#Coffee Mug Factory
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12oz Recyclable Travel Insulated Coffee Mug Factory
12oz Recyclable Travel Insulated Coffee Mug Factory
Our 12oz Recyclable Travel Insulated Coffee Tumbler Mug With Lid is the solution for your beverage needs while you're out and about. Crafted with a double wall vacuum bottle and featuring a SUB316 stainless steel liner, this tumbler is designed to keep your drinks hot or cold for hours.
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#rune factory 5#rune factory#rf5 terry#rf5 ludmila#rf5 ryker#rf5 lucy#these are just gonna keep coming until i finally finish that event skit hope u enjoy the filler XD#aashi doodles#incorrect rf quotes#terry's coffee mug is buried under papers#i didnt just forget to line it and accidentally deleted nah#what gave anyone that idea XD
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Desserts I Ate This Month Part 2~ :D
#chinatown ice cream factory#machi machi#nonono#gonggan#hek hwa dang#copper mug coffee#nyc dessert series#queens dessert series
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for an estimation of the buying power in China of $34,000, an Uncle's coworker traveled back and bought her childhood village for $6,000
The perils of living in a communist country:
Salary Capped at US$34,000/month for doing spreadsheets
Uh
#he mentioned he had a “funny” slogan to put on a coffee mug once#the next day she gave him a cost breakdown per thousand with shipping from one of her cousin's factory
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Writing Prompt #12
Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.
Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.
Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.
While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.
These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".
There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—
"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.
But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.
He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.
"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.
"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.
"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.
He doesn't look away from the man.
"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."
"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.
The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.
The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"
Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."
"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."
He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.
"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.
"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.
"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."
"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.
"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."
"Him."
"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."
"Why me?"
"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."
This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.
"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"
"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."
Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."
"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."
"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."
"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."
"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."
"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.
"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.
"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."
"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."
"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."
Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.
Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.
"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."
The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.
"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.
"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."
"I have more than one."
"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."
"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"
There is a pause.
"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."
"Resolve what?"
"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."
"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.
"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."
Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."
The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.
"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."
"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."
"They will have already muzzled him."
Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.
"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."
"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—
Clack!
"sluuuuurp!"
"Master Timothy, honestly!"
"Sorry Alfred!"
#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff#but I also just want to post it and get it out there#fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them#im bad at multiple drafts#my writing#dp x dc#dp x dc au#dp x dc prompt#dp x dc crossover#danny phantom#batman#i live to make everybody dramatic#but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic#lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade#and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so#he doesn't need to change for nobody#nor feels inclined to#also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable#jazz: let's unpack that#clockwork: we never do#jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING#wish i could#that is cash money right there#shoutout to 11thsense
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Rule Breaker - Pt 7
pairing:max Verstappen x single mom!reader x logan sargeant {masterlist}{prev} {next} warnings: cursing, minimally proofread Summary: you can start a family who will always show you love, you don't have to be sorry for doing it on your own word count: 4.7k auth.note: this was supposed to have smut in it but the smut gods have abandoned me spotify: i made a playlist
He was watching her.
She swallowed anxiously as she poured water from the kettle into the mugs. Of course he was watching her. He hadn't taken his eyes off her since she'd opened the apartment door. And of course she was making tea, because it was too late for coffee, and she also knew he hated coffee.
You're just a coworker.
Except he wasn't. He never had been, not since taking it upon himself to show her son cars at the factory. Not since he'd listened to her like no one had before. Not since…
He'd so seamlessly stepped into her and Kevin's lives, helping without being asked, and asking nothing in return.
Licking her lips as she watched the tea steep, she closed her eyes.
She could still taste him.
Gentle, tender, everything he never showed the world. As though she was precious and perfect. As though her lips were his place of worship. Her lips parted to gasp, surprised, and—
He shifted and her eyes snapped open. He was still there. In her kitchen, leaning against the counter just a few feet away. Her heart hammered in her chest as she picked up a mug after stirring in a little sugar and held it out to him.
"Y/n," he whispered.
"I'm not allowed to kiss you."
He'd said that weeks ago. Over a month ago. She sucked in a breath and finally turned to face him. "What changed?"
To his credit, he didn't play stupid. He took a sip of the tea and turned the mug in his hands. "Nothing changed."
"How can you say that?" Gripping her mug, she forced herself to take a sip.
"I'm sor—" Max cut himself off and pressed his lips together. "No, I'm not sorry. I've wanted to do that since… Since I met you."
Y/n took another sip of her tea. It wasn't sweet enough, but she couldn't bring herself to move to get some sugar. All she could do was stand there, holding her mug tightly and sip, staring at him, floored by the revelation that he'd wanted to kiss her for months. "You said you couldn't," she whispered.
"I still can't." His voice was strained, as though it hurt him to say it.
"Jesus christ," she groaned. "Max—"
"You're with Logan."
She froze, slowly raising her eyes to his. "Yeah," she whispered. "We're… Figuring it out as we go."
He winced slightly. "What's there to figure out?"
"God, Max." Why did he care? "Everything."
"Little mate worships him."
She shouldn’t say it. Don't say it don't say it don't say it don't— "He worships you, too."
Max shook his head. "He—"
"He called you Daddy. He's never even…" She reached up, angrily brushing the tears from her eyes before they could fall. "He's never cared about not having a father until recently. He asked months ago why he doesn't have one and I told him not everyone does and he was okay with that. Until…"
He stepped closer, taking her mug and setting it with his on the counter.
"I've fucked it all up," she gasped. "I've done the worst thing haven't I?"
"Y/n, no," he murmured.
"I'm supposed to protect him from heartache and pain. But I let him get close to you and you…" She couldn't finish the thought, much less the sentence. If there was one thing she was sure of in her messed up world it was that Max would never hurt Kevin. She wasn't stupid, she had put together the pieces and figured out that he'd been abused as a child, whether he saw it that way or not. But he had only ever treated her son with gentleness.
"I won't hurt him," Max whispered, and she sensed rather than saw the tremble in his fingers as he brushed her tears away. "I could never…"
"I know," she breathed.
"Don't…" His fingers lingered on her cheek, and the look in his eyes was almost desperate. "Don't lock me out, y/n."
"Have you met my son?" She sniffled. "He'd tear the door down for you."
He smiled sadly. "Would you let him?"
"Yeah," she said after a moment.
"You haven't fucked it all up," he murmured.
"I feel like I have." His fingers were still on her cheeks, even though for now there weren't any tears. But she didn't mind. They were warm and tender, almost lovingly caressing her. And she wondered what it said about her that in this moment she didn't care about anything or anyone else.
"Mama?"
Max's fingers stilled on her cheeks at the sound of Kevin's voice. Before either of them could move she heard the patter of Kevin's feet entering the kitchen.
"Mama, I—" Kevin gasped. "Mister Max?"
He pulled back and turned. "Hey, kleine maat… You alright?"
Kevin rubbed his eyes as he shuffled over. "Had a bad dream," he mumbled.
Y/n was half a second too late to scoop him up, and she looked on as Max lifted him up. Reaching over, she smoothed her son's curls. "You wanna talk about it, doodle bug?"
Kevin shook his head, settling comfortably against Max's shoulder. "'M'okay, mama," he promised.
Max shared a look with her over the top of Kevin's head. She could practically read his thoughts – he's alright – and nodded. He rubbed the boy's back in a soothing manner and she let herself enjoy the quiet warmth of the moment. Standing close as Max held her son, she listened to him gently murmur comforting words while she continued to smooth his hair, smiling fondly as she felt Kevin relax.
She felt a flicker of hesitation when Max offered to tuck him in, but didn't object. Leading him to the bedroom she shared with Kevin, she opened the bathroom door when he murmured he had to go, leaning in the doorway while Max set him down by the toilet.
No wonder Kevin looked to him as a father figure. He was so natural at it, so patient and kind.
Everything a father should be.
He carried him into the bedroom, squatting down next to the toddler bed to settle him and tuck him in. "Welterusten, kleine maat," he whispered.
Kevin blinked at him. "Is that goodnight?"
Max nodded. "Welterusten."
Y/n picked up her son's stuffed Snoopy and leaned to place it next to him while he practiced saying the word.
"Welterusten, Daddy. Goodnight, Mama," Kevin murmured, eyes already closing. "Love you."
"Goodnight, sweetie. Love you," she whispered, blinking back tears.
Max seemed frozen for a few seconds, but he finally straightened, dragging a hand over his face as he left the bedroom. She followed him out a moment later, pulling the door almost completely closed behind her. Pausing outside Ellie's door, she continued through the apartment to the kitchen when she heard no sign of her friend being awake.
He was leaning against the counter, his expression troubled.
"Max," she whispered.
"Where's his dad?"
Surprised by the question, she paused, rubbing her hands over her thighs before stepping over to pick up her tea. "I don't know."
"Does…" Max exhaled harshly. "Tell me it's none of my business."
How could she tell him that? "It's not, but… If Kevin's tearing the door down for you, you should know, I suppose."
"Does his dad know about him?"
"Only that he exists." She couldn't have this conversation standing. Motioning for him to follow her, she headed into the living room, sitting in the corner of the couch after he pushed away from the counter. "He wanted nothing to do with a baby."
Max made a face of discontent but said nothing as he sat next to her.
Holding her tea with both hands, she pulled her knees to her chest. "He wanted me to have an abortion. And I was going to… I was still on the outs with my mom, working two jobs to pay my bills, I couldn't afford a baby. But – and this is gonna sound so crazy and stupid."
"Tell me," he murmured.
Y/n sighed. "I had a dream about a baby and it—" her breath hitched. "—it felt so real and in the dream I felt whole, like some missing part of my soul had found its way back to me. I woke up craving that feeling, and well, I decided against the abortion."
Max was silent for a few seconds. When he spoke, she could see him fighting a smile. "You're right, that does sound crazy and stupid."
Groaning, she lowered her head. "I know. I know. But—"
"Making life decisions because of a dream is—"
"I know, Max, god you sound like my mom."
He paused, his smile fading. "I'm sorry. Go on."
"That was it. I chose to have the baby. Josh refused to have anything to do with me or him. I haven't seen him since I told him I wasn't having an abortion." She refused to go into how much that had hurt. How stupid she'd felt as the pregnancy progressed, things still strained with her mom, only Ellie to lean on for emotional support.
"He doesn't support him?"
"I refuse to ask him for anything. Kevin's better off without him in his life. Ellie's been more of a father than he ever could have." She finished her tea and set the mug aside. "He knows that he exists. I sent word through his sister, and I've had no contact with anyone in his family since. It's like they don't care. It hurt at first, but now I know it's better this way."
"I'm sorry, y/n."
She shook her head and tucked her chin on her knees. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."
He sighed. And she felt him relax for the first time since he'd set foot in the apartment. The quiet stretched until it was almost uncomfortable, then he exhaled softly and reached for her hand.
"I don't mind him calling you daddy," she whispered as their fingers weaved together. It wasn't a conscious movement, and she felt as though her fingers already knew how to slot around his. Just as they did whenever her hand found Logan's.
Logan. God. How could she feel the same but different for two men?
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. "Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe he has some anxiety because all his new friends have dads."
"He…" Max cleared his throat and when she glanced at him she saw him staring at their hands. "He asked me in Montreal. Mentioned Laura."
Y/n smiled. First Kevin had been over the moon that a driver shared a name with him, then had fallen sort of in love with the older Kevin's daughter.
"He said you told him not everyone gets a mum and a dad. That he loves you."
She swallowed hard, nodding. If ever she was unsure of everything else in her life, she would always know her son loved her.
"Then he said—" Max sighed. "He asked if I thought Logan would be his dad. And you like mama."
She jerked her head up. "Did he ask you—"
"No. But I think he was going to."
What would you have said, how would you have answered him. And would you, Max? Would you be his dad? Would Logan? She closed her eyes, fighting the wave of questions she longed to ask, her feminist rage rising. He doesn't need a dad, damn it. He's perfectly fine without one. He's well rounded, intelligent, and empathetic. Having a 'dad' would ruin him—
"Y/n."
For fuck's sake. "Nothing changed," she reminded him. "You still can't."
"Doesn't mean I don't want to."
"I'm dating Logan."
"Is it serious?"
Yes. No. She didn't know. Logan didn't talk about that sort of thing. Still figuring it out. Still learning to show he cared. "Max, don't make me do this."
He squeezed her hand. "I'm not asking you to make a choice. I… We couldn't be open like you and Logan are."
It wasn't as though she and Logan were public. She was sure they'd been spotted together but it wasn't as though they were in each other's social media posts. "Because you'd get into trouble."
Groaning, he tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling. "You would lose your job."
Not him, though. Because he was the world champ. The dominant force to be reckoned with. Everyone on the Red Bull team would be fired before they let Max go. The realization annoyed her, even though she understood the reasoning. In the grand scheme of things she was nothing, a minor cog in the workings that could easily be replaced. But really what annoyed her the most was—
"I can't be the reason you lose your job, y/n."
Goddamn him and his nobleness. "Then… What are we even doing?" she sighed, moving to stand, trying to slip her hand free of his. But he held fast, pulling her back down.
"This," he whispered, raising his other hand to her cheek.
"But we—"
"Tell me no," he breathed as he dipped his head.
Her breath stuttered and she moved her hand to his neck, felt the muscles tense beneath her fingers. "Max…"
"I'll go. Just… Tell me you don't want this."
His forehead was against hers and his hand was sliding into her hair and she couldn't have told him no. Tilting her head, she let her lips brush over his, whining softly at the sensation. "I shouldn't," she whispered. And, god help her… "But I do."
He exhaled into the kiss, letting go of her hand and wrapping his arm around her. So gentle, so tender, she almost cried.
The last rational part of her brain screamed what about Logan and she pulled back slightly, eyes widening in panic. "We shouldn't."
He nodded. "I know," he murmured, pulling away.
"I want to," she blurted. "But…"
"Logan," he said flatly. "I thought you were figuring it out."
She ran a hand over her face, trying to ignore the tingling in her lips and the longing to slide back into his arms. "Would you want me to see him if I was figuring it out with you?"
He met her gaze and seemed to search her eyes for a long moment. "I would want you to do whatever it took to find happiness."
And she could tell that he meant it. She wished this was the Max that the world saw. The understanding, gentle Max that he rarely showed publicly. "Even if it was without you?"
His jaw twitched and he slowly drew in a breath. "Yes."
"I like him, Max. And I like you too."
Apparently, meeting on the track was now their thing. Max found he didn't mind so much this time, and decided he didn't want to investigate why. It wasn't as though he disliked Logan – in fact he liked him quite a bit. He just had let his own jealousy cloud his behavior. And now… Well, now things were different.
Logan fell into step with him and they chatted about the weather and y/n and Kevin and the burn was still there, eased a little by memories of silky lips and soft murmurs.
"How's your car looking?" Max asked, changing the subject as they walked along the track.
"I don't know, honestly. Do you ever just…" Logan sighed and shook his head, shoulders rounding. "Nevermind."
God. Max opened his mouth to tell him to go on, ask whatever it was that was on his mind – just get fucking on with it – but decided against it. Not everyone said what was on their mind. Not even him, some days, depending what was on his mind. He'd learned to bottle a lot of things, even if people thought he had no filter.
"I like him, Max. And I like you too."
How can you like us both?
He knew how. He just didn't know why. Why did she like him? He was the opposite of her precious American.
