#Swift Silver Winds

[nyctopteryx]

Swift Silver Winds, senior iterator of the Multichromatic Wilds local group.

My oc :3

[josephquinnswhore]

somewhere only we know - joel miller x female reader

summary: joel has been the only constant in your life since you’ve been at Jackson. But you don’t know if you deserve him despite his persistent efforts.

word count: 3.3k

content warning: emotionally unavailable reader, depiction of readers ptsd, public sex, being caught, raw p in v, tension!!! Age gap implied but unspecified, creampie, exhibitionism, choking, breath play, f orgasm, m orgasm, dom! Joel. Not proof read lol.

an: inspired by the song ‘somewhere only we know,’ by Keane. good to listen to while reading :) @sunshineispunk 🫶🏼

More often than not you’d find yourself in this position, stuck in thought, eyes in an emotionless glare off into the distance as you attempt to escape the reality around you. All of the noise, chattering, even the wind whipping your hair around your face all seemed unnoticed by you.

So much had changed from the previous years, where you struggled to find canned food, living off of very little from foraging. With the group you’d been caught up in, all of the slaughtering, merciless killing of men and women, families. All for a torn up jacket, or a can of two decade old beans.

There was blood on your hands, so much of it, even if you werent the one to pull the trigger, or plunge the knife deep into someone's flesh and bone. The blood and bodies accumulated, so did the guilt.

Being in Jackson felt wrong for many reasons, you were a deplorable human, yet you were living now–lavishly. Electricity, hot showers, warm clothes and a full stomach. Hell, even a giant christmas tree in the centre of the civilised town.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

What about those people that died? Their children, the women, the men. Good people.

Jackson winters are harsher than any you’d ever endured, the wind swirls around the snow jacket and penetrates your skin, landing on your skin and spreading like an infection. Your hands are freezing, fingertips red from being exposed.

He always knew where to find you, how much you torture yourself with guilt. He offered the hand that wiped your tears, the ear that listened to you as you sobbed into his chest. The heart that offered a home for you. Somewhere only you knew. Offering you a haven within him that he had opened for you alone. It was simple, really.

That was the worst part, that he had willingly opened his door, his arms, given you his heart on a silver platter. Falling for a man that tried, that gave you all he had. He could just as easily pull it all out from underneath you.

His multitude attempts of courting you, asking you to be his girl–all gone unanswered or denied. So he stopped asking, knowing that when the time was right you’d come to him.

Joel was aging, he would take any minute he could to spend with you unknowing of what day would end everything. The risk climbs with each patrol.

He knows where you’ll be, by the back of the stables, watching the horses as they play in the snow that had fallen on the ground over the past week. The snow surrenders under his feet, walking the pathway to you he knew like the back of his hand.

With the softest voice he could muster, he attempts not to startle you. “Hey.” He leans on the fence beside you, his elbow barely grazes your own. “Everythin’ okay? You've been here a while, ain’cha?”

It stings, to turn and look at him. The muscles in your neck seem frozen as you manage a small smile, realising that you've been leaning against the wooden fence for a while, the sky is thick and dark with snowcloud. Snowflakes fall around the two of you.

“Just thinkin’,” you clear your throat and manage to choke out. Inhaling sharply, you wiggle your nose in an attempt to clear the mucus from your cold nose.

Turning to face you, he knows what's going on within you, although the two of you weren't exclusive, he knew what the two of you shared. Something that felt so fragile in moments like this. He hums, gravelly noise cuts through the wind.

In a swift pivot, he's turning to face you, his gloved hands delicately brush the hair from your vision. “What is it?”

“Everything,” You're barely able to look at him, managing a quick sideways glance. The last thing you wanted right now was to start breaking down. Moments of you opening up were sparse, and Joel knew now was not one of those times.

He had to treat carefully, nursing your emotions delicately so you wouldn’t back away, start rebuilding your walls he had carefully and pliantly plucked one by one. To get here, where the two of you were, had taken months.

Dropping his hand to cradle your stiff neck, with gentle encouragement manages to coax you to face him, a gloved thumb caresses your cold cheeks. “Everything’s a lot to be thinkin’ about.” He utters in thought, “wanna tell me about it?”

Conflicting, the ache in your chest. Guilt. The urge to blurt it all out in one ugly, uttering cry, as if it were some dirty confession. “Not particularly.”

His brows furrowing were a response of disappointment, knowing that if he weren't careful you would brazenly resort back to isolating yourself. “You know how much I care about you.” Preferring a statement, a confession, it left no room for you to start questioning yourself.

“I know.” Part of you cracks a tight lipped smile.

The forced smile doesn't appease Joel, his own lips tight, hand curling around your jaw to look at him. Things seemed particularly bad today, he recognised. “Stop lyin’ to yourself an’ me, tell me the truth.” the attempt to coax you failed, with you pulling away from the gentle grasp on your cheek.

As you pull away from Joel's touch, your skin feels cold. All of you feel cold. It felt so wrong to pull away from him, but to confront the fiery flames of truth–you would bear the cold.

His hand falls to his side, the ever tugging frown on his features deepens as you pull away from him. Refusing any comfort he offers, a noticeable feat between you. The exhausted expression on your face, eyes weary, and now defeated silence.

But Joel had questions, something he desperately needed an answer to. “Are you happy?”

It was a loaded question, confronting. Are you happy here. With him. With your life. You can’t manage to decipher which one of those probabilities he wants answered. So it seems impossible to come up with an answer that was acceptable. “What do you want me to say Joel, that I’m thriving?”

Of course you resort to lashing out. “I want the truth,” his eyes take you in, the way you stiffen as he refused to be spooked by your natural act of stoicism. He shifts on his feet, you bet the cold is starting to take a toll on his aching joints.

The silence had become unbearable. “I'm miserable, Joel.”

“What is it that’s makin’ you miserable–”

With a stern warning, you interrupt him. “Don't go there.”

Each emotion you felt in this moment, guarded but vulnerable to him. He knew what was causing this turmoil. Him. your feelings for him.

“It’s me.” He utters matter of factly between you, looking over the fence as the horses whine and run inside the stable as the snowflakes start to fall faster. His hand contemplates holding your hand, realising that they are bare. Deciding against it, he pulls off his own gloves, sliding them onto your own.

“You ain’t happy because of me.” his bare fingers run through the hair at the back of his head and rub his neck as he exhales deeply.

Fixing the warm gloves on your fingers, it feels like you’re getting some much needed circulation. “It ain't like that.”

He was trying to give you the flexibility to open up to him at your own accord, but he's beginning to hurt, wondering if his love will be unacquainted until he’s buried beneath the soil, if your hand would be the one to push him in with an unwelcome gaze.”Then tell me what it’s like..” he pushes again.

All he wanted was for you to drop the veil, to reach forward and bring you to his chest and remind you that he was here, always had been.

“I need to learn to live without you.”

You can't swallow the shocked expression on his face, now bare fingers clutching onto the fence, the warmth of his palm melting the snowflakes that had fallen there. “You think I wouldn't miss you if you just walked away from this?”

“Don’t,” you plead, he was breaking your guard down.

Vulnerability and desperation roll of his tongue in a firm utterance. “I would.”

Deciding against what your reaction might be, he reaches out and takes a hold of your hands, thumb rubbing against the leather in an attempt to soothe you, to calm you before you could flee.

“I go on missin’ you as it is. You go on days without lettin’ me in. I can't stand it, everyday i don't see you is hell knowing you’re right there an’ dont wanna see me. Knowin’ you don't wanna be mine.”

Pulling away from his grip again, you step away from the fence, fleeing. “Don’t. Don’t fucking do this to me.”

With one long stride forward he's snatching your wrist, turning you back around to face him. God dammit, he was trying. He wanted to be everything you need. If you would just let him in.

He growls at the realisation. “Don’t what, huh? Say how I feel because you won't.”

“I’m fucked up!” You shout, emotion thick in your throat, unable to pull away from his vice like grip.

There's a tremble in his voice, a swirling mix of despair and desperation. “I’m tryin’ to be here.”

A bitter scoff rolls off your tongue, “that doesn’t fix anything!”

His chest heaves, up and down repeatedly until he finds the words to say. All of the pent up emotions he has toward you all rising to the surface. “Then what will?”

“You can't fix me.”

He drops your hand, “bullshit.” That was something he couldn't handle hearing, he was good at fixing things, repairing, protecting. The thought that you were a lost cause was as good as enough for his chest to begin constricting.

His fingers are succumbing to the exposed cold, tips of his fingers are cold on your cheeks, cradling your delicately compared to the ruthless things he had done with them.

Taken lives, stolen, abused substances, relieved himself, all with anger, all without meaning. But you–holding you was something he wanted to do right. He would do right. There was no room for mistakes. “I need to fix this..” the whisper is so quiet it's almost swept away in the wind.

It felt like a slap to the face when you pull away from his hands, the shared warmth from skin to skin was ripped away as you step backward.

That's all you knew how to do, retreat.

“You’re still pushin’ me away. Tell me when you’re gonna let me in,” the bitter edge was a clear indicator of the pain and disappointment he was feeling.

“The last thing I need is to trust you! Then what? You turn around with my heart in your hands and stomp over it?”

There it was, whether you realised what had slipped past your lips. Your greatest fear. Abandonment.

For a brief moment Joel hates that you distrust him after all he has done for you, proving time and time again that he would do anything for you. But it's quickly swept away by the realisation that you’d unclogged the blockage that kept him at arm's length. “How..” he pauses, realising he has one shot at this.

“What can I do, to prove that I ain’t ever gonna hurt you?” Of course, of course he looked absolutely torn, his throat bobs up and down as he swallows nervously.

The fact that you were still standing before him was a good sign. “How can I trust this is real?”

“Because I love you. I’m gettin’ old an’ I need somethin’ to rely on.” his hazel eyes softened with the admission, searching your face for any sign that you felt the same way. That you wouldn’t tear his heart open here and toss it to the snow, letting it freeze over once again as it had been before he met you.

He couldn't bear to go back to that, the loneliness, lack of heart and purpose.

There's a million thoughts running through your head, begging for your tongue and voice to cooperate, to blurt out somehow that you love him too.

His eyes continue searching your face at your silence, hoping to find any glimpse that you felt the same way. “Nothin’ to say then?” His heart ached, tone bitter.

This could be the end of everything.

In this moment of utter vulnerability, there are no words you can find to pluck from your throat, barely registering that you’re reaching up to grasp his face with both hands, pulling his head down to meet your own cracked, wind burnt in a soft kiss, lips brushing against each other.

For the short moment they are pressed together, you feel them warm against his, your heart races in reaction to the bold display.

“I.. I love you too,” you whisper thickly once you part from his lips, praying it wasn't too late. Foreheads pressed together, this is what Joel had been dreaming of, a simple act that had made his heart race, relief sparking each vein in his body.

“Oh.. baby..” he whispers, his own hands grasp your hips, grounding himself. Holding onto something to convince him this was real.

But at this innocent gesture, a small breathless moan rattles through his brain.

God.. the thoughts he had about you.

He stutters, “baby.. d-don't do that. You have no idea what it does to me. Tryin’ to be good to ya.”

Running the risk of taking things too far, you kiss him again, this time more desperately, seeking the validation and love Joel had always devoted to you, a newcome hunger growing within you. Your lips clash against his own, and you moan into the kiss, your hands roaming through his hair as you grasp onto the soft, overgrown follicles.

The both of you get carried away, both touch starved and seeking physical affection after having tension brewing thickly for months. Your hands find solace in the softness of joel's hair.

He cannot keep his hands on your hips, greedily giving in to your willingness to reciprocate his affections. Tracing the curve of your ribs to your hips, memorising each curve and dip. The way your body squirms closer into his chest as his revenant exploration of your body makes you whine into his mouth.

Deepening the kiss, his tongue wrestles with your own. Finding a rhythm that the two of you manage for a desperate long minute. His hands are groping the curve of your ass desperately through your jeans, whinging when he pulls you closer to him, the hard bulge in his jeans rub against your mound.

“Joel..” you whine, breaking away from him, his own hazel eyes blown out from the fiery kiss. Your lips are moist with a mix of his and your own saliva. Chests heaving in sync as the tension between you expands into something that cannot be contained another moment.

Without another word your gloved hands are attempting to unbutton his jeans, with much difficulty. Frustration wears your short fuse and you tear them off your hands, unbuttoning and yanking down Joel's zipper.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go, baby.” He utters as his hands work quick to tear your own jeans, pulling them down until they reveal your ass, getting stuck mid-thigh. He lets out a deep grumble at the sight of you, bare ass and pussy all for him.

“We’re in the middle of town, dirty fuckin’ girl.” He scolds breathlessly against your neck, his hands commanding you flush against his chest, holding your wrists together with one hand.

Bending yourself forward a fraction, you whine, feeling his hard cock spring against your bare ass. “Let them see.”

Closing his eyes for a moment in an attempt to ground himself, convince himself this was a bad idea, the rational part of him loses the internal battle. “Fuck you’re gonna be the death of me, you and this pretty pussy,” his voice husk with need.

With his free hand, he positions himself at your hole, damp and warm. A wonderful contrast to the rest of him that's freezing as you stand in the mild snowfall. Your hole opens up for him with no protest, his thick tip pushes into you with carnal need.

His hand frees your wrists, grabbing onto your waist, his thick fingers curling around the skin of your hips. “Made f’me baby.. fuckin’ hell.”

There's a slight sting as you adjust to his girth, but he can't hold himself back, bottoming out in your warmth, grunting into the nape of your neck, leaving an opened mouth kiss.

The pace he sets is relentless, ploughing into your willing hole that slicks more with each thrust. His cock is coated in your arousal, nevermind how loud you are as he pumps into you. Not bothering to try and be subtle, uncaring of the straggling townsfolk of Jackson on the other side of the barn that are entering the hall for lunch.

“You’re gonna.... get us caught baby..” he ruts into you desperately as he utters his concern. Pressing his chest against your back, unable to pull away from you.

“Don’t care,” you manage to choke out incoherently, your hole clenched around him. Theres a warmth in your stomach, feeling the pressure build as he fucks into you like his life depended on it.

With one hand, he forces his hand under your chin, grasping onto your throat, fingers squeezing the sides lightly. Applying enough pressure to make your eyes roll, a soft moan of surprise and lightheadedness equals the raw pleasure of the pad of his pointer finger rolling around on your swollen clit.

“You wanna get caught like this hm? Sweet girl getting fucked by an old man, what would they think of you, hm?”

The thought makes your stomach twist, attempting to close your thighs to stop his hand from swirling softly against the wet bundle of nerves.

He tuts, “uh uh, this is what you wanted, wasn't it? You’re gonna cum for me, baby.”

Throwing your head back, he applies a fraction more pressure to your neck and you cry out with a crack in your voice, spiralling as your hips rut against his hand. Legs and hips unwillingly jerk as you orgasm. His muffled voice is runging in your ear as Joel continues to fuck you through your intense climax.

“Atta girl, so good f’me.”

He releases the grip on your neck and snakes his hands underneath your jacket, the warmth of your skin underneath his desperate fingers.

There’s some distant muttering you don't understand, too overstimulated and crying from still taking Joel’s cock as deep as he can bury himself inside of you.

