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munson-blurbs · 1 year

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Summary: It's finally time for your coffee date with Eddie, leading the two of you to fall even harder for each other.

Warnings: brief mention of drug dealing, Reader's grandma has dementia, character death

WC: 6.5k

Chapter 9/20

Divider credit to @saradika

The lime green numbers of the microwave clock reads 11:57, which means that Eddie will be here any minute. You drag your palms on the thighs of your boot-cut jeans, triple-checking that your perspiration hasn’t left a visible stain on the light-wash fabric.

“Okay, her lunch is in the fridge. And the number of the coffee shop is on the counter,” you tell Jess, pointing to the scrap of notebook paper in front of her. “If you need something, just call, and I’ll come home.”

Jess waves away your concern with a kind smile. She’d been pleading with you to get out there and date for ages now, and she was just glad you’d finally taken her advice. Though, you note wryly, she would not be happy if she knew who that date was.

“We’ll be fine,” she reassures you, bracing a hand on your shoulder. “If anything, we’ll need to check on you. Who is this mystery date, anyway?”

“Just a guy,” you say, trying to remain light and casual while simultaneously fighting down the barrage of nerves in your stomach.

Jess takes a step back, wrinkling her nose and crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, God, it’s not one of those creeps from a dating hotline, is it? Because I’ve never heard of one of those that didn’t end up on 48 Hours.”

“No, no, don’t worry,” you shake your head, spotting a piece of lint on your cable knit sweater and plucking it off carefully. You flick it off of your finger, silently berating yourself when you remember that you’ll have to vacuum it later. “It’s a guy from around here.”

Your friend wipes imaginary sweat from her brow as the buzzer rings. You race to the intercom to let him in before he can say anything, but your reflexes are too slow.

“Hey, it’s me.” The sound of his voice has your body pulsing, an eager grin tugging at your lips despite your intentions to keep calm. His slight rasp has you craving the sting of tobacco just to flatten your nerves.

You clear your throat before speaking. “Okay, I’ll be right down.” Grabbing your jacket from where you’ve haphazardly thrown it over the back of the couch, you’ve almost made it to the door, when—

“No. No.” You cringe at the way Jess’s words bite into your excitement. “Please tell me that your date is not Eddie Munson.” You can only offer her a sheepish grin, and she rolls her eyes. “Seriously?!”

You huff out a sigh, both impatient to go on the date and flustered at being caught. “Look, he’s changed. A lot.”

“Oh, you mean he stopped calling you a bitch and making shitty comments about your grandma?” Jess snorts. “How chivalrous.”

There’s no time to explain everything that’s happened, so you simply say, “I’ll be back in two hours,” before closing the door behind you, making sure that it latches before you start down the hallway.

Eddie is waiting in the tiny lobby. He’s leaned up against the double doors, tapping one Reebok-clad foot and examining his fingernails anxiously. A memory crashes over you; one where his nails are painted jet black, though there hasn’t been any polish on them in some time.

He smiles as soon as he spots you, standing up straighter and walking to meet you before you can get to the door. “Hey,” he says softly, letting his hand brush yours as he kisses your cheek.

“Hey, yourself.” You want to kiss him back, but not on his cheek. Your lips yearn to crash against his once more; this time, anchored in belonging rather than lust. Instead, you manage a compliment. “You clean up nice.”

It’s the truth. His gray jeans are free of any holes, sometimes intentional but often the result of overwearing. The sleeves of his red sweater are pushed up slightly, exposing the litany of tattoos on his arms, and it occurs to you that you want to know each of their origins.

“Can’t lie, Harris helped pick out my clothes today,” he admits. “He caught me trying to figure out what to wear and we finally agreed on this.” He sweeps a hand down his side to emphasize his point.

“Was the ponytail his idea, too?” His curls are pulled back and rest at the nape of his neck.

Eddie shakes his head with a laugh as his cheeks tinge pink. “Nah, that was all me.” He pauses, gaze briefly landing on your mouth before his eyes are drawn back to yours. “You’re…you’re beautiful.”

You try to shrug off the compliment, still caught off-guard by his kindness. You wonder when—or if—that unease will dissipate. “I think you’re just used to seeing me with Play-Doh stuck to my shirt,” you tease, but he doesn’t break his trance.

“You’re always beautiful.” The sincerity of his statement clings to a silence that should be awkward, but is somehow comforting. After a few seconds, he clears his throat, lifting the fog of budding romance that clouds the lobby. “Let’s go get some coffee, yeah?”

Eddie takes your hand in his when you nod, leading you to his car and opening the passenger door for you. He sweeps his hand in the direction of the seat, and you giggle.

“Such a gentleman.”

He doesn’t divulge that Wayne reminded him to open doors for you when he’d come over to the apartment for dinner last night, or that the older man had slipped him a crumpled ten dollar bill and whispered, “get her something to eat, too,” punctuating his statement with a wink.

His left leg bounces as he starts the engine and he grates his teeth over his lower lip. He doesn’t even realize that he’s doing either of these things until you timidly rest a hand on his right knee and ask, “You okay?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, gliding the gear shift from ‘park’ to ‘reverse’ as he backs out of his spot. “Just, uh, been a long time since I’ve gone on a date.” And never with someone so goddamn perfect, he wants to add, but he’s stopped by the fear of coming on too strong.

You graze your thumb over the gray denim and smile at him. “Well, you’re doing great so far.”

“Yeah?” Eddie grins at your reassurance, the soft dimples at the corners of his mouth deepening.

“Yeah.”

He turns on the radio with a slight snap of his wrist, shifting the skull ring that wraps around his middle finger. A metal song comes on that you don’t recognize, drumbeats thumping through the old speakers. Eddie winces, nudging the volume down so he can hear himself speak over the impending guitar solo. “You can change it to something you like better.”

“Nah, this is fine,” you shake your head. “Kinda warming up to heavier music since someone gave me a Guns ‘N Roses tape.”

Eddie’s eyebrows brush the edge of his tousled bangs in surprise. “You really listen to it?”

“All the time,” you confirm truthfully. It’s quickly become one of your favorites; each time you play it, you’re reminded of Harris dressed as a miniature Axl Rose, drawing a picture of you and Eddie holding hands. Not to mention the way that Eddie adoringly gazed at you while you calmed his son down, quickly throwing together an art project and saving the day.

“How’s Grandma?” he asks now, pressing on the brake as he approaches a stop sign.

“Same as always. Her aid had to take her to the hospital the other day because she fell, and she’s been losing more language.” You try to play it off like it doesn’t bother you, but your heart pangs as you speak. When she was initially diagnosed, you’d known that she’d forget who people were, but you hadn’t realized that she would eventually forget how to talk. “Good news is, she hasn’t lost her appetite for Oreos. I have to keep the package you brought over hidden away so she doesn’t eat them all.”

Eddie laughs at this. “Told you; there’s nothing Oreos can’t fix.” He pulls into the cafe parking lot and snags the first available spot he sees. “I really am sorry that you have to see that, though. It can’t be easy.”

You keep your eyes trained on the dashboard, knowing that you’ll tear up if you catch a glance of his sympathetic expression. “‘S just par for the course with dementia, I guess.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything else–he isn’t sure what to say–as he kills the engine. He clicks off his seatbelt to scramble to your door, but it gets snagged in the crook of his elbow, yanking him back.

“Jesus, shit,” he grumbles, untangling himself from the trap he’d inadvertently created. “Don’t move; I’m not done being a gentleman.”

You put your hands up in surrender, watching as he walks to your side and opens the door. “Wow, that was such a surprising gesture,” you mock him, letting out a breathless scoff when he flips you the bird. “Giving me the middle finger kinda negates the whole ‘gentleman’ thing, dontcha think?”

Eddie pretends to consider this, crossing his arms over his chest while shifting his weight to one leg, bringing his hand to his freshly-shaved chin. “Mm, nope.” He helps you out of the seat, still not letting go of your hand once you’re standing next to his car. He holds it tighter, so you can feel every etch of the lifelines across his palm.

The mouth-watering scent of warm pastries and freshly brewed coffee swirls throughout the cafe, wafting to your nose as soon as you open the door. Or, more precisely, as soon as Eddie opens the door for you. You assume he’ll slip his fingers back through yours after you’re both inside, but he hesitates before letting his palm hover on the small of your back. You can barely feel the pads of his fingertips through your thick sweater, but as soon as you give him a smile, he allows himself to hold you a bit closer.

A chipper, twenty-something barista whose name tag reads Stephanie greets you as you approach the counter. “Hi! What can I get you folks?”

Eddie nudges you to place your order, which you give with a polite smile. “Just a coffee with room for milk,” you tell her.

You turn to Eddie so he can give his order, but he says softly, “Get something to eat, too.” He points to the display of baked goods before you, and you peer into the case. The prices are listed next to each item, and you furrow your brow at the $2 brownie.

“Oh, s’okay,” you murmur, trying to play it off. The last thing you need is for Eddie to think you’re pitying him, which, okay, maybe you are. He just doesn’t have to know that. “You can get something, though.”

He shakes his head with a grin. “I’m not falling for that trick, Sweetheart.” It’s odd to hear the nickname without the prefix Ms. in front of it, or without a sneer in his voice. It’s kind, comforting, dare you even venture…a term of endearment? “You tell me you don’t want anything, and then you end up eating half of what I pick. Nope, you’re getting your own.”

“Fine, fine,” you roll your eyes playfully, eventually settling on a blueberry muffin. Eddie’s coffee order is the same as yours, but he gets a chocolate chunk cookie with his. He digs into his back pocket for his wallet, worn and frayed around the edges, and pulls out a ten-dollar bill, leaving a remaining dollar in the colorful jar marked ‘Tips’.

You grab the plated pastries and Eddie shuffles behind with the coffee mugs, gently placing them on the counter next to the silver thermoses and baskets of sugar packets. You pour a bit of milk into yours, watching in amusement as Eddie dumps some of the coffee into the trashcan, filling the mug with half & half and tearing open three Domino packets.

“You want some coffee with that sugar bomb?” you gently tease, and he flicks your shoulder with a dramatic pout on his lips.

“I’d rather this than whatever bitter concoction you’re drinking,” he retorts, taking an exaggerated sip from his mug and punctuating it with an aaaahhh.

You roll your eyes. “You really should be grateful that I like bitter things. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t like you.” Your response earns you another flick to the shoulder before Eddie brings the drinks to a table tucked away in the corner.

You set the cookie in front of him and the muffin at your spot across from him, pulling a crumb from the side and popping it in your mouth. The sweetness of the pastry with the slightly sour berry is heaven on your tongue.

“‘S good?” Eddie asks, smiling brightly when you nod your head. “Wanna try a bite of mine?” He breaks off a piece, and a smattering of crumbs fall to the table. You expect him to place the piece in your hand; instead, he leans over and brings it to your lips. His fingertips brush against them, parting them ever-so-slightly. An electric buzz hums down your spine, and you wonder if he feels it, too.

You’re careful not to let your tongue graze his fingers as you take the chocolate-flecked dessert into your mouth. Eddie, however, is in no rush. He lingers, slowly moving the rough pads of his fingers across your soft lips. In doing so, he wipes away rogue remnants of the cookie he just fed you, though you strongly doubt that that was his intention.

“Here, try mine.” You pinch off a piece of the muffin, a bit bigger than the piece you took for yourself, and bring it to him. His lips close around the very tips of your thumb and forefinger where you’re holding the bite of muffin. You feel the brief flicker of his tongue, gone before you can even process it, taking the muffin piece with it.

“Not bad,” Eddie says with a grin. “I don’t usually like fruit in my dessert, but I’d make an exception for that. Could definitely use some more chocolate, though.” As if to illustrate his sentiment, he takes a comically large bite of his cookie.

“One of these days, I’ll get you to eat a vegetable.” You mean it as a joke, a ribbing towards his poor eating habits, but it implies that you’ll stick around. That you care about him. You’re unclear about how he interpreted your statement, so you quickly change the subject before he can think about it. “I do have a question for you. Completely unrelated to the lack of nutrients in your diet.”

Eddie ignores the teasing jab and takes another bite of cookie. “Shoot.”

“The, uh, lock-picking kit,” you start, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your nerves calm. “Do you just keep them laying around?” You hate the idea of him using it to commit break-ins. If that was the truth, would he even admit it to you?

But Eddie just laughs, sipping his barely-coffee with a knowing smirk. “When Harris was about two, Wayne was watching him. He left for a second to grab the mail and the little stinker locked him out.”

“Out of the trailer?!” you ask incredulously, jaw dropping in shock.

“Out of the trailer,” Eddie confirms, shaking his head as though he still can’t believe it himself. “So, yeah. Ever since that happened, I’ve kept a lock-picking kit in my car.” He takes a deep breath, looking into your eyes with a gaze that makes your heart skip a beat. He drums his fingertips on the table as he says, “Tell me about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Eddie accentuates his request with a quick poke of your hand before returning his grip to the mug handle. “Like, how did you end up being the one schlepping out to Hawkins to take care of Grandma?”

You shrug and bring the hot cup to your lips, letting the steam tickle your nose before you drink. “She and I were always really close, and teaching is a job that’s everywhere. It was just easier for me to pick up and move, I guess.”

Eddie pauses, nodding as he considers his next question. He rubs his palm back and forth on the side of his mug; there’s an air of nervousness around him. “Tell me about her. Grandma, I mean. Like, how she was before she got sick.”

“Where do I start?” It’s strange, you think, the way memories work. Sometimes it seems like the more Grandma forgets, the more you remember. You’ll just be lesson planning, or hurriedly making photocopies at work, or heating up leftovers in the microwave, and a memory will crash over you. Suddenly, you’re plucked from reality and transported to Benny’s Diner where you and she used to split a giant stack of pancakes. Or to the shoe store where she’d buy you a new pair of sneakers every August before the start of the new school year. “She just loved taking care of people. Cooking for them or cheering them up. She wasn’t the type of person to tell you to stop crying when you’d get upset, y’know? She’d sit there with you, rub your back, and let you get all the tears out.” You muster a wistful smile in a paltry attempt to hide the shame blooming in your chest. “It’s all so fucked, the way I talk about her like she’s gone when she’s still here.”

“No.” Eddie’s voice is soft yet adamant. “I don’t think it’s fucked at all. Because, I dunno, it’s like she’s not here, in a way. Physically, yeah; but almost like…” He stops himself to avoid speaking out of turn and making a fool of himself.

“Like she’s a shell of who she used to be,” you finish for him, and relief floods his body when you understand the point he’s trying to make.

He nods. “Exactly.” He smooths his ponytail reflexively. “I think you’re a lot like her. How she was, anyway. The way you’re always looking out for people, like…let’s say…a bitter wannabe rockstar and his adorable yet mischievous son?”

“That’s the best compliment I’ve gotten in a long time.” It’s all you want, really–to spread joy and kindness to others, filling in gaps that have remained empty for so long that they seemingly go unnoticed. “Maybe ever, actually.”

Good, Eddie wants to say. He wants to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, each one kinder than the last, until you’re utterly flustered. Instead, he abruptly changes the subject and asks, “What made you wanna be a teacher?”

This is a much easier question for you to answer. “I just love seeing kids learn,” you beam. “Being able to do things they couldn’t do before; things they never thought they’d be able to do.”

He returns your smile easily; something about hearing you speak about your profession with such gratification has him buzzing.“Speaking of which,” he says, sneaking a mouthful of cookie between words, “I took Harris to the supermarket yesterday. And when we passed by the seafood section, he points to a sign, sounds out cuh-ahh-d, and goes, ‘that says cod!’”

“That’s incredible! Look at our little reader go!” You could jump out of your seat with excitement, held back only by the desire to not go overboard in your display of enthusiasm.

Eddie nods in agreement. “I was so proud, I damn near bought all of the candy in the store.” He cocks his head, amusement tugging the corners of his lips upwards. “Any idea where he learned how to read like that?”

“Not a clue.” You try to force a deadpan expression to reinforce the sarcasm in your remark, but your happiness betrays you in the form of a giggle. You clap a hand over your mouth, but he reaches out to pull it down, keeping your fingers clasped with his.

He strokes his thumb over your knuckles, watching the digit sweep back and forth for a moment. “You really are pretty, y’know.” The admission feels like a weight has been both removed from and added to his shoulders. Now you know how he feels, but now you know how he feels.

You, meanwhile, are far less fixated on his vulnerability and focus instead on his phrasing. The opportunity has presented itself so perfectly, and you have to seize it.

“Like a princess?” Your eyes gleam with playfulness.

“Wha–oh, Christ.” Eddie’s features shift from confusion to embarrassment over the span of a second. “What did that kid tell you?”

“Not a lot,” you say nonchalantly, taking an innocent swig of coffee. It’s cooled down considerably, but you’ve never been one to let a drop of caffeine go to waste. “Just that you think I’m ‘pretty like a princess.’”

Eddie uses his free hand to rub his eyes, swiping his thumb and forefinger across the lids. “What a little snitch.”

“It’s true, then?” You perch your chin in your hand, batting your eyelashes and reveling in his awkwardness. His cheeks flush red and a nervous chuckle splices the silence between you.

“To be fair,” he finally counters, trying to gather his thoughts before they scatter again, “I was asked if I thought you were pretty like a princess. I didn’t, like, come up with that on my own.”

You purse your lips into a pout, feigning disappointment. “So you don’t think I’m pretty like a princess?”

“N-No, you are!” He takes a deep breath and composes himself as he notices you trying to hold in your laughter. “All right, which would you prefer? We talking trading your fins for legs or losing your glass slipper at a ball?”

“Neither,” you chide, scratching at the base of your neck absentmindedly. “More like…bookworm who rescues people in need no matter what the personal cost and captures the heart of the town outcast.” You hope that he doesn’t take offense to that last part, as true as it might be.

“So…Belle?” Eddie chuckles when you raise your eyebrows at him. “What? I have a little ankle biter, I know Disney movies.”

“Harris would never bite your ankles,” you scoff, grinning at the mere thought of the littlest Munson gnawing at the bottom of his dad’s legs mid-tantrum. “He’d just lock you out of the house until he gets what he wants.”

Eddie lifts his half-drank cup of coffee. “I’ll drink to that,” he agrees, and you gently knock your mug into his. The porcelain rims make a slight clink as they touch, echoes muffled by the chipped edges.

“So,” you start, allowing yourself to swim in his deep brown eyes for a beautiful moment before you pivot the conversation. “Why did you move to Chicago? Why not, like, LA or New York?”

He shrugs, wiping the residue of a coffee mustache from his upper lip. “Guess I wanted to stay kinda close to home. In case something happened to Wayne, or the music thing didn’t work out, or,” he smiles wryly, “if I knocked up a groupie and needed help raising a newborn.”

You press your lips together to stifle a giggle of your own, careful not to smudge whatever’s left of the lipstick you meticulously applied earlier. “So you moved back after Harris was born?”

“Yeah, when he was about…” Eddie silently does the math in his head, “a month old? Six weeks, maybe? When I realized that the whole ‘parenting’ thing is a hell of a lot harder than I thought. Especially doing it alone.” He drops his voice to a whisper as though he’s about to divulge a great secret. “Did you know that babies wake up, like, every half hour?”

“You don’t say?” Sarcasm is thickly woven into your tone. “Tell me more, Dr. Spock.”

Eddie snatches the muffin from your plate and takes an unprompted bite in retaliation. He chews like a cow on cud, slow and deliberate, relishing in his baked good thievery. You watch, unblinking, as a smirk crosses his face. “All right, smartass,” he snorts once he finally swallows, “not all of us specialize in taking care of kids.” He breaks off a hunk of his cookie and leaves it on your plate, a delicious peace offering that you gladly accept. “Anyway, Wayne let us stay with him until I found a place. Took a while to build up some funds, but I finally managed.”

“Where were you working?”

His face blanches at your question, and he finds himself inclined to bunch the paper napkin into a ball and shove it in his mouth to avoid answering. “Wh-What?”

“You said you had to build up some funds,” you explain, as though it were a convoluted construct. “Were you at the music store back then?”

“Oh, um. No.” Quicksand. Volcano eruption. A piano falling from the sky like in a classic Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote showdown. Eddie would’ve taken any of these options over giving you an answer. “I went back to my old high school gig of, uh, dealing.” His cheeks are beet red, the heat radiating from them is the only distraction from the shame curdling in his lungs.

He keeps his eyes on the floor; to his surprise, your feet remain planted on the ground. You’re not leaving. “Oh.” Your voice draws him back to reality. “But you don’t…”

“Nope.” Eddie shakes his head. “I’m totally done with that scene. It’s just minimum wage, on-the-books bullshit for me now. I even pay taxes.” He laughs when you roll your eyes. “Although…the manager is transferring to another store soon.”

You slam your hands on the table in excitement, eyes alight with joy at this new opportunity for him. “Eddie, you have to apply!” Your eagerness fades when you notice the frown on his face. Shit, did he think you were telling him what to do? “I’m sorry if–”

“Nah, you’re good.” He bites his thumbnail without thinking, withdrawing it from between his front teeth when he sees you watching him. “‘S not like I haven’t considered it. Just feels like…if I do that, I’m officially giving up on the whole rockstar dream. Like I’m closing that chapter of my life.”

This time, you’re the one who holds onto him. His palm is pressed flat on the Formica table, and you bring your fingers underneath it to scoop his hand into yours. You give it a quick squeeze, watching a delicate smile develop across his lips. “Is that necessarily a bad thing, though? You’re not giving up on anything; you’re just shifting your priorities to make sure that Harris is always number one.” He nods halfheartedly, but you continue. “And you can always get back into music, find another band, or…maybe even make up with the Corroded Coffin guys?”

Eddie sighs, taking a strand of hair that’s fallen from its rubber band enclosure and tucking it behind his right ear. “Yeah. Maybe.” He doesn’t quite believe it; not after the terrible things he said to Jeff. Not after Gareth said he doesn’t look up to him anymore. A Corroded Coffin reunion seems about as likely as Wayne becoming a Radio City Rockette. He clears his throat and shifts his gaze back to you. “This is, uh, not first date conversation.”

You laugh at this, nodding in agreement. “No, it most certainly isn’t.” You use your free hand to take a final swig of coffee, now on the cooler side of lukewarm. “But I don’t think you and I have done anything conventionally, so it seems to be par for the course.”

Eddie shifts in his seat to lean in closer. He’s heard your response, but he’s not accepting it. Just because things began backwards didn’t mean they had to continue that way. “Tell me about you,” he says. “What do you like to do for fun? Like, hobbies and stuff.”

Your mind goes blank, as though you’ve never enjoyed any activity in your life. “Hmm,” you ponder, trying to remember a moment that wasn’t spent lesson planning or breaking up big arguments between small humans or taking care of an elderly woman who couldn’t stand you half the time. “I really love to cook,” you finally manage, thinking of the hours when you and Grandma stood in her kitchen, preparing meals or snacks or baked goods to munch on.

“No shit!” Eddie blurts out, eyes widening. “I really love to eat.”

“I’ll have to cook for you sometime,” you tell him. Surprisingly, you’re not shy when you say it. The image of you standing before the stove, stirring a pot on a burner or taking a tray of roasted vegetables from the oven while Eddie and Harris set the kitchen table, warms you from the inside out. You express your love by making meals for others, just like Grandma does. Did. “Your favorite food is olives, right?”

Eddie rolls his eyes playfully, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting back in his seat. He opens his legs slightly as he bites the inside of his lower lip to hide his smile. “I hate you sometimes, y’know that?”

“Yeah, I hate you, too.”

As soon as you and Eddie step out of the little cafe hand in hand, the bitter slap of winter is all-consuming. Snow flurries flutter to the ground, melting as soon as they touch the faded green grass. The coldness of the flakes stings the tip of your nose, and you wiggle it to try to ward off the impending numbness.

Eddie breaks the connection to dig out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from one pocket and his lighter from the other. He flicks the switch a few times before it finally catches as he shields the flame from the harsh winds. As soon as it does, he tucks the lighter away and immediately re-laces his left fingers with your right, taking a long drag and offering it out to you with a grin.

“Since you’re just a social smoker and don’t keep any on you,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. You wonder how he could possibly know this until memories of that fateful night at the Hideout come roaring back to you. You and Eddie standing outside, making painfully awkward small talk while you figured out how to initiate a sexual encounter.

You inhale, letting the tobacco mingle with the taste of coffee and muffin already saturating your tongue, and pass the cigarette back to him. It’s a slow walk to his car; the two of you take your time as you breathe in smoke and each other’s closeness. Eddie lets you kill out the cigarette, eyes never leaving your body as you stub it into a nearby ashtray.

“I have a little confession to make,” he begins, quickly amending his statement when he catches the horrified expression on your face. “No, nothing bad; I swear!” He laughs lightly when you exhale, pressing your hand to your heart in relief. “Okay, the reason I took you out for coffee is because, well, I figured if things went well, I’d know your coffee order and could bring it to you at work or something? Like when I drop Harris off in the morning.”

The early December chill dissipates at his offer. Just the thought of Eddie memorizing your coffee order, handing you the styrofoam cup with a chaste kiss to your cheek so that none of your students or co-workers can catch you, fills you with a buzzing warmth. “I’d really like that.”

“Good,” Eddie nods, stopping at his parked car. You spot Harris’s carseat in the back, reminding you of the night Eddie drove you to his place after his show. The way he tried to hide the existence of his son from you, as though it would deter you from pursuing anything further. You can’t help but wonder how many women had turned him down after learning that he’s a dad. It has to be a decent amount, a pattern that developed, for him to become so jaded and guarded over it.

His calloused thumb ghosts over your cheek, though you can hardly feel it after being exposed to the stinging air. His gaze meets yours and he holds it, chocolate orbs fueling the fire within you.

“Feels weird asking to kiss you after we’ve already…” he trails off with a chuckle, tone laced with ambivalence. The last time he’d pressed his lips to yours, he didn’t want to stop, which scared the living shit out of him. And that was under the pretense of casual sex, not intended to go any farther than a one-night stand. But now? Now he was about to kiss you after a date, after telling you that you look pretty, after admitting that planned to get you coffee in the mornings.

If he kisses you now, there’s no going back.He’s sealing the deal, opening himself up to heartbreak, the potential to be crushed when the relationship comes to a screeching halt.

But, he reminds himself silently, it also means someone to watch movies with. Someone to buy flowers–or coffee–for. Someone to hold, to touch. Someone to share stories with, from the mundane tasks of the day to big, exciting news. Someone who I could love, who could love me and my boy.

“Eddie?” Your voice breaks into his mind, overrun with racing thoughts about the good, the bad, and the ugly of falling in–

You bring your lips to his, effectively silencing his inner monologue. His right hand stays on your face as his left grips your waist to return the kiss, deepening it with a gentle prod of his tongue. It’s wanting, but not hungry, like he’s savoring every last bite of a long-time craving. He wants this, he wants you, forever. He swears he’d never let you go if he didn’t have an oversugared, overtired four-year-old to attend to.

“You are…” he murmurs, nudging his nose with yours, but he has no idea how to end the sentence. Perfect? Mine? The one for me? “...the best.” It feels like a cop-out, but he doesn’t want to come on too strong. The irony is not lost on him that he had no problem spewing insults at you, but hesitates when it comes to affection.

“The best coffee date?” you tease, resting your hands on his chest. The sweater’s scratchy wool itches your palms, and you can’t imagine he’ll make it ten steps through the door before changing into one of his signature band tees.

“Yes. No. Yes.” He kisses your nose, an electric spark flying between you. “But also just…the best.” His fingers clasp around the door handle as he begrudgingly opens your door, not wanting the date to end. “Shall I take you home?”

No, you think, biting back your protest. No, take me to your place. Kiss me more, kiss me deeper, kiss me where the curve of my hips meets the plush of my thighs. Let me help you with your sweater; you’ll be so much more comfortable without it, Eddie.

“Okay,” you manage, sliding into your seat. He closes the door once you’re inside, jogging around to his side with a breathy chuckle.

“Gotta keep warm,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. The car rumbles to life, and as soon as he’s out of his parking spot, he takes your hand once again. Your intertwined fingers rest atop the gearshift for the entire drive to your building.

He turns off the car and faces you. “Let me walk you in.” Five simple words that ordinarily would preface sex; Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever uttered them in that order without at least the anticipation of getting laid. But there’s none of that now. He just wants to spend as much time with you as he can, before the spell is broken and he turns back into a pumpkin. Could the prince turn back into the Beast? he wonders wryly.

You cock your brow. “You sure about that? What if Grandma’s gotten herself into more trouble?”

“I’m willing to take that risk.” And he is. He’d risk everything, and for the first time in a long while, he’s not running from that feeling.

Luckily, there’s no crisis when you and Eddie arrive on your doorstep. You trade a few more giggle-laced kisses before you finally part.

The stars align on Monday morning, with Harris actually cooperating and getting ready with enough time for Eddie to stop off at the cafe to get your coffee. Okay, letting him have a Pop-Tart for breakfast instead of cereal definitely helped the situation, but it was a special occasion! And it’s not like he could tell Harris that he needed to pick up coffee for Ms. Sweetheart; the kid would be hiring caterers for a wedding if he knew.

Eddie had wanted to call you on Sunday, maybe see if you wanted to go to the playground with him and Harris and get some ice cream afterwards, but he’d ultimately decided against it. Give it some time; don’t be too eager.

It occurs to him that bringing you coffee is something that a boyfriend would do, and he hasn’t actually asked you to be his girlfriend yet. Do adults do that? Or is it just kinda implied? Shit, maybe I can take her out again this weekend and ask, just to be sure.

He gives Harris a hug and a kiss goodbye, careful not to spill any of the hot beverage as he crouches down to his height. Jitters course through his veins as he approaches your classroom, but he knows that the joy on your face–either from his kind gesture or the prospect of caffeine–will make it all worth it.

When he gets there, he only sees Will. He can’t stick around long; he doubts his boss will accept trying to impress my maybe-girlfriend as a valid excuse for tardiness.

“Hey, Byers,” Eddie calls out with a wave, pointing to the cup. “I’m just gonna leave this on her desk, if that’s cool.” He spots a black Sharpie and is about to use it to write Date night on Friday? when he catches Will’s expression. It’s a combination of confusion and sadness, with his brows pinching together as he walks over to Eddie.

Will shoves his hands in his pants pockets. “Um, she’s not coming in today. Probably not for the rest of the week.”

“Is she okay?” Worry mars Eddie’s confidence, and the sense of dread only worsens when Will quietly ushers him to the corner of the room away from the kids. “Is she sick or something?” he adds once the students are out of earshot. Will looks up at Eddie, though the height gap has decreased considerably since he was a freshman and Eddie was working through his third senior year. His eyes are shiny with tears, and he blinks them back and clears his throat. “Eddie…” he says softly, “her grandma died last night.”

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#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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ddejavvu · 5 months

Note

i love your fics <3 and i love the idea of hotch with a reader who loves to keep her appearance up, like does cute makeup every morning, always has her nails painted, and has her hair always done. Aaron adores her all dressed up. Specifically: Reader is almost done getting ready and is just waiting for her nails to dry and hotch is getting hot and impatient, so reader can’t touch during the fun or her nails will be ruined.

this post is 18+, minors dni.