Logan cared. About everything. He cared too much. What people thought, whether he was doing well, how he carried himself. He was gentle and – damn it, caring – towards everyone, from a little boy with no father to people who didn't deserve a second thought.
Whereas he was… Gruff. An asshole on a bad day, a jerk on others. He did care, but he was selective. And he had learned at a young age that being gentle, being caring, led to being hurt and disappointment.
Gonna cry, boy?
"You have to stand up for yourself." The words came out of his mouth and hung in the air, too cold and brisk for the man walking next to him. "Sorry."
Logan drew in a breath. "Max—"
"Actually, no I'm not sorry." How many times had he said that in the past week? Twice. Which was twice too many. "It's true. You can't let them walk all over you. Because they'll do it until they find another pushover."
"They're not renewing my contract."
Well, fuck.
"They haven't said it. James is giving me the runaround every time I bring it up." Logan kept his eyes straight ahead and so did Max, not sure he wanted to see whatever emotions were showing. "But I know it's coming."
"He's such a spineless cunt," Max muttered.
Logan sputtered on a laugh. "Jesus," he chuckled nervously.
"He is." Max glanced at him. Swallowed down the little bit of bitterness. "You deserve a team that believes in you."
He nodded. "I know. But I don't have that."
"Don't give up hope," he said, the words surprising even him. "There are teams with vacant seats next year."
"I'm American. Hope's all I got," Logan said without enthusiasm.
Max chuckled softly. "Sometimes it's all you need."
As if he would know.
"I appreciate it, Max. Really."
"I can't give advice." He grimaced. "I suck at it. But I'm here if you need someone to talk to."
Even though he wasn't looking at him, he saw Logan's smile. "Thanks, mate."
Mate.
For once it didn't sound weird when Logan said it.
A win in Barcelona and, somehow, y/n found herself in the VIP section of a club with several drivers and a few girlfriends. No one seemed surprised or upset by her being there, and she laughed and drank a little, enjoying the downtime. Logan pulled her into a dance and she felt…
Happy.
Taking a break, she got another drink and found herself next to Max while he talked to Charles about someone she didn't know. A few moments later Charles was dragged away by his girlfriend and she was, relatively, alone with Max.
Max leaned close, speaking directly into her ear, loud enough to be heard above the music. "I can see why you like him!"
Her brow furrowed at his words. "You can?"
He nodded, leaning back to take a swig from his drink. "He's nice. Looks at you like you put the stars in the sky."
"Max," she murmured in surprise, her expression softening. She looked past him to where Logan was laughing with Lando and Oscar.
"See." Max chuckled next to her as Logan turned to look at her. "If he looked at me like that, I'd fall too."
A surprised laugh bubbled up. "Max! Are you drunk?"
He shook his head. "Not even close."
The coloured lights flashing around them pulsed faster and she watched him finish his drink. "Max–"
"He's in love with you." Max's face was serious.
She nodded, because suddenly she couldn't speak. If she did, she might tell him things she should never say. Nodding again, she looked down at her drink. Logan had all but said I love you to her. He'd said he loved being with her, loved hearing her voice, loved spending time with Kevin, but hadn't said he loved her.
"We have that in common," Max said, and she barely caught the words, his voice was so low.
Jerking her head up, she blinked. "What–"
"Hey babe."
A long arm snaked around her and she was pulled back against Logan's chest. Confused to see Max grinning, she wondered if he was drunk, because he usually looked annoyed whenever Logan was around. Well, not as much this past week as he had before, but…
Logan bent down, lips brushing her ear. "Having fun?"
She nodded, unconsciously stroking the arm around her as she sipped her drink. "It's a little noisy," she said loudly. "But fun."
He squeezed his arm around her. "Let me know when you're ready to go?"
She patted his arm and nodded again, smiling as he slipped away to go talk to Oscar.
Max tipped his head thoughtfully. "You're shit at lying."
"No I'm not?" She frowned at that. "I'm not lying."
"You're having fun?" he asked, arching his eyebrow.
She delayed answering by taking a sip of his drink.
He laughed, rolling his eyes. "You'd rather be at the hotel, wouldn't you?"
She made a face. "Yes. But—"
He grabbed her hand and tugged her along behind him, stopping to speak to Logan. They were right under a speaker so she couldn't hear what he said, but she saw Logan's concern as he nodded. Confused when he leaned to press a kiss to her cheek, she opened her mouth to say she was fine, but no one seemed to hear her above the thudding music. Logan didn't seem bothered by Max holding her hand and she remembered that she'd talked to him about it, that he was weirdly okay with her exploring her options as he'd put it—
Logan's lips moved to her ear. "I'll see you later, babe."
"Max what are you doing?" she asked a few moments later when he guided her out a side door of the club. Despite the heat outside it felt cooler than the club and she breathed in a lungful of fresh air.
"Taking you to the hotel," he answered simply.
She blinked as a car turned down the side street – alley? she wasn't sure what to call it – and stopped in front of them. Turning to him, she pinched her brows together. "You're supposed to be celebrating your win."
Max shrugged. "I can celebrate anytime."
With that, he opened the back door of the car and motioned for her to climb in. And she couldn't argue. Well, she could but it would be pointless. Arguing with Max was much like arguing with Kevin. It would lead nowhere except to a headache, she was sure. Settling in the backseat, she opened her handbag to get her phone, checking to make sure Ellie hadn't messaged her with an emergency.
"Je bent mooi," Max murmured once the car was in motion.
She could barely see him but she looked at him anyway, watching the passing lights flicker across his face. "Thank you," she whispered, remembering what the words meant.
You're beautiful. Not you look beautiful, that dress looks great on you. You're beautiful. She wondered if he understood the difference and thought that he might when his hand found hers.
It had been just over a week and it was still so new, so unexpected, the secret looks and touches. The stolen kiss that morning, the quick hug in the post-race confusion. All weekend she'd kept waiting for someone to notice, to say something, but no one had.
"When's your birthday?" she asked suddenly.
"End of September… Why?"
His thumb was tracing the back of her hand, making it hard to concentrate on her thoughts. "That's… Right after Singapore right?"
Max hummed. "Yeah I think a week after?"
"Well what are you doing to celebrate?" she asked, shifting so she was facing towards him.
He chuckled, and in the flickering lights she saw him shaking his head. "I don't celebrate birthdays."
"Max…"
"Y/n…" he mocked.
"You have to celebrate," she sighed.
"Uh, no, I don't have to."
"Didn't you love birthday parties as a kid?" she asked as the car stopped. Glancing out, she realized they were parked behind the hotel. She kept forgetting that Max could do things like that.
He thanked the driver and climbed out, turning back to help her out. "I didn't celebrate them much as a kid," he finally said.
"Oh," she said softly.
Max groaned, guiding her through the door, nodding to the hotel security. "Don't."
"I didn't—"
"You're not throwing me a birthday party," he insisted with a shudder.
"But—"
"It's just another day."
She scrunched up her face as he guided her onto the elevator. "If you'd let me speak—"
"No, because if I do it'll end with me wearing a stupid pointy hat and you blowing confetti in my face," he muttered.
Y/n huffed. "I wouldn't blow confetti."
He turned to look at her.
"I wouldn't!" she insisted. "I'd blow noisemakers—"
"No."
"You really don't want to celebrate? Cake? Friends? A few presents?"
"I don't like cake, if I want to see friends I do, and if I want anything I buy it." He tipped his head. "I don't need a party for any of that."
"It doesn't have to be a party," she persisted as the elevator stopped.
"I appreciate what you're trying to do," he said, glancing left and right before steering her towards her room. "But I don't see any reasons to celebrate."
"It's a special day, Max."
"You're not going to let this go are you?" he sighed as they stopped at her door.
She shook her head, opening her handbag to get her keycard. "Nope."
Max rolled his eyes and took the card, unlocking the door for her and following her inside. "Why is it so important to you?"
Slipping off her heels, she pushed them next to her suitcase. "It's a time to celebrate… To reflect and appreciate what you've been given."
Leaning against the dresser, he set the keycard down and folded his arms. "You don't think they're childish and unimportant?"
She looked up from gathering her pajamas to change into. Frowning, she shook her head. "That's your father speaking, isn't it?"
His eyes shuttered and his stance grew tense. "I'm not…"
"Is he why you didn't celebrate?" she whispered.
"My mom tried," he said after a moment of tense silence. "She'd make a cake or get me a little something. But…"
He pushed away from the dresser and walked across the room. She sat back on her heels, watching him pace before he stopped at the window. Heart breaking for the little boy inside him, she pushed to her feet and walked over, tentatively sliding her hand over his.
"We didn't celebrate. Even when I won." His voice was hoarse, as though it hurt him to say the words.
"Oh, Max," she sighed. She hesitated, still not used to this sort of closeness, and finally leaned her head against his arm.
He let out a shuddering sigh and she realized he wasn't used to it, either. Slipping his hand free, he wrapped his arm around her slowly and cautiously, as though afraid she was going to push him away.
"Can I throw you a small party?" she asked after a moment. "With just a few people who care about you?"
Groaning, he pressed his lips into her hair. "If you must."
"Who would you want to invite?"
He snorted. "You and Kevin." Tucking his chin on the top of her head, he wrapped his other arm around her. "You can invite Logan, too."
Surprised, she leaned back, heart skipping several beats. "Logan?"
"He's special to you and Kevin. You and Kevin are special to me." He paused, eyes meeting hers. "So he's special to me too, I guess."
"Max," she whispered. "You mean that?"
"Don't say it like that, don't make it—"
She leaned up, silencing him with a kiss. Don't make it weird. But it already was.
And she kind of loved it.
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i only wanna worship you | javier peña
Take The Weight Off His Shoulders - Chapter Seven
Chapter Summary | When a promising lead for your story turns to dust, you find comfort in the only person you know can make you feel better these days.
Chapter Warnings | mentions and discussions of drugs, drug consumption and the drug trade, swearing, flirting, explicit smut, oral sex (f), protected piv sex but nothing else.
Pairing | dbf!Javier Peña x F!Reader
Word Count | 4.4K
Authors Note | GUYS I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. Thank you so much for being so patient - my new job and the festive period kicked my ass, but we're back, and it's the one you've all been waiting for! I'm having so much fun weaving in the story along with these guys' relationship, and I hope it was worth the wait for you. If you're enjoying this then reblogs and comments really do help and if you’d like to support me further, please consider a donation to my Ko-Fi.
I no longer use taglists. Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs to be notified of new updates.
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Series Playlist
You’ve been sat in the parking lot for what feels like ages. Turning up at the office that morning, you’d stared blankly at the article you’d written, listening to your managers voice in your head telling you that you could go and get your story, swirling the dregs of your coffee in your mug. It was almost like a switch had flicked in your brain and before your head could catch up with you, you were stuffing your supplies into your bag and swiping your car keys off the desk.
Now, your car is surrounded by others in the parking lot of Laredo’s biggest factory - one of the towns biggest employers of people who hadn’t gotten sick of it and left for college and never come back - waiting for Tyler Johnson to appear out of the front doors for his lunch break.
You watch the clock on your dashboard, counting exactly seventeen further minutes until his tall, lanky frame comes through the door. He’s fishing in his jeans pocket, pulling out a cigarette. He leans up against a brick wall just down from the front door, lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag. It’s now or never.
You get out of your car, deciding against taking your notepad and pen, you don’t want to spook him before you’ve had a chance to talk. You can feel the familiar nervous bubble in your stomach, something that hasn’t gone away when you blindly go up to someone to interrogate them.
“Tyler?”
He turns his head towards your voice as you come to a stop a few steps away from him.
“Depends who’s asking,” He looks you up and down, “But for you honey, sure thing,” He puts the cigarette into his mouth, reaches his hand out for you to shake which you do, “What can I help with?”
You take a deep breath, the speech you’d rehearsed in the car suddenly blanked from your mind as you try and figure out how to explain to him why you’re here.
“This is so strange, but can you remember hosting a party a few months ago?” You ask, “It was in town?”
You watch him think for a second, taking another drag on his cigarette, “Yeah I think so, was pretty wild if I remember, were you there?”
You reply with a nod, “Yeah, with my friend Liv,” You sigh, “Listen, I’m not trying to pry or anything, but you know that place was raided a few days ago, right?”
“Whole place knows it was raided,” He shrugs, “Been the talk of the town.”
“Right,” You’re thinking, how can you catch him in the act? “So, why were you hosting a party in a house that was empty, that was then raided for drugs?”
“Family own it,” He shrugs again, “Guy who rented it died and it needed doing up before we could get someone else in, so seemed like the best place to do it.”
“And the drugs?” You push.
“Listen, lady,” His tone sharpens but he doesn’t move towards you, you don’t feel threatened, “I haven’t got a clue as to why there were drugs there, okay? I haven’t been there since the party.”
“So you have no idea how they got there?”
“Not the faintest.”
“So it wasn’t you?”
“What the hell is this, twenty fucking questions?” He sighs again, flicks his finished cigarette to the ground, stamping on it with his boot, “I don’t know anything about the drugs, I’ve never taken drugs, I can’t even if I wanted to, we get tested here for them.”
“When was the last time you got tested?” You ask, eyebrows raised.
Tyler snorts at you, “You and everyone else in this fucking town are so predictable,” He shakes his head, “Just because I’m not a golden boy like my brother means I take drugs?” You’re about to open your mouth to reply when he started talking again, “I got tested about three weeks ago, and then probably six weeks before that too, clean as a whistle, always have been.”
“Do you have the test results?”
“You think I’m gonna show my drug test results to a random girl?”
You nod your head because it his trepidation makes sense, “I’m a journalist,” You finally let on, “I wrote a story about the drug bust but figured there was probably more to it than first meets the eye so I’m just digging around a little,” You shrug, “If you show me, it puts you in the clear though, means people’ll stop talking about you.”
Tyler rolls his eyes but starts walking towards a car. You follow behind him, waiting as he unlocks it and looks through the glove compartment, pulling out a couple of pieces of paper. He hands them to you, which you look through and just like he said, there are the result of his last three random drug tests, everything negative. Fuck. You try not to let your disappointment show as you hand them back.
“Sorry,” You mumble, “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what’s going on here.”
“S’alright,” Tyler responds, putting everything back in order to lock his car back up, “I know how it is, but just…” He trails off, “Be careful, okay? I don’t know what’s happening either but this could be dangerous.”
“I’m a big girl,” You counter, “I’ll be fine,” You take a few steps back, “Sorry for bothering you though, I hope the rest of your day is alright.”
There is a part of you that would love nothing more than to roll over, push your face into your pillow and scream. When did having meltdowns like that become frowned upon? You’re sure when you were little they were cathartic, but what use was that at three years old? You needed to be able to scream at this age.
Instead, you lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, frustrated that the one lead you had turned out to be a dead fucking end. Were you wrong about this whole thing the entire time? Were you barking up the wrong tree? Did you just need to cut your losses and publish the story as is, without needing to dig around further? You had no fucking clue.
Before you can think about what you’re doing, you reach over, pluck the phone off your nightstand and press the redial button. You don’t even need to tap in his number anymore, he’s the only number you really call these days. The phone rings three times before he picks up.
“Hello?”
“Javi?” You ask, although you don’t need to, you’d recognise that voice anywhere.
