached out, gently cupping Y.N's face in his hands, his eyes filled with reassurance. "Y.N, listen to me. We're in this together, okay? Whatever happens, we'll face it together. And if we need to seek help, then we'll do it. But we're not giving up, not now, not ever."

"Guys, I don't know what to do," Aemond admitted, his voice tinged with concern. "Y.N and I have been trying for months, and-nothing. Not even a hint of a positive test."

Aegon leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, maybe you're going about it the wrong way," he teased, earning a sceptical glance from Daeron. "Perhaps you should try it the natural way."

Aemond's cheeks flushed crimson at Aegon's suggestion, his embarrassment evident. "Aegon, come on. This is serious," he protested, though a small part of him couldn't help but chuckle at his brother's audacity.

Daeron rolled his eyes, shaking his head in amusement. "Aegon, sometimes I wonder if you have any sense of decorum," he remarked dryly, though a smirk played at the corners of his lips.

“Or maybe little brother’s just insecure that he’s shooting blanks, what are you nearly thirty and not one accident-with anyone” laughed Aegon as he took a swig of beer.

“Just because you’ve got fuck knows how many kids to god knows how many different women, doesn’t mean were all like that, I’ve never fucked a women raw, I always used protection” replied Aemond.

“Your not still pissed I offered her my load are you-I was only joking, well kind of-“

“-Aegon seriously. I hate it when you talk like that. Grow up” snapped Daeron.

“Ooo hark at Mr prim and proper over here, anyone would think you had a thing for Y.N”.

“No-as lovely as Y.N is she’s not my type,” said Daeron.

“What is your type?” asked Aegon.

“Men-“ said Aemond firmly.

“-I thought you liked women?” quipped Aegon.

“I’m pansexual-I’m attracted to whoever regardless of their gender or how they identify”.

“Isn’t that what Helaena is?” mused Aegon.

“No, she’s asexual, which means no sexual attraction to others” said Aemond.

“So, hang on, if your attracted to anyone, then why isn’t Y.N your type?” asked Aegon.

“Because she’s my friend and I don’t think of her in that way-“ retorted Daeron.

“Unlike captain slow over here, dude is down so bad he literally offers to father his best friends child” snarked Aegon.

“You should really tell her Aemond-“

“-What? And ruin the friendship, I can’t do that. I can’t lose what we have” replied Aemond downing his glass of whisky and grimacing at the afterburn.

“Have you not considered that she might feel the way?” asked Daeron.

“What? No” muttered Aemond.

“Look listen to your big brother-go home and suggest that you try making the baby the natural way, all this methodically planned shit is clearly causing stress, which isn’t good for either of you-so maybe fucking each other and having an orgasm or two may help”.

“What if she says no” mused Aemond.

“If she does then we’ve always got a spare room for you-“

“-Not fucking funny” snapped Aemond.

“Just make the suggestion-let her make the choice,” said Daeron.

“Ok-but if she says no then expect another roommate” muttered Aemond.

Aemond took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation he was about to have with Y.N. As they sat together in the quiet comfort of their apartment, the weight of their unspoken desires hung heavy in the air.

"Y.N, I've been thinking," Aemond began, his voice tentative yet resolute. "Maybe-maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. Maybe instead of focusing so much on timing and tracking, we should-try things more naturally."

Y.N's brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes searching Aemond's face for clarity. "What do you mean, Aemond?"

Aemond hesitated, unsure of how to articulate the swirling emotions that churned within him. "I mean-maybe we could try having sex with each other”

Y.N's breath caught in her throat at Aemond's words, her heart pounding with a mixture of longing and apprehension. She had spent countless nights secretly yearning for Aemond, yet the fear of ruining their friendship had kept her from confessing her true feelings.

"Aemond, I-I don't want to risk our friendship," Y.N admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if-what if this changes everything between us?"

Aemond reached out, gently taking Y.N's hand in his own, his gaze soft yet determined. "Y.N, our friendship means everything to me and if you decide that we should just continue trying as we have been then I will respect your decision”.

Y.N sat quiet for a moment as she thought about what Aemond had suggested, clearly what they were already doing wasn’t working but maybe this could.

Gods she had been in love with Aemond ever since she’d tripped and thrown her coffee all over him. Features so sharp it looked like he’d been carved by the gods themselves, his singular eye was a shade of blue that she had never seen before, he was so beautiful. Initially his face had been twisted in anger and annoyance but then it softened and relaxed.

Admittedly she was left feeling disappointed that he’d not asked her out, and her shyness prevented her from asking him, so she settled for the friendship that blossomed between them.

Having no family of her own, she became part of his and it was truly wonderful. His mother Alicent, wow her curly auburn hair was incredible was quite nice, his father was disinterested and looked like he could play an extra from night of the living dead, his older brother Aegon had more kids than she had hot dinners was a bit of a cheeky chancer but nothing she couldn’t handle, his sister Helaena was sweet and whimsical in a way that warmed her heart and Daeron he was sensible and funny.

But she was a coward, too scared to tell Aemond how she felt, the possibility of ruining their friendship was heartbreaking but it was also the potential loss of his family that added to her reluctance.

Being alone for along time, you think you’re ok with it, just going through the motions but once you experience that closeness you truly realise how alone you are, and it saddened her deeply.

Aemond didn’t seem interested in her in that way, judging from all the women he fucked, at first, she tried to ignore it but then she thought why not take a leaf out of his book and get involved with someone.

Admittedly though giving her virginity to Dalton Greyjoy was a mistake, he barely lasted and to get through it she had to fantasise about Aemond, then there was Jason Lannister, he was a bit better but still a selfish prick.

Cregan Stark was a very giving lover, he never left her wanting, the only problem was that he wasn’t Aemond, and inevitably the relationship didn’t last long.

Then Aemond met her. Alys fucking Rivers. You’d think older would mean more mature, but no she was about as mature as the cheese you would find in the fridge, the blue veiny kind that smelled like feet.

It broke her heart to see Aemond so happy, but there wasn’t much she could do, and she would often escape their apartment whenever Alys was around and cry on Helaena’s shoulder.

Aemond’s sweet sister knew of her feelings for Aemond and often provided a welcome distraction from the disgusting display Alys would often make as she draped herself all over Aemond every chance she got, and their friendship wasn’t as close when she was around.

But then things started to go wrong, and Alys revealed her true self. The lies, the emotional and verbal abuse, even the cheating. But Aemond kept going back to her, time and time again, until one day she and Helaena took it upon themselves to sort that bitch out.

Helaena was the one who talked sense into Aemond and Y.N took great pleasure in giving her a good slap before throwing her out of the apartment.

Things seemed back to normal after that, until Y.N had to tell Aemond that she was involved with his nephew Jace.

If Aemond could have gritted his teeth any harder then he would have broken his jaw, the thing with Jace had initially started when Aemond was dating Alys, and Y.N understood that there maybe issues given that it was Jace’s younger brother Luke who cost Aemond his eye when they were children, but she was lonely and just needed a distraction from her feelings.

Although his posture and hair cut were atrocious, Jace was nice enough, but once again she kept comparing him to Aemond and then began to feel weird about Jace being his nephew and eventually it came to an end.

After one dating disaster after another, Y.N resigned herself to being single forever. Which saddened her deeply, she wanted to get married she wanted children. So, one day she decided why not be a mother, she had a steady job and enough savings, that maybe she could do it on her own. People used sperm banks all the time, so why couldn’t she.

Helaena was supportive and suggested asking someone she knew first, admittedly asking Aegon was a mistake, but it was a request made out of the fact that not only did she know Aegon but due to all his children, she knew his soldiers were marching, it was just the idea of tying herself to him as so many others had done which changed her mind.

So, sperm bank it was, at least they did the necessary checks, but in the end, she had no need for it as Aemond offered to father her child.

As surprising as it was, she was not opposed to the idea. Aemond was after all her best friend and she trusted him beyond all measure, so she accepted his offer.

Explaining the mechanics of the offer to Aemond had been mortifying, especially when she presented him with the pot, he would put his seed in.

Listening to him masturbate in the bathroom though had been a treat, his groans of frustration filtered through the apartment and if Y.N was brave she would have offered to help him, but she was a coward, so she put her earphones in, not like that helped much as the noise he made when he came, made her stomach flutter and her core clench.

When he handed her the pot, his cheeks were tinged pink and fuck he was still hard, she could see the outline of his cock through his sweatpants.

She excused herself, went to her room and did what she needed to do, when she emerged Aemond was hovering in the living room, his eye blown wide and his cheeks red.

Fuck his cock was straining hard against the fabric of his sweatpants, Y.N couldn’t help but move closer to him, but when she asked if he was ok, he seem startled and raced off to his room, going on about his mobile.

“Ok-now where is my-“ muttered Y.N as she looked for her magazine, only to see it in the bin. That fucker had thrown it away.

Over the next few weeks, they continued with their arrangement, but it wasn’t working. No pregnancy ever materialized, and she began to feel like there was something wrong with her, but Aemond supported her and promised that they weren’t going to give up.

She never imagined not giving up would result in him suggesting they try to conceive a child by having sex, but here they were in the living room with the weight of his suggestion hanging in the air.

Of course, it did make sense, but she was worried about it changing their friendship, and not only that she didn’t want to lose his family that taken her in as one of their own.

He said she could turn him down, that it was her choice to make, and it made her heart flutter. She could say no, she probably should say no but the only words that left her mouth was acceptance.

“Ok-let’s have sex” said Y.N.

Aemond had thought all his Christmases had come at once when Y.N took his hand and led him to her bedroom.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Aemond as he closed the door.

“I’m sure-now fuck a baby into me” replied Y.N as she pressed forward and claimed his lips with her own.

The kiss was filthy, it was depraved, and it was fucking amazing. Aemond couldn’t help the small groan that escaped his tips as Y.N’s tongue slid against his.