Perhaps it was cruel of you to only wear your slip to paint your nails. In fact, you should have gotten dressed before doing it, so that putting on your outfit for the day won't smudge your freshly done manicure. But there's no going back now, and Aaron is uncharacteristically lingering as he ties his tie.

"This is usually your job," He muses, watching you with a trained eye as you blow carefully on your ring finger, newly adorned with a gemstone, "I can't believe you were willing to sacrifice getting your hands all over me for a new set of nails."

"Rude," You accuse, but he's right, "I don't tie your tie just to get my hands all over you."

"Right," He drawls, "That's why you always run your hands down my chest afterwards."

"To smooth down your suit!" Nine out of your ten nails are done now, and Aaron dips down to kiss your cheek while you concentrate on your pinky.

"Mm-hm," He chuckles, the sound warm and soothing where it falls close to your ear, "Have a good day, honey."

"You too," You grin up at Aaron, your lashes fluttering over sleepy eyes, "Say hi to Garcia for me."

"I will." He vows, but he doesn't move away, and something more than fondness is twinkling in his eyes.

You realize a few seconds late that from where he's standing, he's got a perfect view down the front of your slip, and your nipples are perked against the silky fabric in the chilly morning air. There's goosebumps on your arm as he nudges his nose against your jaw, but they're not from the cold. When he presses a second kiss lower, more sensual, to the hinge of your jaw you lean away, mourning the loss of his touch before he's even broken away.

"Aaron, I can't," You plead, "My nails are still wet."

"That's alright," He hums, smoothing a hand down your back and slipping it beneath the curve of your ass on the bed. He uses his chest to push you down onto the mattress, and it's by sheer luck that you manage to get the nail polish bottle onto the nightstand without spilling it everywhere. Your hands are left to hover uselessly in the air beside Aaron's hips as he shifts on top of you, "Just relax, and let your pretty nails dry, honey. Hands off, let me do all the work."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner scenario #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner one-shot #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner headcanons #aaron hotchner headcanon #aaron hotchner hc #aaron hotchner hcs #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner dialogue #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x reader fanfiction

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sweetarethediscords · 2 months

Text

The Maiden of The Barren Rime

Winter Wind blows through the valley, pushes us into our homes.

Pleading she knocks at our windows, scorned she continues to roam.

Chapter 1: The Brambled Beauty

Mina quieted at the sound of unfamiliar voices on the wind.

“Are you sure this is the right cabin?” It was a feminine voice, on the younger side, with a slight Tinian accent, most likely from the North Coast judging from the way they dragged the “er” in “sure.”

“Of course this is the right cabin! It’s the only cabin in this damned forest!” A masculine voice spat back. Staunchly Lanholdian, Mina could almost feel the thick tension in their tongue behind her own teeth. The gravel of age and annoyance ground up from the back of their throat.

Mina picked up her pace, leaping up into the treetops, crossing miles in minutes towards the voices with no more sound than the rustle of wind through pine needles.

She stilled. The branch beneath her feet barely creaked.

They were outside her cabin. A young woman with thick glasses and even thicker curly hair checked the compass in her hand as the short, sturdy man beside her impatiently tapped his foot and picked at the split ends of his long, braided beard.

Mina placed a hand on the hilt of her sword as she watched them through the canopy. The man’s leather armor bore a crest depicting a mountain top and three diamonds, with glinting, well-polished stripes on his pauldron pronouncing his rank. Seven; a general of lauded stature. Why he traveled with the young woman was unclear.

She was clearly not a noble. The slight roll forward of her shoulders, the patterned bandanna holding her hair out of her eyes too weathered or wrinkled for even a disguised royal to wear, and a decent soldier would never keep their guard down as much as hers was in an unfamiliar place. Perhaps she had hired the knight as security on her journey.

A journey Mina would take no part in.

She shifted to sit easily and silently, making sure not to catch the beaver skins hanging from her pack beneath her. A few more minutes and they would leave, then she could prep the skins and start to smoke the meat in her satchel as planned.

“Well,” the woman stuffed her compass into her jacket pocket. “At least it’s a nice day out to wait. Sun’s still warm enough to cut the edge off the autumn chill.”

Annoyingly, she made her way to the porch of Mina’s cabin and took a seat on its rough wooden steps. Mina ground her teeth slightly. Maybe a splinter or two would poke her through her patchwork skirt and urge her away.

The man huffed and kicked at a tuft of crabgrass. “You think this chill has an edge? Just wait until you’re on the Peaks.” The tuft came loose, sending dirt and now homeless pill bugs scattering. “If we ever get to the fucking Peaks.”

Dammit, Mina thought. They were here for an expedition.

“Ya know, we could always go with another alpinist,” the woman offered. “Beto Lamar’s homestead is about a day’s ride west from here.”

“A day’s ride but three weeks past our deadline,” the man said. “This girl can bring us back to Lanholde in under a month.” He stomped over and stood on the steps, too proud to sit, but not proud enough to not lean on the railing for support. “She will get us there in a month.”

“Even if she’s already off on an expedition?”

“She’s not,” the man gestured over his shoulder. “The windows are open. And this cabin is too well maintained for its owner to just head off for two months with the windows left open.”

Mina thudded her head against the tree trunk. Of course. An observant and stubborn knight.

She inhaled deeply, held it, then exhaled, taking her frustration down a little, unclenching her jaw just a touch. She'd piss them off enough that they’d rather stand Lamar’s extra three weeks in the cold than put up with her, and if that didn’t work, ask for a ridiculous amount of gold to scare them off.

Three more weeks in the cold. Three more weeks to die. The unwilling thought made her teeth ache.

She climbed down from the pine she had perched in and moved soundlessly towards the drying rack staked beside her cabin. She removed one of the rungs filled with beaver skins from her pack. A loud and forceful snap echoed through the woods as she dropped it into place.

The trespassing pair jumped. The knight drew his sword as the woman bladed her feet into a wide stance, arms lifted, ready to perform some sort of cast.

So they were a magic wielder and a knight.

“Get off the porch,” Mina stated bluntly as she hung another rack.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the knight’s jaw fall agape while the woman’s disposition relaxed. She straightened up out of her fighting stance, and Mina caught the faint sound of a cork squeaking back into a bottle on the wind.

“My apologies, miss. We’re looking for the alpinist that lives here,” she said. “Would that be you?”

“No,” Mina lied. “I’m a hunter. The alpinist lives to the west.”

The woman arched an eyebrow and looked to the knight. He flared his nostrils, puffed out his chest, and stomped over towards her.

“I am Sir Murmir Gargic, general-rank knight of the Lanholde Royal Army, proud servant to King Fritz Reinhardt.”

“Never heard of him,” she lied again.

The knight sputtered, whatever bullshit speech he had prepared dying on his tongue. “You never—”

“Sir Gargic,” the woman whispered behind him, calling his attention and allowing him a moment to regain his composure.

Annoying.

“Well, he’s heard of you, and has specifically recommended that we seek you out to lead us up the Fallow Peaks. We’re in a bit of a time crunch, so if you don’t mind talking terms so we can start the expedition today—”

“If that’s the case, then I guess your king expects you both to die,” Mina droned, mono-toned and matter-of-factly. “I’m a hunter, not an alpinist.”

The knight’s breathing shallowed as her jab at his ruler crawled under his skin. He inhaled deeply, a tirade building, when the woman placed a hand on his shoulder.

“How much would it cost for you to be an alpinist?” she asked.

Mina drifted her dull gaze over towards the woman, finding her with a smirk on her lips and a knowing glint in her eye.

“Seven thousand gilt one way,” she answered. “The real alpinist to the west charges half that.”

“I’m sure.” The woman shrugged. “But the alpinist we’re looking for fits your description exactly. Female alpinist. Rough around the edges. Lives alone in a cabin deep in the Sandere Woods, five hundred paces off of the last bend in Woodgullet Road, heading northeast.” She rattled off the details as if she were reading them off a sheet of paper.

Mina blinked slowly, then repeated. “Seven thousand gilt one way.”

“Deal.”

Gods fucking dammit. An unfortunately familiar tug pulled at her spine.

Sir Gargic fished out a scroll from one of the pouches on his belt, while the woman brandished a quill and a bottle of ink. He scrawled something down on it, then turned the parchment in her direction: a contract of duty.

His thick, stubby finger pointed at the 7,000g written next to the terms of payment. “Seven-thousand gilt to be delivered direct from the Capitol’s treasury upon our safe arrival.” His finger traveled down the page to a long signature line. “All you need to do is sign here.”

She did, reluctantly. Her arm dragged by that damned tug.

“Mina,” the woman read her name aloud, standing on the tips of her toes to watch as she wrote it. “I’m Wera Alrust.”

Mina snapped the quill once she finished, dropped it to the ground, and headed into her cabin.

“Where are you going?” Sir Gargic barked behind her. “You’re under contract to—”

“Packing,” Mina answered. “Can’t climb a ten-thousand-foot cliff face with just a bow, a sword, and a can-do attitude.” She paused in the doorway. “Just two going up?”

“Five,” Wera answered. “Six if you count yourself.”

“I don’t.”

Last-minute trips up the Fallow Peaks were nothing new to Mina, as much as she loathed them. They were always inconvenient and pressing, which meant the travelers were stressed and distracted — which meant the death count was usually higher than the average one or two losses. Expeditions such as this were few and far between, at least. Most travelers knew to prepare well in advance for the perilous journey, contracting her months ahead of time instead of minutes.

She closed all the windows and locked the shutters, made sure her books and sheet music were lifted off the ground in case the fall rains caused the lake to flood, and tucked the more expensive of her instruments away as she filled the pack she kept by the door.

“Flint, whytewing leathers, tarp, rations, climbing axes…” she muttered to herself as she rifled through it — taking stock to make sure she had everything she needed — then picked up a fiddle and bow leaning against a hard wooden chair. She loosened up the strings a bit and unstrung the bow to keep the horse hairs from snapping, then shoved it in with the rest of her gear.

“Where are the other three?” she asked as she stepped back outside and locked the door.

“Back on the road, waiting with the wagon,” Wera replied.

“You can’t take a wagon up a mountain.”

“We don’t plan to.” She was, frustratingly, smiling at Mina when she turned around. “Ready to go?”

“Lead the way.”

Sir Gargic headed off, impatience and frustration bringing out the ill-manner child in him. With such thin skin, it wouldn’t be long before he broke their contract, or he died. Rabbet’s Pass most likely, which would be convenient. She could leave his corpse in the caves there, and they wouldn’t have too far of a walk back to Sandere afterwards.

After only a few wrong turns through the thick wood, the seldom-used road emerged. A simple covered wagon pulled off to the side let the four horses that drove it graze lazily, while two more members of their party hung around it: an old woman with her hair up in a tight bun, sitting on the ground making daisy chains out of dandelions, and a young man with a sharp haircut and a well-coiffed mustache scrawling in a notebook as he sat in the driver’s seat.

Sir Gargic’s spine straightened and chest puffed out as he put on a bit of bravado. “We’ve returned!” he cried, waving grandly.

The old woman and mustached man looked up from their work. The woman abandoned her dandelions and stood to meet them, while the young man looked them over and flipped to another page in his book; quill taking off in a fury.

“Ah! Are you the young lady who will be guiding us?” The old woman smiled sweetly. “My name’s Tanir and the boy on the cart is Enoch.” She turned over her shoulder and hollered, “Wave hello, Enoch!”

Enoch raised his hand partially, too engrossed in whatever he was writing to look away.

“Mina.” Mina met Tanir’s gaze, and the old woman’s brow furrowed. She was looking for the appropriate response, a sign of expression to source Mina’s first impression of her. Mina watched her bottom lip shift subtly, a minuscule pucker as her teeth bit behind it uneased to find nothing.

Annoy the knight. Unnerve the old woman. Now she just had to find the others’ weaknesses.

“You’ll have to leave the wagon and loose the horses an hour or so up the road. They’ll slow us down and will be hunted by the beasts of the Harrow.”

“Oh, uh—” Tanir swallowed. “That sounds like something you should discuss with Master Windenhofer. I’ll go get him for you.” She flashed another smile, this one fueled by nerves, and hurried off into the back of the wagon.

Enoch snapped his notebook shut and leaned over the side of the driver’s seat. He rested his chin on his hand dramatically, abandoning the fierce focus he held when writing to gaze at Mina with puppy dog eyes. “Did you know you are extremely beautiful for an alpinist?”

Sir Gargic sputtered with embarrassment. Wera shot Enoch a disgusted look.

Mina stared at him blankly.

“I know,” she said after a moment.

Enoch choked on his spit at her response. Wera burst out into a fit of laughter, drawing Mina’s attention.

Laughter wasn’t a response she was used to receiving.

“Don’t forget to write that one down,” Wera wheezed through her giggles. “‘My attempts at flirtation failed tremendously as usual.’ A good archivist doesn’t leave out any details!”

“Enough of that, Enoch!” Sir Gargic snipped, hitting him on the arm. “She comes highly recommended by The Crown of Lanholde, and you will address her with the respect that such a recommendation warrants!”

“S-sorry, M-mina,” Enoch stammered, still caught off guard by her curtness as he leaned back away from her, rubbing his injured arm.

“I hear we have a new face joining our motley crew!” a warm, deep voice cheered from inside the wagon. The cart bounced as a tall, lean man, with a wide smile and a thick shag haircut, stepped out of it, Tanir following behind.

“Hello, I am Sebastian Windenhofer. It is wonderful to meet you!” the man extended his hand out in greeting.

A soft breeze blew between them as Mina considered his outstretched hand. His fingers were long, as to be expected of someone of his height, and his palms were oddly covered with an even layer of callous.

She did not shake it.

“Mina,” she said to the hand, in the same bland manner that she had introduced herself to everyone else.

Sebastian seemed unbothered by his spurned handshake, and instead clasped his hands together and nodded his head softly, “Mina.” There was a slight hum to the ‘M’ as he said it. “Tanir mentioned that you wished to speak to me about something regarding the horses?”

Mina’s distant stare met his attentive gaze. Sebastian didn’t flinch. “You’ll have to leave the wagon and loose the horses an hour or so up the road.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“The woods are too thick for a wagon to fit through, and the mountains are too steep,” she answered. “The Harrowed Woods that border Sandere and the Peaks are filled with hungry monsters who will be lured by the thought of a four-course horse meal, too.”

“I see.” Sebastian brought his hand up and tapped his fingertips lightly against his lips as he thought. “Would it be better for the horses if we left the wagon and let them loose now as opposed to when we get closer?”

Mina paused, and tilted her head to the side, caught off guard by his question.

“Have I spoken out of turn?” his voice wavered.

“No, it’s just that I’ve never had someone ask to let the horses out early,” she replied, much more candidly than she intended. She straightened her head, collecting herself. “There’d be less chance of them being attacked. Not many monsters here in these woods.”

“That settles it, then.” Sebastian addressed his crew, “Gather your belongings, we will be continuing on foot from here. Wera and Sir Gargic, unhitch the horses and send them back down the road, please.”

“Ugh, my penmanship gets so poor when we’re walking,” Enoch groaned as he slid down from the driver’s seat.

“Guess you’ll have to save your sonnets for when we’re in Lanholde,” Wera remarked as she started unbuckling one of the horse’s bridles. “We’ve got nothing but walking ahead of us now.”

Sebastian returned his attention to Mina. “It should only take us a few minutes to get packed up. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?” He reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a tea kettle and mug. Twirling the mug around his finger by its handle, he juggled the kettle with one hand and caught it by its base. Steam rose from its spout.

Not just a magic user. He was a wizard, capable enough to demonstrate his talents so casually.

Or cocky enough to make a big show over the few skills he did have.

“No,” Mina replied, tapping the canteen attached to her belt. “I have a canteen.”

She could have just left it at ‘no’.

“Of course.” He threw the tea set into the air as if he were throwing away a piece of paper over his shoulder and with a snap of his fingers they vanished.

Definitely a show-off.

“I have a few things to pack myself if you’ll excuse me,” he continued, smiling again, still wide as it shifted to a slightly different shape, then headed back into the covered wagon.

Mina watched him walk away.

If he wasn’t just a show-off, then maybe they’d make it a mile past Rabbet’s Pass.

🜁

“So, Mina, would you care to tell us a little about yourself?” Sebastian asked as they walked up the rest of the road. Considering how chatty they were while getting their shit together, Mina didn’t have any hope of a quiet walk to the Harrow’s beginning. “I’m sure there’s much more to you than living in these woods and leading expeditions through the Fallow Peaks.”

“That’s all there is to know,” she replied.

Sebastian chuckled, a rumble out from his chest that buzzed in Mina’s ears. “I’m sure that’s not true. What about ‘how you got started leading expeditions’? Doesn’t seem like a job someone just falls into.”

“It’s not.”

“Then how’d it happen for you?”

“Someone had to do it. So I did it.”

“And what did that entail?”

“Doing it.”

“Sebastian,” Tanir interjected, “perhaps it’d be best if we shared a little bit about ourselves first.” She smiled at Mina. Mina kept her gaze forward, praying that the treeline would take mercy on her and move closer on its own. “I’m the company medic, been working with Sebastian since he had a particularly rough encounter collecting basilisk venom a few summers back. Poor thing hobbled to my home half turned to stone, and insisted I travel with him on his adventures ever since.”

“You faced off against a basilisk?” Enoch piped up from the back of the pack. “When we rest for the evening, you’ll have to sit down with me and give me the full story. You too, Tanir. It should definitely be added to my records.”

“Are you volunteering to go next then, Enoch?” Sebastian asked.

“I— uh—” Enoch jogged up in front of them and turned to walk backwards as he spoke, “Well I met—”

“Don’t walk like that,” Mina interrupted. “If you fall and break something, we’ll have to leave you behind, or I’ll have to kill you.”

His steps slowed as his eyes widened. “Wh-what?”

“It’s quicker than the duskwolves tearing into your flesh and snapping your neck.” It was brutal imagery, but not entirely false.

“She’s kidding, Enoch,” Sebastian said.

Enoch’s voice hollowed. “H-how can you tell?”

“Because if you did break something, Tanir would gladly patch you up,” he reasoned.

“Though I’d give you a scolding while I did it for not listening to the expert,” Tanir added, drawing out the title expert to appease Mina’s non-existent good side. “So turn around and continue your story.”

“Right.” Enoch turned around quickly at her instruction, gathered his composure with a shudder of his shoulders, and turned his head slightly to the side to speak, “I met Sebastian on a truly fate-defining day. Wandering the Coast of Carvons, I was lost, looking for inspiration to strike.”

Wera groaned.

“And it did! As I sat on the beach, begging the great and powerful ocean to lend me some of its majesty, a geyser of sand erupted from underneath of me, sending me skyrocketing through the air. Whilst I fell from the heavens, I looked down at the ground below me. What once was a beach was now a golden temple! And upon the roof of this temple stood the great Sebastian Windenhofer, my new muse! Since that day, I have traveled alongside him, cataloging his adventures to tell the world of his greatness.”

“You know that the rest of us were on top of that temple too, right?” Wera chided before addressing Mina. “Please take his tales with a grain of salt. For an archivist, he seems to have a selective memory. I’m the cartographer. Sebastian was the first person to hire me out of school, and I’ve been traveling with him ever since.”

She looked back at Enoch and snickered, “See? Short, sweet, and to the point. Your turn, Sir Gargic.”

“Indeed.” Somehow, the knight puffed his swollen chest even bigger. “Unlike the rest of my compatriots, I am not under the employ of Master Windenhofer, but rather a liaison of The Crown of Lanholde. They’ve tasked the two of us with uncovering and collecting a few precious artifacts that The Crown has a vested interest in. We are on the last leg of this journey now.”

Everyone’s attention landed on Mina, heavy with expectation, a burdensome weight. They had offered their stories without her agreement. There was no need for her to respond. Responding would only embolden them to keep prying.

Sebastian broke the thick silence and turned to Tanir, “Did you really have to tell the basilisk story, Tani?”

“It’s one of my first and favorite memories of you,” she replied.

“You should’ve waited for winter,” Mina commented, against her better judgment. “Basilisks get sluggish and less alert in the cold. You can sneak up behind them and slice off their heads in one strike if your blade is sharp enough. Just make sure to cut about a foot below their jaw so that you don’t pierce the venom gland.”

Her unexpected advice, matter-of-fact and brutal, garnered shocked and confused expressions from everyone but the wizard. Maybe it was the right call, then. The more alien she seemed, the better off they all would be.

“Aha! You’re a hunter too!” Sebastian — frustratingly — cheered. “I knew there was more to you!”

If Mina could meaningfully scowl, she would have. The sight of his smile stabbed at the corner of her eye as she kept her gaze forward. Wizards were known to be fascinated by curiously temperamental creatures, of course it would be harder to break him.

“Now, do you have any other comments, questions, concerns for our happy little troop? Perhaps some tips on how to deal with those duskwolves you—”

“You’re all loud,” she stated. “It’ll draw things to us, and cause trouble on the Peaks.”

“Why’s that?” Tanir asked.

“Avalanches.”

“Wait,” Enoch said. “There’s going to be snow on these mountains?”

“What did you think we bought all those cold weather clothes for?” Wera scoffed.

“Lanholde has a cooler climate. I just thought winter wear was the fashion there.”

Wera sent a pleading look Sebastian’s way. “Did you really have to hire him, ‘Bastian? We could have just left him stranded on that beach.”

“True,” Sebastian shrugged, “but we need entertainment on this journey, and watching the two of you bicker could rival some of the best traveling shows.”

As those around Mina talked, and laughed, and teased each other, the surrounding trees grew in number. Their trunks twisted, more gnarled and oddly shaped, their canopy so thick it shifted the shade of the lower leaves lighter from the lack of sunlight. The group came to a halt as the road ended at a wall of forest: the start of the Harrowed Wood.

“Right. Which of you can fight?” Mina asked as she headed to the front of the pack.

All of them raised their hands.

Wera and Sir Gargic she understood but the others… “This isn’t the time for jokes.”

“We wouldn’t have gotten this far if we couldn’t hold our own, lass,” Sir Gargic said. “Trust me, I was wary myself when I first met them, but even Enoch is worthwhile in a scrap.”

“Hey!” Enoch whined.

“Cartographer, you’re with me at the front,” she instructed before they wasted more time chatting. “Medic and Archivist in the center. Wizard and Knight in the back. Listen more than you talk. Keep an eye out for anything moving that shouldn’t be. If you see something, say something. And if something does attack us, no matter what happens, stay behind me.”

Mina didn’t wait for them to finish pairing off before weaving her way through the trees. She didn’t even acknowledge Wera as she hustled to fall in place beside her.

“So,” Wera drawled after a few minutes of silence between them, “why’d you pick me for the front?”

“You’re a mapmaker,” Mina replied. She didn’t look at Wera as she spoke, her stare focused on surveying the forest in front of them. “If you make a map of the Harrow and the Peaks and take down the trail I use, I may never have to lead people through here again.”

If she had to suffer through another expedition, at least she could make this one of use.

“You seem a little young to retire,” Wera remarked. “And you need income to upkeep that cabin of yours, right? Though with seven thousand gilt an expedition, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten yourself something a little sturdier to live in.”

She could feel the pressure of Wera studying her face, looking for something she’d never find.

“There are other ways to make money that don’t involve being bothered.” She changed the subject, “People think that there are just wolves, bears, various small-time magical beasts here. The Harrow is untouched. Nature and magic are uncontrolled and unforgiving.”

“Probably because of the runoff from the Peaks or some past geological event. I’ll make a note to have Enoch look into it.” Wera took out a small notepad and jotted something down. “If that’s the case then I’d bet there are many ways to cross over into parts of Elphyne here too, probably a bunch of fae circles, areas where the veil is thin. Would you be able to point them out when we pass them?”

“Just write down the trail taken and there’s no need to worry about any of that.”

She heard Wera’s pen skip on the page and a heavy exhale out of her nose.

There it was. She hated being talked down to.

Wera abandoned the topic and turned to basic questions about the flora and landmarks, easy enough that Mina could answer with little thought as she tuned one ear to the forest as best she could through the whispers of those walking a little too far behind her.

“Would you look at that,” Sir Gargic remarked, voice slightly muffled and strained. He talked out of the corner of his mouth in a bad attempt to be quiet. “She’s actually talking to Wera.”

“People do often talk to each other,” Sebastian said coolly, not feeding the knight’s judgment.

“Yes, but she’s so—”

“Are we talking about the Brambled Beauty?” Enoch whispered.

“The what?” Sebastian deadpanned.

“You don’t like it, sir? I’m trying to figure out the perfect way to describe such a terrifying and alluring creature.”

“Alluring?” Sir Gargic guffawed, “She’s so cold!”

“Yes! She’s cold!” Tanir added, voice peaking with a burst of realization.

Mina ground her teeth to keep from chewing them out. It was better that they didn’t know how well she could hear, and she had bore much harsher digs than their rude observations anyways.

“Just because she’s different than us doesn’t make her less of a person,” Sebastian chided. “And Tanir it’s unlike you to make assumptions about someone you’ve just met.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was just—”

A low gurgle deep within the ground, quiet and out of place in the harmony of forest sounds, environmental interrogation, and gossiping whispers, stilled Mina’s stride. She barred her arm across Wera’s chest, stopping the preoccupied cartographer, and held her other hand up to halt those behind them.

Their footfalls and chitchat ceased abruptly. Mina turned her head to the side, putting a finger to her lips to signal them to stay silent and wait.

She drew forth the sword that rested on her hip and crept forward, listening, eyes fixated on the forest floor. The gurgle reached her ears once more, louder and more guttural; hungry. Mina stopped, bladed her feet, and whistled a line of bird song.

“A meadowlark?” Sebastian whispered.

For a fleeting moment, she noted how keen his ear was, then a massive maw erupted out of the earth, lunging at her. Wind at her heels, Mina leaped at it, rocketing towards the toothy mouth at incredible speed, and drove her blade down through its top lip. The beast let out a terrible, gargling roar, shaking off the actual dirt and plants from its mimicking hide to reveal an ornery terramawg.

With the momentum of her jump and the leverage of her impaled sword, Mina vaulted over the bulbous amphibian’s earthen hide. She snapped her hips around, pivoting midair to face the beast’s back, and drew forth her bow in the same fluid motion.

The air stilled as Mina ran her fingers from the grip of her bow to its string. The water in the air collected, crystallized under the brush of her fingertips, forming an arrow of pure ice. She aimed for the creature’s third, slitted eye, a weak point that rested on the nape of its neck, and fired. A roaring gust of wind shook the trees, following in her arrow’s wake as it soared through the air, embedding itself deep into the terramawg’s brain.

Mina kept her focus on the beast as she descended, landing on a nearby tree bough without a glance back. The terramawg seized, the frost from her arrow glaciating its mind, and collapsed into a blubbery heap, returning to the mass of earth and withering foliage it disguised itself as.

Mina secured her bow on her back and slid down the tree’s trunk.

“Keep moving,” she said to the group as she retrieved her sword from the terramawg’s corpse.

It was as if they too had been immobilized by her ice. Sir Gargic’s hand rested on the hilt of his broadsword. Tanir had pulled out a handaxe from somewhere. Three thin daggers were laced between Enoch’s fingers like claws. A swirl of inky liquid hovered over Wera’s palm, while her other hand rested on her chest. Sebastian’s hands were coated in flame.

All of their mouths hung agape.

A dull pang pushed against Mina’s chest at the sight.

“Great Gods. Save some for the rest of us next time, will ya?” Sir Gargic shuddered.

“It was quicker if I handled it,” she stated. “Now come on. There’s more ground to cover before nightfall.” Mina turned on her heels and walked away, stepping across the terramawg’s body and taking care to drive her heels in a little harder as she did so.

“Hey, wait up!” Wera ran after her, manipulating the ink back in its vial and pulling out her notebook once again.“How were you able to tell where it was?”

Tanir pulled a stupefied Enoch along, “Come on. You should be jumping with joy. Action like that is sure to make your book even more exciting.”

“Well,” Sir Gargic remarked to Sebastian with a heavy exhale, “I guess we know why she’s so cold now.”

Sebastian hummed in acknowledgment, nothing more. Nothing until moments later, when under his breath a murmured thought slipped out.

“The wind even changed direction.”

The reverence in his tone, unheard by everyone else, bristled against the back of Mina’s neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of The Maiden of the Barren Rime! Thank you so much for taking time out of your day to read it.

To show my appreciation, here's a 50% off discount code you can use when ordering The Maiden of the Barren Rime E-Book off of my website: MBRTUMBLR50

The code expires on May 31st at 11:59pm so make sure to use it or share it with a friend by then!

#the maiden of the barren rime #mina #sebastian #writblr #bookblr #mbr #writing #new books #slow burn #fantasy novel #fantasy romance #romantasy

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cheollipop · 10 months

Note

HIII :D

Can you write a little drabble about dom Yunho and fem reader ignoring eachother after an argument and so y/n comes up with a plan to tease Yunho while he’s busy ignoring her and playing video games and then he ends up getting worked up and it then leads to rough sex 🙈 (sorry if this is too much lol)

2𝙠 𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩

hi anonnie!! this... thisssssss egsjbks omg gamer bf!yunho AND mad!yunho?? yummy YUMMY- ahem, this was very fun to write, and i may have gone a bit overboard with it oopsie. also, been in a playful mood lately, so you get bratty!reader~ happy reading ^^

pairing: jeong yunho x fem!reader

w.c.: 1.6k

tags: smut, oral (m), make-up sex, lots of cum talk bc... teehee, yunho's kinda mad but turns soft, reader's a little brat ><

nsfw under cut—minors dni!

Eyes trained on the screen before him, spattered splotches of red masking his point of view as his player failed to block the incoming stream of bullets, his fingers stuttering over his keyboard as loud yelling blasted into Yunho’s ears, his friends’ voices contained within the worn-down cushions of his headset. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance, partly because of the insults being thrown his way as he struggled to aim his sniper, but mainly at his inability to recall how the argument he’d had with you a couple hours ago had even started. He wracked his brain for an answer, but all he came up with was the menacing smile stretching your lips when you walked into the room hours after he’d stormed off, opting to bully eleven-year-olds online with his friends, camping at their spawn point and watching them grow frustrated with his unfair tactics.

The situation flipped, though, once your smile disappeared underneath his desk, your body hidden under the polished wood, and Yunho nearly cursed at the missed view of your delicate hands undoing the strings of his sweatpants. He wasn’t mad at you, he could never be, even more so when you had your fingers wrapped around his cock, tongue drawing circles around his head and collected the occasional spurts of precum as he grew harder in your grasp. He shuffled in his seat, containing a groan before it could leave his lips when you took his length down your throat, your lips meeting the digits wrapped around his girth before pulling off for air. Yunho wasn’t sure how many games he’d lost so far, only that his friends were growing frustrated with his silence, but he didn’t dare speak, knowing his voice would give away the nature of the situation he was in.