“You alright, cariño?” There is just a sigh that you let out in response, then his voice is back in your ear, “I’ve had enough bad days in my time to know that sigh, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Is your response, you know you can’t tell him what’s really up because you know the deeper you dig into this, the more dangerous it’s going to get, “Just work stress.”
He’s silent for a moment, “What can I do? I can listen.”
“Can you come over?”
Even over the phone, you can hear him thinking it’s a bad idea. You can hear him thinking about how weird it will look if your parents find him in the house with you on your own, how you’d explain it, even if they didn’t necessarily catch you doing anything.
“They’re out at the moment,” You offer, “Dinner with some people on the force, and I won’t make you stay long, I promise.”
You can hear him do that thing he always does when he’s thinking - clicking his tongue against his teeth. He’s done it for as long as you can remember - a real tell that he’s battling with something in his head.
“I mean, you don’t have to,” You hasten to add, “We can just talk like this if you’d rather.”
“Need someone to make you feel better, huh?” His tone is lower now and it makes you squirm, all you can reply with is a small mmhmm sound, “I’ll be there soon.”
Then all you can hear is the dial tone. You lie there for a moment, listening to the sound through the phone, then glance around your room and panic. You slam the handset back onto the receiver and hop out of bed, dragging the sheets up to make the bed properly, aimlessly throwing abandoned clothes into the laundry basket, shoving half-read books back onto their shelves and generally tidying up enough so as to not look like a total slob.
Once you’re sure there’s nothing on display that you wouldn’t want Javi to see, you pace around the living room, drawing the curtains a little whenever you can see headlights bleeding through, until one set of those headlights are Javi’s truck. He pulls into the drive and sits there, before he’s reversing back out and driving off. Your heart sinks a little, until you can see his frame walking back up the street. You let the curtains fall back into place and stand by the front door, smoothing your hair and your clothes when he knocks twice. You don’t wait, just tear the door open.
“Waiting for me, huh?” He asks, stepping across the threshold, one hand slipping around your waist, the other letting the door close behind him.
“N-no, I was just by the door when you knocked.” You breath, so close to his mouth.
“That so?” He asks, eyebrow raised, “Someone else looking out the curtains then?”
He doesn’t give you the chance to answer. Instead, he dips his face to yours, lips pressed softly to yours. You can feel the aches and the stress leaving your body as he does, you bring your arms up to wrap around his shoulders, as Javi’s palm on your lower back presses you into his body fully.
“Y-you wanna m-maybe go upstairs?” You ask, lips still a hairs breadth from his, you don’t want to look at him whilst you ask.
“Is that what you want?” He asks, free hand cupping your cheek to make you look at him.
“I think so, yes.” You breathe.
“Well then, lead the way cariño.”
I don’t deserve this, is all Javi can think as your hand is clutched in his, leading him into your bedroom. He doesn’t deserve the flutter in his stomach when he looks at you, or the way your eyes look at him like he’s the best thing the world has ever offered you, and he certainly doesn’t deserve the opportunity to do what he thinks you’re going to let him do in the next few hours. All of the bad he’s done, veiled as something good, all of the shit he’s fucked up before, the people’s he’s hurt, the people he’s killed, whether at his own hand or as a knock on from his actions, he doesn’t deserve someone as good as you.
You’re stood at the door to your room, back pressed up against it, hands clasped behind your back as he stands in the middle of your room. He knows you’re nervous, you always are around him, and he wishes he could say something, express that he feels exactly the same around you, that you make him nervous too, but he thinks it would sound wrong if he tried to explain it, so he doesn’t, just holds out his hand and beckons you over to him.
The warmth of your hand slipping into his, the way he knows those hands feel when you touch him, the way your lips are soft when you kiss him, all of it makes him a weak man, a man who knows you need someone with less baggage, because he can’t say no to you, he doesn’t want to say no to you.
“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, manoeuvring the two of you so you’re sitting on the edge of your bed.
He watches as you shake your head, “No, it’s honestly nothing, it’ll be fine.”
“What do you want then?”
You lift your head, flash those beautiful eyes at him and instead of fighting the strength to stay upright, he takes a single step towards you and drops to his knees, settled on the floor with your thighs spread to accommodate him. He puts his hands on your knees, looking up at you, and spreads them a little wider.
“This what you want?” He asks, trailing his hands up to your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress up with his hands as he goes, “Something to take your mind off things for a while?”
“Y-yes,” You gasp when his hands hit the material of your underwear wrapped around your hips, “Yes please.”
Javi hooks his fingers into the band of your panties, watching as you lift yourself off the bed a little so he can pull them down. He’s slow with it, making sure that the hem of your dress keeps you covered as he can. It strikes him now how much he wants this, how much he’s craved the opportunity to get you like this so he can really hear you, really see you for once, without having to worry about getting caught.
“You wanna show me that pretty pussy, hermosa?” He speaks lowly into the skin of your thigh he’s nuzzling at.
He watches from between your thighs as your cheek drops to your shoulder, trying to hide how bashful you’ve become, but it does nothing to help the growing bulge in his jeans. Javi lets his fingers push the hem of your dress up your thighs, pooling at your waist, your legs widening.
Javi thinks he might audibly gasp at the way you’re already glistening for him. He leans forward, puckers his lips and presses a single kiss to your clit. It’s gentle, he revels in the small gasp you suck in, then he’s on your properly, tip of his tongue flicking gently against that little bud. He can feel your hand gripping at his hair already, hips moving in time with his mouth, and he wonders if anyone has ever blessed you like this. He needs to know.
He pulls away, letting his thumb gently replace his mouth, looking up at you, “Anyone ever done this for you?”
You shake your head, “No, but even if they had,” You’re biting at your bottom lip, “I don’t think it would have felt like this.”
He can’t help but smirk as he brings his mouth back to you, suckling your clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it, listening to you the way you whine for him, the way you start moving your hips in time with the movements of his mouth again. You taste divine, he thinks, as his tongue drops a little lower, drinking up the slick you’re creating for him, dragging it back up to run over your clit again.
“T-that’s so g-good.” He hears you moan.
“Yeah?” He replies, barely pulling off you.
He hears a noise in reply, lets one of his fingers trace up the skin of your thigh until he’s slowly pushing it inside of you, amazed at how easily you let him in just like he had been in the alley. He slips another in, curls them up gently, moves them until you tip your head back and really cry out for him this time. Javi can tell you’re close - he’s made enough women in his life feel good this way to know the signs - the way you’re tightening around his fingers inside you, the way your hips are moving but your thighs are starting to tighten around his shoulders and the way your moans are louder but more breathy, he’s addicted already, he knows it’s bad, but right now he can’t find it in himself to really care.
“J-javi,” You breathe, fingers gripping at his hair, “I’m gonna-”
“Go on, cariño,” He urges, “You can come for me.”
And you do, God alive you do, and it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever been party to. Your cunt goes tight as a fist around his fingers, slick drooling down into his palm, he can feel the way you flutter around them as you say his name over and over again in some sort of fucked up prayer, and he thinks about how it would feel around his cock. Your entire body convulses as he works you gently through the aftershocks with his mouth, fingers slipping from inside you to rest, wet and sticky, on your thigh.
All of a sudden, he can feel you gripping his shoulders, pulling at the material to try and drag him up to you.
“Slow down, baby,” He says, but he moves anyway, pushing you back onto the bed, settling himself between your thighs, “We’ve got all night.”
“Javi, please,” You beg, and he doesn’t think he’s heard anything nicer in his life, “I want you,” Your fingers are fumbling with his jeans, trying to move his belt, “Inside me.”
Javi moves, taking your wrists in his hands, pinning them above your head, letting his hips grind into your own, front of his jeans grinding into the soft wet of your sensitive cunt.
“Do you have anything?” He breathes right into your ear, teeth nipping at the lobe.
“Top drawer.” You say quietly, whining when he pushes himself up onto his knees to reach into the draw.
Javi fumbles around a little until the familiar crinkle of foil hits the tips of his fingers. He pulls it out, places it into his mouth as he works to undo his jeans, pushing them down only far enough to free his aching cock. In an ideal world he’d strip the two of you off, but there’s something about this image of you, laid out on the bed in your sinful little sundress, tits heaving as you breathe, that means he just can’t wait.
He almost cries when you reach up, smooth palm stroking at his cock, so slowly he thinks he might die. Tin foil packet between his teeth, he tears it open, rolls it into his cock like it’s muscle memory. He leans back down, feeling the head of his cock nudging at your aching pussy, gathering your wrists back into his hands to pin you down again.
Javi is looking right into your beautiful eyes now, looking at the very soul of you as he stills. He’s damning the both of you to hell with this. He thinks if he’d been stronger, he could have stopped this - sure your mouth around his cock in the bar had been like silk, and the way you’d let him touch you against the brick wall had him seeing stars, but he knows, once he’s sunk himself deep inside you, he won’t be able to come back from this.
“You sure?” He asks, lips pressing softly to your own.
“Please.”
And it’s all he needed to hear to start slowly sinking into you. He watches closely as your eyes flutter closed, head tipped back, throat exposed to his mouth. He listens as he inches in slowly to your panting breaths and your little moans, until he’s buried fully inside you. His hands are gripping at your wrists tightly as he stays still, your hips wiggling underneath him.
“Hermosa,” He pleads, warns with his tone, “Don’t m-move, please.”
Like the devil himself, you don’t listen, and when he pulls his face from the crook of your neck, you’re smirking, you know exactly what you’re doing.
“Javier,” You use his full name and he swears he feels himself throb inside you, “Fuck me.”
He should have known the whole time that this wasn’t going to be a shining star performance, it’s been too long since he’s felt like this, felt the warmth of someone like this, but he knows this is different, he knows that look in your eye, not quite love, definitely not quite love, but it’s something different to the girls of Colombia. He can’t offer you a lifeline, he can’t offer you money to get yourself out of a country that’s trying to kill you, they needed him for something, and he needed them for something in return. But here, he just needs you, no whistles, no bells, just you.
Pushing himself up a little, letting go of his grip on your wrists, he puts his palms on the backs of your thighs and pushing your legs back, folding you underneath him as he starts moving a little faster, fucking you a little harder, you let out a proper moan into the air of the room and he finds himself smirking.
“That what you needed, baby?” He coos as he fucks you, feeling himself reach the very end of you with each thrust, “Just needed me to fuck whatever was in that pretty head of yours away?”
He can feel you tightening around his length, can feel the sweat sticking his shirt to his back, and that tell-tale tightening he feels when it’s almost time. He wishes he could hold on, wishes he could string this out, make it better for you, but god he needs to feel you again, he needs to feel the way you come around his cock.
“Touch yourself,” His tonne is demanding, but he watches down at you as you smirk, bringing your hand to your pussy, finger circling your clit as his hips start to falter, “Come on baby, one more just for me.”
It happens all of a sudden, the way your body snaps under him, and that feeling he’s been chasing, the feeling of you clenching around him, arching your back into him. He can feel the effect it has on him, just seconds later he’s following you over the edge, stilling inside of you as he finishes, banishing the tiny thought in the back of his head that says he wishes he was filling you up without a barrier between the two of you.
Once he’s caught his breath a little, he pulls out of you, groaning into your skin, listening to you whine at the loss of him. He takes off the condom, ties a knot in the top, wrapping it along with the packet in a tissue to put in the bin. He puts his clothes right, before crawling back onto the bed with you, pulling you into his chest, sighing at the feeling of your arm draped over his stomach, your leg entwined with his own. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“Did that help?” He asks quietly.
“Yeah,” You reply softly into the material of his shirt, “Thank you.”
“You feel okay?” He’s slightly worried he was too rough, maybe that you didn’t enjoy it, “Was it okay?”
You move your head, looking up at him with sleepy eyes, “Javi, please,” You whisper, “Stop worrying, it was perfect.”
He lies there for a while, wishing he could strip the two of you down, press your warm bodies together and fall asleep like this is all normal and you aren’t younger than him, or the daughter of one of his closest friends.
“I should go,” He muses, “Not that I want to,” He adds quickly, worried you’ll think he wants to make a quick escape, “Just need to leave before any eyes are around to ask questions.”
You move slightly, letting the warmth of your body drag away from his own, “One day we’ll be able to do this properly, I hope.” You say, pushing yourself up on your palm as he rises from the bed.
“I promise the next time I have you like that,” He’s looking at you now, chin held in his hand, “I’m going to strip you down, take my time and fall asleep next to you, I promise.”
He kisses you then, slipping his tongue into your mouth and it takes every inch of his strength to pull away.
“Go on,” You smile at him, “Before my dad comes home and shoots you.”
“He wouldn’t shoot me baby,” He smiles back at you, “He wants me back on the force too much.”
“Before he gives you a black eye then.”
He can’t help but laugh at that, giving you a small salute as he turns to leave, but there’s something niggling at that back of his mind as his hand reaches for the handle of your door, something he needs to ask before he leaves, “If something was bothering you,” He asks, turning back to you, “Or you were getting into something at work, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
He’s looking right at you as you answer, searching for anything that says you’re not telling him the truth, and as you answer, he doesn’t find a reason to doubt you, “Of course I would.”
When he’s gone, twenty minutes later your parents are falling through the door, laughing at each other, too many glasses of God knows what over dinner have made them jolly and you find yourself smirking, biting at your bottom lip in the dark, that the two of them have no idea that Javier Peña left just twenty minutes ago after fucking you better than anyone else ever had.
It’s something that keeps you smiling, even as you fall asleep, eyes closing, any thought of work and dead-end leads forgotten and replaced by dreams of what else that man might be able to show you.
#javier peña x reader#javier peña x you#javier peña x female reader#javier peña x f!reader#javier peña smut#javier peña fanfic#javier peña fic#javier peña fanfiction#javier peña#narcos#narcos fic#narcos smut#Pedro pascal#javier peña Pedro pascal#Javi peña#narcos fanfic#narcos fanfiction#Pedro pascal fanfic#pedro pascal characters#Pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal smut#TTWOHS
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When To Keep Your Writing Stiff (pt 7)
Part 6
Part 1
Gonna shoutout a specific fanfic, “Salvage” (ATLA) for writing that is even leaner than mine is, and mine has zero fat whatsoever. This was really good. I particularly like how some scenes were only 2 or 3 lines long as an example of what I’m going for here.
When I say “stiff” in the following examples I’m specifically talking about a lot of the same syntax, few similes and metaphors, few ‘said’ synonyms, very little, well, “life” in the prose. And this can be good in a few situations.
1. Your narrator is in shock
Shock doesn’t all look the same, but the kind of shock I mean is the one where the person is really quiet and un-emotive, they’re probably not speaking or reacting much to whatever catastrophe just happened and probably not responding to their name or anything spoken to them. Their body is pretty much going “uhhhhhhhhh factory reset!” when whatever it is, is too much to process.
A asks them a question. Once. Twice. B stares ahead. There’s a brown stain on the wall that looks like a thumb.
So if they’re narrating, they’re probably going to be giving the absolute bare minimum, need-to-know information and won’t be thinking about the best adjectives and adverbs. Especially if you normally write with fluffier prose, a jarring shift like this can really help sell the shock and dissociating of the character, something so traumatizing that it effects how the story is told.
2. Your narrator is depressed
Somewhere between New Moon’s 4 pages of just Months to show Bella did absolutely nothing in a depression rot and normal prose (though it was effective, particularly in the movie when they could draw out the words on the screen for longer and did the whole spin-around-her-depression-chair montage).