This was everything he’d ever wanted, and fuck she tasted divine.

Aemond slowly moved his hands down Y.N’s body before roughly grasping her ass and hauling her up against the door.

Y.N whimpered, gripping at Aemond’s shoulders as he slotted himself between her legs, his tongue still invading her mouth.

Aemond pressed himself against the apex of Y.N’s thighs, and he growls like an animal when she reaches down and palms his hard cock over his sweatpants.

“Fuck-“ groans Aemond as he began to grind his clothed cock against her.

“Someone’s eager” whispered Y.N as she flicked her tongue against the corner of Aemond’s mouth.

“Oh, sweet girl you have no idea” quipped Aemond as she spun her off the door and carried her to her bed.

Soon their clothes are abandoned in a haphazard heap on the floor and Aemond was laid between Y.N open legs moving his fingers through her dripping folds as he expertly devoured her with his mouth, his nose bumping against her pearl as fucked her with his tongue.

Gods, she tasted delicious here too. Obviously, this wasn’t required to make a baby but he couldn’t help himself, he needed her wet and wanting.

Aemond loved performing oral sex on women, something his past partners never complained about, but nothing compared to Y.N she was delicious in a way he’d never tasted before.

“Fuck,” squeaks Y.N as she grasps at the back of Aemond’s head, her fingers digging into his hair, holding him in place.

“You’re quite sensitive. Are you going to come already?” asked Aemond smugly.

Aemond alternates between using his fingers and tongue to bring Y.N to her peak.

Y.N arches her back as she comes, Aemond gently sucks on her pearl as she rides out the euphoria of her peak.

“Is that you done baby, or do you want more?” asked Aemond playfully, his chin shining with her slick.

“M-More, please” gasps Y.N as Aemond reaches forward and presses a singular kiss to her pearl before he quickly wipes his chin with his hand.

Aemond smirks as he removes his boxers, his hard cock slapping up against his abdomen,

Y.N looks at Aemond and her eyes widen, he was bigger than anyone she’d been with previously significantly so, his cock hard and heavy, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

“Don’t worry little bird-it will fit” whispered Aemond as he presses his lips against Y.N’s in a heated kiss.

Aemond takes himself in his hand and guides his hard cock to Y.N entrance, pushing in slowly and pausing to give her a moment to adapt to his size.

After pressing a gentle kiss to Y.N’s lips, Aemond pulls out slowly and slides back in, his pace gentle and steady.

“Harder-faster, please daddy I can take it” exclaimed Y.N.

Aemond lets out a pleased grunt and slams into Y.N hard, smiling as she lets out a yelp of surprise.

The pace he sets is brutal, his hips slapping against hers, all the pent up frustration of wanting her pouring out of him.

Y.N moans desperately, as she moves her hips to meet his, attempting to allow his cock to reach deeper within her.

Aemond gets the hint, and quickly lifts Y.N’s legs over his shoulders, using the new angle to drive his cock even deeper than before.

“Tell me how it feels” demands Aemond.

“It’s good, so good-yes-yes you feel so good”

Y.N praises sets something off inside Aemond as he continues to pound into her, the headboard banging against the wall from the force of his movements.

“Aemond, please, I’m close” whimpers Y.N.

Aemond moves a hand down to where the two of them are joined, and rubs Y.N’s pearl in quick circles, dragging her closer the edge of the precipice.

“I never want to leave this sweet pussy–fuck,” groans Aemond as he marks each of his words in tandem with a rough snap of his hips.

Y.N come with a loud, scream, her body shaking underneath Aemond’s as his thrusts grow sloppy.

“J-Just a little longer-fuck” groans Aemond as he slams into Y.N three more times before reaching his own peak, spilling rope after rope of seed inside her.

After a few moments, Aemond gently moves Y.N’s legs from his shoulders, his chest heaving with every breath he takes.

“I-I wasn’t too rough, was I?” asked Aemond.

“No. I-It was wonderful” exclaimed Y.N, her body shaking slightly.

Aemond smirks as he slowly removes his softened cock from her slick cunt, his singular eye fixated on the drops of seed that spill out.

He takes a finger to Y.N’s opening and pushes his seed back inside, delighting in her moan of surprise.

“Can’t be wasting it now can we” whispered Aemond as he laid down on the bed and pulled Y.N to him.

“I guess not” replied Y.N her eyes closed as she smiled slightly.

“Not tired, are you?” asked Aemond curiously as Y.N laid her head on his chest and began running her fingers through the sparse hair that graced his chest.

Y.N looked at him and smiled as she shook her head.

“Good, because I plan to fill you with my seed many times this night-”.

Over the next few weeks, Aemond and Y.N spent many nights entwined in bed, sometimes they didn’t even make it to the bedroom.

Aemond had practically taken her on every available surface in their apartment, he was unrestrained and ravenous.

Never had Y.N experienced such pleasure, that it often left her unable to walk straight, something that Aegon liked to tease her about quite frequently.

But a swift dig to the ribs would often sort him out and wipe that cheeky grin off his face.

Whilst all the sex with Aemond was enjoyable there was a purpose behind it and Y.N was on pins the day her period was due, but it never came, nor did it arrive the next day or the day after that.

Not wanting to get her hopes up too much, Y.N made an appointment with the Drs and anxiously waited for the news.

Later that day Y.N's heart raced with anticipation as she stepped through the door of their apartment.

"Aemond!" she called out, her voice trembling with excitement as she searched for him. "Aemond, where are you?"

Aemond emerged from the living room, a curious expression on his face as he caught sight of Y.N's radiant smile. "Y.N, what's going on?”

Y.N's smile widened as she held out a piece of paper, her hands trembling with excitement. "Aemond, I went to the doctor today- and guess what? We're going to have a baby!"

Aemond's eye widened in disbelief as he took in Y.N's words, the reality of her announcement sinking in. "Y.N, are you serious?" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with awe and wonder.

Y.N nodded eagerly, tears of joy shimmering in her eyes. "Yes, Aemond, I'm serious! The doctor confirmed it-we're going to be parents!"

Aemond's heart swelled with overwhelming emotion as he pulled Y.N into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. "Y.N, this is incredible," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I can't believe it-we're going to have a baby."

But then out of the corner of her eye, Y.N noticed a figure sitting on their couch.

"Alys-what are you doing here?" Y.N managed to choke out, her voice trembling with a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

Alys looked up, her expression a mix of surprise and discomfort. "I... I came to see Aemond," she replied, her voice faltering slightly. "I didn't realize you would be here."

“I live here” retorted Y.N her voice dripping with venom.

"Did I hear you say that you were pregnant?” asked Alys.

“Yes, you did, Aemond is the father-“ said Y.N through gritted teeth.

“I-I didn't know you and Aemond were-together," Alys finally stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y.N felt a lump form in her throat as Aemond's response echoed in her ears. "We're not together," he said simply, his words like a dagger to her heart.

The realization hit Y.N like a tidal wave, washing over her with a force she could scarcely comprehend. In that moment, the truth of their relationship – or lack thereof – crashed down upon her, leaving her feeling lost and alone.

Tears welled up in Y.N's eyes as she struggled to make sense of it all. The joy of her pregnancy announcement now tainted by the crushing weight of rejection.

Aemond's heart clenched with anguish as he watched the devastation wash over Y.N's face. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, a painful reminder of the hurt he had unwittingly caused.

"Y.N, I'm so sorry," Aemond began, his voice laced with regret as he reached out to her. But before he could utter another word, Y.N pulled away, her eyes brimming with tears as she fled to her bedroom, the sound of her sobs echoing in the empty space.

TBC

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #aemond one eye #hotd fic #aemond #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aegon ii targaryen #daeron targaryen #helaena targaryen #hotd smut

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midastouch013 · 16 days

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The Assassin and The Sunshine

Summary: You and Yelena were the most least-likely pair, or atleast that's what the avengers (Minus Natasha and Wanda) thought. So what happens when they see how the blonde acts when you get hurt

Warnings: Gunshots, medical stuff (minorly). Angry Yelena

----

Yelena Belova, with her steely gaze and lethal precision, was the epitome of intimidation among her peers. Her reputation as a formidable assassin preceded her, casting a shadow of fear wherever she went. With every calculated move and icy demeanor, she commanded respect and evoked a sense of unease among those around her. She was a force to be reckoned with, leaving a trail of apprehension in her wake.

And then there was you, Y/n Y/L/n. With a personality as bright as the sun and a heart as pure as gold, Y/n brought warmth and positivity to every situation. Her infectious laughter and unwavering kindness had a way of melting even the coldest of hearts, earning them the affectionate nickname of "the team's golden retriever."

Your gentle nature stood in stark contrast to Yelena's, and yet, somehow, the two of you had found a connection that defied explanation.

It wasn't easy, navigating a relationship with someone as closed-off as Yelena. She was slow to trust, and her walls were fortified with layers of steel. But you were patient, willing to chip away at those barriers bit by bit until you reached the heart of who she truly was.

The rest of the team couldn't understand it. They saw Yelena as an enigma, a formidable presence to be feared and respected. They couldn't fathom what you saw in her, why you would choose to be with someone so different from yourself.

"It's just... I don't get it," Tony remarked, glancing over at Yelena and you conversing in the corner of the room. "What's the deal with those two? Yelena's like a walking arsenal, and Y/n's... well, Y/n."

Steve nodded in agreement, his gaze following yours and Yelena's interaction. "I know what you mean, Tony. It's hard to imagine what they see in each other. They're like night and day."

Clint, who had been listening in on the conversation, chimed in with her own thoughts.

"Exactly! I still can't wrap my head around it," Clint admitted, scratching his head in confusion. "Yelena and Y/n... they're just so different from each other."

Bruce chuckled softly, glancing towards where you and Yelena were sitting. "Love is a strange thing, Clint. It's not always logical. Maybe Y/n sees something in Yelena that we don't."