Brushing off the blonde locks obscuring his vision, he attempted to return to his position at the enemy’s base, only for you to flatten your tongue along the underside of his cock while sliding him back into your mouth, waiting until the tip prodded at your uvula before swallowing around it. To his luck, the startled grunt drawn out of him aligned with his teams’ nth loss, and his friends returned to their endless berating.

You pulled off him again, resting your head high enough on his thigh to stare up at his flushed face over the edge of his desk—eyes glazed over and unfocused as they gazed back at you, his lips bitten raw and a pretty rose tinting his neck and the sliver of his chest peeking at you over his collar. Your hand remained on him to smear your saliva down his length, squeezing at his base and back up to twirl around his cockhead, all while watching his composure slowly breaking down and his impatience seep into his features. With hesitation, you moved your eyes off him and to the pretty, bright pink painting his angry tip while it leaked translucent liquid that mingled with your spit, leaning forward to lick a stripe over the throbbing vein decorating his shaft.

You heard deft fingers pressing over the keycaps followed by the loud clang of his headset hitting the wooden desk, his thighs retracting as he rolled his chair back, and his hands squeezed around your biceps to hold you up. Forcefully pulling you to your feet with him, the snarky remark died on your tongue as he pushed back onto the bed, a sudden exhale blowing out of your lungs when you landed under him.

“Had your fun?” the deep baritone sent a shiver down your spine. Looking up at him, you took in the sweat pilling on his forehead, and you unsuccessfully attempted to wiggle out of the grasp he had around your wrists.

You bent your knee enough to dig into his hanging cock, the corners of your mouth twisting upwards when he jerked back. “Seems like you did too.”

You saw his eyebrow twitch again before a firm hand grabbed at your jaw, his other hand working your bottoms down your legs, two fingers pushing between your walls before you could even think of a retort. But you simply giggled, amused by how worked up you’d managed to get Yunho. You pecked the palm covering your lips, breathing out airy moans as he repeatedly pressed his fingers into your g-spot. He scissored his fingers, watching hot arousal dripping out of your cunt to seep into his duvet, cursing under his breath while using it to lube himself up.

“Can’t believe you,” he mumbled after releasing your jaw, leaning down to press himself flush with your chest, hands on your hips while he sunk into you, a melody of grunts and moans bouncing off the walls as he ground into your pussy, making sure you took every last inch of him. “Fuuuck, so fucking tight for me, aren’t you? Even when you’re being a brat,” he pressed his lips to the smile stretching yours.

Your smile wavered, playfulness fading away as you held his face to gaze into his hooded eyes, “are you still mad?”

Your whisper halted his insistent grinding, sparing you from the delicious glide of his cockhead over your walls to press a kiss to your forehead, “I could never be mad at you, sweetheart. I’m sorry it seemed that way,” the hands holding your hips wrapped around you, one cradling the back of your head and the other on your lower spine, holding you so close you could hear his racing heartbeat.

You knew this didn’t solve the problem, and that you’d have to sit down and talk about it again soon, but Yunho’s hold—so warm and tender—set a veil of tranquillity over your moving bodies and erased any significance tied to your previous argument.

But Yunho was still desperate, brimming lust mingling with his desire to make love to you, his hold gentle and yet his hips were merciless. He slammed his cock into your cunt, breathy ah's blowing over the side of you neck while he drew out orgasm after orgasm from you, his length pulsating within your heat as pleasure seared through your bodies. Your thighs trembled around him, and your hips ached when he flipped you over, grabbing your ass to pull you back onto his cock while his other hand pushed your head down into the mattress, taking what he needed from you and revelling in the sweet moans he got in return.

Overstimulation mingled with pleasure, and you tuned out your surroundings save for the choked grunts Yunho blew against the shell of your ear, the flesh of your ass growing raw with his repetitive thrusts, the back of his thighs slapping roughly against your skin.

“gonna come,” he panted, “gonna fill you up all the way, yeah baby?”

You rambled incoherently into the sheets, the hand holding your head down tangling into your hair until dull pain shot through your scalp. Moaning a succession of “yes” and “please,” Yunho held you in place while he emptied thick ropes of his cum between your fluttering walls, doing just as he said he would: filling you up all the way, until the heat spread into your womb.

Yunho brushed the hair off your face to watch your pupils disappear, rutting his softening cock into you to push you further over the edge, aiding you down from your high with skilled rolls of his hips and kisses peppered over your skin, groaning at the tight squeeze of your cunt around him. When overstimulation jerked your body away from his grasp, you reached back with heavy limbs to push at his hips, sighing once his thick length slid out of you, and you missed the string of cum connecting his cockhead to your leaking hole. But Yunho eyed it until it broke, sliding his hands up your spine and flattening his body over yours, his weight held up by the elbows digging into the mattress by your head.

Pressing kisses to every patch of skin he could reach, yunho brushed away your tears with the plush of his lips, kissing over your shut eyelids while breathing in your uneven exhales. His pretty angel, he couldn’t believe how beautiful you were, especially after you’d milked him dry, always so beautiful when you were stuffed full of his cum. Covered in sweat, shirt sticking to your trembling figure, your cunt oozing the translucent liquid while it clenched uselessly around the chill air.

You craned your neck to look at the man hovering over you, clothed chest brushing over your back with every breath he drew in. He looked just as ruined—a pretty flush painting his cheeks, eyes soft and brimming with adoration as they mooned over your expression. You wondered what face you were making, and why it seemed make him so starstruck.

“We good?” You breathed out into the air between you, a hopeful glimmer in your eyes.

Yunho focused on the spit drying over your lips, the line of drool going down to your chin reflecting the light from his monitor. His cock twitched in interest where it lay snug between his lower belly and your ass, and he rolled his hips experimentally, your sweet arousal around the hardening length gliding smoothly over your skin.

He hummed, meeting your hopefulness with an innocent smile, though the hint of slyness hidden within the gesture did not go unnoticed. Rolling his hips once more, he enveloped your body completely, resting some of his body weight over you while he whispered in your ear, a dribble of his cum seeping out of you as you squeezed around nothing.

“I think I might need a little more convincing.”

#panda's 2k sleepover o(≧▽≦)o #jeong yunho x reader #ateez x reader #jeong yunho smut #jeong yunho scenarios #jeong yunho imagines #ateez smut #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #yunho x reader #yunho smut

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scarletevening · 6 months

Text

polished [ simon 'ghost' riley ]

read too many mafia simon fics [ more specifically @cordeliawhohung. omg j the thought of her fics gets me all bothered.] ANWAYS. bodyguard/underdog fic of him... ugh, got me drooling. i can't help but ramble about him like this.

cw: suggestive, public teasing/mentions of public sex, some fluff, mafia au, established relationship, mostly just headcannons/rambling, no real plot, obsessive-ish simon, fem! reader.

simon "takes care of what belongs to him" riley who doesn't let you even see the bill of the restaurant he takes you to. only taking you to restaurants that have his card at registration, that don't ever print and only e-mail receipts.

who acts like all hell will break loose if you even try to pull out your wallet, immediately wrapping his large hand around yours, smiling as his gruff voice mumbles to the waitress, or cashier, or bartender, or whoever else would be cashing you out. even when you pout and whine, he chuckled, his lips curving into a smile and he pulls his mask just over them, to shush you with a kiss.

simon riley who never lets you slip away from his touch, smiling as he lets you sit on his meaty thigh, your back pressed against his broad shoulders as you sit in the private room with some... friends. you knew otherwise, with the way the women changed every hour, but you didn't. you stayed, the hand splayed around your waist unmoving as his masked face trails its lips down your spine, kissing the nape of you neck through the fabric.

who makes sure to schedule every appointment for his girl. your nails, your brows, you spa, anything else you want, need, desire. he'll do it, he'll wash more money, wake a little earlier, blaming it on a morning run, bidding you goodbye with a kiss on your forehead, closing your bedroom door to load his gun. but it didn't matter, not when he got to see your cute little face warm up and smile, thanking him in that sweet coo as you tugged gently at his collar; a kiss as a thank you.

simon riley who makes sure you never, ever, ever are alone, unsafe, without him. he goes everywhere with you, the grocery store, he loiters at your little diner as your best tipping customer, sitting beside you as you get your nails done. and even when you think it's just you and your girlfriends, giggling and drinking tea from cute china cups, he's had some snake through the security cameras for him to watch. to keep you safe.

who never lets you take charge, who makes sure he can fulfill all of your desires. learns all your reactions, how the way his mask rustles against your cheek makes you blush as he whispers into your ears. how you always bat your eyelashes when you get needy. how you can barely last an hour with the way his rough fingers tap at your waist in the private club, watching the other couples flirt. how you let him tease you on his lap, as if no one else could see the way his fingers snuck under your skirt. how you always forget your own name when you feel the knot tightening in your belly, so impatient as he forced you to wait until you were in your own bed to satisfy you.

simon riley that learned how to cook your favorite breakfast so every morning after. bringing you tea, a plate of food, and a kiss to bed as you woke up, marked up and sore. you happily tucked you into his chest as he held a silver spoon to your lips.

who loves you dearly, the apple of his eyes, the sun to his moon, his woman.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

i didn't mean to make it this long... hehe. if you recognize the car in the banner... i fucking love you. [pls buy me one.] edit: i literally forgot to fix the tag before i posted imma cry.

directory

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sweetsweetjellybean · 3 months

Text

Your crush on Eddie was better off a secret and a kiss that should never have happened leads you into a storm.

I wasn't happy with my first version of chapter 4. So I polished it up and added a little more dialog. Feel free to wait for the next chapter but if you'd like to read it, either as a refresher or for the very first time, please let me know what you think. XOXO-Jelly

Masterlist Listen to Fake Plastic Trees Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago. Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC: 11646 beta'd by @superblysubpar

A sharp chill nips at your cheeks as gusts of autumn wind blow through the amber-leafed trees surrounding Hawkins High's parking lot. You pick at the splintered wood of the picnic table beneath you, etched with initials and scribbles. The anguished croon of Placebo plays through your headphones, drowning out the sounds of the start of another school day. Shifting the pile of books on your lap, you steal a glance at where Eddie stands with his back to you a few yards away.

Lately, it’s like your best friend has purchased real estate in your brain. Daydreams resulting in hearts doodled in the margins of your notebooks a little too close to where you printed his name. His dark curls spill over the collar of his worn denim vest, shadowing the frayed edges of the Dio patch he had sown on last week. He's deep in conversation with Dan Shelter, a senior in the same class that Eddie would have been in if he hadn’t missed so much time after his mother passed. They both turn and look at you at the same time.

Eddie’s eyes narrow as his brows pull tighter into a frown. You push one of your headphones back, and the noise of everyday chatter and car engines bursts into your reality.

"You know your girlfriend is deeply weird, Munson," the spiky-haired jock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, not even trying to hide his distaste.

Girlfriend. You’ve both tried to stamp out that rumor—yet no matter who else you go out with, those sparks never last and pale in comparison to the steady flame you feel around Eddie. Would it really be so bad if it were true? The answer scares you more than you expect.

"She’s not my girl," Eddie retorts with a swift shake of his head, his voice edged with that familiar bite of annoyance. His foot scuffs against the asphalt, the white Reebok stark against the black jeans clinging to his narrow hips. An impatient sigh pulls the fabric of his Hellfire Club t-shirt tighter across his chest, outlining his lean frame. "You in or out?" His fingers snap near Dan's face, the sunlight catching on his silver rings, "I've got other places to be, and you're not my only customer."

"Sure, whatever," Dan grumbles, extending a hand with a few crumpled bills.

Eddie accepts the cash with an easy smirk, teasing the dime bag between thumb and forefinger, letting it sway like a pendulum. Dan’s hand hovers while he glances around for prying eyes, but Eddie lets the bag drop to the ground before he can take it.

"Oops," Eddie’s voice drips with feigned innocence before he pivots on his heel and walks away without a backward glance.

Dan’s face ignites with anger as he stoops for the bag, muttering a curse.

"Always a pleasure," Eddie calls over his shoulder, flashing a dismissive two-fingered salute. A gaggle of pink-cheeked girls from the sophomore class crosses his path, eyes trailing over him like he's their favorite song come to life.

"Ladies." He extends an arm, waving them on, his voice as smooth as a melody. They flutter past with giggles and heated glances. Despite their whispers of 'freak' in the corridors, they all vie for a chance to climb into the back of his van when no one is looking – to be the subject of the rumors they'd later deny.

He never hides his interest when he likes a girl — everybody knows when Eddie Munson is into someone. But he’s never looked at you that way, never given you that smile meant for those he desires. And that’s something that has never bothered you. Now, it stirs something else — a green thorny vine wrapping around your insides. He’s just Eddie – your friend. The same old Eddie, you reaffirm, even as your heart whispers lies of a different tune.

Without missing a beat, he saunters over, the rhythmic clink of his chain wallet punctuating each step. He leaps onto the picnic table, landing beside you with a thud, sending vibrations through the timeworn wood. His eyes linger on the girl's retreating forms.

"You need to be careful, Eddie," you warn, tipping your chin toward where Dan is stalking off in a dark cloud of annoyance.

"Careful is my middle name, doll." He smiles a big, sly grin, dimples deepening, causing a flutter in your chest, an unexplained sensation that's become strangely frequent these days.

He nods at your leg, eyes dropping to your thigh. "What’s this?" His dark lashes make half-moon shadows on his cheek as his thumb brushes over the square field of bright white crosses covering the denim patch on your jeans. A trail of tingles follows, unbidden and unwelcome. You disguise the shiver as a chill from the wind, even as you crave more of his touch.

"It’s called sashiko," you explain, hyper-aware of the warmth of his skin as the ghost of his touch lingers. "The art of visible mending."

"Looks cool." His gaze meets yours, a little too intense and a little too long. Your fingers clutch your notebooks tighter, a shield against whatever this feeling is.

"Are you coming over after school?" Your voice is steadier than you feel.

"I’ll drop you off, but I’ve got to go back to the trailer after," Eddie replies, his eyes still holding yours in a silent conversation you can't quite interpret. "I’ve got stuff to do." Something in his tone suggests layers you're not ready to peel back. "Not your kind of stuff."

The house where Eddie grew up doesn't look the same anymore. Someone else has moved in – keeping the lawn perfect and fixing up all the broken things, erasing any traces of tragedy. The neighborhood has moved on, absolving themselves like they hadn’t just turned their back and let it happen. As if it wasn't their problem. Eddie's staying on the other side of town now with his Uncle Wayne in a tiny one-bedroom trailer. Wayne's heart is in the right place, even if he drinks too much, just like Eddie's dad did. But he's not bad, just... lost when it comes to dealing with an angry teen, and with him working nights, Eddie's on his own to figure out how to deal with it all.

"I can keep you company?” You try to keep the offer casual despite the hump in your pulse.

He shakes his head, a shadow crossing his features. "Nah, I’ve got to stop at Rick's, then a run." There's a hardness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

You frown and look away, hiding your disappointment. "I don’t see what the big deal is," you argue, keeping your voice low, "We smoke together all the time."

"The big deal," he says, reaching out to lift your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Is that this is business, and I don’t want you involved. Alright?" His voice is firm, letting you know he won’t budge. "I’ll pick you up later," he promises. "Movie night. Just us."

The shrill ring of the bell is your cue to retreat, to put distance between you and these feelings threatening to upend everything. You nod at him, shoving your books into your bag. His gaze holds you for a heavy beat before breaking away. There's a shift in the air, a prelude to something you can't name, like the static before a storm. Eddie's last glance sears itself into your thoughts when you part ways at the door.

As you make your way to class, those feelings nag at you like a forgotten lyric. You hug your arms, trying to squeeze out the persistent ache that spreads through your limbs. It's a tangible pain, this longing, like a hand squeezing around your heart, making it hard to breathe.

But you push it all down, guarding it like a secret. To lock it away in the confines of your ribcage, where it can't taint the one thing you value most. The friendship you've built is too important, too rare to risk on a silly crush that might only live in your head and fade with time. It’s a gamble you won’t take. You can't lose him. You won’t watch that light in his eyes dim for you, awkward silences replacing the laughter. Without him, you’d be alone.

Cold gray days give way to dark, inky nights. The stars and moon are veiled behind thick cotton clouds, stealing the light earlier as fall edges closer to winter. Winds gust, sending wet leaves sticking to the glass of your office windows as the bare fingers of the boxwoods planted around the brownstone scratch against the house in protest.

Lowering the lid of your laptop, the light in the room dims as the brightness is trapped between the two halves. Your arms stretch over your head, loosening the tension in your neck as you push away from your desk, drifting towards the sounds of life from the living room. Steve’s long legs are stretched out on the chaise end of the couch, a Bulls game on the TV, but his attention is stuck on the laptop resting on his thighs.

“My eyes are going to fall out my head if I stare at that screen for any longer,” you declare, rounding the corner of the couch.

“Well, then, come stare at this screen instead.” He nods at the TV, extending his arm to make space for you to crawl onto the couch next to him and fit yourself into his side.

“You’re so warm.” You nuzzle into his chest, and his lips touch the top of your head. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time for bed. I still have a few hours of work left,” he sighs, his finger sliding down the trackpad as he scrolls through a document that never seems to end.

“Is that for the launch?” Your eyes squint at the brightness of the screen.

He groans at the ping of another incoming email while toggling between the many windows he has open. “Yeah, we're in the final stretch. The event team is trying to finalize the details. Maroon 5 and Fallout Boy are locked in to perform, but we’re still waiting to hear back from a few other acts and about a million other details that need ironing out.”

“It’s going to be a great night, baby. Everyone will be so impressed,” you assure, the arm you have draped across his stomach tightening, trying to impress your words into him. “Everything is going to go smoothly, you’ll see.”

He scoffs, doubt clouding his voice. “I wish I had your confidence. The server's capacity is still a question mark, and we're racing to fix streaming delays. Fuck!” The heels of his hands press into his eyes. “All I need is this thing to fail at the last minute, especially with Richard and my dad watching.” He imitates his father's stern tone, “Typical. He’s always been a fuck up. Chokes right before the buzzer.” Letting his hands drop, his eyes turn to you. “I should have listened to you and not invited my parents. I actually never thought they would agree to come. Now I’m running around trying to get things ready for them too.”

“Hey,” you take one of his hands between yours, “That’s not going to happen, Steve. If the servers have issues or if there's a lag, it's just a hiccup. You've got a team to handle that. You've put in the work, and you're brilliant at what you do. Your parents will see that. Everyone will.”

He manages a smile, but it’s just a placation.

“What can I do to help?” You ask, “I’ll make sure we have some Pellegrino stocked and that cheese your parents like.”

There's a pause as he weighs his next words. “I’ve already called the housekeeper and told them to put fresh sheets in the guest room in case they decide to stay here, but I still need to make a reservation at the Four Seasons as a backup.”

Your jaw tightens, but you curb your annoyance at how John Harrington has everyone trained to cater to his high-maintenance whims, but this is for Steve’s peace of mind. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow. Consider it done. Anything else?”

He hesitates, a little apologetic. "My suit... the dry cleaner closes early tomorrow. I hate to ask, but I might not make it in time–"

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

His lips lift at the corners, and this time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I love you.” He leans forward, slotting his lip softly between yours. “I’ll put the ticket in your bag. Thanks for helping out, Ace.”

“I just have Eddie's interview tomorrow afternoon. I should have plenty of time." Standing, you tug at his hand. "Now, can we go to bed? Everything will look better after a good night's sleep.”

His mouth sets in a determined line as he shuts down his laptop, yielding to your pull as he rises. His hand finds a place on the small of your back, grounding you both as you climb the stairs together.

Hitching the strap of your messenger bag higher on your shoulder, you kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk in front of the brick building. Car horns blare in the distance as traffic rolls by in the busy neighborhood. The sun casts a glint off the steel CursedSound sign, its metal already weathering with a faint tinge of color. The heavy door is yanked open, its clank and whine making you jump.

"Hi," Eddie greets you with a soft tone from the other side of the threshold.

"Hi," you return, shyness adding a tremble to your voice that shouldn’t be there. His fingers grip the edge of the door, and light flashes off the Rolex peeking out from under the cuff of the plaid flannel he wears over a fitted v-neck and jeans, the fabric snug against his defined shoulders. It’s still a novelty to see how his slim build has filled in over the years. Part of you still expects the boy you knew instead of this man in front of you. He looks you over in the same way, like he’s trying to decide if you’re really there. Maybe it’s the differences he sees in you, too, or does he still see the lonely girl he once knew? You shift your gaze down the street, your toes curling inside your Converse as warmth climbs up your neck. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't know." He pretends to ponder, a smile forming, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Where's your hard hat?"

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider, welcoming you in. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the hall.

The lobby is in chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips, watching you take in the space.

The brown paper has been removed from the windows, allowing bright light to stream through the streaked and dirty glass. All the furniture has been pushed toward the center of the room, and ladders and paint cans litter the floor space. A large mural wrapping around the windows and front entrance has been outlined but not completed. In the same graffiti style as the one upstairs, this one displays more cityscapes with waves of the lake breaking at the forefront. Winged skulls and guitars blend with colorful swirls of clouds rising toward the ceiling.

"It’s perfect," you tell him as your eyes follow the sweeping, colorful lines around the room. “Really beautiful.”

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you, his breath a warm whisper against your ear. "I thought it was a dump."

"Well, what can I say?” You spin around. “It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens with your praise.

"You look really good." His low voice bounces off the empty walls, "I mean…your, uh, outfit is nice." He waves his hand toward you before wiping it on the front of his jeans.

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain Lolla tee you put on this morning. None of the trendy outfits you usually wear for interviews seemed to fit right today.

"Wow, that was smooth," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don’t know why I’m so nervous."

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy. “Maybe it’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

A choked sound comes from his throat as his eyes widen into saucers.

Unable to keep a straight face, you giggle. "Relax, Eddie. I already told you I’m not writing some hit piece. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides," you shrug, "It’s only me."

A sharp breath escapes as his shoulders lower. "Yeah, you’re right." He says, taking a step forward, his gaze locking with yours. "After all these years, it's still you.

"Eddie." His name comes out on a breathless sigh as you look away. The shield of anger between you is heavy and battered, and you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold it up. He takes another step forward, and you clear your throat. "Why don’t you show me what else you’ve done?"

He rakes a hand through his curls, "Of course." His lips tighten into a flat line as he gestures toward the stairs. "After you."

You lead the way to the second floor, where the smell of fresh paint permeates the air. A ladder leans against a half-painted wall, and orange extension cords crisscross the carpet in the hall, winding into the studios like work has been suddenly halted.

"Where is everyone?" You look around the abandoned space before stepping inside Studio A. It's come a long way since your last visit. The deck that holds the mixing board is ready, and the wiring is underway.

"I didn’t know how long you’d be here, so I told them to take the rest of the day off." His eyes follow the movements of your hand, brushing over knobs and sliders of the soundboard that's still sheathed in a protective layer of plastic.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, walking back out into the hall.

"I didn’t think we needed the audience," he shrugs, walking along with you to the next room.

"I hope you don’t fall behind schedule." The walls of the small Studio B are covered with walnut slats to create an acoustic barrier while still keeping the room open, while the mixing room kept the original exposed brick.

"I’ve got time."

"Even so," you move to the window. The sun glints off the mirrored surface of the tall building across the street. "I’m sure you're eager to open. Put out that first album with the CursedSound logo in the liner notes."

"Of course I am." He comes to stand beside you, taking in the bustle of the city at midday. "It’s gonna be good to have nothin’ between me and the music. Let the artists be as creative as they want. Their management can deal with the corporate A&R people and leave me out of it."

"You never did like playing by the rules," you smile, catching his eyes in the reflection of the glass.

He turns his head, studying your profile. "Why should I?" he continues, his tone more determined, "The rules sure as hell never helped me. I'm gonna take my chances as I find them, even if I have to play a little dirty. I deserve happiness the same as the next guy."

"Of course you do." The world has done nothing but take from him.

"What about you?" He asks as you return to the hall. "The rules seemed to be treating you well."

You raise your shoulders with a warm smile gracing your lips, one you have no intention of concealing. "I love my job. I like the city, and…I have Steve."

"You ending up with Steve Harrington," his voice curls around the name, a sneer you can almost see, "I gotta admit, I didn't see that one coming."

Stopping, you pivot to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. "He's a good guy, Eddie."

He sighs in a short, almost defeated breath. "I know he is, doll."

The unmarked door at the end of the hall provides a convenient distraction. "Where does this go?" You wonder with your hand closing over the knob.

"My apartment."

"You're living here?" You let it go like it burned you, swallowing the lump that has made a sudden appearance in your throat.

"Sure. Can't beat the commute." He reaches around you, turning the doorknob to reveal another flight of stairs. "Do you want to go up?"

Flashes of that day are more vivid than they should be for memories two years old. The closet carpet is soft under your fingers as wet tears rain down on the glossy pages. Steve's voice gets closer as he calls out your name. A tightness grips your chest as you attempt to step back, momentarily forgetting that Eddie's right behind you. He supports you with a steadying hand on your hip as he faces you, seeking your reaction.

"No, that's okay. I think we're fine down here. I wouldn't want to disturb anyone," you say, attempting to sound confident as you wipe your palms along the sides of your jeans.

Eddie scratches the side of his head as his brow wrinkles. "Who do you think it up there?"

A hot breath passes your lips as you turn away, walking back down the hall toward Studio C. "I don’t know," you call over your shoulder, too chicken to face him. "Skyler Simmons. Rock royalty. Media darling. According to the magazines, your long-time girlfriend. The one you own a house with. Ring any bells? Isn’t she here with you?"

"My what? Skyler Simmons?" The deep belly laugh that follows has you spinning on your heels to face him.

"Wait. You’re serious?" His dimples make an appearance as his smile deepens. "Me and Skyler?" He can barely get her name out without chuckling.

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

His brows shoot up. "Keeping tabs on me?"

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," you huff. "It came up in my research. Do you have a relationship with her or not?"

"I know her," he offers, shaking his head, "She’s a friend. We go to the same group."

"What group? The one for annoying assholes."

He pauses, his arms crossing over his chest. "The one for people with addiction in their families. That okay with you?" His voice escalates. The simmering anger in his eyes mirrors the intensity of his tone. "Skyler is gay. Her girlfriend's usually hanging around, too. Does that mean I’m fucking her too? Jesus."

Frigid water clashes with your hot blood as the fight drains away. Glancing at your feet, your voice diminishes to barely more than a whisper. "Why hasn't she come out in the media?"

"Maybe because it’s none of anybody's fucking business." His piercing gaze bores into you as the sharp words land like heavy stones in the sour pit in your stomach. "Hold on," he waves a hand in front of you, "Why do you even care?"

"I don’t," your voice falters as the dishonest answer leaves you without hesitation. Your eyes trace the patterns on the floor. "It just makes for a better story, is all."

His hands run through his hair, fingers tugging on the ends as his tone softens. "Doll," he pauses, taking a deliberate step closer. His warm fingers cup your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. Those amber swirls, always seeing beyond your surface. "No one else is in my apartment, and no one else is gonna be."

His touch sends a searing heat spreading through your skin as the weight of your engagement ring pulls on your finger. "You’re a grown man, Eddie. Do whatever you want." Stepping back, his hand falls from your face as you turn and enter the studio.

"Fucking stubborn," the low murmur carries under his breath as he follows you inside.

"It looks like this one’s almost finished." You spin around the room, taking in the progress, before letting your bag slide down your shoulder and sinking onto the couch.

Gray triangles of acoustic foam now adorn the live room walls in contrasting patterns, and layers of soft carpeting line the floor. The mixing room's mural stands completed, and the furniture has all been placed.

His eyes move around the room, the pride evident on his face. "Just some wiring and the vocal booth, and I’ll be ready to start setting the levels."

"This one’s your favorite, I can tell," you shift, tucking a leg under you as he joins you on the couch.

"Shhh," he hushes you, raising a finger to his lips. "The others will get jealous."

Rolling your eyes, you pull your phone from your bag, open the recording app, and set it between you both.

"How does this work?" Eddie's eyes are fixed on your phone while he rubs the back of his neck.

"Well, typically," your hand slips back into your bag to retrieve the neatly stapled pages of your notes, "I ask a question, and you provide the answer." You set the pages in your lap, drawing in a steadying breath. He’s sitting in front of you with a key to a locked door – one that might be best left closed and forgotten, but it’s time to hear him out.

"Eddie Munson interview, part one."

"Mr. Munson." You slip into your most professional tone. "Thank you for granting us an interview during this busy time. All of us at Stax are very excited to welcome CursedSound to Chicago."

He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly in timber as a much smoother, older Eddie begins to answer, "Thank you. I always have time for my favorite magazine." He winks.

Your lips press into a line as you tilt your head to the side, taking a quick glance at your packet. "In April 2003, Fever to Tell was released by a relatively new band and a completely unknown sound engineer. It went on to sell over a million copies, putting The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the name Eddie Munson on industry minds. Fever to Tell is still, to date, one of my favorite albums. Were you aware of the significant impact this record would have when you were working on it?"

"At the time, we were really just hopeful, you know? We believed in the music we were creating. Karen and Nick, and Brian flew out from New York with their last dime, and we just got to work. Karen had this kind of raw, untamed energy, and I wanted to capture that, to add an edge to the album. It was this post-punk dance-floor-friendly racket that injected a much-needed dose of authenticity into a musical era that was getting stagnant."

"It's not an exaggeration to say that record helped shape the direction of indie and alternative rock for years to come. But what I want to ask is you before all that. What was the road like moving from Hawkins to having your dreams come true in LA? Was this the path you first set out on, or were there curves in the road?"

"I think 'curves' is a generous term for the absolute shit choices I was making for myself back then," he chuckles. "As you know, I left Hawkins about a year after I graduated. That town had already decided I would never be anything more than a freak– a loser with no future. If I had stayed, that's exactly what would have happened. I was trying to outrun my past without a clue what I wanted for my future. I had my own band back then, and sometimes, we’d open for slightly bigger bands that rolled through town. One of them was about to tour and invited me to go as their one and only roadie, and it felt like a free ticket out."

"Bananafish," you interject, swallowing and glancing down at your notes.

"Yeah, Bananafish. God, they sucked. Did you know they started as a Spin Doctors tribute band?"

"No," you laugh, "And that wasn’t a red flag for you?"

"It should have been. I wasn’t with them for long anyway. I think I lasted for three weeks before they cut me loose for getting in a fight with the drummer." He pauses, shaking his head. "I never knew when to shut my mouth. At that point, they had hooked up with another band called Everly. Slightly better, but not by much. I managed to hold it together for a few months. I was high or drunk most of the time, the only reason they kept me around was because they liked the way I babied their instruments."

"I remember,” you nod. “You’d spend half an hour polishing that Warlock every day after school."

"Got to treat a lady right if you want her to sing for you," he says with a sly rise and fall of his brows, draping an arm over the back of the couch, shrinking the space between you.

"I was surprised that you left it behind."

Eddie's expression turns more solemn. "There were a lot of things I wished I could’ve taken with me. But back then, I couldn’t even take care of myself."