January came. It rained a lot.
They’ll probably either narrate very thinly, or listlessly. They might focus on a random detail and start going on a long ramble about that one detail that isn’t at all important, but it’s either all they can think about or all that can move them to feel anything in this moment, like:
On the bedside table, that coffee mug still sat there in a thin sheet of dust. What had been liquid now long since dry and gluey. It still sits there, collecting cat fur.
This might be the best place for sentences that all sound and flow exactly the same, but use it sparingly.
3. Your narrator is having a panic attack or trapped in a traumatic situation
Different from shock in that while they are physically capable of moving and interacting, they can’t let themselves describe what they’re seeing and feeling in grand detail. Maybe they’re moving through the horrific aftermath of a battle and all they can describe is the mud under their feet and how it squelches. Or they simply say that “there’s bodies everywhere” because looking too long or too hard at who those bodies belonged to is too much.
4. You’re writing something that has incredibly fast pacing
This post was inspired by a fic I just wrote that spanned about 5 months in about 18k words. Narrative was skipping days ahead between paragraphs at some point as my character was processing the end of an abusive relationship. It sped up and slowed down where necessary, but compared to its sequel that I also just finished (22k words across 7 days), I’d covered a whole month in about 2 sentences in the first one.
See nearly any part of Salvage (or my fics if you feel like it)
What happened in that month didn’t matter, only what was before and what’s different now and how this character realizes how their life is slowly changing, some things they never noticed that are suddenly right in their face or things that quietly slipped away.
—
TLDR; sometimes the lack of emotion and sensory details and frenetic, dynamic syntax is the point, that can sell the reader on the narrator’s mental state far better than picking the juiciest adverbs. If it’s so impactful to them that the physical telling of the story is changed, you’ve done your job.
#writing#writeblr#writing a book#writing advice#writing resources#writing tools#writing tips#syntax#writing style#narrative structure
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Your Choice
Pairing: Cop!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Teacher!Reader
Summary: You're minding your own business at home one evening when local police Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes comes knocking on your door. Someone's reported a crime being committed on your property, and the sergeant can either bring you down to the station, or get you off with a warning... it's your choice.
Warnings: Language, because I have a foul mouth, explicit smut (unprotected PIV, oral (m receiving), fingering), mentions of drug manufacturing/possession/use, little bit 'o' bondage, implied dubcon, implied infidelity, implied abuse of police authority (honestly, read the whole thing through before coming at me for warnings, okay? I promise it'll make sense), bad cop jokes/puns/innuendos. Please let me know if I missed anything.
Word Count: 4.3k
A/N: Inspired by actual events! And by that, I just mean the part where someone called the cops and told them I was cooking crack in my kitchen. Literally everything else is a figment of my imagination, alas! Special thanks to bestie @jmeelee for suggesting I take that awkward encounter and turn it into something to benefit all of mankind, and for giving me a title. The Cheesecake Factory is going to start forbidding us entry with the way we talk in there.
If you ever feel so inclined to support my work, hop on over to buy me a coffee; it's much appreciated! <3
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You put the tea kettle on to boil before sitting down at the kitchen table to start grading your students’ papers. You’d been hoping to get through as many as possible before your husband came home from work, but with the number of corrections you were having to make on these assignments, you’d be lucky if you got a quarter of them done before then. It was disheartening. Distance learning during Covid really hadn’t done the public education system any favors and you felt like you’d been playing catch-up for years now.
When the kettle eventually boiled, you pulled yourself away from your grading to make yourself a cup of tea. You had just settled back down with your steaming mug when you heard an incessant pounding at the front door, startling you. You briefly considered not answering— you weren’t expecting anyone, and besides, who showed up unannounced at someone’s door anymore?
Serial killers, that’s who.
But the knocking continued, relentless and heavy. After a few seconds, you heard a gruff voice call “Police. Open up!”
“What the hell?” you asked yourself, putting down the tea mug and making your way through the living room to the front door.
Peering behind the curtain on the front door window, you could make out the figure of a uniformed officer standing on your front porch. He was illuminated from behind by the streetlight, leaving only his outline visible to you.
Narrowing your eyes in confusion and concern, you turned on the porch light, unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “Can I help you, officer?” you asked cautiously.
The man tipped the brim of his hat up, and you were met with a bright pair of blue eyes that glimmered with more than a hint of mischief.
“It’s actually Sergeant, ma’am,” the man said to you as he tipped his hat and offered you a wicked grin. You breathed a sigh of relief-- you knew him. Of course you did. Your small town didn’t have much in the way of local law enforcement, and James Barnes, or ‘Bucky,’ as most folks called him, was a specimen to be revered. Ridiculously handsome, tall and broad, he was built entirely of muscle as he towered over you from the doorway. He was a favorite among the local female population, often being specifically requested to provide police presence at PTO functions and Ladies’ Auxiliary events. Despite the gold ring he wore on his left hand, the women of the town were drawn to him like flies to a corpse, much to the frustration of his poor wife.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?” you amended, with a touch of sarcasm in your voice as you offered him a smirk back, though you were still confused by his presence.
“Well, ma’am, seems like we got a call reporting suspicious activity at this address,” he drawled, leaning now on your door jam, fingers hooking in his belt loops.
“Here?” you asked, surprise coloring your tone. “Are you being serious with me right now, Bucky?”
“That’s Sergeant Barnes to you, ma’am,” he responded nonchalantly. Oh, so he was playing it like that, then? Good to know. “Got a tip that someone’s been cooking meth in your kitchen. ‘m here to check it out.”
You couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “Meth?! That’s a new one!” You’d had some of your students call in pranks on you in the past, but this was an extreme.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid meth is no laughing matter,” the sergeant said in all seriousness. The look in his eyes immediately shut down any trace of humor you felt as you stared back at him. “The manufacture of illegal drugs is a very serious crime. I’d like to come inside and take a look, if you don’t mind.”
You pursed your lips. You remembered something your husband had discussed with you, and decided you weren’t going to make this easy for him. “Do you have a warrant?” you asked defiantly.
Sergeant Barnes sighed heavily and rubbed his dark stubble with the palm of his hand. “Ma’am, I’ve had a long shift. Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be. Now, either you can let me inside, or you can come down and answer questions at the station. It’s up to you.”
It wasn’t an option, not really. “Come on in, then,” you told him, moving aside so he could enter. He walked through the door, his meaty arm grazing against the side of your breast as he did so, and you involuntarily shuddered at the sensation. You knew he noticed when you caught him smirking at you again.
“Kitchen’s this way,” you murmured, somewhat breathlessly, as you led him back through the house to the room in question. He followed silently behind you, his footfalls heavy and sure.
Once in the kitchen, Sergeant Barnes began looking around. It was obvious you weren’t in the middle of a meth lab. You were a high school English teacher, for god’s sake! You weren’t quite sure what game the sergeant was playing at, but you had no doubt he’d make his intentions known in good time.
After glancing around, he eventually said “Well, I can see there’s no meth setup here. Guess it was a false alarm.” You shot him a glare as if to say no shit, but he walked to the cabinet holding your glassware and opened it. “Well, well, well… what do we have here?” He reached in and pulled out a bong and a container of marijuana. “Now, I know next state over might have given the go ahead for this stuff, but in this state, recreational use of the Devil’s Lettuce is still illegal, darlin’. Mighty bad look for a school teacher to have it on hand, don’t ya think?”
You cocked your hip and crossed your arms in front of your chest defiantly. “That’s my husband’s,” you told him with a roll of your eyes. “And I’m pretty sure you just conducted an illegal search and seizure there, sarge.”
He put the bong down on the counter with a heavy clink and turned to face you, his face impassive and voice stern. “Now, seems to me someone’s got a problem with authority, darlin’. I don’t appreciate you talkin’ back to an officer of the law like that. Might need to teach you some manners.”
You swallowed thickly, finally having an idea of where the sergeant was going with his little drop-in and felt a frisson run through your body that left you trembling. Honestly, you were surprised you hadn’t seen it coming. There’d been talk, after all.
“Now,” he continued as he slowly made his way across the kitchen toward you, “as I see it, we got ourselves two options here. One: you can come down with me to the station and we can book your pretty little ass on possession charges, which is gonna take hours and require a hell of a lotta paperwork.” He was standing directly in front of you now, leaving just inches between your bodies. You sucked in a breath, the nearness of him making you dizzy. “Or two, I can get you off with a warning. Still might take hours, but at least we can both have ourselves a good time. Your choice, darlin.”
You took a step back, pressing yourself against the edge of the counter in an attempt to put some space between you. “I think you mean ‘let’ me off with a warning, Sergeant Barnes,” you said, your words coming out in an exhale.
You gasped as his hand came down to cup you between your legs and gently squeeze your mound through the fabric off your jeans. He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “I meant what I said, darlin’. But you gotta prove you’re gonna be a good, respectful girl, first, so why don’t you get down on your knees and show me how you obey the law?”
Your eyes widened at his command, unsure how to proceed. Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes was impatient– he took both his hands and put them on your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you down until you were kneeling in front of him, the large bulge in his trousers staring you straight in the face.
“Best get to work, darlin,” he growled, brushing your hair away from your face. “It’s not gonna suck itself.”
You couldn’t believe this was actually happening as you slowly brought your shaking hands up to his waist. With trembling fingers, you unfastened his belt and unbuttoned his pants. His massive erection was straining the fabric of his gray boxer-briefs, leaving a dark wet stain where the tip rested against the cloth, evidence of his arousal already making itself known.
Moving as though afraid of spooking a scared animal, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down to just above his knees and setting his cock free to bounce up against his lower stomach.
God, but he was big. If the women in town had any idea that he was packing so much more than just his gun, they’d never give him a moment of peace. You traced a finger along the vein at the base of his member, trailing it up his length to the weeping red tip. Coating yourself in his pre-cum, you used his essence as lubrication as you began working him with your hand.
“Not that this doesn’t feel good, but what did I say about sucking it, darlin’?” Sergeant Barnes asked through a grunt as you pumped him.
“I’ll get to it,” you told him, a hint of irritation in your voice. He had a lot of nerve making demands of you at a time like this.
You felt his hand come and roughly grab you by the chin, jerking your head up to make you look him in the eye. “You got the right to remain silent, Sweetheart. I’m gonna be a gentleman and suggest you use it. Find another purpose for that pretty mouth of yours.” He took his hand away with a wink.
You licked your lips as your eyes took him in. Leaning your head down into him, you flattened your tongue and ran it up the underside of his cock.
“Good girl,” he moaned as your tongue circled his tip. “Keep it up. Makin’ me feel so fuckin’ good with that sassy mouth of yours.” You took him into your mouth a little bit at a time, teasing him as one hand worked his base and the other cupped his balls.
You weren't a woman who liked to be told what to do, but the dominance in his voice made you shudder, an involuntary thrill skittering down your spine. He felt intoxicating, dangerous and you had the feeling you were in way over your head.
“Mmm,” he grunted as you swirled your tongue around the swell of his head before deciding to take him in deeper. You relaxed your throat and backed off only when you felt his length bump against it.
"Jesus, darlin', where'd you learn that?" he asked breathlessly. His hands moved to cup your face as you moved rhythmically along his length, setting your own pace. He was blissfully lost in the sensation.
But then, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t one to give up control so easily, either. “Stop teasing,” he huffed out before threading his fingers through your hair and tugging lightly, a clear sign that he wanted more.
You didn’t hesitate to oblige, taking him deep in your mouth until you heard him groan in pleasure above you. His grip on your hair tightened as he took over guiding your movement, his hips bucking up to meet your mouth until he was fucking your face with abandon. The taste of him was overpowering, salty and bitter, making your cheeks flush with heat as you struggled to accommodate his size, tears running down your cheeks and drool pooling from the corners of your mouth.
"I knew you had it in you," he grunted, his voice barely a whisper now as he lost himself in the waves of pleasure you were giving him. You looked up to see his eyes closed tight, his lips parted when ragged breaths escaped his chest that was heaving like a wild beast caught in a trap.
He was close, you could tell from the way his body squirmed and the throbbing of his hardness against your tongue. There was an urgency in his ragged breathing and the racing pulse beneath his skin that echoed through your core. But he wasn’t going to finish yet. Not if Sergeant Barnes had anything to say about it.
A sudden force yanked you back by the hair, tearing your mouth away from him. You let out a surprised yelp, wiping away the excess saliva that clung to your lips.
“Upstairs,” he ordered gruffly, his eyes half-lidded and glazed with desire. He tucked himself free of your grasp and rearranged his uniform as he stepped back, giving you space to rise from your knees.
You smiled and nodded, your head hazy with desire as you passed him and led the way to the narrow back staircase tucked into the corner of the kitchen. He followed closely behind, his heavy boots echoing off the wooden floors in a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in your chest. You felt his gaze on your swaying hips with each step you climbed, a soft growl echoing from behind you that sent shivers down your spine.
You led him to your bedroom, a quaint space painted in soft hues with sheer white curtains rustling gently from the light breeze of the warm spring night. The unmade bed serving as a reminder of love you and your husband had made just that morning staring you right in the face.
“‘m afraid I’m gonna have to search you now, Sweetheart. Strip,” he ordered, his voice gruff with desire as he closed the door behind him. He didn’t bother with niceties or romance – this wasn’t about that. This was about raw, primal need.
Your trembling hands reached for the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it over your head, revealing the delicate lace bralette underneath. His sharp intake of breath was music to your ears, encouraging you as you unbuttoned your jeans and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them daintily.
“Turn around,” he said next, and you complied without question. You heard him suck in a breath behind you as you shimmied out of your underwear, revealing the round shape of your backside to him under the dim light.
“Jesus,” he whispered, the raw desire in his voice making your heart flutter. “This is better than I ever imagined.” He walked up to you, the rough fabric of his uniform trousers brushing against your exposed skin making you whimper. His fingers traced your spine, gliding all the way down to the small of your back, causing goosebumps to break out all over your body. “Now, you remember your traffic laws, don’t ya, darlin’? You remember how stoplights work?”
You nodded, knowing instinctively he was referring to safe words– Green for go, Yellow for slow down, and Red for stop.
“Good girl,” he praised. “Put your hands behind your back.”
You complied and felt the cold metal of his cuffs clink around your wrists, locking them into place. You were now fully at his mercy.
He cupped your buttocks in both hands, kneading them gently while his lips found the nape of your neck. His warm breath sent shivers down your spine as he left a trail of kisses there. “Color?” he asked inbetween presses of his lips.
“Green, Sergeant,” you hummed. You could feel him growing harder against you, the enormous length of him pressing against your ass making you squeal and squirm in anticipation. His groan echoed in your ears as he held onto you tighter.
“Gonna need ya to spread for me, Sweetheart,” he murmured into your ear, his voice low and husky. Your heart pounded in your chest as you did what he asked, positioning yourself on the edge of the bed. His hands found their way to your thighs, pushing them apart gently until you were open and exposed to him.
He let out a low whistle behind you, his fingers tracing lightly over your intimate folds. "You're soaking wet," he murmured, sounding almost awestruck. You flushed at his words, feeling a fresh wave of desire pulse through your body at his touch.
His fingers suddenly abandoned you, only to return dripping with warm slickness. He wasted no time in teasing your entrance, slipping his finger inside you and drawing out a moan that echoed through the room.