Clint sighed, shaking his head. "I guess you're right. I just hope they know what they're doing."

It was a cold autumn day, and you found yourself on another mission alongside Natasha Tony, Steve, and Clint. The tension hung heavy in the air as the team moved with practiced precision through the dimly lit corridors of the enemy's stronghold.

The mission had been intense from the start, nearly dodging attacks at almost all turns, but as you ventured deeper into the heart of the HYDRA base, the atmosphere grew even more charged. Every step felt like a potential trap, every shadow a potential threat.

Suddenly, chaos erupted. Gunfire erupted from unseen assailants, and you found yourself instinctively stepping in front of Clint, shielding him from the onslaught. The impact was immediate, a searing pain lancing through your side as the bullets found their mark.

"Y/n!" Natasha's voice was a mix of alarm and concern as she rushed to your side, her expression tight with worry.

Clint knelt beside you, his hands hovering uncertainly over your injured form. "Y/n, are you okay?"

You managed a weak nod, gritting your teeth against the pain as Natasha and Tony quickly moved to assess your injuries.

"We need to get her out of here," Natasha declared, her voice firm as she glanced around the chaotic scene.

Steve's voice crackled over the comms. "Quinjet's on its way. Hold tight, we'll get you out of there."

As you were carefully lifted onto a stretcher, the team worked quickly to stabilize you. Despite the pain, you managed a weak smile, reassured by their presence.

"We've got you, Y/n," Tony said, his tone determined as he helped load you onto the Quinjet.

Clint squeezed your hand gently, his expression filled with worry. "Hang in there, okay? We'll get you patched up in no time."

You nodded weakly, feeling a surge of gratitude for your friends. As the Quinjet engines roared to life and the aircraft lifted off, you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over you, knowing that even in the midst of danger, you had your closest friends by your side.

----

As the Quinjet touched down back at the base, the team wasted no time in transferring you to the medbay. Before Yelena could arrive, the medical team swiftly brought you into the operating room, shielding you from her sight.

Moments later, the door burst open again, and Yelena stormed in, her expression a mask of fury. Kate Bishop, who happened to be sparring with her when FRIDAY had informed Yelena of the news, was right beside her, offering silent support.

"Where is she?" Yelena demanded, her voice a dangerous growl, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of you.

Natasha stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. "Yelena, they've taken her into surgery. They're doing everything they can for her."

The blonde's tension only seemed to escalate at Natasha's words. "They better be taking care of her!" she barked, her tone sharp and threatening.

Tony and Steve exchanged uneasy glances as Yelena's fury filled the room. They shuffled awkwardly, intimidated by the practically burning blonde.

Yelena turned her rage on them, her eyes blazing with fury. "This is all your fault!" she accused, her voice cutting like a knife. "If anything happens to her, I'll make sure you all pay!"

Steve, ever the voice of reason, tried to reason with Yelena. "Yelena, we understand your concern, but right now our priority is getting her the help she needs."

Yelena's eyes flashed with fury. "Your priority should have been keeping her safe in the first place!" she shot back, her voice sharp with accusation, her Russian accent adding an extra edge to her words.

Tony, normally quick-witted, found himself at a loss for words in the face of Yelena's anger. "We did everything we could," he insisted, his tone defensive.

Clint, usually unflappable, shifted uncomfortably under Yelena's intense gaze. "Yelena, we're all worried about her. But yelling at us isn't going to help," he reasoned, trying to diffuse the tension.

But Yelena's rage was unyielding. "You think I care about your excuses?" she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. "All that matters to me is her. And if anything happens to her because of you…"

Natasha exchanged a knowing glance with Kate, silently acknowledging that it was time to intervene and calm Yelena down before her fury escalated further.

"Yelena," Natasha spoke softly but firmly, stepping closer to her friend, "I know you're scared. But yelling at them won't help Y/n."

Kate nodded in agreement, placing a gentle hand on Yelena's arm. "We're all worried about her," she added, her voice calm and reassuring. "But right now, we need to trust that Dr. Cho and Bruce knows what they're doing."

Yelena's anger seemed to waver for a moment as she looked between Natasha and Kate, her resolve beginning to soften.

Natasha continued, her voice gentle yet persuasive. "Y/n needs us to be strong for her right now. She needs you to be strong."

Kate nodded in agreement. "We're all in this together, Lena. We'll get through this, but we need to stay calm and focused."

Yelena's shoulders tensed, but gradually, the fire in her eyes began to dim as she took a deep breath, her anger giving way to concern for you. "I just want her to be okay," she admitted, her voice softer now, tinged with worry.

Natasha squeezed Yelena's hand reassuringly. "We all do," she said, her voice filled with empathy. "And Helen and Bruce will do everything we can to make sure she is."

As the tension in the room began to ease, Yelena nodded in silent agreement, her gaze lingering on the closed doors of the operating room where you lay.

Natasha gestured towards a nearby chair, silently inviting Yelena to sit beside her. Yelena hesitated for a moment before finally sinking into the seat, her body trembling with emotion.

Natasha wrapped an arm around her sister's shoulders, offering a comforting embrace. "It's going to be okay, Lena," she murmured, her voice soft and soothing.

Yelena leaned into Natasha's embrace, her walls crumbling as tears streamed down her cheeks. She buried her face against Natasha's shoulder, her sobs muffled against the fabric of her sister's uniform.

The other Avengers watched the scene unfold with a mixture of surprise and understanding, their eyes widening as they witnessed a side of Yelena they had never seen before.

Tony exchanged a glance with Steve, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"She's stable"

---

The steady beeping of the monitors filled the room as you blinked away the fog of anesthesia, your senses gradually coming back to you.

As your eyes fluttered open, you were met with the sight of Yelena sitting beside you, her expression soft and full of concern. "Hey," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you reached out to her.

Yelena's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of you awake, but she quickly composed herself, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she took your hand in hers. "Hey," she replied, her voice gentle and full of warmth.

Relief flooded through you as you squeezed her hand, grateful for her presence by your side. But, as you squeezed Yelena's hand, a wave of concern washed over you when you noticed the tears welling up in her eyes. "Lena, what's wrong?" you asked, your voice filled with worry as you reached out to gently cup her face with your hand.

Yelena's lower lip trembled slightly as she tried to compose herself, but the floodgates had opened, and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "I was so scared," she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought... I thought I might lose you."

You pulled her into a gentle embrace, holding her close as she cried softly against your chest, which hadn't be affected much, and was already fixing up thanks to Bruce's cell regenerator.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm right here," you whispered softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Yelena leaned into your embrace, her tears gradually subsiding as she took comfort in your presence. "I was so scared," she admitted again, her voice trembling slightly.

You brushed a strand of hair away from her face, offering her a small smile. "I know, Lena. But I'm okay now. You're the one who's always saving me, even when you're not anywhere near me," you said sincerely, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

Yelena's lips twitched slightly, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes. "Yeah, well, don't expect me to always save you," she teased lightly, a small chuckle escaping her lips, as she resorted to her usual coping method of humour.

You grinned, feeling a surge of affection for the woman in your arms. "Oh, come on, Lena. You love playing the hero," you teased right back, trying to lighten the mood.

A genuine smile spread across Yelena's face for the first time since you'd woken up. "I kinda do" she chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, before the both of you started laughing.

But as the laughter faded, a heaviness settled in the air once again. Yelena's eyes clouded with sadness, the weight of the situation crashing down on her once more.

You reached out, cupping her face in your hands. "Hey, Lena. It's okay to be scared," you said softly, your voice filled with empathy. "But we're together now. And we'll get through this, I promise."

As the Avengers stood at the door, watching the unexpected tenderness between you and Yelena, they exchanged surprised glances.

Tony raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with disbelief. " The White widow is a softie after all, what would you know?"

Steve nodded in agreement, a small smile playing on his lips. "Seems like we all jumped to conclusions too quickly."

Bucky, who had been silently observing, chimed in. " I guess, they are perfect for each other hm"

Clint chuckled, shaking his head in amazement. "Never thought I'd see the day when Yelena Belova was making someone laugh."

As they listened to the laughter emanating from the room, as you and Yelena continue to make each other laugh, the Avengers couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration for the unexpected bond between you and Yelena. It was a reminder that sometimes, people were more than their tough exteriors.

#avengers #anon ask #anonymous #yelena belova x female reader #yelena belova x reader #natasha and yelena #yelena belova #yelena and natasha #yelena my beloved #requests open #request #reqs open

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rafeslutsblog · 3 months

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⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ CONTENT ⊹ 18+, ghostface!rafe x fem!reader, blood kink, dub-con, chase play, slapping, degrading, stalking — m.list

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

If there’s errors…look the other way ^^

The incessant ringing of the phone was driving you mad. Every 10 minutes it would go off, shattering the peaceful atmosphere of your movie night while you were chopping up some fruit.

It only made you more irritated that this was your only day off – the one day you had to yourself, away from college, work, and the recent spate of murders in the area.

Now some inconsiderate person was ruining it.

You take a deep breath and answer the phone, hoping it's someone who will quickly get off the line. "Hello? Who is this?” you say, trying to keep the frustration from your voice. A deep sigh, escapes your lips as you shove a strawberry into your mouth.

The fruit's sweetness does little to distract you from the unsettling silence on the other end of the line.

The only sound is the crackle of static. Your fingers twitch on the verge of disconnecting the call, the silence grows too unbearable.

But then, a voice slices through the static. Hollow, disembodied, it sends a chill down your spine,

“You look great in red."

You freeze, feeling the coldness of the knife in your hand as you stare down at your dark red tank top. You swallow hard, feeling the lump in your throat.

"What did you just say?" You press the phone closer to your ear, almost as if you were hoping you had misheard.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Do those strawberries taste good?”

