#∘⡊❅ ˚⊹ an iron will to walk the walk ` a glass jaw can’t be moved to talk — musings | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

motherofagony · 1 year ago

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FIRE WALK - one shot

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: au, no outbreak!joel x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+, minors dni word count: 6.5k summary: a chance encounter at a motel has you crossing paths with a stranger in a blue t-shirt. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), very brief references to past non-con encounters (not with joel, no details just shitty men in general), soft!joel, alcohol, mentions of family trauma and ab*se, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (f + m receiving), A Scene With a Belt™, slight mentions of reader's clothing but no physical descriptions otherwise, love as consumption and women as fruit a/n: this was a brain-worm of a one shot, so i had to press pause on AHFE and get it out. consider it a dirty love letter to strangers with stories in shitty motels. and i have to give the biggest thank-you to @iamskyereads for stepping in and offering to be my beta reader in the final hour. she was so unbelievably thorough and thoughtful and kind. i owe you big.

New-age boogeymen hang two-way mirrors and jiggle motel door handles with broken hangers.

That’s what the news says.

August licks an unforgiving line of heat up your back, and cutoff denim and halter tops do nothing but give the sun more skin to burn.

It’s sweltering, brutal as an Arizona summer is, and The Palms Motel promises a pool and a mini bar on their dirty marquee. You’ll take what you can get, can’t really afford to be picky with fifty dollars in your pocket, but at least maybe you’ll live like royalty tonight.

Some guy you met — Tom, Tim, Jim, whoever — pulls his convertible up to the front office. Your knees knock together over the speed bump, cartilage kissing bone.

It’s the closest you’ve ever come close to a chauffeur, but the chauffeur you see in movies doesn’t usually take liberties with trying to work his grease-speckled mechanic hand up the passenger’s shirt.

You met him at a gas station in Tucson, thumbing your way from northern Texas to put as much distance between you and your whiskey-breathed dad as you could. He’d torn your clothes apart at the seams with his eyes when he spotted you in the parking lot, swimming in blood-infested waters with sharp, sharp teeth.

There was no plan, no directions penned and cities circled on a folded map, just glass in your hair and a final straw.

He asked if you could buy him some booze — revoked license, baby, y’know how that goes — and you shouldn’t have, but when he flashed a leather wallet thick with cash, you knew you’d be stupid not to.

You hid behind a shelf inside the gas station while he idled in the parking lot and plucked a fifty from the wad, stuffing it deep in your bag. You grabbed some shitty malt-something from a fridge along with a 6-pack, flashing the slack-jawed cashier a wink.

He didn’t try to hide the eye contact with your tits, but neither do most men. Sometimes you milk it in your favor, sometimes it just makes your lunch rise to the back of your throat.

And when you’re by yourself, it’s hot iron, ready to strike. A doe in their headlights, a buck with a nice rack. Skipping through the center of their bullseye.

You bought a little palm-sized bottle for yourself and tucked it safely next to the stolen cash in the abyss of your purse. These tiny cons got you by, made power surge deep in your belly. It made loneliness feel worth it, knowing you had an upper hand to lean on if you were ever in a bind.

He bitched about inflation when you came out with less than was reasonable for the amount you spent, and you just shrugged. Not your cash, not your problem.

You bartered for a ride to the nearest motel, and now Tom-Tim-Jim is asking you over the purr of the engine if you need company for the night.

If you were feeling a little more you, you might’ve taken him up on it. Maybe he would’ve even paid for the room, maybe he wouldn’t get angry like your dad does. Maybe he’d be able to fuck you without hitting you.

You’re good at diffusing the temper in most men, can touch them in ways that make them grit their teeth, can be a good girl and go fetch.

But you’re not in the mood to bend, to give someone’s son — someone’s husband with a tan line around their ring finger — a place to wipe their shoes on. You don’t feel like wiping their dirt, your mascara from your eyes and saying thank you while they zip up their pants.

And you sure as fuck don’t fancy being on a milk carton.

“I’m alright, sugar. Thanks for the ride,” you say, dipping your chin to peer over your sunglasses. “I know where to find you, don’t worry.”

Yeah fuckin’ right.

He doesn’t try to conceal his disappointment, just sucks his teeth and squeezes at the exposed skin of your thigh. His way of saying goodbye to something he could’ve dripped sweat on, came in too early. You think your flesh might rot off in chunks.

You open the door and swing your legs out in a way that’s a little too eager.

Tom-Tim-Jim waves solemnly with two fingers up and two bent, and then he’s gone in an aggressive rev.

The motel might’ve been a kitschy dream in its heyday. It’s not a total dump; more of a vintage skeleton of washed-out pink and umbrellas that’ve been ripped by weather and overuse. There are a million faded emblems of cartoonish palm trees. It’s almost endearing how tragic it is.

You can tell that it was popular and swarming with tourists at one time — there are dusty, water-stained pamphlets lining the wall next to the front desk that brag Named one of Arizona’s top destinations in 1996!

A mounted fan whirs and oscillates, but it might as well be someone blowing hot breath down your neck.

There’s a tired woman holding down the fort at the desk with a name tag that claims Brenda, and she looks surprised to see you. You figure most customers are stopping in for a night’s rest on the way to somewhere more important, their final destination. But you don’t look like you have anywhere better to be.

“Hey, honey,” Brenda trickles, laced with an accent that’s more New Orleans than Arizona. “Need a room?”

“Yeah, just for the night,” you say, fishing out your wallet with confidence that doesn’t meet your eyes. “How much?”

“Forty-five a night, ‘less you wanna upgrade to the honeymoon suite.” She looks somewhere over your shoulder.

That’s nearly everything you have, but it sounds a lot like tomorrow’s problem. At least you’ll be safe tonight from the prowling stares of nighttime predators, and the leftover change will give you a decent vending machine dinner.

“Just a normal room’s fine,” you smile, sliding over the crumpled, stolen fifty.

Brenda types busily on the keyboard, asking for your name but nothing else. And when she hands you a plastic keycard, you finally relax your shoulders. Untangle the nerves in your lower back that are choking one another.

Room 17, it reads. Your oasis awaits!

You thank her, spin on your heel, and immediately bump chest to chest with something hard.

You’re eye level with a worn, cornflower blue t-shirt, ringed with a light stain of sweat at the collar. They’re grasping both of your arms to steady you, and you’re snagging the gaze of a tousled man with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re goin’,” he murmurs, but it isn’t reprimanding or mean like you’re used to, just sickly sweet and Texan. Syrupy in a way that drips right down between your legs.

You don’t remember seeing anyone else in the lot when you’d pulled up. And the stealth of him entering soundlessly behind you sends a jolt of electricity up your spine, the clench of something that would be fear if it were any other stranger.

But he doesn’t look at you with intent to devour or to claim. Just eyes you like you’re anyone else. An equal. The bare minimum, but rare and shiny nonetheless.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he’s releasing you a little too quickly for your liking. Leaving brands on the creases of where your forearms meet upper and elbow.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

So you don’t.

You brush past him on the way out, a polite nod. And that’s that.

The heat is the kind that feels hotter, unbearable when paired with the shrill sing of cicadas. An endless buzzing that you think might be the sun sizzling on the concrete. If you stood in one place for too long, your flip flops might very well melt you in place.

Your room key clicks to unlock Room 17, and you push the door open to a heavy, humid space that smells vaguely of mold. You’re so grateful for the privacy that you can’t even bring yourself to wrinkle your nose.

Flip flops discarded, your toes sink into shag carpet — a dirty luxury that makes you moan. It’s only been two days since you left home, fled home, but it beats sleeping with one eye open on a bus stop bench.

You up-end your leather bag, dumping all of its contents onto the bed. Cigarettes, some loose film canisters, your toothbrush, a lighter. There wasn’t much time to pack, nothing worth bringing, and the less, the better. Nothing to weigh you down if you had to dip at a moment’s notice.

It takes you only a couple minutes and a light sheen of sweat to realize that the A/C is busted. Smothered, you try to crack open a window in the bathroom, but it’s no cooler than the hell you’re standing in.

When you let Brenda know, she just shrugs with an apologetic kind of half-smile.

“Most of ‘em are out these days, honey,” she says, and you decide then that it’s a small price to pay. “We got someone comin’ to look at it next week.”

You shoot her a smile, figure that she’s had enough rotten backtalk in her day. You scoop a set of flamingo-themed matches from the bowl on the counter and turn around, only to see a familiar blue shirt waiting his turn.

His eyes try not to roam, but he’s giving you a nod and stepping up without hesitation, asking Brenda for extra towels.

The way that she titters and blushes, you’d think he’d asked if he could spit in her mouth.

It irritates you, and you can’t say why.

The door chimes behind you as it closes, and you linger, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. When he emerges, a stack of towels so high it’s hitting his chin, you step in stride on the walk back. Tracing his footsteps, catching up with his shadow.

“You followin’ me?” you quip, a cigarette dangling from your mouth. The cherry ignites on every breath, smoke erupting in tendrils that hug each word.

He answers with a laugh, turns and squints back at you with one eye. Almost as if he was expecting you to ask.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Could say the same to you.”

You stop in front of 17, hand over your brow to shield from the sun that’s winding its way down, getting ready to tuck itself in for the night. There’s nothing that touches your tongue that doesn’t sound exactly like a fuck yes. So you don’t say anything.

“Enjoy your sauna,” he chuckles over his shoulder, passing you with his towels on the way to Room 20.

—

Led Zeppelin filters out through the radio, half-static, half-electric. Your legs are crossed in the air behind you, and you’re posted up face down on the bed, kicking along to the beat while you flip through whatever Cosmopolitan someone left behind in a drawer.

Someone raps a few times on the door, and if it’s a repairman, they’re getting their fucking dick sucked.

You army-roll off the flowery duvet, abandoning a how-to on finding your g-spot, and you peer through the peephole.

Your breath hitches on a soft swear.

When you open the door, you see Blue T-Shirt standing there, skin creasing around his eyes slyly. An unopened beer hangs and swings from his restless fingers. He offers it up wordlessly, the butt of it pointed at you.

It’s ice-cold and slippery to the touch, erupting goosebumps on your forearm. Saliva coats your tongue, and you don’t think it’s the thirst for alcohol, but maybe the tall drink of water.

“Um… thanks?”

“Figured you’d either be dead by now or parched,” he says smugly, and it’s velvet to your ears.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks. I got the fan to work at least,” you mutter, jerking your thumb vaguely behind you.

“Listen, uh —”

He’s rubbing the nape of his neck, and you catch the way the network of muscles flex from his elbow to the seam of his armpit. He looks like he’s in pain, struggling with the fit of a puzzle piece into something rough and jagged.

Something he shouldn’t be trying but has to see it through, exhaust it until it’s definite one way or the other.

You just squint, sucking in the corner of your lip between your teeth. You nearly grin, but it’s much more fun to watch than to connect the dots for him.

“A/C works in my room, so ‘f you wanted to… y’know,” he trails off, not even sure in his own offer. “No pressure. It’s hot as hell outside, don’t want you t’get heat stroke ‘f I can help it.”

This kind of approval you like. This kind that sizzles girl-honey between your legs, winning it from a man that’s playing to earn, not to cheat.

“I try not to make a habit out of going into motel rooms of guys I don’t know the names of,” you harp sweetly. But it might as well be a done-deal.

“D’you make a habit outta accepting beers from ‘em?”

You smile. Typically, yes.

“Joel.”

His hand shoots out, strong and suggestive. Fingers like alligator teeth that’ll grip you, hold you under until you thrash.

And you pluck your cigarettes and gifted liquor bottle from the bed, arms full when you carry them down to Joel’s room.

—

You’re sprawled on the full-size bed next to his, head propped up on hand propped up on elbow.

You’ve been trading your little fist of bourbon back and forth, swapping stories in the same way. Somehow, you fall into it easy like old friends, and it’s nice to follow someone’s lead instead of keeping one step, three, seven steps ahead. Arm outstretched to the door knob, feet ready to break into a run at the change in tone, blackening of pupils.

Without meaning to, you’ve wordlessly agreed that the person in possession of the bottle has the proverbial mic, and they swig to help with details and theatrics. It’s counter-productive in flow, but it makes you laugh when Joel exaggerates the story he’s telling on purpose, reaching out to pass it back and suddenly yanking it back, remembering a shade of gray or a funny expression.

Your knuckles keep zapping each other, brushing a little longer than the time before. There’s no numbness to consensual touch.

Joel’s mid-40s. From Texas, like you. He came to visit his daughter Sarah at college, says she’s growin’ up too fast, doesn’t need her old man anymore. It’s a thrill to see someone talk about their own flesh with love, admiration for who she is and who she’s becoming. You find yourself leaning in, enraptured that there are no IOUs or fine-print that you know to come with a parent’s love.

Mentions of his stubborn brother Tommy who he works with and who just can’t stop getting into trouble. The unspoken guilt that maybe he could be the one to keep him out of jail if he tried harder. It doesn’t work that way, and you tell him so.

You tell him about your dad when he asks about your life, your story, and you don’t know why you do but maybe you know exactly why. No one ever gets close enough to ask, so it comes leaking out of the corners of your mouth.

You’ve never told anyone, not even your diary, not even the guidance counselor who slipped a note to your fifth grade teacher and pulled you out of class. Shaky fingers, shaky limbs when they asked if they could roll up your sleeves just to see and you said no.

Crying because you knew your dad wouldn’t let you go back. Not to school, not to your friends.

You omit the nitty-gritty details, but Joel gets the gist. Swigs his share of the liquor a little too angrily with tight lips. Not like your dad does, but you don’t miss the irony of it all.

He holds anger for you, on behalf of you. It simmers as he listens to you in patient silence, coming to a boil at the bad parts when he gets up and starts walking lines in the shitty carpet. Pretending to look outside in interest at his truck parked at the end of the lot, but gripping the curtains until you can see every expanse of bone in his hand.

You don’t need this from him. It’s a hurt you’ve wedged between the pages of a book and doused in flames of acceptance long ago. But it spreads from your toes to your ears, the burn of someone feeling like this. For someone like you.

He finally settles down in an armchair by the window, a funny corduroy thing that would probably light up under a blacklight on one of those crime shows. Legs parted, a warm stare on the way you take up space on the bed. Facing him comfortably, your vision buzzing around the edges. A loose smile shared as if this room was meant for the two of you all along.

“So, what’s your plan?” Joel’s humming, his words getting lost in an echo of the bottle neck.

You don’t have one. Can’t have one when you have nowhere to go but gone.

It stretches on and on between you — a mouth opened and closed too many times on possibilities. If you admit to it, you end up with pity or an upper hand dealt to a stranger. You can’t afford to owe anyone a favor, nor can you front the cost of needing one.

But you’re so tired.

“Dunno. I’ll figure it out.”

“You got enough time for that?”

And you know what he means. Enough time in the motel, enough time before you’re a thief at wit’s end, doing anything for survival. He doesn’t need to ask to know you don’t have a destination, some relative waiting for you in a California dream.

You’ve excused yourself to the bathroom, soft radio bleeding in under the door, arms braced on the sink, all glossy eyes.

You want him, bad. But he won’t make the first move, won’t take advantage of what isn’t his and what others before him took without asking. You’re a pawn, entitled to the first move. The rejection would kill you, but not knowing would be worse.

He could hold you soft, give you something to think about when tomorrow rips you both in opposite directions.

When you pull open the door, Joel’s frozen in mid-stride towards you, like he’s just made up his mind about something.

He straightens but he’s still. Afraid of moving too fast, saying too much, scaring you into flight. Out of the unlocked cage of his room — something he did on purpose, because he doesn’t expect anything from you and wants you to know he doesn’t.

You meet him in his dusty shag quicksand. You take his wrist in your hand, kiss the thrum of life in the dip where veins meet palm. An offering.

Joel looks like he’s in pain, like what you’re doing is excruciating and thorny. The front of his jeans strains. He’s searching you for any hesitation, any obligation because he did something kind. He knows what currency you feel the need to pay in, and this isn’t that.

“Please,” you whisper simply. And he nods, accepting, succumbing.

There’s a careful meeting of lips, wanting to do it the right way, in the right order. When you push your tongue in, used to the pace of animals, he just holds your face and slows you down. It’s languid, his mouth showing you what sweet and gentle can taste like. Your tongues take their time, and your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, all ribbed muscle with a sprinkling of hair.

He shudders against the lightness of your feather-fingers.

Joel’s hands are peeling your shirt off, his thumbs resting to press against pillowy hips. He’s not letting your lips go, something like impatience stirring in you.

Doesn’t he want to fuck you hard? Fuck you fast and selfish?

Isn’t there a catch?

He’s taking his shirt off now, up and over. Carved by Michaelangelo, thrown up on a ceiling in a library book you read once. You’re touching him in reverence, but not letting yourself learn too much of him.

His eyes are molten. Joel walks you back to the edge of the bed, scratchy quilt tickling your thighs when you fall back on it. You start to pose yourself, angles that make you look more desirable, pliable. But he’s not paying attention to that, just unbuttoning your shorts, kissing the jut of every curve and permeating down to the bone, punching out a soft groan when he slides the denim off and sees the shining ambrosia that’s waiting.

He’s kneeling, tugging you down to meet his waiting mouth. And you’re just breathless, flinching when he pulls you apart, guiding your legs over his shoulders and wasting no time devouring you. Your legs, his bib.

Joel’s tongue flicks through the shell of you, teasing you in alternates of quick and slow, starving and full. It feels like a slice of heaven.

You pitch out a tangled gasp, hands instinctively moving to knot in his hair. Anything to hold onto, a different kind of grounding.

“So wet f’me,” he vibrates lowly into you, all husk. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

He sinks a middle finger into you, and you’re keening, hips canting and unable to stay glued to the mattress. You feel him smile against your cunt, just pressing his forearm across your lower half to keep you still.

Joel’s twisting and working into you, onto you, and you’re so fucking close from just this — a tiptoeing to the edge that grows longer, more erratic in stride. He sucks your clit — pulsing sensitive, so swollen — into his mouth and grazes it with the tip of his tongue just so. Baring his incisors and closing around you in a delicious scrape like a Venus flytrap taking its meal.

You think you see God behind the flutter of your eyes.

You’re close enough to warn him, to rasp it out in the symphony of moans. His free hand reaches up to roll your peaked nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and he stretches you with an added ring finger. You’re writhing. Possessed.

He’s watching you through thick lashes. Letting your heels dig into his shoulders as the drenched sounds of you fill the room.

“Joel, please — I’m gonna —”

“C��mon, pretty girl,” he just murmurs.

You feel that little pull at your navel.

And you’re tipping in a freefall, seeing stars. You clench down around his fingers, fingers that are still pumping against that spongy spot deep inside you. Your arousal gushes, wet and sticky against the scrape of his beard. He laps you up, the sight making heat creep up your chest and wrap around your neck.

When he lifts his head, he’s high on it. Pupils dilated like tiny, round moons. Your orgasm glistens on him, smeared over lips and chin. The fur of a peach peeled back far enough to sink teeth into.

It’s fucking filthy.

Joel places open-mouthed kisses from your hip up to the center of your breasts, a trail of your orgasm shiny on your skin in perfect, sloppy Os. His breath meets your throat where he nips at you, and you don’t have time to drag in a breath before you’re tasting the saltiness of yourself on his tongue.

Your fingers fumble on his belt, practiced with years of releasing the tension on the metal prongs, the slithering sound whooshing from the loops of pants. You’re good at it, like you used to be good at gymnastics until your mom stopped getting out of bed to drive you.

There was always a little gold for contorting your body.

He detaches from you unwillingly, putting all of his weight on his knees and shins as he straddles the space of your thighs.

You’re pulling yourself up in a sitting position, pushing denim and boxers down past his hips. Letting his cock spring free, the head a dark pink and beaded with precum. You swipe the flat of your tongue against it, peeking up at him while you soak up the taste of it.

When you push the length of him into your mouth, ridged hard with veins, Joel tips his head back, chin to the ceiling. He groans something brutish yet helpless, cradling the back of your head. You’re seated in the driver’s seat, all control.

It’s new, different.

But then he’s moving his hips back, pulling himself from your mouth, wiping the saliva from your chin with a steady thumb.

“Don’t need t’do that,” Joel whispers hoarsely. “Not ‘f you don’t want to.”

Confused, you knit your brows. He laughs darkly, shaking his head.

“Didn’t mean it like that, it’s — it feels fuckin’ good,” he says, awestruck. “Would just rather make you feel good instead.”

Oh.

He doesn’t wait for an answer or a negotiation. The rest of his clothes pool on the floor in a pile, and he’s climbing back over you, an anchor or a buoy in a storm.

He lines himself up at the seam of you, puffy and so wet from before, nudging the tip of his cock at your warm center. A thumb coaxing the bud at the apex of you in lazy circles.

Joel’s sliding in slowly by each inch, filling you full until there’s nothing left and his patch of hair prickles the pearl of your clit. All you can do is whine and tense around him.

He’s resting tentative hands on either side of your face, indenting the weak mattress with handprints. He groans, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give in when you try to rock against him.

“This alright?”

You’ve forgotten how to do anything, hoping that digging your fingertips into his forearms is communication enough.

“I’m gonna need a yes, baby.”

You feel around in the dark for the tether back to your body, and it jerks you like a marionette, giving him a nod.

“Yes. Fuck.”

That’s enough. He’s rewarding you with a roll of his hips, and you feel like you’re on fire. It’s a stuttering, painfully slow pace at first, his mouth so close to your ear that every grunt is amplified. But it evolves into something eager, unsatiated, snapping up into you with a relentless sort of fucking.

He’s hitting that place so deep within you, letting you unravel and grow hoarse from the moans tearing their way up your throat. That pressure is roiling, the kind that you get only when you touch yourself but intensified by a million.

It just feels so right, because there’s nothing to prove.

You’re ships passing in the night, strangers making a pit-stop on the way to nowhere. There’s no backstory, no history to make mention of. No shame in the morning when he inevitably rolls over and pretends to be asleep, and you scrub off the smell of him with your provided travel-size shampoo.

It’s not love, but it might be the closest you ever get.

The glow of him above you, a deity with his face screwed in agony. Chasing after you when he feels the tightening of your cunt, the easy glide of every thrust that tells him you’re close.

Then, you’re snapping like a rubber band. Gushing in a dripping mess that trickles to where your ass meets thigh. Crying without tears, overstimulated but blissful. Joel is quick to follow, like he’s been waiting his turn.

He’s trembling, emptying inside you in a warm flood. Groaning low and beautiful, gripping your hips to keep you flush to him.

When pulls out, tearing himself away, he’s slinging an arm over his eyes on the pillow beside yours. One hand on your leg to make sure you don’t go anywhere.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him mutter.

At some point you drift off, his arm draped over you. You open a bleary eye to a neon 2:49AM that casts a halo over the nightstand. Joel’s tucked you in, the thin duvet snug up to your shoulder. He’s not snoring but not not snoring, just breath getting caught in his throat in a satisfied, well-spent way.

It’s all too much, too pure to be real.

Before you let yourself change your mind, you slink out from under the warmth of your generous stranger. You step in your shorts one foot at a time, tugging them up gelatin legs too springy from coiling and uncoiling.

You promise yourself that you’ll take just one mental picture as a keepsake, and it’s this. A sleepy Joel who will be well on his way to a second cup of coffee on the way out of Arizona, maybe even nursing a little headache behind his right eye. And he’ll remember an apparition of some girl he fucked in a motel. The touristy thing to do, a sight to see.

He might even tell Tommy, say you were a crazy little thing with too much baggage, but it was fun to stay up past his bedtime.

You don’t mean to do it, really you don’t, but you flip through his wallet that lays innocently on top of the TV.

If you take a little something, that’ll turn this into another one of your stories that you tell your kids born from a loveless marriage somewhere in the crevices of a future from now. It won’t pull on the tendons of your heart.

And it won’t mean anything. You won’t let it.

—

The next morning, there’s a soft knock at the door, and it’s probably housekeeping kicking you out for overstaying your welcome. Time to turn down the bed for the next lost soul. You imagine Joel’s long gone, hopped in his truck and back to a reality you’ll never meet him in.

Your fingers are slow to gather up your purse, and you’re shoving your toothbrush in from its place on the sink.

“I’ll be out in a second!” you yell in a voice that reeks of years of diner-flavored customer service.

More persistent knocking that borders on pounding. It shakes the chain in the deadbolt.

You’re yanking open the door, and there’s Joel, white shirt and jeans. And it isn’t that cushion of admiration from last night, no greeting with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Just a wolf coming to claim his continental breakfast.

Fuck.

You try to shut the door, suddenly too ashamed of what you’ve done, and to someone undeserving. Someone that showed you kindness, empathy.

But his boot catches the door before it can close, and he’s inside, slicing through the space between you. It’s not quite anger, but it’s shadowy. Sardonic.

Your shoulder blades kiss the cheap wallpaper.

“You’re real funny, y’know that?” he starts, and he’s smiling but not really.

Shrinking small, so small that maybe you’ll disappear.

There’s a tick of silence. His thumb skates to your collarbone and then to the hollow at the base of your throat. He wants to squeeze but he doesn’t, his fingers wrapping loosely around the column to fix you there. Heat creeps up the back of your neck into your hairline.

The instinct to flinch bubbles up against your joints, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Y’think you can fuck me,” he muses, disgustingly deadpan, “‘n steal from me.”

Dread weighs heavy like lead in your stomach. You can’t stop yourself from shaking your head, still playing dumb.

He bristles at that, thunderous. You both know it’s a lie; you’re a hundred dollars richer than you were last night. His fingers briefly flex around you in a way that you’ve seen before, and horror hits a fever pitch in you.

Tears prick your eyes, and you’re putting your palms on his chest and shoving, but he doesn’t give. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and all that.

It’s not so much the blaring punctuation in a sentence, the ticking of dynamite ready to blow. He’s confronting you with proximity, with your own dishonesty. Wanting to shake you and tell you that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Joel just leans in closer, almost grazing noses. You try to breathe around the lump of panic.

“The hell’s the matter with you?”

It’s disbelief, it’s hurt. In the same way, it’s understanding, incredulous. It’s him stepping back and loosening the hold around your neck like no one’s ever done; it’s softening and imploring.

He’s shoving his hands in his pockets, guilty and recoiling. Sorry he could even make himself look like one of them — a forced penance in the flesh.

There’s no answer that can justify what you did. Nothing simple about nothing personal. But truly… that’s all it was. A pie wafting steam on an open windowsill. Something to make you feel better about the void he’d leave.

“‘F you needed money, you coulda just asked.”

He’s disappointed, desperate. In a tone that really says, I would’ve done anything you wanted.

A dam inside you gives, crumbling deep at the foundation and knocking the walls down around you. Words don’t come, but you shove your hand in blind into your bag, pulling out the loose bill and extending it.

Joel sees the regretful offering and your heart with x-ray vision. That you think of yourself as a doll, less valuable without her box. Used without tags. Free to a good home.

He shakes his head, the softness of a keep it barely peeking out of his mouth.

You’re skinning yourself raw, wanting another way out but having none. With half a mind to say that the next night could come with fangs.

You feel the stab of relief, and shame. So much shame.

Like a soothsayer, he foresees the coldness of a bench, the shrinking of you into the safety of an alley.

You drop to your knees in exaltation, thinking you know what’ll fix this. You can’t see through the watercolor blur of your tears, but you touch his belt with fingers that are cold to the tips.

But Joel knows what you’re doing, shaking his head no no no.

He won’t let you do it like this. He drags you up gently by the elbows. Pulls you into his chest, says stop stop stop. Kisses your hair, then your lips. You cry until he can taste the tears, until the front of his shirt is damp.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp out roughly. “I’m so sorry.”

He tells you to never say sorry to him again.

—

Joel pays for a room for two more nights, but only one — his with the working A/C.

You move your toothbrush and your bag over to Room 20.

You go to the pool, swimming laps around him in a tank top and your cherry-embroidered underwear, squealing and splashing in a flail when he swims underneath your legs and stands up to hold you on his tan shoulders.

Sunscreen streaks greasy on your stomach when you lay out together on the loungers after. Joel likes a cat-nap with his face under a towel, grumpy and tired from the sun. But he never snaps at you, never gets impatient when you ask too many questions while he’s dozing off.

You learn the pinched expression he makes just before he comes. That his right palm has hundreds of lines you can see best by lamplight. He misses the noise of Sarah in his house, of sharing the coffee pot with someone. He doesn’t like the small piling of toast crumbs left only by him on the kitchen table.

He learns that you apologize for wet, clean hair on his pillowcase, for laughing too loud. Things that don’t need a sorry. A collection of oversaturated manners that might take time to unlearn, but he promises to teach you.

He learns that you approach an orgasm with tentative toes in cold water, almost unbelieving that sex can give, give, give instead of take, take, take. He learns that you like the meeting of eyes when he’s buried between your legs, pushing your thighs apart to keep from suffocating. That when he does let you get on your knees for him, you know just the spot to caress with your tongue on the underside of his cock.

Joel’s belt is snaked under your stomach, across your hips, fists intertwined in the leather as he pulls you back, slams himself forward. It bites and creates indents in your flesh, and you don’t care. He gives you marks to love, to admire in your reflection, never ones that are ugly. Never ones out of hate over spilled milk.

There’s a dirty slap of skin, growing louder, competing with your moans. Your nails are tearing into the cheap sheets, and Joel’s so close but won’t come until he coaxes another out of you. A grand total of at least four by now, but you’ve lost count.

At long last, you splinter around him. Pitching off the cliff in a cry. Joel’s leaning — his chest, your back — and spilling deep, holding onto you for dear life. You hear him whimper in a strangle. Big, tough game that’s been taken down with an arrow in his chest.

Hot tears are flowing out of you, stuttering sobs close to follow, and Joel pulls out slowly. Seems to know why. And he rolls you over, into him, hand careful in slow strokes against your hair.

You’ve never been good at goodbyes. Maybe that’s what this is.

Men like to say that women like you are insane, too analytical, too tear-streaked, too conscious of the way they look when they sleep. Because waking up with your mouth open, a drying corner of drool threatening your cheek is too human, not pretty.

Sometimes women like you are dead, rotting pomegranate flesh. Long forgotten in decay on the ground when the weight became too heavy to hold yourself up. And those men pick up your seeds and shove them squelching back into places where they don’t fit.

The winters come bitter and harsh, but you’re always reborn in the spring. And without fail, you grow back fiercely into a tree reminiscent of Eden, low-hanging apples plucked and bruised and bitten into once and spit out in tart disgust.

Women like you choke men like this with your pits, strangle them with vines, poison them with berries. They can consume, but so can you.

But then, in the ripe, cool shade of summer, you’ll have a visitor like Joel that will come with a basket and a blanket and they’ll stay and read books beneath you. They’ll enjoy your fruit, you’ll drip from their mouth and dry tacky like flypaper, and they won’t be able to imagine a day before you.

They’ll collect all the pieces of you on a Tuesday morning and give you change to get a Coke after checkout. They’ll tuck you into the front seat of their truck, let you put your feet up on the dash, hand protective and calm on your thigh while the other steers you both back to Texas. A new home without shouting and bottles thrown.

And they’ll stay through every season.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us au #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #fire walk #my writing #joel miller one shot #motherofagony

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cassiefromhell · 1 year ago

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The Game

Nanami x Wife!Reader

wc: 2.7k

warnings: f!reader, mdni/18+, smut, teasing, ROUGH, manhandling, gentle choking, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering a/n: this is a combination of my reaction to the latest jjk ep and a general need for manhandling nanami.

You know exactly what is coming for you.

You can feel his eyes on you from across the room. Watching you.

Watching his pretty little wife play games that she’d lose.

Because you have one goal in mind: piss off your husband, Nanami Kento.

Which is not an easy task. But you had pissed him off once before, a few weeks ago, and had been insatiably craving more. His reaction that night was… his hands in your hair, throwing you back against the bed, the words out of his mouth—

You can’t help but blush a little at the memories that flood your head now, as you speak to a man twice your age at this party. You know this man thinks he has a chance with you. He came up to you earlier, and is now flirting with you relentlessly, seeming blind to the ring on your marriage finger which marks you as claimed.

You giggle a little at something he says, taking your poker and stabbing at the fire. You sip the glass of wine in your hands. There’s no need to look over your shoulder to confirm; Kento is most decidedly watching you.

And that fire? It’s growing.

You can feel the way your white silk mini dress has ridden up your thighs a little, but you don’t do anything to fix it, no matter how much the skin on the back of your thighs sizzles and sears under his scorched gaze.

All it takes is for the man to reach out, try to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, and the flame explodes.

Hands are on your waist in an instant, a cotton-covered, firm chest pressed against your back. You know that chest. Those hands.

“I think it’s time for us to get going, don’t you think, dear?” Kento grits out, his thumbs digging into your skin. A warning.

“Oh,” you pout, turning your head to look up at him. You’re met with a hard-set jaw and cold eyes, as your husband stares down the inferior man who got a centimeter too close. “But it’s raining. We’ll have to wait for it to slow down a bit, or have a valet bring the car around, we’re parked a block away—”

“We’ll walk. Goodbye,” he flashes the tightest, fakest smile you’ve ever seen, and then turns you towards the elevator, pushing you in that direction.

And what choice do you have? You half walk, half stumble forward, his hands never faltering in their iron grip the whole walk over. He stops you in front of the elevator.

“Button,” he commands, jerking his chin towards the panel with two buttons, one an up arrow and the other down.

“Why do I have to do it?”

“It seems that if I let you go for half a second, you’ll run off and let yourself get eye-fucked by a nobody in a cheap suit. Button,” he growls, his hands tightening their grip, causing your sides to protest.

You whimper softly, reaching out and pressing the down button. It glows a soft blue, and you tilt your head to the side, gazing up at your angry, blond man. “What’s got you in such a frenzy? I was socializing—”

He scoffs. “Socializing. Sure. I know the game you’re playing, and might I remind you that it’s a game you can’t win, darling.”

You swallow hard, fighting back a flinch as the elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

Empty.

Kento shuffles you both inside, and holds the ‘close doors’ button so hard that you’re afraid it might actually crack.

The elevator doors slide closed, and he releases you, taking two steps back.

Suddenly, the air is so thick that you can hardly breathe, and the thought of the fingerprint bruises he’s likely left on you fills your head.