He gropes your tits harshly, crossing his arms around you as he forces you down onto him, taking his thick cock as he bottoms out, his cock twitching as he fills you with his warm load. Turning your head to kiss him as he cums, you moan into his mouth.

“Oh my god–that is them, Joel and–” the voices utter your name and you tune in as you hear your name being spoken from a distance, hearing slowly returning. Your cheeks warm as you realise that someone has indeed caught the two of you in the middle of town.

Joel slides his hands from underneath your shirt, covering you the best he can. “You gonna stand there creepin’ or y’all gonna move the fuck along?” He snaps in irritation at the invasive eyes.

With a whimper, he pulls out of you. Both of you slide your jeans up. He turns you to look at him, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

There’s an expression of vulnerability plastered on his face. “No more runnin’.”

Hopelessly, you nod. “Can we go back to yours?”

With a possessive swat of your ass, he hums. “Our place.” He corrects.

Is this the place you’ve been dreaming of?

[vividxpages]

✩˚౨ৎ˚✩‧The Great War PART 1 ✩₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

PART 2 + PART 3

pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader

words: 1700

summary: Jace and you are lovers, but stand on opposite sides of the war, not allowed to see each other anymore. But love always finds a way. (inspired by “The Great War” by Taylor Swift)

warnings: angst, reader is Alicents's daughter, the Greens being a bad family, hurt/comfort!, kissing

a/n: help, I'm obsessed with this boy and every song starts to sound like a possible fic idea for him!!!

𓆩♡𓆪

All that bloodshed, crimson clover Uh-huh, sweet dream was over My hand was the one you reached for All throughout the Great War

Sometimes, you could only breathe above the clouds.

Up here on your dragon’s back, the trouble you left behind underneath you did not matter anymore. You thought of the castle that slowly poisoned you from the inside, the dark nights where you thought you were completely alone in the world with no comfort in reach but the memories you carried with yourself.

Once there had been laughter at the dinner table, the halls filled with the family you had not seen in months. Now, you only saw your brothers and your mother together in one room during council. You shuddered at the memory of today’s meeting, snuggling deeper into the saddle and closer to the dragon who kept you safe in the sky.

(“Maybe we should send our dear sister.” Your brother Aegon had proposed at some frustrating point of an endless council, taking a deep swig from the wine glass in front of him.

You had simply stared at him, silent. No one was really listening to you anyway and you were past the point of turning to your mother pleadingly. She was just as silent, always frowning, always doing nothing. “What do you mean, Aegon?”

“We can weaken them from the inside.” He had spoken to the others then, who at least looked so confused as you had felt. “Send them my little precious sister who a certain bastard son always had a weak spot for. I don’t see the problem if you kill him while you’re fuck-“

Your chair had screeched over the floor and fell down with a loud thud on the stone floor. You had clenched your hands into fists as you stood, fury in your eyes.

“Aegon, stop with such nonsense.” Alicent had said quietly, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. You fled.)

You welcomed the tears on your cheeks like an old friend, letting them cool your skin as you stirred your dragon through the sky, opting to just turn right and never come back to Westeros.

But oh, how your heart still clung to them.

The family up north in the realm, the family you had lost forever in the middle of his conflict.

Suddenly, you felt your dragon tense and directed your attention to the west, where a shape of a big shadow flickered through the clouds. Your mind began to race with what you’d do if Aemond had followed you, always being damned to bring you back when you had strayed too far away from Kings Landing.

But this shadow was not big enough to be Vhagar.

And those dark curls did not belong to your brother.

You gasped as your dragon let out a recognizing screech, lunging forwards through the clouds until you and the other rider could almost touch at how close your beasts were.

Time seemed to slow down as they flew past each other, teasingly snapping at each other’s necks with the joy of being reunited, but there was no doubt. As you raced through the skies, you looked into your Jace’s eyes.

You let out a broken gasp and quickly looked over your shoulder, but he and Vermax were already out of reach, descending down beneath the clouds. And suddenly, you knew where he was going. You spurned your dragon on, the wind cutting into your skin as you raced after them, faster and faster until you let your dragon spread its wings for a quick landing by the beach Jacaerys had chosen.

Only the silver moonlight illuminated the shore by the cliffs, void of any other soul who could witness the forbidden reunion between the two of you. If you had been in company, Jacaerys would’ve already been dead or held captive.

But you were alone, for the first time in months.

You slid down your dragon’s back, nearly blind by the need to reach him, to throw yourself into his arms like you had dreamed so often.

When you had seen each other for the last time, there had not been a war yet.

And Luke had been still alive.

(You had cried for hours when Aemond had returned, blood still drying on Vhagar’s massive teeth. You had begged your mother to write a letter, just a simple letter to Jace, but everything at court had still been too fragile to do anything but be in shock over what had happened up there. It had nearly driven you mad, to know that somewhere Jace was suffering the loss of his little brother and there was nothing you could do to comfort him.)

Now, he was right there in front of you, leaving Vermax behind him and running towards you on the wet sand by the water. You broke out into a sprint as well, a disbelieving laugh that was anything but amused leaving your tight throat as his features became more and more clear to you.

You crashed together like two waves.

The embrace was nearly violent as his arms slung themselves around you, lifting you up and pressing you into him. There was no strength in your bones anymore and if Jace wouldn’t have held you so tightly, you would’ve crashed onto the ground, shattering into a million pieces.

Only Jace was holding you together right now.

He was everything you had been missing in those terrible weeks. He smelled like sea and wind and smoke and your hands shook as you combed through his wet curls, your tear-streaked face securely hidden in his neck.

You never wanted to let go of him and it seemed like the feeling was mutual.

“Gods- my love…” He mumbled into your ear and you let out a choked sob as you held each other. It was like he could not decide where he wanted to touch you first. His hands drifted over you restlessly, up and down your spine, holding onto you as if you could disappear again at any moment.

“How did you find me?” You asked breathlessly, your bottom lip still trembling dangerously as you caressed his cheeks, needing to refamiliarize yourself with the feel of his skin on yours.

He swallowed thickly, unshed tears glistening in his beautiful years. “I remembered the route you liked to take when you needed to stop thinking. And it’s cloudy today. No one saw me coming. I’ve been waiting for a cloudy night like this for weeks-“

His voice broke and you pulled him closer again, shudders of pain and longing and relief to be with him going through you in an endless loop. How much had changed since the last time you had seen eye to eye: Your father had always said you’d make a good match back then and now Jace had one brother less and you were a captive in your own home.

“I missed you so much.” You whispered, resting your head on his shoulder as you both looked out on the ocean. “I- oh Jace, I tried to write, I wanted to send you a letter, but- I wasn’t allowed. I couldn’t help you and-“

“It’s okay.” He said, but it sounded lifeless, void. “It’s not your fault. I wished I could’ve been there for you too. I know how much you loved Luke.”

Gods, you wanted to cry and never stop again. Even now, Jace was trying to be strong for you, as he had always been.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I love you.” He told you and cupped your cheek, looking deeply and longingly into your eyes. “I missed you every second we’ve been apart. Have you been treated well? Have Aegon and Aemond-“

“I love you too. I want to come with you.” You interrupted him fiery and he shuddered at the insane idea of it, the consequences unimaginable and likely deadly for one of you. “Please, please, let me come with you, I can’t stay a single day there, my mother is not the same anymore and- my brothers have been horrible with the things they want to do to Rhaenyra and you.”

He shushed you gently, drawing his arms tighter around you and swaying you back and forth. “I’ll find a way. I’m not letting you stay there alone for much longer, my love. It makes me sick to think about you being alone in Kings Landing, believe me, but…mother says it’s not safe, not yet-“

“I won’t cause your family any trouble, I promise-“

“It’s not us we’re fearing for.” He smiled sadly at you. “It’s you. I won’t summon your brother’s anger on you. I’d rather take it on myself, but- we need to be a little more patient, okay?”

You could see how much effort those words cost him and you had no doubt if it was his choice to make, he’d take you with him to Dragonstone and never look back. You watched his throat bump with tension, his jaw set, his lips pressed together tightly.

A sudden small smile danced over your face. “So you only came to me tonight because you wanted to see me?”

His eyes were dark with longing, with wanton he could not give in to, not tonight. “My love...I needed to see you.” His thumb lovingly brushed over your cheek, the pad of it briefly touching your lips.

There was so much you wanted to say, so many things you needed to tell him and hear from him, but in this short moment you were only a girl and he was a boy. Your boy.

 He met you right in the middle, delicately holding your face between his hands as your lips met, desperately kissing you as his taste exploded in your mouth once again. He kissed you drunk, enveloping all your senses until all you felt was him. His lips were dry and salty from the long flight over the clouds and along the coast, your runny noses sliding against each other, but it was perfect.

Your heart was mended with every little sigh into your mouth, his long lashes brushing over your cheeks, your hands tangling in his hair…

You thought that maybe, in another lifetime, the two of you could’ve been able to stop the war.

Another part of you knew that you always had been damned, cursed.

You blinked into the starless grey sky above you as Jace began to ravish your neck with wet kisses and you thought of the old saying passed on from generation to generation.

Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.

On which side would yours land if you ever lost him?

On which would his land when it finally sank in that he could never have you?

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Wouldn't you like to see something strange?

HI I know the new Halloween character isn't out yet but I needed an outlet for my excitement (Yes, I am unfortunately a Nightmare Before Christmas girlie) 💀 so please be advised that he may not be in character here, I'm just writing based on vibes! This is technically a twisted!Jack Skellington x Reader fic, but the Reader is basically playing a role similar as Sally from the film.

P.S. I want everyone to know that I busted out my drawing tablet to make this special border for him the same day he was first announced... Yeah...

Boo.

On the nights with full moons, he liked to steal away to the Spiral Hill on the outskirts of town.

The outcrop of land overlooked a vast graveyard and field laden with pumpkins, perfuming the air with the crisp sweetness characteristic of autumn. Beyond it, uncharted territory. When he squinted into the darkness, he could make out the vague shapes of naked trees, their gnarled branches like fingers beckoning him to approach, whispering his name.

He draped his long, lithe legs over the hill, letting them hang in the frigid air. Spindly as he was, the wind easily blew them, knocking his legs around like the straw-stuffed limbs of a scarecrow. He kicked with the breeze, carefree as a child on a playground swing.

The moon stitched his pinstriped suit and tattered cravat with silver thread, touched his pointed crown at its highest points. Even the white ribbons ribbing his jacket and the pattern of bones tugged over his gloves seemed to glow under the celestial light. He liked the view, and the view seemed to like him, too.

Held in his skeletal hand was a single flower. He stroked a silken petal, then slipped another finger under it, plucking the petal free. The wind claimed it, setting it sailing off into the unknown.

He continued. A second, a third. So on and so forth, until the flower was left stripped down and barren, even robbed of its leaves.

He dropped the stem off the hill. The pumpkins below consumed it, and the once lovely flower’s body became one with the patch.

"I figured this is where you were."

He lowered his dark circular lenses. His bright eyes slid to the figure that had approached from behind, on feet so swift they hardly made a sound. They came in with the sweetness of deadly nightshade, the trace of a poisoning committed at midnight. "Not a lethal dose, just enough to knock the doctor out for a few hours," as they always said. "How else would I sneak out to see you?"

Dry, ghostly lips dashed with hatch marks pried into an open smile, both teeth and the gaps between them. Charming, in a crooked sort of way. "My dear. You've come."

You bent down. “If you don't mind, I'd like to join.”

“The spot beside me is always reserved for you.” He patted it, inviting you to take a seat.

"Such a gentleman." You sunk down, folding your hands in your lap. "And so handsome when you're brooding. You're terribly good at that."

He was, he was, especially silhouetted by the moon. The man was practically monochrome, but bathed in silver like this, his pale skin was less sickly and more ethereal. He almost appeared like a cruel angel in the light, descending to expunge evil.

"I'm not brooding," he pouted, "I'm dreaming."

“Dreaming." You reached out and tucked a strand of alabaster hair behind his ear. "Father says it’s a ridiculous, wild thing.”

"Ah, but that's what makes it so much thrilling. Life’s no fun without a good scare.”

His mouth quirked to one side, and his smile became off-kilter--as his ideas often were. "He'll bring us to ruin with his crazy, new-fangled thinking and flights of fancy," your father would complain. But you adored that about the boy. How spontaneous he was, how his curiosity was never-ending. He'd race about like a child, picking items up and sticking his face where it probably shouldn't go.

Full of life in this otherwise lifeless town.

"What's this? What's this?" he'd say. "I must know!"

"He's gone daffy," your father would declare.

"Mmm." You nodded absentmindedly, tracing your fingers along the shell of his ear and down to his arm. "What were you dreaming about today?"

He lifted his head, looking beyond the hill and to the woods. Not a word was exchanged. None had to be.

"The Hinterlands?" you whispered. "But we don't know what's out there. No ghoul or monster has ever ventured out that far."

"Then sounds like I'll be the first! They’ll put me down in the history books as a pioneer." His laughter brightened up the gloomy night. When he quieted, his gaze was solemn—more solemn than you'd ever witnessed him. "... Don't you wonder about what's out there? Stuff that's cold and fluffy and falls from the sky. Things that come in colors we haven't seen."

"Sometimes," you admitted quietly, "but those are just dreams. I don't chase them."

"Maybe you should. We should," he mused, fingers tucked under his chin. "I bet there's all sorts of things we've never even dreamed of, too. And wouldn’t you like to see something strange?”

"I would. I really, really would," you told him in a soothing tone. Trying to reassure him as much as you were yourself. "Let's not doing anything dangerous though. I sense something in the wind—tragedy at hand. I can't shake that feeling that something bad is around the bend if you tread that path."

You gingerly laid your hand over his. Behind tinted lenses, his eyes widened.

"Stay here with me," you begged. "We can be together. Gaze at the stars. Be safe in one another's arms."

“… Sweetness, I would love for nothing more than to have you and to hold you ‘til death do us part.” His voice fluttered like the brush of a falling leaf upon your cheek. He regarded you tenderly, locking his fingers with yours and squeezing. “But you know that’s not the kind of man I am.”

“Yes, you’re every flavor of foolish imaginable,” you replied, pressing your forehead against his, “and I love you for that.”

“As do I.” He brought his icy lips to the back of your hand. A chill spider-walked up your arm, and you shivered.

“Then…”

“That’s why I must depart one day.” He pushed his glasses up. You caught the tragic reflection of your face in his lenses. “Out there… something more awaits us. I’m sure of that. I intend to find it and revive our town, this season that’s gone stale.”

“I won’t stop you if you decide to go,” you murmured. “And I will count the days until you return to me.”

“I knew you’d understand.” His smile—now it was touched with sadness, the knowledge of soon parting ways. “Thank you, dearest.”

He stood slowly, drawing you up with him. Your feet followed, as if pulled along by a puppeteer. How in sync the two of you were, how nicely molded your bodies were to one another’s. Your joy melded under the watchful eye of the moon.

“Shall we share a dance? One for the road,” he crooned. An errant breeze tousled his pallid hair, his tattered coattails—but to you, he was fairest of them all. “Our last dance for a while.”

“Alright, let’s make this one count,” you chuckled, “so I can send you off on your travels with a smile.”

“Excellent 🎵” He slid a hand around your waist, guiding you to lean into him. “Let the merrymaking commence!!”

“Yes…!!”