His uncanny knowledge of the strawberries makes your stomach turn. The feeling of being watched starts to creep up on you as you carefully survey your surroundings.

“Who the fuck are you? This isn’t funny.” You blurt into the phone.

“Do you think I’m joking around? But that cute, dumb expression on your face is making this so much better.”

Everything is thrown out the window as your attention is consumed by the caller. You hang up the phone in distress and trust your instincts, quickly making sure that all the doors are locked. The ones that are previously unlocked are secured without delay.

The eerie sensation lingers.

Your mind races with questions. Could it be a prank? Is it just my friends and their stupid jokes? Your heart pounds with a mixture of fear and curiosity, as you wonder who or what could be responsible for this unsettling feeling.

The phone's shrill tone cuts through the silence once more. Initially, you're inclining to ignore it, but a nagging sensation tugs at your consciousness, urging you to.

The feeling of being observed grows more and more unsettling as you carefully examine your surroundings.

Every step you take seems to be met with an invisible gaze, as if someone or something was watching your every move.

You reach out for the phone, your other hand instinctively clutches a knife from the counter. “Listen, I don’t know who you are but leave me alone asshole!” The sheer uncertainty of the situation weighs heavy on your shoulders, constricting your chest and making each breath a struggle.

“Do you think I already made it inside your house before you could make sure all your doors were locked?”

As the words escape the person's mouth, you felt a sudden grip from behind. Two imposing arms enveloping you in a vice-like grip.

One, as solid as steel, snakes around your neck, constricting your breath, while the other, as firm as an oak trunk, clasps you tightly around your midriff. Making the knife in your hand instantly drop to the floor.

A scream, a raw cry of fear and surprise, tears from your throat, its piercing echo reverberates through every corner of the house.

In a frenzy of adrenaline and fear, you retaliate against the shrouded figure, throwing a forceful elbow that connects with a muffled grunt.

You have no doubt this is the same masked man who’s behind the murders in the cut. With a burst of energy, you break free, your feet pounds against the cold floor in a desperate sprint.

You bolt forward, your hands instinctively reaching out until they collide with the staircase. Panic muddles your thoughts as you scramble upwards, each step a lifeline.

Your mind is a mess as you run up the stairs, desperately trying to get to your bedroom.

The distinct sensation of being pursued floods your senses, a thrill of terror and anticipation intertwining in your chest.

Then there he is. The terror becomes tangible as a gloved hand ensnares your ankle, yanking you mercilessly back down the steps. Your body tumbles in a confused mess and you let out a terrified scream before his hand suddenly changes, seizing you by the hair and forcing you to the top of the stairs.

Your jaw strikes the hard floor, causing your entire body to ache. He leans in to press his chest firmly into your back and grasps your shoulder blade. Under the surface of terror, there’s a crazy rush that serves as a terrifying reminder of the peril you’re in.

A wild thrill beneath the veil of fear.

The man grinds his hips against your loosely covered ass. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Your breath hitches, it’s in equal measure because of his words and the depth in his voice. The raspiness in it as if he’s trying to invade your mind, and it’s working.

A stranger. This is happening.

“I’m going to ram my bare dick into that tight cunt of yours and rip you apart and you’re going to take it like the dirty whore you are.”

Holy fucking shit.

This is crazy. He’s crazy. You’re crazy.

You know you shouldn’t, I mean this is almost likely a murderer and god knows what else? He broke into your home, he might even kill you if he wants to.

And yet, you buck against him, your ass nuzzles into the hardness of his cock beneath the costume. You feel the bulge, you can feel it through your shorts.

You know how much it’ll hurt your virgin self. But it’s impossible to stop, not when you’ve gotten this far.

“Do you really think you can fight me, slut? Huh?”

You don’t know what snaps inside you. If it’s the name-calling or the condescension in it, but you squirm as a scream echoes through the empty darkness.

You twist around, squealing as you hit and claw anywhere you can touch him.. All that results is him tilting his head beneath that stupid, stupid mask.

His grin widens beneath it.

For years Rafe has pined over you, watching from afar. Even when you never noticed. You were a good girl, closed off and quiet. You weren’t a social butterfly compared to everyone else in town.

When he first saw you walking home from the library in that short black dress that hugged your waist perfectly, he knew he wanted to have you.

His obsession only grew when he saw how you were in private. If you asked him he could name all your favorite songs, foods, shows, and games in a second.

He wanted nothing more than to be by your side making you laugh and smile.

And he loved jerking off to the thought of you, thinking about fucking your tight little pussy as you begged for more.

What made it better was you never got close with any guys. Even if you did, they wouldn’t last long.

You were unattainable for him, but not anymore. He has his chance and he’s going to take it whether you like it or not.

He grabs both of your wrists and slams them above your head on the stairs as the shadow of his abdomen flexes over you.

You try to kick him as you wiggle, releasing god-awful raspy pants filled with the need to survive and something else. “Let me go, you fucking asshole.” You choke out.

You sound like you’re in danger, and you are. The only problem is that you want it.

Slap!

You need it.

You gasp as the sting registers on your face. He just…slapped you and…you’re wet. “Run your mouth again and I’ll fuck you raw in the ass.” He grabs your chin with his calloused fingers and shakes you, and you swear you’re dripping into your little shorts.

He growls in frustration, his fingers curling into tight fists. His grip on your hair tightens as he yanks your head back and rams you against the stairs.

You yelp and your hands shoot for him in a mad act of defense, but it’s too late. He’s already ripping at your shorts.

Why are you becoming horny in this type of situation?

Fuck just blame it on the movies.

You kick your legs in the air but your strength doesn’t match him. Even with the costume you can feel his muscles. Your heart races with the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you struggle against his weight.

“Fight all you want.” He pulls you closer, his hardened length grinds against your exposed lower half.

Rafe yanks your shorts off, cupping your clothed pussy with his palm letting a moan escape from your mouth. “Ah! Wait-no! This-o-oh...”

His hardened dick throbs, wanting nothing more than to fill you up and breed the shit out of you.

Your heart races as he rips off your panties eagerly and touches you instantly.

He slaps you on the pussy and you squeal, your back arching. The stairs feel so rough against you, but even they add a strange sense of stimulation.

“Look at your cunt weeping for me. Such a dirty slut.”

“I’m not…not a slut…”

He smacks your soaking cunt again, you whimper-squeal as he savagely thrusts two fingers inside you.

It’s so much rougher than when you handle myself, you can barely ever fit more than a finger. You wince at the unfamiliar sensation, growing wetter around the intrusion.

“Do you feel how my fingers are stretching you? Soon, it’ll be my dick and it’s bigger and harder.” You feel his palm rub against your clit as he relentlessly thrusts his digits inside you, with no sign of stopping anytime soon.

“You’re so fucking wet f’me…knew you were a whore.”

Overwhelmed by the dual sensations, she finally succumbs to the onslaught. Your mouth falls open, “Oh f-fuck..!” Her body convulses violently, her orgasm taking hold and milking his fingers.

He grunts in satisfaction as he feels her tightening around his fingers and her walls pulsing against them.

“Yes, strangle my fingers before you take my thick dick up this tight cunt.” He picks up the pace, his cum covered digits digging deeper into her soaked folds. It fuels to your orgasm and you don’t think you’ll fall down from it as the sound of his zipper reaches your ear.

He forces your thighs apart, not so gently. “Open them wide for me and keep them there.” You try to fight, but he pinches your clit, causing a sob to tear from you.

With his hand in your hair, he wraps the other around your throat and powers inside you in one brutal go. Your mouth remains open in a soundless cry and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the violation of his huge cock. It’s the literal definition of being torn apart and feeling every second of it.

“Mmm…a fucking virgin. Even fucking better.” The satisfaction and pure sadism in his tone leaves you gasping.

It’s so much better fucking you firsthand compared to his imagination, he couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe how much he waited and here you are, beneath him, clamping down on his cock

“I can feel your blood coating my dick. The best lube I’ve ever had.”

He pulls back almost all the way out and slams back in. Tears gather in your eyes from the sting of it, furrowing your eyebrows in pain. The way your being stretched and filled to the brim is overwhelming.

The pain is searing, burning, as his thick length stretches your tight little hole. You can barely catch your breath with each thrust, every slide of his hips.

And the most screwed-up part is that you’re craving the degradation and the immorality of it all. He drives into you with renewed energy, as if he’s indeed trying to tear your flesh and leave you bleeding on the floor.

“Oh my god it hurts…! Oh, p-please-..”

Your voice breaks with each plea, but he shows no mercy, his cock plowing deeper and harder into you with each passing moment.Your voice becomes high-pitched, almost hysterical now.

“Stop..! It hurts..oh, my fucking god..”

You don’t know why you’re saying it. It’s not like you want him to stop. In fact, you’re falling into the sting of pain more than you would ever admit.

Rafe groans loudly, his massive cock pistoning in and out of your quivering opening. “Take it all, bitch”

“S-slow down..”

But he doesn’t slow down anyway. He takes it to the next level until your breathing is chopped off. Until all you’re releasing are guttural sounds from deep in your soul.

“Mmm…yes, you’re so fucking tight.” His voice is deeper, darker, and laced with a frightening type of lust. Animalistic, even. “Pussy so good f’me.”

“Holy fuck!" you scream as his cock hits your cervix. It's too much, but somehow, it's also exactly what you've been craving.

He rolls his hips and then drives in again, making you see stars in the pitch-blackness. The stairs dig into your back and your air supply diminishes more by the second due to his hold on your neck and how dizzy you are.

The fact that you’re being fucked senseless by a man wearing a ghostface costume in the dark should be any sane person’s nightmare. It should twist you up and drag you down.

You should be crying because of the pain, and while you are, it’s not only that.

It doesn’t turn you off. It’s the exact opposite. Your body quivers under his assault, begging for more as your mind drifts into a haze of pleasure and pain.