“Ke—”

“No. No more words from you,” he spits out, practically punching the ground floor button.

You pout, and take a step towards him. “‘Nam, c’mon,” you poke that damned fire again, just waiting for it to burn you.

And it does.

His arm snaps out, his hand gripping your chin, tilting your head up. “I said, quiet.”

That sharp anger in his eyes makes your stomach flutter, abdomen tensing. You bite your bottom lip, and try your luck. “You’re a little angry, huh?”

Your back is against the wall before you can even process what’s happened, before you recognize that he’s shoved you into the corner of the elevator, one hand gripping your neck and the other pressed firmly against your hip, keeping you in place. His body is fully pressed to yours, and the straining bulge you feel is unmistakable.

“Angry? You have no idea,” he says, his voice having dropped to an eerily calm tone. “I want to throw you onto the ground of this damned elevator and make you suck me off right here, right now. I want to fuck your throat, and then that kinky little cunt of yours, until you are sobbing and begging me to stop.”

Your breath catches in your throat— no, it completely stops. You’re no longer breathing.

“Then do it.”

He gives a breathy chuckle, suddenly spinning you around, a hand knotting in your hair and shoving your cheek against the wall. And then he leans down, presses his lips against your ear, and…

“No. You’d like that too much.”

You whine, straining against his grip on you. Kento is usually ever the gentleman, the perfect white picket fence husband. He brings you roses each Friday and a piece of your favorite cake every Tuesday, and fucks the shit out of you each day when he returns from missions. But he’s so… polite, all the time, his touch gentle and his voice soft. He’s the type to rest his hand on your thigh while he drives, and carry you bridal style into the house.

But this Kento… This Kento is the reason you’re trying to piss him off. Because you unlocked the manhandling, relentless Kento once, and now can’t get enough of it.

Suddenly, the hand on your neck drops down, down, down to your thighs, and then up under your skirt. Kento’s fingers ghost over your bare pussy, straight up laughing when he realizes you’re wearing no underwear. But the laughter is harsh, and sends shivers down your spine.

“You really planned this, didn’t you dear.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Can you blame me?” You murmur, trying to grind down on his hand, the hand which is now cupping your dripping cunt, the heel of his hand juuuust below your clit. “Please.”

“We’re almost on our floor,” Kento suddenly releases you, fixing your dress with a soft touch and taking two steps back.

You open your mouth to complain, but right on cue, the elevator doors slide open. Kento presses a hand against the small of your back, forcibly guiding you out of the elevator, and across the plaza, out to the main doors.

Where it’s pouring.

You pause outside the glass doors, crossing your arms across your chest. “No. It’s pouring.”

Kento sighs, but looks you over, and realizes it at the same moment as you do; you’re wearing white.

And Kento is a gentleman.

“I’ll bring the car around. You stay right here, you understand me?”

You nod, and he’s out the doors in an instant.

You find yourself shifting on your feet as you wait, your heels really starting to do a number on you. You keep fixing your dress, trying to ignore how you’re wetter than the rain outside.

Your feet have not moved an inch when your familiar white BMW M8 pulls up to the doors, and your husband gets out of the driver's seat, umbrella in hand.

And he is soaking wet.

His blue shirt sticks to his chest, not hiding any of the rippling muscle along his entire torso. He’s discarded his gray suit jacket, but the pants have darkened a shade due to the rain. His hair sticks to his face, blond locks drenched.

You can’t help the blush that rises to your cheeks when you realize how close you are to being able to make out his dick print, and that only worsens when he walks through those doors, headed straight for you.

“I didn’t move,” you murmur as he takes your arm, gripping your bicep tightly and heading for the exit once more.

“That earns you no brownie points tonight.”

Kento opens the umbrella as he drags you outside, holding it over your head. Not a drop of water hits you as he escorts you to the car, and then opens the door to the back seat.

You raise a brow. “Backseat?”

“So you can’t touch me,” he replies, and then promptly sweeps your feet out from under you, catches you, and tosses you into the back seat.

You yelp as your back hits the leather, and the door is closed immediately. Kento is in the driver’s seat before you can blink, staring at you in the rear view mirror.

You buckle yourself up, and he seems satisfied, putting the car into drive and pulling out of the parking lot at a speed that’s probably too fast.

You chew your bottom lip, watching his hair drip onto his face, watching his hands white-knuckle the steering wheel, watching his foot press the accelerator.

“You’ll catch a cold,” you murmur, leaning forward and running a hand over his hair, trying to squeeze some of the water out.

His hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your fingers away from his head. “No touching.”

You pout, unbuckling yourself and scooting forward, pressing your face against his neck. “Kentoooo…”

You feel the change in his demeanor immediately. He tenses, and reaches back to grip your hair, yanking your head away from him.

“That’s it,” he hisses, and pulls the car into an empty parking lot, putting it in park.

He’s out of the driver’s seat instantly, coming around to the back, and climbing into the back seat.

You have to fight back your victorious grin, but he doesn’t have the same plans as you do, because he grabs you, and pulls you out of the car and into the rain.

“Kento—”

His mouth crashes into yours, and he grabs your chin tightly, his other hand holding your waist to his. You whimper into his mouth, trying to ignore the cold rainwater that’s certainly making your white dress translucent.

He pulls away just when you begin to shiver, then drags you around the car, putting you into the passenger seat and slamming the door. He appears back in the driver’s seat in an instant, his jaw once again set and eyes cold as ice.

“What happened to the no touching rule?” You grin, kicking off your heels.

“Better idea.”

He pulls back onto the road, eyes staying on the path ahead, all while his hand starts to make its way under your skirt.

You realize what he’s doing just as a finger plunges into you, sliding easily with your wetness. You groan loudly, whimpering as his thumb grazes your clit.

He slides in a second finger, and starts pulling them out and pushing them back in, all while stimulating your clit.

It hardly takes any time at all for you to be whimpering and grinding against his hand, gripping the door for support and leverage.

With a few more strokes and swipes of his thumb, that coil in your abdomen begins to tighten, your cunt clenching around his fingers. “Ah— oh, shit…”

Kento withdraws his hand, and you open your mouth to protest, then realize he’s pulled the car into your garage, and is putting it in park.

And he presses the garage door closing button.

And then waits, both hands on the steering wheel, as the garage door closes.

The second that the concrete meets the door, Kento turns his head to look at you, all needy and desperate with pleas begging to escape your lips.

“You really want me to be rough with you?” he asks, his brows stitched together in concern.

“Wherever would you have gotten that impression?” you drone, raising a brow sarcastically. “I want to get the ever-loving shit fucked out of me.”

“You want to be hurt?”

“A little. I liked last time,” you murmur, allowing your mind to slip back a little bit, back to that night that had left you both bruised and begging for more.

“There are better ways to go about this than pissing me off,” your husband narrows his eyes, jaw clenching.

“This is the authentic way.”

“You’re spoiled, you know that?”

“You’re hard as fuck, you feel that?” your eyes flick to the bulge under his pants zipper.

That’s enough to send Kento flying out of the car, and before you know it, he’s opening your door, dragging you out by your bicep.

You yelp, stumbling forward as his grip on you — which is covered in your slick — remains firm. He pulls you into the house, and your back is pressed against a wall immediately, his mouth on yours, hand around your throat.

Kento pulls you up the wall, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, grinding your aching cunt against his shirt. He roots his fingers in your hair, tugging just enough to be a bit painful.

Clearly he’s done waiting, because his dick is out within seconds, and he’s pulling up your dress. You whimper once the fabric is bunched up around your waist, gripping his shoulders.

“Please…”

“You think that’s enough?” he scoffs, tugging your hair and tilting your head back. “You flirt with another man, nearly let him touch you, act like a brat, and you expect me to just give it to you?” Nevertheless, he presses the tip of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with the slightest bit of pressure.

“Fuck—” you whine, groaning softly. The hand holding you up digs into your skin. “I’ll be good— jesus, please. I need you.”

Kento slaps your ass, and then thrusts nearly his entire thick length in at once, causing you to cry out, tears coming to your eyes. He immediately starts a bruising pace, fucking you into the wall so god damn hard that a picture frame nearby rattles.

You whimper as his cock reaches that sweet spot once— and then again, and again, until you’re matching each thrust with a tilt of your hips and a moan.

“Fuck— there you go, baby,” he grits out, yanking on your hair. “Take it all.”

That familiar cool begins to tighten, your abdomen tensing as he picks up his pace even more, and you wonder how it’s possible — untll you look down and realize he’s using the tiniest bit of cursed energy to fuck the actual shit out of you.

“Cum for me, come on. You wanted this so bad, so cum on my dick.”

And that’s enough to send you tumbling over the edge, stars flooding your vision and a long string of curses leaving your lips like a prayer.

His thrusts grow a little sloppier, and he spills himself into you with a hiss, leaving little nips along your jawline.

“I’m not close to being done with you, just as a fair warning,” he growls, and then tosses you over his shoulder.

At this point, you’re half dead.

But also half alive, kept awake by Kento’s hands rubbing circles along your skin, the bubbly bath water tickling your breasts.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to a bruise on your shoulder.

You give a half-babbled response, leaning into his warmth more.

“Full sentences, please.”

“Mm.. I love you,” you manage, turning to face him. You press your face into his neck and inhale his scent.

“I love you too.”

A long pause comes, with Kento just rubbing circles into your bruised sides. Then, he speaks.

“Now, what did we learn?”

“That pissing off the husband results in mind-blowing sex.”

He draws a sharp breath in, and smacks your shoulder gently. “No, no. We learned that we don’t have to piss the husband off, we just have to use our words and plan a date for these things.”

“That’s not very authentic.”

“Do I have a shot at winning this?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Alright.”

#nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami x reader #jujutsu nanami #nanami x wife!reader #smut #jjk smut #nanami smut #nanami kento smut #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami #f!reader #second person #cassiefromhell

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anadiasmount · 11 months ago

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Omg fake dating thrope +enemies to loverswith jude. Maybe you're both celebrities or you're a girl he knows but he needs a date to somewhere and you know

gonna use this next time i write a fic bc it’s actually one of my fav tropes/ plots… 😵‍💫😵‍💫

since we know he ‘good’ at pool, the bet is placed after the two of you kept disagreeing who was better and throwing words back and forth. but something about him looking angry, brows pulled in, eyes squinted, lips plump, just turns you on… but you would never admit to anyone…

for some ironic reason, he wins the long game of pool, that lasted for an hour. that hour where intense glances were shared, a game of determination, fury built in you as you watch the black ball roll perfectly into the slot. you stood up straighter hugging the pole tightly as he came behind you and whispered into your ear.

“keep your phone nearby. i’ll give you a call when i need you…”

you couldn’t understand why you hated him so much. maybe bc of your first interaction where he embarrassed you? maybe it was bc he acted the way he acted when he was around people that were no good for him. why he always seemed to target you to release all frustration’s. why he seemed to the first person ever in your life you questioned how you were as a friend?

you never once questioned how you treated others. but he made you question a lot just by breathing the same around around him. the tense air.

you heard him brag and nonchalantly spoke about him winning the golden boy award. that cocky smirk, arms crossed along his chest. his friends praising him while all he did was stick his tongue on the inside of his cheek and nod to all the compliments.

“what a fucking ego he has,” you said frustrated and downing a double shot in a glass. “it’s just men being men,” your friend cut in, glancing at her phone and updating you with the plans the girls had made to which you quickly agreed to, grabbing your bag and walking to the door.

“hey hey hey. where you going?” you turned confused, rolling your eyes when catching the voice. “we’re headed out. different plans,” your fiend responded avoiding hearing an arguement.

“can you tell her she’s my date to the golden boy awards? that she has to packed and ready to go by sunday night?” jude says in a taunting voice. your eyes twitch and mouth opens in disbelief when your eyes connect, scoffing at his childish manner.

“can you please tell him, that i won’t go. that i refuse to spend a whole night dedicated to him?” you turn to your friend who stares back and forth between you and jude nervously. jude laughs loudly and cocks his head to the side.

“sorry you’re not at my level sweetheart, anyone would kill to be where i am. but you still owe me a bet remember?” he said seriously, stepping closer to you. he noticed the way your nostrils slightly flare and you jaw clenches. “ok ok, we’re gonna head out now. she’ll wait for your text about the trip details…”

your friend pulled you back, before the two of you could start screaming, but your eyes were directly on his. watching his angry gaze turn soft. “have a good night,” you spit out.

you made a promise to yourself that you would speak to him when he did first. you wanted to avoid any alterations or him in general. but that quickly became harder as he kept speaking to you. maybe he was just trying to annoy you, or just wanted to make communication.

for some reason this felt different. the air shared between you wasn’t no longer tense, instead it felt lost. you saw him differently, you don’t know what changed but you couldn’t even stare at his eyes without getting intimidated or shy.

when he spoke your gaze remained on your lap or outside the window of the plane. you felt nervous to speak or to reply, your heart warmed at him, his voice, his face. you suddenly felt butterflies, the feeling of wanting to be loved…

jude couldn’t offer you that. he can’t give you what you want. jude doesn’t do relationships or love. he’s doing this because of a stupid bet the two of you agreed to. jude doesn’t feel the same way you do. jude hates you. your eyes flutter when he called your attention, breaking your daydream.

“sorry… uhm… what we’re you saying?,” you side eyed him, catching a glimpse of his confused and worried features. “are you okay? i asked if you wanted anything to eat or drink…” you couldn’t tell but jude’s voice was laced with worry.

“i’m okay. and no i’m fine for the moment,” you give him a small smile and direct your gaze to the small TV in front of you. “you’re quiet… you’re not you?” jude says, his heart now warm and with ache when you couldn’t meet his gaze. he wanted you to look at him, to see your eyes, your smile, the small beauty marks he so badly wanted to kiss.

“just want to avoid any unnecessary arguments… it’s your night after all… the last i would want is for your night to go terribly thanks to our temper,” your lips purse. “i’m confused why you brought me…” your tone was insecure, jude having to resist to reach over and take your insecurities away.

“oh.” jude wanted to smack his forehead, but he was scared to spilling his true feelings for you.

oh was all he said for the rest of the flight and ride to the hotel where the two of you began to get ready. you hated feeling something for someone you know doesn’t feel the same way. why were you this vulnerable? why did your feelings towards him have to change? why couldn’t he like even more so tolerate you?

the elevator ride down to the lobby was awkward. jude discreetly stared at you fixing your lipstick and hair in the mirror inside the elevator. butterflies invading his chest at his sight. your body beautifully carved in the black matching dress to his tux.

he couldn’t stand it no longer, especially when you bit your lip anxiously. “y/n… look at me…” his calloused hand tilted your chin to look up at him. “i feel more than honored and lucky to have you here… you look absolutely gorgeous…” he saw your iris dilate at his words. he leaned down but before your lips could touch the elevator doors opened.

you cleared your throat and swallowed the urge to pull him into a kiss. instead greeting his mother and father with a hug. “this is my gf, mom i’ve told you about her but dad here’s the girl i was telling you about on the plane.”

“it’s a pleasure to meet you. it’s also nice to put a face on the other women who keeps our jude in check,” his dad joked making you laugh, and stare at jude who had a loving look on his face. “shall we go?”

you closed your hotel room door abruptly. you expected this night to go terribly, filled with insults and comments, being caught with the lie you weren’t his real gf, but it was the opposite. the night couldn’t have gotten better, you getting along with his parents, being suddenly happy and proud for the man you thought you disliked.

you ran your head stressed along your forehead, a hand coming to your throat to hold back your tears, and massage the lump. “y/n? open the door…” you gasped taking small steps back but then opening the door where jude came inside. “i wanted to thank you. i know this was a huge favor, but i really wanted you here…”

“jude what? what are you-”

“i told myself i couldn’t fall for someone like you, that it would be a forbidden sin. that i shouldn’t think of giving my entire life to you, devoting myself to you. that it would be a jeopardy, because i thought you hated me…” jude said stepping closer to you where you backed into the dresser.

“but i can see that’s no longer the same. bc you feel exactly the way i feel,” he grabs your palm and places it directly on his heart. “my heart beats faster when i’m with you. i smile only with you. i hate thinking of the fact another man touching you… let alone talking to you… i envy that because it should be me, loving you unconditionally…”

“love is the weirdest thing to exist… but if it’s with you jude, i promise to love you unconditionally…” you say breathless, tracing his cheeks and lips with your thumb. “is that a pinky promise?” he says with a cheesy smile to which you nod.

“in that case, i promise to give you my all and be the man you deserve. because i love you unconditionally already…” he wasted no time capturing your red stained lips with his, a sigh of relief to finally have you. to taste you. to kiss you. his hand remained tugging on your hair as the kiss grew passionate and messy.

he kissed every beauty mark “i love you”, kissing down to your jaw “i love you so much”. your pulse where he sucked on the skin and hearing you whimper, “i love you and only you y/n.”

#judey thoughts 5️⃣#jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham blurb

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isaut · 8 months ago

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𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔, 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓— f!reader x captain rex. 11.1k. ao3

you meet rex on a friday night in a bar. it's the start of a whole lot of coincidences. next. masterlist.

It’s a warm, spring night. The first warm night of the season. The sun still sets early, still leaves the evening blanketed, tucked in. In celebration of the weather’s grace, grace had been extended to the 501st. A night off. A night in their blacks, suits tucked away on their ship.

Naboo’s streets are lined with lamps encased in glass and iron. Intricate designs, ones that were hammered out by grizzled, loving hands generations ago. The streets are cobblestone, not dirt nor concrete. They’re slightly uneven, mined from below the planet’s surface. The favorite of a queen generations ago.

Taking the lead of the group are Fives and Hardcase. Their hands are all over each other: around each other’s necks, shoving each other, playing tag along the winding roads. They’re more like children on these streets, adulthood and responsibilities loosened by the shots taken back at the ship. Flavorless, bright green. From some hole-in-the-wall corner store in Coruscant.

Hardcase darts up the road, ducking behind an intricate column. He’s not well hidden at all, shoulder peeking out from behind. Nonetheless, when Fives walks past and Hardcase jumps on him, the former stumbles, hands stuck between bracing himself from falling and grabbing his brother’s legs to keep him on the piggyback. Instead, they both tumble to the ground, laughing loudly in the night.

The laughter sounds good. It sounds better than the screaming, than the shouting, than the panting, dying breaths that can be heard over the comms.

Tup helps them both up, his hair down and flopping around his jaw. It’s a shaky business, alcohol and giddiness marring all of their veins.

While Rex doesn’t like drinking, isn’t favorable to the warmth from a fresh shot, isn’t favorable to the inhibitions that comes with it, he is favorable to the comfort it brings his brothers. Twelve hours ago he’d been running through dry desert, frantically pulling helmets away from their suits, checking for pulses, holding his own face as the force left their eyes–

“You going to have fun tonight?” Comes a voice from beside Rex. He looks over— Kix. There’s a hair of worry in his eyes, a flash of concern.

Rex clears his throat. Pushes back the thoughts. If he trusted himself more he’d drink.

“I’ll stay out for a while,” Rex replies.

Kix pats his shoulder. No more words are exchanged. No more words need to be exchanged between the two of them.

The trio of stooges stop in their tracks, drawn to a bar. The door opens, and a few women tumble out of it, hair perfectly done and breathless. With them, music wafts out behind them, the acoustic tones shutting with the door. They giggle and wave at the group, one of them pulling a paper pack of cigarettes out of her purse.

Fives waves back. He’s got a not-real grin on his face, one that he thinks is cooler than it is.

“I think we should go here!” Hardcase says, louder than he needs to. Louder than is acceptable in the quiet streets. It earns them a look from some passerby, and a giggle from the tallest of the women.

The name of the bar swings in the warm breeze on a wooden sign, seared into it. Comienzos.

“When we get in, we can do another round of shots!” Hardcase continues. Rex doesn’t think they need another round of shots. But Hardcase’s hands are clapping down, hard, on Rex’s shoulders and shaking him around a bit. “And this time make sure our beloved captain joins in!

“I’m really— I’m fine without one,” Rex insists, waving his brothers off.

“It’s team building!” Hardcase presses. He loops around Rex to be in his face, tilting his head in a way that is probably supposed to be pleading but comes across as childish. “C’mon, you can’t say no to team building.”

Unease churns in Rex’s stomach. Not from the shots, but from imagining Hardcase a little too risky. A little too forward pushing. A little too maniacal. Panting last breaths over the comms.

“Fine. I’ll do one,” Rex bends. He’d regret it. He’d regret not seeing the joy immediately sprawl across his brothers’ faces.

Hardcase lets out a loud whoop! It draws more attention. From the women, from an older couple walking a fluffy, four legged animal. Rex gives a little wave and a nod to the couple, as if he could silently apologize for the disturbance they’ve caused.

Once inside, Rex is bathed in warmth. Bodies are moving on a tightly packed dance floor. Humans, not droids, stand on a stage with an array of instruments. They play each one like it’s an extension of their body, like the instrument has been part of their skeleton since they were born. They’re wooden and brass, and the band shows no sign of stopping soon.

Finding an open spot at the bar, Fives pushes to the front to flag down the bartender. She’s a pretty woman, with tan skin and black hair and a low cut shirt. Something that Fives is very appreciative of.

“Brother’s night out?” She calls over the music.

“Dad’s genes are strong,” Fives says. “We’re gonna do a round of shots.”

The bartender doesn’t seem phased at the joke, which dims the expectation in Fives’ eyes. It’s worked on every girl in the past, after all.

Rex pats Echo on the shoulder. “Gonna go sit down. Do not get crazy.”

Echo clicks his tongue. “We’d never.”

Rex isn’t a fan of liars, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he turns away from the bar and heads towards an empty table in the corner. It’s miraculously empty and seems to have enough stools for all of them.

When they’d been given their night off, General Skywalker had been flippant but also wished the force to be with them. Perhaps it was happening right now. Rex is slightly thankful as he slides into one of the stools, and watches his brothers from afar. The Stooges do what Rex only assumes is a secret shot. Clear liquid is tipped back from a small shot glass, and then quickly set back down on the table.

Kix, already on his way over the table, points his thumb back at them as if to say get a load of this. Rex huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head in disbelief. He slides into the seat beside Rex, rolling his eyes.

“As if we aren’t going to notice,” Kix says.

“Whether or not we saw…” Rex tacks on. He watches them hoot and holler as Echo does a shot of something an amber color. Hardcase rubs the back of Echo’s head with that maniacal grin on his face.

On surprisingly sturdy legs, little yellow shots with candied rims are brought over to the table. An expression of disgust forms across Rex’s face before he’s even tried them. The sweet treat must be Tup’s choosing.

“What is this?” Kix asks, pulling two towards him and Rex.

“Limoncello,” Tup says. “Maria recommended it.”

Rex wants to be on the ship watching a nature documentary on his datapad maybe with a cold beer.

“Maria?” He asks, bringing the shot to his nose to take a whiff. It’s citrus sweet.

“Tup was a big boy and asked for her name,” Fives laughs.

“Don’t marry her in your dreams,” Rex warns, a teasing smirk on his face.

“Don’t marry her in your dreams,” Tup mocks under his breath, shaking his head from side to side. “I just asked her for her name. Don’t be weird.”

The shots are for living another day, apparently. Rex doesn’t see that there’s anything better to cheer for. Not dead yet. The glasses hit the table, then are dumped back down their throats.

It is sweet. A little sour, but mostly sweet. Rex isn’t a fan.

Kix shares his distaste. He gathers the glasses into both his hands and stands. “I’m getting beers. You want?”

“Yeah,” Rex replies.

“Hey!” Fives calls after Kix. Kix turns, raising his eyebrow. “Nothing for us?”

“You’re going to be drunk enough,” Kix replies. He turns, and heads off towards the bar.

Hardcase hasn’t sat down yet. Instead, his hands are clapped on Echo’s shoulders. He’s speaking to Fives about his brother, making diabolical plans to get him laid that night above his head. He’s speaking too loud to be discreet, and loud enough that it makes Rex want to be swallowed by the floor. Fives gestures over to a group of women, a different group than the ones seen before, and adds to their conspiring.

All four of them, the Stooges and Echo, head off towards the women. Rex takes a deep breath of the warm air. Glances over at Kix– The bartender, Maria, seems to actually be engaging him in conversation. She’s leaned over, giving him a look down her shirt, and is laughing at something he’s saying.

Rex looks back at the dumpster fire that’s going on across the room. Fives seems to be making some sort of case for Echo, hand on his shoulder and speaking animatedly. Maybe it’s the same lie, the one about Echo being a virgin, they’re spinning.

Kix returns with two beers and a triumphant look on his face. He slides one over to Rex, and is sure to clink the necks together in cheers before taking a sip.

“What’re you so happy about?” Rex asks.

“Maria said I was pretty,” Kix hums.

“How nice of her to give us all a compliment,” Rex mumbles.

“Hey, don’t be like that,” Kix says, furrowing his brow.

“Sorry.” Rex speaks into the beer’s mouth, taking a long pull.

A beat of quiet passes between the two of them. Rex watches the dancefloor. It’s more attractive than his brothers failing miserably at wingmanning each other.

The dance floor has swelled as the night has progressed. A few of the girls walk away from the Stooges, joining the breathing floor. Rex’s attention isn’t on anyone or anything in particular. Instead, he’s watching the general shapes, the general flows of rhythm that extend through the physical body.

“Maybe you should try getting laid tonight,” Kix suggests.

“I’m not in the mood,” Rex replies, almost too quickly. He’s not.

Kix lets it go. Rex returns to his watching. Maybe the beer will make him feel better. Maybe a walk will clear his head. Maybe he really should have stayed in with a nature documentary. Everyone on the dance floor moves with such ease, as if they are all of the same mind and body. One living organism.

“Hardcase straight up asked if they wanted to, and I quote, fuck,” Fives huffs, sounding more like a petulant child than a rejected adult.

Rex’s attention snaps away from the floor. Fives sits down on a stool beside him, resting his head in his hands.

“He let down Echo. What if he never gets his dick wet?” Fives bemoans.

Hardcase rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms, and doesn’t sit down. “I think we should go to the next bar.”

Rex looks beyond the bemoaners. It seems like Tup and Echo are doing just fine, now that Hardcase and Fives have walked away.

“Don’t think a new bar is going to fix your problems,” Kix says, his gaze following Rex’s.

Rex stands. He claps both Hardcase and Fives on their shoulders. “I think the problem is you.”

They look over. A pained expression paints their faces.

“We have to go to another bar,” Fives insists.

“I’m content right here,” Kix says, bringing his beer to his lips. “Maria gave me her freq– Hey, where are you going?”

Rex turns, a few paces from the table. “Taking a leak. Want to hold my hand?”

“Fuck off,” Kix sighs and turns back to the group. There, he has questions to answer about the bartender from his eager brothers. They sit around him, hanging on to each word that Kix reluctantly shares.

“What I thought,” Rex mumbles to himself, and heads off in search of the restroom.

It’s tucked back behind a wall, sitting behind a large oak door, common in Naboo. After trying the handle, Rex sighs. It’s occupied.

Rex leans back against the wall while he waits, closing his eyes. The music reverberates through the wall, sending pleasant waves through his body.

“Ugh, is it occupied?”

Rex turns his head to face the voice. Immediately, he straightens off the wall. Words escape him for a moment, stuck somewhere in the blank spaces of his brain. You’re beautiful. Red lips, long lashes, curve-hugging dress. His lips part once, then he finds his words, though it’s not many.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sorry.” What is he apologizing for?

You sigh, crossing your arms. “Honestly, kind of insane this place only has one bathroom.”

Rex nods. Words filter back to his brain in a slow, gracious trickle. “You come here often?”

A laugh stretches out past your red lips. “I’ve been known to spend an evening here, yes.”

There’s a beat of silence. You glance towards the wall before back to the man in front of you.

“What about you?”

“Me?” Rex turns his head back to you. “Oh, I’m just visiting.”

“Where from?”

“Small planet, far away. Nowhere as nice as here.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s plenty nice. You’re just from there, so you don’t see the beauty in it.”

Rex shrugs. He’s about to reply when the bathroom door opens and a patron exits. He gestures towards it.

“Ladies first.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” You deflate with graciousness. With a hand on the door, pushing it open, you look over your shoulder at Rex. Your lashes bat down as you take a long look up and down his body. He’s filled out quite nicely, but there’s something about him that draws you in. “When I’m done in here, I’m going to smoke a cigarette on the rooftop. If you want to join me.”

“Oh, I don’t smoke,” Rex says. He makes a split-second decision. “But I’ll join you.”

You smile wide at him again, then disappear into the bathroom. Rex resumes his slouch against the wall. A faint smile crosses his face as he thinks about your own smile.

Rex doesn’t bother telling his brothers where he’s off too. Instead, he goes straight from the toilet to the rooftop. It takes a small staircase where the middle of the stairs are worn down, and a good push on the door that seems to be stuck on its hinges.

The rooftop is nice. Decorated with little lights and a few tables. It’s clear that it’s meant for patrons, but wasn’t being used tonight due to the live music below. The night sky stretches on above you, stars drowned out by the city lights of Theed.

The bar is across the street from the sea, so the lights are swallowed whole by the waters of Naboo. You stand by the wall, which is a white plaster that reaches your waist, curved at the top. The fairy lights illuminate you, working with the moonlight to encase you in an ethereal glow. There’s a shawl around your shoulders, and a pearlescent cigarette case glints in your hand.

Your head turns at the sound of the door being opened. A lazy grin makes its way across your face as you recognize the handsome stranger from earlier.

“I think you come here more than you’re letting on,” Rex says.

“Sue me,” you hum.

Rex crosses the distance to reach you. He’s handsome, face lit up by the fairy lights and backlit by the door he emerges from. There’s a nice chisel to his face that hints at the rations that fill his diet. In the darkness, his eyes are a glinting brown.

Flicking open your cigarette case, you withdraw a cigarette and place the white butt between your lips. Immediately, red lipstick rings around it. Your lighter lands in your hand, with the same pearl sheen as your case. You illuminate the tip of the cigarette, casting your face in the glow of the handheld fire.

The light shuts off abruptly.

You exhale away from his face.

“Oh, I never introduced myself, did I?” You pull your cigarette away from your face to examine the tip and make sure it’s burning smoothly. Then, you follow through on your words and let your name tumble from your lips.

Rex does so in turn. It’s nice to meet you, as he tells you in turn, repeating your name on his tongue to try it out. The syllables flow nicely, more than he’s used to. There’s an antique ring that he’s a fan of.

You take another drag of your cigarette. “It’s fitting. Your name.”

Rex can’t help but chuckle at the truth behind your words. It does fit, doesn’t it? Almost as if it had been picked out for him. Still, it warms him that you like it. That you enjoy the one thing he’s picked out for himself.

“I saw you staring earlier,” You say. “Do you dance?”

“It’s not for me. I just like watching.”

Your lashes skim down your cheeks again as you look him up and down. The sheer sparkle over your lids is becoming a treasure. When they return their gaze to his own eyes, your brow is raised in question. Lots of men like watching.

“What kinds of things do you like watching?”

Shit. What kinds of things does he like watching? His mind goes blank, and his lips supply the one thing he can think of right now, because an example is standing right before him: “Pretty women.”

“Oh?” You feel your face warm slightly. Flattery. You have to hold off from asking if you’re one of the pretty women he likes looking at.

“Don’t get to very often. Always a nice, good thing when I do.”

“What keeps you from it?”

“The war.” There’s a lot of admittance coming from his lips. It feels strange on his chest. Like there’s a slurping on his soul he can’t tell if he should lean into or avoid.

You hum. Another drag of the cigarette. “Scary times we live in, isn’t it?”

Rex wishes he was better at asking questions. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. “Hopefully you don’t get too close to it.”

“I suppose I don’t.” You pull the cigarette away from your face and place it before you, checking the burn on the tip before raising it back up again. Your arm crosses your chest to support your cigarette elbow, and it presses your chest together. Rex’s eyes dip for just a moment. “Closest I get is asking Gungans for art to hang in the museums.”

“What puts you in that situation?”

“I’m a curator for the National Art Museum. We’re actually celebrating tonight. You into art?”

“I don’t get the chance for it very often.” Only art he had was the jaig eyes on his helmet. He had painted those on, long ago. Taped down the area around them and used an airbrush. Sometimes he’d find Tup drawing in the common area during downtime. Tup liked portraits– sketched anyone and everyone he saw in ballpoint pen. Rex wouldn’t deem his exposure ‘museum worthy.’

“That’s a shame. Don’t dance, don’t look at art, don’t even get to look at pretty women.” You shake your head. “I feel bad for you, Rex.”

“Don’t,” Rex says. “‘S just part of the job.”

“Still. Maybe this is why–”

You’re cut off by the door to the rooftop jostling open. A large figure fills the space, calling out.

“Rex? We’re going to another bar. You ready to go?”

From the cadence, Rex can recognize the voice as Kix. “I’ll catch up later.”

“Right.” Kix pauses, and then makes an exaggerated movement across his lips, as if he was zipping them shut and locking them. He even throws away the key. Rex’s eyes crinkle with a small smile and he waves him off.

The door shuts firmly behind Kix.

“You sure you don’t have to leave?” You ask, slipping your bag from your shoulder.

“Nah. See them everyday.”

Flashing him a smile, you reach inside your purse and produce a tin. You pop it open and place a mint on your tongue. Rex’s eyes follow your fingers intently. “Want one?” You offer.

Rex almost denies. Why must he take more? Instead, he goes along with it, nodding.

“Open your mouth.”

Rex does so. You place the little white mint on his tongue, a small smile on your lips. The muscle flutters slightly.

“Come dancing with me,” You whisper. “I don’t care that you can’t.” Your eyes flit down to his hands, which rest clasped together before you. They’re large, the nails wide. You glance up at him, and lean in slightly. You smell like cigarettes and mint, not something that Rex would ever think he’d like. “I want you to put your hands on my body.”

The sharp breath Rex takes is invigorated by the mint. He almost swallows the small, white candy.

“Yeah?” You ask, smiling widely at him. “Or do you want to stay up here and talk for a little longer?”

Rex swallows. He bets his brothers are gone– Hardcase had probably been begging to leave since he was rejected. Rex glances down your dress again, then to your hips.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you hum, catching his lingering gaze. You slip your hand between his, separating them from their clasp. His fingers are calloused against yours, signs of hard work over every smooth surface. You slip your fingers between his. “Just follow me.”