The midnight waltz began.

He led you, step by step, and you trailed after. Movements easy and effortless, like two intertwining maple leaves, spinning and spiraling. Their partner, the center of their universe.

“It’s as plain anyone can see,” he breathed.

“We’re simply meant to be,” you returned.

They danced as if possessed or an enchantment was cast upon their footwear. The moment too sweet, too succulent, to relinquish so soon. They wanted to savor it, indulge in it—and each other.

For never was there a more perfect pair than the Pumpkin King and his consort.

[l0vergirlwrites]

always, forever ; jj maybank

synopsis: after the events in morocco, you can’t help but think about how you almost lost the love of your life.

warnings: general angst themes, mentions of blood & death & weapons, established relationship with jj, mentions of season 4 episode 10

note: obx season 4 actually didn’t end the way it did btw!! this is how it should’ve ended!!

the warm night air at poguelandia was filled with laughs, cheers, & various conversations between the pogues as the radio blasted in the background. it was a pogue style celebration for getting the crown, for fighting tooth & nail, & for being a team.

while the rest of the pogues were on the upper level by the hammocks, feet pounding against the wood with each jump or dance move, you had situated yourself on the main level’s porch, your eyes trained on how the current in the marsh moved, the way the willows bent to the wind, and the fireflies floating through the atmosphere.

you should’ve felt more happy, bursting with joy with each beer you nursed, dancing by jj’s side like there was no tomorrow. but part of you just couldn’t shake the near death encounter you both experienced.

*~*~**~~*~**~*~**~*

the sand was everywhere, whipping at your bodies quickly as you ran through narrow pathways. jj’s hand was tightly holding yours as you led the two of you, his other securing the blue gemmed crown to his waist. gunshots & yelling men could be heard in the background, making you run faster out of fear.

“turn right up ahead!” jj yelled through his bandana covered mouth, squeezing your hand as a signal.

you turned, coming face to face with a wooden door which seemed promising. one minute, you were opening the door. the next, you were in the arms of a dangerous man.

groff had a knife to your neck, pressing hard into your skin as a warning of what he was really capable of. you struggled to breathe in his hold, chest rising up & down frantically as you stared at jj.

the blonde moved slowly towards you, negotiating a trade off between him & the man who’s supposedly his real father. in a swift motion, the crown was in groff’s possession & you were safe in jj’s embrace.

you remember his lips pressed against the shell of your ear, his broken voice assuring you that you were okay when your fingers dug into the clothing on his back.

however, this moment was short lasting because jj let you go so he could face groff one last time.

once you saw groff’s blade twitch in his hand, you pulled jj back as groff moved forward. his knife luckily didn’t go deep into jj’s side, & you had kicked it out of groff’s grip. soon enough, groff was kicked into a ditch below & jj had clutched his side.

the cut was easily remedied by your caring hands, ripping off some of your clothes to press into his side. you were crying by this point, being comforted by jj’s voice & hands as he slid down against the wall. your hands pressed into the wound to keep pressure on the slow bleeding, trying to remind yourself that it was minor & it could’ve been worse.

it could’ve been way worse.

**~*~*~***~*~~**~*~~**~*~*

“was wondering where you went, baby”

you blinked hard, running a hand over your face before turning to the blonde. you smiled at him as he sat down beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his embrace.

“i didn’t go far” you mumbled as you pressed a kiss into the skin on his shoulder, lips touching an old scar of his while you squeezed his knee.

jj couldn’t help but smile at the sight of your hand on his knee wearing the ring he stole for you on your ring finger. “knew it’d be the perfect fit” his thumb pad ran over the silver ring, turning his head to look into your eyes.

you didn’t say anything else, just needing to kiss him because words were too difficult. “i really love you” you breathed out against his lips, unable to hide your smile when he kissed you harder at your omission, his hand on your cheek holding you in place.

jj repeated those words back to you as he pulled away, his thumb running across your bottom lip in thought. he could tell the events from morocco were weighing down on you, he could see it in the way you looked at him.

you were scared that he might vanish somehow after coming so close to it. the thought of it weighed down on him too.

“i’m not going anywhere, you know that right?” he spoke softer now, eyes trained on yours despite his hand pulling one of your free ones to his heart.

with your palm pressed against his chest, you could feel his heartbeat beneath his skin. it made you tear up involuntarily. “i know,” you nodded, clutching the material of his shirt. “i just… m-my mind won’t let me forget it”.

your eyes drifted to his left side, where you could see some of the medical bandaging you had put on earlier peeking out from under his shirt. his cut was healing, he was okay—but you knew it was gonna leave a permanent scar.

jj nodded understandably. he himself had his own internal battles with what happened, the small injury he had sustained.

“if it weren’t for your quick thinking, i—“ he stopped himself from saying it. “you saved me, baby” jj smiled, wiping the stray tear that fell onto your cheek without a second thought.

“well, you saved me first—“ he shut you up with a kiss, brushing his nose against yours.

“we’re always gonna save each other. i know that” you whispered against him when he pressed his forehead into yours, his arm around your shoulders securing you to him—to remind you that nothing will come between you two.

“always” jj agreed, a sappy laugh escaping his chest when you hugged him, your face seeking comfort in the crook of his neck.

he melted into your touch, breathing in the scent of your perfume like a vice as he let out a few tears of his own.

“it’s us against the world for life. always, forever” & you couldn’t agree more.

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity. 

DING DING DING 

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium. 

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf. 

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!” 

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.  

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it. 

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe. 

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.  

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you. 

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.  

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.  

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching: 

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!” 

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy” 

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss. 

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.” 

“Then why is this happening?” 

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.  

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice. 

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.  

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily. 

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life. 

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest. 

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect. 

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished. 

“Hm? Who’re you?” 

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.” 

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this. 

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly. 

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you. 

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked. 

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist. 

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.” 

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.  

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.” 

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.” 

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?” 

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours. 

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.  

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.  

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this. 

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear. 

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.” 

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response. 

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.  

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.  

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring. 

“Wriothesley! Times up.”  He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you. 

“Two minutes.” 

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.  

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.  

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe. 

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest. 

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.” 

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line. 

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads. 

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette. 

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand. 

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.” 

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you. 

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand. 

 “No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy. 

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.” 

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.  

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.” 

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him. 

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze. 

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips. 

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips. 

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction. 

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl. 

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile. 

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence. 

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head. 

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair. 

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone. 

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle. 

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant. 

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face. 

“Why are you being annoying-” 

“Who were you talking to” he chides.  

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.” 

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.  

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.” 

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.” 

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel. 

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word. 

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners. 

 Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course. 

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone. 

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face. 

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you. 

He promised. 

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address. 

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again. 

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.  

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly. 

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse. 

“What? I don’t know.”  “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”  

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response. 

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.  

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy. 

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-” 

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-” 

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab. 

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-” 

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”  

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes. 

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-” 

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.  

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there. 

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts. 

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.  

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds. 

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside. 

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.  

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask. 

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid. 

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face. 

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:  

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”  

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body. 

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology. 

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.  

“So, um.” 

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably. 

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts. 

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes. 

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.  

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you. 

“Sorry. For what I said.” 

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit. 

“You know I didn’t do it, right?” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I know.” you reassure.  

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention. 

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy. 

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours. 

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house. 

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw. 

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge. 

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom. 

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness. 

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.  

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.  

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “ 

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.  

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.  

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.  

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks. 

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance. 

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can. 

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest. 

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.  

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.  

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?”  he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.” 

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.” 

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

[l0vergirlsw0rld]

day 2: roleplay (unedited) oldman!logan. | NSFW MDNI 18+

The cabin was quiet except for the crackling of the fire, casting warm flickering shadows across the room. Logan was slumped down into his usual leather armchair that was positioned across from you. He was now nursing his fourth whiskey, flipping across the crinkled pages of today's newspaper.

 You subtly took a peek at him from your book, trying to determine whether he was in the state you needed him to be to play this little game of yours; A newfound sexual fantasy that was planned for the evening, unbeknownst to him.

It had been days since you were dancing around this idea, trying to find the right time to propose it to him. It was common knowledge that he was older and less adventurous than you were sexually; so you decided to wait til he loosened up a bit before springing this idea onto him and by the looks of it, tonight was the night.

Logan read attentively through his thick lashes, reading glasses sat on the tip of his nose,  his eyes traced each sentence on the paper; one by one, lost in focus. You could tell from the prominent missing crease in his forehead that he was feeling relaxed and open. Most likely due to the liquor. 

Game time, you thought to yourself before closing your book.

You rose from your seat and sauntered over to him, his eyes slowly lifting from the page to meet yours. There was something different in the air tonight, and he could feel it. The subtle smirk playing on your lips didn't go unnoticed by him whatsoever as he knew you better than anyone else on this planet.

“What's all this about?” The side of his mouth quipped upwards. His low voice was already gravelly, though there was a hint of intrigue behind his gruff exterior.

You stopped a few feet from him, your fingers tracing the neckline of your white silk nightdress in momentary hesitation. You slipped your hand into your bra and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.

 “We’re going to play a game tonight, Lo'.”

He folded and tossed the newspaper on the small side table, sitting further up in his seat curiously.“You want to play a game? You know that's not really my style, sweetheart.”

You stepped closer stopping right between his knees, unfolding the paper and showing him a set of instructions you had scribbled on there.

“I think this one might be,” you said, your voice low and teasing. “Let’s just say I play the part of an innocent little bunny and you’re the Big Bad Wolf chasing me. Simple.”

His eyes narrowed as he deciphered your instructions, a slow grin curling his lips as he pieced together the objective. 

“You want me to hunt you?” His words were slow and careful as if he found the prompt amusing. He removed his glasses with a swift hand, taking a better look up at your now-flushed face.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the thrill of this dangerous game settling into your bones. “Catch me,” you whispered, leaning in close enough to his ear that he could feel your breath on his neck, “and I’m yours for the night.”

That was all it took. The predator in him snapped awake. You didn’t even have time to see him react before you dashed towards the door, slipping out into the night. The cool breeze hit your skin, but it wasn’t the chill of the temperature that made you shiver—it was knowing that Logan was right behind you.

He was nice enough to give you a lengthy headstart; though he was getting on in age, he still possessed mutations that overpowered your human capabilities. But for the sake of the game, he took his time getting up and out of his chair.

Blades of wind sent your hair twirling behind you as you cut through the trees. The night air was sharp against your exposed skin, each breath stinging your lungs as you ran deeper into the woods.

 The moon hung low in the sky, its silver light filtering through the canopy of trees, casting long, eerie shadows across the forest floor. Your visibility was minimal but you were able to make out the thick trunks of trees, to avoid running into them. As you continued to charge forward through the underbrush, branches whipped at your arms and legs making your skin sting from the sharp sensation. Leaves and twigs crunched beneath your hurried footsteps.

It was a matter of a single minute before you could hear him close behind. His heavy footfalls weren’t rushed, but they didn’t need to be. He was toying with you, letting you run, knowing exactly where you were no matter how fast you moved. His senses were far sharper than yours, and even with the distance between you, you could feel his eager presence, a predator on the hunt.

Your heart raced in your chest, every sound amplified in the quiet of the night. You dodged low-hanging branches, vaulting over fallen logs, your breath coming in short, frantic bursts. The trees closed in around you, their skeletal arms reaching out as if they, too, were trying to capture you. You circled the forest floor, trying to navigate what direction to go in next before you spotted a hiding spot. 

There—a cluster of rocks, large enough to hide behind. You stumbled forward towards it, your foot catching onto a tree root, and you barely managed to catch yourself before you hit the pine-covered ground. Every muscle screamed in protest, but you didn’t stop, pulling yourself behind the boulders, crouching low, holding your breath as his steps grew louder. 

The woods went still for a moment, only the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears. You pressed your back against the cold, rough stone, closing your eyes, willing yourself to stay silent.

But you knew it wouldn’t last.

A faint rustle in the leaves sent a jolt of fear through you. You peeked around the edge of the rock, your eyes scanning the darkness, searching for any sign of him. Then, you heard it—a deep, guttural growl, low and menacing, close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

“Come out, darlin’,” Logan’s voice called out, dark and teasing, dripping with amusement. “You know this Big Bad Wolf can smell your wet pussy from a mile away.”

Your pulse quickened as his words sank in. Of course, he could: he memorized every curve and freckle on your body and your scent was no different in this circumstance.

The ground beneath you seemed to vibrate as his footsteps drew nearer, slow and deliberate.

His voice came again, it was right behind you, a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.

“Gotcha, little bunny.”

Well, that didn’t last long. You thought.

A firm hand gripped your wrist, pulling you up onto your feet and sprawling you forward onto the rock that stood between the two of you. His eyes were wild, filled with the thrill of the chase, his whiskey breath hot against your skin.

“I said I caught you,” he growled, pulling you even closer to him, your knees scraping against the stone, earning a small whine from your lips. 

Your pulse quickened, and you met his intense gaze. “What now?”

Logan’s lips curled into a dark smirk, his voice a husky whisper. “Now, I claim what’s mine.”

The tendons in your forearms stung as the weight of your body pulled down on them. Your arms were suspended above your head, wrists tied together to a thick tree branch with Logan's belt. You planted your bare feet onto the forest's floor keeping them solid, trying to master your balance.

Logan's firm hands spread your cheeks apart as he dove his face deeper inside of you from behind. Your breath hitched with every brush of the sharp blades of his facial hair against your sensitive skin. A low growl escaped from his chest as he lapped at you skillfully. 

The excitement of the chase had you dripping down your leg, leaving a fragrant trail for Logan to follow and capture you. His hunger for you grew deeper with each stride and now he could finally have his taste after a short pursuit. 

You moaned into the night's air, as he passed his tongue over your swollen clit repeatedly. With every flick of your sensitive bud, your legs twitched in response. The much-anticipated friction was quickly building pressure in your lower area, nearing that sweet relief you oh-so craved. His nails dug into your skin, sending jolts of excitement up your spine. 

"Tastes so fucking good," He groaned against your slit, your juices dripping down his chin. 

You tipped your head back with a moan as he resumed his long warm strokes against your core. "I'm close!” You let out breathily. Your fingertips and toes began to tingle as your orgasm crept closer. 

"Cum all over my face, be a good bunny," He encouraged you, sucking your clit into his mouth. His soft lips wrapped around your aching needy clit. He hollowed his cheeks, the pressure surrounding you increased, his wet tongue stimulating it simultaneously. Heat began to pool at your cheeks as your attention became hazy. 

"Ah fuck!" You moaned squeezing your thighs around his face as the unbearable pressure began to pool out of you. Your sporadic breaths filled the air and your body contorted from the overstimulation of your senses. Logan kept his steady pace, helping you ride the wave of pleasure.

 Your hips bucked against his face softly as you began to regain your senses and your breath. He followed your lead, making sure his girl was finished cumming before pulling away. 

Your breathing regulated and he retrieved his face from your now sensitive area. His palms slid down your ass and off of you as he wiped your sweet slick off his face with the back of his hand. 

With a low grunt, he got up from his knees and the familiar unzipping of his jeans could be heard from behind you. 

"How's my little catch doin'? Still with me?" He spoke lowly, as he pushed his pants down to his ankles.