"I don’t believe that," you swallow, the words sticking in your throat, "You could have tried."

"If I had tried, they would’ve ended up broken, and I’d‘ve lost them anyway." His fingers brush your shoulder, and you flinch. The leather creaks as you sit back against the arm of the couch, just out of reach.

"Back to Everly. Why did you part ways?"

"Oh, well, I fucked it up, of course. They had landed a spot at Bonnaroo, and I got so fucked up the night before I missed sound check. When I managed to pick myself up off the floor of the van, they handed me my duffel and a twenty and told me to pound sand." His eyes drift away, fixating on a point across the room. "I had barely been outside of Indiana, and there I was, stuck on some farm in Manchester, Tennessee, with no ride, no money, and no one to call. I was angry at the world and never felt more alone. People always talk about hitting rock bottom, I thought that was it, but now that I look back, it was more of a crossroads. If I had followed that darker path, there would have been no coming back. I was wandering around backstage where they park buses, hungover, maybe still half in the bag, and that’s when I met Max."

"Max Navarro?" You shuffle through the pages of your notes.

"Yeah. You know him?" Eddie’s eyes brighten as his gaze drops to the pages in your lap.

Your head turns from side to side. "You referred to him as a mentor in the Stones interview, but I couldn’t find much on him besides his name being listed as an audio engineer for several tours."

"That’s Max." Eddie breaks into a smile. "He’d tell you he likes flying under the radar. He was hanging out in front of the bus playing guitar with a couple of guys when I walked over like a cocky shit, picked one up, and started playing. He gave me something to smoke, and it wasn’t weed. All I know is that I woke up face-down in the dirt the next morning. I don’t know if he liked me or just felt bad for me, but he dragged me on the bus and had me start assisting him with the sound for Faith No More."

"Faith No More? Are you kidding me?" Your hands fall to your lap, slapping against your thighs, jostling the cushion enough for your phone to slide toward the back of the couch. "You had their poster in your room. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you had a charmed life."

"Well, even the sun shines on a dog's ass some days," he laughs.

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?"

"Max is who taught me about everything." His voice holds a reverence when he says his name. "He kept an eye on me. Showed me how to work the boards. He said he could see shadows following me around, so when we got to LA, he took me out to the desert, fed me some tea, and exercised my demons."

"Did it work?" Max wasn't the only one to see shadows looming. Consequences of decisions made by others. Expectations of a community that turned its back. They clung to him like an impenetrable fog.

"I’m not sure. I felt lighter after, but it could have been the gallon of water I sweat out," he chuckles. "After that, he cashed in a favor and got me an internship with a small studio in Laurel Canyon. I parked cars at night and lived in a room the size of a closet at Max’s house. I worked my ass off. I went to therapy–"

"How very L.A. of you," you chime in.

"Don’t knock it until you try it." He looks at you from under raised brows. "It’s, uh, good to talk about things. Be open, you know?"

"No thanks. I tried that once," you tell him pointedly, the tightness in your chest returning, "It didn’t work out for me."

Your arrow hit the target. Regret flashes in his eyes. "Doll–"

"You decided to stay in L.A. and work at a studio instead of going back out on the road?"

"I like studio sessions. Makes me feel like I’m working towards something. I like completing an album and putting it out in the world. Some people thrive being out on tour, like Max. Not me," he scratches at his chin. "Too many ghosts on those old roads."

Like the ones back in Hawkins that jolt you awake in the dead of night, murmuring past shames of a lovesick and foolish girl. Robin had seen it, and so had the entire town, but you aren’t her any longer. She lies resting beneath the frigid earth, her memory an unmarked grave. You've moved forward, and you’ll never go back, the city drowns out the remains of her cries.

"So you stayed and built your life there," you conclude, flipping through the pages of your notes, ticking off the points from your outline.

Eddie leans back, a contemplative look on his face. "I guess you could say that. I got my own place, made some great friends. Sundays are for Max's family and Chile relleno. The weather is always beautiful. But I really stayed for the music,” he shrugs. “Have you been? I could take you some time. Show you around. Max would love to meet you, the girl I won’t shut up about. I think you’d like it there."

The girl he hasn’t bothered to call in a decade. "To Los Angeles?" Your gaze rises from your notes to meet his nodding response. "I've been a few times. With Steve. Mostly for work."

"Oh yeah. Makes sense." His jaw tightens, and he averts his gaze. "Well, I guess the rest is history. Is that enough for your story?"

"Yeah." You reach for your phone, tapping the red square to stop the recording. "It will be a great opening piece for the series." You pick up your messenger, hauling its weight into your lap, tucking your notes inside. The afternoon is ending on a flat note. A stone sits on your tongue, holding back questions that you lack the courage to ask, but maybe it’s better this way.

Eddie sits up suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Speaking of history, I want to show you something." He stands up, looking towards the door and back at you, "Um.. wait here, okay? I’ll just be a minute."

"Okay-"

He holds up flat palms. "Don’t go anywhere." His eyes close as he winces, " I mean, you can wander around if you want. Just don’t leave."

"Eddie-"

"I’ll be back." He holds up one finger as he exits the room.

With a sigh, you push up from your thighs, rising to your feet, walking through to the live room where a drum kit stands at the ready. The snare looks a little worn, and the symbols have lost their shine. Your nails tap the high hat, and you smile at the shimmering sound.

"What am I doing?" You whisper, spinning the gold band on your finger.

The sound of the floor creaking echoes through the hall. Eddie enters the room with the large box he's carrying obscuring his upper half. His name written in Wayne's shaky handwriting, peeking out from underneath his fingers.

"What's all this?" You ask as he sets down the box with a heave in the center of the room and sinks to his knees, hovering over the taped flaps.

"I have no idea," he grins mischievously. "Wayne gave it to me when I stopped by last week and told him I would see you. But you know him, he never throws stuff out. It could be anything." His hand smoothes over the top as he raises a brow. "Wanna find out?"

Your hands slide over your jean-covered thighs before your feet carry you forward. "Mrs. Click better not be in there."

His head tips back with laughter. "I make no promises," he jokes while you take a seat on the floor on the side of the box.

His mouth quirks up, watching you get comfortable. With a fluid motion, he leans and grabs a box cutter beside the soundboard. His shirt lifts slightly, offering a glimpse of hair trailing down his belly and the sculpted muscle beside his hips. His tongue lightly grazes his upper lip as he expertly flicks the knife open, his jeans snug on the contours of his strong thighs. Exhaling slowly, you avert your eyes, scanning the room instead as you wait for him to slice the tape.

"Score!" He pulls out the ragged-edged sheet that was folded and tucked into the top of the box. "Corroded Coffin," he reads aloud the words scrawled across it with something resembling shoe polish.

"Oh no," you laugh, your head turning side to side as you rock in your seat.

"Hey. This is rare band memorabilia. It’s probably worth money," he defends, holding it up proudly.

"Yeah, to the guy you have to pay to haul it away," you giggle.

"Alright, Alright," he folds it up, the smile never leaving his face as he reaches into the box. "These are yours." He pulls out a stack of comic books and hands them to you.

"Still in good shape." You thumb through the copies of Tank Girl and Witchblade.

"My campaigns." He pulls out a pile of notebooks and sets them aside before reaching back in. "Some CDs." He comes out with a hand wrapped around a stack of jewel cases, the one on top catching your eye.

"Hey, that’s my Cranberries Cd!" Your fingers dig into the carpet as you tip forward, yanking it from his hand. "I looked for this everywhere. I knew you took it, you thief."

"I don’t know how that got there," he scratches his head, "You must have left in the van."

"Nice try, Munson." your eyes narrow, "I checked there." You lean over the box, poking a finger into his chest, "I knew you had a crush on Dolores."

"You got me. It was the accent," he admits with a grin full of dimples, his hand closing around your finger.

"I’m keeping it." You drop back into your seat and pick up the case to examine the disc.

"Holy shit."

You raise your head to meet his wide chocolate eyes, a look of sheer delight written across his face. "Close your eyes," he instructs, pulling back the flaps of the box, hiding whatever he's found.

"Mrs. Click?" You set the CD on top of the comics.

"Better," he says excitedly, waving a hand toward your face. “Come on. Close your eyes."

"Fine." You leave one eye open, folding your hands in your lap.

"No peeking." He wags a finger.

Your lips purse as you close your other lid, waiting for the big reveal. Plastic clanks against something heavy, followed by the rustle of cardboard.

"Okay. Open."

"Daisy!" Your hands fly to your mouth before you reach out with wiggling fingers.

He winces as he hands over the two-foot garden gnome. "How can you call something so ugly a pretty name like that?"

Taking the heavy lawn ornament in both hands, you gaze down at her droopy hat and too-large ears, which stick straight out beside her bulging eyes and porcine nose. Her rubbery lips are pulled back in a smile, showing off her buck teeth and flowery dress that barely conceals her body.

"She's beautiful." You cradle her in your arms. "Besides, you're the one who stole her."

"You’re the one who dared me to," he scoffs.

Your cheeks already ache with an unrestrained smile as the memories from that night surface. "I didn’t think you were going to wake up the whole neighborhood crashing into the bushes in Mr. Lawson’s yard."

"I was drunk," he defends, his face turning red.

"You tripped over your feet and ripped your pants," you gasp for air, trying to get the words out with your laughter, "You had on those Garfield boxers with the hearts."

"Of course, you remember that." His laughter joins yours, easy and familiar. "You're the one that woke up the neighbors, making the van backfire."

"It was the first time I drove, and I didn’t have a license." You clutch Daisy tightly to your chest as you try to catch your breath. "Mr. Larson came out in his bathrobe, screaming about shooting you in the ass."

Eddie shakes his head as you laugh at his expense. "He almost caught us when you stalled out. All for that hideous thing."

"Shh," you cover her ears with your hands. "You can’t get rid of her."

"Never," he agrees, reaching out for her. "I’ll find her place of honor around here somewhere."

"Put her on your nightstand," you suggest, handing her over.

"Ugh," he says, setting her aside, "I’ll have nightmares."

You burst into laughter once more, and his eyes ignite. He smiles like he’s savoring every sound, like your happiness is a hard-earned treasure he's been longing for.

The shards of the past press against the scar tissue encasing your heart as if struggling to free themselves and reassemble in the present. Your hand finds its way to your chest, pressing gently on the tender center, trying to quell the ache and remain in this moment—with him.

"What else? What else?" You clap your hands, bouncing in your spot.

"Okay, okay," he gives in, happy to indulge you. "Um, a pack of crayons, a monopoly piece." He places them aside. "Thanks, Wayne. Could have done without that. Looks like some clothes. Oh, this is yours." He tosses a ball of red fabric at you, and you catch it with both hands before he continues to search through the box.

"Is this what I think it is?" His voice brims with excitement as he pulls a rectangular tin from the box. He shakes it, and a sharp sound follows. "Yes." His tongue sticks out from the corner of his mouth as he pries off the lid.

His voice fades into the background as your focus turns to what you're holding. The fabric of your Musicland vest unfurls as you hold it out in front of you, the gold name tag still pinned to the front catching the light. A heavy sensation settles in your stomach, tightening and cramping as a sick, painful feeling creeps in and spreads — nausea churns as each inhale becomes battle.

There’s a scrape of metal as the lid pops off. "Polaroids," Eddie declares, his attention lost to the thrill of his find as he flips through the stack of photographs.

Your heart races as the room seems to shrink. "Stop it," you whisper, your voice quivering, your trembling hands twisting the vest as if folding it small enough can make the pain disappear.

"They’re pretty faded, though," he goes on, unaware.

"I said, that's enough!" The balled-up vest flies from your hands, landing back in the box. Adrenaline surges through your veins as you push yourself up on unsteady legs. "I need to leave."

Eddie's laughter dies in his throat as he looks up, the joy in his eyes replaced by confusion. "Wait a minute." He gets to his feet and follows you. The small pile you made topples over, forgotten as you pick up your bag from the couch. "What just happened?" He moves in front of you, blocking your path. "I thought we were having fun."

"Fun?" The word is a shard of ice. Without hesitation, you sling your bag over your shoulder and maneuver past him towards the door.

“Just hold on a minute.” He blocks your path again, hands up, eyes searching yours for answers. “Tell me what's going on.”

"What do you want?" The words slice the air, eyes locked, a bare blade of anger.

"I wanted to-" His eyes flick toward the abandoned box in the center of the room.

"No." Your head shakes, "Why are you here? Now? After all this time? What do you want from me?"

"I just wanted to see you." His arms cross over his chest as his voice turns softer. "I missed my friend."

"Your friend," sarcasm drips from your words as you quirk a brow, "So you show up here with a box of crap and a ‘hey doll’,” your voice lowers to mock him, "And I’m supposed to what? Forget about everything that happened and hand you a clean slate. Drop everything in my life to follow you around like a puppy because you feel like paying me some attention?"

"That’s not…I’m not asking for that." His hand runs through his curls, frustration building in his tone.

"I'm not going to sit here with you wandering down memory lane and watch you pretend like you cared." Your eyes sting, but tears won't fall. You've shed your last one for him long ago. "Like any of it mattered."

"No one's pretending here, doll." He steps closer, his hands falling to his side, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. "Of course, it mattered—all of it."

Your bag falls from your shoulder with a resounding thud, its weight matching your resolve as you push your hand against his chest. "I don't believe that for a second. If it mattered, you never could have done what you did."

"Done what?"

"Left me!" Your hand lands flat across your heart. "Without a goodbye, just some shitty mixtape full of songs that I can't listen to without my heart breaking over and over."

"You're right, okay." His voice rises to match your volume, his fingers closing around your biceps. "I was a fucking coward, and I ran. I couldn't see that look on your face again, the one you had when I told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye, but I knew you'd try to convince me to stay, and that was never going to happen. I'm sorry I hurt you, but I can't be sorry I left."

"Hurt me?" You push his hands away, taking a step back to control the cracking in your voice. "You didn't just hurt me, Eddie. You destroyed me."

He swallows, looking away. "You were better off."

Fresh anger surges, along with the strong desire to escape – to leave this dead and buried, maybe for another decade until the hurt isn’t so strong.

"See, that right there is why I'll never believe you," you snap, pointing an accusatory finger his way as you step around him, your hand closing around the doorknob. But at the last moment, you turn, wanting him to hear it. At least once.

"I didn't quit Musicland. I got fired. I was a mess after you left. I cried for days, but I clung to this pathetic hope that you’d call to explain everything. To say it wasn't the end for us. You wouldn’t just throw me away, right? Not after everything we had been through together. I wouldn't leave my room, not even to eat. I was so afraid that the second I left, the phone would ring."

There's regret in his eyes as he steps forward, getting closer until he can touch you again, one hand gently gliding up your arm.

"But that call never came, did it, Eddie? Not one. And every day that passed, I died a little. But then I wasn't sad anymore. All those tears, they turned to hate," you say coldly, locking your gaze with his. "I hated you. I hated every song that came on the radio, reminding me of you. I hated Hawkins and everyone in it. But most of all, I hated myself for trusting you. For believing that you ever cared about me. That I wasn’t alone. That's what you did to me, Eddie.”

“You made me hate myself."

"I’m so sorry, doll," his words barely crest the silence as his gentle hand cradles your jaw. “There’s so much I want to explain to you.”

His touch is hot, but inside you, a coldness lingers–inside your stone. "You kissed me. And then you left me the next day. You knew how I felt."

"I know. I know. I’m sorry." He steps closer, trying to pull your rigid form into his arms, lips brushing your temple. "You don’t even know how much. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing. Trying to make it up to you. But you’re wrong. It all mattered. I did care. That kiss..it’s the reason…" He pulls back and looks into your eyes, "You knew me, you always did, but there were things I couldn’t tell you. Things I couldn’t admit even to myself. I was scared and angry all the time."

Your head shakes as you swallow hard. "You're not even real!" You shout in his face, your fingers clutching the doorknob behind you. Spinning, you tug hard, but his hand slams against the door above your head, keeping it shut.

"Stop, doll," he pleads. “Let me explain,” but the push-pull intensifies. You're no match for his strength. "Stop it!" he yells. His hand pushes on your shoulder, turning you to face him. Anger flashes in his eyes, and his cheeks flush.

"I made you up.”

“No.”

“The boy I knew could never have done that. He could never have hurt me like that." Your shoulder jerks, breaking his hold as you attempt to turn away again.

His fingers wrap around the side of your neck, keeping you in place. "That boy could never have given you what you wanted. He wouldn’t have had the first clue how to handle you."

"Is that why you’re back?" You ask, still defiant even as his thumb presses into your throat, tipping your head to meet his gaze. "Dragging this all up again, ruining my life? Because you do?"

"Damn right, I do."

His words are a gravelly assertion, barely escaping before his mouth descends toward yours. For a heartbeat, the world pauses until your mouths finally meet — urgent and fierce. You part your lips eagerly, tongues finding their way together in a hungry and unapologetic dance. The firm pressure of his mouth moving in sync with yours is a spark, igniting a fire that seems to spread with each touch. The scent of clove and cedar leaves you lightheaded as the flames lick through your body. The scruff on his cheek is a rasp against your skin, a roughness contrasting with the smoothness of his kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and a hint of coffee. This kiss is filled with years of longing, swelling and crashing like an orchestra's finale.

Minutes slip away, yet your greedy mouths remain desperate. The room falls into a hushed stillness, save for the sharp intakes of breath and the sensuous wet slide of lips. The kisses seem endless, broken only by fleeting gasps for air, compelling you to pull each other closer, savoring every taste. Your fingers tangle in the soft waves at the nape of his neck, evoking a low, guttural groan that mingles with your shared breaths when you tug. His hands trace the curves of your body, touching every inch as they follow a path beyond your hips and ass, seizing the back of your thighs. With a firm grasp, he lifts you, pressing you against the unyielding door. You gasp as he positions you just how he wants — aligning himself hot and hard against your center.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips as his hips roll, igniting fireworks through your body. Your eyes flutter shut, and a kaleidoscope of colors burst in the darkness.

He nips at the plush of your bottom lip, teeth grazing in a tender claim, a muted buzz begins in your bag—a sharp, insistent sting—that yanks you from the haze back into the real world. His eyes remain closed when you pull away. He leans closer, chasing your mouth, but the moment is already shattered.

Your stomach plummets as the harsh reality sets in. His kiss now tastes like the ash of betrayal. The distressed whimper escaping your throat finally has him looking at you, shock written clearly across his features. Slowly, he releases you, your body sliding against his until your feet meet the floor. He takes a step back, hesitating, swallowing, "Doll —"

"No." You shake your head, your hands covering your mouth. The gold band on your fourth finger is a cool scorch against your swollen lips. "I have to go." You spring into motion, rushing to gather your bag.

"Stay, and we can talk about this," he implores, moving one hand to his hip while the other rakes through his hair.

"Please don’t," you plead. "Don’t ask me for anything else." You swing the strap over your shoulder. "I just ch—" But the word stays stuck in your throat, as your eyes swim with tears.

His face falls, "It's not your fault, okay? I kissed you."

"Eddie—"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It was me," he insists, frustration in his voice as you scrub your face with your hands. "I don't want you driving when you're upset."

"I'm sorry," you say with an aching heart, pushing past him and closing the door behind you.

The sidewalk blurs under your feet as you race to your car. Fat raindrops splatter against the concrete like a spray of gunfire, each one a cold, wet slap against your skin. The sky chooses this moment to crack open, unleashing a torrent that feels personal. Your car comes into view, a bright orange ticket flapping under the wiper. Perfect. Just perfect.

With hands slick from the rain, you fumble with your keys before throwing yourself into the driver’s seat. Snatching the ticket from under the wiper as you go and crumpling it into your fist, stuffing it into the glovebox to be dealt with later. The downpour drums on the roof, enclosing you in a watery cocoon as you search through your bag for your phone. A missed call from Steve and a text reminding you about the dry cleaning. You spill the contents of your messenger onto the passenger seat, pens and lip gloss tumbling into the footwell. "Shit!" The word is a half-sob as you clutch the receipt marked with today's hours in unforgiving black ink.

Glancing at the clock on your dash, it hits you with the subtlety of a wrecking ball– six minutes until closing. It might as well be in another time zone, given the snarled rush hour traffic and the river that the streets have become. Your car roars to life, and you pull out onto the roadway, tires hissing on wet asphalt, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the deluge. Your skin still sings with Eddie’s touch, but it's the burgeoning storm of words—cheater, adulterer, betrayer—mixed with the soft hazel of Steve’s disappointed eyes that tattoo themselves across your conscience. This is the unforgivable sin, and you can't undo it, but you'll be damned if you don't at least try.

You're double-parked now, hazards blinking a frantic rhythm. The 'CLOSED' sign on the dry cleaner's door mocks you as you rattle the unrelenting metal handle. "Please, please, please," you whisper, pounding on the uncaring glass, your unheard pleas bouncing off the empty shadows within. A car horn cuts through the rain —"What the fuck, lady?" The other driver yells, uncaring of your predicament.

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" The words are a rain-soaked shout as you slosh back to your car, drenched and defeated.

Another angry horn sounds off as you pull into traffic, carelessly cutting off a Yellow Cab in your haste. Rainwater drips from your hair, soaking your shirt. Even with the heater set to blast, it does little against the chill that has settled deep in your bones. Down the road, a bright blue sign glows like a beacon, and you jerk the steering wheel, the car fishtailing as you skid into the lot.

The pharmacy's fluorescent lights are too bright and too sterile as you grab a small bottle of mouthwash off the shelf in the travel section and wait in line to pay, the store's generic electronic music grating against your already frayed nerves. Outside, you stand on the corner, swishing and spitting the minty liquid onto the sidewalk, repeating the process, trying to cleanse more than just your mouth. A passerby wrinkles their nose at you from under their umbrella. "This is Chicago! You've seen worse!" You snap, arms thrown up in exasperation while the rain and your regrets mingle on the cold pavement.

With pruney fingers, you pull the cardigan you had left at Stax off the back of your office chair. Shrugging it on, the material dampens from your wet t-shirt but offers a little warmth. Your phone buzzes as you settle at your desk — five missed calls from Eddie and four texts. The roar of the heavy rain and being buried deep in your bag had muffled its sound, not that you would have picked up.

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

Eddie: Look, I need to know that you’re okay.

Eddie: I swear to Christ if you don’t pick up.

Eddie: Okay, have it your way. I’m driving to your place.

What? No! Your thumb presses the call button, and it rings twice before it connects. There’s no hello, just the slight hum of an engine and the rain pelting glass.

“I’m okay,” you breathe into your phone, “I didn’t go home. I’m at my office.”

Your heart drums in your ears with each second of silence. Your eyes flutter shut, relief flooding you when he finally responds. An exhale loosens the tension in your chest. His voice resonates in a dark rumble through the phone, "We need to talk."

“I….I know,” your voice wavers as you wipe your nose on the back of your hand. “I just need a minute here, Ed. Can you give me some time?”

The rhythmic blink of the turn signal punctuates his heavy sigh. “Yeah. Alright. But doll,” he pauses as the sound of water splashing against his vehicle mingles with the whoosh of passing traffic, “You’re not running away from this. And trust me, the irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. Think about what I said, okay? I meant it all.”

With a tight throat, you whisper, "I have to go," and disconnect the call.

Placing your phone on the desk, you dab the raindrops off your face with a tissue. The quiet of the office wraps around you, its half-dark corners and the soft glow from the monitors creates a place for you to breathe and be still. The raging storm and the ticking wall clock echoing in the solitude do little to distract you from thoughts you’re not ready to face. With a deep breath, you lift the lid of your laptop, seeking refuge in the normalcy of work as you coax the screen back to life.

The song erupts from the speaker on the edge of your desk, a jolt of sound shattering the silence like an accusation. You grab it with fumbling fingers, scrambling to press the off button. Covering your face with your hands, you let out a sound that is equal parts sob and hysterical laughter, wondering how you ended up in this situation. With your elbows pressed against the wooden top, you bury your face in your hands.

“What are you doing here, kid?” The gruff voice cuts through your misery.

"Jesus Christ, Hopper," you gasp, clutching at your chest, "You scared the hell out of me."

"Guess we're even since Mr. Brightside nearly sent me into cardiac arrest." Hopper towers over you, standing beside your desk with his hands buried in his pockets.

“You listen to The Killers?” You ask, surprised while he drags a chair from the next desk, its wheels screeching faintly against the concrete floor.

“You kids really think Jim Croce is the only thing on my playlist?” A chuckle escapes him as he eases into the chair beside you, “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

You muster a puzzled look, shaking your head in feigned denial.

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. I don’t have much time. I’m meeting Joyce for dinner at that Italian place on Taylor Street. Have I told you about it? I’ve been dreaming about the breadsticks. Enzo puts some spice on ‘em, I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. You dip it in olive oil,” he groans, “Forget about it. Those things knock your socks off, and I’m wavering on the main course between—”

“I need you to take me off the studio opening,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest.

“We’ve been over this. Unless you have some good reason–”

“Eddie kissed me,” the confession slips out, eyes widening in shock at your admission, hands flying to cover your mouth.

His brows rocket upwards, then draw together, his gaze sharpening, voice dipping into a low, protective timbre, “What do you mean he kissed you?”

“No,” you clarify, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing an elbow against the desk, massaging your temple to soothe the forming headache. “I kissed him. We kissed. It was mutual.”

Hopper reclines, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze level and unreadable. “I’m disappointed in you, kid. I never thought I’d be having a conversation like this with you.”

“I know. I know. Steve…” you trail off, eyes drifting to the photo of Steve on your desk.

Hopper leans in, his hand cutting through the air. “I don’t give a fuck about Harrington,” each word gains in volume, “This is about you and everything you’ve worked for. It’s 2012. That kind of nonsense ends careers. Do you know what can happen if he complains?”

Your eyes roll. “He’s not going to complain, Hop.”

“You don’t know that,” he counters, his head shaking off your naivety. “These things like this have a way of coming out. That was an amateur move. Where is your professionalism? What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, lowering your eyes. “We have more of a history than I let on.”

“Well, stop the presses. I couldn’t have figured that one out.” His voice lowers in resignment, “Maybe this is my fault–”

“No–”

Your protest is swift, but he plows right over you, “I’ve babied you. Maybe it’s because you’re my favorite or because you were just a kid when you started. I let you get away with too much over the years because you’re a damn good writer. But that stops now, I’m going to treat you like all the rest of the idiots in this place.” His hand waves around the room before pointing right at you. “You’re going back to that studio, and you’re going to keep your dick in your pants and get those interviews done. If you want to play kissy face, you do it on your own time. You got me?”

Your mouth drops open, disbelief palpable. “You're still going to make me finish?”

“Damm, right I am,” Hopper affirms, not missing a beat. "If I hand your work off, it raises questions. Big, messy questions. What do I tell downtown when they ask why the piece was reassigned? Unless you’re ready to come clean to Harrington?”

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

“I thought so.” Hopper leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "This could be both our necks," he mutters, concern filling his voice.

Your head shakes, but your determination is clear. "It won't."

“It better not. I don’t want to hear another word about it until that last story is on my desk. Are we clear?”

Your jaw clenches, the reality of the situation hitting hard. "Crystal."

Hopper's gaze remains fixed on you, ensuring his point has been made. "Good," he says, his voice softening, "Now go on, get out of here. Deal with whatever mess you've got going on. Just make sure it's sorted by Monday."

Your key slides into the lock and you turn it slowly, the tumblers falling into place with a series of soft clicks. You pause, leaning your forehead against the chill of the metal door, grappling with a rising queasiness that sours your stomach.

A wave of home's warmth engulfs you, mingled with the earthy aroma of herbs and roasting potatoes. The vibrant strains of Queen accompany Steve's honeyed tones floating down the hall from the kitchen.

"Welcome home, ace. I was beginning to wonder where you were," his voice, laced with a touch of concern, greets you, “Busy day? Did you write me a Pulitzer?”

Your messenger bag slides from your shoulder, giving into gravity with a loud smack against the hardwood.

His voice grows nearer, warmer as he moves down the hall, the floor lightly creaking with each footfall. “I swung by the Athenian Room, grabbed us Chicken Kalamata, and I have a bottle of Chardonnay breathing.”

Your favorite. Your heart sinks further, receding behind your ribcage, unworthy of his care or devotion.

He stops short when he rounds the corner into the foyer, taking you in, his eyes reflecting your disheveled state.

"I didn’t get the dry cleaning," you admit, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I was... too late."

For a heartbeat, he's silent, but his eyes remain tender. “Hey, that's alright, ace. I'll just skip the gym in the morning and swing by the cleaners before work. Are you okay?”

Traces of the day find a path down your cheeks as you sniffle and draw the cardigan tighter around yourself. "I got caught in the storm."

“Did you forget your coat?” He draws closer as you give a small nod. His hands slide up your biceps, continuing on to wrap around you. “You're frozen.” He uses his thumb to lift your chin. “How about a hot shower, yeah? I'll keep dinner warm. You'll feel better after you eat.” His mouth begins to near yours, but you turn your face away.

"I think I'm coming down with something," you manage, your lies teetering atop your mounting guilt. "My throat is sore."

Concern etches his features, his brows knitting together as he adjusts, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

Pulling away, you bury your face into his shoulder. "I think I'll just shower and go to bed."

“If that's what you want,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, though his tone is threaded with disappointment. “Go on up. I'll bring you some water and a couple of Tylenol.”

“Thanks, Steve,” you step away with a weight in your chest. “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” He waves off your apology, his smile faint but sincere. His arms fold over his chest as he turns back toward the kitchen.

As you climb the stairs, the music snaps off, replaced with the distant roar of a sports game, the announcers' voices carrying up the stairwell.

The embrace of the hot shower strips away the cold clinging to your skin, but it cannot wash away the regret. Sliding down the tiles, you draw your knees close while your tears fall, mixing with the stream of water spiraling towards the drain.

Your life is a song made up of the choices you've made, each one a different note that sounded so sure at the time, but now the harmony seems slightly off-key. The steam rises around you like a specter. It's the quiet between the chords. And you're there, just listening, trying to figure out if there's a note you'd change or if every single one was necessary. As you nestle into bed, sleep tugging like an insistent tide amidst the drift into dreams, one truth resonates clear– the music plays on.

Song 5 coming this week! Follow @tornupdates for notifications

Thanks for indulging me with this new version. I wanted to get it right. This next chapter is going to be Steve's launch party and will explore the fallout from that kiss. I love each and every one of you and I hope Torn!Eddie makes an appearance in your sweetest of dreams. -Jelly

#steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #eddie munson smut #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #torn series

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oftenwantedafton · 6 months

Text

Secret Santa - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

rating - explicit

~ just a little fluffy Christmas smut ~

also on AO3

When you’d drawn Steve Raglan’s name for the secret Santa gift exchange, you weren’t sure how to feel.

The tall man was a complete mystery. He didn’t socialize in the office, refused to have lunch in the break room, and had never even acknowledged your existence beyond a nod if you directed someone to his office.

You have no idea what to get him that won’t feel completely generic and thoughtless. You refuse to go the gift card route. You know he drinks coffee, but, again, that’s such a boring present.