“You like that don’t ya?” he asked, his voice alluringly low as he curled his finger inside of you. You whimpered at the sensation, trying to push back against him for more.
“Patience, Sweetheart," he whispered against your earlobe before nibbling on it lightly. He slid another finger inside you, curling and stretching in a way that had you gasping for breath. "You're so tight," he groaned out, appreciating the way your walls clenched around his digits.
“Please…” you whimpered out, the anticipation making your body shake as you pleaded for more. “Please, Sergeant. I need more.” Your legs were wobbly, and with your arms trapped behind your back, you were finding it hard to keep your balance, but you wanted more of him.
He chuckled darkly at your plea, rubbing slow circles on your clit with his thumb while his fingers continued to pump in and out of you. Each touch was expertly measured, bringing you closer and closer to the edge before pulling back, keeping you precariously balanced between pleasure and desperation.
“I’m doing this my way,” he grunted, adding a third finger and increasing his pace. You cried out, your vision blurred as the coil inside you tightened threateningly. You were so close but he wouldn’t let you fall, each moment bringing a new wave of frustration and desire.
Finally unable to take the teasing any longer, he withdrew his fingers leaving you gasping at the sudden loss.
"Get on the bed," Sergeant Barnes ordered, standing tall in front of you; his arousal painfully obvious. “Face down.” You moved to accommodate him, getting on your knees and laying your face down on the mattress, hands still pinned behind your back.
The sound of his utility belt hitting the floor filled the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as he stripped himself free of his uniform.
You squirmed on the bed, desperate for his touch but unable to see anything with your back to him. The anticipation was unbearable, each passing second feeling like an eternity as you waited for him to resume his ministrations.
He moved behind you again, his bare, warm skin against yours making you whimper in anticipation. "Breathe," he commanded simply, and you did, inhaling a shaky breath before exhaling slowly.
And then without warning he was inside you, filling you up in one quick thrust that had you screaming out, the stinging stretch quickly morphing from painful to something far sweeter. He grunted at the intrusion, pulling back slightly only to thrust back in again, setting a punishing rhythm that left you breathless.
His hands gripped your hips tightly, stopping you from moving too much as he pounded into you relentlessly from behind.
Each thrust had you crying out in wanton pleasure, your body trembling beneath him. "Sergeant Barnes," you whimpered his name like a sacred prayer, the cool metal of the handcuffs biting into your wrists as you tried to brace yourself against his forceful movements.
He didn't slow down, didn't pause, just kept moving inside you with a single-minded focus that had you spiraling. His pace was unrelenting, his stamina seemingly endless. His fingers clutched at your hips in a bruising grip, holding you steady as he continued his merciless assault on your senses.
You felt him shift slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts and hitting a spot inside of you that made stars burst behind your closed eyelids. “Please…” your plea was cut off by a gasp as he hit that same spot again, driving you closer to the edge.
But he didn’t stop there; instead he leaned over you, his broad chest pressing against your back as one hand slid underneath your bodies, finding your clit with unerring precision. He started rubbing it in tight circles, adding a whole new layer to your pleasure.
Every new thrust of his hips sent him deeper within you, each stroke of his fingers on your clit became more intense. You were a writhing mess beneath him, completely lost in the ecstasy he was giving you.
"Bucky," you cried out, forgetting to use his title this time, your voice hoarse from screaming, your body trembling on the brink of release. This wasn’t a game anymore.
"I know," he growled in your ear, his voice low and guttural. "I can feel how close you are, doll. Just let go."
And you did. The moment his lips closed around the sensitive skin of your neck, marking you as his own, the coil inside you snapped. Pleasure washed over you in waves, each one stronger than the last, pulling cries from deep within you as your orgasm tore through you.
He didn't stop his movements, continuing to thrust into you as you came around him, your cries only fueling his own desire. His fingers tightened on your hips while the other hand continued to work you through your climax, prolonging the exquisite sensation.
His pace became erratic, the rhythm breaking down as he chased his own release. With a final grunt and a whispered curse, he drove deep inside of you, his body tense as he came, filling you with his spend. His guttural moan carried through the room as he rode out his orgasm, each thrust sending little aftershocks through your sensitive body.
His grip on your hips relaxed slowly, his breathing heavy and ragged against the skin of your back. He stayed still for a moment, buried deep inside you, allowing you both to come down from your highs.
Finally, he carefully withdrew from you, leaving you feeling empty. He rolled off of you with a sigh, getting up to retrieve the handcuff key from his trouser pocket and releasing you from your bondage.
“Are you okay?” His voice was soft in the silence, as he worked to rub the feeling back into your tender wrists.
You looked up at him through your lashes and nodded, amazed and impressed at his sudden shift from commanding sergeant to tender, caring lover.
“So,” Sergeant Barnes began once he had determined there was no real damage to your wrists, “what time is your husband getting home?” You both burst into laughter as he pulled you closer to him, burying his face in your hair.
“Mmm, probably sooner than we expect,” you teased, leaning up to give him the deep kiss you’d been denied throughout the length of your little game. “That was a lot of fun.”
He chuckled and stood up, walking over to the dresser. “Yeah, it was; we should have done it sooner.” He opened the drawers, pulling out a fresh change of clothes for himself before moving to the closet to grab your robe. “Thank you for that; I really did have a long shift, and that certainly took the edge off. You were amazing, doll.” “My pleasure, obviously.” You’d been excited and intrigued when Bucky first brought up acting out his fantasy with you, but no amount of discussion could have prepared you for how much you had loved actually doing it. You raised your hands over your head, arching your back in a stretch, laughing as you watched his eyes follow the heave of your breasts as they moved upward, licking his lips. “But meth, Bucky? Really? That rumor gets out, you’re gonna get me fired.”
Bucky hummed as he grabbed some clean towels from the linen closet and brought them into the ensuite bathroom. You heard him start the shower. “You answered the door looking all sexy and I panicked,” he confessed, popping his head back into the bedroom, a sheepish grin across his face that made him look ever so boyish. You adored it. “Next time, I’ll say we got a call about you being a prostitute.”
You cackled at that, making him grin even wider. “Better not,” you warned as you got off the bed and walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, “otherwise I might make you pay for it, and I don’t think you can afford me on a sergeant’s salary.”
Bucky grabbed at his heart in mock pain. “Ouch. Well, how about we clean ourselves up and use the money I saved by not paying you to go have a nice fancy dinner, instead? How does that sound? We can talk about doing your fantasy next.”
You took his hand and led him back into the bathroom and the inviting warmth of the shower. “That sounds perfect,” you told him as you moved to stand under the showerhead. You planted a kiss on his lips. “I love you, Sergeant Barnes.”
Bucky placed his hands on your waist and gave you a gentle squeeze before kissing your forehead. “I love you, too, Mrs. Barnes.”
You began to lather each other up, trying your best, yet failing miserably, to not get too frisky with one another. “Hey, Buck?” you asked after a moment, a question coming to mind that you’d been meaning to ask him.
“Yeah, doll?” He was gently scrubbing shampoo into your scalp, and it felt like heaven.
“How come you gave yourself a Southern accent?”
Bucky laughed and pulled you close, your back to his front, as he planted a kiss just behind your ear, right over the mark he had sucked into your skin. “I told you, doll. You looked so fucking sexy when you opened that door, I just panicked!”
#bucky x reader#bucky barnes#bucky fanfic#bucky x you#james bucky buchanan barnes#james buchanan barnes#winter soldier#mcu bucky barnes#marvel mcu#james barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes drabble#Bucky barnes x y/n
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Break Down
Charles Leclerc x Female Reader
Summary: You’re on your period and Charles makes you cry
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Everything about today had sucked so far. You woke up on your period, Charles had to go to the factory so you had to go without seeing him, your cramps were amping up, you dropped your coffee and chattered your favorite mug, and now you forgot that you were supposed to make pasta for dinner so you didn’t have any of the ingredients at home and it was too late to go to the store. As Charles walked in the door, you heard the sound of his keys being set down and his shoes coming off. You knew he was in a bad mood just because he’d didn’t call for you like he usually does the second he comes in the door. As he rounds the corner to the living room of your shared apartment he sees you laying on the couch under a blanket with your favorite show on the tv.
“Hi baby” you say, sitting up slightly. “Hi” he says shortly. “Did you make pasta yet” he asks, making your stomach drop. “No I forgot to go to the store to get the ingredients, I’m sorry I’ll make it tomorrow I promise”
Charles wasn’t mad at you, truly, he was just in a bad mood all together. He sighed loudly and rubbed his hand down his face and turned away from you, he knew he had to stop himself before he did something he would regret. You just felt so horrible and you were so emotional that you weren’t even surprised to feel the tears slip down your cheeks. The sound of you sniffling behind him caused him to turn back around, his heart breaking at the sight of you crying in front of him.
“Amour” he coos, getting down into he knees in front of you and running his hands your hair. “Why are you crying?” You look down at your hands, not being able to meet his eye. “I just feel bad b-because you were working all d-day and I should’ve at least made d-dinner for you and I h-hate disappointing you and I really hate it when you’re m-mad at me and I got my period a-and my cramps hurt and I just-“ your ramble was cut short by a particularly uncontrollable sob. You didn’t know what had come over you but the singular question he asked you caused a pandora’s box of emotions to bust open. “Oh baby, I am not mad at you or disappointed” he said as he pulled your head into his neck. “I am sorry I made it seem that way I am just tired” All you could do was nod your head in the crook of his neck, still crying and gripping his shirt with your fists. He pulls away from you and guides your head up to look at him “I love you, and I’m sorry you’re hurting” he says as he puts his hand over where you hurt, adding pressure to hopefully help relieve some of your pain. “Let’s just go get in bed, yeah?” You nod your head and let him carry you to your room, happy that your boyfriend is always there for you when you break down rather than running away.
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This is so me, when I cry about one thing it almost always leads to me crying about a million other things:)
inbox is open!!
#imagine#fluff#scenarios#formula 1#f1 fandom#f1 fic#formula 1 imagine#formula one#charles leclerc#charles lechair#charles leclerc x you#charles lecrelc#female reader#yn#period cramps#comfort
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Coffee Mug Factory Office 316 Stainless Steel Vacuum Insulated Coffee Mug
Coffee Mug Factory Office 316 Stainless Steel Vacuum Insulated Coffee Mug
Our Office 316 Stainless Steel Vacuum Insulated Coffee Mug is meticulously crafted to cater to your daily beverage needs, ensuring that every sip is enjoyable.
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cruel woman
roronoa zoro x reader, fluff
summary: you have the hots for zoro, but does he feel the same?
The upper deck of the Sunny was shiny and clean; clipboard in hand as you descended the stairs to the kitchen. An itemized list of supplies written in neat handwriting on a piece of paper – Nami had asked if you could go around the ship and take inventory of what was needed and any special requests for the next island stop in a couple of days. The kitchen smelled like lemons, looked clean and a smiling Sanji greeted you with a simper of smile. He asked if you wanted some coffee and you said please, setting the clipboard down to go over it on the counter. He poured fresh coffee into a blue mug with the correct amount of creamer; he knew everyone’s coffee order and he was pleased when he brought the cup over, and you gave him pinch on his cheek.
The one on his face, not his ass – you didn’t need him going into cardiac arrest.
“Do you need anything for the kitchen or perhaps a special request?”
“Some time with you would be sufficient.”
“Very funny.” He had to try but then he got serious and read out a few things he needed for the kitchen. It took about ten minutes for the cook to go over everything but in the end, he was satisfied. Leaving the kitchen with your coffee, you stopped by Chopper’s office and visited the doctor for a bit. Adding more items to the list. Then it off to Ussop’s factory then Franky’s workshop. Finally, you reached the fella’s dorm and knocked, hoping to find Luffy but when you walked in – you got Zoro.
Shirtless in black sweats, damp hair, and a towel around his neck; it was obvious he had just got back from the bath, but you pretended not to care about his near perfect physique. Biceps, abs, triceps…all the ceps of his body…
“Like what you see, huh?”
He teased but you shrugged, holding up the clipboard. “Not really. Too broad. I like the leaner athletic type – like Sanji. So, do you need to put anything on the supply list?”
Zoro frowned. “Uh, no – I don’t think so.”
Staring at him, dull in the eyes, you took a long sip of coffee and inhaled contently. “Well, if you change your mind, still have a few days before we dock. See ya later.”
The man looked dumbstruck, but you left him to ease his ego; leaving quickly back up to the kitchen. Your entire face felt on fire and all you wanted to do was go to your bed and relieve yourself of a sick desire. Zoro had been flaunting himself a lot lately but maybe he wasn’t and your sudden interest in him was due to the lack of companionship. There was the option to share a bed with the cook, but he was too friendly with all the ladies, and you were a jealous fool most times. That endeavor would end up with a knife in some poor girl’s heart Sanji had made eyes at – it was best to leave that all alone. Even if you wanted to…you couldn’t look past Zoro.
Something about that broad shoulder idiot.
“Come for more coffee?”
“I’m all done, thank you.”
Sanji beckoned you over to the sink and you watched as he rinsed out the mug, handing it over for you to dry. He stood quietly for a moment until he asked if you had everything for the list and then he asked if Zoro needed anything. “He never needs anything or anyone.”
The comment slipped out of your mouth, and you winced. Sanji chuckled. “We really need to get you on land. If you’re starting to lust after Zoro, God, help us all.”
Nudging him in the ribs, you scolded him for making fun of your woes. “It’s getting serious, I walked in on him shirtless…”
“Oh, god, please stop.”
You laughed and handed over the clean mug. Sanji plucked it from your hands and returned it back to the cabinet it belonged in, turning to lean against the counter. He lit a cigarette and asked if you were really down that bad. His sincerity threw you into a laughing fit and he joined, until you reached over and touched his shoulder to hold you up. He laughed harder and tears were forming in your eyes just as the kitchen door swung open. Zoro walked in, with a shirt on, and a look of confusion when the two of you stared at him before bursting into a louder laugh.
“Idiots.”
He left the kitchen in a huff and eventually the laugher died down. Sanji wiped tears from his eyes and patted the top of your head. “You guys will figure it out, if not, my bed is always open to.”
“See that’s the problem, Mr. Prince,” you touched his tie and straightened it up before pushing him away. “I’m a jealous son of a bitch. I would have to pluck your eyes out from stopping you from staring at another woman.”
The cook smirked. “Point taken.”
….
The rest of the evening was uneventful; Sanji served dinner, everyone drank and went to bed with warm bellies. Nami slept right away but Robin was still up reading when you left the room for fresh air; a warm jacket because the sea was usually freezing during the night. Up on the deck, the ship was quiet sans for the sounds of waves gently lulling the vessel forward. Yawning, you walked over to the railing and leaned forward to stare down at the ocean. Eyes glued to the waves you didn’t notice someone moving to your side and when you finally stood straight – you jumped at the sight of Zoro. He grinned at your yelp and asked what you were doing out so late.
“I’m waiting for Sanji to finish up cleaning the kitchen so we can cuddle in his bunk.”
You were so wrong for that but the look of discontent on the swordman’s face brought on a gloating smile. He rolled his eyes and mentioned how bony Sanji was. “Have fun trying to keep warm.”