You’re so wet that the audible in and out of his cock echoes in the air. The tangible smell of sex and sweat surround you both until they’re all you inhale.

And him.

There’s always him, hovering over you, immobilizing you in place and powering into you over and over.

He goes on and on, ramming inside you like he’s punishing you. Like you’re just a worthless hole he’s using to get off. “Do you feel yourself strangling my dick? Such a whore, even while being a virgin.” Your jack slacks open letting out incoherent words, “Oh-god..! You...”

“Ahhh…so fucking good.” He tightens his hold on your throat until you think you’re gonna faint.

“What’d ya say? Gonna say something about how im fucking your needy and tight cunt?”

But something entirely different happens. “We both know you like it-fuck..!”

You come.

This orgasm is different from anything you’ve experienced. There’s no buildup to alert you to the impact or those tingling sensations at your core whenever you’re about to reach a peak.

You can barely breathe as you let out a scream and shatter around his cock.

He picks up the speed of his thrusts, causing your back to slide up and down the stairs. It lasts through your orgasm, fueling it, heightening it, before he pulls out.

A groan escapes you when your pussy’s nerves tingle, indicating how sore and battered it is. You blink in confusion, still caught in your orgasm-induced haze as you stare at him.

He releases your throat but not your hair as he crawls up your body and settles on top of you so that his knees are on either side of your face.

Grabbing his hard cock in one hand, he slaps you with it across the lips and you taste the precum. “Open that mouth and take me like a good whore.”

“What-..? I don’t know how to-“ When you hesitate, he hits you three consecutive times on the lips and slaps your jaw. You open your mouth slightly and he thrusts inside taking advantage, instantly hitting the back of your throat. “There ya go..fuck yes. Your throat feels so goddamn good.”

You choke and attempt to squirm, but his grip on your hair tightens. He uses your mouth in the most brutal way possible, making you gag on your drool and tears. He barely allows you any air before he drives back in and does it all over again.

And again.

Your jaw is numb and your pussy aches, but the itch inside you is still there, demanding more.

Just when you think he’ll keep fucking your face all night long, he pulls out. “Open your mouth wide. Let me see your tongue.” You do as he tells you, wincing.

He moans, “Fuck….” Hot cum sprays all over your mouth and chin. “Lick every fucking drop.” You lick your lips, swallowing, tasting the both of you.

“Yes…”

He taps your mouth with his cock, not too hard now, but enough to get your attention. “You’re mine.”

371 notes · View notes

tongue-like-a-razor · 1 year

Text

There Are Circumstances

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x F!Reader

Summary: Maverick refuses to bring you on the mission which further deteriorates your already fragile relationship. And the true reason behind his decision catches you off guard.

CW: age gap, student/instructor dynamic, swearing, and, as always, a hefty dose of emotional torment

WC: 3000+

This is Part 4 in the There Are Rules universe.

“Lieutenant!” Maverick calls after you as you storm out of the briefing room before anybody else can exit. You hear him pushing past the others as he follows you out the door. “Lieutenant!” he repeats, his voice echoing in the narrow passageway.

You quicken your pace, the curve of the steel walls blurring in your peripherals as you nearly sprint through the winding corridor.

“Y/N!” Maverick hollers over the persistent rattle of the ship. You keep your course without acknowledging him, but the hum of machinery drowns out Maverick’s footsteps and you don’t hear him running up behind you until it’s too late and he’s cutting you off before you can go any further. He stops so abruptly that you nearly crash into him. He releases a sharp breath, his lips pressed together tightly, and blocks your way when you try to move past. “Don’t take it personally,” he says.

“Fuck off,” you snap, trying to go around him.

Maverick holds his hand out to stop you and gives his head a slight shake. “If this is your idea of professionalism” –

You scoff indignantly. How dare he speak of professionalism after washing you out for no good reason. You’re the best pilot in the squadron – he’d admitted it himself – so his decision to keep you off the mission is personal. “Never would’ve pegged you for the spiteful type,” you say, trying to keep your voice level despite its underlying tremor.

Maverick’s gaze drifts as he looks stoically over your shoulder. He seems unfazed by your assessment or, at the very least, he hides it well. “This has nothing to do with our relationship,” he says, still not meeting your eye.

“What relationship?” you respond maliciously, reminding him that he had severed whatever connection the two of you shared weeks ago.

Maverick breathes out steadily and looks at you once more. “I can’t take you,” he says firmly. “Please don’t question my judgement.”

You let out a bitter chuckle and it reverberates in the passage, for a moment drowning out the rumble of the ship’s engines. “Did Cyclone put you up to this?” you ask.

Maverick shakes his head sternly. “This was my decision.”

You grit your teeth to keep your mouth from trembling. You’re so offended that Maverick has excluded you from the operation, it hardly matters why he chose to do it. All that matters is that Maverick keeps hurting you. And all you want to do is hurt him back. “Let me pass,” you hiss, trying again to force your way through.

Maverick takes a hold of your arms to keep you in place. “Don’t do this,” he says, an edge to his tone despite the composure on his face.

“Do what?” you yell, fighting his firm grasp.

“You’re acting irrationally,” Maverick says in a low voice.

“Oh, am I?” you respond scathingly.

“We can discuss this in a mature, professional manner,” he urges.

You blink at him, stunned at his choice of words. “Are you saying I’m immature?”

He shakes his head solemnly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“That’s the word you used” –

“Just listen to me, for god’s sake!” he growls, his volume rising threateningly. But you’re only pleased to witness the dissolution of his self-control. After all, you can’t be the only one here who feels something.

“I am listening!” you retort. “You’re professional and I’m not. You’re mature and I’m” –

“Why are you starting a fight?”

“I didn’t start this!” you shout, finally freeing yourself of his grip.

You push past him angrily, but he doesn’t let you get far before roaring, “YOU’RE A LOOSE CANNON!”

You freeze, silent for a second as you process this appraisal.

“If I can’t trust you down here, how am I supposed to trust you up there?” he yells.

You turn slowly to look at him, meeting his turbulent gaze. “You don’t trust me?” you ask quietly, your words barely audible amidst the clatter of the ship.

Maverick’s features contort apologetically, as though he immediately regrets his words. He sighs despairingly, his eyes glistening in the low, fluorescent lights as he squares his jaw. “I can’t get you to cooperate,” he says regretfully. “I don’t know how.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“You’re a hell of a pilot,” he continues. “But, unfortunately, that’s not enough.”

You suck in your cheeks and bite into them aggressively, trying your best not to cry.

“I can’t have you ignoring my orders up there because you think you know better” –

“I would never –” you start, but he cuts you off.

“You have not demonstrated evidence to the contrary,” he says decisively.

“Maybe not during training, but on a mission” –

Maverick shakes his head. “I told you, Lieutenant: we train like we fight. So that, when we fight, we can come back alive. Ignoring instructions during training may have created bad habits that I don’t want to creep up on us in combat.”

“So, this is punishment?”

“No,” Maverick says quietly. “This is a lesson.”

You let out a disdainful sigh. “What’s the difference?”

Maverick takes a step toward you. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.

You back away. “And yet, here we are.”

Maverick watches you levelly, having nearly regained all his composure. “I don’t want to leave this unresolved.”

You consider his request. In just a few hours, he will be leaving for a mission from which he may never return. And yet, your resentment gets the best of you anyhow. “You know that I would never jeopardize this mission,” you say through gritted teeth. “You know that your reason for leaving me behind is bullshit!”

Maverick nods solemnly. “You’re entitled to that opinion.”

You clench your jaw. “Don’t patronize me.”

Maverick doesn’t say much after this point, and you’re too distraught to carry on the conversation all on your own. Within minutes, other officers begin to round the corner as they make their way back to the living quarters and you join the procession mutely, giving Maverick one last, wounded glance.

…

You’re on deck when Maverick and his crew prepare for takeoff as your own fighter is on standby alert. He watches you solemnly as you wish your fellow aviators a successful mission and, when he approaches you, his eyebrows lifted inward worriedly, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with anguish at the thought of losing him for good.

He holds out his hand to you, but you don’t take it. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, shutting your eyes tightly when you feel his hands close around your back. “Fly safe, Captain,” you mutter, and you feel his head move up and down in a nod against your neck. When your eyes flutter open, you notice that Cyclone – who’d been watching your interaction from the sidelines – has turned away with a sour expression.

It takes every ounce of your self-control to keep from kissing him as you pull away from the embrace. And, when you catch Maverick’s miserable expression, you gather that he’s fighting the same impulse. He squeezes your hand discreetly before backing away with a grim expression. “We’ll see you soon,” he assures you.

…

“Requesting clearance for takeoff, sir,” you say tensely, interrupting the chaotic feed in your headset.

“Denied,” you hear Cyclone’s rigid response.

“But, sir –” you start when Cyclone interjects.

“I said no, Lieutenant.”

You throw your head back into your seat in frustration. Your heart is hammering so insistently that you feel its pulse in the tips of every one of your fingers. You’ve been trained to keep your emotions in check when faced with stressful situations. You’ve been taught to manage anxiety and overcome fear. But this? No amount of simulation exercises could have possibly prepared you for an event like this.

Maverick’s plane has been shot down and Cyclone has made the difficult decision of leaving him behind, despite the very real chance that he may still be alive. Rationally speaking, you understand that going back for Maverick isn’t worth the unnecessary risk of additional casualties. But, as is to be expected in such unprecedented circumstances, you’re noticing a rapid deterioration of your own logical reasoning skills to the point where you contemplate ignoring orders, taxiing to the runway, and taking off without pre-flight checks. Just when you’re about to release the parking brake, however, the ground crew cuts your engine. You glance down to see them signaling for you to exit the aircraft. “Admiral Simpson, what is happening?” you ask in a panic. “Why were my engines shut off?”