You’re hovering just inside his office one day, guiding a nervous looking young man searching for a job inside, when you notice the wire rabbit that holds outgoing mail envelopes and a set of car keys set to one side with a rabbit’s foot keychain on the ring. So he likes rabbits for some reason. Okay, you could work with that.

He waves the client forward, already dismissing you.

You spend the remainder of the afternoon thinking about what you could get him that was rabbit themed but also had a practical use. Another prospect led inside and you let your eyes linger on the man himself this time. He’s probably early fifties, dark haired with some white brushstrokes at the temples and through his beard. Creased laugh lines and crows feet on his face, but it suits him. Wide set eyes that you think you could get lost in if he spared you more than the occasional glance—

“Is there something I can help you with?”

You realize the woman seeking employment has already sat down and the pair of them were waiting for you to give them some privacy. You’ve been standing there staring at him like a display in a museum. You shake your head and look away, blushing, but not before you see the twitch of one eyebrow, the dimples creasing the corners of his mouth. Your eyes dart over his striped dress shirt and matching purple tie and you suddenly know exactly what it is you want to get him for Christmas. You murmur an apology and exit the room, a smile on your own features.

***

You settle a pewter rabbit tie clip into a box lined with tissue paper, letting it nestle securely among the soft folds.

You can hardly believe you found something so perfect in such a short amount of time. It’s classy without being too elegant or gaudy, just simple and refined. You settle the lid on the box and affix a bow to the top of the package. You can’t remember the last time you’d been this excited to give someone a gift.

The office party always transforms the bland environment into something special. You love seeing the splashes of color and festive decorations. People are relaxed and happy. There’s an array of treats to choose from but you’re not concerned with that right now, too eager to give Steve his gift.

Of course he’s not among the crowd of your coworkers.

You instead find him lurking in his office, a plate with a cupcake sitting on the corner of his desk, one hand tucked into a pocket while he stares through the open blinds at the gentle snowfall outside.

You knock on the door to get his attention.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but…well, I drew your name for the gift exchange. I’m your secret Santa. Merry Christmas!”

He turns to face you, withdrawing the tucked hand and accepting the gift box you hold out to him. He lifts the lid and removes the tissue wrapped bundle and you hold your breath, rocking on your feet in anticipation.

The pay off is so, so worth it.

His thumb gently smooths over the polished surface of the bar, then runs over the carved pewter rabbit seated in the middle.

“Do you…do you like it?”

He nods slowly, still studying the jewelry.

You exhale in relief. “I’m so glad. I thought you would. I know how much you like rabbits…”

“Shut the door.”

“What?” You blink at the interruption. “You want me to leave?”

He clucks his tongue impatiently, shaking his head and stepping around you to close the solid wood door himself.

“By some strange coincidence, I’m your secret Santa as well.” He moves to the office chair behind his desk and sinks into it, taking a moment to slide the tie bar into place and remove his glasses, tossing them lightly on the desk blotter.

“Wait…really?”

He nods. “And unlike yourself, I was not so certain of what to get for you. Why don’t you come have a seat?”

You move to sit in one of the padded vinyl chairs across from him but he sighs impatiently again, halting your progress.

“Not there. Here.” He points to the broad stretch of his long thighs. “And tell me what you’d like.”

Oh.

You suddenly feel self conscious in your pencil skirt and blouse, sitting side saddle gingerly across his lap, feeling ridiculous and aroused all at once.

One arm wraps around your waist to steady you, the other rests on your knee, drawing soft circles over the nylon covered joint. You clutch one shoulder, the other hand curled around the bicep of the opposite arm.

“I didn’t think you’d ever notice me. I didn’t even think you knew I existed,” you whisper, gasping when the hand on your knee slides between your thighs, his palm hot against you.

He chuckles softly. “Of course not. You weren’t supposed to know.” He smiles, a Cheshire Cat grin that has your heart thumping wildly in your chest. “So what would you like for Christmas?”

The probing hand wedges firmly at the fork of your legs and you gasp. He captures the sound with his mouth, his tongue parting your lips. He tastes like peppermint candy, sweet and strong in your mouth. You moan in frustration when he interrupts the kiss, the hand between your legs abruptly vacating the space of your desire. “Well? I’m still waiting for an answer.”

“You.”

Another dimpled smile rewards you. “That’s my girl.” He moves as if to stand and you follow his lead, sliding down from your perch. His hands reach for the curves of your buttocks, squeezing, kneading, his head tipped down and his mouth back on yours. He fumbles impatiently with the button and side zipper of your skirt and you help him tug it down, stepping free of it quickly, eager to be in his arms again. The nylons exasperate him and he tears them open, working on a run that’s started along one thigh. The material separates, surrendering to brute force and he tugs until he reaches your panties, fingers dipping beneath the crotch so he can touch you.

The career counselor’s fingers slip between the folds and you moan into his mouth, one hand at his collar, the other working on the fly of his pants. The sounds he makes when you finally reach inside his briefs are exquisite when hummed against your throat, deliciously needy and appreciative.

He lifts you easily and sits you on the edge of the desk, your legs automatically parting to invite him against you. One fingers works inside, then a second, stretching your opening further. You love the scratch of his beard against your face, the sloppy wet kisses he plants along your jaw and ear, that hitch of breath when you reach for him again and stroke the underside of his cock just right, smearing precum along the meeting curves.

He shoves your panties to one side and pushes into you without hesitation or preamble, one smooth strong stroke inside until he’s completely sheathed.

You curse, one hand knotted in his hair, the other clutching the edge of the desk for balance. He withdraws, waiting, teasing, watching your expression when he slams back in. Your eyes roll back and you say his name, legs wrapping around him, encouraging him to continue.

“William,” he corrects you, his voice low against your ear. “My real name is William.”

You frown over this information but fuck, does it really matter if he wants you to call him William or even Daddy or whatever, you don’t actually care right now, you just want more of that cock to pummel you, for that hungry mouth to feed off yours again.

You say this new name and he renews his efforts with a fury, the time for teasing long past. Every wet collision brings you closer and closer to release. He fills you so good and hits you in just the right spot, battering until your orgasm hits hard.

You feel the telltale shudder wrack through his body before he spills into you, so hot and Christ there’s so much of it, you can feel it oozing out in a steady trickle when he finally pulls out of you. You’re both panting, shaking, hair plastered wetly to skin. The air smells like sex and cupcake icing and fuck, you’ll never look at peppermint candy the same way again, it’s all you can taste in your mouth.

“William.” You say his name again, trying the sound of it out.

He holds a finger against your lips. You didn’t think eyes that pale glacier color could go so dark. “Keep it secret,” he warns softly.

You nod. “I promise.”

“Good girl. Merry Christmas,” he murmurs, his mouth covering yours once more.

#william afton x you #william afton x reader #steve raglan x you #steve raglan x reader #fnaf fanfic #william afton #steve raglan #fnaf movie

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eijirousbestie · 1 year

Note

We all know bakugou wear eyeliner so he probably knows how to do it himself but if one time he runs out of eyeliner and asked you for yours but he couldn’t do it cause yours is different type and You offered to do it for him

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS THIS BUT IT CAME TO MY MIND WHEN I WAS ABOUT TO SLEEP

“I can do your eyeliner”

this idea is so cute

i literally have a playlist saved titled “doing bakugou’s eyeliner at 1:48am”

he hates liquid liner

He brushes the felt-tip over his eyelid over and over again but there’s simply nothing coming out. His eyelid is turning a soft shade of rubbed red the more pressure he applies to the eyeliner. This shit just won’t come out. At this rate, he’s about to poke his eye.

Taking the marker-like brush from his eye, he runs a few test strokes on the back of his hand. Only dry, faded streaks from the used pen stain his hand. He lets out a gruff sigh and caps the pen, tossing it into the small trash can in the bathroom.

His palms rest on the spacious counter of the sink as he stares at his reflection in the large, wall width mirror. He could always buy more but he doesn’t have the time to stop at the convenience store before his patrol. The whole eyeliner get up isn’t necessary but in his eyes, it takes his hero costume to another level, and he’s done it for ages.

He makes sure to turn off the bathroom light as he leaves and walks to your room. Not wasting a second, he brings his fist to your door and his signature three knocks rap on the wood. He places his hands on either side of his hips, his foot tapping impatiently as he waits. His feet are still clad in his slippers, contrasting with the stark display of his hero costume.

A soft shuffling can be heard behind your door just before you open it. You come face to face with Katsuki’s agitated expression. Already reading the room, you cut to the chase.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ran out of eyeliner. Thought you might have some to spare.” Giving him a quick once over you can see he’s getting ready to head out for patrol. Ahh so that’s why.

“Yeah I got some you can use. Let me grab it real quick.”

You leave the door ajar as you turn into your room and grab your makeup bag. You sort through it and grab your eyeliner before heading back to Katsuki and passing it to him. He holds it in between his thumb and index finger and examines the tube. It looks different from what he’s used before. Instead of it resembling a marker, the eyeliner is shaped like an elongated nail polish bottle. He shrugs it off though. He’s in a rush to get ready anyways.

“M’gonna use your bathroom mirror to put this on. Mine’s too far of a walk right now.”

“Have at it boss. Just don’t go crazy in there.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He grumbles as he pushes your bathroom door open and switches on the light. He can hear you chuckle in the other room as he unscrews the top of the bottle off. This is definitely not what he’s used before. The brush is incredibly fine and dips into the bottom of the bottle to gather the eyeliner. Liquid eyeliner. He’s never used liquid eyeliner. It always looked like too complicated of an option compared to a pen.

He contemplates calling you into the bathroom for help but decides against it. He can do this. He’s kicked villain ass plenty of times. He can surely conquer a bottle of eyeliner. Tentatively raising the applicator to his eyelid, he closes his eye and begins to paint the makeup on slowly. The thin line he makes looks a bit messy but relatively decent. He opens his eye to get a better look and all hell breaks loose.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” He sneers at his reflection, the skin just under his eyebrow is blotted with wet, black smudges. He furrows his eyebrows and the smearing just seems to get worse. “Fuckin’ hell!”

You, on the other hand, are lounging in your bed, legs stretched out as you beat another level of a game on your phone. His string of curses poke at your attention. You call out to him from your bed.

“You good in there?”

“The hell is this shit you gave me?” He yells back from the bathroom.

“You having trouble?”

“What do you think?” You pause for dramatic effect before speaking again.

“…want me to come in?”

“Do whatever you want.”

He’s always been horrible at asking for help. You hop of the bed and make your way to the bathroom regardless to see what’s going on. The door is already open and you see an angry looking Katsuki when you walk in. He’s got your micellar cleansing water and cotton pads laid out on the counter, his right hand using a soaked pad to dab away any residual black streaks from his eye. You lean a hip on the counter and grab the bottle.

“Have you ever used liquid liner before?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Katsuki-”

“No. Now, you gonna tell me how this thing works or what?” He tosses the dirtied cotton wipe into your trash can and faces you, frown still etched on his face.

“I mean I could but don’t you have work in like, 15 minutes? I don’t think you have time to mess it up again.” His body slightly tenses and he reaches for his phone and checks the time.

“Shit…” he cuts himself off and exhales, shoulders dropping. He puts his phone back in his pocket and moves to clean up your counter.

“I could always just do it for you, y’know? It’ll be quicker since I’ve used this before.” He stops cleaning and looks over at you, left brow raised.

“Huh? What do you mean ‘do it for me?’”

“I can do your eyeliner is what I mean. I’m fast.” He squints at your proposal.

“How fast we talkin’?” A cocky grin creeps it’s way onto your face.

“Faster than you.”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“Is that a yes?” You chide.

“Just be quick about it. I don’t got time for any extra shit.” Without wasting anymore time, you dip the applicator into the tube a few times before taking it out, cleaning the excess off on the lip of the bottle.

You get closer to his body and move the brush near his face. “I’m gonna hold down on the top of your eyelid okay? Helps make sure the line comes out cleaner.”

“Whatever. Do what you gotta do just hurry up.” And with that, you get to work. Your thumb lightly presses on the area just above the top of his left eyelid to smoothen the skin. Your other hand gently swipes the tip of the brush on his eye, a thin, clean line of black following the curve of his lash line. His lashes just barely graze the palm of your hand, each exhale he blows through his nose is warm on your forearm. The side of your hand propped on the side of his face, to steady your strokes, is flush on his cheek. You can feel the muscles under his cheekbones flex every so often as he clenches his teeth. In a matter of seconds you’re moving onto the next eye when his left cracks open.

You tap his arm. “Don’t open your eye yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“You have to let it dry first. This isn’t a quick dry liner like you’re used to.” He grumbles in response, the low tenor echoing off the bathroom walls. You finish up his right eye and straighten up, fanning your hands in front of his face to help the drying process. After a few seconds, you deem it good enough.

“Alright, you’re good to go.” You cap the bottle and watch as Katsuki stares at himself in the mirror, a smug smirk showing off his pearly whites. It’s almost scary.

“Not half bad. Might appoint you as my stylist when I’m a pro.”

“Get the hell out of my bathroom.” He lands an unbothered stare at you and folds his arms across his well built chest, jaw tilting upward in a challenging angle.

“Make me.”

You cock up a brow. “Doesn’t your patrol start in nine minutes?”

A choked noise leaves his throat before he grabs his phone and checks the time again. His eyes widen and he all but bolts out of your bathroom, practically bulldozing through your bedroom and racing towards the front door. You laugh as you notice his slides are still on, his boots left near the door. You jog to the front door and fling it open, yelling out into the street.

“Shoes, Katsuki!”

#bakugou wears eyeliner #liquid liner is my mortal enemy #bakugou katsuki #mha drabbles #bakugou x reader #mha bakugou #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou x you #katsuki fluff #mha fluff

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lewkwoodnco · 8 months

Note

Hii I wanted to request Anthony Lockwood×fem!reader with Invisible string, where they're neighbours for years, and used to play together as children. When Lucy joins the agency, she becomes friends with the reader, so the reader starts to be more around their house. Then Anthony starts interacting with her more, and they become friends, but Anthony realises his falling for her, so he starts to become awkward and shy around her she notices it and confronts him about it, then he confesses.

Invisible String - Lockwood x Reader

A/N: fluffy fluffy, though there is like the baaarest hint of angst which is kind of brief as long as you dont dwell on it too long + most of it gets resolved hehe and its made up for in the happy happy ending! yay!! personally i imagine the song she's humming at the piano to be invisible string heheh wc 5.4k

Lucy is waiting by their garden gate impatiently. They weren't running late for their job, but it was chilly out and she wanted to get in a cab before it got much colder. Lockwood walks out soon enough, holding a letter, but he walks to the fence rather than the gate. Over the fence, there's a girl pulling on her gloves as she walks towards her own gate, but Lockwood waves her over.

"What's this? Another lawsuit?"

"Not for me, at least. Our mail got mixed up again."

"Ah. Thanks."

They talk about their week for a while. Lucy watches Lockwood's polished exterior melt as his body language becomes more casual and fluid. The girl pockets the letter and the two of them look at each other for a while. He lamely gestures to her outfit.

"You look nice. Going on a date?"

"Yeah, with this guy in my pottery class."

"That sounds nice. Have fun."

"Thanks. You stay safe."

"I'll try."

Lucy walks over, looking at Lockwood meaningfully while he stiffens reflexively. "Who's your friend?"

"We're just neighbours." The girl smiles pleasantly, but Lucy doesn't miss the way he carefully watches her. They introduce themselves to each other. They chat a little, and Lucy picks up on her good-natured teasing of Lockwood appreciatively.

"So you must have known Lockwood for a while now, right?"

"Try ever since I was born. Our parents got on so well that we used to have dinner together every other day. And that was excluding brunch on the weekends. Trust me, I've had enough playdates with him to last a lifetime."

"Lockwood! You've never mentioned her, not even once."

"Well, to be fair, that was all years ago. We've been a little busy for the, um, last decade or so." There's a silence.

"Oh, there was that summer..."

"Yeah."

"Hmm."

"That had been nice."

An uncomfortable prickling accompanies the silence this time. She finishes fiddling with her gloves and looks ready to walk away, but Lucy recognises the suppressed look in Lockwood's eyes and tries to salvage the situation.

"You should come over sometime. We're doing some spring cleaning tomorrow, if you want to join."

"Luce. Let's not burden Y/N with chores."

"No, no, that sounds nice. I'd love to help. Though Lockwood never struck me as the spring-cleaning type."

"He's being coerced. We're holding his favourite rapier hostage."

Her lips twitch as she slices the envelope open. "Well, I wouldn't want to keep you from your job. Be careful. Mum sends her love." She says the last part more to Lockwood, who smiles with a warmth Lucy had seen little of. He watches her walk out, skimming the letter, and it isn't until George joins them that he looks away.

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

Their case is so exhausting and Holly piles so much work on him the next morning that he forgets that she's coming over. It isn't even until the afternoon that he realises she's there at all, when looking for someone to help him rip the stitches off some old curtains. He walks into one of the spare rooms, calling out for George, but he stops short when he sees an unfamiliar figure standing on the bed, peeling posters off the wall. She glances behind and he suddenly remembers the events of last evening.

"Oh - Y/N. Hello. Have you seen the others lately?"

"Lucy went out to get another scraper and I think George went down to the Archives. Holly just left for the post office."

"Oh. I see. Er, do you need help?" She turns around from the poster she was steadily peeling off, dropping it into the pile with satisfaction.

"Nope, that was last of them. Anything I can help you with?"

He hesitates, and she picks up on it.

"Lockwood, I don't have anything to do until Lucy comes home anyway. I don't mind, really."

He relents and she agrees to help immediately, poising to step off the bed. She pauses before making the step, looking at the floor nervously.

"...need help getting down?"

"No. Just...give me a minute." She tries to hold onto the bed's headboard but still suffers from some internal struggle in stepping down. The image triggers a decade-old dormant memory in him, of the time she had slipped from the picnic tabletop in her garden and twisted her ankle. Instinctively, he holds out a hand, which she grabs thankfully and is down so quick he doesn't even realise until she pulls her hand away. The feel of her fully-grown hand in his is a jarring yank back to the present.

"Still so afraid of heights?"

She shudders. "My ankle still twinges if I so much as think of making a small leap. Now, where are those curtains?"

They decide to occupy the couch in the living room, and it's a bit of a tight squeeze with the piles of linens towering around them, but they manage.

"So you take the seam ripper, like so," Lockwood fumbles with the comically small seam ripper but somehow slots it under a tiny stitch, "and you rip the seam. Just like that."

She rips the stitch on her curtain with greater efficiency than him. He looks mildly startled. She glances at the pile of curtains next to her, and then the one next to Lockwood.

"Looks like I'll be done with my pile first."

There's a pause as Lockwood processes her words and the glimmer of competition in her eyes, and then they both leap into action, tugging down yards and yards of fabric, painstakingly unravelling the seams stitch by stitch. It doesn't take long for them to start playing dirty. She tries to block Lockwood's vision by flapping the dusty curtains at him and he tries to slow her down by holding her curtains down. But by the time the rest return, they're too engrossed to sabotage each other so that Lucy finds them sitting in some weird contorted manner, ripping seams feverishly.

"I was only gone two hours! Both of you've done all that?"

She tries to shush Lucy, already feeling herself slow down as she tries to free up enough mental capacity to answer. She feels rather than hears Lockwood giggle in delight as he picks up his pace. Lucy shakes her head, walking out to the kitchen.

"Find me when you're done, I'm having tea." She groans, heavily enticed by the suggestion of biscuits and sweet tea after an afternoon of stringing her fingers to bits.

"Wait, wait, truce please, I want tea."

Lockwood reluctantly lets up, stretching under the sea of curtains around them. They part ways for the evening, taking breaks or helping out with other smaller projects, but they reconvene after dinner, though with significantly less fervour.

An hour or two past midnight, once his neck had started to ache too much, he looks over at Y/N, and realises she's fast asleep. He moves to shake her awake, but she looks so peaceful and alarmingly similar to the little girl he remembered her as that it gives him pause. Lockwood wasn't one for sentimental doting, but it felt nice to have a piece of his long-forgotten childhood in his home again, safe and warm.

He makes a quiet phone call to her parents before fetching a blanket for her. That night, the childhood memories he falls asleep to are warm and happy.

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

Lucy wakes up from her nap in a delightfully warm haze. The house is quiet, likely because of everyone staying up late the previous night. She shuffles to the kitchen, but pauses when she hears a curious sound echoing in the hallway. She blearily follows it to the living room, where she sees Y/N and Lockwood sitting opposite each other at the coffee table, playing poker. She seemed to be trying her best to stop giggling, yet failing, while Lockwood berated her.

"Your poker face sucks, Y/N. I know more about your cards than I do mine."

She shakes with silent laughter, covering her face with her cards ashamedly as Lockwood joins in with the laughing. It's a weirdly surreal sight to see. Everntually, Lockwood's eye drifts and he spots Lucy standing in the doorway.

"Luce. Have a good nap?" Lucy grumbles some incoherent reply, pulling a biscuit out of the biscuit tin. She sits down and watches them shriek at each other (Lockwood was right, her poker face was downright terrible) as they finish the game, and Lucy can't help but smile over the idiots.

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

"Where's Y/N?"

The first words out of Lockwood's mouth the next morning were arguably his most poorly-chosen yet, especially without any buffer from the relentless mocking of Lucy and George. One of them alone was bad enough, but with both of them joining forces, it made for a very weary breakfast.

"Cool it, she's my friend. Get your own."

"Then what does that make us, if not friends?"

"Neighbours." Lucy smiles innocently as Lockwood throws a dish towel at her.

The rest of breakfast passes up uneventfully, which makes the incident the first thing out of Lucy's mouth as soon as she steps through the door.

"Morning!"

"Lockwood missed you at breakfast this morning."

"Did not."

Between Lucy's smirk and Lockwood sullenly hiding in the shadowed hallway, she wasn't sure what to start with.

"Did too, he so wanted you to be there."

Lucy turns to Lockwood, daring him to contradict her. Holly steps out of the kitchen, straightening her pinafore, but doesn't pick up on the tension so she just smiles. His eyes dart between the three of them and some part of his body decides that panic is the best reaction of choice.

"DEPRAC wants to steal my papers," he says as some odd form of explanation, before disappearing into his room. Lucy snorts while Holly and her share a puzzled look.

"I think he's talking about our case report."

Whatever it was, it was being tucked away into his coat when she ran into him at the front door about ten minutes later. His smile is part grimace.

"Sorry about earlier." He stops talking, but looks like he wants to say more, so she patiently hovers. "About breakfast - I just feel bad for doing all this free labour, breakfast is the least I could offer-"

"Don't sweat it, I'm fine."

"Well, I'd feel a lot better if you popped by for a bun every now and then."

Her lips twitch. "Maybe I will."

There's a concerned look in his eye and his gaze that lasts a little too long to be comfortable, and it reminds her of the last time he looked at her like that. It had been near the tail end of the summer a few years back, late at night. She had been crying something awful on her front porch after a certain Noah Lewis had dumped her, and he was neighbourly enough to play a good samaritan in talking her through it.

It had started with a lot of unrestrained swearing and dragging of Noah Lewis' name through the mud as soon as she walked through the front gate, the kind that made her father peer out the window in alarm and then disappear back into the house. After a good quarter of an hour of this, her rage faded along with her energy, and she ended up crying embarrassingly on Lockwood's shoulder. "That's it," she had sobbed into his soft, forest green sweater that smelled like clean cotton. "I'm done with dating. It's the single life for me from now on." What flimsy grip she had managed over her emotions started to slip once more, as she burst into a new set of wails.

"Oh God, I'm going to die alone!" Lockwood rubbed comforting circles on her back as she clutched him tighter.

Looking back, she understood the smile on his face a little better, though a part of her still wanted to stay peeved at him for laughing at her misery. At least he had the decency to cold-shoulder Noah when he came around a few days later.

The memory occupies the back of her mind for the rest of the day, and it's still there when Lockwood returns. She doesn't realise it, but it makes her soften around him, though not noticeably so. By then, they've cleared up enough of the house to uncover the piano tucked away in the basement. Holly had spent the afternoon lovingly tuning it and polishing it up, but no one else seemed much interested in it.

After dinner, she sees Lockwood sitting at the piano, watching the keys as if he's too afraid to touch them. She joins him at the bench, taking in the sight of the glossy keys she could barely hear being played from her room when she was a child. Maybe that's what she's thinking about when she asks him to play something for her, and he obliges.

He plays a short piece that isn't extremely elaborate by any means, but it's beautiful and makes her want to rest her head on his shoulder. When he finishes, there's a short silence, and she tells him it was beautiful. She feels him smile against her head. Her fingers meander over the keys and she plays the occasional note as she hums some tune tucked away in the recesses of her mind. He picks up on it after a while, playing a more complete accompaniment to her stilted humming. She tilts her head where it rests on his shoulder to look at his face, and his hand slips on the note. She wishes to stay there forever.

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

"Hey."

"Hey." The last one was from Lucy, and it earned her a reproving glare and there was this silent yet intense communication between the girls. It's the next day, and now they've started on the library, sifting through the masses of newspapers dating well back into the past century. Lockwood had just returned from helping George at the archives (all the dust and cleaning was making his allergies act up so he wasn't at peak performance, as much as hated to admit it). She finally looks away from Lucy with the air of washing her hands of her, looking up at a forgotten Lockwood.

"Your coat collar's turned up."

"He does that to look cool. And because you're here. Dunno if you've noticed, Lockwood, but the coat hanger's by the door."

"Ha-ha. I'm leaving for Satchell's soon. Just...wanted to see how you were getting on."

"Wanted to see how Y/N was getting on."

"No, no." But his voice is a little too high-pitched to be fully convincing, and Lucy bursts out laughing, and his annoyance evaporates his nervousness. "Just making sure you haven't bullied her to tears, Luce."

"I've been such an angel."

She traces the outline of Lockwood's coat with her gaze fondly. "I remember the morning you bought it." She leans conspiratorially towards Lucy. "Preened in front of me for a good ten minutes, shifting his weight around to look cool. He only stopped when he heard my dad coming out to get the paper."

"That's awfully patient of you. George and I just try to suffocate him when he gets too unbearable."

"Are - are you hearing this? Admission of assault."

'Oh hush, you big baby."

She smiles as she watches them bicker. Lockwood clutches his chest with an exaggeratedly injured look, and their eyes briefly meet. He looks away first.

"What can I say? When you're stuck with this...peacock of a neighbour, you're bound to be forced into being an adoring audience on more than one occasion. Comes in and disrupts my peaceful mornings."

"Someone had to appreciate it, and you're always up at the crack of dawn."

"So are you, but you don't sleep so it doesn't count."

Lockwood lets out an uncharacteristic bark of laughter. Lucy's eyes look like they're about to fall out of her head.

"Sue me for wanting to share first thing I bought with my hard-earned money with someone."

She chokes on her breath, barely holding herself back from a fit of giggles. Lucy looks as though Christmas had come early.

"Lockwood had a job? Like, a proper one?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd call it a job so much as a cosplay of being working class. But yes, he manned a frozen yogurt cart in the park a few summers back. First and last time i've seen him willingly sit out in the sun."

"Oh, please, at least I didn't spend my days making eyes at Noah Lewis."

She shrugs in mock ignorance in a way that Lockwood can't help but match her smile. For a while the only sounds that could be heard were of the girls shifting through the newspaper with inky fingertips, until Lockwood finally gets up to leave for the client meeting.

It's an uneventful trip and consultation, but looks promising enough in terms of commission. It's tedious enough to make him peckish for a mid-morning snack. When he returns, he walks into the kitchen to sneak a biscuit and finds her fiddling near the stove.

"Oh, hi. Lucy and I wanted some tea but I'm not quite sure I know how your kettle works..."

He fiddles with the plug a little, twisting the wire in ways that make her concerned for his safety, but eventually they hear the kettle hum cheerfully, and they silently wait for the water to boil. She fidgets, trying to make small talk.

"How's George's room coming along?"

"I told him to pick out his favourite biohazards. The rest would have to go."

The kettle starts to crackle louder now. She eyes it apprehensively but Lockwood doesn't seem to even register it.

"House looks...pretty much the same."

"Yeah."

"I like it."

"Thank you. But I'm glad we're doing this. The spring cleaning, I mean. Sometimes I wonder if it's too crowded."

"I like it. I think it's crowded with life."

He gives her a soft smile and when he looks at her, he's not as quick to look away as before. But then he remembers her outing last evening and carefully broaches the subject. After all, it had been a while since they talked about things like this, and she was by no means obligated to, but he tried.

"How was your...date?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. It was alright. He's a nice guy. Patient. Down-to-earth Unlike someone I could mention."

Her teasing smile is back, and Lockwood feels as though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. His features contract into a familiar melodramatic expression.

"I'm sorry I disrupted so many peaceful mornings."

A smile slides back onto his face as she scoffs and gives him a shove. "Very funny. You were plenty insufferable before your friends came along. You're lucky I wasn't as creative as them."

"Mm, so grateful."

More silence. "They seem nice, George and Lucy. I see why you spend so much time with them."

And not so much with me, she wanted to add, but she didn't want to cause unnecessary strife, so she just focused on keeping her tone light. But Lockwood still picked up on the subtle edge of bitternes.

"I thought you...moved on to other things in life. You don't stop to chat by the fence much anymore."

"You got so busy with your agency business. I didn't want to impose."

She glances at Lockwood's genuinely puzzled expression, his lips barely parted as she saw the cogs turning in his head, trying to reconcile the idea of their chats being an imposition. She feels awkward in a way she's never felt with him, even when it was just the fence in between the two of them. They went from close, to distant, to kind of close again for that one summer they were 16, and now...now she wasn't sure.

"I'm sorry I made you feel that way. I...I didn't mean to."

"Yeah, well...you can say hi more often. Or bye. If you wanted to." It was stupid; she knew she was being childish but she couldn't help it. Something still smarted inside of her when she saw the three of them traipsing off most nights, something she didn't quite understand.

"I always want to."

"Lockwood? You better not be withholding tea."

They get startled by Lucy's voice and take a step back. Lockwood fumbles as he pulls off the top of the cottage-shaped container, scooping out piles of teabags. "Look, plenty of tea. All the tea. Please don't tell Lucy."

She shakes her head, bemused, pouring water into their mugs just as Lucy walks in, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at Lockwood. Luckily, she gets distracted quickly enough and starts dumping sugar into her mug. She watches Lucy for a while until Lockwood fold his jacket over his arm, brushing her shoulder as he walks past.

"Hm?"

He stops by the door to the kitchen, a familiar easy smile on his face. He looks like home.

"Bye."

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

"Why do you call him Lockwood? Surely you knew him when he was 'Anthony,' or - or was it 'Big A'? Please tell me it was 'Big A.'"

She had started to become a regular visitor at the breakfast table, which meant more time for Lucy to spend interrogating her on everything and anything about Lockwood. Even George had joined in briefly; it was too good of an opportunity to pass up for an enigma like Lockwood. All the while, he anxiously flitted around, on guard to brush off anything too incriminating.