Retorting with a quip that noted all the ways to warm up one’s body, Zoro gripped the edge of the ship’s railing and glared out into the ocean. Cruel woman, that’s what he called you and you agreed. Finally realizing you were teasing him the entire time, Zoro loosened up and asked if you wanted to come back to his bunk. “I can keep you warm.”
Adjusting to the moonlight, you gave Zoro a once over and asked him why he wanted you in his bunk. The question perplexed the man, and you watched as the gears turned in his eyes, he seemed lost in thought for what felt ages but then he finally confessed that he just wanted you to. “Don’t have more of a reason than that…unless you really do want to sleep in the cook’s bed. Can’t stop you. But I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me lately, I’m not blind.”
“How have I been looking at you.” You challenge the man and his eyes narrowed, grabbing you light by the elbow. He grinned, body lingering close to yours. “Like you’re in heat.”
Pulling from him, you practically snarled at him. “You’re a real son of bitch, you know that?”
He let out a low chuckle, apologizing as he pulled you back. Words were never his forte, but he managed to tell you to stay, that he had always been driven by his dream, the crew, Luffy, but you had disrupted his life. “I’m not that damn Prince, I never cared about this kinda of thing.” He held your hand carefully, as if you’d burn him. “I probably can’t give you everything you deserve…”
“What do you know about what I deserve?”
Zoro grew serious. “I’ll always have your back; I can guarantee that.”
Pretending to contemplate what he was saying, your finger tapped the edge of your chin and Zoro sighed. “Cruel woman.”
Laughing, you slipped both arms around his neck and he smiled, hands on your waist. The two of you stood silent, allowing yourselves time to devour the moment under the stars above the ocean – and the sound of the waves, pushing against the ship. Zoro let out rasped breath when your fingers massaged the back of his head, his entire body practically went into relaxation mode, and you laughed. “I’m not so cruel, am I?”
He roughly pulled you against his body and the two of you stared at each other, secret smiles on your faces. Hands on each other’s faces, your lips crashed just as the waves did and your heart skipped harder than you ever thought possible. You hoped he was feeling the same and by the way Zoro leaned in for another kiss – you knew he did. Breathless, he finally pulled away; cheeks red, lips bruised. He looked like a shy schoolboy and not the fierce man he was, it was endearing. He asked again if you wanted to come back to his bunk and the thought of being with him in the same room as the others made you uneasy and Zoro laughed. “Not like that, not with that cook in there too. Just sleep. I need sleep.”
Relieved, you agreed, and he took your hand – leading you to the men’s quarters. Quiet snores filled the room, drastic from the silence in the woman’s quarters every night. Zoro led you to his bottom bunk, got in first and moved over for you. Slipping down next to him, he immediately engulfed you in his arms – every muscle in his body surrounded you with ease and warmth. No blanket was needed, he was enough. With your back pressed against his chest, arms around your waist and his nose nuzzled against your hair – the two of you fell asleep instantly. Neither of you cared what the others would think when they woke up, completely unaware that Sanji would be the one to find you first. He would roll his eyes at the sight of you cradled in Zoro’s arms and the way you both drooled as if having the best sleep of your lives. Idiots, he would think but he knew better than most, the heart wanted what it wanted.
.....
tagging
@posessedbytheinternet @smolracoon25 @notthemainblog
@xentaipriest @xitara666 @rouzuchan @southside-otaku
@dimplewonie @stuckinthewrongworld @yourmomsgirl
@zoroshispanicwife @reneeprika @themossiestchick
@cyberneticsmoker @starrlovet
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Written for @steddieangstyaugust.
Different Lessons
Day #6: "Who did this?" | Word Count: 3300 | Rating: T | CW: Death of a Parental Figure, Grief & Loss, Language, Smoking | Tags: Future Fic, Established Long-Term Steddie, Hurt/Comfort, Beloved Uncle Wayne, Life Goes On, Even If You Don't Know How
It's all still here.
Eddie stands there, hand resting on the light switch, and he doesn't know why that surprises him so much. Of course it's all still here. Where else would it go? If he didn't move any of it, and Steve didn't move any of it, well, Wayne definitely didn't.
Not now. Not ever again.
Eddie looks around the large shop down the gravel road, beyond the house. He didn't understand why they were building it. Not at first. Wayne worked like a dog for decades in that goddamn factory. Why would he want to continue to work in a shop during retirement? How could that possibly be fun? But Steve assured Eddie that this was different.
Making, creating, building for the love of it, was, in fact, different from manual labor for a paycheck.
They kind of looked the same to Eddie, but if Steve and Wayne both said so, well, who was Eddie to argue?
So, the land was cleared. Leveled. And a quonset building went up. Metal, rounded, and fucking huge. With big, handmade wooden barn doors installed. And a smaller, regular-sized door next to it that Eddie was tasked with painting. He was pretty sure that was just to keep him out of the way, but he chose red and painted it, and standing here looking at it today, he realizes it could use a fresh coat.
Wayne and Steve built the barn doors themselves. Wayne taught Steve as they worked, patient and willing to answer all of his questions, as Eddie sat on the workbench, taunting them. Being annoying, he's sure. But the doors still got made, and now they're gorgeous, sanded, stained and finished.
It took all of them to hang them. Wayne and Steve, Eddie. Gareth, Jeff and Goodie. Everybody working together to ease them onto the tracks, hoping like hell that they'd fit and work for fuck's sake once they were up there, after all that trouble.
They did fit. And they still glide like goddamn butter, so much so that Eddie can't believe Wayne and Steve made them with their own hands.
Everything in here has Wayne's fingerprints all over it. The machinery he rigged to work just the way he wanted. The coffee mugs that never seemed to make it back to the house. Now being used as pencil holders, or sorters for nuts, bolts and screws.
It's home, in here. Sure, the house up the road is home, too. But this feels different than that.
This was Wayne's space. All his own.
Eddie isn't religious, but this is his sanctuary now.
Because the shop is exactly the same as it was the day Wayne died in it. His last coffee mug is still on the window ledge. Liquid long evaporated, only the dark stains inside the porcelain proving that it was once there, once used.
That Wayne was once there, using it.
His cheaters are on the counter. And the bench. And a pair hanging from the coveralls pocket. Cheap drugstore reading glasses he needed to see anything up close. Eddie would tease, and Wayne would reassure Eddie that his day was coming.
It hasn't, not yet, but if it does, apparently he has a stockpile of glasses to choose from.
Eddie looks around, and it looks like Wayne'll be right back. Like he stepped out, just for a minute.
Not forever.
Eddie knows he won't be back, he knows, but it still feels like he'll come back any day now. Like it's all just waiting for his inevitable return.
Like Eddie is still waiting for his return, because anything else is unfathomable. He can't be gone. Not when Wayne's stuff is all right here, just where he left it.
But no. He is gone, and there's not even any ghosts lingering, just his stuff. This is just a shrine that was accidentally left behind in his departure.
The motor of the bass boat is up on a worktop, half broken down, torn apart. He doesn't know how to fix that, and he supposes Steve doesn't either. Is it destined to just sit there, just like that? In limbo? Forever?
That boat was a splurge, a want, not a need, and Eddie was happy Wayne decided to get something that he wanted, just for himself.
After a lifetime of sacrificing for Eddie, Eddie just wanted to pay him back in any way he could.
A boat, a home, anything at all.
Eddie damn well knows the town likes to whisper behind their backs. Like Eddie is aimless, shiftless. The weird, queer freak that was incapable of flying the coop. Incapable of growing up.
The one that somehow brought the Harrington boy down with him.
That they were flitting around, no jobs, living off the old man.
That's not true, of course.
Yeah, they were traveling around the world, fixing problems that came from beneath. Whispered secrets, unknown horrors, with very few explanations.
Experts in a field Eddie wished they knew nothing about.
Hawkins has forgotten. Eddie hasn't been allowed to, not ever.
But maybe they were right, in some ways. Eddie still doesn't feel grown up. But they acted like his relationship was somehow less, just because Wayne was living under the same roof.
But it was more.
Eddie knows that. Having these extended years with Wayne, extra years that Eddie hadn't been promised, was good for all of them.
Eddie loved having him here any time they came home. And he thinks Steve did, too.
Wayne stayed with the house while they worked, sometimes going job to job for months at a time. Living out of suitcases. But he was always waiting here for them to return. Home.
Wayne was home.
And now Eddie's home has left him.
Eddie misses him desperately. There's a gaping, bleeding hole in his heart, and in their home.
Wayne's last pack of cigarettes sits on the wooden worktop, six of twenty remaining. Eddie has counted, and re-counted, without moving them. They're right next to a notepad and pen, and Eddie wonders if this was the last thing Wayne ever wrote. It means nothing to Eddie, just shorthand chicken scratches, measurements for something, a rough design plan, maybe? It doesn't matter. Except it does matter to Eddie. They're important because they were Wayne's thoughts, put to paper for a later date that would never come.
Eddie reaches up and runs his hands along the worn coveralls, hanging on a hook. One of several identical pairs. He died in another, that and his work boots.
Dying in your work boots and your worn coveralls isn't a bad way to go, all things considered. That's what Wayne always said.
There are worse things in life than death.
And:
I'll die with my boots on.
Both premonitions, it turns out, and painfully true.
Steve and Eddie on the road, a message from Gareth waiting at the next checkpoint, telling them to come home. Now.
There are worse things in life than sudden, swift death. Here and gone. No suffering. One breath you're fine, and the next you're just not here anymore. Eddie's experienced both. His mother's long, drawn out death. The anticipation, the suffering, the anxiety.
And now, the opposite.
Even if Eddie wasn't here. Even if he missed it. Even if Wayne died alone, with Eddie and Steve several states away. Eddie'll still take that option, if he gets to choose. He'll go like Wayne. Just blinking out, no fanfare. Wayne's death, exactly how he lived. Quiet, alone, and independent as fuck up until the exact moment he headed off into the sunset.
Eddie doesn't know where Wayne is now.
Probably nowhere, Eddie thinks. Besides the ground.
Steve thinks otherwise. Steve's an optimist, though.
Eddie often wonders what the fuck that's like? He's just too self-sabotagin' for that ever to be true for him. They go into jobs the same way, Eddie pessimistic and looking at all the bad. He wants to hear the worst of it. But Steve's beside him, ever optimistic, looking at the good. At the hope.
They make a good team, a good balance. Always have.
This was meant to be their house. Wayne was just keeping it company until they were ready to settle down. That was the excuse to get his stubborn ass into it, anyway.
Eddie's ready now. There's no place like home is fucking true. The rest of the world holds no luster for him now, not anymore. The shine dulled and tarnished.
But, home?
At home, it's all still here.
And Eddie's just filling the spaces around it all. Around everything Wayne left behind. Absorbing it into himself. Into his bones. Wayne's stuff getting pushed to the back of the medicine cabinet. His clothes shuffled to the back of the closet.
But still here.
There's room enough for all of it.
The phone rings. The red one. Eddie doesn't answer. He's not leaving home, not yet. Maybe never again.
He's really sorry that the rest of the world has problems that maybe they could help fix.
Right now, Eddie can only try to fix himself.
Eddie hears the saw. On, then off, then on again. The high-pitched whine of it.
When he rounds the side of the house, those beautiful barn doors are thrown wide open. Steve's leaning over a table, noting measurements. Scribbling with a pencil, one of the big rectangle ones, that won't roll away.
Referencing back and forth to another set of papers.
He's got on a backwards cap, one of Wayne's from the wall inside, Eddie's pretty sure.
Ear protection. Eye protection.
Carhartt overalls, and a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Eddie's sure it's one of Wayne's that worked its way up from the back of the closet.
Things are starting to get moved, here and there. Used again. Time marching on.
If Wayne could see Steve now, he'd be proud. Eddie knows it. Even if once, he was sure Wayne thought Steve was a goddamn yuppie like the rest of Harringtons. But Wayne learned just how goddamn tough Steve is, fast. Eddie slung over a shoulder, Steve marching him back from hell. Alive. Somehow.
And that's all it took. Wayne loved Steve, and over time, loved him just as much as he loved Eddie, Eddie's pretty sure.
He misses Wayne, and he knows Steve does, too.
They both feel closer to him here.
Eddie thought he'd have more time. A lot more. He should have listened more, learned more. He should have helped build those doors.
But he didn't. Wayne taught him different lessons. How to play the guitar. How to do the nightly crossword. How to survive.
Wayne taught Steve others.
And where Eddie's done it in the house, Steve's filled the spaces around the things left behind in the shop.
Eddie puts down the lemonade, poured into a familiar mug, right next to the pack of cigarettes that are gathering more sawdust, and waits. Doesn't want to startle Steve, though, if Eddie knows Steve, he already knows Eddie's there.
It's his job to not be snuck up on.
Eddie notices the boat motor has been moved.
The sawing stops, and Steve comes over to him.
"Who did this?" Eddie asks. "What are you doing with it?"
"I moved it. Goodie's coming tomorrow. Thinks he can fix it," Steve answers, then he's downing a big swallow of lemonade. It's just from the canister, but made extra strong, just like Wayne taught him.
Goodie is good with motorcycle engines. Eddie doesn't know if that translates to boat motors or not. But what can it hurt to let him try? It's just been sitting here, waiting for Wayne to pick up where he left off, which is never gonna happen.
The next night, Goodie and Steve are leaning over it, heads together. They've been tinkering all day. Thinking they've got it, putting it into a five gallon bucket of water to test run, and then shaking their heads when it refuses to fire up.
Eddie watches it all through the big, open doors. Gareth is poking at the firepit. Jeff cooking on the grill. Kids and spouses hanging out, playing or talking.
His family is here, just. It's not everyone, there's still a missing piece. And there always will be, now. It's a hurt that settles deep in his chest, and he knows he'll have to carry it there forever right next to the loss of his mother.
He hears the motor rev to life and Steve and Goodie are screaming in delight that they finally fucking did it, and Eddie smiles.
Maybe they'll take the boat out this weekend.
Eddie uncovers the boat, and it's another time capsule under the tarp, one he hadn't considered existing. Fishing poles, still baited with hooks and lures. Empty cans, dead leaves.
Another pack of cigarettes. He laughs, and pockets them. One shrine is enough. These? Maybe these he'll smoke.
They take off across the lake, getting up to speed. The wind is rushing through Eddie's hair, and when they slow to turn, Eddie cups his hands, and lights one of Wayne's cigarettes.
Breathing deep.
Then, coughing.
It's stale, and tastes bitter.
Thankfully, Steve and Goodie can't hear him, as he tries to expel it all in an unattractive fashion.
He hasn't smoked in years, and his lungs are protesting. He laughs, and just holds it in his hand, and enjoys the ride.
Gareth and Jeff are on the shore, waiting their turn, but are also the rescue crew if the motor fails mid-lake.
Eddie can swim to shore, has done it once before in this lake, but would really rather not repeat the experience.
The motor sings, and when they pull up to the dock, Steve and him get out, letting Goodie take the others out on the water.
"Smoking again, are you?" Steve asks. But there's no judgment. Steve never judges him, somehow. Even Eddie judges himself. That Steve doesn't is a miracle.
"Not well," he admits, sliding the pack back into his shirt pocket. Where he just might carry them from now on. Over his heart.
One pack watching over Steve in the shop, one pack watching over him, everywhere else.
"Boat's running good," Eddie offers and Steve smiles.