"Yes, so good." You assured him, voice small and exhausted from the major relief. 

"...so good, hm?" He repeated, tracing a loving finger between your folds before positioning himself behind you. 

His throbbing red tip ghosted your entrance as his hands slid up your hips to settle on them. His lips pressed a warm, wet kiss to your shoulder. 

"You ready?" He mumbled against you.

"Yes," You breathed. 

"Such a good little bunny," He praised before pushing it through your tight slit, making your breath hitch at the back of your throat. 

"Fuck your tight." He grunted out as he slowly travelled further inside of you, his length gliding effortlessly due to his skillful preparation. You became fuller, your walls clenching around his remarkable girth. 

He reached the hilt, his thick tip making contact with your cervix. You instinctively jumped a little from the pressure. “Can’t handle this big cock eh?” He snickered.

This wasn't new, even though the both of you had been together for a while, you often needed some time to get used to him. He waited until he could feel you relax around him, adjusting to his size before pulling back his hips to find a rhythm. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin grew louder through the dense forest as Logan began to make full thrusts inside of you. With each one, your uncomfortableness lessened and was replaced with pleasure. His perfectly angled curve found your G-spot, making you arch your back in response. 

You bit your lip trying to stop the moans from escaping, but you couldn't help it as you felt that familiar pressure begin to build. His pumps became harder and faster as his own excitement grew, one of his hands slid up into your hair and pulled your head back closer to him. His lips were now curving the shell of your ear and you could feel his hot breaths on your nipply skin. 

Goosebumps trailed up your stomach as he whispered; "You're gonna take every drop of this big bad wolf’s cum like a good little slut-bunny, you hear me?" His voice rang through your ears as he pushed deeper. His grip on your hair tightened, yanking your scalp with each buck of his hips. 

"Yes, ah- please! Fill me up with your cum, Mr Wolf-ah" You squeezed around him. His cock twitched inside of you eagerly: "Mr." He wasn't one for formalities, but there was something about the way you said in this moment that just did it for him.

"Oh fuck," He let out, snapping inside of you even faster. Your juices dripped down your legs from his relentless thrusting. Your head grew heavy on your neck as your body began to overheat. His long pumps, pushed his swollen tip into your sweet spot, edging you closer and closer to your release. 

Your knees began to shake with the overstimulation of your core. Logan bit down on your shoulder and with another few bucks, you both were cumming in unison. His cock was buried deep inside you, spraying your tight walls with his pearly seed. 

He rutted forward mechanically, riding out his orgasm. He replaced his teeth with his lips on your shoulder, kissing a trail up to your neck. Your head swooned in ecstasy as your breathing once more began to stabilize. "You. did. so. good," He praised between kisses. 

As you caught your breath your body began to come down from the high. The heat draining from you, as the night's cold air covered you in shivers. Your nipples pebbled against the coarse bark of the tree. 

Logan pulled out and untied you from the branch, catching you in his arms. He dressed you back into your nightgown and put his pants back on before carrying you bridal style back to the cabin.

"You won," You managed to let out with the little energy you had left inside of you. Your eyelids grew heavy in the comfort of his strong arms. 

"I sure did, little bunny." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

"I sure did."

🏷️:@back2thebasics @spookyfunhottub, @lanassmarty, @hypermarvellove @kbear8863 @squishyfruitloop, @v3rdee @instantpersonawombat, @a-leg-without-fear, @cherrypieyourface

If you'd like to join my tagged list and be notified whenever I post new content, click ->-> HERE<-<-, instructions will follow.

->->masterlist<-<-

[jamminvroomvroom]

in the middle of nowhere.

ln x fem!reader

in which you get the wrong idea in the middle of nowhere, so lando finally pops the question.

hello again! two fics in three days, unhinged jas is back 🤭 right so anyways, here you go! i love this concept so much and i hope you do too, lemme know what you think!

this can absolutely count as part two to everything if you want it to!

songs to set the mood: green eyes::siena by nothing but thieves, fearless by taylor swift, white ferrari by frank ocean, to love by suki waterhouse

warnings: 18+ minors dni! smut, angst for a sec, fluff, bit of choking, reader being stupid, lando also being stupid, then being so sickeningly in love, car sex hehe

2.1k words

the proposal

lando could see it now, the picture clear in his mind. the lines of your dress, clean and white. a veil that flowed, lacy and intricate. your eyes meeting his as you ascended towards him, ready to be bound together in life and love by two silver bands.

all you had to do was say yes. all he had to do was ask.

it was simple enough, getting down on one knee, bowing down before the woman he cherished with everything he had. the planning, however, that went into asking the question was eating him alive.

lando thought that he’d nailed it, finally landing on that one big idea that you’d remember for the rest of your lives. the perfect moment where he’d pledge to be yours forever.

little did he know that while the preparation was killing him slowly, it was also killing you.

-

the car ride was quiet.

lando tried to remain neutral, hiding his nerves and excitement. today was the day, you were en route to a small vineyard in the south of france. the drive from your monaco apartment wasn’t too far, but it was long enough for the pair of you to slip into silence. lando perceived it to be comfortable, glancing at you every now and then, noticing how you were taking in the countryside.

he tried not to concern himself over the way you were fiddling with your hair, chewing at your fingernails. you didn’t seem to notice the way he was watching you, eyes flirting between where you sat and the road ahead. he was more concerned by the dark cloud gathering ahead, but found some hope in the way the sunlight broke through, casting beams of light every which way.

the road was dead, not another car for miles. lando felt like you were the only two people in the world, manoeuvring the vintage lamborghini through the winding lanes, the overhanging trees casting curious shadows. it felt like a fairytale, until, of course, it didn’t.

“do you still love me, lando?” you choked out, finally turning to look at him.

lando slammed the brakes, hard. the way they screeched in protest told him that he’d be dropping a large sum into his mechanics bank account, but he couldn’t find an ounce of care, not when the woman he adored was asking such gut wrenching questions.

“what?” lando spat, delirious with confusion. his eyes were wide, wild with fear. “i- what?” he repeated himself, heart beating dangerously fast, and not in the usual way it did when you spoke.

“you just… are you breaking up with me?” your eyes were brimming with tears, lip quivering ever so slightly, but you stayed strong.

“are you serious?” lando was bewildered. “why would you think that?” he was wracking his brain for anything he’d done wrong.

“you’ve been so distant, at first i thought- well i don’t know what i thought, i just feel like you’re slipping away from me.” you sounded like the shell of your usual self, distraught in the face of it all ending. lando was too.

“baby, i’m so sorry. you’ve got it all wrong, i promise.” lando turned in his seat towards you, quickly checking his mirror as he did, safety first. he grabbed your hands, eyes meeting yours as he tried to convey reassurance.

“why have you been like this, then? have i done something wrong?” and so the troubleshooting began.

lando clenched his teeth, wondering how on earth he could explain his way out of this one without completely letting the cat out of the bag. it seemed that while he was planning perfection, he’d been neglecting you and he felt painfully stupid.

“i can’t… well, i can’t say.” lando replied, voice laced with hesitation. you frowned at his lack of explanation, head tilted in confusion.

“you can’t say? well that’s reassuring.” you bit back sarcastically. “if you don’t want me anymore, i’d rather you just tell me now.”

lando couldn’t believe what he was hearing. three years. three years you’d been together, and he was sure he’d loved you even longer. he was shocked that you thought that low of him, that he’d treat you so poorly, stringing you along. he could admit to himself that he’d made a bit of a mess of this, but he couldn’t accept that you thought he didn’t love you.

lando lived and breathed you.

“are you serious? you think i don’t want you?” his mind was moving a million miles an hour, and it spurred him on to make his next move. “get out the car.”

lando swung his door open, bounding round the door to open your door. there was a little velvet box burning a hole in his pocket, and he could feel it getting hotter with every stride he took. you stared at him dumbfounded when he took your hand, pulling you out of the car and into the road. you glanced around nervously, making sure you weren’t about to cause a car crash, but the coast was clear.

he pulled you into his chest, holding you close, eyes fixed on yours, his own a little teary now.

“you think i don’t want you? god.” lando sighed, shaking his head. one of his hands snaked down to his pocket. “you are the only person i will ever want. i didn’t want to do this here, had a whole plan and everything, but that means nothing to me if the woman i love thinks i don’t want her.”

his little speech had knocked the air out of you, and as he sunk down onto one knee, the colours of the sun hitting him so beautifully, you realised just how wrong you had been.

“baby, from the moment i met you, i knew. i knew you were gonna be my person, i just didn’t even imagine that you’d feel the same way. these years with you have been the best fucking years of my life, and i knew from the beginning that i wanted you by my side through it all.”

he was grinning up at you, a ball of nerves and curls, a few tears falling. you were a river, weeping over him, one hand clutching over your heart, the other fallen to your side.

“maybe i got it wrong, and i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry. but i’m asking what i’ve wanted to ask for a ridiculously long time.” lando breathed. “will you marry me?”

you blinked, once, twice, choking out breaths between sobs. you dragged him up from the ground, kissing him with everything you had left. it was passionate, heavy with pent up emotion, and you never wanted to let him go. you cupped his face, keeping you together when you broke apart.

“yes, lando.” you whispered. “of course.” he slipped the ring onto your finger, a perfect, effortless fit, and then you were kissing him again, as close as could be, his hands all over you.

that’s when you felt the first drops of rain, the clouds finally breaking, just as they’d been threatening to all day.

“oh, fuck.” lando muttered, ready to pull you back to the car, but you wanted this moment to last.

“it doesn’t matter.” you said, letting the droplets coat your flushed skin. lando just smiled, relief washing over him like the rain.

you were engaged. fuck the rain.

and so, there you were, getting your very own movie moment, kissing in the rain with the love of your life, your fiancé, the man you would spend the rest of your life with. the sun still broke through the clouds, bathing you in light as the rain splattered against the damp ground. the leaves of the trees seemed to glisten, water droplets casting twinkles like fairy lights all around you. somehow, after everything, it was perfect. more perfect that anything you could have asked for, and, as bittersweet as it was to admit it, better than anything lando could have planned.

you threw your head back, staring up at the sky. lando leant forward, kissing over your exposed neck, and you hummed in delight. his lips worked their way up until they were ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“i love you. i will always love you.” lando whispered, and you melted into his hands that had a firm grip on your waist.

you shared a look, every worry dissipated, and you saw your life together, right there in his eyes. a flower littered aisle, him in a sleek black suit, his eyes meeting yours from the other side of the room. and then he was kissing you again and you felt the cool, damp metal of his car against your skin. your mind was full of houses in the country, white bedsheets, children playing in a garden. dinners by a fireplace and maybe a dog. but everything you saw slipped away until the only thing that remained was lando, right here, right now.

he was all over you, wet curls trickling cold water over you, sending a shiver down your spine. you grabbed at his shoulders, pulling at his soaked shirt, the white material translucent from the weather. it clung to him deliciously as you ran your hands over the linen.

“get in the car.” he groaned, sliding the material of your skirt up your legs. you complied instantly, turning to climb into your seat, when he stopped you. “no, honey. on my lap.” he smiled mischievously as he slid into the passenger seat and you quickly followed clambering onto his lap.

lando pulled your left hand up, so that it was resting over his heart. you finally had a chance to properly take in the ring, breathtaking as it was. it was an emerald cut diamond, simple yet elegant, exactly what you’d always envisioned.

“you see that? every time you look at this ring i want you to remember that i will always be yours. okay?” his voice had dropped, making the moment you were in even more intimate.

“okay.” you whispered, and his hand trailed lower, slipping under the hem of your ridden up dress. the other went to your neck, fingers gripping softly at the base of your throat.

“you thought i didn’t want you?” his grip tightened, your eyes wide in awe, fixed on his, murky blue green waters turned dark. “silly girl.” and then his other hand found your underwear, tugging it to the side.

lando moaned when he felt how wet you were, dripping all over his fingers, nice and ready for him. he worked through your folds, applying a firm, slow pressure to your clit. your mouth hung open, eyes fluttering shut from the pleasure, but the way his hand closed around your neck had you staring back at him again.

“i need you.” you whimpered, your own smaller hands gripping at his wrist, pushing him further into your delicate neck, rolling your hips against where his hand worked against your soft flesh.

“don’t doubt me anymore, do you? not when i’m the only one who can make you feel like this?” lando teased, and your stomach tightened, clamping down on the two fingers he’d slipped inside you.

“no,” you whined. “only you, lando.” and that was enough convincing for him.

he held you up, just enough to free himself from his jeans and boxers, and you gripped his shoulders, clawing at him as you sunk down on his length. the rain fell harder, condensation gathering on the windows as you ground down on him, meeting his thrusts. tears pricked your eyes; he felt so good, fit you like a missing puzzle piece, and you’d doubted him. you knew, in that moment, that you’d never do such a thing again.

moans were shared between you in unison, your foreheads pressed together as you both got closer and closer, the tight space intensifying the desperation to meet your end. his hands were firm on your hips, his body tight underneath your hands. you couldn’t keep the pace, thighs aching where you were straddling him, and he quickly took charge. your head fell to his shoulder, panting into his ear as he gave you everything, putting everything he had into the final few thrusts.

you laid against his chest in silence after, the sunset casting pinks and purples over the car. you grinned lazily, exhausted, your heart fuller than ever before.

“i’m sorry i doubted you.” you mumbled into his neck, nosing at his stubbled jaw.

“i’m sorry i made you doubt me.” he responded, stroking your hair, squeezing you tighter for a second.

“i can’t wait to marry you, lando.” you kissed his jaw, sitting up to smile at him. your hands looped around his neck, twisting his curls around your fingers.

“my wife.” lando chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “let’s get you home, hm?”

“please.” you crooned. “i’m sure you need to tell max that you finally asked me, huh?”

“you know me too well.”