He carries the kettle away, mildly peeved. "I think that's enough tea for you, Luce." Lucy makes a face behind his back and the girls share a muffled laugh.

"Oh, he hasn't been Anthony for ages." She smiles briefly, but gives Lucy's hand an intentional squeeze, her eyes asking Lucy to not press it. She doesn't realise how Lockwood has suddenly become much more interested in the paper only because she too is avoiding eye contact.

She remembers it like it was yesterday. Her parents had done their best to help Lockwood, but there was only so much they could legally do (not that it stopped her mother from sniffing disapprovingly at every inept social worker that walked up the garden path). It had been after Jessica's funeral, and for once they were both on the same side of the fence: sitting on the steps to the porch. He was wearing a suit that was a bit too big for him, not unlike his daily attire now, and the smell of burnt rubber hung in the air.

"I don't think I want to be Anthony anymore."

It was a decision that never confused her, not even for a minute. Anyone would have needed a reconstruction of identity after going through such traumatic experiences at an age as young as his. Adjusting to the change had been surprisingly smooth too; he didn't look much like Anthony after that day either. But it was bone-deep agony to watch time drip by, like lazy honey, and only being able to hope that he was getting happier.

Lucy picks up on the hint and starts asking George about the rooms they need to tackle today. Meanwhile, she walks past the kitchen window, nearly bumping into Lockwood. They breathe a reflexive apology and laugh lightly. Her eyes land on the angry red cut on his forehead.

"How's the-?"

"Oh, it's fine. Just a scrape. I've had worse."

"Aw, you poor baby."

Lockwood laughs weakly as she gently tugs at the skin near the cut, which at least seemed to be better than the previous night. When looks away she notices the pink tinge to the tips of his ears. She frowns at the slightly ajar window, closing it firmly. There still was a chill in the air from the frost that hadn't completely melted away yet.

True to his word, Lockwood comes home with a broken wrist a few days later. George is rather miffed and Lockwood insists that he's making it sound worse than it actually was, but that doesn't stop her from wincing when George claims he heard the snap of his bone from the floor below. Despite Lucy's insistence that he had survived much worse, she can't help but fret over him a little.

"I can pour my soup myself, you know."

"Yes, yes, you're a big strong man who needs no help. Now go sit down, I'll bring your toast." It might have been more convincing if she hadn't been absent-mindedly muttering, or even without the pat on his head, but he still took his seat at the table, not entirely unhappy. George had managed to wrestle him into his bed in the afternoon and his body finally succumbed to the beckoning of sleep, making him sleep through dinner. It was just the two of them in the kitchen, one anxiously watching the other sip their soup.

"Really, you didn't need to do this. It's no trouble on my wrist."

"Lockwood, the doctor said not to put any pressure on it. It is, by definition, trouble on your wrist."

He sighs, frowning at how she worries her bottom lip. "You're not...doing this out of guilt, or something, are you?"

She opens her mouth to deny it, to say how preposterous such a suggestion is, but her protests die on her lips. She takes a shaky breath.

"I was thinking about the days after...you know. How exhausted and lonely you must have been. How I didn't care enough to visit you more, to even cross that fence, unless it was to come running to you with my own silly problems."

"Y/N," he looks like he wants to smile but is trying not to for the benefit of the situation, and it rubs salt in her wound. "Of course you cared. You were just a kid, acting like kids do."

"I yelled at you about Noah when I was 16. 16."

"And I appreciated it. You gave me something more normal to be mad about. You made me feel like a teenager again." He reaches out and covers her hand with his uninjured one. "And I don't ever want you feeling like any of your problems is too tiny or insignificant to bother me with. I'm your neighbour, what else am I good for?"

She gives him a watery smile, feeling the tension that had been bunching around her temples all afternoon start to dissolve. He always knew just what to say, the ointment to every wound and scratch. He made it easier to live, easier to breathe.

"Wait, where's Lockwood?"

"Going down to Arif's."

"With a broken wrist?"

"He still has his left hand!" Lucy calls after her, but she's too busy scrambling for a pair of mittens and hurrying to the front door. Luckily, she catches him just as he's about to head out, and a smile cracks open on his face when he sees her.

"Everything alright?"

"You forgot your mittens."

He eyes the patterned woollens in her hands. "Y/N. I haven't worn mittens since I was...six, maybe."

"Obviously, since that's about how long they've been collecting dust in your old coat - which, by the way, is in no shape for the Salvation Army. You didn't set it on fire, did you?"

"Look, when it comes to fires, I may have an affinity for them but not necessa-"

"Fine. Just wear the mittens."

"I'll only be a minute! What's the worst that could happen?"

"Oh, yes, because a cold is exactly what you need on top of a snapped wrist and cut." She holds the mittens out expectantly, and he reluctantly takes them. They spend a few awkward minutes trying to figure out how to get them on without his cast getting in the way, and Lockwood nearly drops them when he gets startled by the brush of her fingertips on his palm, until she decisively puts them on his hands herself. When she looks up, his ears are tinged red again, as well as his nose.

"See, you're already getting cold. Are you sure I can't go to Arif's for you?"

They hear a scoff from behind, and turn to see George watching them. She looks at him questioningly but he ambles past her to the kitchen, muttering words under his breath she couldn't quite understand. Lockwood takes advantage of the pause in her fussing and steps out before she can continue protesting, but the sight of the mittens securely pulled over his fingers gives her some relief.

George turns his snigger into a poorly concealed cough.

"What now?"

"If you keep kissing his scrapes better, he'll throw himself off a cliff one of these days."

"George." Lucy admonishes him while she tries to settle the awkard swooping sensation in her chest.

"It's true and you know it."

Lucy nods awkwardly at her. "I mean...he's got a point."

When she thinks about it, it makes her feel funny in a way she can't deicide.

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

Later that evening, she's sitting on her porch, brooding, when Lockwood leans over the fence.

"Home so soon?"

"Thought I'd come here for some quiet thinking."

He nods affably, his flyaway hair gleaming in the setting sun. "You left your cards in the living room."

"Come on over," she says unexpectedly, possessed by a sudden desire to be close to him. It surprises her as much as him, but as she watches him walk out of his own gate, and strangely walk into her gate, the foreign sight reassures her with a distant sense of familiarity. She had been on so many crazy misadventures, but they all led her back to the same place: in his arms. Maybe the universe had grown hoarse from yelling at her to open her eyes to what was right in front of her.

He sits down next to her and hands her the cards. She looks at the quiet face of Anthony hiding inside the sallow face in front of hers, and marvels at how the same time that put her through hell as a child had somewhat healed his wounds. She puts them to the side and links her fingers in his, resting her head on his shoulder as their breath misted in the chill.

"Remember that summer at the yogurt shop?" She feels him relax against her as he hums in agreement. "You looked so fresh in your teal shirt."

"I wondered what you were doing, sitting under that tree all day. Was it really just to watch Noah all day?"

She shrugs. "Maybe. It was a weird sort of year. I had this restlessness in me...this desire to sit outside in the world and wait for things to start happening to me. For someone to find me and for my life to begin." She shifts, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "Speaking of Noah...did you know he got married last year?"

"Someone wanted to marry Noah Lewis?"

"You say things like that as if I wasn't ready to have his children just two years ago."

"To be fair, you weren't the brightest two years ago."

"Anyway, they're expecting a child. Him and his wife. I even sent him a baby shower gift."

"A gift? What, TNT?"

She laughs into his shoulder, and she can feel him metaphorically swelling with pride. And when she stops laughing, there is nothing to distract her from the dull ache in her heart, the string that tugged at it as it desperately reached for Lockwood's. Lockwood, who invigorated her spirit and quelled her anxieties, who was the balmy breeze on a warm summer evening, who smelt of a pleasantly sharp soap. She stumbled and fell a million times with all the wrong people in all the wrong places, but now she felt as though she were being reeled home by the invisible string that permanently and irrevocably tied her to him.

She looks up at the sky, a thousand different shades of blue, purple and pink. The temperature continues to drop, but with Lockwood's arm wrapped around her after a particularly vicious gust of wind, she feels warm enough. She murmurs into his neck and feels the hair at the back of his neck stand against her lips.

"Isn't it just so pretty to think...all along there was some invisible string," she inhales, "tying you...to…me."

#fanfiction #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood imagine #fanfic #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood x y/n #taylor swift #folklore #invisible string

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moodymisty · 2 months

Note

'We float for Macragge.' That is the cutest quote ever omg. Thank you for blessing me with this, I'd never seen the meme before. The blueberries are so charming sometimes 🥺 -anon that likes excerpts

It's one of the less popular iconic WH40k memes, but I see people reference it sometimes. Here's some more funnies because I like forcing people to read this stuff.

There's also the fucking hilarious scene of an astartes with new terminator armor falling through a floor, and his buddy has to call a crew with a crane to get him out, which is fucking hysterical. (master of sanctity)

‘Some kind of sub-level here,’ reported Daellon. ‘Descending.’ ‘Wait!’ yelled Telemenus, but his warning came too late. The audio pick-ups brought the sound of splintering woods and crumbling ferrocrete followed by an almighty crash. Daellon cursed without pause over the vox. ‘Report,’ barked Arbalan. ‘Brother Daellon misjudged the load bearing of some internal stairs, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, trying not to laugh. For once he was glad somebody else was attracting the negative scrutiny. There was a chuckle from Cadmael and a sigh from Arbalan. ‘Daellon, can you climb out?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Negative, a three metre drop at least. The floor will not hold my weight to pull myself up.’ ‘No threats detected,’ Telemenus added, his auspex sensors encompassing the long row of huts. ‘Understood,’ said Arbalan. He sounded impatient. ‘Daellon, remain in place, I will signal for an armoury extraction team. Telemenus, rejoin the squad.'

There's also a book I don't remember where a group of baseline humans are descending from tight steps with an astartes, and are VERY concerned at the creaking of the stairs from his weight. Chunky boi

Also here's Guilliman making a joke in Armour of Fate about him being stuck in this massive bulky armor and Sicarius just, doesn't get it. This moment was another reason why I always recommend Dark Imperium to people, it just kind of gets Guilliman and how different he is from his legion now.

Sheaves of blueprints were scattered across the desk in front of him. He spotted something of interest written on one and reached for it, gritting his teeth against the purring of the suit. He always reached with his right hand. The integration points for the Hand of Dominion on his left made picking anything up nigh on impossible, even with the over gauntlet and its underslung bolter removed. Day-to-day tasks such as this were a struggle. His armoured fingers pushed at slick plastek. Ceramite skidded across the papers, knocking them to the ground in wafting flutters. ‘Oh, for the love of…’ he grumbled as he bent awkwardly to pick them up. The Armour of Fate was bulky. As its waist joint prevented him from flexing his spine and reaching the floor, he had to kneel. He reached for the scattered flimsies. Fingertips failed to grasp the sheets, sending them fleeing in small armadas over the polished floor. He growled in frustration, abandoned his task and stood, drawing a curious look from Sicarius. ‘I have the manual dexterity of a Legio Cybernetica battle automaton!’ Guilliman said. ‘Created by the Lord of All Mankind, master of the greatest armies in the Imperium, and I cannot pick up a plastek flimsy.’ He glared at the offending articles. ‘My greatest enemy.’ There was a thoughtful quiet. ‘You are joking, my lord?’ said Sicarius. Guilliman looked at Sicarius. He had to turn all the way around to do so. The pauldrons, ornamental wings and large halo mounted on his back made it impossible for him to see over his shoulder. At least he had stopped knocking into things. There was that. ‘By the Throne, why am I expected to be serious at all times? Yes, Captain Sicarius, I am making light of my predicament. During the worst of the Great Crusade, I was known to make the occasional jest. Even after Terra fell. I did not spend my entire previous life writing deep thoughts into little notebooks, but sometimes dared to enjoy myself. I suppose that was not recorded in the hagiographies.’ ‘Humour is not something you are renowned for, my lord.’ ‘My time in this new age has revealed that to me amply.’

I have way too many random book moments stuck in my head. And not enough space for actual useful information.

#reply #or an excerpt where a tau almost convinces Sicarius not to kill her but then he changes his mind and runs up and football kicks her #or Ferrus roasting Lorgar into the next millenium #Misty's book club

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screaminglygay · 8 months

Text

KINKTOBER day 8

pairings: ringmaster!yelena belova x fem!reader

summary: you and yelena are getting ready for a big circus night.

warnings: smut!!!, bootworship, leg humping, yelena being mean, like really mean, slight kicking, yelena is being harsh, not proofread, if anything else let me know

word count: 2.2k

an: she´s so mean i love her, also can we all agree that florence is rocking every look? im so gay, i need her asap, also this is very much dedicated to the one annon, who was really happy that i´m writing yelena, sooo if you´re reading this, i hope you like:)

(italics = your thoughts)

!MDNI!

Enjoy this spooky season and be safe!

As you sit nervously in Yelena's luxurious office, your palms are sweaty and your heart racing, you can't help but feel a surge of anxiety pulsating through your veins. Today is the night of the grandest show, and you are waiting for your boss, Yelena, who is the ringmaster of the most magnificent circus in the whole country. Even though you have to put up with Yelena's severe attitude in order to fulfill your demanding duty as her assistant, it's an honor to be a part of her world. But today, she seems to be acting much more furiously.

The tension in the room is palpable, and you can't shake off the feeling that tonight's performance is more critical than any that came before. Yelena's office has a harsh professionalism that contrasts dramatically with the vibrant circus outside. Dark-colored walls, a finely polished wooden desk, and leather chairs create a refined and serious atmosphere. The few decorations that adorn the room are carefully selected and maintained. Instead of vivid colors, the office is dominated by shades of deep charcoal gray.

On the walls, there are a few framed photos displaying new costume ideas and sketches. These costume concepts, though they carry the potential for vibrant and dazzling displays, appear as muted pencil sketches, that she made herself.

The door to the office swings open, and Yelena enters, her vibrant costume and piercing gaze commanding the attention of the room. Her red and gold attire shimmers under the soft glow of the office lights, her face adorned with black make-up, her hair is slick back, and her overall look screams that she owns this place. And much more... she owns the people here too.

"Finally," she snaps, her voice as sharp, a growl, and you flinch at the acidic tone that cuts through the room.

Your racing heart threatens to betray your composure, but you hold your ground, offering a tentative smile. "I'm sorry, Yelena. I was just making sure everything was-"

She cuts you off with a wave of her hand. "No excuses, just be useful for once. The spotlight is on me tonight, and I will not tolerate any mistakes. Make sure the costumes are in order, the animals are ready, and the performers are sharp. We can't afford to falter."

Her words sting, and you swallow your pride, nodding obediently. Despite her harsh exterior, you understand that tonight means as much to her as it does to you. The circus is her kingdom, and she is the reigning queen. You cannot help but wonder if her anger is just a shield, a way to cope with the immense pressure she carries on her shoulders.

You´re in for a long night under Yelena's watchful, unrelenting eye, but it's all part of the mesmerizing, chaotic world of the circus. As the ringmaster departs for her preparations, you steal a glance at the eager audience beyond the office window, ready to be dazzled.

As Yelena gazes out of the office window onto the bustling circus grounds, her expression remains stern. Her crimson-gloved fingers drum impatiently on the window shelf. With a cool, calculating voice, she turns to you, and says, "The show starts in twenty minutes, and I see you've managed to mess up nearly everything, as usual."

Your heart sinks, and you find yourself on the receiving end of her relentless critique. It's not uncommon for Yelena to be demanding, but today, her tone cuts deeper, her words more vicious than ever.

She continues, "The costumes were wrinkled, the animals look dispirited, and the performers have that 'couldn't-care-less' attitude. It's no wonder I had to come and check on you, because you clearly can't be trusted to get anything right."

You struggle to hold back tears as her words strike like daggers. You have poured your heart and soul into ensuring that everything runs smoothly, but Yelena's critical remarks have the ability to destroy your self-confidence.

Her piercing gaze remains fixed on you, her face says it right away, no trace of empathy at all. "You're lucky you have a boss like me to catch your countless mistakes. If it weren't for my watchful eye, this circus would have fallen apart long ago. There's no room for error, especially not tonight. Do you understand?"

As you nod in silence, the weight of her criticism threatens to crush your spirit, but you know that, in this world, in Yelena´s world, perfection is the only standard. With trembling hands you put your fallen hair behind your ears, trying to regain your composure and make sure tonight's performance lives up to Yelena's exacting standards.

Yelena fixes her gaze on you, her eyes still piercing but with a faint glimmer of something resembling compassion. "You know, I could fire you right now if I wanted to," she says, her tone less venomous but still firm.

You nod quickly, unable to meet her eyes, "Yes, I know."

A hint of a cynical smile crosses her lips. "I'm being kinder to you than you deserve, you know," she continues.

Again, you nod, your voice barely above a whisper, "Yes, I know."

Yelena sighs, her frustration evident, but there is something in her eyes, that you don´t understand, yet. "You might be a mess, but you're my mess," she admits, almost grudgingly.

Your heart flutters with a mix of relief as you nod again, saying, "Yes, I know." You understand that, for all her harshness, you occupy a unique place in Yelena's world. In this chaotic, enigmatic circus, you're her right-hand, for better or for worse.

Yelena glances at the ornate clock on her office wall, a rare hint of anxiety crossing her features. "We have just 15 minutes before the show starts," she says, her tone monotone.

You dare to seize this fleeting opportunity. "Yelena," you begin hesitantly, "Can you please-"

She raises an eyebrow, clearly irritated but willing to listen for once. "Go on," she snaps.

You take a deep breath and finally ask the question that has been lingering in your mind for far too long. "Can I have... can you touch me?" You don´t dare to look into her eyes, “you´ve said that if I´ll be good for the next few weeks, you will let me-” you quickly stop yourself before saying the word, that felt so naughty to you.

“Cum?” She smirks, but her composure still stays still.

You simply just nod.

“I didn´t say I will let you cum, I´ve said I will think about it,” she tilts her head. “And you think you did such a phenomenal job, that you deserve to be touched by me, let alone cum?” She chuckles.

“Yes, I do.” You mumble, but it was loud enough for Yelena to hear.

For a moment, Yelena seemed taken aback, as if your answer wasn't what she was expecting. But she likes you being more confident and direct. Then, with a reluctant nod, she agrees, "You have 13 minutes. Get on your knees,” she said it like it was such a bother to her, which it was in a way.

You instantly drop to your knees.

Yelena takes a step closer to you. In that moment, you glance down and notice something – a pair of classic Doc Martens boots on her feet, an elegant choice, they also look very new, so she must have bought them for tonight's occasion.

Yelena notices your gaze fixated on her boots and a sly idea takes root in her mind. She smirks and, maintaining her stern demeanor, she speaks, "You can get off on my shoe." Your eyes instantly meet hers. Before you can say anything, she adds, “12 minutes.”

“I-” you don´t even know what you want to say to her.

“Fine, if you don´t want it, then don´t waste my time.” Yelena turns away, ready to walk out of her office.

“Wait!” She can feel that you crawl on the floor to grip her leg.

Yelena just looks down and stops in her tracks, “I´m waiting, but the people are not.” She sighs, “11 minutes.” she once again checks the clock.

As for Yelena´s request, months ago, you stopped wearing panties, first it was just around or in the office rule, but now it´s been almost four months since you´ve seen your panties.

You simply raise your skirt and get to work. Being wet around Yelena was basically your main task as her assistant, so none of you are surprised when her new shoe is already covered with your juices. You also didn´t want to waste any more time as you knew very well, she would kick you off of her and leave you there without zero pity.

So you had to do it quickly, it was a week without her touch and even more time without you being able to cum. Yelena is saying “cumming is too distracting, when you need perfection.” And of course, her little stupid toy can´t do more than one thing at the same time.

“9 minutes.” Yelena says with something that sounds like disgust in her voice.

Your hips speed up at her words and your nails digs into her calf, which she won´t admit aloud, but she is enjoying this moment a lot. To have power over someone's life was on her daily basis, but it is different with you. She knew you would do anything for her, even if it meant it would hurt you.

Many times, she wanted to direct her emotions on something, especially her rage and that was a moment where you´ve volunteered and she knew right away, she's going to keep you as her little stupid punching bag, that she will occasionally award with little touch or maybe an orgasm, when you would behave.

“7 minutes.”

You know you have permission to release, but you still want to show her how good you can be. “P-please, may I cum?” you let out soft whimpers.

“Are you that stupid? Do you want me to write a blessing?” She aggressively moved her shoe up and down, and because Yelena was really strong and her thighs could kill people, it wasn’t hard to lift you up.

“S-sorry...” you whine out loud this time.

“Did I tell you to speak?” Her gaze met yours and you immediately look away, bitting your lower lip to stay quiet as possible.

You continue of rocking your hips, feeling how your clit is getting more sensitive, as her shoe is the perfect material for you to hump.

“4 minutes.” And with Yelena´s words, you come. Your juices being everywhere, on her shoe, on her pants, on your skirt, on the extremely expensive carpet, just everywhere.

Yelena looks down on the mess you´ve made and with a big sight she says, "Your incompetence is almost a talent in itself." She moves her feet, and you fall as you´re not even fully back from your strong orgasm.

“3 minutes.” She is still counting down. But to what? You´ve already came. "Is it too much to ask for a shred of intelligence from you? Apparently, it is." She moves her feet in the air, hoping you will finally get it.

Still nothing.

Her patience fading, observes the mess you have made and finally mutters, "The shoe won't clean it itself, you know. Or perhaps you were expecting a miracle?" Her tone, as always, laced with disdain and a hint of mockery, serves as a reminder that in her world, only immediate action and perfection are acceptable.

Oh.

You quickly lower yourself as you know that you do not have much time, so you open your mouth and your tongue kitten licks her shoe clean, at least you are trying to. Tasting the mixture of yourself and the leather bring you shivers right to your pussy, as you would want to cum again and again and again-

“1 minute.” Yelena put her foot in the air, for you to clean even the bottom of her shoe. Now tasting only plastic rubber, which wasn´t the most tasteful thing, but your only wish right now is to do a decent job for Yelena and her satisfaction.

“Get off.” She put her foot down and inspects your work.

Yelena inspects the work you've completed, and after a long pause, she remarks, "Well, it's not a bad job. I might be a little impressed."

Your eyes light up with excitement, and you ask, "Really?"

Yelena smirks and adds with a hint of sarcasm, "Oh, don't get too carried away. I did say 'a little,' after all. We wouldn't want you to think you've achieved mastery, now would we?"

Coming from Yelena herself, not on paper, but in person, this is a compliment.

Yelena continues, "Next time, I expect you will do without being told what to do, a concept known as 'initiative,' in case you're unfamiliar."

She smirks, "But then again, I wouldn't want to deprive you of the joy of my guidance, would I?"

Yelena turns to leave, her Doc Martens shoes thudding against the floor with an air of firm authority. She strides toward the circus arena, ready to show the world once more, who the true master of the show is.

Ahhh so what do we think?

Also thank youuu for reading!! 💕💕

#adele writes #yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova smut #yelena belova x fem!reader #kinktober 2023 #smut #marvel universe #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut

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sweetarethediscords · 2 months

Text

The Maiden of The Barren Rime

Winter Wind blows through the valley, pushes us into our homes.

Pleading she knocks at our windows, scorned she continues to roam.

Chapter 1: The Brambled Beauty

Mina quieted at the sound of unfamiliar voices on the wind.

Mina picked up her pace, leaping up into the treetops, crossing miles in minutes towards the voices with no more sound than the rustle of wind through pine needles.

She stilled. The branch beneath her feet barely creaked.

A journey Mina would take no part in.

“Well,” the woman stuffed her compass into her jacket pocket. “At least it’s a nice day out to wait. Sun’s still warm enough to cut the edge off the autumn chill.”

Dammit, Mina thought. They were here for an expedition.

“Ya know, we could always go with another alpinist,” the woman offered. “Beto Lamar’s homestead is about a day’s ride west from here.”

“Even if she’s already off on an expedition?”

“She’s not,” the man gestured over his shoulder. “The windows are open. And this cabin is too well maintained for its owner to just head off for two months with the windows left open.”

Mina thudded her head against the tree trunk. Of course. An observant and stubborn knight.

Three more weeks in the cold. Three more weeks to die. The unwilling thought made her teeth ache.

The trespassing pair jumped. The knight drew his sword as the woman bladed her feet into a wide stance, arms lifted, ready to perform some sort of cast.

So they were a magic wielder and a knight.

“Get off the porch,” Mina stated bluntly as she hung another rack.

“My apologies, miss. We’re looking for the alpinist that lives here,” she said. “Would that be you?”

“No,” Mina lied. “I’m a hunter. The alpinist lives to the west.”

The woman arched an eyebrow and looked to the knight. He flared his nostrils, puffed out his chest, and stomped over towards her.

“I am Sir Murmir Gargic, general-rank knight of the Lanholde Royal Army, proud servant to King Fritz Reinhardt.”

“Never heard of him,” she lied again.

The knight sputtered, whatever bullshit speech he had prepared dying on his tongue. “You never—”

“Sir Gargic,” the woman whispered behind him, calling his attention and allowing him a moment to regain his composure.

Annoying.

“If that’s the case, then I guess your king expects you both to die,” Mina droned, mono-toned and matter-of-factly. “I’m a hunter, not an alpinist.”

The knight’s breathing shallowed as her jab at his ruler crawled under his skin. He inhaled deeply, a tirade building, when the woman placed a hand on his shoulder.

“How much would it cost for you to be an alpinist?” she asked.

Mina drifted her dull gaze over towards the woman, finding her with a smirk on her lips and a knowing glint in her eye.

“Seven thousand gilt one way,” she answered. “The real alpinist to the west charges half that.”

Mina blinked slowly, then repeated. “Seven thousand gilt one way.”

“Deal.”

Gods fucking dammit. An unfortunately familiar tug pulled at her spine.

She did, reluctantly. Her arm dragged by that damned tug.

“Mina,” the woman read her name aloud, standing on the tips of her toes to watch as she wrote it. “I’m Wera Alrust.”

Mina snapped the quill once she finished, dropped it to the ground, and headed into her cabin.

“Where are you going?” Sir Gargic barked behind her. “You’re under contract to—”

“Packing,” Mina answered. “Can’t climb a ten-thousand-foot cliff face with just a bow, a sword, and a can-do attitude.” She paused in the doorway. “Just two going up?”

“Five,” Wera answered. “Six if you count yourself.”

“I don’t.”

“Where are the other three?” she asked as she stepped back outside and locked the door.

“Back on the road, waiting with the wagon,” Wera replied.

“You can’t take a wagon up a mountain.”

“We don’t plan to.” She was, frustratingly, smiling at Mina when she turned around. “Ready to go?”

“Lead the way.”

Sir Gargic’s spine straightened and chest puffed out as he put on a bit of bravado. “We’ve returned!” he cried, waving grandly.

Enoch raised his hand partially, too engrossed in whatever he was writing to look away.

Annoy the knight. Unnerve the old woman. Now she just had to find the others’ weaknesses.

“You’ll have to leave the wagon and loose the horses an hour or so up the road. They’ll slow us down and will be hunted by the beasts of the Harrow.”

Sir Gargic sputtered with embarrassment. Wera shot Enoch a disgusted look.

Mina stared at him blankly.

“I know,” she said after a moment.

Enoch choked on his spit at her response. Wera burst out into a fit of laughter, drawing Mina’s attention.

Laughter wasn’t a response she was used to receiving.

“Don’t forget to write that one down,” Wera wheezed through her giggles. “‘My attempts at flirtation failed tremendously as usual.’ A good archivist doesn’t leave out any details!”

“S-sorry, M-mina,” Enoch stammered, still caught off guard by her curtness as he leaned back away from her, rubbing his injured arm.

“Hello, I am Sebastian Windenhofer. It is wonderful to meet you!” the man extended his hand out in greeting.

She did not shake it.

“Mina,” she said to the hand, in the same bland manner that she had introduced herself to everyone else.

Mina’s distant stare met his attentive gaze. Sebastian didn’t flinch. “You’ll have to leave the wagon and loose the horses an hour or so up the road.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

Mina paused, and tilted her head to the side, caught off guard by his question.

“Have I spoken out of turn?” his voice wavered.

“Ugh, my penmanship gets so poor when we’re walking,” Enoch groaned as he slid down from the driver’s seat.

Not just a magic user. He was a wizard, capable enough to demonstrate his talents so casually.

Or cocky enough to make a big show over the few skills he did have.

“No,” Mina replied, tapping the canteen attached to her belt. “I have a canteen.”

She could have just left it at ‘no’.

“Of course.” He threw the tea set into the air as if he were throwing away a piece of paper over his shoulder and with a snap of his fingers they vanished.

Definitely a show-off.

“I have a few things to pack myself if you’ll excuse me,” he continued, smiling again, still wide as it shifted to a slightly different shape, then headed back into the covered wagon.

Mina watched him walk away.

If he wasn’t just a show-off, then maybe they’d make it a mile past Rabbet’s Pass.

🜁

“That’s all there is to know,” she replied.

“It’s not.”

“Then how’d it happen for you?”

“Someone had to do it. So I did it.”

“And what did that entail?”

“Doing it.”

“Are you volunteering to go next then, Enoch?” Sebastian asked.

“I— uh—” Enoch jogged up in front of them and turned to walk backwards as he spoke, “Well I met—”

“Don’t walk like that,” Mina interrupted. “If you fall and break something, we’ll have to leave you behind, or I’ll have to kill you.”

His steps slowed as his eyes widened. “Wh-what?”

“It’s quicker than the duskwolves tearing into your flesh and snapping your neck.” It was brutal imagery, but not entirely false.

“She’s kidding, Enoch,” Sebastian said.

Enoch’s voice hollowed. “H-how can you tell?”

“Because if you did break something, Tanir would gladly patch you up,” he reasoned.

Wera groaned.

She looked back at Enoch and snickered, “See? Short, sweet, and to the point. Your turn, Sir Gargic.”

Sebastian broke the thick silence and turned to Tanir, “Did you really have to tell the basilisk story, Tani?”

“It’s one of my first and favorite memories of you,” she replied.

“Aha! You’re a hunter too!” Sebastian — frustratingly — cheered. “I knew there was more to you!”

“Now, do you have any other comments, questions, concerns for our happy little troop? Perhaps some tips on how to deal with those duskwolves you—”

“You’re all loud,” she stated. “It’ll draw things to us, and cause trouble on the Peaks.”

“Why’s that?” Tanir asked.

“Avalanches.”

“Wait,” Enoch said. “There’s going to be snow on these mountains?”

“What did you think we bought all those cold weather clothes for?” Wera scoffed.

“Lanholde has a cooler climate. I just thought winter wear was the fashion there.”

Wera sent a pleading look Sebastian’s way. “Did you really have to hire him, ‘Bastian? We could have just left him stranded on that beach.”

“True,” Sebastian shrugged, “but we need entertainment on this journey, and watching the two of you bicker could rival some of the best traveling shows.”

“Right. Which of you can fight?” Mina asked as she headed to the front of the pack.

All of them raised their hands.

Wera and Sir Gargic she understood but the others… “This isn’t the time for jokes.”