Steve drapes his arms over Eddie's shoulders, leaning up against him, hands resting on Eddie's chest. Over his heart, hugging him from behind.
Steve tells him all about the motor. What they fixed. What they can still fine-tune.
Then.
"I miss him," Steve says.
And yeah. That's the long and short of it.
"Me too."
Winter comes, and Eddie glances out the kitchen window, spotting Wayne splitting wood.
The thought is fleeting, painful, and it sucker punches him when he hadn't seen it coming. He grips the edge of the sink, fingers digging in, as he doubles over, trying not to cry.
When he looks again, it's not Wayne at all.
It's Steve.
Ax in hand, the heavy Carhartt coat on his back. Eddie's not sure if it's actually Wayne's coat, or just something that he associates with Wayne so strongly, that it feels like it's his.
When Steve hauls the logs in later, Eddie holds the door open for him.
After he's done, Steve shrugs out of the coat, face red from the cold.
Eddie just stares at him.
When did Steve grow up? They were just kids a second a go, Eddie's sure of it. But Steve's going gray at his temples, and he's not old, but he is all grown up.
That means Eddie must be, too.
Wayne's gone. His mother's gone. Fuck knows about his dad.
He suddenly realizes he's the older generation, and the thought of that is suffocating. He still feels like he needs to look for real adults, and now there's nobody left to turn to for guidance.
Steve is an adult.
So, Eddie pretends he is, too.
The red phone rings again. And again.
Steve finally unplugs it from the jack, and unscrews it from the wall, shoving it into the closet, on top of a box of Wayne's old boots.
They can always plug it back in.
Just. Not today.
Today, the guys are coming over to jam. They've been doing that more and more since Eddie's been home.
They will never be anything except what they are. A middle-aged Midwestern garage band. Comprised of a relucant monster hunter. A lawyer. A mechanic. A loan officer.
Best friends. Still. All these decades later.
Steve is in the shop, the heater red hot, and Eddie had dragged down Wayne's easy chair from the house with Gareth's help the other day, so now he can sit in front of the heater and read while Steve works. He rocks gently, his foot pushing off of the dirty floor to keep him in constant motion.
He feels better moving, always has, and this rocking soothes that part of him well. Especially since his whole life has come to a standstill.
All the noise Steve's making is a comfort, familiar. It's a hug. A hello.
An echo, still ringing through the night.
Eddie can dig in the back of the closet, too. Tonight, he's wearing a heavy, buffalo check flannel coat. It's worn on the sleeves and collar, but Eddie swears it still smells of cigarettes and Wayne's cologne.
His cologne is still in the bathroom in the house, his cigarettes are still on the table, out here.
Still six in the pack.
He's everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same time.
Steve comes over holding up a piece of wood, holding it up, showing it off.
Eddie's not sure what it'll be, but he smiles encouragingly.
Steve smiles back and then leans down, kissing him. It's quiet, this life they've decided to live. Too quiet, sometimes. But Eddie's happy.
He wasn't sure he would be again, but here he is, with Steve.
At home.
It's peaceful.
And this becomes their new routine. Eddie sits, Steve works, and the winter wind blows against the shop.
Tonight, Eddie must have dozed off, because he jumps when Steve touches his arms.
"C'mere. It's done," Steve says.
"What's done?" Eddie asks, but he takes Steve's offered hands, getting pulled to standing.
In the back there's something with a drop cloth thrown over it.
Steve is giddy, and it's contagious, "What is it?"
"For you, I think. If you want it," Steve says, as he yanks the sheet off.
It's a cabinet. A hutch. Like for storing the fancy dishes.
Okay.
"It's pretty," Eddie says, because it is. "Who did this? You? Wayne?"
Steve squats down and plugs it in, "Both of us."
When it comes to life, backlit and beautiful, there are heavy hooks inside instead of shelves.
"For your guitars," Steve says, grinning. "It took me a few tries to decipher his plans. I got some things wrong. And I probably did things differently than he would hav-"
Eddie cuts him off, kissing him. Hands grasping Steve's back. Holding him tight.
When Eddie pulls back, he knows he has tears in his eyes. He doesn't care.
"You really did this?"
"Well. It was Wayne's idea, I just interpreted the plans I found," Steve says, and Eddie pulls him close again. Clinging to him.
He loves it. He never expected to get something from both of them, not ever again.
"Thank you," Eddie says, and he's talking to Steve.
And to Wayne.
Wherever he is, or isn't.
Eddie may never get that answer, despite solving so many mysteries for other people.
But, right now? It doesn't feel that mysterious at all.
He's still here.
In the shop. In all the things that live here in their home. In Steve.
In Eddie's heart.
In all of it.
Always.
If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieangstyaugust and follow along with the fun angst! 😭
Notes: I saw this tiktok the other day and cried. Then it manifested itself here, because the truth of it needed to be jotted down. Also inspired by Bass Boat by Zach Bryan. And his Pink Skies, too. It's been my sad song album this past month.
#steddieangstyaugust#stranger things#established steddie#steddie fic#steve harrington#eddie munson#wayne munson#thisapplepielife: short fic#thisapplepielife: steddieangstyaugust#cw: death of a parent#cw: death#cw: grief#cw: loss
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Volunteer soldier
Warning: the imagine contains mentions of blood, death and physical violence.
That was a late night hour, and Heisenberg still kept working underground of his factory.
This situation wasn't something special. Quite the contrary. Being fully immersed in the process of his work, the Lord rather often tended to lose track of time, completely forgetting about rest and sleep.
But that night in the factory he was not the only one who did not close his eyes. You didn't sleep either. No, insomnia was not the cause of that, just from time to time there were days when you prefered going to bed far more later than you usually did. In the kitchen you put the kettle on the stove to boil water for tea and made some sandwiches with butter and fruit jam in order for Heisenberg and you could have a little snack.
When the water in the kettle finally boiled you turned off the gas and headed towards the elevator to go down to the factory lowest floor and call the Lord to the table.
The way to the workshop where the engineer worked the most you knew as well as the back of your hand because you had repeatedly brought there for him a mug of his favorite strong coffee and something to eat, therefore once you found yourself on the lowest level, which greeted you with its eternal semi-darkness and the continuous loud sounds of various industrial machines, you unmistakably went to its direction.
Quickly having reached a familiar door, you slightly knocked a couple of times and, without waiting for a response, poked your head into the room.
"Karl? Are you still in here?"
The man, whom the question was addressed to, was standing in the center of the working space next to the chair on which in an inactive state was sitting one of his numerous undead creations, namely a mechanical soldier.
"Yes, Buttercup. I'm still in here." Heisenberg turned towards your voice.
"It's pretty late. Were you working? Did i distract you?"
"Not at all. Actually, i've finished working around a half an hour ago. Just talking to Boian*, that's all."
What? Did you not mishear? Was the Lord talking to someone? Did he have a guest in the factory or maybe he was chatting with some person on the telephone? One needs to say that these words of your beloved rather surprised you because as far as you knew that aside of the forced communication with the members of his so called family he had never interacted with anyone of the local villagers for the reason of their ardent devotion to Mother Miranda.
"Talking to whom?"
Noticing the confusion on your face, Heisenberg smiled a bit.
"To Boian. I mean this creation of mine over here." With his hand he pointed to the side of that same aforementioned soldier. "His name was Boian before he became another addition of my army."
"Did you know this man?" Slowly you came into the workshop and quietly sat on a stool.
"Yes, i did. Not personally, of course. I knew him the same way i know everyone in this shithole. From a distance, so to speak."
Having taken another stool, the Lord sat across from you. From his leather hip bag he pulled out a cuban cigar and, having flicked with a lighter, started leisurely smoking.
"During his lifetime Boian was married. He and his wife lived in a small wooden cabin and grew in their small humble garden vegetables and berries. As far as i know they never had kids, however it didn't interfere with their marital happiness. It looked like they truly loved one another because they literally were an inseparable couple. Each time when i came to the village about my business, i saw them together. I noticed them together attending masses in the chapel, roaming around the village arm in arm and working in their garden. All in all, Boian and his wife were the most ordinary people and led the most ordinary life. And just like any brainwashed sheep in Miranda's flock they firmly believed that this goddamn bitch was capable of protecting them from any sort of danger and desease. Yeah, sure. But unfortunately, this blind belief of theirs eventually played a cruel joke on them."
"What happened?" The story of the soldier's fate genuinely caught your interest.
"After some time when i again appeared in the village for the first time i didn't see Boian's wife beside him. That was quite unusual because, as i already said, they were always together, literally inseparable. And all the subsequent times when i met him, he was alone without his devoted spouse. It made me assume that she either got sick to the point she wasn't even able to get out of bed or simply died. And, as i found out later, my assumptions turned out to be true."
Before continuing to tell his story Heisenberg paused a little bit, taking several deep puffs of his cigar.
"One night i made my way to the Forbidden Woods, specifically to the Stronghold. Shit...Still catch myself thinking that it was not a mere coincidence. As if that night i had to be there. Anyway...The closer i came to the building, the clearer i heard the aggressive roaring of lycans and male screams of pain. Once i was inside my eyes fell on a cornered by a large pack of lycans man. He was sitting on the ground with his back against the wall and trying to defend himself from them with a flaming torch, swining it in front of himself. Without a second thought i crushed with my hammer the skull of a lycan just at that moment when it was going to strike its prey with a mace. All the rest immediately ran in different directions. Damn cowards. I decided to come closer to the man and to my surprise recognized Boian in him. As it turned out, he was injured. Someone of the lycans managed to stab a pickaxe in his chest. The poor fellow was sitting in a pool of his own blood and slowly dying. I couldn't help him. Still i was too curious to know what or, maybe, who brought him to one of the most dangerous areas of the village and got even more closer to him..."
"Well, well, well. Who do we have here? Oh, it seems to me that i know you. You are Boian, aren't you? Yes, that's right. It's you. I recognized you." Like a huge mountain the hammer wielding Lord was towering over the victim of the lycans' deadly attack. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought that every local from old to young remembered that one needs to steer clear of this, to say the least, unkind place. Or did your memory betray you, hm?"
"Lies...It's...It's all lies..." The bleeding man by the name Boian, heavily breathing, was hardly pronouncing the words. "Miranda...She...She's not our protector...For her...we...we are nothing but disposable lab rats for her sick experiments...She...She's fooled us all..."
Karl did not expect to hear such an answer. He was just amazed. Did someone of Miranda's obedient puppets finally somehow discover all the truth about what a hellspawn she really was and about all those brutal atrocities she actually had been doing with people in these mountains in secrecy from the outside world for many decades straight? Incredible! Realizing that he was no longer the only one whose mind wasn't enslaved by the Black God's devious prophet for the first time in a while Heisenberg felt genuine joy combined with slight disappointment due to the fact that exactly that same enlightened one right now was dying in front of him, choking on his own thick blood.
"Too bad you understood that too late."
"M-Maria...My wife...My precious beloved wife...She became seriously ill...No one and nothing could help her...Miranda...Miranda was our last hope...I...I begged her to help Maria to become...to become well again...Miranda promised to cure her and...and took her away...That...That was the last moment...the last moment when i saw my wife alive...After...After that day...she...she didn't come back home anymore, and...and i began to suspect that...that Miranda...Miranda did something terrible to her..."
A bloody cough escaped Boian's deeply pierced chest.
"Tonight i...i found...i found Miranda's hidden laboratory...I found...i found a lot of medical reports...I...I read a report about you, Lord...Lord Heisenberg...and reports about the other Lords...Also...Also i found many notes and photographs...All those horrible things Miranda does to people... She...She's just a monster in the flesh...Then...Then i found a report about my wife...She was experimented on, and...and...eventually...she...she died of those...inhuman experiments...Suddenly...Miranda emerged out of nowhere, but...i was not afraid...I swore to her that...that i would tell all the villagers the truth about...about all of her evil deeds, but...but i must say that...she possesses superhuman strength...She took me here and unleashed these...these demons for them...for them to get rid of me...I...I was trying to fight them back, but...but there were so many of them..."
The flaming torch, that the fatally injured one had been holding for all this time, now fell out of his weak hand.
"Maria...My darling...If...If i only could...If i only could take revenge on Miranda for your death...If i only could make her suffer the same way...the same way she made suffer you, but...as...as it seems...it...it, unfortunately, will never happen...Forgive me, Maria...I'm...I'm so sorry..."
The tears of utter despair slowly flowed down the cheeks of Boian, mixing with the crimson blood on his lips and chin.
"Looks like you and me crave the same thing, don't we?" The Lord crouched down before the dying one, who had reluctantly accepted his cruel fate.
"What...What do you mean..?"
"See, the fact that Miranda uses living souls as test subjects for the sake of achieving her own goal under the guise of this fucking religious cult is nothing new to me. About all of this i found out long before you. And for all that vicious shit she's done to me i will never forgive her. In secret from everyone i plan on killing that insane bitch. But i am not an idiot. I realize that alone i unlikely will be able to do that because, as you've rightly mentioned earlier, she is extremely strong and powerful. For this reason i gather an army of special soldiers that will help me to destroy her. And since a common desire unites us perhaps you would like to join me so we could wipe Miranda off the face of the earth together?"
Boian bitterly chuckled and coughed up with blood again.
"B-Believe me i...i would...i would do that with great pleasure, but...don't you see that i am almost dead..?"
"That much is obvious, but in this case your death will not be a hindrance for us. All that's required of you to join my army is to give me your corpse. No more and no less. Of the rest i will take care myself."
"What..? What are you...talking about..? How..? How my corpse will...will be able to...to help you defeat Miranda..? I don't understand...What kind...what kind of army do you gather..?"
With a smirk on his scarred face the Lord held out his hand to the baffled villager, making it clear that he's awaiting for nothing other than his agreement. Meanwhile, Boian's vision became blurry, and the voice of his interlocutor he heard somewhere in the distance. His death was too close, there was no time left to ask questions and seek for common sense, the man understood that, and therefore he fully trusted his intuition which quietly yet persistentely whispered him that to take the Lord's offer would be the most correct decision he had ever made in his entire life.
"Anything...I'll do anything to...put an end to...to Miranda's madness...I'll do...anything...for making her...pay...for Maria's...death...Take...Take my dead body...Do with it...whatever...must be done...From now on...it...is...at...your service...and...and so is...my...whole...essence..."
From the last forces half-dead Boian hardly lifted his bloodied hand and held it out to Heisenberg as a gesture of their partnership, and...and it lifelessly fell right into the Lord's palm, after which the villager remained motionless and silent. It was clear that his life line was cut short, and with his free hand Karl closed the dead man's eyes. Then the Lord stood up, adjusted his sunglasses and old leather hat, and easily threw over his shoulder the still warm body which several moments ago had been a living human being.
"Let's go to my factory, Boian! There i will put you in order and give you everything what you will need in the battle against our shared enemy!"
For a minute there was silence in the workshop.
"You've never told me about this before. When did it happen?"
"It happened before i met you. A long time ago." Heisenberg put out the smoked cigar on a metal table. "You know...Of course, this is just his damn revived corpse filled with artificial blood and scrap from top to bottom. I don't know, maybe it'll sound stupid but, to be honest, sometimes i like talking to it like to a living person."
"It doesn't sound stupid at all. Actually, i personally believe that Boian is here. I believe he is always invisibly present near his body, and i believe he can see everything you do and can hear every single word you say. Great thirst for vengeance keeps him here. Boian is patiently awaiting for that sweet moment when Miranda is once and for all annihilated after which he will finally be able to forever rest in peace together with his beloved wife Maria."