-

taglist

removed tags that weren’t working! lemme know if you wanna be added or removed

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys @rachstash @infinitebells @multilovebot @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit

[teddybeartoji]

彡 HE'S ANNOYING AND BEAUTIFUL AND HE'S GOING TO RUIN YOUR FUCKING DAY

☆. contains: satoru gojo x gn!reader; con-artists au, crack, he's stupid, he also has a massive fucking crush on you (and you're no better btw), reader smokes a cigarette gasp!! oh and reader is wearing a suit wc: 2.2k

+ a few hours later...

the spring sun warms your skin as sit on a little bench on top of the hill that overlooks your destination. a castle – it's fancy, fanciest you've ever seen. it's fucking massive and you can't help but wonder, how it would feel to sprint through the long beautiful hallways of the place...

way too many super cars are lined up in front of it and their various colors are making your eyes hurt. people in stunning dresses and equally stunning suits spill out of the machines and they laugh and roar, smoke blowing from their noses and lips as they flex their expensive pipes and cigarette holders. bald men with terrible mustaches flood your vision and you decide that you've had enough for the moment and let your head fall back. this is your last chance to recharge before the work begins.

digging in your inner suit pocket, you pull out a silver cigarette case with a beautiful engraving on it. memories reside in the little crevices of the art and the thoughts make a sentimental (albeit an annoying one. you'd never do this in front of him.) smile tug at the corners of your lips. the tiny machine was part of a set, a gift for you.

you try not to think about that for too long.

patting the side of your upper thigh, you dig out a lighter. it's just a plastic one; it's old as hell and it has definitely seen better days. but despite its tired look, you still consider it a friend, a partner, a helping hand.

you grab a cig from the box and place it between your lips before pocket the case again. the lighter is warm in your hands as you stare at the design on it. swirls and lines run all across the silver, dancing and merging together. a lot of memories are buried in the cracks of them and a sentimental smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

click! click! click!

perhaps today is the day you'll lay it to rest. there's no fire, no heat, but you're not mad. the cigarette hangs from your lips and you let out a sigh. you lean back onto your hand and close your eyes; if you won't get your final energy boost from nicotine, the sun will have to do it.

a gust of wind brushes over your skin, it cards through your hair and you feel alive. the laughter from down below finds it way up to you and it makes you crack a grin yourself – these rich pricks won't know what hit them. this'll be an easy job, no sweat. in and out, it'll only take a few hours tops if everything goes without a hitc—

click!

time slows.

cracking open an eye, you watch the stick catch fire.

engravings in silver – a perfect match to the ones on the case that's hiding comfortably in your chest pocket. right beside your heart. pale, slender fingers and manicured nails, a perfectly fitted sleeve – it's him. trailing up his arm with your eye, his cologne fills your nostrils and you realize that he's standing way closer than you thought.

it takes a mere two seconds and you craning your neck to meet his eyes. they match the clear sky, the only difference being that while birds twirl and dance in the blue ocean up above your heads, little stars twinkle in his.

satoru gojo.

and his stupid fucking smile.

you hate him.

he snaps the little silver machine shut before placing it back into his pocket with one swift move. his pearly white teeth shine under the blinding sun and the sight of his dimples makes your stomach churn. silly butterflies.

staring up at him, you hollow your cheeks and breathe in the smoke. it travels through your mouth and makes its way deep into your lungs. he's patient. the grey fog fills your organs and you let it simmer before letting out out again. you blow it at him but he doesn't budge; your eyes look so pretty in this light. he watches your lips curl into a pretty little smirk and then he's already being blessed with your saccharine voice. "gojo."

he does a dramatic bow as he stands before you – his one hand behind his back and the other on his heart. "my beloved."

the hum and the eye roll you award him with warm his insides. he straightens his spine and locks both his hands behind him, almost making him look like an innocent, virtuous person. it's that charming smile of his that's able to save him from just about everything. his ability to bare his teeth in the most endearing way pisses you off.

it really fucking does.

he twirls on his heel and the gentle gust of wind ruffles his snowy hair. he eyes the castle below and the little ant-people that buzz in front of it.

"you got an invite?" he asks in a sing-song voice. he seems excited. that's a bad thing for you. he will ruin your plans, you already know it.

"i did not."

you don't need to see his face to know that his smile has stretched even wider. you hate it. he quirps a little "hm" before spinning back around. his hand dips into his inner suit pocket and returns with an ivory envelope. his eyelashes flutter shut as he dramatically fans his face with it.

you hate him.

"that's too bad. they have this cool new system – they give you a keycard. they check it at the door, of course, but after that you can just go wild with it." he paces around in front of you while you just inhale the smoke back into your lungs as a way to alleviate the fact that he's going to ramble about a fucking key card. "there are tiers, you see. the smaller guys just get to use it as the invite while others..."

he turns to you with a big grin. "can actually open some super secret doors."

he flicks the envelope just to show it off some more and you wish you could suffocate him with the cigarette smoke. or maybe you should just push him off this damn hill instead.

"not that you would know anything about it though..." his words trail off as his eyes snake their way up from the ground and to your pretty face.

"and you're one of the big guys then, i presume?"

your remark is like water off a duck's back. it's the exact opposite actually – it only eggs him on. he watches the smoke slip from between your lips as you try to bite him back, he watches your chest fall; you look handsome in your suit. he's never seen you in an outfit like this - sure, he's seen you in some fancy fits before but this... takes the crown for sure.

you almost look like you belong here, though he skeptical on whether you'd think of that as a compliment or not. he doesn't say it, opting for something else.

"you look good– "

"you look good."

damn.

you blink up at him, he blinks down on you. he fiddles with his fingers behind his back and he bites back the comment he wants to make about you complimenting him, about you two speaking at the same time. something about being partners, something-something.

he does look good.

he's also wearing a gorgeous black suit on top of a pearly white shirt and a matching black bowtie adorns his neck, and it looks like he did try to style his hair just a little, but you know him – you know he likes it when the wind messes it up. he always says it makes him look more rugged.

you assume he doesn't know what the word means.

silence falls upon the two of you, engulfing you in this comfortable little bubble. your lips wrap around the cigarette again and he pockets the envelope in his hand.

"y'think so?"

he asks for praise so nonchalantly that you almost give in. "...maybe."

satoru's chest puff up and his eyes light up even more than ever – you regret your decision to tell him that. his lips part but you don't give him a chance to tease you any further.

you shake the cigarette butt before pushing yourself off the bench. satoru observes you, always so excited about everything you do. he can't tear his eyes from you. placing the cig back between your lips, you approach the man in front of you in a confident stride.

without locking eyes with him, you take your place a little bit too close in front of him and casually reach for his tie. satoru's breath hitches at the sudden proximity but he doesn't back away. you tug at the edges of it, your eyebrows furrowing in the process. you look cute, all concentrated and everything. his smile makes its way back onto his lips as he stares at you and his hands twitch at his sides.

smoke dances in the air as you take your time to fix his tie; the sun melts the two of you together as the silence settles around you again. the breeze plays with his hair some more, it grazes the apples of your cheeks and it's refreshing. this feels like the old times.

"smoking kills, you know."

his voice is barely above a whisper and you snort at him. "so do cars, dipshit."

"hm, douche."

you send a sharp glare at him and he doesn't even try to hold his ever-growing grin. the stupid fucking butterflies in your stomach are making you sick. he's about to say something ridiculous again, so you rush to give his earlobe a gentle-not-so-gentle tug. you laugh at the way he winces and the way his skin turns a dark shade of pink in a matter of seconds; it manages to bloom all over his ears and the apples of his cheeks before he decides to swat your hand away.

your eyes and the tingling pain in his ear are enough to distract him from your wandering hands. skilled fingers dip under the front of his suit jacket as you lean forward to whisper to him. "it's touché."

his eyes glue themselves onto the cigarette in your mouth, between your pretty lips, giving you more than enough time to swipe the envelope from his chest pocket with ease.

"right..."

dusting off some imaginary dust from his shoulder, you cock your head to the side and take the cigarette from your lips while giving him another good look. how could you not? despite his god-awful personality and his tendency to screw up every single one of your plans in one way or another – he's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. from this angle you could count the freckles that are scattered across his nose and cheeks, hell – you could count his damn eyelashes if you really wanted to.

(you kind of do.)

while he's being bewitched by you and your eyes and your perfume and the damn smoking stick in your hand, you hide the envelope behind your back. you make use of the promiximity between you two, your own body concealing the movement of you tucking the thing under your own suit jacket and into the waistband of your pants. you're here to steal afterall.

satoru rubs his ear and feigns a pout. it's the fakest one you've seen yet, but then a dopey smile makes it's way onto his lips and for a second you think that your plan didn't work, that he felt it, that he saw it—

"you know... if you wanted satoru to just get you an invite, you should've just said so, sweetheart."

...

you stare at him with a blank face and he shines right back at you. he plucks the cigarette from your hand and throws it to the ground, stomping on the thing, he puts out the light with the heel of his foot.

"but... since you didn't ask for it, since you didn't ask for satoru's help... you'll have to find your own way in, yeah?" he's way too smug, too arrongant and the only thing that's making you feel better is the thought of him being shut out from the party because he doesn't have the invite. anymore.

"stop referring to yourself in third person, it makes you look stupid."

"you don't think i look stupid in the first place then?"

.............

you can't wait for this day to be over.

"alright. go now. run along, little prince." you give his shoulder a shove but he refuses to back away, leaning closer a little instead.

"are you gonna be okay out here, hm? all alone? no keycard or nothing?"

even his breath smells good. you want to punch him.

"don't worry about me, gojo. i'm sure i'll figure something out."

"ahh! you always do! and that's why you're the greatest, baby!" wincing at the volume of his tone, you clench your jaw and press your teeth together. satoru loves it when you do that. "don't take too long, okay? i'll miss you."

he offers you another fake pout and turns around on his heel, but not before giving you a wink. he looks over his shoulder for the last time and...

"don't forget to throw away the cig! littering isn't sexy!"

he's so overbearingly annoying and he will so ruin your fucking plans.

[ichorai]

little dragon ; aemond targaryen. (m)

part two ; water dragon.

pairing ; aemond targaryen x tully!f!reader

synopsis ; he was your fire, and you were his sea, willing to push and pull the tides at his behest.

words ; 5.8k

themes ; fluff, smut (minors dni!), fantasy, established relationship (married), pregnant au

warnings / includes ; unprotected sex, tiny bit of oral (f recieving), breeding and praise kink, pregnancy/childbirth, vhagar cameo, aegon being a menace, foul language, aemond being a good husband/dad unlike his own father, so sorry if the valyrian grammar isn't completely correct ;-; if anyone gets the bert & ernie tully reference you deserve a million dollars

main masterlist.

It happened in the dead of night. When the winds quietened to but a feathery whisper, when the moon shone white and gold and silver, when the fires in the hearth of your chambers had waned to a soft orange glow.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon,” he whispered against the flushed skin of your neck, traveling downwards to softly kiss along your clavicle. His voice was gravely and rich, soaked with honey and ocean salt. The sapphire within his eye glinted with the dim lighting of the sparse candles scattered around your chambers, and you craned your head to press a kiss upon his scar, your nose slotted against his cheekbone. 

My love was what he’d said—you didn’t know much Valyrian, still trying your best to study during your free hours, but your husband called you that often enough for you to recognize the affectionate words. 

One of your hands was buried within his silken silver hair, tugging in tandem with his swift, fluid motions. The other clawed down his toned back, leaving angry red trails in its wake. A strained cry fell from your kiss-swollen lips as you rocked your hips against his. 

Aemond held your waist in a tight grip, thumbs brushing against the sides of your ribs with every stroke of his throbbing cock within your slick, heated cunt. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—all blistering, scorching, searing with need. 

“Sīr sȳz syt nyke, ñuha embar.” So good for me, my sea. He was your fire, and you were his sea, willing to push and pull the tides at his behest. A guttural groan tapered his voice to a close when you clenched around him, his susurrating praises mumbled against your breast sending jolts of arousal straight to your core. His rapid, desperate string of Valyrian fell upon deaf ears, buzzing with pleasure. Stars colored your vision a blinding white when one of his hands relinquished his hold on you to snake down your abdomen, pressing his long fingers against your clit.

“Aemond!” you just about sobbed, legs curling around his waist to pull him closer. You were insatiable, cracking your eyes open once more, a thin film of tears warbling over your widened gaze. “Oh, please, please—!”

A gasp caught in your throat as he thrust into you with more power than before, but froze once he was completely sheathed within your throbbing cunt. “Please, what? Have I fucked you stupid already, jorrāelagon, hm? Dragon got your tongue?” he hummed in mild amusement, regarding your beautiful, sweaty form with a hungry, lustful expression, eyebrows cocked as he waited for your answer. 

Part of you wanted to snarl at him, tell him to keep moving, but the other half of you wanted to cry and plead and beg for his cock.

Knowing your husband, he would’ve been quite pleased with either. 

“I want you to finish inside me,” you breathed out, lips brushing the shell of his ear, eyes half-hooded with want. “Fuck me full of your cum, valzȳrys.”

His cock grew impossibly harder within you, throbbing almost painfully—whether it was because of you calling him husband in his native language, or because of your devilish tongue laving upon a sensitive spot on his neck, he couldn’t quite tell. Expression hardening, he grabbed at your hips and yanked himself out of you, before flipping you onto your stomach and swiftly breaching your entrance in no less than three seconds, earning him a shriek of surprise which winded into a litany of breathless moans and blubbering pleas. 

And yet, he remained still, cock stretching you out so deliciously well—but he wasn’t moving. You sobbed with frustration, burying your face into the feather-pillow in front of you, muffling your desperate cries. Aemond’s growl thundered through his throat, and he slid his hand into your hair and tugged you up flush against his chest, so he could hear your obscene noises loud and clear. His free hand creeped down between your trembling thighs, where his middle finger only barely grazed over your clit, despite your fruitless attempts to buck your hips up to meet his touch.

“Ask me again nicely, ñuha embar,” he whispered, placing a loving kiss to the side of your temple. “In my mother tongue—you remember all those lessons I gave you, no?”

You wanted to curse at him. Your Valyrian lessons with him were the very last thing on your mind at the moment. Thoughts hazy, you murmured out a bit shakily, “Kostilus, qogralbar nyke, Aemond. Ta… Tatagon iemnȳ, kostilus.” 

Please, fuck me, Aemond. Finish inside, please.

He hummed in satisfaction as he pressed sweet kisses along the curve of your shoulder. He gently pulled out and began to roughly thrust back up into you as soon as you moaned out, “Nyke jorrāelagon ao!”

I need you!

A broken sigh tumbled from your throat when he finally began to fuck you just the way you wanted, knowing that your climax was drawing near. You had no chance of lasting when he began to circle the pads of his fingers against your clit. 

“Iksā sīr sȳz. Sīr, sīr sȳz, ñuha embar,” he said, chest rumbling with each word. You feel so good. So, so good, my sea. “Avy jorrāelan, avy jorrāelan, dōna ābrazȳrys.” I love you, I love you, sweet wife.

You preened with his praise, arching your spine and pushing your hips back to match his quick pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of your arousal rang loud and true throughout your chambers, bouncing off the stone walls and ricocheting back to you, heat spidering over your skin upon hearing your own lust. 

“Tatagon syt nyke,” he growled, motions growing erratic and hurried. Cum for me.

With one final moan, you collapsed against him, cunt spasming tightly around his dick as you toppled down from the edge, pushing Aemond over the brink as well, spurts of warm cum painting your cunt. Despite the both of you already coming down from your highs, Aemond rocked into you a couple more times, kissing your sweaty hairline over and over again as he showered you with muted praise. The sticky substance dripped down the insides of your legs once he gingerly pulled out of you with a low sigh. He reached down to collect it and abruptly stuffed his cum-slickened fingers back into your cunt, wrangling a sharp intake of breath from you.

He chuckled lightly, pulling his hand back out and dragging his tongue over his finger to taste the filthy mix of your essence with his seed, before winding his arm around you to allow you to do the same. You whimpered around his fingers, sucking on the digits slowly—Aemond could feel his cock growing hard again. 

With a pleased hum, he languidly set you back down on the bed so he could lay beside you, pulling his hand away from your mouth with a lewdly wet pop. 

“I love you,” you croaked, throat parched and voice hoarse from all your moaning, an utterly blissful grin stretching your swollen lips.

Aemond cupped your face within his palms and pressed a chaste kiss to your damp forehead. “And I you, my dear sea.”

MOON ONE.

“It’s been a moon since you’ve bled, my lady,” your handmaiden, Lailena, commented, a knowing excitement to her gaze. “Could that mean…?”