“We wouldn’t have gotten this far if we couldn’t hold our own, lass,” Sir Gargic said. “Trust me, I was wary myself when I first met them, but even Enoch is worthwhile in a scrap.”

“Hey!” Enoch whined.

Mina didn’t wait for them to finish pairing off before weaving her way through the trees. She didn’t even acknowledge Wera as she hustled to fall in place beside her.

“So,” Wera drawled after a few minutes of silence between them, “why’d you pick me for the front?”

If she had to suffer through another expedition, at least she could make this one of use.

She could feel the pressure of Wera studying her face, looking for something she’d never find.

“Just write down the trail taken and there’s no need to worry about any of that.”

She heard Wera’s pen skip on the page and a heavy exhale out of her nose.

There it was. She hated being talked down to.

“Would you look at that,” Sir Gargic remarked, voice slightly muffled and strained. He talked out of the corner of his mouth in a bad attempt to be quiet. “She’s actually talking to Wera.”

“People do often talk to each other,” Sebastian said coolly, not feeding the knight’s judgment.

“Yes, but she’s so—”

“Are we talking about the Brambled Beauty?” Enoch whispered.

“The what?” Sebastian deadpanned.

“You don’t like it, sir? I’m trying to figure out the perfect way to describe such a terrifying and alluring creature.”

“Alluring?” Sir Gargic guffawed, “She’s so cold!”

“Yes! She’s cold!” Tanir added, voice peaking with a burst of realization.

Mina ground her teeth to keep from chewing them out. It was better that they didn’t know how well she could hear, and she had bore much harsher digs than their rude observations anyways.

“Just because she’s different than us doesn’t make her less of a person,” Sebastian chided. “And Tanir it’s unlike you to make assumptions about someone you’ve just met.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was just—”

Their footfalls and chitchat ceased abruptly. Mina turned her head to the side, putting a finger to her lips to signal them to stay silent and wait.

“A meadowlark?” Sebastian whispered.

Mina secured her bow on her back and slid down the tree’s trunk.

“Keep moving,” she said to the group as she retrieved her sword from the terramawg’s corpse.

All of their mouths hung agape.

A dull pang pushed against Mina’s chest at the sight.

“Great Gods. Save some for the rest of us next time, will ya?” Sir Gargic shuddered.

“Hey, wait up!” Wera ran after her, manipulating the ink back in its vial and pulling out her notebook once again.“How were you able to tell where it was?”

Tanir pulled a stupefied Enoch along, “Come on. You should be jumping with joy. Action like that is sure to make your book even more exciting.”

“Well,” Sir Gargic remarked to Sebastian with a heavy exhale, “I guess we know why she’s so cold now.”

Sebastian hummed in acknowledgment, nothing more. Nothing until moments later, when under his breath a murmured thought slipped out.

“The wind even changed direction.”

The reverence in his tone, unheard by everyone else, bristled against the back of Mina’s neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of The Maiden of the Barren Rime! Thank you so much for taking time out of your day to read it.

If you're interested in reading more, MBR releases on May 1st and is available for pre-order now! You can order it from Barnes and Noble, Books-a-Million, Amazon, and most independent bookstores!

#bookblr #writing #the maiden of the barren rime #fantasy novel #fantasy romance #fantasy books #romance novels #romance #slow burn #romantasy #words #writblr

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nc-vb · 10 months

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐙𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐬, 𝐨𝟏. 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐳𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐜

Time is not prejudiced. It gives and takes as the ordinance of life sees fit. Time begets loss and fear, but it also spawns warmth. After centuries worth of time having passed for you, you learn that time also sires impatience, and does not wait for a lost soul to find their way. Time carries on, and flows likes the current of a river. Ironically, so, too, does blood.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 • jing yuan x reader, blade x reader, dan heng & reader

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 • sfw (series mdni), fem pronouns used, yanqing calls you "master" (as per your current position), only slightly beta'ed. • yanqing-centric!

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 • this is chapter one of the zenith unto animus series! if you haven't read the prologue and wish to as a series, please follow the "prologue" link below. • if you'd like to join the taglist for this series, please comment on any of the tzua chapters or the series' masterlist.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 • jing yuan

𝐰𝐜 3.3k

zebec -> a small three-masted sailing ship.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 • 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬' 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 • 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

For as long as the lieutenant has known you, and for as long as he’d been allowed to enter freely into your home, the instrument sitting atop the cabinet in your otherwise empty den has never been moved. It’s never been touched, for that matter, its former glorious jade gleam shafted by years upon years of dust. Everything else in your home had been pristine, shined and polished and free from the image of time— the meticulousness of a records master, he’d often assumed.

Unbeknownst to you, and he’d supposed you’d be upset with him if you knew, but Yanqing entered the den often, even against your advisement.

Whenever he’d open the door, taking care not to push it past the point where it would squeak and alert you, he was greeted with a great plume of dust, and blinded by faded sunlight that poked through uncovered, unwashed windowpanes. Funnily enough, if he tried peering into the room from the outside, he’d find that the glass there had been buffed clean. But the fact that that single piece of furniture and the guzheng centered in the middle of it were the only objects in the room left him… confused.

It’d been as if you’d purposely left it suspended in time. It hadn’t been neglect or laziness at all; you took perfectly good care of the rest of your home, and so this was not something Yanqing dared nor bothered to question, even though there were so many things he wished to question.

Why was I asked not to enter it? Why are there only two items in the room? Why is everything else clean but the den looks like it’s never been touched? Why does she always look at it so sadly? Why doesn’t she enter it?

The temptation to wake you up earlier to ask you these questions, just for his own selfish curiosity, is strong. Maybe you wouldn’t think of it as selfish, but Yanqing reminds himself he’s old enough to understand right from wrong — he understands it, but, as he has proven by entering the room in the first place, doesn’t always abide by its unspoken law. Each time he comes to meet you here, the curiosity eats and gnaws at him until you’re both out the door and away from the source of his curiosity.

Today, the creature sinks its teeth in him particularly deeply.

According to the clock on the wall next to the entrance to the den, it’s fifteen minutes to eight in the morning— fifteen minutes until you awaken.

It isn’t always like this that the lieutenant could be found waiting for you. In the beginning, it was by General Jing Yuan’s request that if he weren’t already preoccupied with another, more pressing task, he might accompany you to the Seat of Divine Foresight in his stead. Before the Stellaron disturbance, and numerous conflicts with Sanctus Medicus supporters, he’d been able to leave with you most days, arm in arm— instead, through use of a hologram device borrowed from his office, Jing Yuan is only able to greet you when you arrive at the office, and when you return home, and then some.

The lieutenant knew you, knew of you, from his general superior. Because he preferred being in the field and out of the office, often accepting tasks that weren’t given to him so he could keep from going stir crazy (and you’d wondered why this was such a constant with him — is it a subconscious need to please the general? Or is it a child’s whim, to impress the adults in his life and “prove” he’s no longer a child? You only assume it’s an even mixture of both) also kept your interactions with him to a minimum. And because of the demands of your own job, it left you with little time to interact with Jing Yuan’s ward, always buzzing about the Seat of Divine Foresight and across the Exalting Sanctum. Opportunities to even watch his and Yanqing’s chess matches or training sessions were scarce.

In each of them, you tried hard to connect with Yanqing, interacted with him like an adult and a young man might without the air of belittlement. Over the years, he had matured fairly quickly— you’d never deny this if anyone asked. For long-life species on the Xianzhou, this was typically the case, anyway, since the aging process is much different than that of a short-life species’. Unfortunately, or perhaps not, Yanqing found himself at that age where a young man’s obsession for one thing sometimes made it difficult for others to connect with him.

Others. Not you.

The boy had only ever known you in your current capacity— the Xianzhou Luofu’s Master of Record. You worked directly under General Jing Yuan, keeping the Luofu organized in every possible definition of the word. Small incidents, incidents that some days took up so much of your time and energy that you wouldn’t leave the Seat of Divine Foresight for days on end, returning home only to shower and change, incidents that you took charge on because your juniors needed your support, incidents— all of the going ons, all of the reports, all directives assigned to them, they required your attention and signature. Another unfortunate thing; there’d never been a morning where there wasn’t a stack of papers waiting for you.

Your mornings used to be a little different. When relative peace across the Xianzhou had yet to exist for the cards, you’d been the one to seek it out through battle. A highly decorated captain within the Luofu Cloud Knights, you were one of the sharpest weapons they carried, and you took great pride in it. You’d led many a charge, and even more men. Back then, when your name appeared in conversation, so did the memories of combat, battles won at your side, and the additional question of why didn’t she get promoted to general?

Yanqing adds this question to his ever-growing list. This is the only knowledge he’d had about your past, before you’d become a pencil pusher within the Seat of Divine Foresight. He’s yet to ask the general about you so seriously, though he’s quick to doubt what the general would tell him, anyhow; the general certainly displays quite a bit of anonymity on your behalf, at least to those you likely wouldn’t want to divulge your former self to. Naturally, rumours existed of you and your former profession. And Jing Yuan had always been kind enough to shut down any kind of prodding or nosiness into your business; there’d been a point where you hadn’t even told him everything about you.

But with this, you’d recently realized, would be an excellent segue into bonding with him. What you’d said only the other day about Yanqing being “everyone’s favourite”, about him being your favourite, was a most honest truth. You admired the young man; he made it easy for you to. Not only for his talent in sword arts, but for his perseverance and keen desire to be helpful— it easily reminded you of the days of Jing Yuan’s youth, under the tutelage of his master, and how far he had come since then.

Also. You’d simply desired the chance to pinch the cute from his cheeks.

And sure, it took time away from his morning training, but quickly, the request began to feel much less like a burden (not that he’d dare to think of it like that! A request from the general? Never!). He enjoyed his conversations with you, walking at your side, your stride never faltering, except when Yanqing needed to catch up; too lost in your storytelling, he’d slowed in his pace to digest every moving image that formed between each word. And even though you never divulged too deeply the details of your stories to him, Yanqing could easily tell that over the months and months of spending most of your mornings together that you’d been letting out a little more each time.

Were you trying not to spook him? The young lieutenant tries not to laugh at the idea—she does realize I’m a Cloud Knight, too, right? Of course, you do. You’ve never neglected to show your pride and enthusiasm toward him and his accomplishment. After all, you’d been where he was once upon a time before reaching your Captain status; more than anyone, you understand the frustration of being looked down upon by peers, subordinates, and even disapproving superiors. But you’d proved them wrong, as Yanqing has.

“The youngest ever Cloud Knight lieutenant,” you’d once mused aloud, tone so heavy with fondness and gaze so alight with pride that it’d managed to make the boy blush into his collar.

Yanqing blinks himself out of his stupor, somehow having entered the trance-like state whilst reminiscing on your shared memories. But he’d been doing so in the middle of the forbidden room, eyes stuck on the old instrument— he hadn’t heard the sliding door whine until it was too late.

“Yanqing.”

He’d never flinched so full-bodied before; if it weren’t for his youth, he might’ve thrown his back out.

“M-Master! I-I—!” You raise a hand, eyes not quite meeting his as you enter the room. There in the doorway, you stand, face still disfigured by the deep sleep you’d just woken up from — indents of your blanket pressed deep into your skin, cheeks swollen, and eyes barely able to tolerate the morning sun — you eventually pass him, arriving before the cabinet and standing before it like an alter. “I’m sorry, ______.”

Your hands hover inches above it, fingers shaking, albeit unnoticeably to the young boy behind you. Gaze untrained, it flits from end to end of the instrument, cautious; expecting. Your teeth pinch the inside of your bottom lip as your body floods with relief— no fingerprints. He didn’t touch it. Fast like a whip, you straighten, and Yanqing winces again.

“… Master ______,” he calls to you in testing, hands poised ahead of him to brace himself.

You turn, a tired smile stretched across your face.

“Yanqing. I do believe we’re running late today, aren’t we?” He swallows. “It’s already ten past eight and my alarm clock didn’t wake me up.”

“S-Sorry,” apologizes said alarm clock.

“It’s… fine!” Still smiling, you steer him out of the room, and he notices that when you’d first entered, you hadn’t created any new footsteps until you’d past him, opting to walk through the ones he created. “So, I’m thinking I’ll prepare us breakfast today, rather than eat out, hm? Does that sound alright?”

Yanqing doesn’t remember nodding— you don’t register that he had.

Would… the general know anything about the room? he wonders, stumbling when he lowers himself at the dining table, a four-seated rectangle made of white arbor. You pat him on the shoulder and get to work only ten feet away, pulling various vegetables, a container of eggs, and day-old rice from the refrigerator. Would… the general tell me anything about the room?

As transparent as the general might be to his ward, he thinks not. There are times he can remember, as of recently, that he’d just as easily sugarcoated things for Yanqing’s ears— ironically, the topic of the conversations generally trailed back onto your name. Something you did, something you said, something the Master Records Keeper said. Except Yanqing didn’t get to know what it was that you said. So, no, it’s easy for him to find it unlikely that the general would be so open and honest about you without your permission. He’s… loyal, in that way, he supposes.

Yanqing can’t fault him for it, for being a good superior, and an even better partner, the latter of which being something Yanqing knew and understood little of (though, at least enough to know what it meant to catch the two of you wrestling with your mouths at the end of the Seat of Divine Foresight when you thought no one was watching— you two must’ve been a lot closer than what you’d let on).

The look that’d been on your face when you’d caught Yanqing red-handed in the forbidden room was something unforgettable. Offhandedly, he’d wondered if you’d ever shown that expression to your opponents on the battlefield. He didn’t doubt it. But even for him, the Xianzhou Luofu’s youngest, most accomplished lieutenant, it struck a chord within him, and not one that produced a pleasant sound. It was discordant and tuneless, dark, something that might play upon the arrival of some great enemy, and he were being honest, you strumming it made him feel a little nauseous.

He never wanted to feel that way because of you ever again.

You serve breakfast about fifteen minutes later, a steaming plate of egg-fried rice and vegetables set down before him and accompanied by a glass of citrus-melon juice. For the most part, the two of you eat in silence— well, Yanqing does. You attempt conversation with him, but even when you’re supplied with half-baked, half-assed, or half-hearted answers from the boy, you appear unperturbed. Any other time, Yanqing internally remarks, eyeing you past his raised glass of liquidized fruit, you’d be harassing me to see if I was alright. His brows push together in scrutiny at you when you aren’t looking.

But you don’t say a word about it. Not even when your eyes had risen so quickly to meet his when you’d felt him staring, or when he’d jumped in his chair so suddenly, he’d bashed the tops of his knees against the underneath of the table. You don’t question him, not even for the reason of why he’d been in that room against your explicit wishes. You know he’s wondering why you haven’t said anything, too.

Rather than get upset at him, which had been your first instinct when you discovered the door to your former study halfway open, you’re letting it simmer. Fester. He knows right from wrong— he’s said those words himself before. Because really, it had been a simple request you’d asked of him whenever he was to visit, and it was made once, and only once— “Please don’t enter the first floor study.” Simple. Barely a burden. You know the silence is making him uncomfortable; you learned early into things that he’s a very vocal child, that he’d prefer to either talk things out or duke them out.

So instead, you simply watch him squirm in his seat and rub his barely injured knees, him refusing to make eye contact and staring floating swords into his half-eaten rice. I don’t think I’ll tell Jing Yuan, you eventually decide, and guzzle down the rest of your juice. It wasn’t touched, so there’s no reason to tell him about this; no reason to worry him.

Yanqing pokes at the final vegetable on his plate with his kuàizi before forgoing them, and leaning over to suck it up with his mouth. You snort, having seen it happen from the corner of your eye.

“All finished?” Yanqing nods, rising from his seat to carry his used dishes over to you at the sink.

“I… can wash them,” he mumbles, keeping a tight hold on them when you’d gone to grab them.

“… okay. I’m not complaining.” You gesture for him to take your spot when you move and he does, picking up the dish scrubby to brush away bits of rice and stuck-on-the-plate egg.

“So.” You watch him bristle beside you. “I’m not sure if the general mentioned to you anything about today. That we won’t be going to the Seat of Divine Foresight at all?”

The soaped-up scrubber pops out of his hand, having slipped from his surprise.

“We’re not working today?” he says. “T-Then, what…”

“I’m taking you somewhere with me. Besides, I know how much you love your swords… I think you’ll enjoy this little excursion.”

Yanqing blinks his shock away. You’ve never taken an entire day off for something like this (well, save for your two days spent awol when it’d gotten too hot aboard the Luofu). And if he’s correct in his inference, he wonders, eyes gone wide and cheeks a little warm… Is she planning on getting something for me?

You were. Not that he knew it yet. But it’d been funny watching the gears turning behind his eyes; you suspect he’d been curious to ask if this is really the case. It’s all a part of your plan to win his favour— not a difficult task so far, you’d quickly realized. Like you’d thought, you and Yanqing had a lot in common. It’s why you decided to share so many stories and anecdotes with him all this time, and he followed along with such endearing intent that you began to actually enjoy Jing Yuan’s order of him to accompany you each day he could not. It’d been less of a hassle; it saved you from having to set or forgetting to set your alarm; and, it supplied you with warm nostalgia, being tailed by someone so young, so energetic. It makes you forget how many lifetimes you’ve lived, and how many lives you’d seen lost. His youth proves time still ticks on, and life still founders.

It’s… a relief, after everything.

Certainly, immortality used to be something you feared, not something you revered like most others. Living forever, or at least, living many lifetimes past that of short-life humans, was overrated. Sitting at their bedsides and watching them die in your hands from illness or old age seemed to never hurt any less each time it happened. You thought you’d grow numb after several hundred years of it. You found few things worth existing for in this extended existence of yours, and over the many years gone past, that number has easily dwindled to only a handful.

Yanqing, as young as he is, has taken his longevity with grace. Barely in his double digits (though with how long-life species age, he’d be in his early teen years, anyhow), his maturity and seriousness has shown itself to be deft and in abundance. Rather than flit his youth away on games and merriment (like Jing Yuan once had, many centuries ago), he’d taken to train both his body and his mind after his developed passion for weaponry and battle (as you once did, a handful of centuries earlier than even he).

The flow of time changes in every decade, you remind yourself, staring at your reflection in your bathroom’s mirror. Even being all refreshed from the shower and under eyes covered with a thin layer of concealer, you still manage to come out looking gaunt. Yet you’re still clinging to the past. You’re going to be left behind again.

Suited and dressed, you walk down your stairs to find Yanqing slipping his own shoes back on.

“Finally ready, Master?” he asks, grinning a little knowingly, as if he’s already figured out your plan to spoil him today.

Aren’t you embarrassed? a new voice asks. You freeze, hand squeezing the banister just a little too tightly; you feel the metal bend beneath it, a new indent forming around your fingers.

Aren’t you tired of making that man wait for you?

“Yeah,” you say, landing on the first floor with both feet. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Aren’t you tired of making that man worry for you?

Yanqing, ever the chivalrous young knight, holds open your door for you to exit after you’d put your own shoes on. Of course, he’d also wanted to look to see where exactly that cracking noise had come from, and easily zeroes in on the wrinkled banister you’d finally stopped hiding when you moved.

He swallows, then shuts the door.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 (5/55)

@trailblazernet @yanqingisim@sadflightlessbirds @copjaeminissiperior @thevoidwriting @osiritheous

#jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x y/n #jing yuan x yn #blade x reader #blade x y/n #blade x yn #dan heng x reader #dan heng x y/n #dan heng x yn #jing yuan #blade hsr #dan heng #yanqing #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #✦ the zenith unto animus.#✦ nc vb.

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works-of-fanfiction · 1 year

Text

“Give it a Year.” || George Russell x Reader

Summary: George wants to ask the reader an important question, but he has to wait for the right time.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: None.

a/n: hey loves! so it’s been a good year since I last wrote something, but reading everyone’s f1 posts has got me experiencing some serious fomo. I apologise if this isn’t my best work! I’m new to the f1 side of tumblr, but I hope you like this :)

“We’ve only been together a month…” I reminded George, the champagne clearly going to his head, making nonsense spill out of his mouth. He shuffled his feet further up the wall as he adjusted his position, the two of us hanging upside-down on the sofa and giggling maniacally as we polished off our second bottle of the evening. I couldn’t tell if the dizziness was the effect of the champagne or the blood rushing to my head, as I ran my fingers through my hair, shaking it out and sighing deeply.

“Yes, but we’ve known each other for eight.” He protested, nudging my right foot with his left, making me slip down the sofa slightly. I shrieked, quickly reaching down behind my head to catch myself. George snorted with laughter as he slid his hand underneath my head to catch me, giving me a little push so I could regain my balance. I swung my legs to the left, giving me enough momentum to flip my body upright and sit normally. I looked down at George’s red face and his eyes were closed as he drunkenly hummed a tune to himself. I crossed my legs, reaching over to the side table to sip the remnants of my drink from the bottom of the flute.

“George, sit up. The veins in your forehead look like they’re about to pop.” I grabbed his arm, attempting to pull him up, but the alcohol in my system as well as his made his body feel three times heavier. He swung his body back and forth a couple of times, hoisting himself onto the sofa cushion and messily turning around until he landed beside me, his head lazily resting on my shoulder.

“So what do you say? Summer wedding?” He suggested, planting a kiss between my neck and shoulder, his lips rubbing against my t-shirt. I pushed his head off of me, catching him by his chest and holding him in front of me. He blinked slowly, his mouth upturned in an almost perfectly crescent-shaped smile like a cartoon. “Be my wife.”

“You’re drunk, George.”

“So are you!”

“Not drunk enough to get engaged.” I stood up and shakily took both glasses to the sink, rinsing them quickly and leaving them in the bathroom. The hotel room was stuffy and hot, the humid air coming through the window doing us no favours. With no hesitation, I slipped my shorts off and stumbled back to the sofa in just my underwear and t-shirt, fanning myself with my hands. “I bet you use that line on all the girls.”

“Which girls?” George sat up, mouth agape, feigning shock. “Not everyone is special enough to warrant a proposal!”

“What? And I am?”

“Absolutely.” He lunged forward and grabbed my hand, pressing a wet kiss to my palm then the tip of my forefinger. I smiled, his lips tickling my skin and the alcohol only making me more sensitive to his touch. “I’ll get you to say ‘yes’ one day.”

“Give it a year.”

“A year! That’s too long.”

“You are so impatient! Deep down, the George Russell I know would be disappointed if I said yes too easily. We both know you’d want to plan it out properly.” I pinched his cheek and he drew back, looking down and laughing.

“Yeah, you’re right. You’re totally right.” He admitted, his hands finding my knees to trace patterns on them. I flinched at first but settled into it, letting silence wash over our intoxicated selves.

“Shall we go to bed?” I asked quietly. George nodded and pressed his nose against my arm like a sleepy pet cat. “Let’s try and get some sleep. I’ll put the fan on.”

“Should I wear the white or the black?” I pondered, asking George for the second time as I stood in front of the mirror and switched between the two shirts on their hangers. “The black makes me look slimmer, but the white is better for this weather.”

George scoffed, and I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror behind me, shaking his head. “What’s so funny?” I asked, turning around and dropping both shirts down to my sides. “This is the penultimate race of the season! This is an important choice.”

“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? ‘The black makes me look slimmer.’” He mocked, adopting a higher voice which sounded nothing like me. “You know you look great in either, but white would be the better choice.”

“White it is.” I smiled, tucking the black one back into the closet and slipping the white shirt over my head. I looked back in the mirror and smoothed it out, tucking one side into my jeans to give it a little more shape. George appeared behind me, hands on my hips and chin resting on my head.

“You wear the Mercedes shirt better than me.” He kissed my hair as he gave my hips a gentle squeeze. “I have a good feeling about today.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he buried his face into the back of my hair, pulling me closer so my back was flush against his chest. Watching him in the mirror made me feel somewhat shy, so I closed my eyes and leaned against him, enjoying the last few minutes before we had to leave.

I tapped his hand twice, prompting him to stand back and let go. “We need to get going.” I said, throwing my bag over my shoulder before passing George his backpack. I quickly scanned the room to ensure we hadn’t forgotten anything, then followed him out of the door.

The routine was the same as always. We arrived at the track a good few hours before the race and George disappeared as usual. I mingled a little and spoke to those I recognised, before finding a table in hospitality and settling in. More friendly faces came and went as the time passed, and I was just happy to be out of the humidity and under some air-conditioning. I’ve always enjoyed our race day routine. I join George as much as I can and try to catch as many of his races as possible, and I’m just happy to be present and supporting him. It doesn’t matter to me how long everything takes. I like looking around each circuit and taking in the different layouts, watching the teams do press and catching up with everyone. I still feel like an excited kid with a VIP pass every time I walk through the gates.

Time seemed to fly, and before I knew it, I was stood by George wishing him luck for the last time before the race. “Starting in pole, I’m so proud of you.” I beamed, stretching up to press a kiss to his cheek. His lips were pressed into a tight smile, his eyes still flicking around nervously at everyone; the other drivers, mechanics, reporters. His suit hung on his hips as he clung onto his drink, fighting the urge to chew on the straw. “Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not.” He snapped out of his little trance, his eyes finally meeting mine. I smiled, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’m good. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’ll be here when you cross the finish line.”

“I know.” Someone drifted past him and took his drink away, swapping it out for his helmet. He tucked it under his arm and ducked down to kiss me, lightly pecking my lips followed by the corner of my mouth as he always does. “I love you. Thank you for being here.”

“Ditto. Now go.” I patted his chest and he flashed me one more smile before merging into the crowd. I went and found my seat and snapped a few pictures to commemorate the day. The wait for the race to start always feels like the longest minutes of my life. I think it’s probably down to a mixture of nerves and excitement. I love to see George race and do what he loves, but I can’t help being a little nervous for him every time. You couldn’t pay me enough money to get in one of those cars!

I still remember the first race I ever attended by George’s side. I pretty much latched onto him at the start of the day and didn’t let go until he was being pulled away to get into his car. I felt so out of place and didn’t know how to behave around everyone. He introduced me to so many people and all I could do was smile and nod at everything they were saying as if I understood every word. I was far too nervous to speak more than a couple sentences at a time, and I was dreading the moment I had to see him shoot off at such a dangerous speed. It’s a weird feeling seeing the one you love squeezing into that driver’s seat. Your heart swells with pride whilst your head spins at all the possibilities of what could happen on the track. I remember waving at him like a parent seeing off their child, scared to take my eyes off of him for one second. His family had joined us later that day and tried to whisk me away and calm me down. I had updates coming through my phone in case I missed any announcements on the track itself, and any whispers amongst the crowd pricked at my ears if I heard so much as the number 63 mentioned. I’ve gotten more used to it now and witnessed my fair share of hiccups and accidents in the races, but they don’t come without their tears and me eventually scolding George for making me worry.

The cars found their starting positions soon after the formation lap. I quickly slid my arms into the jacket George had given me, the sleeves stretching way past my hands so I rolled them up the best I could, making sure not to take my eyes off the track. Seconds later, the lights went out and all twenty drivers disappeared from view, the rumbling engines and screeching tyres growing further away. My eyes stayed fixed on the track, waiting for George’s car to pass by. The first lap always feels the longest, and I won’t lie and say I don’t sit with my fingers crossed waiting for those few seconds when he flies past me and into the distance once again.

By the last few laps, I was on the edge of my seat and praying for George to keep his position at the front. When the chequered flag waved above his car, I sprung out of my seat and squealed, hands coming from every direction to pat me on the shoulders and celebrate with me. I dashed out of my seat, squeezing past everyone on my row and practically diving down the stairs. The entire Mercedes team bolted out of the garage, hugging each other and jumping up and down excitedly at their 1-2 finish.

As soon as George emerged from his car, he threw his hands up in the air, evoking more screams and applause from the crowd. My hands started to feel sore from the constant clapping, but all I could focus on was George and the team relishing in their moment. It felt like forever until he finally reached where I was standing, hugging and shaking hands with several mechanics. He took his helmet off and passed it to the first pair of hands he could find, tugging his balaclava off and shaking his hair out. He scanned the crowd and found me standing at the back, waiting for him to come over. Smiling from ear-to-ear, he weaved through the mass of people and reached out to grab me. I leapt into his arms and he spun me around three times before putting me down and holding my face in his hands. “We did it, Y/N. We did it.” He spoke quietly so only I could hear, his thumbs lightly squeezing my cheeks as he pulled me in for a kiss. His face was sweaty but I didn’t care. I could hardly kiss him properly as I couldn’t alter the grin on my face.

“No, baby. You did it.” I buried my face in his chest and his arms naturally found their way around my neck, holding me close. I could hear his heart pounding in his chest, his body shaking with excitement. “I’m so proud of you.”

He shifted and held me in front of him, squatting to be at eye-level with me. “I’m a race winner… I’m a race winner!” He raised his voice as the reality sunk in. A sea of reporters appeared holding their cameras and microphones, eager to hear from the winner. He gave me a look as if to ask my permission and I nodded enthusiastically.

“This is your moment! Go!” I grabbed his shoulders and flipped him around, nudging him back into the crowd.

Seeing him on the podium was one of the most incredible moments of my life. Lewis and Carlos aimed their champagne at him, soaking him from head to toe. I took probably a hundred photos on my phone, zooming in on his screwed-up face as champagne dripped from his nose and hair. It took nearly an hour for him to finish up in the media pen and taking photos with the team. As soon as he found me again, he pulled me into his driver’s room and sat me down on the sofa. “George, what’s going on? Sit down!” I laughed as he paced the room, unable to calm himself or come to a stop.

“I can’t – not yet. Uh…” He sounded nervous, his fingers digging into his own hips as he dragged his feet along the carpet to his bag in the corner. I tried to see what he was doing but he blocked my view, rummaging around until he sprung back up, back straight and hands behind him.

“George, you’re being weird.”

“Sorry, I’m not trying to be… Gosh, why am I so nervous?”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, about to stand.

“No, no! You stay sat down. I promise I’m OK.”

“OK…” I furrowed my brows, watching him as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He muttered something to himself that I didn’t quite catch, then dropped down to one knee in front of me. I gasped, my back hitting the sofa as he brought his hands around with a small box clutched in his right.

“I’ve been trying to think of the perfect moment to do this for a long time. Since I drunkenly asked you in that hotel room many months ago, it’s been on my mind constantly.” He started, wobbling a little on his knee before finding his balance. “I was going to do it outside earlier but I didn’t want the moment to be lost amongst everything else. I wanted this to just be for us.”

“George…”

“You said to ‘give it a year’. I know it hasn’t quite been that long yet, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. I hope you can forgive me.” I playfully slapped his shoulder, making him laugh and inch closer to me. He opened the box and moved it towards me, allowing me to inspect the beautiful diamond inside. My eyes pricked with tears, my cheeks beginning to feel warm and my palms clammy. “Only one thing could make me happier than winning my first race. I love you, Y/N. What do you say to becoming my wife?”

I tried to blink back my tears but it didn’t work. Frantically nodding and with tears streaming down my face, I reached forward and tackled him to the ground, repeating my answer over and over - yes. He grabbed my left arm and brought it over to his so he could slide the ring onto my finger. I sat back and gazed down at my hand in disbelief, the silver band catching the light as I slowly moved my wrist. “It’s beautiful, George. I love it.” I looked back at him and his watery eyes and he scooped me up into another hug, pulling me into his lap and holding me on the floor.