Rex does check to see if his brothers are still present. Luckily, the corner is empty. Free of them. He feels his shoulders loosen as he follows you over to where your friends are sitting. A giggle rises in your throat as you toss your bag beside one of your friends, flippantly telling her you were going dancing. Happily, the ones around the table titter upon seeing you with a man in tow. You reach over and take a sip of her drink, laughing when you’re whacked on the hip for your thievery.

Dancing you do go. You lead Rex to the outskirts of the dance floor, somewhere where he can still breathe. Taking Rex’s hands within your own, you place them on your body. The one that wraps around your hip practically engulfs the bone. His other does the same to your hand.

“I promise, no one is watching,” you say, “And I won’t take it personally if you step on my toes.”

“I’ll take it personally if I do,” Rex says. His eyes leave yours for a moment, and land on one of your friends, who is, in fact, busy watching. Quickly, he returns his gaze to you. You’re gazing up at him, a faint smile on your lips and a faint sway in your body.

Rex looks at his feet once you start moving, genuinely worried he’d step on your toes. He fills the space as your feet leave them, and you gently turn him to make a small circle with your box steps.

“Keep your eyes up here, on me,” you murmur over the music. Your hand slides to rest on his chest, and his on your shoulder. Rex’s eyes immediately flash back up from your feet. “Let’s go a little faster.” Your gazes are locked too close to each other. It’s all mint and smoke and a spice that Rex can’t place. Maybe it’s your perfume.

Rex keeps up much better than you had thought. He keeps himself nearly pressed against you, with just enough room for the rise and fall of your chests to fill.

“You’re doing really good,” you whisper, the complement washing over Rex. “Want to spin me?”

“I don’t know if I can,” Rex murmurs in reply.

“It’s easy. Just pause and let me spin and we’ll pick right back up,” you instruct. “It’ll be easy.”

It is. Your fingers glide against each other as you turn, Rex’s hand sliding across your waist as you spin. It electrifies when it crosses over your naked lower back. You settle back into the rhythm of the music, grinning up at Rex.

And oh, suddenly he doesn’t care about your friends staring at the two of you.

“You’re a natural.”

The sweet words swell Rex’s chest with pride. After all, his body is good at doing what it’s told to do. And you’re much more attractive than any general who’s ever given him orders.

Under your gentle and enticing guidance, Rex gets it, to some degree. Understands the rhythm to some degree, as long as your hands and encouraging words were nudging him along. Gotten to understand your body to some degree, smell your perfume and feel your chest press against his.

“I want a drink,” you state.

“Let me get you one,” Rex replies.

“You misunderstand.” Your hand rests over Rex’s chest, right over his heart. It’s not beating as quickly as you would have expected it to after the cardio of dance he had just participated in. “I want a drink at home.”

“It’s late out, let me walk you there.” The response is natural, easygoing. Second nature.

“I hope you do. I hope you join me, too.”

Oh.

“Yes ma’am.”

You grace him with one of those near kisses he’d witnessed earlier when he was just watching. It feels completely different to be on the receiving end– To have your breath almost mingle with his.

The walk to your apartment isn’t too far. It’s close enough that Rex can see why you’d frequent the bar so often– It was barely a walk and you seemed to enjoyed dancing. He wondered, just for a moment, if he was just another part of your normal Friday nights. Work, dance, bring someone home.

Secretly, he hopes he’s an exception.

The gate to the apartment’s courtyard squeaks as it opens. Rex reaches over you and pushes it the rest of the way. The movement has you engulfed in the scent of soap and the hint of sweat. You find yourself taking another breath.

“What a gentleman.” You throw a smile over to him as you step in.

Within the safety of your apartment, you discard your purse on the small table in the entryway. Flip on the lamp that reads there as well. It fills the small area with a warm, orange glow.

“Take your shoes off,” you say, placing a hand on the table for balance as you lift a foot behind you to fiddle with the straps.

“Here,” Rex says, voice soft and rolling in the small space. “Let me help you.”

He drops down. His fingers are large against the soft leather straps and the small metal buckle. There’s half a thought to press a kiss to your knee, half covered by the asymmetrical hem of your dress, but he refrains. He stands and dutifully takes off his own shoes.

With a heavy gaze, you look Rex up and down again. He’s a head tilt taller than you now, not in your heels anymore. He seems to take up more space now, too. Now that he’s somewhere so personal.

You slide into your slippers and pad through the apartment, leading him towards the main living area. Each lamp is flicked on manually, which surprises Rex. Most buildings were designed to be easily controlled by one central data pad.

The warm light is a stark contrast to the fluorescents he’s used to. So is the atmosphere of your living room.

Tall, cream ceilings with windows to match. There’s a balcony, which is locked shut by a heavy brass contraption. The sofa and chair are thick with cushioning, and the coffee and end tables appear antique.

Rex follows you into the kitchen. Another small space, where he finds himself closer than ever to you. The tile is cool through his socks, an intricate design in shades of cream.

“Do you want wine or beer?” You ask, opening up the refrigerator.

“Beer, please,” he replies.

You produce two from the fridge. They clink together as you hold them by their necks in one hand. As you turn, you’re met with the view of Rex leaning against your counter. It’s a far cry from most of your… visitors, who make themselves at home on your couch the moment they enter.

You like this change of pace.

“Want to sit inside or outside?”

“Where do you want to sit?”

“Outside,” You admit.

“Then outside.”

You smile. Rex simultaneously wants to never stop watching the pull of your lips and break the smile with a kiss.

On the balcony, you flick on some more lights, illuminating the area until the darkness of the night consumes the rays. There’s a small table for eating, and a couch. Beside the couch is an elaborate glass hookah set up that you’re quick to move aside.

Taking a seat on the couch, you pat the spot beside you for Rex. You hand him his beer as soon as he’s sat.

Facing him fully, you rest your arm on the back of the couch.

“You said you never danced before, but I have a hard time believing that,” You say.

Rex takes a pull of beer for confidence. “What makes you say that?”

“You were a lot better than I was expecting.”

“Glad I could defy expectations.” There’s a glint in Rex’s eyes that the light accentuates.

Humming, you pose your next question. “Is this your first time on Naboo?”

Rex can’t help but chuckle. He’s by far no stranger to Naboo, but typically spends his days stationed within the capitol building. “No, but it’s the first time I’ve been truly off duty here.”

“And? What are your thoughts?”

“I have no complaints.” Rex flits his eyes down your body. “Have certainly had a change in expectations for the night.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head to the side. “What were your original expectations?”

“I…” Rex’s voice gets lost as his eyes wander, watching your lips form to take a sip from the bottle. The way your fingers wrap around the glass. “Definitely not this.”

You hum, and it makes a reverberating sound through the glass. “This?”

“Something not so rowdy. I was expecting rowdiness.”

“Tell me more,” you urge, leaning into him.

Rex’s heart flutters uncharacteristically in his chest. He swallows. Your perfume has a spice to it that he’s never smelt before.

“My brothers and I have the night off, so we went out. They’re… A lot. Don’t always think things through.” They deserve not to, Rex thinks, at least when they’re off duty.

You laugh. “I think I can tell. Two of them tried picking up my friends.”

“I must apologize for them.”

“Don’t. It was funny.” You reach over, into his space, and run your fingers over his buzz cut. “Are you a natural blonde?”

Rex glances over at your bracelet, which dangles precariously on your wrist.

“Yeah.” The touch of your fingers feels good. Soft and gentle.

“I was blonde when I was a baby,” you comment.

“I think the brown suits you.”

“You’re sweet.”

Rex hums. You withdraw your hand. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

You smile. “Perhaps. What keeps you in?”

“Work.”

Taking another pull of your beer, you tilt your head to the side. “You know I’m going to ask you what you do.”

“Nothing fancy. I’m just a soldier.” Rex picks at lint that’s not there on his pants. “For the Republic,” he tacks on.

“Oh.” You take another drink of beer. “Can I be honest with you?”

“You’re going to be, anyways.” He gladly anticipates whatever truth you’re about to share with him.

“I’m a pacifist.”

Rex muddles the words around for a moment. “I think I’d be one too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Would have to think on it a little bit more but… Between you and me, I’m ready for it to be over.”

“I bet. I think you’re too handsome to be a soldier, anyways.”

Rex feels his face warm. It feels like a compliment just for him. Not one to be shared.

“You don’t think there should be soldiers.” There’s no heat to his words. Perhaps, in another life, he’d agree.

“Please, I’m trying to call you handsome. Will you please accept my compliment?”

“I’ll accept it.” Rex takes your hand in his and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

This time, a warmth spreads across your cheeks. You take a final drink of your beer. The metal end table you’re aiming for is on Rex’s side. Instead of passing the bottle to him, you completely lean over him. He gets a good, long look down your back. His hand has half a mind to run down the expanse, to dip into the valley of your spine and run over the swell of your ass.

You pause in front of him as you settle back.

“Tell me, Rex,” his name slides off your tongue, “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Rex’s eyes drop from yours to your lips. “I’d be very thankful.”

You inch your face closer. “Would you kiss me back?”

What a ridiculous question. Rex responds by setting his beer down and sliding his chilled hand through your hair, resting it at the nape of your neck.

A shiver trickles down your spine.

Rex’s lips are on yours. Warm, confident, slightly chapped.

You rest your palm on his chest. His heart thrums away beneath. One of his hands comes to rest on your hip, thumb smoothing back and forth over the fabric.

Your tongue slides across his bottom lip. His mouth opens, tongue sliding alongside yours in wet heat. Easing yourself against him, you twist your body to take a seat on his lap. It’s sideways, your dress won’t let you straddle him. Instead, your legs are tucked up next to him.

His hand slides down the smoothness of your legs, down to your ankle before up again. He continues his journey upwards, to your waist and your open back, playing with the low dip of your dress.

You allow your head to lull into the hand that supports you there. Rex presses into the kiss, nose pushed against your cheek. As your tongues pass each other again, you don’t know where yours ends and his starts.

Rex kisses like he’s drinking water. Like the quench to his thirst rests in your lips, in the slick of your saliva. There’s a thrumming building in your core, right where your soul lies.

Your heart aches for him as you pull away and he chases your lips. His eyes flutter open, blinking amber into the dim light.

“Hey,” he says, voice rolling over roughness. There’s a faint hint of red from your lipstick over your lips.

“Hi,” you reply, a little lilt and giggle to your voice. You wonder if your alleged kiss-proof lipstick had shifted.

There’s a lazy, pleased smile working its way across Rex’s mouth.

“Want to follow me inside?”

“Gods, yes I do.”

You slip off of his lap and onto your own two feet. Leaning down, you take Rex’s hands in your own and pull him up to his full height.

“Lead on, gorgeous,” Rex says, dipping back down to get another taste of your lips.

The door to your bedroom is wide open. You fumble for some more lights, slipping around the room to turn most of them on. There isn’t much in your bedroom: only a bed with a large, wooden headboard, an armoire that’s as old as the building, and a vanity you found at a flea market. A few paintings of deities Rex doesn’t recognize hang on the walls in dark wood frames. With the lights dim and warm, you come back to stand before Rex, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands settle on your hips, then slip to your lower back.

“You don’t need to be so polite,” you murmur, sliding your hands down his chest and further, fingers dancing along the hemline of his shirt.

“Feel like I gotta. Not everyday…” he trails off, distracted by the feeling of your fingers, slightly cold, dancing up under his shirt. You don’t go far, just enough to feel over the v of his abdomen.

“Not everyday…” you encourage.

“‘S not important,” Rex decides on. It’s not. You don’t need to know he rarely does this. That his experience here isn’t to his normal standard. He ducks his head, pressing his lips back against yours, walking you towards the bed.

Your teasing question dies in Rex’s mouth, swallowed by every slick pass of your lips opening and closing on each other. The backs of your knees hit the edge of your made bed, and you fall back on it.

Unfortunately, Rex doesn’t come with you. Instead, he stands before you and between your legs, hesitation momentarily seeping across his face. You sit up and lean back on your hands, the way your shoulders move causing one of the dress straps to slip.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, tilting your head so it rests on your shoulder.

“Nothing,” Rex says, pulling his shirt off over his head.

He’s quick to lean back over you, doesn’t give you much time to admire the planes of his pectorals, or the almost-defined abdomen he has. Wants to drive your attention away from the scars that litter his skin. His knees dip in the duvet, and you spread your own to accommodate him. As your dress rides up, his gaze follows the fabric, which still leaves you modest.

Rex is consuming above you, taking up every aspect of your vision. Your hands run over his shoulders, defined and firm, down his arms, defined and firm. His muscles are carved like the statues you select for showcases. It causes a giddy, girlish giggle to bubble up from your lungs.

“What’s so funny?” Rex murmurs.

You shake your head, hand moving back to cup his face. “Nothing. You’re just… You’re so muscle-y.”

Rex blinks at you, once. Then he ducks his head, a smile forming. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You think you might have dreamed him up once before. With your eyes shut, and a hand in between your thighs, the moon high in the sky. “Yeah.”

Rex’s lips find the pulse point you apply your perfume to, licking over what remains of vanilla beans and spice. Your hand rests upon the back of his head, a sigh leaving your lips. He sucks and laves lavishly, never leaning his full body weight against you. A trail is formed, from jaw to shoulder, as he nips and kisses.

Shrugging your shoulder again, the other strap of your dress is encouraged to slide off as well. The fabric of your dress continues to keep you modest, despite Rex’s kisses continuing over the plane of your exposed breast.

He lifts his head, meeting your gaze.

“May I?” He asks.

And to think he’ll ship back off after tonight. You nod, sliding the straps down so your arms are freed from them. Your nipples, erect and wanting, stubbornly keep the garment up, coming between them and their desire.

Delicately, Rex slides your dress down to your hips. A punched out whine mews from the back of his throat at the exposed skin. It’s equally unbecoming, for him, and attractive, for you. With his hands firmly on your waist, he lowers his head further and swipes a long line across your nipple.

Your nails scratch along his shorn hair, a breathy sigh leaving your lips. You’ve missed the feeling of a mouth on you, and Rex’s is wet and eager. His tongue swirls around the fat of your nipple, slurping around it with obscenity.

Rex wonders how your nails will feel digging into his back.

You push against his forehead, and his lips detach with a pop! His cheeks are ruddy, his eyes wide, filled with worry he’d done something wrong.

“Take off my dress,” You breathe, sitting up on your elbows. Glancing down, you take in your chest, and the array of splotches that decorate your chest and breasts.

Rex swallows and nods. He slips back off the bed, and undresses you with careful, steady hands. An open mouthed sigh leaves his lips as he has you bare before him, only in your underwear. Mindlessly, he uses his hands to messily fold the dress before throwing it on top of a chair in the corner of your room.

Rex’s back swells with the size of his breath. His eyes dart all over you, unable to find just one place to land.

You tap the side of his thigh with your pointed toes. “You doing okay up there, handsome?”

“Yes ma’am,” Rex breathes. He bends down to press a kiss to your stomach, nipping at the soft skin there. When he falls to his knees between your legs, you know it’s over. There’s never been someone through your door like this.

Rex sucks deep kisses into the fat of your thighs, over all the sensitive bits. Your hands slide over his hair, nails scratching against the short hair without purchase.

Mouth centimeters away from your clothed pussy, Rex glances up the mountains and valleys of your body. He speaks your name, calling your attention down towards him.

He doesn’t even need to ask, before you’re breathing a “Yes, yes, yes.”

Instead of sliding your panties to the side, or removing them completely, Rex swipes his tongue along the already wet fabric. You can feel the edges of his tongue over the areas of your labia that try their hardest to eat your underwear whenever you’re out. Rex seems insistent on tasting you through the silken fabric, his nose pressed up against your covered mound.

Your hands leave the back of his head and hook under your panties, trying to push them down. As your hips rise off the bed, his hands wrap around your thighs and pull you closer.

“Rex, let me, let you…”

He pulls off with a sigh. His eyes are slightly glazed over, and you want nothing more than to pull him up for a kiss.

“Is it okay?” He asks.

“Give me your hands,” You urge. He offers them to you without second thought.

Contorting your hand, you gain control of his right hand and dip his fingers past your panties, so they slip behind the flimsy fabric. Rex sucks in a breath, fingers sliding through nothing but warmth.

“Right?” You release his hands and tuck your fingers under the waistband of your panties and slide them down until the top of your mound is visible.

Rex slides them down and off you, and you reward him with a fair piece of praise: “Good boy.”

Rex stills above you. His eyes trail up the line of your body and land on your face. Your brows furrow. “What is it?”

“Never heard that one before,” Rex replies.

“Really?” You find that hard to believe. With a man like this?

Rex nods. He slides his fingers through the silk of your cunt, collecting your wetness on his fingers and sliding it up over your clit. You gasp, hand coming up over your mouth.

“Don’t do that,” Rex murmurs, reaching a hand up to wrap around your forearm, easing your hand away from your face. He replaces your hand with his thumb, swiping over the smearing red lipstick.

There’s a brief moment where he doesn’t move from his gaze, where he just lingers over you.

Then, without warning, his fingers are moving again. They’re slipping through your folds, and he’s lowering himself back down to the side of your bed again. His lips join his fingers, as if it was second nature. Breathing.

His fingers part your folds for his tongue, which traces opening to clit, in a long pull. Rex’s eyes flutter shut, savoring the tang on his tongue. His lips close around your clit, laving attention over the sensitive bud.

Little gasps pop from your lips, and Rex’s ears twitch to pick up each one. There’s a firmness in his pants that’s veering on uncomfortable, and his body shifts to apply underwhelming friction.

There’s nothing but warmth and attention in your core. Waves of pleasure lap at your shore, tides pushed and pulled by Rex’s attention.

Rex lifts his head. He wants to watch your facial expressions as his middle finger slides through your wetness. As it presses against your entrance, which all but sucks him in. A contented sigh slips through your lips, and Rex rises up your body to press his lips back against yours. His tongue slides against yours with the same pace as his finger, easing you deeper into the bedspread.

Your legs bend so your knees brush against his sides. Leaning back, Rex’s hand rests on your knee, gently moving it to the side to give him a better view of how his finger moves in and out, of the whiteness that clings to his finger.

He slides out completely, then wets his ring finger to join. At the welcome intrusion, you stretch your arms back above your head, pulling your stomach taunt. Rex’s fingers coax within you, searching for the perfect spot to press upon.

You shift your hips slightly, and a sigh leaves your lips when he grazes upon the spongiest part within you. Rex curls his fingers, and a breathy moan leaves your lips.

Satisfied, Rex ducks his head back down. His fingers find purchase on your mound, exposing the flushed wetness of your clit. His tongue works in unison with his fingers, flicking over the bud.

The tides within you swell. Subconsciously, your legs close in around Rex’s head, swallowing him closed like an oyster. Your hips shift, rising and rolling in synchronization with his fingers. Up and down, up into the warmth, down into the pleasure.

“Rex…” you breathe, fingers grazing against his head.

He hums into you, eyes opening and watching as your hand slides along your stomach, nails creating little deltas along the flesh.

Your thigh quivers beside him. Moans rise from your mouth, floating into the heady air.

Temptation to speed up, to intensify swirl around in Rex’s mind. To elicit louder cries, to encourage the small of your back to lift off the bed. Instead, he keeps his course steady, eyes fluttering shut once more.

There’s another weak call of his name, laced in between a moan. Rex groans, content to do nothing more than hear it again. He’s listening, he promises he’s listening. He can feel the tightness building, can hear nothing but the slick sounds emitting from where he’s dipped inside you.

The final crest over is prolonged. Arched back, complete stillness, whimpering moan. Hands fisted in the bedsheets. Rex slows his movements, detaching his mouth first.

He hovers above you, lazily moving his fingers. Your legs continue to quiver, your chest continues to suck in deep breaths. Your eyes crack open, a hand lazily rising to tug on his dog tags, pulling him down and closer to you.

You slot your lips against his. There’s wetness and tang and a rapidly familiar warmth. You hold him close by the side of his face, feeling his jaw move with each swipe.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his lips.

“Don’t thank me,” Rex replies, pressing another kiss to your lips. His fingers withdraw with a slickness, and he’s careful to not set them on your bedsheets.

You give a non committal hum. Reaching for his hand, you bring it to your lips, licking a stripe along the underside before taking them into your mouth. Your tongue laves over the digits, sucking every drop of your essence off of them.

When Rex withdraws his hand, his eyes are wide. There’s a beat of your breaths, before his lips are on yours again. He plunders your mouth, chasing after the taste he was planning on enjoying himself.

You slide up your bed, until your head is comfortably pillowed. A groan slips from you, when you see that Rex is still wearing pants.

“That can’t be comfortable, can it be?”

You watch with rapt attention as he slides his pants off and down along with his boxers. Your next breath hitches in your throat when you get a good look at his cock.

Heavy. Seated among a thatch of thick, dark hair that trails up to his bellybutton.

You swallow. Then, you reach over and fumble within your nightstand, pushing aside lube and vibrators for the box of condoms that was in there.

“Come here,” you beckon, patting the space beside you. Rex crawls on the bed beside you, shoulders rippling in the lamplight. His thighs are decorated in thatches of hair that thicken as they near his groin.

He settles between your thighs, hands moving over the smooth skin.

“You’re beautiful,” Rex murmurs. His hands engulf your thighs, sliding upwards to where they crease into your core.

Spellbound by the reverent tone of voice, you slide your legs apart for him, revealing the very place he had just been. His eyes dip down, then up to your chest. His brows furrow, seeing the little marks he had left in his wake.

One of his hands rises, fingers gliding over a hickey on the side of your breast. “My apologies about this.”

“Oh, Rex,” you coo, covering your hand over his, “There is absolutely no need to apologize. In fact, you can even leave more.”

Rex’s eyes search yours, discovering nothing but lust. Pupils blown wide.

Cupping his face in your hands, you pull him closer for another kiss. His hardness slides between your folds as he presses close, and he groans into your mouth. Long, drawn out. Pent up.

“Feel good?” You widen your legs for him. His cock slides along your clit, rubbing against it deliciously. You hum in pleasure.

Another moan slides from his lips. You reach between the two of you, fingers carding through his happy trail as you follow it to his hardness. He’s heavy in your hand. Your fingers dance along the underside, cutting between his heat and your own. You thumb slides over the flushed tip of his cock, and another groan comes from Rex, this time directly in your ear.

Your core squeezes. You feel a dribble of wetness slide from your hole.

Removing your hand, you gently push him back and away from you. Rex goes easily, all too quickly. You tear a condom off and pass it to him.

Rex dutifully takes it. There’s little fanfare as he wraps himself up, sliding the latex on.

You push him back again, giving him a little nudge on the chest. Situated on his back, you climb over his hips, dragging his cock back through your folds. Rex’s eyes flutter shut before they snap back open.

“Don’t want to keep you from watching,” You reply with a breathy laugh.

“Wouldn’t want to miss it for the world.” Rex gives you a handsome half smile that makes your mind stutter.

You return the smile, through slightly smeared lipstick, and rise up on your knees. Rex finds his cock for you, and your fingers pass over each other as you take it in your hand. The head presses against your entrance, which flutters at the pressure.

Biting your bottom lip, you let gravity ease you down. One of Rex’s thighs rests propped up behind you, the other turned open. He offers you his hands for you to hold onto resting against so you don’t slip down his cock too quickly.

Once fully sheathed, you give yourself a moment to adjust to the fullness within you. Your hips begin rolling slowly, warming yourself up even more. A punched out whine comes from behind your bitten lip.

Rex’s brows are pinched together as he watches, mouth open and lips in a wide ‘o.’ He lets you grind against him, lets you start to shallowly bounce yourself up and down on him, lets you take your pleasure into your hands for a few minutes. It’s pleasurable, combined with the little moans that you’re letting out, but it’s not enough.

His hands find your hips, and he braces his feet against the bed, knees up. With little effort, he lifts you up to the head of his cock before pulling you back down. For the next pass, he’s sure to thrust his hips up to meet you halfway.

The look on your face is a mixture between pleasure and shock. It doesn’t take you long to get on board with the change of pace. Your hand presses over your stomach, so you can feel Rex as he slides in and out of you, and you make sure to hug his cock with every pass. From your vantage point you watch as all of his muscles move in harmony with each other. Your core squeezes. A ring of white begins to form on the base of Rex’s cock.

With your hips as purchase, Rex pulls himself up into a seated position. Immediately, you lock your ankles behind his back. He chuckles as he leans in to kiss you, pressing you back against the pillows again. One of his hands supports your lower back, the other on your thigh.

You look at him through your lashes. His own pupils are blown wide.

“I’m not very good at sitting back,” Rex murmurs.

“Thank goodness,” you hum, hands running over the planes of his shoulders.

“Thank goodness?” Rex repeats, slowly sliding out before pushing in even slower. At this angle, you can feel every centimeter as it's fed into you. “Why’s that?”

“Um…” You can’t exactly think through your comment.

“Tell me,” Rex urges, continuing the slow thrusts.

“I just… I don’t… I like…” How deep is he?

“What do you like?”

“I like… I like working with… With gravity…”

Rex slowly picks up the pace. He hikes your body up, giving your knees no place to notch but over his shoulders.

“With gravity?”

You whimper your affirmation.

“Is this better?” Rex’s hands move from your hips to your thighs, holding them flush against his chest. When you nod, he moves to press your legs back, so they’re butterflied away from your cunt. “Or do you prefer this?”

Your reply is a moan. One of your hands cover’s Rex’s splayed fingers, the other reaches above your head for your pillow. A breathless chuckle leaves Rex’s lips, and he continues to keep a steady pace. Each thrust you can feel in your throat with how deep he’s pressing– you didn’t know you could feel anything that deep within you.

It’s full. Almost too full. Your cunt flutters around his cock, anticipating and rewarding every stroke.

Your hand is on the way to cover your mouth, but Rex is faster. He slips his fingers through yours, pressing your hand into the plush of your pillows. Your other hand reaches up to cup behind his head, sprawling out over the nape of his neck. As your lips reattach to his, his thrusts fluster before speeding up, giving you no choice but to pull away to let out a moan.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe. One of Rex’s hands comes to knead the soft tissue of your breast.

It leaves its work quickly, however, to spare attention towards your clit. As his thumb swipes over the bundle of nerves, an even louder moan climbs out through your throat. Your thighs shake, and your hands rise to press against your headboard.

Rex almost feels bad. He’s going too fast, he’s going too hard, your headboard is millimeters away from knocking against the wall with each rhythmic push of his hips. But your face is contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut and head tilted back.

Your eyes flash open as you feel your orgasm rapidly approaching.

“Rex,” You gasp.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Rex asks, leaning over you. “You gonna cum?”

You whine. There’s another thrall of pleasure at the pet name.

“Tell me,” Rex urges. His lips hover over yours.

“Yeah,” You breathe, the vowels hitching with every thrust. “Don’t– Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Rex gives you a grin before a grunt, trying his hardest to keep a steady pace. He’s throbbing, you can feel the twitch of his cock inside you.

Your orgasm spills over and out, rippling from your moans down to your cum. As you peak, Rex’s thrusts speed up for a brief moment, then still, as he empties with a groan into the condom. Your legs feel gummy, weak and heavy as Rex eases out of you and rests your shaking legs on the bed. The sweat on his shoulders glazes in the light as he cleans up.

You gesture to the bathroom, which is attached to your bedroom. Closing your eyes, you listen as Rex throws the condom away, then as cabinets open and close.

“In the closet,” You call, voice lighter and higher than you’d ever heard it.

Rex returns with a damp, warm washcloth as he removes the last traces of sex from between your legs. He presses a kiss to your knee, a little too soft for a hook up but makes your stomach flip regardless, before getting back off the bed.

When you crack open your eyes, you see that he’s pulling on his pants. You sit up on your elbow.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“I figured you’d want me out of your hair,” Rex replies.

You pout. “Come lay with me for a moment, at least.”

Rex hesitates. You rub the bedding beside you. “Just for a moment. And then I’m going to go take off my makeup.”

Rex obliges. He slides into the spot and you rest your head on his chest. His arms wrap around you, thick and secure. You exhale, relaxing into him. Maybe you should have taken off your makeup first, then you could rope him into spending the night. Absentmindedly, you card your fingers through his chest hair. His hand begins to rub up and down your back.

“Normally I insist people spend the night,” you murmur against his skin, eyes slipping shut. He hums to show he’s listening. “I like it.”

“I gotta be gone real early in the morning,” Rex replies. His voice rumbles through his chest.

“That’s a shame.”

“Why?”

“Was going to make you breakfast. I have avocados that need using… eggs that need frying… coffee that needs drinking… I just got new coffee cups…” Your words begin to slur together from sleepiness.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Rex says, jostling his shoulder slightly.

You hum, raising your eyebrows.

“Go take that makeup off.” He sits up, bringing you with him. His eyes glance down at your nipples, which are soft in the heady air.

“Right,” you say, climbing over him and off the bed. “Don’t slip out.”

“I’ll stay right here,” Rex promises.

Rex doesn’t leave in the middle of the night. Instead, he’s under the softest sheets and the heaviest blanket he’s ever experienced, with the fan on high and a naked woman next to him, tucked up under his arm and sleeping soundly. He finds sleep doesn’t evade him as easily as it normally does.

Morning comes too soon. Rex wakes to the birds chirping outside, to the early streaks of dawn as she streams through your window. He’s still on his back, arm thrown over his head. The pillows are too soft. Beside him, you’re still mercifully asleep. Back exposed, arms wrapped around your pillow. Nose tucked into your bicep.

Shit. Rex has to leave. He glances over at your sleeping figure again, then slowly sits up. Despite trying his hardest not to disturb you, he’s unsuccessful. You stir beside him, shifting around and sitting up on your elbow, rubbing your eye.

“Hey.” Rex’s voice is rough in the morning air. “I gotta get going.”

You huff a sigh and flop onto your side. “Give me a second. I’ll make you coffee.”

“I really can’t stay,” Rex says. He keeps his hands to himself– The lustful era of the evening had been left before the sunrise. It wouldn’t be to his morals if he laid a hand, no matter how soft, against your skin.

You’re lifting yourself back up, duvet slipping down to your middle. “No, I– Let me.”

Rex’s eyes dip down to your breasts before back to your face. He’s already out of the bed. “I have to get back.”

“A cup of coffee isn’t going to kill you,” you insist, sliding out of the bed. You head over to your armoire, pulling an oversized sleep shirt out.

“Really, I appreciate the hospitality,” Rex repeats, pulling on his pants. “But—”

Rex’s protests land him sitting at the kitchen table, gaze torn between watching you make coffee and the view out the window he’s beside. You have a really nice view, overlooking Theed. However, you are also a really nice view.

With the fridge open, you pluck a carton out of it and set it on the table.

“I only have plant milk,” you say, “Hope it’s okay.”

“Oh, I drink my coffee black,” Rex says.

You blink at him. “You know, you look like you do.”

Rex hums. He watches appreciatively as you pour two mugs of coffee.

“Where do you have to be this morning?” You ask while handing him a mug and taking a seat beside him. You do not take your coffee black, and look like you don’t anyways.

Rex murmurs his thanks as he accepts the mug. He takes a sip before responding. The real answer is that he needs to be back at the ship before General Kenobi notices General Skywalker’s absence, and Rex is included in the “You know, Anakin, it’s important to remain focused on our missions at hand” spiel. Instead, he gives you: “Work. Before that I have to make sure everyone’s made it back from their nights.”

You desperately want to ask him if he’s one of those fabled clones that the Republic breeds. But it feels too personal. Too out of pocket. Instead, you settle on changing the topic entirely.

“You know, you have very distinguished features.”

Rex raises an eyebrow at you. “Pardon me?”

“Like… your nose and your eyebrows and your jaw.” You trace the features on your own face. “You look kind of like…” You remember that Rex had mentioned he didn’t have time for art the night prior, “Well, there’s this painting of a philosopher named Diogenes. You resemble him, but without the beard and the hair.”

It’s the strangest, and most detailed, compliment Rex has ever received. “Thank you?”

You hum, taking a sip of your coffee. “It is a compliment, by the way. He’s handsome in the painting.”

Rex takes another drink of coffee. It’s stronger than he’s used to, for sure. The stuff on the ship must be watered down to accommodate so many drinkers, and after tasting this cup, he’s not sure the coffee he’s used to is actually coffee. “What about you? Are you doing anything today?”

“No, I have the day off.”

Must be nice. “What are you going to do with it?”

You drum your fingers on the side of your mug. “Paint, probably. Maybe go for a walk. Practice my Gunganese.”

What a life of leisure. First, there’s an ache of jealousy that stokes itself deep within Rex. By tonight, he’ll be in a debriefing meeting about a planet that’s fallen under Separatist control. Then, it’s washed away with the reminder that he’s designed to allow for people like you to have lives of leisure. That life isn’t for him.

“I don’t know any humans who speak Gunganese,” Rex comments.

You sigh. “That’s the whole issue. The Gungans have been here long before humans and yet no one really speaks their language. I’ve been learning to try and at least smooth things over in a cultural sense. They have such a rich history with fascinating art pieces that I really want displayed in the museum, so people can learn more about them.”

Rex raises his eyebrows. The only Gungan he knows is Senator Binks who is… If Rex will allow himself a moment of selfishness, not his favorite person to be assigned duty to. “That’s quite noble of you.”

“It’s the least I can do.” You shrug.

“You speak any other languages?”

“My Rodian is really rusty. I took it in school, so I can write essays but my conversational isn’t very good. What about you?”

“Kaminoan.”

Your brows raise. “Really? What does it sound like?”

Rex chuckles, a little sheepish. “It’s nothing special. It’s not attractive or anything like that.”

“Rex, I literally speak Gunganese. I promise it’s probably more attractive than that.”

True. Rex clears his throat. Takes another sip of coffee. Thinks about what to say. When he sets his mug back down, he gives you a sentence. It rolls off his tongue, second nature.

It is attractive. All vowels and consonants that slide together. You cross your legs under the table.

“So, what did you say?

“That you make your coffee really strong.”

A blush rises on your cheeks. “There’s milk and sugar if you want it.”

“No, no, it’s not a bad thing,” Rex says quickly, “I like it. Really. It’s leagues better than what I normally get.”