In truth, you haven't told anyone about your pregnancy just yet. Nobody knew except you and the maester, who’d sworn himself to secrecy with a kind, understanding smile. It’d been a couple days since you found out, and you were still trying to find a way to tell your beloved husband. In the meantime, you were enjoying the peaceful privacy of knowing that it was only you who knew of the babe growing within you. No doubt when the news would inevitably break out, Alicent and Aemond would be hovering over you like overprotective hawks. 

Not being able to contain your smile, you grasped your handmaiden’s hands within yours. “You’re not to tell a soul, Lailena. I still have yet to inform the prince.”

Your handmaiden mimicked locking her lips shut, a beautiful smile etching across her features. “I am so happy for you, my lady. If you need anything—anything at all, please do not hesitate to let me know.”

“Oh, you’re too kind, my dear,” you hummed, patting her cheek affectionately. You had a soft spot for your young handmaiden—having stopped her from being sold into a whorehouse against her will at the ripe age of ten-and-two. “Will you please draw me a bath? I’d like to wash the day’s labor off of me.”

Not ten minutes later, you were sighing in relief as you sank into a tub of warm water, the heat a relief for your tense muscles. You let your eyelids slide shut, lolling your head against the bath’s edge. 

A familiar pair of hands settled upon your bare shoulders, and you didn’t have to look to know that it was your husband coming to check in on you.

“Rytsas, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he hummed, kneeling by the gilded tub’s edge and pressing a swift kiss to your cheek. Hello, my love.

“Aemond.” You shifted so you could face him, the water sloshing about with your movements. Nervousness was eating away at your insides, and you thought that no time would be better than now, where nobody else would bother you. “My darling husband, I have something to tell you.”

For a brief moment, worry flashed across Aemond’s expression, afraid something was wrong. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing bad,” you reassured him, a soft smile hanging onto the corner of your lips when he leaned forward to rest his forehead over yours. “At least, I hope it’s not.”

He remained mute, wordlessly urging you to continue. 

“I am with child.”

There were exactly three seconds of silence, presumably Aemond taking time to fully comprehend what you’d just told him. And then, a rare, beautiful smile overtook his usually impartial expression, his heart skipping over several beats with the realization that he was going to be a father. 

“You’re not jesting, embar?” he whispered, nose nudging yours. “Because this would surely be a cruel joke.”

Mirroring his growing elation, you let yourself beam brightly, craning your neck to kiss him properly. “I’m not jesting, Aemond,” you murmured, trailing your lips up to freckle kisses over the marred skin of his scar, and around his eyepatch, which you itched to yank off. 

“My love,” he said, struggling to find words for how he was feeling. Overjoyed? Shocked? Scared? “This is… you’re so… wonderful. This is wonderful. Avy jorrāelan. I love you, more than anything—and our little dragon.”

You scoffed, pulling away from him with raised brows. “Dragon? You forget I am a Tully, dear husband—they will be half my blood.”

With an affectionate roll of his eye, Aemond lifted his hand to tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “Alright, alright. Half-dragon, half-trout, then.”

“Fire and water.” You nodded in satisfaction at the compromise, your jubilated smile stolen away with a kiss from your sweet husband.

MOON TWO.

Aemond felt the bed shift as you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and swinging your legs over the edge of the mattress. A small noise of discontent rumbled in his throat as he propped himself onto his elbow, vision still adjusting to the darkness. 

“Where are you going?” he whispered, voice still gravely with slumber, twinged with confusion. “The hour is still early, my love. The sun has yet to rise.”

You hummed, leaning down to kiss his cheek, before rising onto your feet, shrugging on a silken green robe. “I have a sudden craving for honey cakes. I’m going down to the kitchens to see if they have any left from yesterday’s supper.”

“Now?” queried your husband, seeming partially miffed, and partially amused. He roused from the bed himself, sliding on a loose tunic so his chest wasn’t bare, and followed you out of your shared chambers and into the hall. “What brings about such a queer craving? You’ve never been particularly fond of honey cakes before.”

Subconsciously, you rested a hand on your stomach. “It must be the babe. I’ve been having the strangest cravings the past few days. Around a fortnight ago, I wanted to have nothing but apple fritters—those ones with cinnamon glaze, you know? For a while, everything else made me feel sick.”

A ghost of a smile graced Aemond’s lips. “I remember—mother said you were looking rather green at the mess table.”

You scowled at the memory, which spurred Aemond to huff out a laugh and tug you closer into his side. 

“My little dragon is a picky one,” he murmured, glancing down to where your hand hovered over your belly, still having yet to show physical signs of the pregnancy. “This is a good thing, ñuha dōna embar. They must already know their worth.”

Once in the kitchens, a part of the castle neither of you had ever ventured in before, Aemond scoured around for the blasted honey cakes you craved for so badly, and found them in a small container on the highest shelf. He pulled them down and handed one to you, grinning ever so softly when you didn’t even give yourself time to properly thank him before shoving one into your mouth and moaning around the pastry. 

Aemond kissed your temple and took a bite of his own piece of honey cake to appease your pleading urges for him to try it, even though it was far too sweet for his taste.

MOON THREE.

 You were beginning to show, and Aemond couldn’t be happier.

“Our dragon is growing,” he’d say every morning without fail, a prideful gleam to his eyes. “And you have never been more beautiful, dōna ābrazȳrys.” Sweet wife. 

That afternoon, he brought you down to the dragonpit where Vhagar was nesting with her brand new clutch of eggs, wanting to introduce his little dragon to his much larger one. You watched with wide eyes as her bronze, spiny tail curled around four scaled eggs, each a different shade of copper. It was a miracle that a dragon of her old age laid a clutch of eggs at all, much less four of them. 

“Do not be afraid, embar,” he whispered, noticing your stiff movements and your hesitant steps, despite the brave facade you tried to hold on. “Vhagar will not hurt you.”

At the sound of her name, the dragon lifted her head, bright green eyes shifting to her master, then to you. She huffed out a small plume of warm smoke in greeting.

“Lykirī, Vhagar,” commanded Aemond, placing a hand on her snout and gently urging you to come closer. “It’s alright, love. She can sense the dragon inside you.”

Still a bit tentative, you shakily lifted a hand and laid it beside Aemond’s, stroking the warm scales of her large nose. Emerald eyes shining, Vhagar’s chest rumbled, and she dipped forward ever so slightly, slotting her hot muzzle against your belly, as if acknowledging the babe inside you. 

Aemond smiled, his one eye creasing at the corners. “She likes you.”

“Though I have never been more petrified in my life…” you began softly, patting Vhagar’s snout and grinning widely, “I like her, too.”

“What do you say we pick an egg for our little dragon, hm?” asked your husband, commanding Vhagar to stay as Aemond led you to the beautiful quartet of shiny eggs. 

MOON FOUR.

You leaned against the intricate stone railing of the balcony attached to your chambers, breathing in the fresh morning air. You had woken up early—much earlier than you usually did, unable to fall back asleep because of the baby constantly moving inside you. 

Not too long after, your husband stepped out onto the balcony as well, wrapping his arms around you from behind and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek. Neither of you said anything, perfectly content on basking in each other’s comfortable silence. 

His hand laid upon your slightly rounded stomach, rubbing gentle circles over the thin fabric of your sleeping shift. The first birds of the day chirped as the sun rose, spilling golden light over the two of you. 

You leaned back into him with a pleased sigh. “Helaena has asked me to come watch the twins today. I’m rather excited for them to meet the babe.”

Humming, Aemond nuzzled his nose into your cheek. “I’m excited to meet my little dragon, as well.”

MOON FIVE.

Since you’d been having trouble sleeping as of late, Aemond found that fucking you to exhaustion was one of the few ways to get you to sleep soundly throughout the night. It was either that, or he could read philosophical books to you in Valyrian. 

And though he quite enjoyed reading to you, the prince much preferred the former option.

“Ñuha gevie ābrazȳrys,” he hummed deeply, bordering on a growl, thrusting back into your sensitive, slick cunt. My beautiful wife. “I’ve fucked you full hundreds of times and yet you always want more. I’ll give it to you, I’ll give you everything, sweet embar.”

A low moan slipped from your throat and you desperately pulled his face to you, your lips meeting in a feverish manner. He grunted into your mouth when you clenched around his lengthy girth, nails raking angry red lines down his shoulders to the middle of his back. 

“Aemond!” you cried, bucking your hips up to meet his, lips parting in a tantalizing manner. 

Your eyes slipped shut with the overwhelming pleasure, but Aemond grasped your chin, softly grunting out, “Keep them open, love. I want to see you when you come all over my cock.”

The intense eye contact made your body flush with a certain heat, hurtling you ever so close to your climax. Your husband snuck a hand between you to draw slow circles on your aching clit, and you were abruptly slammed into your third orgasm, the first two stolen from Aemond’s silver tongue and long fingers, respectively. 

Utterly spent, you trailed kisses over Aemond’s cheek, up to his scarred eye. He had slowed down to a gentle rock, cock still stiff and aching within you. “You can move, Aem,” you whispered, placing a tender kiss to the very tip of his nose. “I want you to cum inside—I want my cunt to be dripping with your seed.”

And he groaned at your lewd words, dipping back down to meet your lips once more, all teeth and tongue. His breath hitched as he began moving once more, your soaked core feeling like absolute heaven. 

“Mmh, fuck!” he growled, emptying inside you, catching himself with his elbow when he collapsed, thankfully before he could crush you or the babe. “So good for me, dōna embar.” 

A low whine emitted from your lungs when he slowly pulled out, holding your legs apart to observe his spend leaking out of your fluttering cunt. 

Much to your simultaneous dismay and pleasure, Aemond just couldn’t resist, swiftly moving down to drag his tongue from your cunt up to your clit, grumbling an expletive at your taste. 

“Aemond!” you yelped, flinching away with overstimulation, lightly swatting at his shoulders with a laugh. “Gods, you’re going to be the death of me,” you said, grinning when he moved back up with an apologetic smile, dark sapphire glinting with the flickering candles lit about your chambers.

“Sorry, I just couldn’t resist. You taste heavenly.” Finally, he settled back onto the bed behind you, pulling you flush against his chest. “Get some rest, Y/N. I plan on tasting you on the morrow. Perhaps you can ride my face again.”

“Sounds wonderful,” you murmured in response, not having listened to anything he’d said, already drifting halfway into sleep. 

You slipped into a deep slumber with Aemond’s arm protectively slung over your baby bump.

MOON SIX.

You were grateful that you no longer grew sick at the sight of a regular supper. You weren’t quite sure how long you would’ve lasted on honey cakes and apple slices alone. 

Dinner that night was a warm, peppered vegetable stew with loaves of steaming bread to mop it up with. There were other courses, such as honey-glazed venison, and slow-roasted pork belly—the latter of which Aemond avoided entirely despite Lucerys’ hushed giggling from across the table. Initially, he’d wanted to stride across the room and strangle the smug expression off the younger boy’s face, but one look at your stern, disapproving countenance made him hesitate, before begrudgingly digging back into his food.

He was to be a father soon. What example would he set for his child if he were to go about beating his nephews every other minute?

Lucerys was not the only one who stirred trouble at the table that evening. 

Rhaenyra and Helaena were pleasant for the most part, querying about your pregnancy and giving their own advice from their previous experiences. Baela and Rhaena were also kind to you, eagerly asking if you had any names picked out for the babe. You told them that you haven’t yet thought about it, sheepishly smiling. “If you have any ideas, I’m more than willing to listen,” you told the younger girls, which made them beam brightly with excitement. You didn’t know the two nearly as much as you wished to, but you were willing to try and build bridges between the steadily distancing sides—bridges that Aemond, as much as you loved your husband, was keen on burning. 

Alicent was silent for most of the time, only pitching in every so often to make passive-aggressive remarks to Rhaenyra, and occasionally trying to compliment you with a strained smile. As Aemond was her most beloved child, she’d always wanted to be closer to his dear wife, but found it troublesome to bond with you when you were so very fond of Rhaenyra. 

The men at the table, on the other hand, were an entirely different story. Jacaerys and Daemon quietly spoke to one another, but were rudely interrupted by Aegon spilling wine all over Jace’s lap. He drunkenly proclaimed it to be a slip of his hand, a mere accident—but everyone at the table knew he’d done it on purpose. Jacaerys was visibly stiff, but held his tongue, fist clenching and unclenching around a silver fork. 

“I pity your betrothed, I really do,” simpered Aegon to his nephew, hiccupping as he downed some more wine. The rest of the chatter at the table halted to watch the drunken Prince blubber on further. “How will you please her in bed if you haven’t the faintest clue where to put your cock?”

“Aegon!” Alicent admonished sharply, eyes wide and jaw set.

The eldest Prince waved his mother away, standing up abruptly, brandishing another chalice full to the brim with alcohol. You briefly wondered where all these cups were coming from. Then, Aegon rounded his gaze on you and Aemond at the other end of the table. “See, my dearest brother has figured out how to do it! Look, his wife is all round with his first child—perhaps the next could be mine. It matters not which Targaryen fucks you, it’s not like you can tell the difference when the babe comes out. Your Tully whore of a wife probably wouldn’t even mind, brother! I’d bet all my coin every guard in this room has sullied her already!” 

In a blink of an eye, Aemond was on his feet, lips curled into a snarl. Alicent also stood up, glancing between her two boys worriedly, afraid a fight would break out. 

You were the last one to rise, placing a hand on Aemond’s arm. He seemed to soften beneath your touch, glancing back to look at you briefly, nonverbally making sure that you were alright.

You shook your head, glaring harshly at Aegon, before turning on your heel and marching out of the mess hall, leaving a portion of your dinner largely untouched. 

It took everything within Aemond not to clamber onto the table and throw his fist into his older brother’s arrogant, drunken face. He longed to resort to physical violence—after all, Aemond was taller and stronger and quicker than him, and would easily best his brother in a fight. But his urge to be by your side was far greater, so he settled with scathing words and a lingering threat.

“You are a foul excuse of a brother, Aegon. If you ever dare to insult my wife again, I will carve out your tongue myself and feed it to my dragon.”

With that, Aemond stormed out of the hall, strides quickening so he could catch up with you. On his way out, he faintly heard his mother trying her best to patch up the situation, rambling in a panicked fashion, “Aemond doesn’t mean it, Aegon. Sit down and finish your supper, will you?”

Aemond rolled his one eye. He’d meant every last word of what he said. 

When he finally caught up to you, you were already in your chambers, gently wiping the dampness of your frustrated tears from your cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he whispered, tugging you into his chest and stroking the back of your head. “My brother is a drunken fool. Do not take his crude words to heart. He is not worth your tears.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Aemond,” you murmured into the fabric of his tunic, blowing out a calming sigh. “You didn’t have to follow me, though… you didn’t get to finish your supper.”

He blew out a mildly amused huff. “Neither did you, dōna embar.” Sweet sea. How you adored the affectionate nickname he called you. “I love you. And I would follow you to the ends of this world if I had to—even if it meant missing a bit of supper.”

It felt as if your heart was melting through the confines of your ribs, and you could only lean forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “You are everything to me, my darling Aemond. I love you, too.”

MOON SEVEN.

The baby was kicking again. Nonstop, for the past three hours.

You glared down at your swollen belly, before uncomfortably shifting on the bed until you were sitting upright. The babe kicked once more, as if sensing your annoyance. You couldn’t help but huff out a small laugh. 