The Lord slightly smiled at your words as in his opinion they were a bit romanticized, but still he couldn't deny that in actual fact some part of himself believed that Boian's restless spirit wandered in the walls of the factory no less than you did.
"Perhaps you're right, Buttercup. Perhaps you're right..."
"The kettle is getting cold. Let's go to the kitchen. I guess we should eat a little bit before going to sleep. How do you think?"
"I think it's a good idea. Completely approve."
Having stood up from the stool, you headed for the door but immediately turned around, hearing Heisenberg calling you out.
"And Buttercup, one moment here!"
"Yes, what is it?"
He approached you and tightly yet carefully cupped your face within his rough big hands, forcing you look him in the eye.
"I want you to firmly remember that i'll never let to happen to you what Miranda did to Boian's wife. I'll do anything-do you hear me?-i'll do literally anything to protect you from her wicked tenacious hands, even if it costs me my life. Did you understand me?"
The Lord drastically changed in his behavior. The gaze of his hazel eyes expressed absolute seriousness, and the tone of his husky voice was stern. The unwavering determination of your beloved to sacrifice himself without hesitation in the name of your safety had left you speechless, and therefore all you could do in the response to his question was to quickly nod your head.
"Say out loud that you understood everything what i just said."
"I understood, Karl. I really understood everything what you just said."
"That's good." The tension in the man's body eased, and he lightly kissed your forhead. "Go to the kitchen now. I'll be there in a few minutes."
"Okay." You pronounced quietly, almost in a whisper and, deeply immersing yourself into your thoughts, came out of the room.
"Don't worry, Boian!" The metal army leader's strong hand was laid on the shoulder of his subordinate. "I'll give you a wonderful chance to convert your wish into reality. You will take revenge on Miranda for what she did to you and to your wife. Very soon this psycho bitch will pay the full price for all that hell she, showing no mercy, put not only the two of us through. This will be a spectacular show! Have no doubts about it!"
Standing in the doorway, Heisenberg one more time glanced up at the mechanical soldier. Then he turned the lights off and left the workshop.
*Boian is a romanian male name which means "warrior" or "soldier".
#resident evil 8#resident evil 8 village#resident evil village#re8#re8 village#re village#Lord Heisenberg#Karl Heisenberg#Heisenberg#Lord Heisenberg imagine#Karl Heisenberg imagine#Heisenberg imagine#Lord Heisenberg x reader#Karl Heisenberg x reader#Heisenberg x reader#Lord Heisenberg x you#Karl Heisenberg x you#Heisenberg x you
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hello I am a slut for forehead kisses so may I request that prompt if it inspires? 🥺
I know I said reunion kiss was next but I have conflicting ideas about that one and this popped into my head and google doc nearly fully formed, so here you go. On ao3 here!
By the time Eddie has locked his car and is bolting up the stairs so fast he very nearly trips and eats shit, he’s 23 minutes late.
“Sorry, Cap,” he says, trying not to sound out of breath and discretely tugging wrinkles out of his uniform. “Water main burst near Chris’ school, must have happened after I left the house ‘cause I didn’t get any traffic alerts.”
Bobby snorts. “As your captain I have to say ‘try to be punctual next time,’ but as someone who also lives in Los Angeles… it happens.”
Eddie sighs in agreement and slides onto one of the bar stools. At least it’s not a day where they got called out immediately, he’d feel terrible if he arrived and everyone was already out on the truck. A coffee mug — Eddie’s favorite at the station, a deep speckly green handmade number somebody had found at a farmer’s market — lands next to him, along with a familiar warm presence at his side. He smiles as he looks up at Buck.
“Hello, husband,” Buck says, grin so bright Eddie thinks he might be bioluminescent if they turned off all the lights.
“Hi, husband,” Eddie says, figuring he’d probably glow in the dark, too.
-
Eddie supposes he’s probably had more eventful 72 hour time spans in his life, though he’s hard pressed to remember one where the majority of the events were this good. It’s not like it started fantastic, his shoulder still hurts like hell from landing on it when the factory floor went out from under them, and there were the three horrifying hours where no one could find Buck and it felt like the world was ending. He hadn’t kept his cool very well, he’ll admit it, and he’s fully expecting teasing to set in any time now that they’ve had a few days and Buck is perfectly fine.
They’d found him in a little pocket in the debris two floors down, not a scratch on him. He’d lost his radio, but otherwise he was sort of just waiting around. Legs crossed, hands behind his head, chill as anything. He could have been at the goddamn beach.
And he’d looked at Eddie, a happy little smile on his face, and said “I knew you’d find me,” and Eddie — who’s lungs hadn’t been working right since he’d tried to call Buck on the radio and got silence in return — had kissed him instead of saying I always will.
And when they’d got back to the station he’d gone ahead and said it out loud, too, and I don’t know how to be without you and I love you, I’ve loved you for so long and move in with me and marry me, we should get married, please marry me.
Buck’s knuckles had been almost creaking with how tight they’d been gripping the sleeves of Eddie’s uniform. “Why? I mean- we haven’t- you never- how could you want that? It’s me, I-“ he’d laughed, trying to make it into a joke. “Won’t you get sick of me?”
“I want to share my whole life with you,” Eddie had said, and then laughed a little breathless. “And Buck, I- I think we already do. Your toothbrush is in my bathroom and I have a green lawn chair because you said it looked like a frog and- and you fixed the holes in my wall and you’re raising my son. We share- my house feels most like a home when you’re there. So. You can be there, forever, if you want. You want a couch? I have a couch. You like my couch.”
Buck had laughed, tears in his eyes, kissed him again, and said “I love your couch.”
So Friday evening they’d been sitting on the aforementioned couch as best friends eating pizza and drinking beer, and Sunday morning they’d got married, and had an all day long party in their backyard with people dropping in and out whenever they weren’t at work or had other places to be and Eddie had smiled so big and laughed so hard his cheeks still ache, and Sunday night he’d had sex with a man for the first time. He, Eddie Diaz, had sex with Buck (who’s last name is now sort of a toss up until he decides how he wants to change it, a process that turns out comes with a lot more paperwork and waiting than a marriage license). Not even just sex- Buck fucked him into the mattress so hard Eddie thinks he may have had some sort of religious experience. He came so hard he got a little mad about it after. Like. Is this what it’s supposed to be like? He could have been having sex this good the whole time? Buck had laughed at him, loud but not unkindly.
He’d learned what it’s like to sleep in a bed beside the man that he loves. Buck is warm and his feet are cold and he is delightfully solid and unmovable. He snores, especially when he curls up in his sleep, but Eddie has spent years sleeping in a big shared room in a fire station and years before that falling asleep in a war zone, so it doesn’t bother him. This morning they’d woken up holding hands even though they hadn’t gone to sleep like that, and Eddie is in love, in love, in love.
-
Sometime about halfway through their first shift as a married couple they’re called to a car gone over a cliff in the hills. It’s not gone very far over the cliff, and is resting on stable ground, and the occupant inside seems more shaken up than anything, but someone’s still got to get in a harness, and like usual that person is Buck.
Eddie can feel Chimney smirking off to the side as he triple checks Buck’s harness and line, but this is something Eddie always does and not a new feature of some sort of honeymoon phase. Buck’s life is precious, has been since the beginning, he’d never risk it with something as preventable as an improperly secured strap. Back last year, when Buck had been in the coma, it had been the one thing he’d not felt guilty about. The harness had caught him. Eddie had triple checked it. He always has and he’s not going to stop now.
"Be careful,” he says, darting in to give him the quickest kiss he thinks he can get away with. So, that part is new, sue him.
Buck's eyes get wide, and then he nods very solemnly. "I will," he promises, looking at Eddie for another long minute before he goes over the side.
To his left Bobby lets out a huff of air, and he's making a face and shaking his head when Eddie turns to investigate. Eddie raises an eyebrow.
"It's that easy?" Bobby gestures down the side of the cliff, amused. "I should have had one of you marry him ages ago."
Eddie laughs, and turns back to keep an eye on the line.
-
“We’re going to the roof,” Eddie says, after they’re back at the station. “For fifteen minutes,” he concedes to Bobby’s raised eyebrows. “To engage in strictly pg13 activities,” a final plea.
Bobby sighs, and Hen cackles as he waves a defeated hand at them to go ahead. Eddie hooks his arm through Buck’s and they stumble up the stairs side by side, laughing like they’re getting away with something.
-
They only got twelve minutes before the alarm rang again, and it was non stop after that till the end of the shift. Eddie’s shoulder is almost too stiff to move at this point, and Buck looks dead on his feet.
“You wanna just come home with me?” He asks, leaning on the locker next to Buck’s as he changes.
“Uh…” Buck looks tempted when he emerges from his t-shirt, hair all ruffled, but then he shakes his head. “Nah, we took both cars for a reason, I should go grab stuff from the loft.” The logistics of very suddenly moving in together are still working themselves out. Eddie thinks he could probably push — Buck practically lived with him before, anyway, what could be at the loft that he would miss so terribly it couldn’t wait another night? — but they’d planned their day like this so they could both go on Chris’ beach day field trip tomorrow without having to squeeze packing around it.
“Alright,” he agrees, though he can’t help feeling a little reluctant about it. He hasn’t been apart from Buck for more than an hour since he’d been lost in a pile of rubble, and he doesn’t really want to go separate ways now. He leans in for a kiss, and the way Buck smiles into it might be able to tide him over for just a little while. “I’ll go get the kid. See you at home.”
“Okay. Goodbye, husband,” Buck says, a little sparkle back in his tired eyes.
“Bye, husband,” Eddie laughs, soft, kissing him again.
-
There’s three unpacked boxes pushed to the side of the living room and two others empty by the recycling, contents dispersed around the house. By mutual, exhausted decision they’d agreed to deal with the rest some other time and collapsed into bed. They can’t even really make out properly, one or both of them yawning into it repeatedly until Eddie laughs and rolls onto his back, setting his alarm for the morning and settling more comfortably under the covers.
“Night, Buck,” he breathes, leaning onto his pillow to kiss his cheek. “I love you.”
Buck does the little smile with startled-wide eyes he’s done every time Eddie’s said it so far. “I love you, too. Uh- sweet dreams.”
And that should be that, another happy night of wedded bliss, but the thing that Eddie knows and kind of forgot is that after a long and hectic shift Buck gets a little restless no matter how tired he is, brain running overtime, so after trying to wait out his tossing and turning and yawning Eddie eventually sighs, turns the bedside lamp back on, and pokes him in the side.
“What’re you thinking about?”
Buck frowns at him. "Eddie. What if I die in my sleep?"
He doesn’t think it’s a real question, but it still makes his stomach lurch a little. "Why would you do that?"
Buck makes a face. "I wouldn't mean to."
"I mean- why are you afraid of that?"
Buck frowns harder. “I don’t know. I heard once you yawn because you’re falling asleep and your brain thinks you're dying, so it tries to get you a burst of oxygen to save you.”
“Okay, but- you’re not actually dying.” Eddie reaches a clumsy hand under the covers till it collides with Buck’s chest, where his heart is somewhere inside beating steady. “You’re okay. Just tired.”
Buck nods, but he hasn’t stopped frowning. “What if you die in your sleep?”
Eddie hums, shuffling onto his side to face Buck more fully. “I don’t plan to.”
“Okay,” Buck says, trusting Eddie’s word even in a hypothetical he would in actuality have no control over. “What if Bobby dies? Or- or anybody. What if… a meteor destroys the station and we can’t go to work?”
Eddie snorts, and then feels bad about it until he sees Buck grin a tiny bit. “I think we’d still have jobs, Buck. They’d rebuild the station, we might all just have to work at different houses for a while.” Buck frowns again, and Eddie winces at introducing this new worry. “Hey. If a meteor destroys our station I promise I will beg on hands and knees to get transferred to the same place as you.”
Buck laughs, just a small exhale of air through his nose. “Feel like you might wanna stay upright. They might cite professionalism and all that.”
“Okay,” Eddie says, kissing his cheek. “I will beg on two feet to stay by your side whenever I can, as long as I can.”
“Alright,” Buck says, a little choked. He slings an arm over Eddie’s side and settles in close against him, and Eddie thinks that might be it until he says, very quietly, “What if I’m not a good husband to you?”
“Oh, Buck.” This question is a real question, the one that was hiding behind all the others. “You're doing pretty great so far.”
“It’s been like two days.” Muffled, somewhere around Eddie’s collarbone.
“Yeah, and they’ve been a pretty great two days.” He drags his hand around Buck’s ribs, everything made soft sandwiched by blanket and sleep shirt. “I asked you to marry me because I wanted to be married to you. I wanted- you to be married to me. My husband.”
“Yeah, that’s usually why people ask that question,” Buck mumbles, not, apparently, in the mood to easily accept comfort. “But what if-“
“Are you afraid of me?”
“What?” Buck reels back in surprise to look at him. “No. Of course not.”
“Then why are you scared I’ll change my mind?” Eddie can feel the raised line of a scar on Buck’s back through his shirt. The one from getting tossed from the board the first time he’d gone surfing, Eddie’s pretty sure, years before they met. “I won’t. I’m not going to get tired of you, I’m not going to leave you behind, you’ll never be too much for me. You-“ Eddie takes a breath, tries to get his thoughts in order. “You make my life better by being in it, and that has always been true, and you know we’ve gone through some shit before. Even… even when you were suing the city because you were a lonely little idiot and I was pissed at you because I was a mean little idiot, all I wanted was to be by your side. When I was bleeding out in the street I just wanted to be with you. When you were- when you were dead on that ladder I’d have done anything-“ Eddie exhales, hard. Buck is on his left side, birthmark buried in the pillow, so Eddie has to snake his hand up to tilt his head for access to it. They’ve only been able to kiss each other for a tiny handful of days, but it doesn’t feel new, really, when he presses his lips to the pink blotches of skin. “I don’t know how else to explain it to you, but I will keep trying every day for the rest of our lives, if you’ll let me.”
Buck kisses him, hard, holds him tight. “I- yeah, I-,” another kiss, slower. “As long as I can- I’ll tell you, too, I- I’ve never been anywhere I’ve felt- it’s so easy to be here, in your- in our home.” Buck’s fingers find Eddie’s scars, twin bullet holes, touching them so reverently he thinks the scars might heal right up and vanish. “You make me-“ He kisses Eddie’s cheek, up by his eye, his nose, right between his eyebrows. “I don’t know how to say it. If you try every day, can I try, too?”
“Anytime,” Eddie vows. “Every day, anytime you want.”
“Alright,” Buck says, tail end of the word getting swallowed by another yawn. Eddie kisses his forehead again, or maybe just smiles against it. “I love you, Eddie. So much.”
“So much, too.”
It’s a little bit of a stretch to be able to turn the light off again with Buck still wrapped around him, but he gets it on the second try. He’s not sure how well he’ll be able to fall asleep tangled together like this, but that’s fine. Buck is warm. His feet, where they’re bumped here and there into Eddie’s legs, are cold. They breathe in, and on this inhale are entirely synched. There’s no place he’d rather be.
#buddie#eddie diaz#evan buckley#my writing#911 abc#they’re just fuckin sappy i dunno what to tell ya
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