“You’ve been grounded, Lieutenant,” is his response. “Please report to mission control.”

The thought that Cyclone might be omitting information about Maverick and taking you off the deck in order to share it in private is causing you to stagger as you climb out of the cockpit. You’re so nauseated that you feel like you might faint before reaching the ground.

You remove your helmet at a run, skirting the maintenance personnel on the flight deck to reach the first stairwell. You barrel down the stairs and through a passageway toward the center of the carrier. Then down another flight of stairs, and then another. It feels like a lifetime has passed before you finally reach the Combat Information Center.

“Is he okay?” you cry, bursting through the door.

Cyclone turns to look at you with barely concealed irritation. He doesn’t appear impressed with your conduct.

You clear your throat and salute your superior. Then, you try again. “Where is he, sir?”

Cyclone tightens his mouth sternly before looking back to the screen behind him. “We don’t know,” he responds.

“What?” you screech, forgetting protocol yet again. This time, however, Cyclone doesn’t even flinch at your tone. “Why am I here then?” you ask, adding, “Sir,” as an afterthought.

“You’re here because I’m not losing another pilot to insubordination,” he replies without so much as looking in your direction.

“Another pilot?”

Cyclone grimaces. “Maverick pulled a stunt.”

“A stunt, sir?”

“They missed the target,” Cyclone states. “Their time was up, I ordered them to return.”

Your heart sinks. “He went back.”

“He took it out,” Cyclone says with a hint of respect. “Just before he was shot down.”

There’s a somber stillness in the room which tells you that there isn’t a soul here that thinks Maverick could have survived. You feel yourself start to shake, the hope that you were clinging to extinguished as the words shot down begin to finally sink in. Meanwhile, you’re stranded in the depths of the carrier, watching helplessly as the tactical team continues strategizing with their commanding officer on how best to bring the rest of their pilots home.

You lean your back into the wall, trying to steady your breathing, not sure how you’re still standing at all. You notice Cyclone’s occasional glances in your direction but you pay him little attention; in fact, you’re doing a fine job of tuning everyone out, until someone’s surprised tone of voice peaks your interest.

“Sir.” One of the operators points at the radar screen. You and everybody else look up at the blip moving swiftly in the direction of the carrier.

“Is that…” Cyclone leans over the operator’s chair. “One of ours?”

“Comms are down, sir,” the operator responds. “But it’s a Hornet.”

"How the hell?" Cyclone straightens his back in awe. He looks over his shoulder at you with a mildly amused expression. “It’s his tail code,” he says, holding your gaze significantly.

Before he can say anything else, you’re out the door, hurtling back up the stairs. You’re blocked, however, by med crews as they flock to the flight deck. By the time you arrive, the crowd surrounding the returned aviator is so large that you can’t get through. But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s alive. Maverick is alive.

…

Half an hour later, you rush into the officer’s locker room to find a shirtless Maverick grabbing a t-shirt out of his locker. He whips his head around when he hears you enter and lowers his arms slowly as you approach.

He glances over your shoulder anxiously. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

Although this isn’t the greeting you had in mind, you gaze at him affectionately, nonetheless, still in shock that he’s made it back. That you were so close to losing him forever and yet, here he stands before you, alive and relatively unscathed.

“Y/N,” he warns as you draw nearer.

But you barely hear him. Or, rather, you ignore his words. Perhaps he’s been right all along about your reluctance to comply with authority.

Maverick opens his mouth as if to speak again but, the closer you get, the more powerless he appears in your presence. And before he can say anything else, you throw your arms around him, burying your face into his neck.

Immediately, he’s hugging you back. He holds you firmly, as though he knows just how much you need to feel him after the fear of never being able to touch him again. You collapse into his embrace entirely, until all your limbs are so weak, he’s practically holding you upright. You’re crying and kissing his neck, and his chest heaves as you fall apart in his arms. “Sweetheart,” he whispers into your ear before pressing a burning kiss on your cheekbone. “You can’t be here.”

You compress yourself against him, completely disregarding everything that followed the word Sweetheart. Maverick’s biceps contract as he hugs you even tighter than before, his rapid breaths washing over the top of your head. You lift your face to glance up at him from the snug embrace and he lowers his head to rest on yours. He closes his eyes when your hand starts to move softly down his bare, upper body. “Just a little longer,” you breathe.

He nods against your forehead, bringing a hand up to rest over yours on his chest. His fingers curl around yours and he lifts your hand up to his lips, kissing your fingertips gently. “I owe you an apology,” he says in an uneven tone.

Slowly and very reluctantly, you detach yourself from him. “No.” You shake your head. “You don’t.”

“Trust me,” he says, his gaze dropping. “I do.”

It’s the hard set of his jaw that makes you uneasy at first. And then, when he looks back up at you, the grief in his swimming eyes alarms you further. “What is it?” you ask, not entirely certain you can handle the answer.

Maverick exhales resolutely and turns away to grab his duffel bag out of the locker. The muscles in his back shift when he bends to set it down on the bench. “I applied for a transfer,” he says.

You stare at the back of his head, paralyzed. Confused. Feeling like you might be sick. “What?” you breathe. “Why?”

Maverick straightens out and gives you a somber look. “Because,” he says. “I’m letting my feelings for you cloud my judgement.”

“What are you talking about?” you exclaim. “You didn’t take me on the mission! Despite knowing that I’d get mad. You were right; I’m impulsive and unpredictable and –” you stop short when Maverick shakes his head.

“That’s not why I didn’t take you,” he says with a hint of regret in his tone.

You watch him drag a tired hand over his face. “It wasn’t because you don’t trust me?” you say quietly.

“No,” he admits. “It’s because I don’t trust myself.”

You furrow your eyebrows, wanting more than anything to know exactly what Maverick is thinking. What Maverick is feeling.

He meets your gaze hesitantly. “I couldn’t trust myself to prioritize the mission objective over your safety.” He shakes his head, letting out a tortured sigh. “I couldn’t do it,” he whispers desperately. He releases an uneven breath and shifts his jaw to keep it from trembling. “I can’t fly with you.”

You watch the man who so rarely demonstrates emotion crumble under the gravity of his own words. But the show is fleeting. Abruptly, he wipes his brow in frustration and presses his lips together tightly, squaring his shoulders after having dropped them in despair. You can tell that he’s made up his mind and, despite it being an obviously valid decision considering the situation, you’re hurt that he’s done so without consulting you. “So, you’re just leaving?” you say, stunned.

“I have to,” he responds, finally pulling his shirt over his head.

You stare at him as he packs up his uniform and puts his gear into the locker. You want to tell him that he can’t leave; he can’t because you can’t stand the idea of him leaving. But he’s already resumed his stoic expression, so you can’t possibly tell him that you’re in love with him now. “That’s some bullshit,” you comment resentfully.

He pulls his duffel bag over his shoulder and glances over your face as he straightens his posture. “Lieutenant,” he says. “You’re still not listening to me.”

You grit your teeth in anger. “Luckily, it won’t be a problem for very much longer,” you reply coolly.

He nods, then he steps over the bench to head for the door.

You glance after him, barely able to hold back your tears. “How could you?” you yell, no longer capable of keeping it together.

Maverick turns back in alarm. He drops his bag and, in two wide strides he’s standing right before you with a severe expression on his face. “Are you kidding me?” he hisses. “Why are you screaming?” He looks over his shoulder to ensure that the door is still closed.

You scoff. Of all things, he chooses to dwell on your momentary lapse in self-control. “Stop pretending like this means nothing to you,” you spit out angrily.

His eyes widen and his eyebrows converge. “That’s the impression you got from I can’t perform my duty if it means putting your life in danger?”

You open your mouth to say something, but his words have rendered you temporarily speechless. Finally, you remind him, “Putting my life on the line is my job.”

Maverick sets his jaw. “Precisely.”

“So, you’re going to run away because it’s a challenge?”

“It’s not just a challenge, Y/N,” he says. “It’s not possible. This was never going to work! Perhaps under different circumstances…” he sighs miserably. “We knew that!”

You let out a strangled breath. “I didn’t.”

His eyes search yours as though he can’t believe you haven’t come to the same conclusion. “Not only is it completely out of line for me to pursue a relationship with a lieutenant in my own squadron, but we also keep glossing over the fact that you are half my age! How could this have possibly gone anywhere?”

You feel the trembling of your bottom lip and bite into it forcefully, closing your eyes. “Please don’t go,” you whisper. “I… I –” I love you, is what you ought to say. But, instead, you utter, “I’ll stop disobeying orders.”

“That’s not what this is about” –

“I won’t question you,” you continue, opening your eyes. “I won’t seek you out. It’ll be just like before. A strictly professional relationship, nothing more. Just please don’t go.”

“It won’t change how I feel” –

“It will,” you assure him. “It will… in time. You’ll see. We can do this. You don’t have to go.”

Maverick watches you skeptically so you extend your hand to him to formally shake on it. His gaze sweeps over your features and the heartache is apparent in his eyes. “I can’t,” he says, but you can sense the hesitation in his words.

“You’re Maverick Mitchell,” you say, trying to sound casual while your heart hammers with dread. “Of course, you can.”

Maverick’s mouth twitches upward slightly, although his eyes still watch you sadly. Finally, he places his hand in yours. His grip isn’t nearly as firm as you’d expect; in fact, he’s barely touching you. “For the record,” he says, “I think this is a terrible idea.”

You let out a nervous chuckle when you glimpse the faint smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “How hard can it be, Captain?” you say lightly.

He glances at you pointedly, then responds cheekily, “It can be very hard, Lieutenant.”

Read Part 5

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ornii · 2 months

Note

Tara Carpenter x Male Reader?

Funny enough, I was never a big Horror Fan so the Scream series went under my radar. Conveniently enough I decided to watch the latest one and I gotta say not too bad.

Trust

Takes years to form, can be broken in one moment.