From beside you, Aemond looked away from the thick history tome he was reading and tilted his head. He’d thought you were already asleep. “The hour grows late, ñuha jorrāelagon. What troubles you so?”

With an exhausted sigh, you laid your head upon his shoulder, and Aemond immediately shut the book and placed it off to the side. 

“The babe,” you said, threading your hand with one of his and tracing shapes along the back of his palm. “They haven’t stopped kicking since I got out of my bath and I can hardly sleep more than a few winks. Though, I can’t say I can complain—Lailena says the ones who kick more will grow to be strong warriors.”

A small, satisfied smirk flitted over your husband’s sharp features. “Of course they’re kicking around—they’re a dragon after all.”

“Trout-dragon,” you reminded him, a soft smile to your lips. 

Aemond barked out a laugh. “Dragon-trout.” His free hand came around to place it on the center of your belly, and he sucked in an astonished breath when he felt the baby moving around beneath his palm. He met your eyes, shining with pride and adoration—for both you and the babe within you. “They’re a true Targaryen. We’ve never been too keen on sitting still.”

“So this is your fault,” you bit out, drawing yourself away from his shoulder to narrow your tired eyes at your husband. “I just want to sleep!”

His purple iris glinted salaciously. The hand on your belly began inching further down between your legs. “Maybe I just need to tire you out, hm?”

“No, I’m already so very tired,” you murmured, melting beneath his touch. Immediately, Aemond retracted his fingers, cupping your face and pressing sweet kisses over your heavy eyelids. 

“I’m sorry, love. What can I do?”

With a grateful slant of your lips, you settled yourself into his side once again. “Read to me, please. You have a very beautiful voice—it’s especially soothing in Valyrian.”

Humming, Aemond reached over to grab the history tome once more, flicking it open to where he’d left off. 

The Prince began reading the tale of Aegon’s Conquest out loud for you, his Valyrian effortlessly smooth, like pure honey to your ears. Not even three pages deep, you had already given into the alluring promise of sleep, cheek smushed against his shoulder. Aemond kept reading anyway, placing a hand on your belly, certain that his child could hear his low voice.

“One day you and I will be in one of these books,” he told the babe, a wistful smile on his face. “And our great, great, grandchildren will be reading about us and the many adventures we’ll go on.”

MOON EIGHT.

The fire crackled hungrily as Aemond kindled the greedy flames with a fresh wedge of wood. 

“What do you think of Jacaelar?” your husband asked. “It’s a fine name for a son.”

You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t know—their nickname would be Jace, and you’re not particularly fond of the Jace we already know. What about a Tully name? How does Bert sound for a boy?”

“No.”

“Ooh, what about Ernie?”

Aemond grimaced. With a laugh, you playfully rolled your eyes. “Alright, alright. We’ll stick to Valyrian names.”

After a moment’s silence, Aemond suggested, “Vaeron?”

“Yes, I rather like that one.” You grinned. “Do you like Daera for a girl?”

Your husband sat down on the plush chaise beside you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That’s a good name—though my younger brother Daeron might think we named our child after him, and I’d really rather not inflate his ego. I like the name Visera. There’s also Rhaelor, Jahaela, Haerys, Saelyra—”

“Oh, it’s just too many to choose from!” you exclaimed, cutting his extensive list off and sinking further into your seat. “We can just call the babe Aemond the Second and be done with it.”

With a chortle of laughter, Aemond shook his head, fine silver strands of hair tickling your cheek when he drew you close into his side. “And what if our little dragon is a girl?”

“Then we call her Aemonda. I don’t know,” you harrumphed, crossing your arms. Aemond lightly pinched your thigh. After another second, you gently proposed, “... Syraena sounds lovely. Don’t you think so?”

Humming, Aemond bowed his head. “Syraena. It is a lovely name.”

You rubbed your hands over your distended stomach. “Do you know if you’d rather have a son or a daughter?”

He took a moment to consider your question before quietly replying, “I care naught for the babe’s sex—they will be my blood, regardless. My little dragon.” Before you could correct him, he hastily added, “Trout. Dragon-trout.”

The two of you began cracking up with silent laughter, and you turned to watch the fire burn away, small golden embers floating up from the hearth. 

You heard your husband murmur Syraena beneath his breath once more, clearly content with the name. A glowing beam graced your expression. 

NINE MOONS.

The birthing was the most painful experience you’d ever gone through. There were tears streaming down your face, and your hair was damp with sweat. Aemond was by your side, loyal as ever, clutching your hand and murmuring sweet words of encouragement, uncaring of the impropriety of a man in the birthing room. He’d gone so far as to threaten the guards when they first told him that he should be waiting outside, enjoying the celebration being held in your and the babe’s name. 

“Try to keep me from my wife and I will decorate the floor with your guts,” he growled, his single eye burning with a thirsty flame.

The guards didn’t bother him after that.

“Oh, it hurts! Aemond, Aemond, please, it hurts,” you sobbed, another wave of pain washing over your body. “I need the baby out! Come out, come out, come out!” you screamed, skin burning hotly as more sweltering tears meandered down your perspiring face.

“It’ll be over soon, embar, you’re doing so well,” assured your husband, even though he looked every bit as terrified as you did, perhaps even more so. Gods forbid such a thing to happen, but if Aemond were to lose you to the perilous task of childbirth, he didn’t think he could ever live with himself afterwards. 

The midwives began telling you to push, and you happily obliged, eager to get the labor over and done with. 

It was said that your screams shook the very ground, but that might’ve just been Aemond exaggerating the truth out of proportion. 

“Congratulations, my Prince,” said one of the midwives once you’d pushed and pushed and pushed until you nearly passed out from the strain, the babe finally coming out of you with a shrill cry. Aemond could feel his heart lurch at the sound. “You have a beautiful, healthy girl.”

“Do not congratulate me, it is Y/N that did all the work,” muttered your husband, kissing the back of your clammy hand and sweeping the hair sticking to your face aside. “You were wonderful, jorrāelagon.” His face bore nothing but radiant pride, a rare beam stretching his lips wide. 

He stood up, turning to the midwife to look upon his small, screaming daughter, who was quickly bound in a red woolen blanket. She handed him the babe, and Aemond gently situated her into his arms.

“You have the lungs of a dragon, little one,” he crooned, expression bearing little else than raw love and adoration for the tiny thing. With fluid movements, he kneeled down beside the birthing bed once more, easing the baby into your awaiting arms. 

An exhausted smile made its way onto your face when you took the baby, cooing, “Oh, so you’re the one always kicking around during the night. It’s nice to meet you… Syraena.”

The baby—your daughter—sported thin wisps of silvery hair, much like her father and her grandsire. Targaryen blood ran thick, after all.

You turned to grin at Aemond. “She has your nose,” you murmured, voice thick with emotion and love.

Little Syraena’s wailing began to wane away as you bounced her, and she cracked open her tiny eyes for a brief moment, blinking up at the two of you with a wide gaze.

“And she shares the color of your beautiful eyes, embar. Rytsas, Syraena,” greeted Aemond, expression soft and ever so tender. One of his fingers reached out to gently stroke her soft, chubby cheek. For several moons, he’d read to her when she was still in the womb, and he wondered if she could recognize the sound of his voice. 

“My little dragon…” Aemond murmured. “My sea dragon.”

[nyctopteryx]

Flat Fuck Friday, with da Rain World ocs.

Fat fuck: Xero (mine)

Red: Pursues Knowledge (mine)

Blue: Swift Silver Winds (mineg

[celestie0]

nanami kento x reader | drabble

coney island. where did my lover go?

"𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝'𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝'𝐯𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲."

ᰔ pairing. husband nanami x wife reader (f)

ᰔ summary. you're sitting on a bench in coney island, the place you and nanami met all those years ago, to talk about where your relationship went wrong. heavily inspired by the song "coney island" by taylor swift from her album 'evermore'

ᰔ warnings/tags. some pretty heavy angst. mention of blood/wounds.

ᰔ word count. 1.3k

a/n. hellooo i just had an itching to write something angsty, and i came up with something while listening to music. hope you enjoy :')

you're sitting on a bench in coney island, wondering why nanami hasn't arrived by your side yet.

pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you glance at your watch. the evening has settled in, and it was well past the time the two of you had agreed to meet. here, where everything began all those years ago. this place, where your soul has been left to bleed dry.

it was nanami who told you not to feed the ducks any bread. before you knew him, that was all you would do. white milk bread, torn apart into pieces, tossed into the pond in front of this bench for the quacking ducks to feed on with delight. but nanami told you that's not right. he told you that the ducks cannot digest the bread the same way that you and him do. you can relate to the ducks today, unable to absorb and understand the pain within you, and in a blink of an eye, that pain takes a seat next to you.

"hello, sweetheart," nanami says, voice soft as it always is. his familiar stature is beside you in your periphery.

your eyes flicker to your watch once more. "you're late, ken."

"i know," is all he says. "forgive me?"

you do.

"i thought you were lost somewhere," you tell him, the thought sending a shiver through you. or perhaps it was the cold.

"i wasn't lost. i could never be lost, coming to this place," he assures. you glance at the skin on his hands. he looks pale, like he hasn't seen the sun in days.

you still wonder if he's lost. you wonder if that man you loved was still out there somewhere, simply wandering, trying to find his way back to you. but the disappointment is palpable, and when you close your eyes tight, the chill of the air once again bites through your bones to silence all your hope.

"i looked for you everywhere. do you know that?" you say to him. "at the park entry, across the field. by the church. i even walked by the merry-go. and i cried when i couldn't see you standing there to watch me on the blue pegasus."

from the corner of your eye, you see him turn his head to glance at you. you can see he's wearing a grey suit, the same one he wore exactly one year ago today. the one you said goodbye to him in. "it's been a long time, love. i'd wish you would let those memories go."

"we were supposed to be married forever," you barely whisper, glancing down at your ring still adorning your left hand. your eyes flicker to his hand, and the absence of the silver promise on his finger makes your soul sulk. "you've moved on from me, haven't you?"

nanami rubs his left finger with his thumb, like the sensation of the ring was a phantom limb. "i have. and i want you to move on from me as well. one day, you'll be too old to care. so don't spend another moment of your youth thinking about me."

your youth was him, from the day you met him on this bench. sprawled across it on a warm summer tuesday, reading your paperback of les misérables that had a worn out spine, gust of wind peeling a sticky note away from the page and delivering it to the front of this tall, handsome man that was walking by. he had bent down to pick it up for you, and curiously chose to read it first before handing it back. 'to love or have loved, that is enough' it said, one of your favorite quotes from the book. you didn't know what it meant at the time, but you knew what it meant now.

"were we just fools, ken?" you ask him out of nowhere. "if i had tried harder, could we have still been together? if i had let you know what it takes to be by my side, would you have still chosen to fall in love with me in the first place? how can i shake the thought that this was all a mistake?"

he shifts in his seat beside you. you still can't brave yourself to look at him. you haven't looked him in the eyes once this entire time. and you register that there's no heat from his body, leaving you feeling barren and cold.

"i would've loved you in any lifetime. there is nothing you could have done that would've kept me away," he tells you.

"so then you'll haunt me in every lifetime, too?" you ask. "a universe away from here, i'll still see your face everywhere i go?"

"no. i agreed to meet you here today to tell you that it's finally time for you to forget. those dreams of ours, of suburban holidays and tiny fingers, they can belong to someone else," he says to you, "they should belong to someone else."

you shake your head, feeling tears prickle in your eyes. christmas, winter snow, the oaky warmth of the fireplace. fresh spring air, wildflower blossoms, trees turned lush and new. salty air, summer breeze, mist of sprinklers over brown grass and skin. but by the time autumn came, there was nothing left but heartache.

"what if i asked for your forgiveness?" you say. your hands play with the bag of white bread in your lap. you thought he would scold you for it, for not remembering the wellbeing of the ducks, but truthfully you had simply forgotten. because it was like you were the version of yourself before meeting him, and you needed him to save you again.

"there's nothing to forgive," he replies. his voice is hoarse, like he's running out of air to breathe as the sun begins to set over the horizon. like this time spent together was something bought, not gifted.

"i'm sorry," you say, because you felt like you needed to say those words. "i'm sorry for how mean i was to you the last time we spoke. i don't know what got over me, but i really wish you had just stayed." your eyes prick with tears as you stare down at your lap. "i wish you weren't so quick to leave my side, even though i told you to go."

nanami places a hand over yours. you finally notice the scars and open cuts, fresh with blood. "i know, darling. as much as it troubled me to leave, i didn't want to stay and hurt you anymore."

you felt suffocated. "if i could turn back time, i would. i would go back to that moment, last week. and i would tell you to stay, so that i could've had you for the rest of a lifetime."

his thumb runs circles over the skin of your hand, but the movement is rigid and stiff. "was it last week?"

"it was." you're not mistaken, but he will try to convince you otherwise.

"i don't think so, darling."

"it was last week."

"it's been much longer than that. fifty-two fold longer."

yes. today was the anniversary. of when you buried him in the grey suit that he wears right now.

"you see my face wherever you go, hm?" nanami says to you as the tears begin to freely flow down your face. "well, when i got into the accident, the last sight that flashed before me was your face. i'm happy. i'm so happy that the last person i thought of was you."

blinking, wet drops falling onto his pale hand in your lap. "you should've stayed," you whisper. "that night, you should've just stayed with me. i would've said sorry, and i would've loved you forever."

you're sitting on a bench in coney island, wondering where your lover went. because when the sun dips underneath the horizon, his hand disappears from your lap, and you finally turn your head to look at him. but he's gone.

and when you blink the blur of salty tears from your eyes, you realize you were never sitting on that bench, waiting for him. you were standing in front of his gravestone, hoping that he'll talk to you again someday.

a/n. gege would love this one

[smallestapplin]

Wuwa spicy headcanons

Mdni! 18+ only!

Calcharo, Jiyan, and Scar going down on you. Afab version.

Very minor spoilers in scar's part, but also I'm feral for this damn game.

-

-

-

Calcharo eats pussy like a man on a mission.

His movements are calculated and swift, he will either bring you to completion in seconds over and over and over again with no end in sight, letting you thrash in his tight hold, pull his hair, anything to just anchor yourself.

He has all your most sensitive spots memorized and uses them to bring you down before him. His rough hands gripping your thighs, keeping them from closing around his head. He almost sounds like a beast between your legs with how he grunts and groans.

Or, he teases you, letting sit on the edge of climaxing but never letting you fall off the edge. You cry, squirm, and plead all you want but he never falters.

You'll have your fingers twisted up in his long silver locks, your back arching and hips desperately trying to ride his face, but whether or not you cum is completely up to him.

Of course he's not so mean and domineering, in fact doing down on you is mostly for his pleasure.

It helps him wind down after a long day of working.

Or to have him sit back, his legs spread and patting his lap for you to sit on.

He is your personal seat, and it's where he can protect you the best.

-

-

Or Jiyan

He's so slow and gentle when doing down on you, his face buried in your pussy but you hold all the power.

His hands on your thighs to keep them open, but his tongue slowly glides between your folds. Moving one hand to rest on top of your lower stomach so he can rub his thumb across your clit in tender circles.

His golden eyes always looking up at you with such a loving gaze, almost making sure you're feeling good.