“This is the best day of my life.” He whispered in my ear.

We sat in silence, cherishing the moment and the calm together. We may not have been together a year yet, but I knew what my answer was going to be when he asked me all those months ago. The only reason I didn’t say yes back then was because I wanted to spend a little more time dating George and getting to know him. Little did I know, I can still do that as his wife. And I can’t wait…

#f1 fics #george russell x reader #gr63 x reader #f1 oneshot #f1 x reader

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bits-and-babs · 1 year

Text

✰ 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — 𝐉𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐀

↳ summary: a bad day at work drives you to drink. When a stranger offers to be your drinking partner for the night, you realise that he’s the solution to your problems.

↳ pairing: javier peña x f!reader

↳ [6.7k words] content: 18+ MDNI. Alcohol, diabolical attempts at flirting. Fingering, oral ( m & f receiving ), p in v sex, twist at the end! This is a @beskarbabs remaster — original post date 2021.

javi masterlist I| main masterlist |I join the taglist here

Cigarette smoke and aged whiskey assault your nostrils, the acrid scents singeing the inside of your nose the moment you walk through the doorway and step into the bar. Your aching muscles buzz at the microdose of nicotine, driving you forward despite the exhaustion that desperately tries to pull your throbbing body back to your apartment and the comfort of your bed.

Peering inside, you find the older patrons at the counter smoking cigars while engaged in small talk that you can’t discern from this far away. The smouldering ends pinched between their fingers add to the already significant, smoky haze that blurs the ceiling above your head. Neon lights douse the foggy air with a crimson overlay, and classic Spanish guitar music plays quietly from the radio in the corner of the room. Public houses in the middle of Medellín were busy most nights, but this was a Monday evening, and most of the sticky tabletops were vacant. Desperate to unwind after the taxing work, you resign yourself to the smell of tobacco.

As you reach the bar, you pull your coin purse from your pocket and pinch the zipper between your thumb and forefinger. You can’t help glancing at it as though it may explode in your face. You’re almost out of money; the account is running on empty. Considering you are yet to make a significant breakthrough for your boss and the mission he levied on you, you couldn’t exactly act shocked. You only get money when you provide what he requests. Sure, it probably broke every trading law in the book, but that was the ‘contract’ you’d signed.

You settle onto a stool separate from the rest of the customers and mumble your request to the bartender for a shot of tequila. Sliding over the exact amount of pesos needed to cover the drink over the tacky countertop covered in alcoholic liquid and cigarette burns, you let out a shaky sigh. You couldn't be giving away any tips with how little money you had. In reality, you shouldn't have even walked through the door, but you were desperate to unwind, even just for a little while. It wasn’t ideal, but you could always turn off the television for a week to prevent the electricity bill from racking up more than you could afford – those telenovelas were shit anyway.

Tapping at the surface of the serving area with your nails, you wait impatiently on the drink. You can’t even recall the last time events at work drove you to drink; you usually excelled at meeting your boss's demands. Business had been turbulent recently, the constant violence that plagued the streets of Medellín causing significant strain in your line of work. You rub at your temples with the pads of your thumbs in exasperation as you feel the irritation begin to mount again, nipping uncomfortably at the edges of your mind in the form of a headache.

"You look like shit," the barman points out honestly, and the laugh you return is bitter. If anyone else had ‘blessed’ you with such a compliment, you’d be throwing the tequila into their eyes– but it was too fucking expensive to pass up, and you knew Jose well. He speaks the truth, ugly as it is. You'd been coming to this bar since you moved to Medellín, and you’d never entered the doors as anguished as you are now. He passes over the shot of tequila, and you thank him tacitly with a nod.

"I do," you admit with a sigh of indignation, continuing to tap your nail on the cool, smooth side of the shot glass.

"Lover? Family? Work?" Jose probes, watching you as he polishes a pint glass with a microfibre cloth. You shrug awkwardly, considering just how much you could safely indulge him.

"Work, but it's not that important," you dismiss with a wave of your hand, and he thankfully takes the hint, nodding and walking to serve the older men at the end of the bar attempting to wave him over.

You pick up your shot glass and knock it back with a wince, mildly enjoying the burn in the back of your throat. It adds to the warmth on your skin, the humid summer air having already dampened your brow with sweat. Leaning into the comfort of it, you take a moment to appreciate the taste and the immediate ease of the work pressure that had been silently crushing you.

Tracing the rim of the empty shot glass with your fingertip as you wait for Jose to finish serving the elderly gentlemen, you consider ordering a refill. You don’t plan on getting drunk, but you hope to relax a little. Recently, you’d spent so many evenings staring up at the ceiling while silently bargaining with the plasterboard to let you sleep. The dark circles taking root under your eyes are mildly concerning. Eventually, you decide on just enough to drink to get you tipsy enough to fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow in your apartment.

"Need another, Hermosa?" A gravelly voice speaks up over your shoulder. Twisting in the stool, you take a glimpse back at the person who spoke—a handsome man dressed in a red button-down shirt and tight-fitted denim jeans that look as though they went out of fashion a decade ago and yet look delicious strapped across his thighs. He has yellow-tinted aviators tucked into the collar of his button-down, which you observe is unbuttoned far enough that it exposes more of his bronze-tanned skin and flashes his collarbone.

"I do, actually," you hum with a smile, taking him in. He’s easy on the eyes, and you aren't exactly about to turn down a free drink, so you decided to play along with his game. You playfully gaze into those wandering eyes through your lashes, and his sultry lips pull up into a smirk.

The handsome stranger clicks his fingers with self-assured arrogance, grabbing the attention of the barman, Jose, almost instantly. His American accent, laced with a southern twang, slips seamlessly into Spanish, ordering you another tequila shot and himself a glass of whiskey as he settles down on the stool beside you. All the while, his eyes remain rooted to you, taking in the curves and plains of your body. The hubris this man gives off is excessive, and yet it suits him well. It is clear to you he knew how attractive he was, and how to use it to his advantage.

"That's very kind of you, sir," you thank him politely, turning in your stool to face him. He arches his eyebrow a little at that, lips tugging his smile wider. The honorifics seemed to please him.

"Well, I couldn't help but notice you were all alone," he drags his eyes over the length of your body, clearly enjoying drinking in the view, "So I thought I'd join you. You were staring into oblivion looking as though you were waiting for Prince Charming to save you from a miserable day."

"Oh, are you saying you are my Prince Charming?" You quiz with an arched eyebrow, keeping up with his teasing. You rest your chin on the balls of your palm and balance your elbow on the countertop. A sparkle dances in the warmth of his irises, amused by your ability to match his flirtatious taunts.

"Why don't you wait and see?" He keeps his eyes on yours, and his voice drops to a thrilling, gruff tone that sparks excitement down your spine. He’s bold and brazen, and you find yourself already warming to this stranger’s charms. He turns back to the counter, breaking the spell momentarily as Jose approaches with your drinks.

While he speaks to the bartender and thanks him for his service, you mindlessly drop your gaze to his hand and spot something that piques your interest. When he pulls out his leather-bound wallet to pay, you note his identification cards, driver's licence, bank card and recognise the flash of a silver badge too. Etched into the shape of a shield, the badge very clearly states in bold, midnight blue writing that the dashing stranger beside you belonged to the DEA—a Drug Enforcement Officer. You sit back slightly on your stool, observing the man as he hands over a few pesos notes and pushes your drink over the counter to you.

"Cheers, Hermosa," he nods to you, taking up his whiskey and holding it aloft for you to tap your glass against. You waste no time picking up the shot and clinking glasses before knocking back your drink with a grimace. It burns your tongue and heats your stomach lining. He sips at his, swirling the amber liquid around the crystal glass slowly as he takes in the view of your body again.

You purse your lips, glancing around the room for a second to act indifferent, despite the fact you are now very much interested in this stranger. "So, what is the name of my Prince Charming?" You urge him to talk about himself. He smirks at your questioning, undeniably assuming this meant he’d hooked you in this ‘pick-up game’.

"Javier," he answers, sipping his whiskey again as you repeat it back to him with a hum. You trace the rim of your shot glass with your fingertip absentmindedly. The man before you had captured your attention enough for you to escape boredom for just a little while at least. It could get interesting from here on.

"Prince Javier works for the DEA too?" You ask with a knowing smirk. He pauses, glancing at the wallet in his palm. “I didn’t realise they hired royalty.”

"You're observant," Javier says cautiously, his voice suddenly guarded as he places his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans. You shrug, keeping the light and flirty atmosphere between you as Javier rests his forearm on the countertop, still holding his glass of whiskey.

"I have to be. Can't be too careful when a random man is buying me a drink," you point out, indicating you felt safe around him now you knew his occupation.

"But I'm not just a random man, Hermosa. I'm Prince Charming," He winks at you, but also finds himself grimacing at the clunky attempt at flirtatious raillery. It triggers a giggle through you, shaking your head as you twist the shot glass over the countertop with a grin.

"So you keep saying. Why don't you prove it by sticking around and having a few more drinks with me?" You ask in a coy tone while slowly inching forward and tracing shapes on the back of his palm with the tip of your index finger, the pad wet with remnants of your tequila shot that coated the rim of the glass. His eyes flit between your touch to the curve of your lips as a cheeky smile stretches across his mouth.

"Only if you let me buy you another drink," he raises his eyebrows.

"I like the sound of that, Javier."

-----------

The hours fly by, and the hands on the clock on the wall complete two rotations by the time you notice. Javier had moved his stool closer to yours and ramped up the flirting the more he drank. You’d both bounced off each other, conversations about family and interests flowing smoother than the alcohol between you. It’s way past one o'clock in the morning, yet neither of you seemed to tire, invigorated by each other's presence.

You had told him about your funniest stories, and he, in turn, spun you a tale from when he was back in Texas as a teenager, leaving his high school sweetheart at the altar to fight the narcotics epidemic in Columbia— You hang onto his every word, clasping his palm in your own.

At this stage, the two of you had been through quite a few glasses of tequila and whiskey, and while Javier is clearly feeling the effects of his drinks, you maintain a constant tipsiness. You had been pacing yourself, not wanting to look a fool in front of such a handsome man.

Despite his intoxication, Javier was still charming and had been showering you with so many compliments that you had lost count. During the shared drinks and life stories, the two of you had settled on the nickname Princesa despite you giving him your name, given he insisted upon making himself out to be ‘Prince Charming’. It was cringe, but the two of you found the funny side in your drunken states.

"Mhm, Javi- I like your dress shirt," you muse, reaching over to smooth the collar. Your fingertips trace the tanned skin just beyond the fabric, noting the heat that rolls from him.

"You do?" He watches you closely, taking a drag from a cigarette he had lit a few minutes ago. He claimed it was because he was craving the nicotine, but you hadn’t failed to notice how his jeans looked a whole lot tighter.

It was subtle at first. You hadn't been able to stop yourself, moving your hand to his bicep as you laughed, with Javier returning your touches by stroking his hand up and down your thigh while you converse. It had been give and take, teasing touches and lingering gazes adding to the sexually charged atmosphere between you. The circles he thumbed across your knee had settled butterflies in the pit of your stomach, the hungry eye he’d aimed at you heating your cheeks.

"I do. It suits you," you trace your hand down the front of his shirt and across his sternum as you look up at Javier through your lashes. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the warm brown of his irises and watching you hungrily as you circle the buttons of his shirt with your fingertips. You knew that you were driving him crazy; he’d been giving you this look for hours— like he'd been ready to throw you over his shoulder and carry you out of there around an hour ago.

His hand drags up your thigh slowly, settling on the hip of your skirt as he pulls you to the edge of your stool. It tears a gasp of surprise when your noses bump. He makes no effort to remove himself from your personal space, and you can smell the whisky on his breath. It’s strong, the heavy, woody scent swimming in your mind as you sink your teeth into your lower lip.

He groans softly.

"Princesa, this bar is closing soon. Would you like to come back to my apartment?" He says it so casually, as though he isn't implying anything at all. Like he was just asking you back for another drink, his body, however, betrays the unceremonious offer. His eyes are hungry, and his hand squeezes at your hip, underlining the question and almost leaving you light-headed.

"I'd like that," you whisper, gazing back into his brown eyes, your own heavy-lidded with want. He smirks and gets so close, *so close* that you swear he’s going to kiss you until he’s patting at your hip before standing. He thanks the bartender, leaving you light-headed and giving a small wave before Javi practically drags you to the door. The red lighting in the bar bleeds into the street, the dark of the outside punctuated by the yellowish glow of the sparse street lamps.

"I assume you don't live very far away?" You ask quietly as he walks alongside you. He shakes his head and gives a small smile.

"No. I only live around the corner, actually."

Well, that was convenient.

You both walk in relative silence after that, taking in the quiet street and the sounds of the city in the background. Loud drunkards stumble out of the closing bars as the owners begin to throw them out, and there’s the distant sound of cars driving on the main roads.

Distracted by the ‘music’ of Medellin, you felt the back of Javier’s hands brush your knuckles gently, skimming the skin in a feather-light touch. It’s such an innocent connection, and yet the touch sparks heat in between your legs and lights up your spine. You don’t even need to look up at him to see if he feels the same way; the excitement crackles thickly in the slither of distance between your bodies.

You both walk into the apartment's hallway, walking to one of the doors on the first floor, directly opposite the entry door. Room number 3. It's a pleasant apartment complex, unremarkable, clean and quiet, with stairs leading to other floors.

Finally, Javier pulls his keys out of his jeans pocket, and he looks at you. Those fucking eyes drag over your body again, unashamed in how they drink you in and savour the view. You watch, anxious with anticipation and chewing on your lip, as he slips the key into the lock. The click echoes in the small hallway.

The nerves begin to kick in a little now, and you start shifting your weight from one foot onto the other as you wait impatiently. Javi looks at you with such an intense hunger that you feel the warmth pooling deep down in your abdomen. It feels as though he’s sparking your nerves set alight, blooming across your skin that was begging for his touch. You’re sure you’re sweating, a soft sheen clinging the fabric of your clothes to your body.

He takes his time as he steps towards you, and you try to steady your breath as he closes the space between the two of you with ease. Tingles of excitement tickle your skin as he takes you by the hip, his large palm swallowing your side and anchoring you against his chest gently. He backs you against the door, which he hasn't yet opened.

The hand on the curve of your pelvis is dangerously slow as it skims your body, trailing his fingertips from your hip across your waist and tracing the edge of your breast until it settles, cupping the side of your neck gently. Javier’s thumb brushes your throat delicately as he stares fixedly into your eyes.

"Javi," you whimper, breathing shallowly as you watch him touch you delicately.

"You're such a tease, Princesa. Kept touching me, kept giving me these looks like you wanted me to bend you over the counter right there in that bar," his voice is gruff, and you feel yourself throb at his filthy words. You’re beginning to think you wouldn't have complained if he had; grasping the edge of the countertop, wailing as he took you from behind in front of the patrons and claimed you for himsel-

Javier uses his gentle grip on your throat to pull you impossibly closer, so your nose brushes with his. Once again, you can smell the whiskey on his breath, but also the scent of what you assumed was his aftershave. It was citrusy and mixed with the smell of the cigarettes he had been smoking in the bar. You wanted so desperately to kiss at his neck and take in that scent deeper, drag the tip of your nose against his jugular and sink your teeth in.

"Is this okay?" He asks under his breath, wanting to be sure this is what you wanted. Before your mind even has the time to process the query through the haze of citrus fruit and cigarette smoke, you’re nodding your head with a soft whimper. Tilting your head up to chase his mouth, you gaze into his eyes in a desperate, silent plea. He takes in your expression for just a moment, relishing the evident arousal he draws from you and then smirks, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours in a soft brush of a kiss.

Javier controls the kiss, still clasping your throat gently as he keeps the kiss soft. His moustache brushes your skin slightly, and yet you don't mind it; you're too lost in his touch to care. His tongue slips into your mouth, tracing over your own and taking in your taste as he leans you back while fumbling for the door knob to open the door into the hallway. You're both stumbling in the darkness, with Javi blindly feeling against the wall to turn on the lights. You pull him closer by the collar of his red button-down, his aviator glasses clattering to the floor and skidding beneath some of the furniture. He groans, tugging on your lower lip with his teeth and guiding you towards the bedroom.

The kiss is rough now, all teeth and tongue as you move your fingers on one hand into his hair, the other gripping the open collar of his shirt. He nudges the door open with his shoulder with practised ease, not once breaking away from the kiss in the process. He edges you towards the bed, carefully helping you lay down when the backs of your knees hit the mattress. Javi climbs over you with a soft groan of praise at the sight of you beneath him, the sound making your body almost vibrate with need.

"You're such a minx. Could barely keep it together this long," he growls in your ear, spreading your thighs with his palms and slotting his hips between them. His lips trace against your neck, kissing gently over your throat.

"Fuck, Javi, "you breathe out, a crack of white-hot pleasure running down your spine as he wastes no time in sucking marks onto your neck that you are sure will be a violent purple tomorrow. Already your body craves him, arching against the mattress to chase more of his touch, to pull him impossibly closer.

Javier’s hand shifts further, slipping beneath your skirt and brushing his thumb across your soaked lace underwear. The pad presses against your swollen clit, and he chuckles as your body jolts in shock at the sudden stimulation. Javi anchors his free hand to your pelvis to push your hips down, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"You're so wet, Hermosa. Your panties are soaked," he whispers as your hips grind into his palm, desperate for more friction. The burning need in your abdomen has you babbling, begging to be filled. You’re not even sure that you’re making any sense any more; the only words spilling from your lips are a pathetic mixture of ‘Javi’ and ‘please’ and curses all strung together.

"Do you want to get off on my fingers? Is that what you want?" He rasps, rubbing tight little circles through the fabric that makes you choke out a needy, sinful little whine. It’s like you can’t suck in enough air to your lungs, toes curling at the build-up of pleasure in your core. Fuck yes, that's what you wanted, but you found yourself utterly inept at trying to form words while he teased your clit like this, slowly and teasingly circling it with the pad of his calloused fingers. He's dragging out wails of bliss from your shuddering chest with each brush of the bundle of nerves.

"Please, Javi, plea-" you're cut off, eyes rolling back into your skull as your panties are pushed to the side, and his finger slowly slides into you. You feel every individual ridge of each knuckle as it stretches you, adding a bite of dull pain to the tingling pleasure burning through your cunt. Javier watches your expression as your mouth falls open, brows knitting together. Your hands reach up, gripping at his red button-down as he begins to move his fingers in and out of you slowly.

It's like your brain short-circuits. He seems to know every part of your body that makes you feel good, not once missing those pleasure points that make your toes curl with each gentle thrust of his fingers. Your hips are again rising off the bed, legs spreading wider, desperate to take him deeper. Javi waits until you're clenching around his digits before he pulls them out despite your pine of protest. He's teasing you, repeatedly giving you hardly any time to enjoy the full feeling and then pulling his fingers out again, leaving you begging for more.

"Javi!" You beg, breaking off into a sob. You need his touch so badly, the pulsing ache between your legs almost painful. He ignores your pleas, hooking his fingers unto the waistband of your underwear and sliding them down your thighs achingly slowly. He tosses them somewhere on the other side of the room and hikes your skirt up to your hips, too impatient to battle with the zip to rid you of it entirely. Subconsciously, you lean into his kisses, fingers making quick work of his button-down and sliding it slowly off of his shoulders and down his arms to reveal his carved biceps and a white undershirt. He pulls back and yanks this over his head, discarding it in the same general direction he had thrown your lace. Even in the dimly lit bedroom, you can still make out the delicious expanse of tanned skin on his chest and toned stomach. Before you have the chance to taste it, craving to leave kisses across his sternum, his head is trailing down your body. He's mouthing at your thighs, gripping your hips to hold them in place as you sit up on your forearms to watch him.

"Or do you want to get off on my tongue?" He murmurs, the lewd sound that escapes your throat in answer louder than you expect it to be. Javier clutches your thighs, pulling your legs over his shoulders and causing your breath to hitch in your throat with anticipation.

Then his nose brushes over your clit, followed by the warmth of his tongue dragging a stripe over the length of your cunt and eliciting a soft moan from you. Despite your best efforts to restrain yourself, your fingers found themselves in his dark curls, pulling slightly to ground yourself as the tip of his tongue swiped over your clit. He moans at your taste, causing a familiar, buzzing sensation that has you clenching around nothing. Fuck, he felt heavenly, tongue moving lazily against your clit as he built that electrifying arousal.

"Don't stop," you beg him, gripping tighter at his hair and pushing his face deeper, almost terrified he’ll stop. Javi doesn't miss a beat, instantly fulfilling your wordless desire for more by slipping his fingers back inside of you and sucking on your clit. He's brutal, not giving you a moment's rest as he continues stimulating your throbbing bundle of nerves while moving his fingers in and out of you. It's so good, a coil of bliss working its way at the base of your spine and causing you to lose any form of inhibition. You use his hair to anchor him as you shift your hips, attempting to ride his face for more friction to satiate the growing wave of ecstasy between your thighs.

His teeth graze at your clit, and suddenly your mind is wavering as it goes blank.

"Shit-"you gasp out, feeling your climax build tightly between your legs as you desperately pull at his hair.

"Fuck, please, pl-please-"you gasp out, a sound of elation caught in your throat as his fingertips brush a spot inside of you, which drives your hips from the mattress entirely. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as you tip headfirst into your blinding orgasm. You’re enraptured, caught in the most intense sensation of bliss as your ears ring, cumming against Javier's mouth. He continues to tongue your clit, your legs trembling, and your back lifts off the bed as you keen, tears streaming down your face. Javi keeps at it until you're sobbing, grasping at his hair and forcing him back. His tongue runs over his bottom lip, his moustache slick and glistening with your cum.

"You taste so fucking good, Princesa," he purrs, watching you as you float back down from your high and into your spasm-wracked body. He takes your face in his palm and moves back up towards your face, kissing you gently while settling onto the mattress beside you. You can taste yourself, musky and heady, yet it's so good with the hint of woodsy whiskey still lingering on his tongue.

You wind your arms around his neck, pulling Javier closer while he fumbles his belt. You know he must be struggling in those painfully tight jeans, his cock straining against the denim, so you trace your fingertips against the zipper. Pulling it down ever so slowly, you watch as Javi pulls the belt from the loops.

As you slide your hands down into his pants, you feel for the waistline of his boxers to dip your fingers underneath. The further you move down, however, you're shocked to find he's not wearing any at all. You pause, minding the arousal that floods back between your thighs at his brazen choice. When you look at Javi, he's smirking at your expression, the cheeky bastard.

"Are you really not wearing any boxers?" You whisper, staring at him in shock.

"Easier access," he muses, enjoying your surprise. Heat prickles the skin of your cheeks, and you focus on tugging his jeans past his hips. Javier helps you pull them off entirely as you concentrate on the throbbing urgency of his cock. The head of his dick is flushed red, needy after almost three hours of incessant teasing. Tentatively, you take his length into your palm to stroke him, and Javier lets out a soft groan as he lays his head back against the pillows. His breath is shaky, hand gripping at your hips again as you pump his cock slowly.

"Fuck," he breathes out, eyes rolling back into their sockets as you run your tongue over the head of his dick, tasting the salty precum leaking from the tip. You keep your mouth busy, taking him deeper as you use one hand to unzip your bunched-up skirt and wiggle out of it, kicking it off the mattress somewhere onto the floor over the side of the bed. His fingers slowly card through your hair, but do not apply any pressure.

You whimper softly, hollowing your cheeks as you take the rest of him into your hand and begin to jerk him off slowly. Javier tilts his head back further into the soft down of his pillows, hips twitching slightly as he attempts not to thrust down your throat. The moans that creep up your throat send vibrations from base to tip, and Javier releases soft gasps of shock as your tongue traces the veins on the underside of his thick cock.

"Dios mío, Princesa," he growls, lifting your head off of him and flipping you suddenly onto your back. You yelp in surprise, Javier quickly grasping the base of his twitching length to stave off any impending orgasm.

"If you keep doing that, I'll cum," he rasps, lips tracing the shell of your ear as you wrap your arms around his neck. Pulling your thighs around his waist, Javi reaches for one of the drawers on his nightstand. You pat him quickly on the chest, stopping him.

"It's okay," you whisper, and he looks down at you in surprise.

“Princes-“

"I'm on contraception.” You swear that even in the dark, you see his pupils dilate as he stares at you. Avidly, he lines himself up with your folds, holding your face in his palm and smoothing your cheekbone with his thumb. Brushing the head of his cock up against your clit, Javier groans as he watches you jolt slightly, still hyper-sensitive from that mind-shattering orgasm. You slowly trace your fingers down the shaved skin of his chest, eyes pleading with him to fill you.

Javi begins to sink his hips heavily, cock pushing at your entrance and stretching your walls deliciously. You whine, head cocking back into the pillows and exposing your throat for him to kiss while you adjust to the sting between your legs. Javier holds your hips in his hands, rubbing circles into your skin soothingly as you grow accustomed to the intrusion. By the time he's sheathed fully inside you, you're convinced he's split you open, begging for him to start moving.

And then he does, slamming his cock into you and setting a cruel pace. He feels so fucking good, the pleasure so intense and the slam of his hips so heavy that you can feel your walls fluttering around his cock already. He's stoking the fire twisting between your thighs and making you feel so full that your eyes are out of focus, tears welling up in them.

Javier pulls back from your throat, looking over your body with a ragged groan as he uses his grip on your sides to pull you back onto his cock harder. The overwhelming waves of bliss grow maddening as his tight hold on your waist leaves a dull, painful sensation, and you're almost sure you'll have bruises the shape of his fingerprints in the morning, complete with swirls and arches. You can feel Javi pulse inside you and grinds his hips, attempting to find that earth-shattering spot inside of you again.

"Fuck, you look so good like this; keep your eyes on me," he demands, wanting to see the build-up of pleasure in your eyes. You roll your hips, whimpering at the way he commands you. Soon, with your combined efforts, the head of his cock is knocking up against your cervix, and the pressure has you wheezing out his name with a sharp intake of air. Javi takes this moment to brush his thumb over your clit, growling when he sees your eyes roll back into your skull at the sudden fervour you feel that's bringing you closer and closer to climax.

Then he brushes against something inside of you that makes your nerves light up, and you're sobbing desperately, eyes squeezing shut and trying so hard to chase that high. Javier pulls his calloused hands over your stomach, pressing down on the pliant skin there to feel himself move in and out of you at a rapid pace. Your pleasure is threatening to spill over, sparking at the base of your spine, and suddenly it's too much to hold back.

"Javi-"you beg, voice catching in your throat.

"Come on, Hermosa. Come on, give it to me," he purrs, brushing his thumb against your clit one more time and suddenly— oh, suddenly, you're there. Time seems to slow down for a moment, suspended in the air until it crashes down on you. It’s so intense, so overwhelming that you have tears streaming down your cheeks, cumming with a keen of his name. Your cunt is pulsing and tightening around Javi's cock, and he's growling out a moan as he goes rigid inside of you, pumping you full of his cum. He's shuddering, and his fingers dig tightly into your waist.

For a moment, the two of you stay still, Javi leaning over you and peppering your chin with soft, open-mouthed kisses. As the afterglow kicks in, you're giggling, covering your face with your palms as the delirium kicks in. You hear Javi chuckle to himself, pressing his lips to your hairline and wiping away the sheen of sweat at your temple.

As you come down from your high, you relax into the covers of the bed, entirely spent. Exhaustion is ebbing at your mind, your breath still heavy as Javi pulls out of you with a haggard groan and holds you close to him. You both don't say anything to each other at first, too blissed out to form a sentence.

Javi kisses your forehead over and over, brushing his hand along your bruised side in an attempt to ease the painful ache his fingers left behind. You find yourself leaning into his touch, allowing yourself to revel in the post-orgasm bliss.

"Do you need some water?" He asks you softly, stroking your hair back, to which you shake your head no but thank him quietly for his consideration. He nods and gently pulls the thin cotton covers over your body as he settles in beside you. You both lay in each other’s silent company, Javi's thumb tracing lazy patterns on the skin of your abdomen as his eyes slip closed, alcohol and blissful exhaustion causing him to fall into sleep relatively quickly.

The room is quiet, Javi's breathing the only sound you can make out. You lay perfectly still for at least ten minutes, feeling the man beside you ease into unconsciousness. With his breathing slowed and his thumb eventually stilling at your side, you assume sleep has him in a tight grasp. Ever so gently, you ease out of his hold, slipping out of bed and picking up your clothes. You’re careful to be silent — the last thing you needed was him waking up and discovering what you were about to do.

A part of you feels terrible, using Javier this way. He'd been kind enough to buy you drinks. Instead, fear motivates you to put one foot in front of the other, the bare soles of your feet padded across the floor towards the bedroom door. Your boss, Pablo Escobar, had demanded information on DEA agents from you and the other women he had hired, and you daren’t argue, fearful of the bullets that you were almost certain had your name etched into them. Having bumped into Javier at the bar, it was a stroke of luck akin to striking gold; a stay of execution.

Don Pablo had hired a group of women into his staff only recently. Well known for hiring only men, like most drug lords in Columbia, he knew the women he hired would not come under the scrutiny of the DEA or the Columbian police. With the support of the American government, the DEA was closing in on him, and the Medellin cartel at a frightening pace, and he was in dire need of some form of information to get ahead of the gringos - stat.

Without the suspicion of the police, you had managed to get around relatively quickly, but finding the information without talking to anyone and alerting people of Don Pablo's covert mission was a much more challenging task than anticipated. You had carried on regardless, motivated by knowing you wouldn't get paid unless you handed over relative information to Escobar and his cousin Gustavo. You were getting pretty desperate for both the money and your life, knowing Escobar was anything but forgiving. Javier just happened to step into the line of fire.

You find your way back to the living room in the darkness and grab at anything you can see that could be of value. Papers that had Escobar's name on them and had multiple attack plans regarding the cartel's drugs labs in the Amazon Rainforest lay in the drawers of the desk underneath the television and a recording device that was set on the table. When you play it, the sound of Javier and his partner, whom he referred to as 'Murphy’ in the bar, floats quietly from the speakers.

Covert recordings of sicarios' conversations played, revealing the code words Pablo and his men used that the two partners had managed to decipher and use to their advantage.

You could almost laugh at how careless Javier had been to allow you into his house with all of this information just strewn about in the open, but you suppose he thought that you weren't a threat. No one did.

You take the items you snatched from Javier's apartment and slip out into the humid street once again. As you walk back to your apartment, you can’t help but think back to the conversation you and Javier had at the bar. The one where he claimed he was "Prince Charming saving you from a miserable day." You realise, looking back on it, that he had done precisely that. Prince Charming had unknowingly given you all the information you needed for a payout from Escobar and managed to save you from the end of a pistol barrel.

And you try to convince yourself of your shamelessness, insisting to yourself that you aren’t exactly the princess he’s looking for.

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