After a short but memorable service in the Army, you were able to take an honorable discharge after barely a year, after searching a Home you saved your squad from a makeshift IED. It Left a few scars, but that was the last of the physical damage, mental damage can never truly be measured and heal fully, but you’re managing. Hearing the Murders of Woodsboro, and Tara surviving thankfully.

You and Tara had been friends since moving to Woodsboro years ago, just kids at the time but there was something really different about her, you couldn’t put your finger on it but she always lit up the room, and specifically took your breath away. Leaving for Basic Training, you never got a chance to admit it, but you knew once you returned it was the first thing to do on your bucket list.

So when you were discharged, Blackmore University was a nobrainer to attend. But it was only downhill after that, the Killings return, and it seemed to return just as you did.

It was all too much of a coincidence for anyone else to ignore. So they did the only sensible thing.

You were standing in the middle of the apartment, unsure of what to do. You were essentially surrounded by Tara, Sam, Chad, and Ethan. “I don’t understand..” you said, your eyes tracing along the eyes staring at you. “You think.. it’s me?” You ask. And Chad stepped up first.

“We heard what happened at Woodsboro, it just, takes someone pretty skilled to do that stuff..” he said, Chad had an attitude that he didn’t want to believe it, but a capable man with a knife is pretty tough. You looked over to everyone else, Quinn seems indifferent, Sam was reluctant to speak and Tara couldn’t look you in the eye.

“Tara, Tara look at me…” you pleaded, Teary eyed she slowly looks up to meet your gaze.

“You really think I could do this? I came back here for you, why would I…” you slowly trail off, silent as you truly were at a loss.

“I don’t want to believe it..” she said, “but.. it just all looks bad..” She admits, and that truly broke your heart, the one person you wanted to believe you, before you could say anything, Ethan walks over putting his arm around Tara to try to soothe her. Ethan always had a slimy attitude, and you never really felt, safe around him. But seeing him do that to Tara made your skin crawl. Something about this, about all of this, was way off.

“(Y/n), Quinn’s dead, we have to stop this before more people die; if it isn’t you then the police are gonna release you.” Sam explains, and they wheel an office chair with arms over for you to sit. Seeing how distressed Tara was, you very reluctantly sat down on it, and allowed them to bind your arms to the chair. Tapping your foot restlessly, you eyed Ethan. “Feel safer now?” You said obviously with sarcasm, and Ethan give this look. Of disappointment.

“Look I know service does a lot to the brain.” He started, and you realized just what he’s about to do.

“No you fucking don’t..” you cut him off sternly and harshly, knowing his plan to blame your PTSD and use it to label someone as unstable. Ethan gives you another look, as if he’s hiding a smile.

“Let’s give him some fresh air at least, would be better for him.” Ethan walks over and calmly pushes you to the balcony, “it’s for your own good.” He mutters a bit abruptly, and walks back to the others, you can’t hear what they’re saying but Tara eyes you a few times. You wanted to plead and beg for her to listen to you, but it would have been for nothing, she’s already convinced it was you. Your train of thought was cut off by footsteps around you, mostly above, you hear them and look up to see someone heading down, it was too dark to make out who it was, but once you saw the flash of steel with their knife you instantly knew.

“Guys! Guys!” You shook and kicked to get their attention, they all looked over as you fought to break free. You screamed for help, It was too late, heading down the fire escape, Ghostface made their appearance, grabbing your legs they lifted you up and over the balcony, you felt the instant dizzying sensation of being tossed and your head slammed hard against the lower balcony rail, it all went dark after that but you tumbled against more rails and slammed on a hard sheet metal roof and slid off onto the ground.

Somehow, you still lived. Opening your eyes slowly you see the hard New York ground and the wheels of a dumpster, using what strength you had you were able to stand up, seems the chair broke most of your fall, but still causing cuts and bruises and probably a cracked rib or two. Using the dumpster you prop yourself up and reach into your pocket with your bloody hands to your cracked IPhone, it was near impossible to make any calls, but one app did catch your eye. Find my IPhone. Tapping on Tara’s name you spot her location, a old theatre. Tearing off the tape on your wrists you look around for anything to defend yourself, all you see is a sharp end of plastic from the fallen chair. Snatching it you make you plan.

You stand up, feeling a hot burning pain in your leg, specifically your ankle which probably has a torn ligament or shattered bone. You push the pain down and limp your way to the theatre. Pushing the door open with your bloody palms you limped in, to a sight you least expected. You watched Ethan terrorize Tara, who looks ready to fall off a ledge, Sam barely holding on as Quinn, who never was dead approaches, and Detective Bailey, aiming a gun at them all. It was all a ploy to kill you and lessen the numbers. Ethan’s words “for your own good” kept running in your head, he set you up to get killed. All that military training began to pay off, you crouched with a bad limp and had to crawl to avoid making too much noise, you crept up behind Bailey and didn’t hesitate. You took the sharp plastic and rammed it into the side of his neck with force. Using his other hand he tries to hold his neck to keep the blood loss. You reached and gripped his hand hard, forcing him to Aim at Quinn and crushing his tigger finger. A bullet flies and almost hits Quinn, Sam looks up to see you and you continue to force him to pull the trigger until one bullet gets lodged right in the head of Quinn. She drops dead and so does Bailey. You stood there, silent as Ethan turns to see you. You didn’t care why he did it, you didn’t care to even ask.

“Get Tara up.” You gave Sam her order and she took the change to yank her sister up while you handled Eathan. He danced the knife around his hands, waiting for you make a move but you knew better. You kept calm and locked in. Ethan thrashed at you to land a hit but you kept calm, keeping your distance and avoiding close cuts. You watch in go for a stab, you open your arm, he goes past it and you lock his arm under yours, with one swift jerk up you snapped his arm, you cocked back and began to hammer his face in, punch after punch. Ethan stumbles around and with one judo throw you slammed him into a table, exhausted from the ass beating you promptly put on him, he lies there, laughing.

“You don’t deserve her, I always wanted to stick something in her… and she picks you, a fuckin freak who cries when fireworks go off..” Ethan spoke with venom though his bloody teeth. You looked at him, disgusted.

“Cry me a river.. and fuckin drown in it.” You grabbed him, dragged his head to the edge of the table and lifted up your arm and slammed your elbow right into his eyesocket, his neck snaps back with a crunch, as he lays there, dead. (Y/n) slumps down, exhausted. After dispatching three serial killers like John Wick he finally breathes as the nightmare is over.

The FBI and Police arrive, taking statements and doing some investigating and body clean up. You were getting the cuts and bruises patched up, and the ankle looked at.

“Hairline fracture. Gonna need some time for it to heal but you’ll be walking again.” The EMT gave a warm smile to you and went to tend to Sam. You leaned your head back to finally rest, you felt a presence approach, he could immediately tell it was Tara.

“…What do you want?” You said, you tilt your heard back forward and look at her. She looked good, even if she was getting murdered half an hour ago, still so.. beautiful. “Can We.. can we talk?” She said, almost in a whisper. You scoot over the ambulance seat to let her sit down.

“I’m… so sorry I didn’t believe you. And you almost got killed for it..” she bit her bottom lip to keep from crying, as angry as you were, she got baited into it, you put your arm around her.

“I wish you trusted me but I understand why you didn’t, let’s just, relax first.” You felt her lean into your arm, content with how things are finally.

“Yeah.” She closes her eyes to take in the moment, and you finally let this nightmare end.

#male reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x you #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x male!reader #jenna ortega x male reader #jenna ortega x reader #scream6 #scream #tara carpenter x male reader #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #ornii

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plutofromafar · 26 days

Text

let's go home

A/N: heyyy... it's been a while (two years) since i've written something. life just got busy, but i hope you're all doing well. anyway, i've been rewatching criminal minds and got inspired to write this. i hope you like it!

pairing: season 6 Emily Prentiss x fem!Y/N

warnings: angst, toxic relationship, control issues, trust issues, canon character death, grief, (but everything is okay in the end)

word count: 2517

Read on AO3

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

"Where have you been?"

You dropped your bag to the floor and shrugged off your jacket, hanging it up.

"Out. How was work?"

Emily ignored your question, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall, watching you with curious eyes.

"Out with who?"

"No one, Em. Am I not allowed to leave this apartment?" You sighed.

"You never just leave without telling me where you're going or who you're with, don't give me an attitude."

You roll your eyes, heading to the bedroom. Emily stopped you.

"You're not going to bed without telling me where you've been."

"Why does it matter? You've been at work. I just wanted to get some fresh air," you threw your hands up in slight frustration. "You leave every morning, and I don't question you. Why can't I do the same?"

"Because I don't trust you!" Emily raised her voice. She blocked off your path, glaring at you.

You narrowed your eyes, steeling your composure to not show that her words had hurt you.

"Why not? I'm your girlfriend."

"And that means I should trust you just because we are dating? You've given me plenty of reasons not to trust you."

"Like what?"

Emily placed her hands on her hips, standing up straighter. "You've been secretive, you're too friendly with other women, you're always on your phone, you hide things from me."

Rage bubbled inside your chest. "Do you think you're a saint, Emily? You are no different from me. How many times have I tried to ask you about your day, just for you to shut down? How many times have I been tossed aside while you prioritize your work? How many hours have I spent waiting for you to come home, worrying that you were shot dead when you'd really just fallen asleep at your desk?"

Emily flinched, surprised by seeing you so angry, and how true your words were.

"Y/N, that's different. i'm just... busy all the time, or have classified information..."

You felt tears sting in your eyes.

"I can't do this anymore," you whisper.

Emily froze in place at your words, watching you grab a duffle bag from the hallway closet.

"What?"

You swiftly moved to the bedroom, feeling Emily follow behind you. You started packing a few essentials, deciding that you would come back later for more things.

"You know what."

"You're leaving?"