He only moves faster when you ask him too, your mewls and gasps of his name going right to his cock but he tries to control himself. He tries not to hump the bed, wanting to save his load for when he's inside you, or when you beg to suck his dick.

He's a selfless lover, just wanting to spoil you, it takes him a while to feel comfortable to open up and let you return the favor.

When getting pegged he prefers to be on top, as he feels so vulnerable on his back.

And you get to see the great general Jiyan's muscles twitch and flex as he fucks himself on your dick.

-

-

Scar is feral for you, anything for you, just give him a drop.

The moment you give him an inch he goes several miles.

He's loud and a messy eater, moaning and sobbing into your pussy as your juices coat his face. His eyes roll back while he grips your hips leaving hand prints in his wake, but he wants you to use him.

He's unashamed, he's humping the air, your leg, the bed, anything! He can't stop himself! He cums so many times before you do, and even then he doesn't want to stop, he'll keep going!

If you tug on his hair to try and pull him away, he only squeals as he covers his pants with his cum, but he won't move.

He just rambles about how long he's wanted this, how long he waited, how good you taste, how filthy you are to let him devour your pretty pussy so openly- he's insane and addicted to you even before you let him have a taste, but now? He always has to visit you.

He's so sad your first encounter got rudely inturrpted, so he has to make up for it, right?

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere siren! neuvillette x reader (intro)

Adopted by the sea, you have devoted your life to discovering its mysteries. What happens when you stumble upon an enigma that returns your interest tenfold?

You don’t know anything besides the sea. Neither your name nor the person guided by it years before, but when the moon’s pale face greets you, leering over its wavering, abysmal reflection swathed in sheets of liquid silver and indigo, you recall how some things are only created to be viewed at a surface level. To delve any further is to invite your demise, so you have learned to fill your mind with other sinking thoughts, like how amongst all the treasures your ship ferries to gilded thrones, the finest gems are scattered amongst your motley crew.

However, despite the fact that courts across the land commission you to discover and steal, meager entails can no longer sustain your crew, and you refuse to let the Waverider be decommissioned. The piers are a marketplace of secrets, myth and fact alike, yet when you catch wind of a discovery that will send shockwaves across the earth, you would have been foolish not to investigate. Like any other sailor, you have heard of and long to discover the hermit kingdom of Fontaine, so when another captain aboard a smaller vessel was rumored to possess a map of a newly discovered waterway, you besieged it.

Grinding it to driftwood the very next evening, you did everything in your power to bring that map into your possession and fled, redirecting your course the moment it graced your hands. Now, with a chorus of shanties, you charge steadfast into uncharted waters, where cyclones await, eager to ensnare. You hadn’t anticipated the sudden shift in climate, but your crew is prepared to weather the storm at your side. Diluc, your second in command, stands on the deck, bracing himself against nothing, tottering around.

Your hands clasp around the wheel as if to wring the neck of the tempest itself. The gale roars its fury, clawing at the sails and throwing its weight against the stout hull of your vessel. Yet above the cacophony, your voice rises, slicing through the tumult.

“Retreat below,” you shout, barely audible as a thunderclap crackles across the sky.

Your crew, shadows cast in the intermittent glow of vengeful lightning, scurry across the heaving deck, moving with a bumbling grace, bodies bending and twisting to the will of the wind as they pour into the galley. Doors slam shut, soon to be barred. You scan the expanse of the ship, finding a stray, defiant figure creeping up the stairs, clutching the bannister to keep from spilling over.

“I gave an order,” you sternly declare.

“I won’t leave,” says Diluc, jaw clenched and brows furrowing.

His anger is as brazen as his fiery hair; it whips around like a flame dancing in the wind. He is filled with promise. With light. His loyalty to you, a no-name captain, is misplaced. Your survival is uncertain, but you will ensure your crew endures, no matter the cost. Even if that means discarding your life, they will live through the night.

“If you don’t leave now, you’ll leave at the next port.”

Gauging your sincerity, he creeps forward. You merely glare.

“Now. Or you’re fired.”

With a simper, he retreats. Alone now, you permit your shoulders to sag. It isn’t only the sopping coat that weighs you down.

Tousled by a ferocious wind, waves crest and trough, rattling the ship like brittle bones. Nestled at the helm, you grit your teeth and face the brunt of the aquatic assault. Battered by torrents, your rain-soaked coat weighs like stones. Similarly burdened, your captain’s hat dips below your brow. With your sight cleared, an otherworldly vision is tossed aboard, piercing the veil of rain and darkness. A flash of silver, swift as lighting, slithers onto the deck. His skin holds the pallor of moonlight, a stark contrast to the storm’s grim palette. Those dark blue eyes, deep as the fathomless abyss, ensnare your gaze. The white tendrils of his hair whip about him, serpents writhing. Pointed ears peek through the wild mane, completing the image of a creature not quite of this world.

For a moment, the storm’s clamor quiets, as if the elements themselves held their breath in reverence. He is the embodiment of everything unknown that you sought—the whispered secrets hidden by the sea, the melody of unanswered questions

Briefly, your gazes clash. Stolen with the next tidal wave, the mysterious being is returned just as swiftly as he landed. In shock, your grip on the wheel falters. The tempest, seizing its chance, rears like a spiteful beast, wrenching the helm from her loosened grip. With a violent buck, you are gifted to the whims of gravity. The world upends: the sky, a churning of dark clouds above your head, now swiftly becomes the raging sea below. You are airborne but for a breath before the embrace of the ocean claimed you, a lover both cruel and seductive. The sea you adore is merciless: it offers a churlish welcome, engulfing you in its embrace. You plunge into the heart of the storm-tossed waters, and there is no gradual descent—only the shock of the cold that seizes your lungs, the harsh slap of brine against your cheeks. It is terrifying, this surrender to an earthly yet uncaring supreme. Yet amidst the terror, a strange beauty whispers, almost like a voice in a shell.

Although the sea is dark, beams of sunlight and luminous animals dart through the billowing waves. Hordes of sickly pale flounder filter past in streams, storming you in a whirlpool. Halfway through this descent, enveloped in a cold, viscous pool where light dim and the world above are a distant memory, your life as a captain, your quest for memories lost—they are inconsequential. Here, in the clutches of the deep, your fragmented past us scattered further by the currents, your identity dissolving into the salt and spray. All of it—it was for naught. You are inconsequential compared to the raw might of the sea.

Amidst the turmoil, a figure descends with otherworldly grace. A lithe figure slices through the water, his form a specter of light against the oppressive darkness. With each fluid stroke, he encroaches, his pale skin luminescent beneath the frothing waves, long white hair trailing behind him like a comet tail. The ethereal sight of him strikes the remaining air from your lungs. Death is hauntingly beautiful; you will welcome it with open arms if this beautiful being is your harbinger.

As he approaches, the chaotic churning of the water softens into gentler undulations. His dark eyes, mirrors of the abyss, fix upon you with a precarious interest. His gaze meanders over you. Without warning, he ensnares your wrist with a touch both gentle and resolute. You glance down at where he holds you and notice a glimmering length of pale scales in place of legs. The cold fear seizing your veins is met with an inexplicable warmth. With his guidance, you began an ascent, and the surrounding waters seemed to part in reverence to his silent command. As if recognizing the sovereignty of its son, the tumultuous swells ebb away from you, creating a serene path towards the surface.

You cannot fathom the enigma that is this moment, nor the serendipitous fate that will, if only for a moment, bind your life to that of a non-human, to a siren. His motivations are shrouded, as impenetrable as the depths from whence he came.

Still, foam-capped, you breach the surface. You are hardly lucid enough to expel the liquid ice from your lungs, yet you realize how the winds die, how the waves cease their torment, how the storm abates to present you to him—a figure cloaked in gauzy light, sunshine gleaming from his snow-peaked head, stars in his eyes. Like clouds reflecting the sun, he is blinding.

As if conscious of his splendor, he tilts you back. You are too weak to protest as a large hand cradles the gap between your shoulders, the other, resting over your eyes. You feel brief pinpricks along your vertebrae but little else: eased onto your back, you are propelled through the waves, gliding seamlessly, without so much as a splash. You long to speak, but your throat is rimmed with salt. You offer no protest, lulled into sleep as a gentle hum picks up. Dull to your waterlogged ears, it almost sounds like a hymn.

A/N: only the intro for now! I'm hoping to have the rest out by the winter holidays but i've become a bit obsessed with this piece, so I'm nit-picking my prose. Thank you, swan anon, for introducing me to Genshin. While I haven't got a feel for most aspects, I'm really enjoying it. (Was there any reason to include Diluc? Not at all. Does someone have a Genshin crush? Maybe.)

[zorosdimples]

GOOD PET

pairing ༄ lucifer x gn!reader

warnings ༄ minors: please do not interact! i will block you. brief sexual content, pet play, dubious consent, voyeurism, exhibitionism. reader is self-conscious about their chest, but their genitalia isn’t mentioned, and they are referred to as “you.” lucifer is mean!!! please let me know if i should add anything else to the warnings!

word count ༄ 1123

notes ༄ i told jules @bizarrebankai forever ago that i would write this based on a post she made about lucifer and pet play. i never thought i would write pet play, but here we are! my initial vision for this piece was much softer, but…it took on a life of its own. i hope everyone enjoys <3

your neck prickles in anticipation as lucifer emerges from his closet and approaches you steadily, collar in hand. his predatory eyes are crimson—fresh blood on a sharp blade—but as he steps up to you, he raises a gentle gloved hand to cup your face. he breathes a wry chuckle as you melt into his hold.

“did you think you would get away unscathed after that stunt you pulled during my meeting, darling?” lucifer coos, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone, teasing tenderness. “no matter how sweet you are, you cannot escape your punishment.”

a foolish human, you rush to your own defense. “it was mammon’s idea and—” lucifer squeezes your jaw to stop your prattling, your glossy lips puckered into a cute pout.

the demon has half a mind to kiss you stupid and take you against the wall, but that wouldn’t be fun, now would it? after all: you must learn your lesson.

your gaze flickers down to the collar. the buttery black leather is accented by a gleaming buckle. no frills, no embellishments, no nonsense—much like your lover. the only notable feature of the collar is hidden on the interior lining: lucifer’s name spelled out in little silver stamps, each letter flipped backwards so when the collar hugs your neck, the cool metal nips at your warm flesh. after it’s unbuckled and removed, the demon’s name is branded into your skin.

it’s an ephemeral reminder of who you belong to.

“good pets only speak when they are spoken to,” lucifer reprimands as he fastens the collar around your neck tight enough to be uncomfortable. you whimper as you feel his name kiss your throat.

he offers you a sinister smile, wine-dark irises glowing with foreboding. “mammon will receive his punishment too, i can assure you. but i would be more concerned about myself if i were you.”

the thinly-veiled threat curls against your nape and gooseflesh skitters across your limbs. you shiver. lucifer pats your head like an owner comforting his jittery lapdog before crossing his arms and giving you a firm command: “strip.”

your fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt and you pull it off in one swift motion; your bottoms pool at your feet soon after, then finally your undergarments fly to the floor. perhaps you should feel vulnerable—nude and collared before the fully clothed demon—but you are single-mindedly focused on avoiding any further transgressions.

lucifer barely spares you a glance before he turns his back to you and walks toward the mahogany door. “better. now follow me.”

dropping on all fours, you trail after lucifer, knees knocking and palms dragging against the gnarled hardwood floor. you hesitate when he turns a corner and heads in the direction of the front entryway. as if he has eyes on the back of his head and can hear your thoughts, he stops to assert, “all my brothers are where they should be.” he doesn’t need to tell you to keep moving—the order is in the steel edge of his cool tone.

descending the stairs is difficult, and you scurry to keep pace with lucifer’s long strides, his footsteps muffled by the plush, centuries old carpet that leads to the living room. you follow him obediently down the winding halls, breathing sharply in and out of your nose so you don’t pant like a dog. confusion clouds your thoughts when the demon stops outside your bedroom.

you can taste the question that sits on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow it down. wordlessly, lucifer opens the door, and you halt mid-crawl, a shocked gasp tumbling out of your lips.

mammon is bound and gagged, hanging upside down from the ceiling. the magic-imbued rope crackles and sparks as it comes into contact with the demon’s skin, a duel between lucifer’s magic and mammon’s, the woven fibers ultimately preventing the second-born’s escape. he’s writhing around against his bonds and letting out muffled curses as you enter the room.

when mammon spots you, he ceases to struggle altogether, body sagging and golden irises wide as grimm. you scramble to preserve some modicum of dignity, falling to your knees, hands flailing to protect your chest. flames engulf your skin and tears sting at your eyes. neither of you register the sound of lucifer closing the bedroom door and the lock clicking into place.

against your better judgment, you address the demon who orchestrated this twisted rendezvous.

“lucifer? what’s going on?” you wince at the words that leave your trembling lips—unusually high-pitched and squeaky like a dog toy. your humiliation intensifies.

“did you hear something, mammon?” lucifer addresses his younger brother casually, icy voice haughty. “it sounded like…yapping.”

mammon doesn’t react to lucifer’s question, still staring at you.

“you’ve been here for a while, and still have quite some time left, so i thought i would be a good big brother and bring you a little distraction to pass the time,” lucifer explains, stroking your hair. his touch would feel absentminded if you didn’t know him so well. “isn’t that right, little one?”

your neck snaps up to look at lucifer. his heavy hand still rests atop your head and his menacing grin reveals knife-edged incisors. you tremble beneath him: easy prey.

“you and mammon got into trouble together, darling; now you shall endure your punishments together.”

lucifer’s palm curves to fist your hair and tug you forward. in an attempt to avoid being dragged, you haphazardly crawl beside him, fingernails scraping against the floor. he stops you only a few feet from where mammon swings from the rafters.

“what do you think of my pet, mammon?” lucifer taunts. each word is an alluring barb dripping with poison. you watch the white-haired demon; his adam’s apple bobs in response to his brother’s question.

lucifer switches his attention to you, kneeling down to your height, thumbing at your plush bottom lip. “how would you like to give my dear brother a little show?” he asks. your body reacts before your brain can and you nod. his lips tug into a smirk. “i knew you would.”

your stomach turns as lucifer stands up and unbuckles his belt. his voice is low as he orders, “on your knees.” hot tears are already blurring your vision as you wobble into position.

lucifer pulls his cock out of his trousers, flushed and oozing precum. “tongue out.”

you do as he says, pink muscle lolling out of your mouth, salivating in anticipation. lucifer smacks his heavy tip onto your extended tongue and you stay still, awaiting his next order. under your fluttering lashes your wet gaze is glued to his; he beams.

“good pet.”

you are too rapt to notice your audience’s stifled groans and the prominent bulge in his jeans.

[sweetsweetjellybean]

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

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

Masterlist Listen to Fake Plastic Trees Here

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

WC: 11646 beta'd by @superblysubpar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lobby is in chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I’ve got time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My apartment."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

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

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

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

"What group? The one for annoying assholes." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eddie Munson interview, part one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was surprised that you left it behind." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay-"

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

"Eddie-" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit."

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

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

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

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

"No peeking." He wags a finger.

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

"Okay. Open."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Done what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You made me hate myself."

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

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

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

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

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

"I made you up.”

“No.”

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

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

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

"Damn right, I do." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eddie—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No–” 

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

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

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

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Song 5 coming this week! Follow @tornupdates for notifications

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