“You’ll have to let me know the next time you’re in town,” You hum, finger tracing the mouth of your mug, “I’ll make you another cup.”

Rex’s heart tugs uncomfortably. That would be nice, wouldn’t it be?

“I don’t know when I’ll be back on Naboo,” Rex says, “But you've definitely made my visit worth more than I could have imagined.”

You hum at that, then stand from the table. You open a drawer and pull out a pad of paper, shaped in a heart, and find a pen. You scribble onto it, then tear it away.

“Here,” you say, passing the paper to him. “This is my frequency.”

There’s an x next to your name like a little kiss. Rex accepts the paper, and doesn’t bring up that there’s no way he’ll be able to contact you, not when all of his communication is heavily monitored. Instead, he tucks it into his pocket, where it feels warm against his thigh.

Rex leaves your apartment with a day-old croissant in his hand and the taste of berries and coffee lingering on his tongue. The sun seems brighter. The sky seems bluer. The birds seem to chirp in a melodic harmony. The walk back to the ship is pleasant. One that he doesn’t mind taking the long way for. After all, there are things for him to appreciate.

#captain rex x reader #by ophelia #i had to get this out of the docs it was sending me insane #pt 1 of ???

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 3 months ago

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Cause You Had Nothing Better to Do (AO3)

Carol Perkins/Barbara Holland || ~10k, complete || Part of the Steddie Upside-Down AU, but can be read as a stand-alone with some background info: Barb never died, Steve gets possessed by the Mindflayer instead of Will. || hut/comfort || Angst and Fluff and Smut || developing relationship || getting together || falling in love || mutual pining || porn with plot || smut || fingerfucking || frottage

Smut begins 6k in, the beginning and end is outlined with red asterisks (***), for skipping purposes.

I get this ache - and I, I thought it was for sex, but it's to tear everything to fucking pieces. -Ginger Snaps, 2000

***

There’s a fucking bat full of nails clutched between her palms and Carol Perkins swears she just coughed her entire fucking heart up onto the broken down bus Barb had just ditched her on. Barb’s shoulders have always been broad, jaw firm, eyes flinty, but Carol’s pretty sure there’s a fucking monster out there, and all the other girl’s got is an abandoned tire iron.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Dustin mutters under his breath where he’s hunkered down beside her, staring out the window with wide, adoring eyes as a high school junior walks out to face death like it’s any other Tuesday.

“She’s insane,” Max whispers, but even her usual bitchiness is tinged with a level of hero worship that Carol cannot live with.

These are all fucking kids, and she’s what, four inches taller than the shortest of them? How is she supposed to protect any of them no matter what deadly, suspiciously blood-splattered weapon Barb pushes into her hands?

“She’s awesome,” Dustin says, grinning gummily like this is cool to him.

“She’s going to die,” Carol hisses, unimpressed by how shrill her voice comes out. If she’d known letting this little twerp get into her car would lead to this, she might’ve shoved him out on his ass.

The thought’s punctuated by the meaty thwack of Barb’s crowbar connecting with something Carol’s pretty sure isn’t the dog Little Red’s been insisting it must be. Then, Lucas shouts out, “another one, two o’clock!” from his vantage point out the top of the bus, and there’s another one.

“She’s going to die,” Carol says again, despairing, even as she tightens her fingers around the baseball bat, takes a deep breath, and heads toward the door. “Don’t leave the bus.”

“What are you doing?” Wheeler whines, but she doesn’t care. The kid’s a twerp, and besides, there’s something three seconds away from leaping at Barb’s back.

The door squeaks as she wrenches it open, loose on hinges that haven’t been oiled in years. She wastes precious seconds yanking it closed behind her, and for what? The flimsy piece of metal and glass isn’t keeping anything out. But Barb had told her to watch the kids, and she’s abandoning her post. So, she closes the door and prays to a god that’s never called her back that the piece of shit holds.

“Behind you!” Carol calls, and Barb turns, crowbar arching with her momentum and smacking the thing directly in its horrible face.

The first one’s still circling Barb like a vulture, though, so Carol runs and stands at her back, covering all sides.

“What the hell are you doing?” Barb spits, but she backs up a step until she’s pressed against Carol.

She’s short enough that her head hits the solid plane of Barb’s back, and she feels small, suddenly inadequate in her body, and she hates it.

“Saving your ass?” Carol says, voice cracking as she finally gets a clear look at the thing that’s definitely not a dog.

Its paws are all messed up, like human fingers that never quite grew all the way, and it’s naked and hairless, glistening in a way she hasn’t seen outside of plucked chickens at the grocery store. Its mouth’s a furled pucker, almost funny to look at until the thing opens up to shriek in her face and she catches sight of what looks like hundreds of canine teeth, each pointing directly at her.

Carol can feel her mouth moving, but she can’t hear her own voice past its shrieking, can’t parse her thoughts as she clenches the bat and swings with all her might into its gaping maw.

The hit of the bat doesn’t seem to do much, but then the nails get stuck in the fleshy bits of its mouth between all those teeth, and when she yanks it free, the thing yowls and skitters back on its impossible legs.

Something black and oozing splatters across her, obscuring her vision until she reaches blindly up to her face and rubs it off with the sleeve of her cardigan. It’s viscous and sticky against her skin, and even as she keeps her bat raised, she shudders at the feel of it dripping off her hair and beneath the collar of her shirt.

She doesn’t notice she’s lost track of Barb until the other girl’s back slams into her hard enough that she barely locks her knees in time to stay on her feet. They press against each other, Barb’s warmth the only thing shoring Carol up and keeping her on her feet as that thing starts scurrying back toward her, mouth open wide with an inhuman shriek.

She swings again wildly, missing entirely, but it still shuffles back a few feet at the remembered pain of nails rending flesh.

Both the things circle them now, hemming them in. Carol matches Barb step for step as they spin in tandem, trying to keep each in their line of sight. Carol’s arms feel like leaden weights as she holds the bat upright, trying to mimic Tommy’s stance during his brief stint as a baseball benchwarmer.

“We’re fucked,” Barb mutters, and Carol finds herself inexplicably laughing as she keeps her eyes trained on the thing’s absence of eyes.

“Always thought it’d be Steve at my back when I died,” Carol says, grin more a baring of teeth than a smile.

“I thought it’d be Nancy,” Barb replies, voice strained.

Carol wants to turn and see the expression on her face. She knows the way Barb’s eyes go flinty and hard when she’s insulted, or the way she smiles when Munson says something endearingly stupid. She wants to know what her mouth looks like when she’s facing death down.

But they’re still circling, a dance where if even one of them falters, they both go down, one after another. So, she keeps staring down her prey, and when one lunges, she swings.

Her shoulder’s wrenched with the swing, but when she pulls the nails free from its flesh, the circle’s bigger now, those things giving her and her bat a wider berth.

“I’m not so bad though, huh?” Carol asks, and she’s still smiling, not-blood splattered against her teeth. She licks it off without thinking and gags at the taste—seaweed gone off.

Barb snorts. “Speak for yourself,” she replies, back pressed once more against Carol’s. “You’re the worst person I know.”

Carol laughs, braying and sharp in the quiet of the junkyard. She opens her mouth to reply, but then Lucas shouts, “there’s another one, six o’clock!” and she screams instead, wordless and enraged.

They can’t take three of these things, can’t even really take two. So, when she feels Barb swing her crowbar, she swings her own bat, spins wildly, grabs Barb’s wrist and bolts toward the bus faster than she’s ever run in her life.

“Go, go, go!” Dustin’s shouting, door propped up and body half out the open door against all of her orders, as if his wild gesturing will somehow make them faster. “Come on!”

Carol shoves past where he’s partially obstructing the door, tripping to safety. She falls, knees hitting the metal floor of the bus hard enough that she can feel it in her jaw. She lets go of Barb’s wrist, but not quickly enough to stop the other girl’s downward momentum. Barb ends up sprawled along Carol’s back as Carol lays there stunned, the children scuttling around them to secure the now-closed door of the bus.

The not-blood’s cold enough that she can tell herself that’s why she’s shivering. Barb’s body heat against her back is almost shocking. She wants to sink into it and let this nightmare play out without her. But something connects with the bus hard enough to shake it, and Barb jerks her up, leaving her seasick on dry land.

Barb rushes to the door, and Carol watches, stock-still as it crumples like wet tissue paper against the thing’s claws. Barb beats the shit out of it, glistening with sweat as she raises her tire iron and brings it down, again, and again, and again.

The kids rush past her to huddle in the back, and Dustin’s got his stupid walkie-talkie out, his voice begs for assistance that they all know isn’t going to come in time. Carol shivers as he says, “we are going to die!” with a fierceness beyond his years.

Carol stands, an island in the middle of a horror movie, waiting to be eaten alive. The slut always goes first, and there’s been writing on the boy’s bathroom wall for years.

Barb will protect the kids. Carol can just stand there, waiting for the inevitable final breath to fill her lungs.

But then Little Red screams, and Carol’s bolting for the back of the bus without thought, bat raised high in her shaking arms. They rip the fucking emergency exit at the top of the bus wide open, and one of those things is slinking through, chittering brokenly.

It’s too far up for her to reach, but Carol swings anyway, violently back and forth like she’s got a torch and she’s trying to light the thing aflame. It shrieks, saliva dripping down onto her face. She screams back, loud enough that her vocal cords protest and crack.

It closes its mouth and looms down at her, silent and menacing before turning its head like a dog scenting the air and disappearing from view entirely.

The bus is silent in its wake as they all stand, listening to the braying of these monstrous things grow farther and farther away.

Carol turns to Barb, a compass pointing true north. Barb’s already looking back. There’s black ooze splattered across her dorky glasses and the swell of her cheek, and she’s still clutching onto her crowbar, mouth a firm line.

Carol trembles beneath her gaze, a shiver running down her spine. The moment elongates, neither of them blinking. Like this, it’s just the two of them—no monsters, no children to protect, nothing but the absence of warmth where Barb’s back should be pressed up against hers.

She doesn’t want to take her eyes off Barb. It’s absurd; they’re not even friends, barely acquaintances, but it’s like the past however the fuck long its been with the other girl pressed up against her back has hollowed out a spot within her.

If she can see Barb, they’re both alive. If she can feel Barb, everything is fine.

“What happened?” Lucas asks, and his voice breaks up the quiet moment.

Barb looks away first, turning back to what’s left of the door to peer out into the junkyard. Carol watches, unmoored without Barb’s eyes on her, Barb’s back against hers, Barb’s skin beneath her fingers.

The door rattles as Barb swings it open. It clangs against the side of the bus with the momentum of her swing, hanging loosely by the one hinge it's still attached to.

From her vantage point, Carol can’t see past the broad plane of Barb’s back to what’s outside. She’s still got her crowbar in her hand, but she lets it hang loosely at her side as she leans out of the bus.

Dustin leans into her space, peering around her into the junkyard. “You guys scared them off,” he says, turning to smile up at Carol as if she’d done anything aside from scream and flail.

“As if,” Carol scoffs, rolling her eyes, but there’s a bubble of warmth unfurling in her chest as the kid just keeps smiling gummily at her.

“They all left at once,” Barb cuts in. She steps out of the bus, and Carol’s heartbeat kicks up as she loses sight of her entirely. Carol rushes after her, almost bowling Wheeler over in her haste to keep the other girl in her line of sight. Barb’s looking into the rapidly darkening forest. Carol can just barely hear the monstrous howls of those things, drifting toward them on the wind. “They’re going somewhere.”

And that’s how Carol ends up tromping along the woods with Barb, a gaggle of kids trailing behind them. For such obnoxious dweebs, they’re being shockingly quiet right now, their whispers barely carrying to her ears.

Barb’s not saying anything at all, but she’s using the tip of her crowbar to push branches out of their way, holding each one back long enough for Carol to clear the obstruction before letting it swing back, unimpeded.

“Can’t believe monsters were what you were all hiding from me,” Carol says, cutting through the suffocating silence. “I thought you were all fucking or something.”

Barb snorts and elbows Carol gently in the ribs before stepping back away, maintaining their carefully cultivated distance. “You really think it’s more likely that I’d willingly sleep with Steve Harrington than that there’s monsters?” She says it like it’s absurd. As if monsters with more teeth than hair hadn’t just tried to eat them.

“I don’t know,” Carol replies, biting her cheek against a laugh, "he did always have a thing for bitchy redheads.”

“Fuck off,” Barb replies, but she’s suppressing her own laugh now, Carol can tell.

Carol watches the way the edges of her lips tug up, like she can’t help herself. She’s so caught up in watching the other girl, that she doesn’t notice the root Barb had already stepped neatly over until her foot’s caught on it and she’s sent sprawling in the dirt.

The twerps all snicker, but Barb doubles back immediately and bends down toward her, hand outstretched. Carol takes it.

“You okay?” she asks. Barb’s hand engulfs hers, enclosing it entirely in her warm skin as she pulls Carol back to her feet. Carol stares up at her, breathless beneath the weight of her big, brown eyes. “Carol.”

Carol shudders, then nods, squeezing Barb’s hand, not looking away from her face.

“You’ve got a little…” Carol says, gesturing with her free hand to her own cheekbone. Barb lets go of her hand to swipe at her own cheek, missing the black ooze entirely. “Here, let me.”

Carol reaches across the space between them. Before she makes contact, Barb flinches, leaning away, so Carol pauses, hand hovering in the air between them. Only when Barb leans incrementally back toward her does Carol let her fingers settle against Barb’s cheek. Most of the stain brushes off, staining her fingers black, but there’s a cluster of stubborn, partially dried flakes still staining Barb’s pale cheek like invasive freckles.

Carol smooths her fingers gently over them, reveling in the warmth of a living body beneath her hands. Barb shudders, so she does it again before pulling the sleeve of her cardigan down over her fingers to use its abrasive cuff to scrub the rest free.

“Thanks,” Barb murmurs, barely audible even in the quiet of the night. Carol pulls her gaze up from pinkening cheeks to meet Barb’s eyes, hand still raised to her cheek.

She gets lost in Barb’s brown eyes, watching, almost hypnotized as her pupils dart all over Carol’s face like she’s looking for something. Carol doesn’t know what it is but finds herself hoping she’ll find it there.

Barb leans closer, a blotchy red high on both of her cheekbones. Carol gasps, just once, entirely lost, but then Mike fucking Wheeler interrupts the moment with a whiny, “can we go?” and Barb immediately leans back, averting her gaze.

Barb turns around without a word and continues on. Carol’s at a standstill, hand still raised, cupping the air like she’s still holding Barb’s cheek in her palm, even as she watches the other girl’s back grow smaller in front of her.

“Hello?” and it’s Dustin this time, pushing at her back. “Let’s go!”

“Watch it,” Carol hisses but she follows Barb’s disappearing back further into the trees.

***

Things keep happening. Barb should be used to it by now, after last year’s Upside-Down debacle, but it’s worse this time. She’s somehow ended up in charge of Mike Wheeler and all his shithead friends.

Even with her brother in the thick of things, Nancy’s conspicuously absent. Jonathan, too. Last year had been bad. But she’d had backup, and a plan.

Now, she’s just stumbling around in the dark, Carol Perkins trailing behind her close enough that she keeps kicking her fucking heels every other step. Barb makes a valiant effort at being mad about it, but it all blusters out before she can get a real steam going.

Her cheek’s still warm where Carol had cupped it.

Barb clenches the tire iron more firmly in her hand and picks up the pace, Carol hot on her heels.

Any warmth flees the farther they walk in. The sound starts small, then grows the further in they go. Each step is a struggle. Nancy would investigate – she’d follow the sound to its source, no matter what it takes, all in the name of answers.

That’s what she’d done when Steve had been missing. But Steve’s back now, and Barb’s steps are faltering.

It’s like the Demogorgon all over again – these things’ shrill calls travel straight to her nervous system, sending signals to her feet to flee. Before she can, she’s breached the trees.

There’s a cliff face in front of her so she stops, holding her arm up to halt any of the kids before they go stumbling off the edge.

It’s too dark to see much. Still, they all squint down, trying to catch sight of where the monstrous screeching is echoing up, ricocheting off the cliff’s face. Dustin whips out a flashlight, trying to shine it down to the ground, but the beam of light is swallowed up in the darkness, illuminating nothing but air.

“I don’t see anything,” Dustin says.

Barb rolls her eyes just as Carol says, “no shit.”

Lucas, inarguably the best of the bunch, lifts his binoculars from where he’d left them dangling from a string around his chest and squints through them.

“It’s the lab,” he says, leaning forward like that will somehow make him see more clearly. “They were going back home.”

“Let me see,” Barb demands, holding her hand out beckoningly toward him until he pulls the binoculars from around her neck and places them in her waiting palm without complaint.

She presses the eyepieces hard against her glasses, trying to get them close enough that her eyes focus. Once the image becomes clear, it takes her a minute of swinging them around until she focuses on the target.

She can’t see much past the fluorescence of their security lights, just the edge of a building ensconced in trees. But the sounds are converging on that point, and it sounds like a lot more than three of them.

“Shit,” Barb says, stunned into inaction.

What’s there to do? The place is going to be fucked, and they’ve got two close-range weapons between them.

But then Mike Wheeler peers around her and says, “isn’t Will in there?” in the smallest voice she’s ever heard.

Dustin swears and begins hailing another code red. Barb doesn’t turn away from the lab, afraid that if she turns her back, they’ll all converge on a different single point, and it’ll be them.

“I read you,” Will’s crackling voice comes through Dustin’s walkie talkie. “What’s the situation?”

The sound of fireworks cracking off one after another sounds in the distance. It takes her a moment to realize they’re gunshots. Then the screaming starts, barely audible from this distance. How could anyone be in there and not know the situation?

Is Steve in there with him?

Is Eddie?

“Demodogs are converging on the lab!” Dustin yells over the cacophony those things are making. Demodogs? Is that what they’re calling them? “I repeat, Demodogs are converging on the lab!”

“Hop’s at the lab!” Joyce’s voice comes through, just barely audible like she’s talking from far away.

Barb thinks she should care about the way Joyce’s voice cracks. Chief Hopper’s mostly a good guy who doesn’t deserve to be eaten by a Demodog. As if anyone does. But Joyce said he was at the lab, not we.

“There an adult with ya?” And that’s Uncle Wayne.

Barb sighs with relief, finally turning her back on the lab and shepherding the kids back the way they came, while they all squabble over the walkie talkie.

That’s Eddie and Steve accounted for. If they were in trouble, no way in hell would Wayne leave them alone.

They run to the car on Wayne’s orders, and Barb floors it to the Byers house, Carol in the passenger seat, the kids arguing in the back. Then she’s fighting the Demodogs again, this time with Wayne at her side, Carol hunched over her best friend.

Barb doesn’t feel safe again until the Demodogs are dead, and she’s hunkered down in the back of an unmarked van, Carol pressed tight against her side, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

The bat feels right in her hands, like it fits the grooves in her fingers perfectly, even after all this time without it.

She might never let it go again.

It’s a struggle not to get out of the van and beat Billy Hargrove’s face in with it, but Carol Perkins is rolling around on top of him, fists flying, and someone’s got to watch her best friend while she’s busy.

She keeps Steve behind her, bat raised in case that creep takes even one step toward them.

Her palms feel bare when Max snatches the bat out of her hands, wielding it against her own brother.

Things happen fast after that. The de-possession of Steve Harrington leaves her breathless and shaking in clothes soaked through. She huddles into the passenger seat of the van and watches Carol drive.

She’s not a good driver, a little too fast, taking curves too wide, but with her best friend passed out in the back seat, Barb can’t blame her. It’s not until they’re parked and climbing out that Carol whispers into her ear, “I don’t have my license.”

Barb’s laugh is too loud, undercutting the somber mood surrounding them. Carol nudges into Barb’s side, looking pleased enough that she kind of wants to strangle her.

They’re separated once they reach the hospital. Barb endures the doctor’s examination with as much grace as possible, staring at the closed door of her exam room as they bandage her minor scrapes.

Carol had been much worse—a bruise already swelling up the side of her face, cuts on her palms, god knows what else hiding beneath her clothes.

It doesn’t take long for them to set her loose. She peeks through the open door of Steve’s hospital room, but Carol’s not there, it’s just Ms. Byers and Will sitting dociley at Steve’s side as he slumbers on.

Placing her vulnerable back to the wall, Barb drops to the cold linoleum outside his door to wait. Her head tips back, eyes closed as she listens to Will and Ms. Byers quiet voices.

Something nudges Barb’s leg, and her eyes shoot open. Carol’s peering down at her, the toe of her shoe pushed up against Barb’s thigh. The palm of one of her hands is wrapped in white gauze, and there’s something shiny lathered across her swelling cheek.

She’s still covered in Demodog blood and dirt. Barb doubts she looks much better.

“What are you doing?” Barb asks.

Carol snorts. “What am I doing? You’re the one on the floor.”

She holds out her hand, palm open and beckoning. Barb takes it without thought. Carol attempts to pull her up, almost going down herself until Barb raises to her knees by her own power.

Once she’s up, Carol doesn’t immediately let go. Barb trails fingers soothingly over the gauze on her palm as Carol peers into Steve’s hospital room.

“Have you heard anything?” Carol asks.

Barb shakes her head before realizing Carol isn’t looking at her. “No.” They both stand there for a moment, staring at Steve Harrington’s sleeping form, hand in hand. “We should go home.”

Carol whips her head around, a mean snarl on her face. She looks half-feral, cardigan ripped and stained, hair plastered to the side of her head, the only clean thing on her the pristine white of the gauze on her hand. “What?”

Barb squeezes her hand, resisting the urge to shush her like she’s a spooked horse. “We need to rest—”

“But—”

“—and Eddie’s not going to leave,” Barb continues, talking right over her, “so someone needs to be ready to relieve him when he drops.”

Carol continues glaring for a second before rolling her eyes with a muttered, “boys.”

Barb’s hand itches to reach out when Carol drops her hand. She doesn’t, just takes two quick strides to catch up with Carol as she starts off down the hallway without a word.

“Wanna call your parents?” Carol asks. “We’ll need a ride.”

Barb grimaces. Her Mom will be worried by now, and it’ll only get worse if she strolls in covered in dirt and unexplainable grime. She’s not ready to face her suffocating care.

“Think I’d rather walk,” Barb mutters.

Carol’s lips quirk up, and she grabs Barb’s wrist, fingers like a brand on her skin as she pulls her along. “Come on.”

She’s pulled to the van where they’d abandoned it in the parking lot. She doesn’t protest when Carol pushes her into the passenger seat.

“I thought you didn’t have a license,” she says, already buckling her seatbelt.

Carol does something Barb can’t quite grasp to the dangling wires of the van, and the engine sparks back into life. She looks back to Barb with a wild grin, not bothering with her own seatbelt before backing out of the space and peeling out of the parking lot.

“I think we’ll have bigger legality issues if we get pulled over.”

Barb hums, watching the trees and houses blur past. They’re not going in the direction of her house. She can’t bring herself to care. Just the thought of walking through her front door makes her shudder. Wherever Carol brings them, it’s bound to be more peaceful.

“We could’ve walked,” Barb replies, not looking away from the window.

“You would’ve dropped.”

She’s probably right. Even seated, Barb’s legs feel shaky with fatigue, and the bumps and bruises on her body ache with every movement. Barb sighs, slumping further into her seat as the miles pass by.

Carol pulls into the driveway of an unfamiliar house. They both sit, staring up at it for an endless moment before Carol pulls at the dangling wires and the engine cuts out, leaving potent silence in its wake.

She shuffles into the back to grab the bat from where Max had abandoned it after whatever the hell they’d done when they’d taken the van for a joyride.

“Come on,” Carol orders before jumping out of the van and jogging up to the front door with energy Barb can’t understand.

Barb follows Carol inside.

***

Carol closes the front door behind them both. She pushes her face against the closed door, sighing as the silence of her vacant house falls over them both.

“Carol?”

She lets herself droop against the door for a second more, tired beyond what words can convey, before dropping the bat beside it like a discarded umbrella. It thunks ominously against the hardwood. She hopes the wood scars.

When she levers herself back fully upright and turns to face her guest, Barb looks just as exhausted, the drooping of her eyes amplified by the round lenses of her glasses. They’re covered in mud and blood, both red and black, so Carol turns without a word and leads the way toward the bathroom.

When she opens the door, her Mom’s clothes are discarded on the floor, and there’s remnants of make-up all over the sink. Carol looks down at the proof of her Mother’s existence and feels nothing at all. She bends down to grab a clean towel from beneath the cupboard and places it into Barb’s waiting arms.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” Carol says quietly, shuffling past Barb and closing the bathroom door behind her.

The separation cuts, so she hurries into her bedroom to rummage through her dresser for something suitable to wear. Barb’s bigger than her, both tall and broad, so she digs through her drawer until she finds a sufficiently oversized shirt and a pair of Steve’s sweatpants.

She stares down at the bundle of clothes for a moment before pulling out a cozy pair of socks as well.

The bathroom’s unlocked when she makes it back, shower already running, so she opens the door and puts the pile of clothes on the toilet. But when she turns back to the door, she can’t bring herself to leave.

She closes the door and jumps up onto the counter to wait.

Barb’s glasses are abandoned beside the sink. Carol picks them up gently, holding them up to her eyes to peer through. Barb’s eyesight must be atrocious, because even looking through them for a moment leaves her queasy.

Without getting off the counter, she turns sideways on her perch to run them under warm water. When the stubborn black stains persist, she uses her fingers to gently smooth hand soap over the spots. They slowly disintegrate under her ministrations, leaving black drips in the basin of the sink.

Carol turns off the water and wipes them dry on the cleanest part of her shirt.

That done, she stares at the closed curtain, waiting for Barb to emerge so she can have her turn.

It doesn’t take long before the shower shuts off entirely, bathroom quiet aside from the dripping of the leaky showerhead. Barb must know she’s in here because her hand reaches out to snag her towel from the rack without pulling back the curtain, and when she finally opens it, the towel’s wrapped securely around her body.

She’s still dripping, hair a curly wet mess atop her head.

Carol gazes at her, transfixed. Barb tends toward long-sleeved shirts and full pants, so the freckles are a surprise. They travel down her shoulders, fading until they disappear entirely beneath the towel. Her skin’s pale aside from the mottled bruises on her knees, and she’s full of soft, rounded curves.

Carol’s fingers twitch against the porcelain lip of the counter as she stares thoughtlessly at the sliver of Barb’s thigh that shows in the gap where the drapery of the towel doesn’t quite close.

Barb clears her throat, and Carol raises her eyes back up to her face. She looks strange without her glasses, eyes somehow smaller in her skull. “I brought you clothes,” Carol says, not looking away from her.

Barb’s eyes flit around the bathroom until they catch on the clothes folded neatly on the closed toilet lid. She nods, stepping carefully over the lip of the tub, now dripping on the linoleum of the bathroom floor.

Now that the shower’s free, Carol’s skin damn near itches with grime. She slips off the counter and slides past Barb, her shoulder brushing Barb’s arm. She hopes none of the filth on her body transfers to Barb’s clean skin.

Carol slides the curtain closed before stepping out of her clothes and tossing them onto the floor, piled atop Barb’s own discarded attire. She stands there, naked and chilled straight through, listening to the sounds of Barb shuffling into clothing Carol hopes will fit her.

She waits for the sound of the bathroom door opening. It doesn’t come.

The water’s already hot when she turns it on. Her shoulders drop immediately, all that tension she’s been collecting in her spine for days sloughing off by increments. She shoves her whole head under the stream.

It stings against her bruised eye, but she doesn’t care, too relieved to watch all that grime swirl down the drain. Only once the water runs clear does she fumble for the shampoo and soap, sudsing everything up until her skin’s squeaking.

She half-assedly smears conditioner through her hair but doesn’t let it sit long. Barb’s too quiet out there.

There’d been a half-assed attempt to keep her bandage dry, but they’re sloughing off her palm by the time she’s done. She wads them into a ball and tosses them into the corner of the tub to be dealt with later.

She follows Barb’s lead and grabs her towel before opening the shower curtain, more for Barb than for propriety's sake. No need to add more traumas to the day.

Barb’s sitting on the toilet lid, polished glasses back on the bridge of her nose, hair toweled off but still wet and uncombed. The shirt’s slightly loose on her, but Steve’s sweatpants are just a smidge too tight around her ass and thighs.

Her eyes are closed like she’s been dozing, but they’re clear when she opens them at the sound of Carol’s voice.

“You good?” she asks, waiting until Barb nods to make her way out of the bathroom, dripping steadily on her Mother’s precious carpet on her way to her bedroom.

Carol doesn’t close the door, so Barb follows her inside. She pulls out her pajamas – the fuzzy set of shorts and long-sleeved shirt covered in cute little bears – turning her back to Barb to cursorily dry herself and slip them on without undergarments.

When she turns back around, Barb’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in front of her, already looking her way. They look at each other in the bright light of Carol’s room. She feels stalled out, overwhelmed to the point of inaction by the few things she needs to do before she can crawl in beside Barb.

Barb clears her throat. It clicks dryly, and Carol’s fingers clench in on themselves. “Where am I sleeping?”

Carol stares down at her from across the room, feeling stupid and slow as she tries to make her brain think. “Right there,” she replies, gesturing half-heartedly at the bed Barb’s already perched on. “Climb in, and I’ll be right back, okay?”

Carol turns without waiting for an answer, each step she takes away from Barb twinging with danger until she’s damn near running to the kitchen.

She gets the bread out of the breadbox by rote, pulling peanut butter from the cupboard and strawberry jam from the fridge and laying it all down near the silverware drawer.

She makes them both the way she likes them—crunchy peanut butter spread thick, jam meticulously pressed all the way to the crust’s edge. They should eat a real meal, but Carol’s repertoire starts and ends with sandwiches, and even cutting a slice of cheese sounds insurmountable right now. So, peanut butter and jelly it is.

It's a struggle to balance the plate stacked with both sandwiches and a couple of waters already, but she still goes back for the bat, bending to squeeze it in the clutch of her armpit, hoping the nails don’t gouge her as she rushes back to Barb.

Barb’s eyebrows raise when she sees the bat, but she doesn’t comment from where she’s already beneath her pink paisley sheets, glasses lined up neatly on her bedside table. Carol loosens her hold and lets it drop harmlessly on the carpet at the foot of her bed, black flaking off where it’s caked onto the nails.

She’ll have to find somewhere else to hide it in case either of her parents poke their heads into her room.

She’d slept with a comfort stuffed animal until she was twelve and Tommy’d made fun of her. Now he’s stuffed beneath her bed, watching over her the only way she’ll allow. The bat’s a new kind of comfort object, but maybe she can put it under her bed with Mr. Rabbit, both watching over her from different kinds of threats.

“You’re not allergic to nuts, are you?” Carol asks, already sliding into the bed beside her and putting the plate in the space between their legs.

Barb reaches out to grab one of the water bottles from Carol’s hands, and chugs it to the dregs. Carol watches her throat work, enraptured. She only answers once she’s wiped the water from her mouth and picked up one of the sandwiches.

“Nope.” She takes a big bite out of the sandwich, and then continues around her mouthful, “thanks.”

Carol follows her lead. There are crumbs everywhere, neither of them bothering to eat over the singular plate. Something ravenous opens within her as she eats, the queasiness of malnutrition fading into a need to be filled.

She’s still hungry when she finishes, but just the thought of walking all the way back to the kitchen feels like an insurmountable journey.

Carol drinks her water and lays down on her back, staring up at the harsh overhead lighting. Clearly sensing the same issue, Barb stumbles out of bed to flip the light switch. Carol watches her stand there, stationary in the darkness of Carol’s room.

Carol reaches her arm out to pull the chord on her bedside lamp, letting its diffuse light filter through the room. Barb’s shoulders slump with the force of her sigh. She closes the bedroom door and crawls back into Carol’s bed.

When Carol reaches back over to turn the light off now that Barb’s ensconced in the safety of her bedding, Barb grabs her forearm, halting the movement. She can feel the warmth of Barb’s body pressed all against her back, over her shoulder, around her arm.

“Leave it on,” Barb asks, breath ghosting over the back of Carol’s neck.

Her breath shudders out of her, and she drops her hand. “Sure.”

The light’s dim enough not to blind them in the night, but when Carol flops back onto her back, she can just make out the popcorn indents of her ceiling. Barb doesn’t move back, so they’re pressed together, shoulder to thigh.

Carol holds her breath, afraid that any movement on her part will break the spell and Barb will scoot back to her side of the bed properly. Instead, Barb trails her hand down, fingers brushing lightly over the skin of Carol’s arm until she reaches her hand. Carol flips her hand over, palm in the air, fingers open just enough for Barb to slide hers in.

Her wrist’s at an awkward angle, so Carol scoots closer until her arm’s got enough give to twist. Barb rubs her thumb against the back of Carol’s hand, and her breath shudders out of her on a sigh as she slumps further into Barb’s side.

She rubs her bare foot against Barb’s calf, toes getting caught in the loose fabric of her sweatpants. It’s like in the forest all over again, she wants to get closer, closer, closer, until she can feel Barb’s heart beating within her ribs.

Proof of life.

She wants to slide her hands beneath Barb’s shirt and feel her soft skin give beneath her fingernails, taste it beneath her tongue. She’s still hungry, and tired, and Barb’s alive beside her.

She feels Barb pull on her hand, a barely perceptible nudge to get her closer, and Carol can’t stand it anymore, all the space and clothing between them. She twists further, thigh over Barb’s lap and levers herself up with the hand not still clasped in Barb’s own.

When she looks down at her, Barb’s lips are parted, and she’s already gasping, eyes half-lidded as she looks up into Carol’s own. She squirms a little on the bed, gaze dropping down to Carol’s lips.

She grasps the invitation with both hands, brushing their mouths together gently. When Barb makes no move to buck her off, she swings her leg more firmly over the other girl’s waist, and deepens the kiss, sucking Barb’s bottom lip into her mouth and biting down until she writhes beneath her.

Her face aches as she opens her mouth wider, but she doesn’t care. Carol loses herself in the paisley pink sheets full of crumbs, a beautiful girl beneath her, bathed in the dim light of her bedside lamp.

***

Barb’s damn near suffocating on Carol’s breath. She breathes it in greedily, makes no move to pull away as Carol drags her tongue against her gums. She opens her mouth wider, following the trail Carol’s tongue leaves with her own until they brush against each other.