"I don't think you're ready to be in a serious relationship, Em. I saw the signs from the start, but I overlooked them because I liked you. But I can't put up with all the secrets, the lying, and the distrust anymore. I'm your girlfriend; I trust you more than I trust anyone in the whole world, and it hurts that you don't feel the same about me."

You wiped your tears.

Emily took a step forward, feeling a surge of panic.

"Sweetheart, listen, it's not like that... I..." she faltered, unable to think of anything that would fix this situation.

You waited for Emily to continue, but her silence was enough of an answer. You zipped up your bag and walked over to Emily, giving her a soft kiss on her forehead.

"I love you, Em. But I can't stay here."

Emily's face briefly softened at your kiss, but her heart dropped as your departure started becoming very real.

"I-" Emily's voice cracked. "Can I talk to you? Please?"

You stopped by the door, considering your next words very carefully.

"I've given you so many chances to talk to me. If all it takes is for me to leave, then it's probably too late."

A wave of hurt crashed over Emily, even though she knew there was a truth to your words.

"I promise I'm ready to talk now."

You made the grave mistake to turn back, and one look at her sad brown eyes was convincing enough. Wordlessly, the two of you walked to the couch and sat down.

Emily took your hand, breathing a sigh of relief when you didn't pull away.

"I know I haven't been the best girlfriend over the past couple months, okay? I-I admit, I've been keeping some things from you, but you have to understand..."

"Understand what?" You voice was soft, but your tone harsh.

"Understand why I was keeping them from you, I just..." Emily sighed. "I was scared. Scared to tell you certain things."

You looked into her eyes. "Is something happening at work? Or is it something in our relationship?"

There was a moment of hesitation before Emily spoke.

"I-it's work-related, yes... and it's the reason I've been so... on edge."

"Does it have something to do with Ian Doyle?" You pieced together.

Emily froze, the name she never wanted you to know of coming out of your mouth.

"Where did you hear that?"

You sensed the anxiousness in her voice, and you knew you were treading on dangerous waters.

"I came home early one night, and I overheard you talking on the phone to someone. You sounded stressed out, I figured it had something to do with work."

Emily nodded slowly.

"I... H-how much of that did you hear?"

You shook your head, "Not much. Just a few names and details. 'Interpol', 'undercover', 'Lauren Reynolds.'"

Just hearing those words alone made Emily anxious.

"I need you to keep what you heard a secret, okay? Don't tell anyone, not even the team. Can you promise me that?"

"Yes, of course."

A wave of silence washed over the two of you. Emily fiddled with her fingers, but never took her eyes off yours.

"Emily, I don't have to worry about losing you, do I?"

Emily managed a small smile, holding your gaze for the longest time.

"No, you don't have to worry about that. I'm not going to let anything keep me away from you, Y/N. I promise."

It was like the storm clouds had finally parted, revealing a glimpse of blue skies above. For the first time in your year-long relationship, Emily had finally opened up to you about something.

You slowly moved in for a hug, giving Emily the chance to opt out if she wanted to. But she leaned into your embrace, hugging you with such intensity, as if you'd vanish if she let go of you. Emily had never been so scared to lose someone before, and she knew that she could never risk losing you ever again.

You were the first to break the silence.

"This can't happen again, Em. I need you to be honest and trust me. I value your feelings, and I don't want to lose you."

Emily nodded as you voiced her thoughts exactly.

"I know. I promise... There's, uh... one other thing I need to tell you about."

"What is it?" You pull away to look at her.

"I need to go somewhere tomorrow to deal with an issue from my Interpol days. I'm not sure how long I'll be gone..."

Emily stood up, walking over to the window and knelt down. She flipped up a floorboard, taking out a padded envelope.

"If I'm not back within a week, I want you to open this."

You took the envelope.

"What are you planning to do, Em?" your voice shook.

"It's just a precaution," Emily lied in order to not worry you. "There's a risk that comes with every mission I go on. I just want you to keep this for the future."

When you didn't reply, Emily took your hands into hers.

"I'm going to be fine."

You nodded, touching your forehead to Emily's.

"Will you stay? Come to bed with me?"

Emily's soft and vulnerable words sent an ache to your heart.

"Yeah."

The two of you settled into bed. You laid on your side, face to face with Emily. She leaned in to plant a kiss on your forehead, wrapping her arms protectively around you.

"I love you, Y/N.”

"I love you, too."

Long after you dozed off, Emily remained awake. She wanted to remember how your body molded perfectly against hers, the smell of your shampoo and how your hair tickled her nose, and how her heart beat differently when she was around you. She worried about how you would hold up if something happened to her. She tried to stay as still as possible to not disturb your sleep. After what felt like hours, she let sleep overcome her as well.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The next day, you woke up to an empty bed. Emily had already left as she usually did, but this time it came with a heavy, lingering feeling. Of what, you weren't sure yet.

You sat up in bed and glanced at the alarm clock on Emily's bedside table, which told you that it was almost 12pm. You felt something on your forehead and you reached up to find it was a bright pink sticky note. You laughed, remembering how Emily used to leave notes stuck on your forehead if she woke up and left before you.

“Be home soon. I love you,” the note read in Emily’s cursive handwriting. You stuck it to the wall above your nightstand.

You had the day off from work, so you started your day of relaxation. A few hours later, a knock on the door jolted you out of your focus on a TV show you were binging. Your limbs protested as you stood up from the position you’ve been sitting in all day.

A familiar face stood behind the door.

“Andersen?”

Agent Andersen had a solemn expression on his face.

“Y/N, I regret to inform you that Agent Prentiss has been injured in the field. I’ve been sent by Agent Hotchner to bring you to the hospital.”

The world went silent as his words sunk in. This wasn’t the first time during your relationship that Emily had gotten injured, but it wasn’t the kind of thing that got easier every time.

The journey to the hospital was a blur. Before you knew it, you were in the waiting room. A heavy silence occupied the room as you and the team waited for an update.

Finally, the doors opened and you stood up, almost falling over until Rossi took your arm. With one look at JJ’s face, you knew your worst fears had come true.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

It’s been seven months since Emily died. Seven months since you attended her funeral. Seven months since you quit your job, packed your bags, and left town without telling anyone.

You’ve been living in a permanent state of anxiety and grief ever since Emily’s passing. You could barely register anything happening around you, not with the words “she never made it off the table” echoing in your mind constantly. You currently resided in New York with your friend, who was in their first year of residency and basically lived at the hospital, so you had the apartment to yourself a majority of the time.

You became vaguely aware of your phone ringing as you pulled yourself out of your daze. You were surprised and confused when the caller ID read Hotch’s name. The first month after your very sudden departure, your phone was bombarded with calls from each member of the BAU. As time passed and their calls kept going unanswered, they ceased their contact. Occasionally, you would get a few voicemails from Penelope who would update you on things happening in her life and to tell you that she missed you.

“Hi.”

“Y/N,” Hotch’s voice lifted in surprise. “I wasn’t sure if you would answer.”

You sighed.

“Well, here I am.”

“I’m…” Hotch trailed off for a second. “I’m calling because I need you to come back to Quantico.”

“Not interested.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if this wasn’t important, Y/N,” Hotch spoke quickly before you could hang up.

You thought about it for a moment.

“I’ve already sent the jet your way. JJ will meet you at the airport.”

You chuckle.

“I haven’t agreed yet.”

“I think you’ll want to be back here. Just trust me.”

The thought of reuniting with JJ and the rest of the team was tempting. You hadn’t realized how much you missed them all these months.

“Okay.”

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

JJ met up with you at the airport runway, pulling you into a tight embrace that you reciprocated. The two of you caught up with each other as the jet got ready for takeoff.

JJ sat up straight, her face becoming serious but still warm.

“Y/N, there’s something I need to tell you before we land.”

You held her gaze, sensing a hint of anxiety in her voice.

“What is it?”

Just like seven months ago in that waiting room, the world stopped spinning when you heard JJ’s words. You sat like a statue as she recounted the events, from Emily’s transfer to Paris to the team taking down Doyle at last.

When you were unresponsive for too long, JJ gently touched your hand.

“Emily is alive?” you ask for confirmation, not believing what you heard.

“Yes.”

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Your steps from the runway into the office were quick and frantic, even JJ had to try to keep up with you. Through the glass doors of the office, you made eye contact with Hotch.

“Emily’s alive? Where is she? Is she here?”

Hotch didn’t answer your rapid-fire questions, but he swiftly led you into his office. Your heart was beating out of your chest and you could hear each pump of blood.

The figure in the room turned around and you gasped when your eyes met brown ones that you thought you would never see again. The Emily that stood before you had small changes in her appearance, but she was still your beloved Emily.

Emily approached you slowly, as one might approach a scared puppy.

“Y/N.”

You let out a sob, diving forward and pulling Emily into your embrace. She held you, tenderly stroking your hair as you cried into her neck. Tears sprang into Emily’s eyes as she felt her heart begin to mend having you in her arms.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…” Emily repeated softly. “I had to keep us safe until Doyle was captured. I’m so sorry I had to leave you, and that I had to lie to you.”

You shook your head, pulling away slightly to see her face.

“You had no choice, I understand. I’m just glad you’re here. I thought I lost you for good.”

“You’ll never lose me again,” Emily wiped a tear from your cheek. “These past seven months have been hell without you. All I could think about was how rocky our relationship had been in the months before I left. I promise you that I won’t let us go back to that. It’s not going to be easy, and I have a lot of issues to work through, but I’m going to put in the work. I trust you wholeheartedly, Y/N.”

You smile at her words, feeling that things will be different this time around.

“That means a lot to me, Em.”

Emily tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, cradling your chin in her hand.

“Let’s go home, okay?”

“Let’s go home.”

#emily prentiss #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds angst #emily prentiss angst #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #jennifer jareau #aaron hotchner #david rossi

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