Her hands are clutching at Carol’s hips hard enough that it must hurt as she tries to drag the other girl’s body even closer. She can feel Carol swivel her hips, grinding against Barb’s waist like she can’t help herself. Barb uses the grip she has on her hips to make her grind against her again, and that’s what makes Carol pull her mouth away with a gasp.

She’s panting like a dog in heat, lightheaded with oxygen deprivation. Barb opens her eyes and immediately groans at the sight of Carol, head thrown back, tangled wet hair partially blocking the look of ecstasy on her face. Her sleep shorts are riding up indecently high on her thighs, bunching at the crotch with the friction of her movements.

The hem of her shirt’s askew just enough to show a thin strip of the pale, unblemished skin of her stomach. Barb trails her hands up without thought, letting them clench at Carol’s waist instead. They look huge against her, almost connecting in the middle when Barb squeezes. She pushes her fingers up further until they disappear beneath her shirt entirely.

Carol’s ribs are bony beneath her grasp, contrasting with the soft give of the flesh of her breasts where her thumbs just barely brush against the bottom of them. Her eyes dart up to Carol’s face, and their gazes lock.

Carol’s lips are swollen from kissing and wet with saliva, and her pupils are blown until her eyes are all black, fathomless in the low light of her bedroom. She doesn’t look away until she’s reaching down with sure fingers to the hem of her shirt and pulling it off in one, quick movement.

She’s not wearing a bra. Barb knew that, but the sight of Carol’s nipples still shocks her into stuttered breathing. They’re a darker pink than Barb’s own, verging on brown. Barb’s fingers twitch against Carol’s ribs, thumbs trailing a line against the underside of her small breasts, transfixed.

She might’ve stalled out there for hours, barely breathing if Carol hadn’t covered both Barb’s hands with her own and slid them up until her nipples were covered by the palms of her hands. Barb’s eyes dart back up to Carol’s face to find her eyes closed, as she bites her lip hard enough to blanche it white.

Her breasts are small enough that Barb’s hands hide them from view entirely. She experimentally squeezes them both. They feel nice in her hands, but Carol doesn’t even twitch. So, she trails the fingers of her left hand down the curve of Carol’s waist until she shivers. She adjusts her right hand until Carol’s dusty nipple peaks through the gap between her pointer and middle finger, then squeezes tight.

Carol shudders as her nipple perks up. Barb switches hands and does it to the other, harder this time until Carol’s hips twitch in an abortive movement to grind against her waist. Encouraged, Barb squeezes Carol’s hip, letting her nails dig into delicate flesh as she guides Carol’s movements into a dirty grind.

She groans, bending forward to lick into Barb’s mouth like she can’t help herself. Barb moves both hands to her hips, trying to pull her impossibly closer as she opens her mouth wide.

Barb’s squirming beneath her, too turned on to stay still as she’s consumed. As if sensing her need, Carol shifts on top of her, until she’s straddling Barb’s thigh. She grinds against it, her knee just barely brushing against where Barb’s wet in her sweatpants. Barb writhes, trying to get any pressure.

Carol grabs Barb’s knee almost harshly as she yanks it up and open. Still straddling her other thigh, Carol grinds forward, dragging her clothed cunt against Barb. She can feel it now, the rough drag of her sweatpants against her swollen labia. She shudders with it, letting her thighs spread wider, giving Carol a bigger space to work within.

Carol shifts her hips, changing the angle of her thrusting until Barb groans as pressure’s finally applied to her clit, closing her eyes in pleasure. Carol’s manicured nails dig into the meat of Barb’s thigh, holding her stationary as she grinds against that same place until Barb’s breathing is ragged.

When Carol starts making these delicious little moaning sounds, Barb opens her eyes, desperate to get a look at her. There’s pink high on both of her cheeks, and she’s looking down at Barb like she wants to eat her alive.

Barb might just let her.

She’s shuddering with every breath. Barb wants to taste the air coming out of her mouth, let it slide onto her tongue and swallow it down. Her breasts are shaking with the pressure of her thrusting, the erratic expanding of her lungs. The blush is traveling down her neck, splattering her chest with red. She wants to run her tongue along the edges of it, see if she can feel the heat of her pooling blood.

She wants to taste and touch everything, carve it all into her sense memory to get off to during lonely nights to come.

Carol grinds against her just so and her head tips back, eyes closed against a moan of her own.

She wants to stay here in this moment, feeling the steeped pleasure of a beautiful girl taking what she needs from her. She’ll take what she’s given and be happy with it, no better than a pillow to be rubbed off against.

But then Carol’s nails rake hard against her inner thigh and Barb cries out, the feeling of it zinging straight to her core, back arching up off the bed with the heady feeling of it.

“Look at me,” Carol demands, voice raspy with exertion.

Barb’s eyelids flutter open. There are red nail marks along her thigh, Carol’s fingers pressed into the end of them hard enough that her flesh flexes and gives beneath the pressure.

She digs her nails in again, blanching Barb’s pink skin white as she hisses, “at me.”

Barb’s eyes dart to her without conscious thought, following her command, like Carol’s holding a string, puppeting her around with her every fleeting whim. There’s no other choice when Carol’s telling her what to do in that tone of voice.

Her pupils are huge and black, irises not visible with her lids at half-mast. They close almost entirely once Barb meets them, and like that was all she was waiting for, Carol throws her head back and grinds against her once, twice, thrice, before shuddering on a long, drawn-out moan as her orgasm wracks through her.

Barb gasps as she watches Carol shiver, collapsing against Barb’s raised thigh like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, hair covering what must be a spectacular look on her face. Her breasts are rubbing against Barb’s inner thigh with every shuddering attempt to breathe.

She’s never been this turned on in her life.

Barb slides her hand beneath the too-tight hem of her sweatpants, threading her fingers through her pubic hair, and pressing her middle finger into the edge of her clit. It’s a dry slide, but she rubs it again, and again, and again, too revved up to do anything else.

She’s too lost in sensation to notice what Carol’s doing until her hand’s wrapped around Barb’s wrist and she yanks it out of her pants. A horrible whine bursts out of her throat as she tries to buck up into fingers that are now pinned to the pillow beside her head as Carol looms over her looking fucked out and rabid.

Carol looks into her eyes, and Barb has a second to wonder if this is just a thing for her before she feels Carol’s small hand slide into her sweatpants and press directly into her clit with unerring accuracy. She throws her head back into the pillow, back arching until Carol uses her weight to push her into to the mattress.

She presses against it for a few more seconds before sliding her fingers down through Barb’s folds. She whines at the loss until Carol presses one of her fingers into her, and she loses all her breath entirely.

She’s fingered herself before, but her hand always cramps before anything ever comes of it, and the angle’s just off enough that she gives up before anything starts to feel good.

Carol has no such compunctions. She presses her finger in, deeper than Barb’s ever managed. She fucks it in and out a few times, slow and concentrated, before she pushes another finger in along with the first.

It doesn’t feel like much more than pressure until she thrusts back in and her fingers curl.

Barb gasps, arching up against Carol as she continues to thrust into her, unerringly hitting that spot inside that makes her toes curl. The sounds her cunt’s making in the quiet room are loud, a wet schlicking sound with each press of Carol’s fingers that might embarrass Barb if she could focus past the heat building within her.

It's deeper than anything she’s ever felt before, a pressure building in her abdomen and creeping into the rest of her until she’s a live wire. It’s too much. She tries to close her thighs against the feeling, but Carol’s between them. Barb clutches onto the sheets beneath her as Carol squeezes her wrist, pushing into her more firmly as Barb writhes against the feeling of being consumed.

She’s on the edge of something, an abyss she’s not sure she wants to fall into. She’s thrumming, electrified as Carol takes what she wants from her.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

But then Carol twists her arm, fingers still thrusting within her as she presses the heel of her hand down, rubbing harshly against her clit, and Barb seizes, entire body locking up with the power of her orgasm as she comes all over Carol Perkins’ fingers.

Sparks fly beneath her closed lids as the feeling goes on, and on, Carol’s hand working her through it between her locked thighs. She’s lost in it, gone to the sensation for a timeless moment.

Carol continues fucking into her until Barb feels her body go lax, thighs splaying without anyone holding them in place. Aftershocks twitch through her limbs as neurons misfire, sending her muscles spasming.

The sound Carol’s fingers make as she pulls them out is embarrassing, made more so as Barb feels her wipe off the excessive wetness onto her pubic hair. She cracks open her eyes just in time to watch Carol stick her tacky fingers into her mouth and suck.

Barb throws her arm over her eyes and groans with breath she doesn’t have to spare as Carol laughs, pressing the warmth of her body into Barb’s side.

***

“This never happened,” Barb says, shuddering in the aftershocks, neck red with exertion.

Carol tucks her face into Barb, sinking into her until her blooming smile is hidden in the armpit of her shirt. Her whole body’s tingling, from her thighs all the way up to the roots of her teeth. She bites down on the buttery soft material beneath her, grinding her molars into it until Barb shoves her off.

Her arm’s still covering her face, hair a riot of red curls atop her head. Carol wants to smooth them back, tuck them behind her ears even if they spring back up. But, Barb’s pulling away, still flushed from sex, so she asks, “can it never happen again a few more times?” in the hopes of making her laugh.

She just groans, but her forearm lowers enough for her to glare at Carol, and that’s progress in and of itself. Carol grabs the softening with both hands, walking her fingers up the underside of Barb’s arm until the offending hand is slapped away.

“Aren’t you still dating Tommy?”

Carol’s dangling fingers curl into a fist, eyes dropping to her stupid fucking duvet cover, no longer able to meet Barb’s fierce glare. The truth is, it hadn’t been like this with Tommy since they’d lost Steve. The truth is, she’d forgotten Tommy even existed while she’d been lost in Barb’s eyes, and had been happier for it. The truth is, there’s a vacant spot on her back where Barb’s is supposed to be pressed, and her hands feel empty now if she’s not clutching a bat full of nails, and it’s been two fucking days.

The truth is, Carol’s not sure she can unravel truth from fiction anymore.

She’d followed a kid to a junk yard to fight fucking monsters, poured boiling water on her best friend to de-possess him, and fucked a girl who’s name she hadn’t even known last year.

Reality was stretched to the point of breaking.

But, it’d all started to coalesce back together between Barb’s thighs. She’s not ready to let it fall apart again.

Carol rolls onto her back and stares at her stupid popcorn ceiling, fingers fisted around the empty space where Barb’s hand should be. As Barb regains her breathing, the silence settles between them like a third, stilted lover in her bed.

She’s not ready to share.

“Tommy and I haven’t really worked since Steve left,” she tells the ceiling. Part of her, a stagnant, wounded part, will always want that time back, when it was just the three of them being unrepentant assholes together. But those times have been gone longer than she’s been willing to admit. It’s time for something new. “It was only a matter of time.”

Barb makes a little humming noise, like she’s listening but doesn’t know what to say, so Carol does what she’s always done best: talks. “You know, it’s weird. We barely know each other, and I think if you left right now, I’d spend the rest of the night clutching the baseball bat to my chest and hiding in my closet.”

Barb clears her throat, says, “it was like that last time.” When Carol looks at her from the corner of her eyes, she’s lowered her arm, and she’s staring at the ceiling, too, shoulder to shoulder. “With Nance and Jonathan.”

Carol snorts, already knowing the answer as she asks, “what, you fucked them, too?”

The blush on Barb’s cheeks that had finally been receding, returns with vengeance, painting her face and neck a splotchy red. Carol still wants to lick it, so she swivels her head away and stares back at the ceiling, hand still clenching on empty air.

“No,” Barb whispers, soft and private just before she feels her fingers ghost over Carol’s fist.

She loosens it just enough that Barb can pry it open. Carol shudders as Barb’s fingers thread through her own, caressing the delicate flesh between them until they’re linked– Barb’s hand dwarfing her own in its hold.

Carol squeezes, and Barb squeezes back as they stare up at the ceiling in silence and think of their sins. She’s coming up empty, though. She’d do it all again to feel Barb’s hand in hers.

“You’ll break up with your boyfriend?” Barb asks.

Carol smiles, letting go of Barb’s hand just long enough to flop back against her chest, this time turned toward Barb like a flower to the sun.

“This your way of asking me to go steady?” she asks, flicking her eyebrows up suggestively.

“Fuck off,” Barb says, but it sounds tender, and she wraps her arm around Carol’s naked back and pulls her closer.

She’s still laughing as she reaches up to press her mouth to Barb’s, soft and lingering, all heat sucked out of the moment. Barb’s lips move against hers, gently enough that Carol inexplicably feels as if she might cry.

When the kiss breaks, she stays close, breathing in the air that Barb expels. People look weird from this angle, proportions skewed with perspective, but she can see all the freckles on Barb’s nose, each of her pale eyelashes, the ruddy complexion of her cheeks.

She leans down to lick a stripe up Barb’s cheek, mapping out the warmth of her blush as Barb laughs and tries to push her head down and away while keeping her arms clutched around Carol’s waist.

“Stop that!” Barb cries, but she’s laughing.

So, Carol bites Barb’s cheek, just once, face aching with the width she has to open her mouth. Barb’s skin tastes clean on her tongue, fragile beneath her teeth. When Barb pushes her again, Carol lets her jaw relax.

She tucks her face into Barb’s neck, teeth tingling once more. Carol brushes her nose back and forth against Barb’s soft skin, eyelids heavy tucked into the darkness of her body.

“We should go to sleep,” Carol says, wondering what time it is, but unwilling to turn around and take a look at the glowing red numbers of her alarm.

This has been the longest day of her life, and she’s a little afraid to let it end.

“You’re the one fooling around.”

Carol smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to the delicate skin of Barb’s neck before replying, “I think that was both of us, dear.”

Barb wacks her in the back in response, but immediately starts rubbing up and down her bare skin after. Carol melts, boneless at the feeling of Barb’s warm hands, like a spooked horse being soothed.

She can hear Barb’s heartbeat beneath her head, feel the expanding of her lungs with every even breath. There’s no room for silence to settle between them. This moment is too loud.

“Will you go with me?” Carol whispers, lips brushing against Barb’s skin with every word.

“Of course,”

Carol smiles again. Her mouth’s going to start aching against the strain, unused to utilizing those particular muscles this frequently. “I didn’t even say where.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Barb replies. Her fingers trail up Carol’s back to play with her hair. It’s tangled enough that Barb’s fingers immediately get stuck, so she begins delicately unpicking the knots. “I’ll go anywhere, as long as it’s with you,”

Carol’s still fucking smiling. It feels wrong, somehow, to let this warmth in. Steve’s in the hospital, burns on his back that she put there. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen when he wakes up, doesn’t know, not really, if he’ll wake up at all.

But those are worries for tomorrow. She can’t bring them into this moment. Won’t. It’s too fragile already.

So she says, “let’s go to bed,” and presses one last kiss to Barb’s neck.

They squirm futilely, attempting to get Carol’s comforter up and over their bodies without getting off of it. It would’ve been easier to stand, but they’re safe, and warm, and Carol’s reluctant to create even the smallest space between them.

They don’t turn out the light.

Thank you @queenie-ofthe-void for the beta editing! As always, you make everything I write so much better <3

#barbara holland #carol perkins #steddie upsidedown au #carol/barb #my fic

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bangtaninborderland · 2 years ago

Text

Niragi X Fem Reader. || Come Here Sweetheart PT 2.

Part 1

It had been a week since your last argument with Niragi and since then he had been nice, too nice. For once he had been gentle with you, his voice soft, his words sweet lacking the usual venomous tone he laced them with, he hasn’t hurt you or even attempted to. He stayed true to his words of being with you every time you had a conversation with you, his role within the militants enabled him to know exactly what you was doing all day every day.

His sweetness only put you further on edge but you knew not to question it, his hands circled around your waist, his chin resting against your shoulder after pressing a quick kiss to your jaw. It had become a habit for you to wait on the roof for him after his shift, if he wasn’t dragging you along to be with him for the entirety of it then you was told to wait in either your room, his room or the roof. At least up here you were allowed some kind of freedom.

It’s ironic that even in a world with no laws you’re still just as trapped. The man you love keeping you in a cage.

“Did you miss me?” His words were slurred, you could tell he had been divulging in the high quantity low quality alcohol that the beach had scavenged from the surrounding stores.

“Of course I missed you.” It was only a half lie. You missed the person you thought you cared about.

“Shall we go back to my room? You must be cold.” He noticed the way you shivered lightly as his fingertips drew patterns on your waist.

As much as you wished to be in the warmth you were sure if you had to spend another minuet staring at the plain walls of your assigned room then you’d definitely go insane. “Do you think we can go for a walk?”

You winced at how his movements slowed, a sign he wasn’t expecting your request. “Why? Do you not want to spend time with me? What’s wrong with our room? What are you hiding?”

His soft touches turned rough fast enough to knock your breath out of you, his sudden interrogation not at all expected. “No-nothing.” You struggle out.

He spins you around by your arm, hand wringing around your through as he guides you closer to the edge of the roof. “You know I’ll find out if you’re hiding something, I’ll do anything to keep you with me.”

“Yo-you- hurting.” You couldn’t finish your sentence but thankfully he understood, relaxing his grip on your neck although not releasing you completely.

Niragi was always in charge. In charge of guns, in charge of anyone without a gun, in charge of you.

After you’d had a few seconds to catch your breath he continued his questioning. “Why do you want to go for a walk, you know you can’t escape right baby?”

“I don’t want to escape I just feel so trapped here.” You notice your mistake instantly as you glance at his face and scramble to fix it. “Not trapped with you, trapped here at the beach. I can’t talk to people if you aren’t around and I want to see different things. You’ll keep us safe.” It was better to sweet talk him, arguing only fuelled his rage.

You swore your heart stopped for a few seconds as he dazed off into the night sky. “Fine, you’ll stay next to me the entire time.”

You felt like a child being warned but you accepted it nevertheless.

“Okay, Thankyou.” You reached up to place a chaste kiss to his lips, he smiled despite his attempts to hide it.

The residents within the hotel had already started what seemed to have been a never ending party, beer bottles and glasses scattered around the pool. You hated coming down here and not because of Niragi but because there was always some kind of fight, crowds weren’t something you were big on even outside of the boderlands.

Niragi had warned you to stay in your spot, a corner he had chosen for you to wait in what he informs Aguni of your short departure.

You turn at the sound of your name being called, Ann approaching you. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around in a few days.”

“I’ve just been in my room.” You shrug your shoulders, omitting the part about Niragi not letting you do anything else.

She glances around, eyes landing on the man who had been occupying your thoughts. “You know if you need help getting away from him I’ll talk to hatter.”

You shake your head instantly. “It would be pointless, I both hate him and love him, even with a chance to have some form of freedom he would never stop trying. It’s easier to be with him.”

“Are you even happy with him?” She questions, eyes narrowing.

You think about it for a minute, were you happy? Did happiness even exist in a place like this? You weren’t miserable, he could be genuinely sweet, like how he would run you bubble baths, get you the best food available and put it on a little tray so you could eat breakfast in bed. He had gathered magazines and books for you along with art supplies so you could paint. You weren’t sure if he did those things because he loved you or because he wants to keep you busy enough to always stay with him but he did it and that was what mattered. He could be rough but you chalked that up to his fear of being alone.

“I’m not always unhappy.” It was an answer, a shitty one but one that was as close to the truth you knew.

“You don’t seem that way, it’s okay to admit you need help.” She states, taking the straw of her drink between her stained lips.

You didn’t get a chance to reply as Niragi pushed past her, an arm resting lazily across your shoulder.

You cringed at the thought of the scene that was about to unfold before Niragi spat the words “What do you want.”

“I want you to stop ruining all my conversations with your lovely girlfriend here.” You held in a laugh at Ann’s mockery, she wouldn’t be the one facing the consequences later.

“You know for someone so small you do have such a big ego, maybe we will see how much you want to talk when I press a gun bet-

“Niragi!” You cut him off, pushing his arm from your shoulders before walking away towards the exit.

You heard him calling your name behind you, the gravel under his boots alerting you that he was following you but you didn’t care. You couldn’t win, even when you asked for something small like the chance to have friends or for him to not be so violent he just couldn’t stop himself.

You were all for ignoring his shouting until his voice cracked, something that rarely happened, although you didn’t turn back to him you did pause your movement as did he.

“Baby I’m sorry okay! I know I keep messing up but I’m trying. I just don’t know how to do everything the way you want.”

You were shocked by his rare bout of honesty, you considered ignoring him, walking off and facing whatever anger determined punishment he see fit later but you couldn’t ignore the pangs of longing within your chest.

Even in a broken world a broken being needs love and if you were the one that had to love the beast you could.

“Walk with me?” You called you, extending your hand towards him. You didn’t mention the smile that tugged at his lips as he laced his fingers with yours.

You walked in silence for a while, the bare streets providing minimal background noise, you could tell Niragi was always alert even with the handgun resting in his waist band, he turned to you, face unsure.

“What’s wrong?” You hummed leaning into his side as your walking slowed, the cold air causing you to shiver.

He shook his head. “I told you we should have fucking stayed inside but you don’t listen to me.”

Your throat tightened at the tone in his voice but you willed yourself to stay calm. “Why should we have stayed home?”

“You’re cold.” You weren’t shocked, he often expressed his concern for you through violence or anger.

You couldn’t help but wonder what made him like that.

“Why can’t you just tell me that nicely? You don’t always have to be so angry.”

“What did you say?”

“You always get angry at me, angry for having my own thoughts or wanting my own things, angry for existing but you don’t let me leave. You keep me by your side hurting me again and again and you claim it’s love and you know what? I love you, as sick and fucking twisted as it is I love you I fell in love with the way you take care of me even if it means I get hurt in the process. I’m stuck with you because even if you gave me freedom I’d still be tied to you because I fucking love you.” The words left your mouth before you could think about what you was saying but in a way you was grateful to the inner courage you had even if you was unaware of it.

“Get over it.” He scoffed, not giving you a second look as his grip on your fingers tightened.

“You know what why don’t you learn to talk to me like an adult? Stop hiding behind childish fucking anger because in case you haven’t realised in this world it doesn’t work. Either you kill me or I’ll die in a game. I can love you, I can hate you but I won’t let myself be scared of you anymore, we had this conversation last week but you don’t ever change.”

You tried to pull your hand away from his but he didn’t move, your walking had come to a stop and the only movement he made was to further tighten his grip on your hand.

“You’re hurting me.” You tried to pry his fingers off your own but it was no use, you were sure he was going to break your fingers.

“Niragi.” You called out once again, only for him to push you full force against the old car behind you.

“You want me to be an adult right? Let’s do some adult things.” He laughed, a hand pushing your shirt over your tits as he uses his other one to slide down the waist of your sweatpants.

His fingers were cold along your skin, your nipples hardening at his touch.

“Niragi stop!” You screaming at him, thrashing against his hold on you.

“Shut up!” He thrusted his hips against your ass, your body jolting into the car.

You hissed in pain as his soft massage of your boobs turned rough. His other fingers working around your clit harshly.

“You know you’re mine.” He growled in your ear, his teeth grazing against your earlobe.

“M yours.” You slurred your words, tears welling in your eyes.

“You are mine.” Suddenly his touch was gone.

You slumped to your knees, the pressure of his body against yours was the only thing holding you up. You looked around in confusion, only to see the man backing away from you, his head shaking profusely.

“Baby?” You whispered the pet name you rarely used for the man.

“I don’t know why I keep hurting you.” His voice was broken.

Your futile attempt to hold back your tears was no more at his confession. “Do you hate me?”

He was hesitant as he took a step towards you, almost as if he was debating if you wanted him.

“Come here sweetheart.” You reached out to him and he answered your wishing, retracing his steps to join you on the floor.

“I don’t hate you, it’s the opposite.” He looks away, his hair messy around his face.

“You love me?” You didn’t know wether you meant it as a statement of conviction or a question of confusion.

“That one.” You wanted to smile at how he couldn’t say the words.

“Say it.” You prodded at his side.

“No.”

“Say it and I’ll forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I will.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve to be loved by someone who wants to leave here with you.”

“I want to be loved by you.”

He shrugs. “You shouldn’t. You aren’t very smart.”

“You want me but you don’t know me Niragi.” You roll your eyes.

“I know you aren’t smart.”

“I wish you said nice things about me.”

“Like what?” He looks at you.

“I wish you told me I was pretty.”

He laughs. “I don’t think you’re ugly.”

“Still not a compliment.” You lay your head on his shoulder.

“Why do you like me?” He asks.

“Why do you?” You ask him the same.

“Because you don’t annoy me.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“I want to.”

“Then try. I’m not going to leave you. I’m not going to want someone else and you don’t have to threaten to kill the people I care about. I don’t have anything to lose in this world Niragi, if you keep pushing me I will break.” You was pleading with him, wanting him even if you knew you shouldn’t.

“I wish I could explain things to you.”

“Things like what?” You look towards him, your face only inches apart.

“Like how you make me feel, how special you are, how much I hate hurting you.” He whispers, eyes focused solely on your lips.

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because no one taught me how.”

“Will you let me?”

A daunting moment of silence overcomes you, his eyes wondering across your face.

“Why do you want to?”

“Because I want to be with you and I can’t be with you if you don’t change.”

“I could force you to stay with me.” He smirks

“If you do I’ll kill myself.”

“You wouldn’t.” His face is blank, his smirk vanishing.

“Will you let me?” You ask again.

“Yes, but you have to be patient with me.”

“I doubt anyone is leaving here anytime soon, hatter is half naked and insane, Arisu is trying his best, not to mention whatever weird things Chishiya has going on.”

“Don’t mention them.” You can practically hear him grinding his teeth.

“Talking about them doesn’t make them suddenly become someone I’m interested in. You have to learn to bend a little.”

“Arisu likes you.” He bits his lip.

“As a friend, he’s In love with Usagi.”

“I’m in love with you.”

You’d swear up and down that your heart stopped, this had to be an illusion, a dream.

“What?”

He groans dramatically. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“Please?” You stare at him.

He shakes his head, a little smile lightening his usually angry features as he leans in to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

“I love you.” You whisper, the words holding a much happier meaning.

“I’m not perfect but I want to be better.” He leans in again, this time placing a kiss to your cheek before he stands, extending a hand to you.

You take it without question, he helps you stand up before taking off his own jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders.

He sighs. “You’re cold.”

“I am cold.” You admit.

“Can we go back? I don’t like it when you’re cold.”

“Take me home?” You smile stupidly, a grin stretching across your lips making you look dopey.

“I’ll get you a better home one day, it will be me and you, no one else.”

“Why?” You lean against him as you walk, his arm around your waist.

He laughs. “I’ll make sure you’ll never need anyone else.”

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

An: so this is something I really wanted to showcase in this couple, Niragi can make multiple promises but it will always come down to his desperation of her to need him. He will always make it so she feels like he will change and can change but this man cannot stick to anything good. I haven’t wrote in AIB for a while but I remember when I wrote the first part a friend had said how it made her feel as if she had something to relate to with the way Niragi was so manipulative. The character of him in this fic is based on my own experiences. This was something that did happen to me and I thought it would be perfect to showcase how twisted he is. I’m Sorry this isn’t very long he is a difficult character to write for. I’ll write some smut soon I promise. Thank you all for 900 followers.

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junkdrawerfics · 2 years ago

Text

Promise Kept (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

This is an abo fic so if you don’t like don’t read! (no spice)

Summary: Reader is an omega aviator who has fought tooth and nail to be where she is. She never gave alphas the time of day, until Bradley Bradshaw walked into her life. Even then, she can’t bring herself to let him all the way in, until one night, after a fight with Hangman leaves her with too many doubts to ignore.

Warnings: none really, it gets a little saucy, but doesn’t go past some intense-ish making out. Some internalized prejudice.

word count: 6036 (ended up being kind of a slow burn)

Society had come a long way with how omegas were treated. No longer considered second class citizens, or fragile glass creatures in need of protection, they were treated just like everyone else practically everywhere. Practically.

As always, nothing is perfect. Some people still hold to their prejudice, much like how some women still face sexism, regardless of their secondary gender. For some reason, you just weren’t expecting to come face to face with it in the Navy. Perhaps you should have.

Being an omega, and a woman, meant you had to fight tooth and nail for every sliver of perception you could. In the academy, that meant studying every night and giving up all aspects of a social life to be at the top of the class. It meant long nights spent at the gym after studying, beating your body into a muscular shape, which was no simple task. No one ever told you how difficult it would be to keep your physique as an omega, something about your body being adapted to be softer, rounder, more protective. The odds never phased you, though. You wouldn’t have joined the Navy if they did.

And it worked. You bested everyone academically, and stood your ground in training against the alphas and betas. You weren’t the first omega to pass through the academy, but they all acted like you were, which only stoked the fire in you more, a fire that had been in you since you were young. Always push back. Don’t step down for anyone. Prove that you deserve to be there. Prove them wrong.

When you joined the Navy as an aviator, you started on your suppressants and never let up on your training. Even at that point, when everyone said you’d made it, when your parents urged you to take it slow, go out, meet people (‘an alpha’ was barely hidden in their tone), you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. You were going to prove to the world if you had to that omegas deserved to be treated with just as much respect as alphas, and you’d fight anyone if they thought otherwise.

Hence how you end up almost killing a certain frenemy of yours. Several times.

“Hangman, if you don’t shut your trap, I’m going to shave your head in your sleep,” you snap, teeth grinding as you glare up at the taller aviator.

“Ooooh, the omega has claws.” He gives you that annoying smirk, the one that makes you want to smack him over the head with a pool stick.

That would break it though. You don’t want to put Penny out like that, so you stick to a scathing growl. Placing the stick down on the table, you notice your other friends take wary steps back as you come to stand toe to toe with the prick of a blond. Good. You wouldn’t want anyone else getting into this right now.

“Do you want to go, Bagman? See just how sharp these claws are?”

He scoffs, “We wouldn’t want you getting hurt now, would we, Widow?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your eyes narrow.

“Look, darlin’-” The word makes your brow twitch. “-it’s just a simple fact that alphas are stronger than omegas. I’m just saying you’re no exception.”

“I could put you on the ground in less than a minute,” you growl, anger digging into your chest like a hot iron.

“Oh please, if you weren’t on suppressants, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

A low murmur spreads through your group, even amongst the standers-by who overhear your argument. Your jaw clicks with how hard you clench your teeth together, a dull pain thrumming up to your temple. Slowly, you tilt your chin up and square your shoulders, every aspect of your posture screaming of a dominance you shouldn’t possess, a dominance you’ve taken by force. Hangman’s gaze turns wary at the challenge.

“Oh, he’s done it now,” Phoenix murmurs, eyes dancing with barely contained amusement.

“I wouldn’t want you even if you were the last alpha on the planet,” you murmur, voice like a storm brewing out over the ocean, “You should just admit that you can’t beat me in a fight instead of resorting to being such a douchebag. It would look better.”

“You know what I think? I think it’d look better if yo-”

“Watch your mouth, Hangman.”

You bite down on a flare of frustration when a solid body steps between the two of you. Your eyes travel up, trailing over muscular arms, across broad shoulders, up to a mop of dark curls crowned by a pair of aviators and you stiffen.

Rooster.

You reluctantly take a step back, watching the two alphas glare at each other. The look in Rooster’s eyes sends your pulse racing. They burn with something fiercely protective, something utterly dark that curls low in your abdomen. Usually you’d butt back in, because you don’t need rescuing. You don’t need an alpha to protect you, nor do you want one.

But it’s always been different with Rooster, as much as you don’t want to admit it. When he comes to your defense, a deep neglected feeling crawls up your throat and practically chokes you. You’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore how nice he smells, all leather and mahogany and clean linen. How his touch feels like warmth and ice and electricity all at once. Or how he looks at you like you’ve hung the stars when you win in combat, smile dripping with pride and something you don’t dare put a finger on. You can’t. You can’t, because if you do, you’re terrified that feeling will drown you, and you’ll turn into exactly the thing you don’t want to be.

So you settle for stepping back to watch, desperately clinging to the anger still simmering in your veins. Desperate to ignore the prominent veins tracing the alpha’s taut arms and the attractive edge of his clenched jaw.

He’s just an alpha. An alpha like any other. Even if he treats you like an equal. Even if he’s never been anything except respectful to you.

“What, Bradshaw? As if you don’t think the same thing?” A taunting smile returns to Hangman’s lips. “I’m just playing the part, but we all see the way you look at our favorite omega.”

Those words make you stiffen. Eyes wide, you glance up at Rooster, whose ears are tinging pink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he denies, a warning in his tone.

“Oh really?” The blond presses, far too entertained by the reactions he’s garnering. His eyes slide to you again, and for once, you feel unsettled by the mischief you find there. “Have you noticed, (L/n)? Because I sure don’t feel like I’m imagining it.”

You don’t know how to respond. It’s like the words have tangled on your lips, like they’re anchored there, too heavy to spit out, too terrifying to face. And you hate just how weak that makes you feel.

“Just drop it, Hangman,” Rooster growls. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”

“Fine.” Jake raises his hands, that idiotic smirk still curling his lips as he takes a mock step back. “You really need to lighten up, Bradshaw. Wouldn’t want someone getting the wrong idea, since you don’t want her apparently.”

That statement settles in your gut like a rock, especially when Bradley just clenches his jaw again and doesn’t say a word.

Leave it to Hangman to stir the pot, or to set the heat until things boil over in this case. You want to throttle him, maybe deprive him of the ability to have kids, but you are far too aware of all the eyes on you, both your friends and the various strangers populating the bar. It makes you want to disappear, or yell, but neither are really an option right now.

Running away means you’re a coward, a weak little omega who can’t stand up to some bullying.

Yelling would just make you look crazy.

So once again you’re forced to settle. You drop into the seat next to Phoenix, watching Rooster take a deep, slow breath before he storms off to the bar, for a drink you presume. It seems most evenings with Hangman require some form of alcohol to make it through. Too bad you were a designated tonight, or you’d be joining him.

“You okay?” Bob, sweet beta he is, gives you the softest concerned look from across the table.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “Nights like these make me deeply question why I’m friends with that knot-head though.”

“Who else would you argue with if he weren’t around?” Phoenix laughs into her drink.

You don’t say anything in reply. Part of you wants to say that you don’t love arguing. It frustrates you more than anything, how the blond knows how to get such strong reactions from you. And it’s even worse that he always seems to do it around Rooster, which leads to moments like this, where you can’t control the ache in your heart that clashes with the fire in your veins, leaving you to burn in your own uncertainty.

The rest of the night goes on peacefully, which is likely due to the uptake of alcohol. Despite telling yourself it’s a bad idea, you can’t help but keep an eye on Rooster. The man appears to sulk a few tables over, not paying much attention to the conversation Fanboy and Pay Back keep trying to draw him into. Worry burrows deep into your chest when he switches from nursing a beer to a glass of whiskey, dark eyes lost in thought.

You wish you knew what he was thinking. You wish you could walk right over there and ask him. Pretend the evening never happened. But that uncertainty clings to you like a tick, small and irritating and impossible to tear out.

He’s an alpha.

But he’s also your best friend.

Everythings has always been different with Rooster. At first, you’d hated him. He was just another opponent, another obstacle you had to overcome to be the best. You used to bicker, much like Hangman, but he never once brought up your secondary gender. He respected you, despite all your back and forth. He treated you like an equal, something you had only experienced with Phoenix.

Then, one day, you crashed. It was an accident, an error with the plane. Apparently something was missed in the inspection before you went up. You ended up in the hospital for a few days, and when you woke up, there he was. Sitting at your bedside, somehow asleep while looking horribly uncomfortable in one of those stiff hospital chairs.

Things shifted after that.

That day you saw a new side to the aviator. He was softer, charismatic smirk replaced with the most genuine smile when he realized you were awake. It gave you pause back then. Made you doubt everything you thought about alphas. From then on, you spent most of your time together, and your arguments turned to playful banter, which turned into late night talks, which turned into phone calls when your deployment took you to different places.

It all went so fast, leaving you grasping at straws when you first noticed how your heart skips a beat when he gives you one of those soft, lopsided smiles.

But he’s an alpha.

And you still can’t face the idea of being a typical, lovestruck omega, not after an entire lifetime and trying to be anything but. What would everyone think of you? What if you fell behind? The doubt is crippling, to say the least.

So you stay at your table, nursing your own cup of lemonade, distractedly adding to a conversation with Phoenix and Bob while watching the alpha down drink after drink. Eventually he starts smiling again, laughing just a little too loud like he usually does when he’s drank too much.

“Wanna play a round, Widow?” You glance over at Hangman, who holds out a pool stick to you. A peace offering perhaps. Some of the tension leaks from your shoulders.

“No thanks, Bagman, not really in the mood to play,” you hum, though you give him the faintest smile to make sure he knows the two of you are good. He nods, too white smile on his lips as he tosses the stick to Coyote instead.

When you look back to Rooster, you freeze. He’s looking at you, for the first time since the stand-off. His eyes, such a peculiar shade of hazel and brown, are glazed over, but they burn with an intensity that makes your breath get lost somewhere in your lungs. Smile gone, it’s replaced with a look you are far too familiar with. It’s the look he gets whenever he’s trying to figure something out, how to attack, how to win, how to succeed at a certain maneuver. But it’s solely focused on you.

You meet his eyes, one brow raising in challenge. Not a single sign of submission. A soft glint sparks in his gaze, something dark and fond, as a smile pulls at the corner of his lips. You don’t back down, even as his eyes trail down, lingering for a heated second on your lips, before trailing over the exposed length of your neck and collarbone. Subconsciously, your shoulders draw up, and your eyes narrow into a glare. Rooster leans back in his seat, eyes sparkling as they trail back to meet yours. Too dark. Too warm. Too hungry.

You break away, heart suddenly in your throat. And you’re shaking. You tuck your fingers between your thighs, desperate to hide the slight tremor. You can still feel his gaze, feel it warming your skin to the point of setting a fire. For the first time in what feels like forever, a blush spreads up your neck and across your cheeks. A low chuckle sounds from a few tables down.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you grumble under your breath.

“Who?” Phoenix asks, though the smirk on her face gives away that she knows.

“Rooster,” You tell her anyway.

“Oh please, you love him. He could wreck your car and you’d still ruffle his hair like you do and forgive him,” she laughs, and Bob nods along. “He loves that by the way.”

“Huh?”

“The two of you are very oblivious,” Bob adds, which is like a punch in the gut coming from the beta.

“What do you mean?” You look between your two friends, frustration building when they merely share a look and laugh.

“Nothing, Widow. Just might be some time for a heart to heart with ‘Roo’.” She puts the nickname in air quotes, because it’s what you notoriously call him. No one else can get away with it, lest Bradshaw bite their heads off. He lets you though, and they’ve all seen the fond smile it brings to his lips. It’s so painfully obvious, to everyone except you and him apparently.

You’re about to bite back, maybe something about her and Hangman, but the sound of a sharp shuffle draws your attention away. Rooster is jostling out of his seat, slurring something about another round, but he can barely keep himself upright. With a sigh, you slip from your booth, heading towards the idiot.

“Case in point!”

You send Phoenix a glare over your shoulder, but it turns to something fond when she gives you a cheesy thumbs up, eyebrow wiggling. They’re all idiots, you decide.

You make it to Rooster’s side just in time, as he practically trips over his own feet.

“Woah, buddy,” you laugh, catching him around the middle. You can feel the heat of his body, even through his Hawaiian shirt. Rooster has always run so warm. “I think it’s time to get you home.”

A cacophony of protests sound from the rest of the table, but Bradley just looks down at you with a doe-eyed smile. You stomp down the fondness curling in your stomach, and instead draw his arm over your shoulder and curl an arm tight around his waist.

“I’m taking this dufus home. Try not to die while I’m gone!” You call, receiving a mixture of laughter and catcalls (Hangman of course), which you ignore.

Now, moving a 6’2” alpha is no easy task. Not when it’s Rooster, who can barely keep a foot under him when he’s tipsy and is only coordinated when he plays the piano. Usually, on nights like this, the main struggle is getting him to stop laughing long enough to get his feet to move, but tonight, he’s suspiciously quiet as you lead him out to your car. You can still feel his eyes on you, but this time you’re too scared to meet them. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking now. You don’t want to think about the fact that you’re alone with him now. An alpha. A drunk alpha at that. Even if he is your best friend.

The cold, night air helps to ease the warmth dancing under your skin. It seems to help Rooster sober up just a little too, as he fumbles his way into your passenger seat. You reach across him, intent on buckling the idiot up, but freeze when his fingers curl around your wrist.

Slowly, so slowly, you lean back to look at him, ready to bite, knock him out if you need to, but Bradley just smiles. It’s one of those soft, genuine ones, brimming in his eyes, boyishly lopsided. And you melt. You buckle him up and take a moment to ruffle a hand through his soft curls, drawing a content hum from the dirty blond. He just keeps looking at you, all smiley, eyes half-lidded.

“What am I gonna do with you, Roo?” You sigh.

“Kiss me?”

A shocked laugh parts your lips at the earnest suggestion. This finally gets Rooster to frown, though it looks more like a pout, which makes you giggle more. Leave it to Bradley to always be unexpected.

“Maybe when you’re sober, Roo,” you tease, and this seems to bring back his grin.

“‘m holdin’ you to that.”

You snort, knowing he probably won’t even remember this conversation in the morning, though a small part of you hopes he will. A small part you chastise as you close his door and move to the driver’s seat.

The drive is surprisingly quiet, until the sound of Rooster’s soft snores fill the car. A fond smile captures your lips. Looks like you had the perfect timing. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer at the bar. When you reach his apartment, you take a moment to just look at Rooster. His brow, usually knotted together for some reason or another, is smooth in his sleep, making him look younger, softer. His hair is a little mussed from when you ruffled it, a few strands falling over his forehead, tempting you to brush them back.

He really is handsome, you think. You don’t often let yourself entertain it, but Bradley really is something. Tall, muscular, with a defined jaw and a confidence to match. He’s an ideal alpha. Yet, that’s not what you find yourself drawn to. No, it’s those moments in the air when he calls on you to make the decision. It’s all the times he invites you over for a drink and just listens. It’s everything else about him that drives you crazy. He’s the perfect alpha.

You wonder if he’d ever pick you, as his omega.

And then, immediately, you shove that thought down and jump out of the car. Bradley jumps awake when you slam the door, eyes blearily tracking you as you make it to him and unbuckle him.

“Come on, big man, time to get you to bed,” you huff as you drag him up.

“You’re so strong,” Rooster mumbles, the look on his face just short of adoration.

Your face flushes, “Strong enough to drag you around. Better keep that in mind the next time you try to pick a fight with me.”

A moment of silence.

And then - “’m not Bagman.”

You stop, casting the alpha a curious glance. You hadn’t been insinuating that, but suddenly he looks too serious, brows furrowed, mouth set in a firm line.

“I know you’re not, Roo,” you murmur gently.

“I don’t like how he talks to you.” He frowns, now facing you completely.

“Yah? How so?” You slowly redirect him to the door.

“Don’t like how ‘e treats you like some ‘mega. You’re an omega, but he, he-” He practically growls, and your shoulders tense. “He’s no manners. I should knock some ‘nto him.”

You loosen when you realize the root of his anger. He doesn’t like that Hangman blatantly disrespects you as an omega. You were expecting it to be some protective alpha thing, since the two of you are so close, and it is to some degree you’re sure, but it lifts a little of your unease knowing that this is partially his chivalry thing. He once told you it’s how his mother raised him, since she was an omega and his father had passed away. His only other real influence was Maverick, who happens to be a beta.

“Well, I bet if we messed his face up a bit, he wouldn’t be so rude,” you hum, laughing softly when Bradley nods aggressively.

You prop the alpha against the wall and fish his keys from his pocket, shuffling nervously when he goes quiet, heavy gaze falling down on you again. If only he weren’t a good head taller than you, then maybe it would be easier to face that look.

Instead, you swiftly step into his small apartment, busying yourself with grabbing a cup of water for him and a couple aspirin for when he wakes up the next morning. He watches from the doorway, only moving in when you tell him to go change.

And boy do you regret that when you slip into his room. You were intending to just check on him one last time, make sure he didn’t slip and die whilst changing, but you instead come face to face with a notably shirtless Rooster.

“Ah, I was just um, I just-” You gulp, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen Rooster shirtless, but this is different. This isn’t on the beach, when he’s covered in sweat and dancing to a victory play in dog fight football. No, this is in the dim light of his room, the soft glow from the kitchen just illuminating the prominent muscles of his abdomen, the smooth planes of his chest, the line of his collarbone, every inch of him tan and glowing and perfect.

When you finally do bring yourself to look away, to look at his face, you’re met with the most wolfish grin.

“Like what you see, Widow?”

Heat flushes through your chest, your breath catching in your throat. A small voice in you screams danger danger danger, but you can’t move as Rooster inches closer. His hands hover over your sides, close enough that you can feel his warmth, but not touching.

And part of you begs him to. Wants him to touch you, grab you, hold you, do whatever he wants. It collides viciously with the relief that swarms you when his hands settle gently on your arms. But then he’s leaning over you, face coming so so close to yours and you can’t breathe again. Your thoughts are swimming, lost to the whirlwind of the homey scent that envelops you.

“I wanna tell you something,” Rooster mumbles, warm breath brushing your face, the faint scent of whiskey not as gross as it should be.

“What is it, Bradley?” Your voice doesn’t quiver. It doesn’t.

He looks at you, and for a moment, it’s like he’s completely sober. His eyes are clear and bright, swimming with more emotion than you thought someone could hold. It feels like your heart is pushing through your chest.

“He’s wrong.”

“Who’s wrong?”

He hesitates only a second before the words spill from his lips, “Hangman. He said I don’t want you. He’s wrong.”

The air fizzles between the two of you as you process what he’s saying.

Bradley wants you. Is that what he means? He wants you? In what way? You’re suddenly overflowing with questions, each one dancing on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to ask them. Not now. Not when he’s like this and you can’t even seem to get your head straight. You don’t even know what you want, for Mavericks sake. (haha funny)

“I think you should get some sleep, Roo,” you all but whisper, “We can talk tomorrow.”

“It’s okay-” He draws you close just to press the softest kiss to your temple. It’s so innocent and sweet, you almost melt. “-know you don’t like alphas. Jus’ had to tell ya.”

And your heart breaks. His voice softens with something horribly sad and resigned, like he’s thought about this before, like he’s told it to himself over and over again. Because of you. Because of your stubborn prejudice. You’re no better than all the people you’ve been judging.

“Let’s get you to bed,” you croak, not meeting his eyes as you pull the man deeper into his bedroom.

He flops onto the mattress unceremoniously, immediately grabbing one of your hands when you turn to leave.

“Stay?”

You bite your lip, torn between running, escaping all this mess in your heart that he’s not even aware of, or doing exactly what he asks, because that’s all you want.

All you’ve ever wanted.

“Yah,” you rasp and settle down on the edge of his bed, “I’ll stay Roo, we’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

“An’ you’ll give me that kiss?” He peaks up at you with one eye, already fighting sleep.

You smile and gently brush your free hand through his curls, “Guess you’ll just have to get some sleep and see.”

Rooster eagerly closes his eyes and buries into his blankets, though that big, dopey grin stays on his lips even as he quickly drifts off. You linger, fingers still petting his hair, until you’re sure he’s asleep. Then, slowly, to not wake him up, you untangle your hand from his and make your way to the door.

Right before you close it, you hear a low, muffled, “Night, (Y/n).”

“Good night, Bradley,” you murmur back and silently shut the door.

You slump against the wood, a long whoosh of air escaping your lips.

How on earth are you supposed to process all of that?

It feels like everything is clicking together and falling apart, all at once.

Rooster wants you. You can still feel the warmth where his lips pressed against your skin. And you can’t really deny how you feel about him, not after all of that. Not only had you brought him home alone, drunk, and stumbled in on him shirtless, but nothing had happened. He never pressed, never made a move besides some flirting which is just so notoriously Rooster. Even drunk, he was more respectful than most people had ever been to you.

You love him.

There’s no other way to describe the deep, aching fondness in your chest.

You trust him, which seems even more important. Bradley would never do anything you wouldn’t want, he would never push himself on you, he would never force you to be something you’re not. Yet, you’ve made him feel like it’s impossible, because of your stupid vendetta against alphas.

The decision is made right then and there.

In the morning, when he’s more sober, you’ll show him just how much you like him and want him as an alpha. There will be no more doubt, no more holding back, no more suppressing every instinct that claws at your chest at the sight of him.

In the morning, he’ll definitely be getting that kiss.

---

When Rooster wakes up, it’s still dark out. A habit from all the early mornings for the job. He groans softly, head pounding like a herd of elephants are traipsing around inside it. He looks around blearily in the dark, barely catching the silhouette of a glass of water on his bed stand and the pills sitting next to it. He downs the painkillers quickly, finding the tiniest bit of relief from the cool water on his throat.

That’s the last time he drinks like that, he thinks, much like every morning he wakes up hungover.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Wincing, the alpha looks up with narrowed eyes, catching a familiar sight. You’re standing at the end of his bed - how did he miss you coming in? - dressed in a pair of shorts and one of his old shirts. You look significantly better off than how he feels.

“Morning,” he rasps and clears his throat, heat climbing up his neck, “What happened last night?”

“Not much. You proposed to me in a fit of undying love and cried when I said no,” you hum, holding the straightest face you can.

Absolute horror flashes across Rooster’s face, making his eyes go wide as saucers. The blush on his neck climbs all the way across his cheeks, all the way to the tip of his ears. It only lasts for a few seconds before you burst into a fit of giggles, and understanding dawns on him. His features settle into something unimpressed.

“Not funny,” he growls, but the blush still lingering on his face makes it not too threatening.

“You’re just so fun to tease, Roo,” you coo, thoroughly entertained by the glare he sends you. You give his leg a pat, letting your touch linger - Rooster notices, his brow perking inquisitively at you - before you tuck your hands between your legs and your tone turns more serious, “Last night was fine. You just drank too much so I brought you home.”

“I didn’t do anything?”

“Weeeell…”

“(Y/n)?” His voice holds something uncertain in it, which is out of character for the aviator, and makes you soften.

You hold his gaze for a serious moment, biting your lip as you think through the words you’ve rehearsed over and over in your head. It’s not helping, not with the nerves swirling in your chest. You barely slept last night thinking about this moment.

“You were mad about what Hangman said at the bar last night,” you murmur slowly, to which he nods. That he remembers. “You wanted to make sure I knew he was wrong. You um, you said you want me?”

Bradley freezes. He looks down at his hands, fingers flexing and unflexing as he traces back the events of the night. It’s all blurry, but he does remember being close to you. Kissing you. He winces. That is not how he wanted that to go. But all the best pilots know that once you make a move, there’s no taking it back, so the best route is to just keep going…he hopes.

“And if that’s true?” He asks, bringing those dark eyes up to meet yours. They burn with the same intensity they did last night, making you bite your lips.

“Well, if that’s true…” You take a breath, gathering every ounce of courage left in your body to swing a leg over his, putting you right in his lap. Rooster inhales sharply, instinctively gripping your hips to steady you. His eyes are wide, brewing with something wicked as they stay locked on your face. “I’d have to tell you that I want you too…alpha.”

A low growl rumbles through the aviator’s chest and his fingers dig into your skin, hard enough to leave a bruise, you’re sure. And you love it. The omega in your crumbles when he draws you closer, close enough that your noses practically touch.

“You weren’t drinking last night too, were you darlin?” His voice is deliciously rough, brushing over all your senses, leaving you tingling.

“Nope,” you hum, draping your arms over his shoulders to play with the curls at his neck, “I’m all here, Bradley. This is my decision.”

“And you’re choosing me?”

Instead of saying anything, you take another deep breath to still the nerves boiling away under your skin, and slowly tilt your chin, exposing the expanse of your neck to the alpha. A sign of submission.

Bradley stills, chest practically heaving as he keeps himself from moving. Both of your hearts are pounding, the moment so quiet, so tense, as you look at him from under your lashes. Your eyes swim with uncertainty and a vulnerability he has never seen, and that breaks him from his spell.

“God, I love you.” He buries his face in your neck, breathing in every bit of your scent that he can. You shiver at the feeling of his warm breath on your skin, a low giggle escaping you when he presses his lips to your neck, all gentle and slow and sure, but the brush of his mustache against your skin tickles. “I’ve loved you since that crash, probably since before it. Never thought I had a chance with you, baby girl.”

“Sorry for making you think that, Roo,” you gasp when he nips at your ear.

“Don’t be.” He presses kisses to your jaw, closer and closer to your lips. You wish he’d just hurry up. “This feels more rewarding.”

“What? Knowing you got the stubborn, little omega?” You jest, practically dizzy from all the contact, and from his scent which seems to swallow you. God, you love his scent.

“No.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Knowing you’re choosing me. It’s all you, darlin’. I never stood a chance against you.”

“I don’t think I did either,” you sigh, “Not with that stupid mustache and that face.”

“You like my face?” His eyes twinkle with boyish mirth.

“Shut up and kiss me, lieutenant.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You can feel the curve of a smirk on his lips when they finally meet yours. And it’s perfect. His lips press gently to yours as his hands trace up your sides to cup your face. Every touch is searing, leaving behind trails of heat that make you whimper softly into the kiss. Bradley growls, the sound deep, low in his chest. He tilts your head, catches your bottom lip between his teeth, eliciting a gasp from you. He deepens the kiss, and you’re helpless against it, against him. He kisses you until you’re breathless, until you’re clinging to him and his hands are curled firmly around your waist, drawing you closer, closer, closer. Even when you break away, chest heaving for air, he doesn’t stop, just presses kisses along your neck, tugs the collar of your his shirt aside to drop kisses along your collarbone and shoulder. A shaky sigh escapes your lips, and you can’t help but curl your fingers tightly through his curls. The alpha groans, concentrating on the spot right below your ear that makes you tremble. You whine when he bites the spot, and a low rumble vibrates his chest as he traces his tongue over the stinging skin before he presses one final kiss over it.

Your whole body is like a live wire. You can’t catch your breath, can’t stop the shaking of your hands or the wild pace of your heart. But you feel alive. You feel alive for the first time in forever.

“I love you,” Bradley murmurs again as he presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed as he too tries to catch his breath.

“I love you, too,” you laugh breathlessly, “I can’t believe I’ve made you wait so long.”

“Worth it.” He hits you with that stupid, lopsided grin you love so much.

“Definitely….”

“...alpha.”

Bradley opens his eyes, glaring at you playfully, “Don’t start something you can’t finish, darlin’.”

You peck his lips one last time, teasingly soft, before you jump up from the bed and make your way to the kitchen.

“Wouldn’t dream of it! I kept my promise about the kiss, didn’t I?”

A low laugh sounds from the bedroom, and you smile.

Yah, this was the right decision.

Note: This was purely self-indulgent when I wrote it, but I liked it, so I figured I’d post it somewhere. Hope someone else likes it!

#top gun #top gun maverick #rooster #rooster x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #reader #reader insert #x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradsaw x reader #abo #abo dynamics #alpha Bradly bradshaw #alpha rooster #omega reader #don't judge pls

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 2 years ago

Text

Dark Necessities [Part 1]

Jake Lockley X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals

Masterlist • ao3 • want to be tagged?

Summary: “I can’t do this anymore Jake... I can’t…” ‘Kill any more people’ is what you want to say, what you should say. But he’d know you were lying. “I can’t do this so frequently.”

Before he left Egypt, Jake destroyed all the remaining ushabti’s – setting all the previously imprisoned god’s free. That was the main reason he felt so responsible for what happened to you.

A/N: Look, I'm so sorry, I have been writing this for ages and I just have to post it. (Part 2 will feature Steven and Marc.) I've just gone and made up my own lore here with some of the gods.

Warnings: hahaha, oh no, typos, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, mentions of murder, mentions of eating people, reader can't speak Spanish, please let me know if I have missed a warning

Word Count: 5230

Taglist: @pleasurebuttonwrites @jake-g-lockley @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @welcometostayingawake @mbakubabe @solobagginses

( @romanarose & @melodygatesauthor I've tagged you both too, because I thought you might like, I hope you don't mind!)

__________________________________________

You hit the door with the side of your fist, four hard knocks.

There was still blood under your fingernails, a few faded out red streaks along your hands where the puddle water hadn’t been enough to wash it away.

You knew he was in. Could feel it. That pull beneath your breastbone, that sense that another avatar was near.

The buzz of hunger played at the back of your mind, drawn out and dull. It was a constant thing, like a live wire of electricity. At least it was quieter for now.

There was movement on the opposite side of the door, a pause before a lock clicked and opened.

Jake stared at you for a moment before you spoke, his expression betraying nothing.

“I need to speak with your god.” You said, your voice was low, gravely. The taste of iron coated your tongue.

He opened the door a fraction wider and motioned you inside.

You stepped in as he quickly shut and locked it behind you.

It wasn’t exactly the place you had pictured for him. Open plan, littered with books, it seemed more like the home of a scholar. Though, it wasn’t as if you knew much about Jake’s personal life. In fact you knew nothing outside of his role as the fist of Khonshu.

The light of the fish tank caught your attention and you walked towards it slowly, like a predator trying to show they were no danger. Two goldfish swam in the water. It was peaceful to look at them, easy to ignore the sensation of Jake watching your every movement.

“What are you doing here?” His tone was short, gruff, bordering on anger. You didn’t care.

“I already told you I need to speak with your god.” You spoke blankly, doing your best to suck out any emotion and failing.

“That’s not what I mean.” He walked closer to you, his reflection growing in the glass of the tank as you continued to stare at the fish.

You were a distraction that thundered too hard in the back of his mind. “You didn’t message first. Anyone could be here.”

His turn of phrase caught you off guard a little, but you let it slide. “You’re the one that gave me your address.”

He breathed out through his nose; a short sound you knew would be accompanied by him clenching his jaw, tightening his hands into fists before relaxing.

“I told you, you need to message me. You don’t know where I could be-”

“I could feel you here.”

Jake paused, about to press further when something caught his eye. He had been too frustrated at first to properly look at you, to pay his usual attention to every small detail. There was a sheen of sweat coating you skin, beads of it collected at the hollow of your throat. The urge to reach out, to touch you, to run his tongue along your jaw was too strong.

He clenched his teeth together and pushed the thought away. “There’s blood on your neck.”

You ran your hand over your skin as you turned to face him. Tiredness ate into your bones, it made them weak, like they could crumble at any moment.

“I need to speak to him, Jake.”

“You can’t-”

“Jake-”

“Tomorrow. He won’t be here until tomorrow.”

You frowned. “I thought he was always with you?”

He shrugged, preferring to look at your ear instead of your searching eyes. The way you gazed up at him, he wouldn’t- he couldn’t- he would get lost. “We have a different set of rules.”

“Can’t you summon him?”

“Our deal allows us both to have time away from each other, except for dire situations.” Not a complete truth, not a complete lie.

You nod, close your eyes for a moment and swallow down a breath, missing the way Jake watches your lips.

“It happened again?”

“... Yes.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“No.”

He gives you a short nod, “take a seat,” and motions to the sofa.

You slump down while Jake makes himself a coffee. The cushions are soft and welcoming, it would be so easy to close your eyes. To give yourself over to rest. Even if it was only for a little while.

Jake sits opposite you and you try to sit up straighter.

“What did you do with the body?”

You stare blankly at him; his words don’t really register for a moment. “There wasn’t any left.”

He nods again. Expression uninterested and calm. But you could tell the difference, the slightly bob of his throat, the smallest spike of his heartbeat. Fear, you think, disgust. And it makes you sick.

“I can’t do this anymore Jake... I can’t…” ‘Kill any more people’ is what you want to say, what you should say. But he’d know you were lying. “I can’t do this so frequently.”

A small sad smile pulls his lip upwards ever so slightly. If you had been the avatar for anyone else he would have just told you to ‘give it up’, relinquish your role.

But Set had never been one to share those rules.

It had been Jake who had released him, released all the bound gods under Khonshus direction. It had been an easy thing with most of the other free gods searching for avatars to replace the ones that Harrow had butchered.

He felt responsible for you. He was responsible for you.

“Set still doesn’t talk to you?”

You shook your head. “No matter what I try.”

“Before tonight... when was the last time you… ate?”

“Yesterday.”

“And before that?”

“Three days ago.”

There’s a bleakness to your tone that hurts, a resignation that’s nearly taken over.

“You can speak with Khonshu when it’s light,” he stood quickly, with that panther like grace you had come to admire. He left his coffee, untouched, on the floor by his chair and strode behind you, coming back a moment later holding spare clothes and a towel. “Go clean yourself up properly.”

His hands linger on yours as he passes them over, but he doesn’t meet your gaze. You don’t argue.

He directs you towards the bathroom and you shower quickly, the water turns a pale pink before it runs clear.

You spend a little too long just holding on to the clothes he gave you. Dark, clean, soft material. Pyjamas. He didn’t seem the sort to wear- the image of Jake in bed, naked, barely covered by a thin sheet sprang into your mind.

You screwed up your eyes as your cheeks burned, these weren’t the thoughts to be having right now.

The pyjamas smelt undeniably of him. The scent heavy, but comforting as you put them on, like you were surrounded in his presence.

The condensation on the mirror hid your face. A small mercy. You didn’t want to see yourself. See how you had changed under Set’s influence.

It didn’t used to be so bad, so strong.

You first met the god at night, still reeling over your sister’s death. He didn’t so much as speak but implant thoughts, sensations, feeding your rage and thirst for revenge. I’ll show you who cut her, who ripped her from this world. I’ll make you strong. I’ll help you devour them. Do. We. Have. A. Deal?

It had been two men that had taken her life. You had found them easily with Set’s eyes and ripped them apart easily with his hands. Their blood and flesh had slid down your throat so sweetly, sating that hunger in your soul. His hunger.

You hadn’t needed to feed again for six months. The urge boiling up and spilling over.

He preferred those who had taken lives, they tasted better, smelled sweeter. Your instincts pulled you closer to them, Set’s instincts, moving you like a puppet as the form overtook you, as you gave into the urge to feed.

Six months became three, then one, then less and less and less until the feeling never left. Only dulled briefly after the latest kill.

Jake was speaking on the phone as you exited the bathroom, quick sentences in Spanish.

You sat back on the sofa, sinking down. Your wet hair cooled your feverish skin. You were always hot now, burning a few degrees higher than normal. Save when you were starving, if you were trying to resist Set’s need to eat. Then everything would cool, your skin would numb and vision would dull to a point.

Jake’s voice was soothing, rhythmical, despite the fact that you couldn’t understand a word he was saying. It was nice to be around someone else, someone who knew what was going on.

The sound of Jake’s footsteps made you jolt awake. The spiking sensation of falling. You didn’t remember when you drifted off to sleep.

He held out a hand, like someone who was trying to calm a wild animal. But his eyes were kind. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired.”

You almost laugh, “yeah,” and look down at your hands, the traces of blood long gone. You weren’t sure if you could deal with the intensity of his gaze. The scrutiny.

“You can stay here tonight,” he paused, meaning to say something else but only added, “I’m not going to turf you out.”

“I,” stupid emotion overcame you, tears threatened to spill down your cheeks. “Thank you.” Viscously, like you were trying to scrub them clean, you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand.

Jake paused, clenching and unclenching his jaw before he finally sat down next to you. A careful and controlled movement.

“I’ve just been speaking to a contact.” He waits for you to look back at him, to make sure you hear the full weight of his words. “We’ll figure something out. Even if Khonshu can’t help. I’m not going to abandon you. You have my word.”

You nod again, it seemed easier than speaking.

He didn’t have the skills for this. This wasn’t what he was meant to deal with. He wasn’t built for kind words and reassuring glances. But that’s all he wanted to do. To kiss away those tears that lingered in the corner of your eyes, to make you fall apart in ecstasy instead of despair.

“Thank you,” you whispered again, not knowing what else to say.

He’s so close.

Your gaze flits between the day-old stubble on the sharp line of his jaw, the way in which he bites ever so slightly on his plump bottom lip.

It’s too much. It’s all too much. Like he is waiting for you to say your next line, play your next move, when you have nothing. Lost for thoughts other than him, like his presence is the only air in the room, overwhelming and all encompassing.

The dull buzz of hunger throbs in the base of your skull, the electricity of it sparking out across your spine like a whip.

Jake touches your hand, the barest grace of his cool fingers along your feverish skin. The softest thing that breaks a crack into your chest.

He opens his mouth, teeth realising his lip, and begins to say your name. The first syllable forming in such a hushed and reverent tone, like the sweetest music – beautiful and you can’t bear it.

You can’t let him say it, not like that, not like this, not – you lean closer in a rush, shutting him up in the only way you can think of and press your lips to his, swallowing down the sound of your name.

He stills, surprised, as a hush falls over the room.

That snap of hunger bites in deeper and you come back to yourself. Embarrassment and guilt flood your mind and you instinctively pull back, apologises already beginning to form on your tongue.

But you don’t get far. Jake’s hand slides against your cheek, his fingers sinking into your hair and curling around the nap of your neck, gently stopping you from pulling away.

His kisses are so soft it’s almost painful, careful and languid as if you are some fragile thing that could break instead of the monster you are.

His tongue ghosts over your bottom lip just before he drinks down a particularly needy moan that escapes your lips. A sound that would in any other circumstances bring embarrassment, but you are too far gone to care. Already drunk and burning from the taste of him.

You tangle one hand in his hair, so soft, the other in his shirt, trying to bring him closer and deepen the kiss, accepting his tongue as he slips it past your lips.

He licks into your mouth and you must taste like blood, like death. But he only groans in pleasure when your tongue strokes his, moans when you scrap your nails along his scalp. He’s water hitting the desert sand, being drunk down greedily into its depths.

You let him push you back down against the settee, let him hook his hand behind your knee and move your legs apart so that he can settle in-between them.

He grinds down against you, giving you both the friction you crave.

“Fuck.” He hisses, the sound coming out needy and desperate as he breaks the kiss.

You hunger for the taste of him, the need of him is so sharp it is at the point of pain and while Jake is momentarily distracted you lick a stripe up his neck to his jaw.

He lets out a beautiful sound and you kiss your way back down the path you just made as he bucks into you. His fingers tighten and a shudder of a hiss escapes his lips when you pass over his pulse point.

You pause briefly to glance at his face, his eyes closed and brow furrowed so wonderfully. The light from the lamps gives him a halo, a soft glow, making him look like some angelic work of art.

As his eyes begin to open you latch back onto his neck, sucking at that sweet spot to drag more of those wonderful sounds from him. Music you could never grow tired of.

Languidly, you scrape the edges of your teeth over his skin, soothing it quickly afterwards with your tongue, and repeat as a dark bruise begins to form. The purple of it spreads like ink in water.

He bucks his hips unthinkingly, his length rubbing deliciously against your clit and your growl against him, once again scratching your nails along his scalp.

Jake shivers, letting out a shaky string of Spanish under his breath that sends a spike of heat straight to your core.

Your thighs clench around his waist instinctively, the hunger is there, Set’s hunger. You can feel it in the back of your head, running along your spine. You want Jake. You need him. You are going to devour him.

But not in the way you have feasted on so many others, you want his moans, his sighs, only his pleasure.

You kiss his neck again, nipping at the flesh just under his jaw as he grinds against you, already achingly hard. His hand is holding your hip so tightly, his knuckles white, the grip so strong it would surely leave bruises on any other lover.

Then suddenly Jake pulls away, sitting up quickly onto his knees. You let him go, resisting the urge to cling onto him, to keep his chest against yours.

This is it. Spell broken.

But his eyes don’t leave yours, his lips are slightly swollen, dusted a darker shade of pink from your bites and kisses. He’s breathing heavily, his pupils blown wide, and if he notices the faint sheen of red in your eyes, Set’s sheen, he doesn’t say anything.

“Can I,” he licks his plump bottom lip that is already shiny from your spit, biting it momentarily between his teeth.

You’d never known Jake to be hesitant with his words, or actions for that matter. But you can see it now. The smallest twitch of a tendon in his neck, an uncertain furrow to his brow. You wait for him to continue.

“Can I take you to bed?” He speaks quietly; sure of his words but uncertain of your reaction. Trepidation on his tongue.

You can’t stop the grin that spreads itself across your face, the first true smile you have given in what feels like an age.

You rush to sit up, kissing him quickly before whispering in his ear, “you can take me to bed Jake Lockley.”

There is the smallest tremor, a shiver that runs through him at your words, and you take particular pleasure in that.

He places butterfly kisses against your neck, your shoulder, breathing in deeply as he inhales your scent mixed with the smell of his shower gel. His fingers skim the bottom edge of your- his top, lightly tracing the line of exposed skin. The touch is teasing, never quite daring to dip under the material and something inside you snaps.

You grab hold of his shirt, unbuttoning it just enough so that you can pull the offending thing over his head without ripping it into pieces.

You’re a little rough, but Jake doesn’t seem to mind as you run your hands along his chest. Repositioning yourself on top of him, your knees caging in his thighs.

He wines at the loss of your lips, reaching up to pull your mouth back to his and sighing against you when he finally gets his wish.

You try to fight the giddiness, the joy that threatens to boil over and leave you lightheaded. It doesn’t seem right after so many months of pain and self hatred. After what you’ve done. But try as you might, you just can’t help yourself and quickly decide to bask in his light for as long as he wants to give it.

He bucks up against you as you grind down on him, his hand warm on the small of your back as he pushes you further, encouraging you to roll your hips.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth as you drag your cunt over a particularly sensitive spot. You nip at his lips and do it again, watching him intently as he screws his face up in pleasure. Oh god, you could do this all night.

“You like that?” You tease, rubbing yourself over him again.

He nods furiously, eyes closed, mouth tightly shut, like he doesn’t trust his own voice.

“Good.” You whisper as you drag your clit back down the clothed length of him, the sensation sending sparks along your spine. You can feel your wetness soaking into your borrowing pyjama bottoms.

Jake lets out a particularly needy groan and grabs a hold of the back of your head to press his lips to yours. Greedily, you force your tongue into his mouth and he accepts it without hesitation, moaning happily.

His free hand snakes up under your top to cup your bare left breast, pinching and rolling your hardened nipple between his fingers.

It’s your turn to hiss out a muffled, “fuck.”

You could cum like this, you realise. The way he’s touching you, the way you’re moving against him, the taste of him and those sounds he’s making, it’s all too much, it’s all too good.

Jake pulls at your top, bunching up the fabric in his hands and you break away from him quickly to let him pull the offending thing over your head. He throws it somewhere behind the settee as you quickly go back to rocking against him and sucking bruises into his neck.

“Can I- mierda-” he cuts himself off with a low groan as he thrusts up against you. “Please...”

You slow, but don’t completely stop your hips and pull away from him slightly to give him room to speak.

He looks wrecked, his hair a mess from your constant pulling, his skin flushed. He gazes up at you with hazy eyes and his voice is thick when he finally can form a coherent thought. “Can I taste you?”

His words send heat straight to your core. The cool air of the flat on your feverish skin is the only thing stopping you from combusting into flames. You swallow and nod quickly, this time not trusting your own voice.

You shuffle back a little to pull off your pyjama bottoms and Jake moves with you, sitting up slightly as if he can’t bear more than a few seconds without your touch. He pulls impatiently on the left leg when it gets caught around your ankle, finally freeing you, and you can’t help but let out a small laugh.

Jake grins up at you, peppering light kisses to your chest before wrapping his arms firmly around your hips and laying back down, pulling you with him.

“Shit!” The sudden movement surprises you, but you’re laughing again as you grab hold of the settee to steady yourself and not to fall completely on top of him.

He bites the skin below your belly button before kissing it and wiggles himself down so that his neck is on the armrest. His pyjama bottoms are still caught around your right leg.

Jake doesn’t give you a moment to enjoy the view before he brushes his thumb against your clit, running it up and down through your soaking folds. You bite back a sharp moan. You’re so wet you could probably take all of him right then and there without a problem.

He lets out a groan and a deep rumble of Spanish before teasing your entrance with his fore and middle fingers. Not quite dipping in, but just enough to coat them with your slick before he shoves them into his mouth and moans loudly, his eyes screwed up as his tongue works to taste every last trace of you.

You clench around nothing, barely having a moment to commit the scene before you to memory before he’s pulling you up and against his face in one swift motion.

His mouth feels like heaven as he licks up through your folds and swirls around your clit. The movements soft and languid, like the first kisses he gave you.

Instinctively you buck your hips, trying to grid down on his mouth and chase that toe curling sensation, but his arms hold you firm, barely letting you move and only allowing the gentlest rock.

“Jake,” you wine and your voice doesn’t sound like your own, too desperate and ruined.

He just hums as he continues to softly lap at you, kitten licks that are driving you insane.

You run your hand through his hair, lightly pulling on his curls to try to ground yourself but that just causes a rumble of a groan to reverberate through his chest and lips, to vibrate against you.

“Oh shit, Jake,” it’s too much, it’s all too much and not enough. You’re water breaking at a cliff's edge.

Suddenly he’s pulling you closer, his hands squeezing your thighs. No longer teasing as he presses your pussy fully against his face, moving you up and down to grind harshly against his mouth until your thoughts catch up with his intentions and you remember how to move.

You ride his face desperately, biting the inside of your mouth to retain some resemblance of control. All thoughts are blank from your mind, the only focus is the sensation of Jake’s mouth against you, the creaking sounds of the settee.

You’re so close. And Jake feels it, the tightening of your thighs and abdominal muscles. He scrapes his teeth against your clit, so similar to how you marked his neck before, then sucks on it hard and you are lost.

You cum violently against his face, pulling fiercely on his hair – a sensation that cracks out like whip to his neglected cock and he moans blissfully against you. You buck twice before Jake’s arms take over in an effort to keep you upright.

He licks into you, desperate to get every last drop of your release, but too soon for his liking you are calling his name and moving back from him. He shifts so that you can sit back a little, his hands resting on your waist.

You breathe heavily.

“You okay?” He asks with a smile, the lower half of his face shining in the lamplight.

You nod. “Just give me a minute.”

“That good?” He cocks an eyebrow at you and you laugh, swatting his arm.

“I’ll murder you.”

“I’ll die happy.” The soft look in his eyes catches you off guard, that crack in your heart widens. You can’t deal with that right now.

Hurriedly you lean down to kiss him but stop just before your lips meet his. He frowns up at you for a second before you rub your hand over his mouth and chin, wiping away your release.

“Hey!” He chuckles, trying to grab hold of your hand to stop you. “That’s mine.”

You seize his wrist before he can stop you, leaning your weight against his other arm at the same time.

“Is it?” You pull a face at him, struggling to stay serious and bumping your nose against his.

“Yes,” he breathes, “I earned it.” He lifts his head up quickly to kiss you before you can pull away, not that you would have even if you could.

He sighs into the kiss, his eyes fluttering closed before yours. It’s then that you realise he seems to be happiest when part of him is connected to you.

You rock back against him again, the material rub of his jeans reminding you that he is still partially clothed. You’d have to remedy that.

As you move back on your knees to unbuckle his belt Jake moves with you, sitting up quickly so that he can continue to kiss you. Sneaking his tongue into your mouth and soothing a deep down ache in your heart.

His right hand runs up and down your back while his left undoes his belt and jeans.

You’re so caught up in the feel of his lips against yours, how he sighs and moves against you that you don’t notice as he gently coaxes you up. How he pulls at your hip, until you feel the brush of denim as he pushes his jeans and underwear down to his thighs.

You rock back, gliding over his cock with your folds and covering it with your wetness.

Jake gasps into your mouth, both of his hands flying to your waist as he encourages you to repeat the action. The task of completely removing his jeans momentarily forgotten.

He’s so warm, the slide of his velvety soft skin sends sparks of pleasure up your spine that eradicate almost every other thought.

“Fuck,” Jake pushes you back and forth over his length, the muscles in his arms twitching under your hands. “I need to be inside of you, I-”

You raise yourself up quickly, fuelled with such a burning need that the movement is almost automatic. You take hold of his cock before lining it up with your entrance and slowly easing yourself down onto him.

Jake clutches you tightly, you can feel the tension in his muscles as he fights the urge to ram into you.

A little choked sob escapes your throat the moment he’s fully sheathed in you; the tip of his cock pressing so deep at this angle that you can see stars.

“You okay?” His voice is strained, but controlled, as his hands come to rest on either side of your face. There’s a level of concern in his eyes that seeps into your chest.

You nod furiously, so caught up in the feeling of him inside you that you nearly forget how to speak. “I’m good,” you shift your hips a little, rocking back and forth ever so slightly to adjust to the stretch of him. “You feel so good.”

His cock twitches as you speak and your walls clench around him instinctively as Jake groans as he buries his face into your chest. Littering you breasts with kisses as he slides his hands down your spine to rest at your lower back.

His hold is light, reverent. But guiding, as he encourages you to move how you want to. How you need to.

You lift your hips and slowly sink back down onto him and Jake can’t help but rising up to meet you, watching you intently as you gasp and throw your head back, how you screw your face up in pleasure.

Your mind is empty, your brain overcome with the feel of him and your body takes over. You lift up again, bouncing hard on his cock as he thrusts up to meet your every movement.

The creak of the settee and the slap of skin against skin are drowned out by both of your moans. Heat is quickly coiling in your stomach as you hurtle towards another orgasm; you grip hold of Jake’s shoulders and push forward, changing the angle slightly.

Jake swears, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, before shoving his thumb in his mouth to wet it and then pressing it to your clit.

You cry out at the touch as he circles your bundle of nerves perfectly in time with the slide of his cock. Your thigh muscles are burning with the force of your thrusts, but you are too far gone to care, to even truly feel it as the pleasure rises higher and higher.

“Amor, fuck,” Jake’s voice is low, strained, as if he’s trying to hold onto any last part of his self control. “I’m going to-”

His words push you over the edge, your moan cutting off his words as your orgasm blinds you, seizes every muscle into bliss.

Jake thrusts up into your tight heat once before he groans and comes, holding you close as he emptied himself into you.

Your heartbeat echoes in your ears as you come back to yourself and loosen your grip on Jake’s shoulders. As you shift slightly, material brushes against your skin and you can’t help but laugh as you look down to see his jeans just above his knees. “You’re still wearing your trousers.”

Jake stares at you blankly for a moment, thoughts fucked completely out before he registers the meaning of your words and grins. He nestles into your neck. “Sorry.”

That makes you laugh again. “Why are you sorry?” You move, running your hands through his soft hair so that you can look him in the eyes. “Weren’t you uncomfortable?”

He shrugs, grinning. “I didn’t notice. I was a little preoccupied.”

You snort. “Were you?”

He nods and leans up to kiss you again. It’s soft and sweet. Gentle as he dips his tongue between your lips. There’s a rush of heat downwards and you can feel him start to grow hard again.

Jake nuzzles his nose against your cheek, and there’s something about the movement, the openness of the gesture that makes you cling tighter to him.

“I should be sorry,” his voice is low in your ear. “We never did get to the bed. But,” he raises his eyebrows suggestively as he moves back ever so slightly. “The night is young.”

#jake lockley x f!reader #jake lockley x you #jake lockley #female reader #fem reader #moon knight #moon knight x f!reader #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #moon knight mcu #fanfic #my writing #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters #x reader

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freneticfloetry · 1 year ago

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So um... this happened. Thanks to @carlos-tk, @heartstringsduet, @alrightbuckaroo, @lemonlyman-dotcom, @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut, @strandnreyes, @orchidscript, and @walkinginland for the tags!

“Just leave me alone, Carlos.” Carlos snorts. “That’s ironic,” he mutters, then sighs. “You called me, TK.” “Yeah,” TK scoffs, “to tell you that you’re not scoring any points by sending baby shit to my mom.” “It’s a card,” Carlos says, sounding utterly exhausted. “I wasn’t trying to score points, or whatever, I just wanted to… be a decent person.” There’s no accusation in it, but it lands like there is. Like Carlos is reminding him how he'd bought the loft from the bottom of his heart, with all the best intentions, and how heartless TK must be to assume the worst and walk away. “It doesn’t matter if my mother likes you anymore. You know that, right?” He shakes his head, clenching his jaw ‘til his teeth grind together. “God, I can’t figure out if you’re a closet masochist or if you really don’t get when you’re not wanted.” It falls from his mouth before he knows what he’s saying. A remnant of the trapped TK of old, who always tried to be the first to draw blood. Hurt people hurt people, Paul had said once. Carlos knew that TK all too well, knew when to stand back and give him space to untangle himself and when to reach out at his own risk. But TK’s too far gone this time — he’d reached for a weapon, grabbed the cruelest thing he could, and struck the softest, weakest part of this man, the old wound that’s never quite healed. The silence stretches across 1700 miles, worse than any sound Carlos could’ve made. TK opens his mouth, far too late to take it back but suddenly desperate to try. “Sorry.” The word is hollow. The voice isn’t his. “I won’t bother you again.”

No pressure tagging @ambiguouspenny, @liminalmemories21, @never-blooms, @carlos-in-glasses, @welcometololaland, @catanisspicy, and @reyesstrand.

#wip wednesday #my fic #our hearts are haunted by the ghosts that i made #tag games

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jeyramarie · 2 years ago

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You and me?- Alice Chambers x Reader (Part 9)

summary: it all comes down to Alice..

wc: 2,273

warnings: cursing, abusive relationship, domestic abuse, homophobia, mentions of blood

a/n: thank you all for your patience ❤️ sorry it took so long, i didn’t mean to :( anyways, merry christmas to everyone!! my heart goes out to everyone having a hard time during the holidays, i love y’all deeply❤️ happy reading 🦋

Part 1~ Part 2~ Part 3~ Part 4~Part 5~ Part 6~ Part 7~ Part 8~

William walked around me in silence, walking nervously to the living room. His mind was racing trying to figure out how the plan didn’t work. All he wished was to control me. To do with me what he pleased. He brought us to Victory because of it and his stupid self couldn't plan it well enough.

“This can’t be happening.” He muttered under his breath, pacing across the living room. “This is… this is not real.”

“It’s very real, William.” I nodded slowly, making my way closer to the living room. “Ironic, considering none of this is real.” I moved my hands around.

His chest moved up and down as his breaths became deeper, feeling anger grow through his bones. He stomped over to me, grabbing my jaw tightly as he began to push me backwards until my back hit the wall. My hand went to his wrist as his eyes continued to burn into mine.

“After all I’ve done for you.” William said with gritted teeth.

“All you’ve done is make me miserable.” I replied and he released me with a scoff, pushing my head back.

“Miserable?!” He shouted and chuckled dryly. “You ungrateful bitch… I fixed your fucking life.”

“You ruined my life.” I muttered, feeling tears well up in my eyes.

“You had no life!” William spat. “You were always in that fucking hospital and only came home to sleep, how is that living?”

“I love my job, William.” I replied, pointing at my chest.

“Work isn’t everything, Y/n.”

“It is for me…” I whispered, feeling tears roll down my cheeks. “It is after you took everything.”

“I did nothing.” He began, shaking his head. “I gave you everything! I gave you all of this!”

“You took everything, William!” I shouted.

“I gave you everything!”

“You took it all from me when you killed my baby!” I pointed at him, my face raging red in anger as I felt my blood boil.

“I did nothing.”

I shook my head and walked forward, hitting his chest repeatedly as he tried to stop me. William grabbed my wrists and pushed me backwards before slapping me across the face, making me tumble against the wall. I blocked his punches before quickly grabbing a bottle of wine, smashing it into his head.

The glass flew across the room and the red liquid soaked my dress, dripping onto the floor which made it slippery. William was kneeling on the ground, groaning in pain as I tried to walk away from him while slipping in my heels. He quickly turned and grabbed my ankle, making me fall as he began to claw his hands up my leg.

“Get back here you fucking bitch!” William said with gritted teeth as I groaned, trying to pull my legs away from his grasp.

“Let me go!” I shouted, finally kicking his hand away before quickly standing up, running towards the bedroom.

I shut the door and stepped back slowly, noticing that the house remained quiet. Panic creeped into me, making me look around the room in paranoia. A loud banging came from the door with William’s pleas right after.

“Open the door, Y/n!” He shouted, pounding his fist against the door as I stayed quiet in fear. “I’m gonna fucking kill you if you don’t open this door right now!”

My hands shook as I tried to open the sliding door that led to the backyard. Maybe if I was fast enough, Alice could help me or maybe I could escape and find her. I finally slid the glass open and in that precise moment, William kicked the door down, stomping angrily towards me as I ran outside.

His hand encased around my hair pulling me backwards towards him. I yelled in pain, reaching backwards to grab his wrist. William continued to shout at me, dragging me to the bedroom before throwing me into the bathroom floor.

“Don’t you dare try to contact Alice again..” He said, staring down at me. “You’re gonna stay in here ‘till tomorrow.”

“No, William..” I whimpered, shaking my head as I began to stand up only to be pushed down again. “You can’t keep me in here!”

“I won’t let you fucking ruin it!” He shouted before slamming the door shut.

I hurried to my feet and immediately began my attempt to turn the doorknob which of course, did not work. William had locked the door from outside, leaving me trapped. My fist knocked on the door repeatedly as my breath became quicker and more desperate.

“William!” I called out. “William! Open the door!”

Silence filled the other side of the door, making me more nervous as my mind raced back to past trauma. I felt as if the walls were closing in on me, leaving me with little to no air. My chest got tight, and I pounded on the door harder than before.

“William!” I shouted in desperation. “Please, let me out! I can be better! Please, don’t keep me here! Please!”

My knuckles became red and swollen as my fear gave me the adrenaline to continue to punch the door. Pain shot up my arm as my skin began to slowly crack open, letting my blood stain the door.

“William, please!” I sobbed. “I can be perfect for you, I promise! I can change, I can be better! William, please, let me out!”

Unknown to me, he was drinking whiskey as he leaned against the kitchen counter. William continued to hear my pleas but remained in his spot, not caring about whether I was panicking or not. He was calm. Almost at peace when someone knocked on the door. Feeling confused, he cautiously went to the front door and opened it, to reveal Alice Chambers.

“What are you doing here?” William muttered, giving her a look of confusion.

“I came here to apologize.” She replied shyly, fidgeting with her fingers. “Jack made me realize that I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry.”

He was about to reply but my screams reached Alice’s ear, making her furrow her brows as she peeked her head inside.

“Is Y/n okay?”

“That’s none of your business.” He replied dryly, causing Alice to jump back in surprise. “Was that all?”

“Yes, that was-” The door was slammed on her face, leaving the blonde standing there in confusion and worry.

The next morning, I was seated against the door with my legs pulled up against my chest as my head leaned back against the wood. My knuckles were bruised and covered in dried blood from punching the door.

I got tired of screaming around, what I believe, was midnight. My eyes remained closed as I thought about Alice. I only wished for her to be safe but as long as we stayed here, we were far from that.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, causing me to quickly stand up and turn to the door. It opened to reveal a well-rested William. He had his everyday suit on, and his hair was combed. It seemed like he was getting ready for work.

“You still want to be better?” He muttered, leaning his shoulder against the wall as I remained quiet. “I trust that you will stay here till I come back..”

I nodded slightly and he turned around, walking out of the house without uttering another word. Fear still ran through my body as I hesitantly walked out of the bathroom. The house was a mess. There was broken glass on the ground from our fight the night before. It was quiet. As if we stood in the eye of the hurricane. And in some way, we were.

After cleaning for most of the day, I began to cook dinner before William returned from ‘work’. I settled on the usual steak with mashed potatoes and some veggies. I couldn’t help but think of Alice. Of our many many alone moments together. I thought about my baby. The possibility of having a baby. With Alice.

“I'm home!” William shouted, walking into the house, breaking my trance as I placed the potatoes on the plates.

“In here!” I replied and placed the pan down before grabbing the plates as I turned around.

He stood by the kitchen watching me. I gave him a fake smile and walked past him to the dining room, putting the plates down. My back was towards him, part of my mind didn’t want to face him. I just wanted to run away. Run to Alice and leave this place.

“What did you do today?”

“Oh, I just-”

“Jack!” Someone shouted from outside causing me to turn towards the door in question. I turned to William before walking towards the door.

“Y/n, stop.” He started following after me. “Stay here! Stop!”

I ignored his shouting and turned the doorknob to see Alice standing in the middle of the street, barefoot. Her white dress was covered in blood, and she looked frightened. I began to walk outside and was immediately held back by William.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He threatened with gritted teeth.

“Let me go.” I pleaded as my eyes filled with tears, pulling back my arm.

“You’re not going anywhere, Y/n.” William said, pulling me into the house when Bunny shouted, causing the both of us to turn.

“Run!” She shouted and Alice began to run towards the car.

The car moved backwards and out of her driveway, part of me believed that she was about to drive away. But she didn't. She stopped right in front of my house.

“Y/n! Let’s go!” Alice shouted and looked around, checking if anyone was going after her.

William’s grip tightened around my arm, making me whimper as I tried to move towards the car.

“Y/n, come on..” The blonde pleaded with sad eyes. “Let’s go, let’s get out of here, come on. Just you and me.”

I turned to William in tears and silently begged him to let go of my arm. But then desperation crept into my mind as Bill began to fight with Alice, trying to pull her out of the car. I suppose my survival instinct came in and my fist collided into William’s nose, causing him to release me. My legs moved quickly away from the house, going around the car to climb inside.

“Drive! Drive!” I shouted as the blonde pushed her foot into the accelerator, causing the car to rush forward.

“Are you okay?!” She asked, giving me a worried look before turning to the road.

“I’m fine but what happened to you? You have blood all over you-” I stopped. “Where’s Jack?”

Alice remained quiet, driving away from the people in red suits that kept following us. Her silence was enough to know that he was dead. All that blood belonged to him as she remained unharmed.

“Oh my god..” I whispered in fear.

“We’re going to get out.” Alice assured me, turning to me and then to the road.

I nodded slightly and leaned over, pecking her cheek repeatedly. “I love you.” I whispered and returned to my seat to see a yellow car to my right with a man reaching out to me.

He scratched my skin, attempting to grab me. The car swerved from side to side as another car pulled up to Alice’s side. I shouted as the guy pulled me towards him while I pushed back, telling him to let go of me.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Get off!”

Suddenly, Alice slammed her foot on the breaks, making the cars clash together. Fire erupted from both vehicles as the blonde drove around it as we both stared in shock. We got closer to headquarters when more cars drove near us.

“Alice, there’s more.” I announced, looking behind us as she looked through the rearview mirror.

“We’re almost there.” She replied and drove up the hill faster as they came closer.

“You have to go faster.” I said, never parting my eyes from the cars as Alice kept going up the hill.

After some time, she crashed into the side, causing my body to hit the door. We were stuck. Alice pushed her foot into the accelerator a few times before leaning back on her seat.

“We’re stuck here.” She muttered. I heard distant engines roaring as I climbed out of the car and ran to her side, opening the door before reaching my hand forward to grab hers.

“We have to run, come on.” I pulled her out of the car, and we began to run up the hill desperately, noticing that the men were climbing up the side of the mountain.

The small pebbles got stuck under my shoes, making me take off my heels before resuming my run. Alice gripped my hand tightly, taking deep breaths as the heat seeped into our skin.

The stairs finally came into view as we quickly climbed them, stopping on the platform. I looked behind me and saw a glimpse of William’s car. I wasn’t going to leave with Alice. At least not right now. She stood in front of me, catching her breath and I wrapped my arms around her from behind, feeling as she relaxed against me.

“Go look for me.” I whispered against her ear. “I love you.”

She turned in confusion to see William running up the steps to grab my arm. Alice stepped forward to pull me towards her, but he was too quick. I was pulled backwards to crash against a hard chest and a bruising grip.

“Go.” I said, fighting against William’s hold. “Alice, go! Just leave!”

florence taglist: @flosbelova @kassies-take @ideas-for-you-to-adopt @florencestann1234 @freewaysigns-underpasses @snooy245 @wandanatvoid @gay-vet-student @yelenabelovastolemyheart @marvelwomen-simp @simpforflorencepugh @laaurel @yelenabelovasbxtch @geico-insuranc @oh-its-jennyyy @bandit2029 @youresuchamom @simpforyelenabelova @omega-horus @sat-yrr @alwaysbimyself @girraffy @froufrousnowman @slytherinchevy @randombush3 @dumb-fawkin-bitch @rob1nbuckl3ys @xsophiesx @karsonromanoff @imkikibtw @natashas-soul @monstermunchies69 @cmfouatslota77 @maxmayfieldsrealgf1986 @champagneneen @zendayabelova @finelineskies @padf00ts-l0ver @mrswidowjohansson @eddiemunson4ever @mrs-johansson @nclgsticore @igotmajordaddyissues @lovelyy-moonlight @kamala-khann @lovemesomemaura @lizziebemymommy @chaos-in-person

#florence pugh #florence pugh fic #florence pugh imagine #florence pugh smut #florence pugh x reader #florence pugh x you #florence pugh x y/n #florence pugh angst #florence pugh fluff #dwd #alice chambers fic #alice chambers x reader #alice chambers

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moghraidhs · 7 months ago

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jackbucky pt vii

Bucky is hurt.

Jack has had a dozen things to do since they landed in Algeria a few hours ago, but the thought keeps circling his mind on repeat, nudging away other concerns. They’re not serious injuries, compared to the others; several of the men are going to need stitches and one or two have shrapnel wounds that require a doctor’s attention. All Bucky has are a few cuts, likely delivered by flying glass in the chaos of earlier. And yet Jack can’t stop thinking it.

Bucky is hurt.

He blames tiredness for his hands shaking. It’s been their worst mission to date; half their number, gone. Jack doesn’t even want to imagine the amount of paperwork waiting for him when they get back to England. There’s something bitterly ironic in that, a whole life reduced to a set of forms.

Speaking of which…Jack glances across the airfield to where Bucky stands alone, staring off into the distance. It might look meaningless to some, considering their location, but Jack knows what he’s looking for.

Wild Cargo hasn’t landed.

They’d lost Curt in the battle somewhere over Germany. Jack hadn’t seen him go down–another thing he feels responsible for, even if there was no way to keep an eye on the rest of the men while trying to fend off German fighters.

But Curt is Bucky’s friend. And now he’ll be just another number, another form. The same kind of form Jack could be writing for Bucky himself.

His hands start to tremble again and Jack bites back an irritated curse. In the time it takes for them to go back to normal, Bucky disappears from his line of sight. Something that does not make Jack panic, but he can’t help the little hitch of relief in his chest when he finally focuses on the other man seated on the back of their Jeep. Brady is standing in front of him, tending to his injuries.

Being Air Exec means maintaining a certain level of distance between himself and all the other crews. It’s a fine line Jack has learned to walk very well in the past few months, even with his and Bucky’s relationship. The last thing he wants is to give anyone an excuse to accuse him of favouritism. Still, he can’t stop himself from approaching the Jeep–standing a respectable distance away, of course, but close enough that he can actually see what’s going on.

Brady’s jaw is set tight as he rummages in his little First Aid kit. Bucky sits quietly, unusual for him, the edges of his coat flapping a little in the breeze. He looks alright, and yet…

“You should go to him,” Buck says.

Jack suppresses the momentary temptation to startle. He hadn’t even heard the other man come up, but when he turns, Buck is right there next to him. He looks tired too, a couple of plasters covering the cuts on his face.

Jack folds his arms. “It’s not as easy as all that, Buck.” Even if he so badly wants it to be. “I can’t be seen playing favourites.”

“After what we just went through, you think any of that matters?” Buck jerks his chin in Bucky’s direction. “Do something about it.”

It’s the faintest bit galling to hear an echo of his own words, but Jack knows there’s no denying the truth of them. That, and holding back right now has never been more exhausting.

He approaches Brady and gives the younger pilot a light tap on the shoulder. “I’ll take over. You go and check on your crew.”

Brady glances up at him and nods, handing over the first aid kit. Jack takes his place in front of Bucky.

Up close, the cuts aren’t too bad; a couple are still bleeding sluggishly, but not too much. Jack fishes around for some cleaning alcohol and cotton wool and starts wiping away the traces of blood.

Bucky is warm. He always has been; like a radiator, Jack remembers him saying one time with a grin. There’s no trace of that grin now, something far away and almost lost in his eyes. His pulse is too fast as well, like the nightmare of the last few hours is still playing out in his head.

He could have died. The thought Jack’s been trying to ignore comes at him like a burst of flak, almost knocking him off balance. He smoothes the cotton wool gently against Bucky’s face, fingers trembling just a bit with cold realisation.

He could have–could have–

“Jack,” Bucky says, and Jack blinks down at him. That almost glassy stare of his has disappeared, a small smile curling his lips. “Hey.”

The smile is what does it. Jack feels the air return to his lungs, his throat no longer locked tight. “John,” he says, relief and a thousand other things in that one word.

You’re alright. We made it. You’re alright.

Bucky seems to understand him–how, Jack’s not sure–but he does. He gives Jack’s hand a little squeeze.

I’m okay.

When they get a moment to themselves again, Jack will hold him and feel the beat of his heart and remind himself that they're okay. But for now, on a dusty airfield in the middle of nowhere, this is enough.

We made it.

(@getinthefuckingjaeger buck and his lines belong to you - thank you for always being ready to go unhinged over these two with me)

#masters of the air #mota #jackbucky #abbie writes #and now it's time for our regularly scheduled angst update

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testingthewatersss · 10 months ago

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2 weeks Trigger warnings for PTSD, mentions of war, torture, etc. Bucky Barnes x F Reader Chapter 2 3730 words angst, comfort. 18+ MDNI After the downfall of HYDRA it takes 2 weeks for you to find him. Somehow, it seems like far too long.

“Good” she murmurs in agreement, “and I’ll try and dig out some blankets from somewhere.”

He nods, even though he doesn’t want her to move an inch.

“There” She hears him, croak as she starts to stand, “There’s a loft- You can get to it from the bedroom, it’s the only place I didn’t check”

Bucky watches her smile again, and can’t help but feel strangely proud-

If he’s making her smile, he’s doing something right-

“I’ll check it out” Y/N promises, giving him one last approving glance before slipping out of the bathroom, “I’ll call, if I need ya’”

The former soldier nods sharply, before burying his blood stained hands in his front pocket and heading out towards the street.

It’s cold in the loft. The whole apartment is draughty at best, but there is no insulation, bar some mould-ridden foam that looks suspiciously like fibre-glass, and even Y/N has to lock her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering as she starts to dig through the sodden cardboard boxes that are gathered together in the furthest corner of the room.

She can hear the dull thud of movement coming from below, it settles her, some, knowing that he’s alright- that he’s got a task to occupy his mind for awhile.

One box has nothing but bubble wrapped plates, and another has nothing inside it at all.

Annoyance tugs tugs at her brow, at the corners of her lips, making her frown in the dark.

Brown eyes flit around the space, searching the shadows for anything, until she finds a shadow off to her right.

It’s a wooden chest. It’s big, and icy, and clasped with a small iron clip, but she wastes no time in prising it open, ignoring the smell of must as she buries her hands into the fabric inside.

There are wool jumpers, one is for a child, but the other is huge. Y/N sets it aside, knowing that it won’t only fit the super solider downstairs, but that it’ll also do a good job at disguising his metal arm for when they head out into the world tomorrow.

Next, she finds blankets, thick, patchwork covers that have clearly been hand sewn by someone with careful hands.

It makes her sad to think about why it’s been left here, she hopes the family that had owned it have just moved on- that they’ve headed out towards better circumstances, and that no kind of tragedy has befallen them.

She locks the box back up, and carries her spoils downstairs.

Her approach is quiet, she leaves the ladder to the loft down, and pads gently back towards the main room of the apartment.

Barnes is leaning over a large metal trashcan that he’s clearly hauled in from outside. He’s fiddling with something that Y/N can’t make out- She’s about to ask, but then, she sees smoke starting to rise.

A small smile tugs at her lips as she rests her body against the doorway she’s perched by, watching silently as the figure moves back a step to watch the small flames he’s cultivated start to crackle and build.

“I found blankets” she says, voice soft, “and- somethin’ extra, for you”

Bucky turns to face her, eyes wide and nervous. His hair is still hanging lamely in front of his face, blood matting one side into a clump.

“I…” he murmurs, unsure again, “for me?”

Y/N beams, and starts to walk towards him, nodding to the half collapsed couch.

He stares at the furniture, not understanding what he gesture had meant.

“Sit” she urges, doing so herself and waiting patiently for him to obey, and settle himself beside her, “Here”

The man blinks at her, and then at the floor, not feeling at all comfortable sitting on the cushions along side her- like they’re equals, like he’s not a monster-

“I think it’ll fit perfect” Y/N announces, presenting him with the grey, knitted sweater she’d found moments before, “and it’s warm”

His gaze shifts to the offering, he looks at it, blue eyes curious, if a little suspicious, before his flesh fingers nervously creep out of his pockets to feel the material.

“It…It’s warm” he parrots, voice shaking, “You…You should keep it”

She shakes her head, holding it up against his chest as he stays frozen in place-

“Definitely yours” Bucky hears her murmur, affection thick in her tone, “Try it on?”

He doesn’t have things.

This definitely doesn’t feel right- but, he doesn’t want to disobey, to risk displeasing the only friend he has, so, he takes it, careful and embarrassed as he puts it on, over his hoodie.

“Perfect” Y/N praises, stroking a line down the sleeve as he tugs it over his arm, “Might look a little better without all those layers underneath- but, that doesn’t matter, how does it feel?”

“Warm” the man admits, already getting ready to remove it, to have it stripped away- “It- it’s w-”

“It’s yours, Bucky” the woman cuts in, smiling in an attempt to calm his nerves, “I’m giving it to you”

“You’re… You’re giving it to me?”

“Yeah, sweetheart-” she confirms, “It’s a gift”

“A gift” he echos, head pounding as he tries to absorb what she’s telling him, “for me?”

“Mhmm” Y/N agrees, a little softer now she can see the tightness of his brow, “a reward, for a job well done”

Bucky feels his chest fill with pride at her words, at the mere thought of having pleased her enough to merit something so nice.

“That’s right” her kind voice continues, “It’s for you, it’s alright-”

His fingers have tightened on the hem of the jumper, he’s gripping it like he’s not sure if it’s real, but his face has relaxed a little, and there isn’t just terror and suspicion sitting behind his gaze anymore, Y/N thinks she can see happiness there too, flattery or gratitude, shining in the blue.

“Thank you” Bucky says after a beat of silence, “Thank you, Y/N”

Her head shakes in easy dismissal, she throws the cover she’s been holding up onto the couch’s backrest between them, and returns her attention to the fire that’s now starting to smoke properly in the centre of the room.

“You did all the hard work” she reminds him, “You deserve it- Do we have any food?”

He looks at her thoughtfully, wishing more than anything that he had more to offer her.

“I… I don’t think so” Y/N hears him confess, voice awfully tight, “I’m sorry”

“It’s not your fault” she’s quick to assure him, “I could’ve brought somethin’ with me, but I didn’t really think this far”

He looks away, bashful as he offers her a remorseful smile.

She goes to stand, deciding to look through the cupboards on the off chance that the former solider had been to preoccupied with necessities to search them upon his arrival.

Her suspicions are quickly confirmed when she finds a dust covered tin of soup sitting inside the otherwise baron kitchen.

The camping stove she’d spotted is broken, but they have a fire now. So, she grabs a rusty spoon from a drawer with no handle and heads back to where he’s waiting, exactly where she’d left him, awkwardly on the couch.

“If I throw this in are you gonna’ be alright to grab it when it’s done?”

She glances at his metal arm, even though it’s hidden.

Bucky knows what she means, he nods in agreement and watches as she drops the tin into the glowing drum.

“We’ll have to share” she warns him, smiling as she perches herself back next to him.

His head shakes, eyes firm and set.

“I don’t need it” he tells her, “I don’t need much- you, you should-”

“I-” Y/N murmurs, reaching out to hold his flesh hand as it slips free of the sleeve it’s been balled up inside, “-Ate this morning, and again, at lunch”

He huffs out a breath that turns white in the air between them.

“How about you?” she presses, “when did you last eat anythin’ hot?”

Hot? Bucky tries to think back, brow furrowing in concentration.

He hasn’t bothered with a fire, not since his mission, not since he’d started running- and even before that, he hadn’t been allowed the luxury, not unless he’d been poised at the feet of his owners-

It’s been 2 days since he’s eaten- he remembers grabbing a can of something grey from the last dive he’d ransacked- and he’d only done that because the pain in his gut had been impacting his performance.

That had been cold- he tries hard to remember the last hot meal he’s had, he thinks, he might have been given a meal once- not that long ago. A reward for a job well done. but he can’t be sure that wasn’t a dream- and he can’t come close to remembering what decade that was in, let alone how many days had past between then and now.

Y/N feels guilt sting in her core. He’s panting, now, eyes glazed over, jaw locked hard as he tries his best to offer her an answer.

His hand is placid in her palm, she curls her fingers over his, and tries to hush him with a breathe.

“It’s alright” she promises, “It-”

“I can’t remember” Bucky bursts, gut tightening unhappily, “I-I’m sorry- I- I had something cold two days ago, I- I never- I-I don’t- I don’t think I’ve had something cooked in… in a long time- I- I don’t”

She squeezes his palm, lacing their hands together as he falls back into an anxious form of silence.

“Then you’re definitely having half of this tonight” he hears her say, calm and firm, “It’s cold, and you’re hungry.”

It is cold, and he is hungry.

Bucky realises quickly that he can’t deny her statements, so he doesn’t. He just blinks at her, wide eyed and vulnerable as he lets his thumb curl round to hold onto the hand she’s entwined with his.

The gesture tugs at Y/N’s heart strings, especially when she sees him watching her, with a strange look of softness sitting behind his eyes.

“Looks done” she notes, somewhat reluctant to move, “Are you sure you can-”

“I’m sure” Bucky swears, letting go of her hand before he can think too much into losing the contact, “I’ve got it”

He brings the smouldering can over, holding it in his metal fist, as he shoots a longing look to the spot he’d taken at her side.

Y/N opens her mouth to usher him over, but before she can speak, he drops to his knees between her legs, his back just grazing the bottom of the couch.

“Sweetheart” she coos, saddened by the way that this is his default, “You can sit back up here”

His head shakes a fraction as he opens the container he’s holding.

“I can’t” he murmurs, embarrassed, “I-I can’t it... it's too- it's too visible”

Her heart aches. She hates that he’s still afraid someone less harmless is hunting him down, and she hates that there doesn’t seem to be much she can do to calm him, right now.

She settles for doing whatever she can, no matter how small it might be.

“Alright, Buck” he hears her allow, “You can sit where you want.”

That doesn’t sound right.

Bucky’s head sags, shoulders tensing a little, as he turns to pass her the can.

She refuses it instantly, handing him the spoon.

“You first, eat half, and then I’ll have what’s left.”

There’s an easy air of authority in her tone. The former solider bows to it instantly, years of conditioning ushering him into submission.

He does as she says, and almost cries when the hot liquid hits his tongue for the first time.

It’s warm, it tastes like something he’s had before- a life time ago, and the fact that he’s being allowed to have it again, makes him feel almost human.

Y/N feels her head tilting when she sees the reflection of his face in the dark window pane.

He looks like he’s about to burst into tears again- he looks lost, and scared and grateful.

“Good?” she asks, voice quiet

With a gulp, Bucky turns to face her- he nods a little and sniffles despite his attempt at restraint.

“So good” he whispers, before trying to pass her the remainder of their meal.

Y/N shakes her head, hand slipping down to block his attempt-

“Finish it” she purrs, affectionate, “I don’t really like minestrone anyway”

Bucky feels tears stinging behind his eyes.

He knows the woman he’s with. He’s known her, he’s loved her secretly for years, by now- so he shouldn’t be so shocked by her kindness, by the way she’s showing him nothing but mercy and compassion, but he is.

Her fingers reach out slowly, curling up to cup his cheek.

She hushes him as he flinches, and watches proudly as he lets himself exhale, and start to lean back into her touch.

“Finish it, and then, you can come back up here with me, alright?”

Bucky’s heart is racing. Her thumb is brushing his the cut on his cheek, her palm flush on his face and it’s there for comfort as opposed to punishment.

All he wants is to curl up, anywhere remotely close to her. To the woman who’s always taken care of him, even before he’d been himself at all.

“I…I should stay down here” he whispers, weak and breathy, “I shouldn’t-”

“Why?” Y/N counters, fingers fluttering over to his temples, “Why shouldn’t you come up here?”

“Because if someone comes in” he tells her, not really knowing why he's so sure, “It'll be easier to run from here”

“You don't have to worry about that” she soothes, tucking a strand of hair back behind his ear as he shivers, ""Nobodies gonna hurt you, I promise”

It takes a second for him to process that, for him to dare to believe that she means what she’s saying.

But he trusts her. He knows she wouldn’t lie, that she wouldn’t try and trick him into a false sense of security to worsen some coming punishment, but, still, his time with HYDRA had been so far beyond cruel, that the idea of going against the most basic rules he’s been taught to follow makes him want to curl up on the floor and hide

“Eat” Y/N insists, knowing he’s getting caught up in thought, “and then we’ll decide where to sit, okay?”

His nod is tentative, it’s shy but, brave.

She’s beaming as she withdraws her hand, and watches him finish the food he’s holding.

Bucky rushes through the soup, savouring every drop whilst trying to consume it before anyone can rip it away from him.

Eventually, he’s scraping the metal spoon agains the empty sides of the can-

He lowers it to the ground, and realises he’s shaking. He tries to stop, to lock his muscles tight, but then Y/N exhales, slow and warm behind him, and he finds himself leaning back towards her,

“I… I finished it.” she hears him report, voice still strangely unsure

“I know” Y/N replies with a nod, “I know you did, Buck- well done.”

Again, it’s the praise in her tone that helps him catch his breath, that helps draw him in, even further towards her body, even though he’s still facing straight ahead.

“Thank you” he murmurs, an automatic response to being told he’d done something right-

“Have you done any thinkin’ about where you wanna sit?”

Panic flares behind his eyes. He hasn’t. He hasn’t thought about anything other than how lucky he is to be allowed to eat a meal that’s not being forced down a tube in his throat-

“No.” he admits, terrified, “No, I- I’m sorry”

“That’s alright” Y/N is quick to soothe him, “It’s alright, why don’t you think about it now”

He nods, and chews his lower lip. His metal fist tightens around the can until it bends under his fingers.

“I want to sit with you” she hears him mumble, frantic and afraid, “But I-I’m scared, Y/N-I I don’t think I can”

She nods, understanding, before she silently slips down beside him, pulling the covers off the couch along with her.

Bucky feels the shift, he feels the heat of her beside him and freezes, eyes wide and disbelieving as she kicks her legs out in front of herself.

“Here” she coos, passing him half of the sheet, “…What?”

The look of shock on his face is so comical that she can barely contain her smile.

He doesn’t reply to her question, he just shyly averts his gaze, and hides his hands back into the oversized sleeves on his new, second hand jumper.

“Here” He listens to her repeat, as she tucks the covers she’s passed him in around his folded legs, “You’re frozen, Buck-”

“I… I’m fine… you, you should take it, doll”

It takes every ounce of strength he’s got not to call her ma’am, to swallow down the formal term of address that used to be his only option, and call her by not only her name, but a nick-name, instead.

The smile she offers him as her head shakes makes the burn in his head worth it.

“Give me your hand?” Y/N requests, tone deliberately quirked, so that he won’t mistake it for a command, “Please?” she adds, when he blinks at her a little nervously in response.

Slowly, he unveils his flesh palm, and offers it to her, eyes shining with trust.

“Thank you-” she purrs, wrapping her fingers around his-

His skin is hard, it’s calloused and dry and still split from the wound he’d taken in the bathroom, less than an hour before.

Her thumb runs across the scar that’s trying to form across the surface of the flesh, dried blood flakes off under her touch, and he feels his chest relaxing a little as he adjusts to the contact, to the way that it’s friendly, and well intentioned instead of anything more cruel.

“‘m surprised they’re not turnin’ blue” Y/N teases lightly, attention turning to his finger tips, to the ice cold skin of his knuckles, “C’mere”

Bucky finds himself shivering as she brings his hand to her lips, and starts to exhale, soft, hot air against his fingers.

The action is so pure, so ladened with care, and affection that he physically squirms, unable to adjust to the sensation, unable to make himself believe that he could be worthy of such a thing.

“You like this?” she asks, voice melting against his thumb.

He nods hopelessly. Ashamed by how much he’s enjoying the gesture.

“Oh, sweetheart, alright, it’s okay”

Sweetheart.

That still doesn’t sound right, but he loves it, he decides, he doesn’t want to be called solider anymore, he doesn’t want to be shouted at, or called an asset- he wants to be her darling, or her sweetheart, or her…anything, really, even Bucky doesn’t seem so foreign, when it’s her who’s saying it.

Suddenly, something settles across his face, swimming behind his eyes that makes Y/N more determined than ever to keep him safe, to give him more skin on skin, to make sure he learns how to remember that not everything is harsh, or painful, or terrible, anymore.

“Whenever your hands are cold, you can give them to me” she whispers, pressing a kiss against his thumb, the nail is split, down the centre all the way to the bed, it’s grimy and caked in filth.

She doesn’t mind one bit.

“I… I can?”

He feels another kiss land against his skin, and has to swallow a whimper as it tugs at his chest.

For a second, he forgets that his other hand isn’t flesh and blood, he forgets that it’s always cold, unless it’s burning, and he brings it up to her lap, offering it to her with a hopeful expression.

He remembers when she scoops it up, lifting it alongside the one she’s already holding.

Embarrassment burns in his core, he looks away with red cheeks and tries to pull it back, but Y/N stops him from withdrawing with a soft shake of her head,

“I said hands” she assures him calmly, blowing gently across his vibranium palm, “I’m sorry you’re so cold, sweetheart… it should get better soon, as soon as we get to the safe house we’ll get you a hot shower, alright? and I’ll crank the heatin’ all the way up”

Bucky tilts his head, confused, but too afraid to question her.

He doesn’t want to loose a second of what she’s doing for him, and speaking out of turn seems like a sure fire way of loosing the affection he’s being treated too.

“It’s because you’ve been out of Cryo so long” Y/N offers, even though he hasn’t asked, “Your bodies gotta’ adjust, it’s just that the temperature’s not helpin’, and you’ve been outside a long time”

“I’m sorry” he murmurs, feeling awfully guilty all of a sudden, “I- I should’ve kept myself… kept myself in better condition”

Her head shakes softly, her mouth grazes both sets of his fingers, as she exhales again, long and slow against his skin, against metal and dirt and broken knuckles.

“Oh, Sweetheart” she coos, “It’s not about condition, you’re a person, not a car… It’s not your fault you’re hurting”

It’s then that Bucky realises why he wants to cry so desperately.

This is the first time in the better part of 100 years that anyone has told him that he’s allowed to be a person, again.

Y/N sees the tears starting to swell in his eyes, and slowly lowers their tangled hands to the blanket that’s gathered in between her thighs.

“…I… I want to be…” he whispers, voice shaking, “will… will you call me…. will you call me sweetheart, again?”

Her heart shatters.

That plea seems to have come from nowhere, but he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t do anything other than stare at her, with wet, blue eyes, that have a strange sense of longing behind them.

“Of course I will, sweetheart” she promises softly, taking a risk by leaving his hands on her lap, and reaching out to cup his cheek, “because that’s exactly what you are”

1 | x | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

#bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barns x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky fanfic #the winter soldier x you #x reader #drabble #series #BB3days #fluff

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dont-f-with-moogles · 2 years ago

Text

Where I Can't Follow

DRAW (AND DRABBLE) THIS IN YOUR STYLE!!!(Original post here)

... This one's for you Giulia @giuliadrawsstuff. Huge congrats on your 1000 drawings and 700 Twitter followers! 🎉 Hope you enjoy it and that it captures the spirit of your art. (Notes at end). Where I Can't Follow Characters: Levi x Hange Word Count: 1526 words

Along the gravel road skeletal trees strained their black, twisted arms heavenwards. The canopy of interwoven limbs threw most of the pathway into shadow, allowing only a slither of grey sky to peep through. An ethereal mist had wound its way around their gnarled trunks, bleeding the scene of what little colour it had. One bird called faintly to another, without answer. A weak breeze sighed amongst the uppermost branches. They reached out, towering and imperious, for nothing could stir them. Only the quiet murmur of the river broke the silence accompanied by the muffle of dead leaves underfoot.

Levi Ackerman walked, head bowed, hands hanging by his sides. His bare arms were almost blue in the pale dawn light. He had forgotten his coat. Levi hardly recognised the cold anymore.

He knew the way by instinct. Levi paid no attention to his feet as they took him past the dark stretch of water, curls of vapour drifting from its surface. To his right stood a bench of varnished wood and curved, black iron feet. It had not always stood there. Before, there had been a wooden bench until that summer when-

Levi came to a sudden stop; his lungs filled with frozen air.

-when Hange had kicked its legs to splinters in a blind fury. She had only calmed down when, turning around sharply, she had caught him watching her.

Levi continued without looking back. He passed the tree which the pair of them had climbed on a dare. He crossed the narrow bridge which crawled over the river. These were the murky depths which Hange had waded through, her pant legs rolled up to her calves. She had pressed her toes into silt and sharp stones just to pick up a slug which had been caught in the current. Levi had stood well back as the cursed mollusc had oozed foam into her glistening palm.

He turned away again and crossed the gentle slope towards the grassy mound. Once he, Hange, a whole group of them, had sat together passing around a flask of tea, coils of steam kissing the night air. Its taste, like the memory itself, had dimmed with the passing of time. Levi looked up at the bruised sky; its pallor was mottled with patches of purple. Dark, contorted treetops wound starkly against the dawn horizon. He and Hange had once huddled within that clump of trees, desperate for warmth. As cold as it had been, the pair of them had vowed to stay within the shelter of those strange woods all night rather than go home.

Levi wiped his face with his hand. “Shit… I can’t do this.”

His arm dropped to his side. Through the blackened branches and tendrils of mist someone was walking towards him. Her dark hair was pulled into a dishevelled top knot. Feebly, again, the wind’s breath rippled the sleeves of her purple hoodie. She paid the cold air no mind, but simply pushed her glasses a little higher upon her nose.

Horrified, Levi screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. It wasn’t possible. He stared into the gloom wildly expecting to see that, like the night itself, Hange had faded away. But there she was; real and solid and still approaching him.

“Is this… is this some sort of sick joke?” he stammered faintly.

“No joke.” She had come to a rest in front of him. Her large, dark eyes were framed by square glasses, just as she had always worn. He’d pictured these features countless times; her tanned skin and curved nose; her long face and square jaw. This was the face Levi had glimpsed in photographs; the face he’d willed to return in a form more tangible than mere memory.

“H-how the fuck are you here? Now…?”

Hange reached out and brushed her fist against the green material of his shirt.

“Wow, Levi! You should really bring a jacket when you go out in cold weather.” Hange held out her arms as though to demonstrate. “Even I brought a jumper with me, and I can’t feel anything at all anymore.”

“But…” Levi’s voice was hoarse. “How… are you speaking to me right now? How are you… here?”

“You did it.” Her tone was almost accusatory as regarded him, brow slightly furrowed. “I couldn’t come back before but you were able to bring me to this place.”

Levi gaped wordlessly.

“Your stories made me feel alive again.” Hange bowed her head so that a tuft of dark fringe fell into her eyes. “They’re what brought me back.”

“Must be losing my fucking mind…”

“Luckily that’s not the case!” Hange clapped a hand down upon Levi’s shoulder. “You, of-sound-mind, chose to come here remember? To the place we knew and loved. There are memories wherever you look.” She clutched him more tightly, and attempted to steer him to the left. Levi, who could not feel the weight of her hand, humoured her by taking a step as she moved.

“Tell me another story, Levi. What do you remember when you look over there?”

Levi followed the direction of her outstretched arm. He exhaled loudly through his nose.

“That’s where you found that stupid rock-”

“-it was a fragment of smoke quartz actually. I didn’t have any at the time.”

“Of course, who wouldn’t need a piece of gravel?” Levi retorted back at her.

“Quartz.”

“Whatever. You studied that thing like you’d never seen a hunk of stone before. I couldn’t even get you to look my way.”

“Really, Levi? You were jealous of a rock?”

Levi’s face broke into the first true smile he’d managed in months. Then as he glanced at Hange, standing close behind him, a curious thing happened. The pale contours of her features suddenly seemed sharper. There was colour freshly painted in her cheeks. Each of her features were defined; the contrast of her brightness was that bit more striking against the night’s canvas. And that voice; those words were so true to their owner. Levi could hear them upon the wind without having to chase down through tunnels of memory that which he had assumed had been lost forever.

“I told you.” Hange’s satisfied smile faltered. “Levi! What’s wrong?”

“It’s been so exhausting without you…” Levi stopped, clenched knuckles pressed to his mouth. He fought to compose himself, but when he spoke again his voice tore with grief. “Hange… please don’t leave me again. You can haunt me here or any damn place you like… just don’t go where I can’t follow you.”

Lovingly she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, tight enough so he could almost feel her. Levi blinked, his eyes awash with tears. His head sank back against her collarbone.

“I told you… I can stay here as long as you keep telling stories about me.”

“...can’t.”

“Levi, please… for me.”

Levi heaved a shuddering breath. Forcing his voice to remain level, he spoke.

“Remember… that time at the airport? I thought for certain I’d miss you before your flight departed... but somehow I just made it in time.”

Hange’s head was leaning against his own. They stood, Levi’s back against Hange’s chest, gazing into the huddle of trees in the distance.

“Yeah, it’s embarrassing to think about now,” Levi continued huskily, “I didn’t mean to just blurt it out. It was a lot, springing something that heavy on you. Shouldn’t have done it where everyone could hear us, but… I’m glad I told you, all the same. At least it meant that you stayed.”

Hange inclined her head so that her voice was in his ear.

“Levi… you know that story isn’t true. I got on that plane.”

He closed his eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenched.

“I want to tell it that way,” he decided fiercely. “Because I should have been there. I should have told you not to go. Then maybe you wouldn’t be-”

There was a muffled sound, like a whisper of cloth, and Hange was standing in front of him. She took his face in her hands. There was something so certain, so loving in her expression that Levi’s frantic breaths began to slow. He gazed back at her as she wiped the moisture from his cheek with fingertips that he longed to feel. Levi willed it so, clinging to her forearm as though to ground her to him.

Hange’s thumb lightly traced his lip with a touch unearthly and imperceptible. “It doesn’t matter now. Doesn’t matter…”

Levi uttered another gasping sob.

“You can tell real stories… or make up stories about what should have been. The only thing that matters is your love, Levi. Your love will keep me alive for as long as you let yourself feel it.”

Levi blinked again. The trees, the park, her shadow were all a blur.

“Don’t bury your love away. Don’t lock it in a dark place. Don’t bind it in heavy chains that weigh you down. Don’t regret what has come to pass and what hasn’t. Remember me fondly and the memories we shared. Tell our stories, Levi. Air them, give them light. That way I’ll never truly leave you.”

#draw (and drabble) this in your own style #writing prompts #levihan #levihan fic #levihan fanfiction #levi ackerman #hange zoe #fem!hange zoe #guiliadrawsstuff #lovely moots 💕#congrats again - you're amazing and the follows are v much deserved!#my writing

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strayfoxxchan · 2 years ago

Photo

Pairing: Bang Chan (Chris) x f!reader (Y/N)

Genre: Fluff, Soulmate AU

Content Warning: Mentions of Nicotine Use, Mentions of Alcohol Consumption, Y/N gets very drunk

A/N: CHAPTER FOURRRR. Doesn’t Bang Chan just seem like he would drop everything to take care of a drunk girl in the most precious way possible? Just saying. Special appearances by oc!Haewon, 3RACHA, and Hyunjin.

Chapter 4

The bedroom floor was littered with clothing. Skirts, blouses, blazers, dresses, but nothing felt quite perfect for the occasion. This was going to be the first work-function Y/N had attended since moving to Korea, and there would be colleagues from all over the world in attendance. The company she worked for had a presence in most major metropolitan areas, and each year, they held a gala rotating between countries. Last year’s had been in the US, but she hadn’t been a manager then and hadn’t had the privilege of being invited. This year, however, not only had she been invited, but as the only fluent English speaker in the office, she had the task of translating her boss’s speech. She was clueless about what the dress code would be but knew that— to her dismay— all eyes would be on her for a short time tonight.

“I guess you really can’t go wrong with black,” Y/N says to herself, smoothing down the skirt of a skin-tight number. It wasn’t too short in the leg, hitting just below the knee, and the sleeves were long enough to cover most of the half-sleeve tattoos she had on both arms. The lovely coat she would wear on top would hide the smattering of ink that wasn't covered. A pair of simple black pumps completed the outfit. Y/N only hoped she looked a little more expensive than the clothing was. First impressions mattered in these sorts of situations.

She had gone as simple as she knew how with her makeup; she tended to go dark but tried to go for something that felt appropriate. Light eye makeup and a darker red lip. Doing anything with her hair was usually pointless, her curls liked to do what they wanted whether she attacked them with a flat iron or not. Still, she did her best to tame them with hair spray and hair pins where she could.

Getting ready for the event had taken up the better part of her afternoon. The whole time, she could feel a sense of dread bubbling to the surface. Y/N had never been the type to be put in the spotlight, and she hated big crowds. Even more than that, she wasn’t very social at all and wasn’t entirely ready to meet hundreds of new people in the space of a few hours. She knew she was going to be exhausted tomorrow and hoped that one day would be enough time to recuperate before Monday.

A ping from the bed alerted her of a new text. Y/N plops herself onto the bed to read it:

1 New Message

Channie 🖤🐺

Whatcha doin’?

Y/N

Getting ready for a work thing.

Gotta leave in a bit, don’t know if I’ll have my phone on me for most of the night.

You home?

Channie 🖤🐺

I’ll see you in the courtyard

—

Chris is caught off guard for a moment. Y/N? Going out on a weekend? Unheard of. He knew she tended to enjoy the weekend solitude, using that time to decompress and relax when the week had been hard. He throws on a pair of slides and heads down to wait for her.

When Y/N walks out of the sliding glass doors of the building, Chris is almost speechless. He’d never seen her this dolled up before, let alone in something so form-fitting. She was breathtaking. She smiles from across the courtyard, and he can only do so much to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. He holds his hand out to her as she approaches.

“You’re making me look like a dog next to you, you know,” he chuckles.

“Wow, coming from a real-life, world-famous idol, that’s very flattering of you,” she says shyly. “It’s not too much?”

“Let me get a better look,” Chris holds the girl out at arm's length, looking at her quizzically. He spins her around once just to get the full effect. “It’s for sure too much,” he nods, a serious expression melting into a joking smile. “So what is this work thing and who are you trying to impress that’s not me?”

Y/N rolls her eyes and pats him on the chest mockingly. “Oh stop it. It’s sort of a networking summit. All the managers from all the departments in all the regions will be there. Honestly, it’s going to be a nightmare. Can you believe I’m going to have to talk in front of all those people?” She shivers and presses her forehead to his chest. “I don’t wanna go.”

“Have you ever gone to something like this?”

“Never.”

“Ooof,” Chris shudders. “Will you be okay?”

“Maybe once I get a drink or two in me, but who knows.”

“You drink?” Alcohol never bothered him, though it wasn’t his thing. But the thought of Y/N drinking around a huge group of people she didn’t know dress like this made him anxious.

“Rarely. Only in times of duress,” she laughs nervously and holds out her hand. “Christmas, New Year, my birthday, and social engagements where I have to do any sort of public speaking,” she puts down a finger for each list item.

“I could get ready and come with you? It wouldn’t take me too long,” Chris suggests. Y/N lets out a coughing laugh.

“Oh yes, an idol showing up uninvited to a marketing and advertising gala with a random girl surely wouldn’t draw any attention,” her smile is genuine even as she raises an eyebrow mockingly. Chris can tell she doesn’t mean it in a piercing way, but it still stings a little. She held on so tightly to this fear of being in the spotlight that he was afraid she would never open herself up to it. He hoped this wouldn’t be an issue if they ever made things official and went public, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Okay, okay, point taken. Just do me a favor, yeah? One or two and that’s it. And if the soju comes out, pour yourself a safety. You know what a safety is, right? Just fill your glass with water. Korean bosses have this thing about getting their staffs drunk and I won't be there to shoo people away.” He bites his lip and wrinkles his nose. “You’re not taking the bus, are you?”

“No, one of the girls from the office should be here in a second. We’re carpooling,” Y/N looks around his shoulder to check. “I will do my best not to get too sloshed, but under the circumstances, I can’t make any promises.” She winks at him. “I’ll be safe, don’t worry.” A honk rings out in the distance, and Y/N stands on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek, which catches Chris by surprise. “I’ll talk to you soon,” she says as she trots away toward the waiting car.

There was a sense of possessive jealousy that he was fighting back. He knew this wasn’t necessarily a healthy feeling. He never wanted to make her feel caged, and always wanted her to be free to do as she liked. It was a character flaw he intended to fix promptly. He just knew how men’s brains worked all too well, being one himself. If he thought she looked like a bombshell, so would every man who would set their eyes on her this evening.

As his mind starts to wander into this dark territory, he is hit with sudden inspiration for a song and sets off to the studio, humming. Music was always the therapy he needed when he was dealing with feelings he wasn’t accustomed to.

—

There were, admittedly, a lot more people at this event than Y/N had expected. The moment the car pulled up to the venue, Y/N was immediately struck with just how large this event was going to be. Hundreds of people were streaming in and out of the doors and she could feel herself breaking out into a cold sweat.

“Are you alright, unni?” Haewon presses her hand against Y/N’s back.

“I told you, you don’t have to call me that, just call me by my name. I’ll be alright,” she says, unconvincingly. A gusty sigh leaves her lips. “Let’s just get this over with,” she says as the valet pulls the car door open for her. She nods her head at him and links her arms with Haewon.

Networking came easy to Y/N. She was better at masking her anxiety than she thought, forcing a smile, bowing, passing out her business card, and treating others respectfully and formally. It was a bit easier even tonight as there were many English speakers in the crowd. A few familiar faces jumped out at her, giving her some sense of comfort and allowing her to drop her guard a few times throughout the night. But the dread that had been building up was beginning to hit its breaking point as the speech drew ever closer.

She considered herself lucky: it wasn’t a speech she had written, nor was it technically hers to give. Her only job was to go up there, stand beside her boss, and translate the speech as her boss spoke it. There was even a teleprompter, which eased some of her stress. Despite this, the first couple of champagne-laden trays that came toward her left her side one glass lighter. She felt just buzzed enough that she knew she could get through the speech without being nervous but wasn’t buzzed enough that she felt like she would make any glaring mistakes.

It was after the speech wrapped that things started to fall apart. Chris had been right, her boss was doing her best to get everyone hammered. The foreigners had already begun to filter out, no doubt readying themselves for flights back home in the morning, leaving mostly the Korean staff in the venue. Soju had been brought out, and Y/N had been taught that it was rude not to accept a glass poured by someone of a higher rank than herself. Each time she tried to pour water into her glass, her hand would be swatted away. “You shouldn’t pour your own drink,” they would say before pouring her another shot. By the end of the night, she was sure she had been served at least two bottles of soju, and she was no longer as steady in her black pumps as she had been when the night began. Y/N and Haewon make their way back to the car, Haewon holding Y/N as steady as she can as she guides her into the passenger seat.

“Unni, you are so messed up,” Haewon laughs. She pulls the car out of the driveway and starts heading back to Y/N’s apartment. Y/N opens and closes the window a few times before deciding the cool air feels better than the stuffiness of the car.

1 New Message

Channie 🖤🐺

You alive still?

Y/N

Im goin great thanks for aking !1.

It’s like rly hot tonight int it?

—

Chris stifles a frustrated laugh as he gets into his car and starts to drive home. He had made great progress on his song. So far, it was feeling like the sister song to NXT2U and TASTE, with a mellow beat and moody, sensual lyrics. His phone dings again from its spot mounted to his dashboard.

1 New Message

Y/N ✨

I don feel too good

Chris Bahng

I’ll be there in a bit. You’ll be fine.

Chris shakes his head. He isn’t upset per se. He was sure she was put into a stressful situation; she didn’t seem like the type to willingly get this drunk. He could just see it: she was trying to politely decline, and they are probably spending lots of time convincing her she can drink another one. It’s a typical scene they’ve all experienced at least once in their adult lives.

As he pulls up to the building, he can see a younger girl, probably in her early twenties, guiding Y/N to her favorite planter. They stumble together, and the girl does her best to heave Y/N into a sitting position. Y/N fumbles with a lighter, cigarette in hand attempting to light it clumsily, and the girl takes the lighter from her hand to light it for Y/N. The girl gently holds Y/N’s shoulder, no doubt asking her if she’s alright judging from the affirmative nod Y/N gives her. Y/N gives the girl a big hug, rubbing her back and chatting animatedly. The girl begins to walk away, looking back a few times before judging whether it’s safe to leave her alone. Chris waits in his car until the girl pulls away from the curb, knowing Y/N wouldn’t want him to be seen by one of her colleagues.

“Hey princess,” Chris says, sitting next to Y/N and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “You doing okay?”

“I am so good, I am totally fine, in fact,” Y/N slurs in response. “I’m not even that drunk, to be honest.”

“I definitely believe you, baby girl,” Chris laughs.

The drunk woman starts pulling off her coat, handing Chris the cigarette, which he promptly puts out. “God, it is like, really hot tonight!” She throws off the coat and holds her arms out, welcoming the cool, fresh air.

Chris catches a glimpse of her arms, tattoos peeking out from underneath the skin-tight sleeves of her dress. He’s only ever seen her arms covered, and now he knew why. She probably had to keep her tattoos covered at the office, and he mostly only saw her on work days. They suit her, he thinks, noting that he'll have to try to see her on a weekend, curious about how many she had.

“Did your speech go smoothly?”

“Oh, standing ovation. I am the queen of public speaking, obviously. I never realized how good at speaking I am!” She snuggles her head into his shoulder.

“Well, I am glad it went well then. Shall we get you to bed?” Chris looks down at Y/N, who has already managed to fall asleep. “Oookay. I have no idea what room you’re in, you gotta wake up for a second, darlin’.” Y/N doesn’t react to his voice, only nuzzling into his shoulder a little deeper and letting out a sleepy sigh. He can’t help but smile.

Chris stands, gently putting his arms underneath her and lifting her. He carries her into the lobby, to the elevator, and bumps the button with his hip. His only real option is to take her up into the dorm, not knowing where in the building she resides. Chris knocks on the dorm door with his foot, and Hyunjin opens it.

“Omo,” Hyunjin gasps, clutching his mouth with one hand and stepping aside to allow Chris into the apartment. “Is she okay?!” He says, in a strange combination of a whisper and a yell.

“She is… very drunk,” Chris says, laying her on the couch. “Do we have any Condition?” Chris walks to the fridge to check.

Hyunjin plops himself on the floor next to the couch, sitting cross-legged facing Y/N.

His elbows rest on the edge of the couch, and his hands cup his chin. “She's pretty, hyung,” he says, wiping a stray hair from her face.

“She’s also mine,” Chris says, having found the little blue bottle he was looking for in the fridge. He sets it on the coffee table. “Well, she will be, anyway. But yeah, I agree. She’s gorgeous,” another smile paints his face, dimples catching the light. “Everyone else asleep?”

Hyunjin shrugs. “I don’t know, probably not.” Hyunjin pauses before speaking again. “You can’t let her sleep in all that makeup,” he waves his hand at Y/N’s face.

“I’ve already tried to wake her up, I think she needs the sleep.”

Hyunjin pops up from the ground, and heads to the bathroom, grabbing a makeup wipe and handing it to Chris. “You can’t. Let her. Ruin. Her skin. I’ll go to bed first,” Hyunjin makes his way back to his bedroom, waving his hand behind him.

Chris takes Hyunjin’s place on the floor beside the couch. He tucks the rest of her hair behind her ear and gently begins to wipe the makeup from Y/N’s face, careful not to wake her. Hyunjin was right, of course. Sleeping in makeup isn’t comfortable. His eyes always felt gummed up in the morning if he fell asleep in his. When he’s finished, he pulls a blanket from the arm of the couch and tucks her into it before resting his back against the seat cushion, where he promptly falls asleep.

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