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dreamersworldduh · 21 days ago

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A MUCH NEEDED BREAK

• MECHANIC! TOM HOLLAND x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Tom, a dedicated workaholic striving to save for a dream home for you both, often struggled to balance his demanding schedule with your relationship. Despite never losing your spark, the intimacy and connection you shared had been overshadowed by his relentless focus on work. So you plan a much-needed vacation with hopes that Tom would rediscover the importance of these moments together.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 9.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! We all know Tom is a taken man, but a guy can sure dream—you see what I did there, heh?…okay sorrry—I have a few more works coming out today so be on the lookout. Happy reading😉✨

Vacations play a vital role in preserving and improving your mental well-being, acting as a much-needed pause from the demands of daily life. They serve as a true reset button, offering an opportunity to recharge, refocus, and restore balance to your mind and body. This belief has been a cornerstone of your personal philosophy, one you've adhered to faithfully since the moment you could finally afford to indulge in the luxury of stepping away from your routine. Whether it's the peaceful solitude of a mountain retreat, the invigorating energy of a bustling city, or the restorative calm of a beachside escape, you've come to recognize that these breaks are not just indulgences—they are essential investments in your overall health and happiness. Each trip reinforces the idea that taking time for yourself isn't a selfish act but a necessary one, providing the clarity and renewal needed to return to life's challenges with fresh perspective and vitality.

However, convincing your workaholic boyfriend, Tom Holland, to take a break is no easy task. In this universe, Tom is a dedicated mechanic, pouring his heart and soul into his craft. He spends countless hours working late into the night, his hands perpetually smeared with grease, his mind focused on perfecting his trade. His determination stems from a deeply personal goal—he's tirelessly saving up to buy the two of you a home, a place where you can finally start the next chapter of your lives together. For the past five years, the two of you have shared a cozy but cramped apartment, its worn furniture and limited space serving as both a testament to your love and a reminder of the life you're working so hard to build. Tom's commitment to making that dream a reality often leaves little room for leisure, and while his passion and ambition are admirable, they make the task of persuading him to step away from his tools and take a well-deserved break a monumental challenge. Yet, you know that even the most driven hearts need rest, and you're determined to show him that taking a moment to recharge won't just benefit him—it'll strengthen the bond you've built together.

As his boyfriend, you see it as your responsibility—and privilege—to take care of him, even though his stubborn nature often makes it a challenge. Tom is fiercely independent, always insisting he can handle everything on his own, whether it's working late into the night at the garage or pushing through exhaustion without so much as a second thought. He's the type of person who bottles up his stress, brushes off his fatigue, and says, "I'm fine," even when it's clear he's running on empty. But you know him better than anyone, and you've learned to read between the lines, catching the subtle signs of wear and tear he tries so hard to hide.

So, you take it upon yourself to step in where he won't. You make sure he eats proper meals, often sneaking into the garage to leave a container of his favorite food on his workbench when he's too focused to come home for dinner. You remind him to take breaks, offering a gentle touch on his shoulder or a softly spoken, "You've been at this for hours—come sit with me for a bit." When he comes home late, tired and quiet, you're there with a warm blanket, a cup of tea, and a patient ear, ready to listen if he feels like venting or simply offering him the comforting silence he sometimes needs.

Even when his stubbornness leads to little arguments—like when he refuses to rest because "there's too much to do"—you approach him with understanding, knowing his determination comes from a place of love and a desire to build a better life for the two of you. Taking care of him isn't always easy, but it's never a burden. For every moment you spend looking out for him, there's an unspoken bond of trust and affection, a quiet acknowledgment that while he may be strong and independent, he doesn't have to carry the weight of everything alone. That's what love is to you—being there for him, even when he's too stubborn to ask for it.

When it came to planning your much-needed vacation, Tom always found a way to back out at the last minute. He'd come up with a list of reasons why he couldn't go—there was always too much work at the garage, or he couldn't afford to lose even a single day of income. He'd argue that the house fund was more important than a frivolous trip, or that he simply didn't have the time to take off. No matter how hard you tried to explain how important it was for both of you to get away and recharge, Tom's stubborn streak always seemed to win.

But this time, you weren't taking no for an answer. The two of you had been running on fumes lately, and you could see the toll it was taking on him—his late nights were getting later, his shoulders carried an almost permanent slump, and even his usual spark seemed dimmer than before. You knew he needed this break just as much as you did, even if he couldn't admit it to himself. So, you resolved to convince him, no matter how much effort it took.

You started small, casually dropping hints about how much you missed spending uninterrupted time together. Then, you tried tugging at his heartstrings by reminiscing about your last trip years ago, reminding him how happy and carefree you'd both been. When that didn't work, you brought out the big guns, printing out detailed itineraries, showing him pictures of the serene beaches or lush mountains you'd chosen as your destination, and emphasizing how affordable and manageable it would be. You even promised to handle all the planning, from booking the flights to packing his suitcase, so he wouldn't have to lift a finger.

Still, when his resolve didn't crack, you got creative. You started pointing out how a few days off could actually make him more productive in the long run, explaining that even the hardest workers needed to step away to recharge. You even enlisted a few allies—his coworkers, who teased him about being a workaholic, and mutual friends who told him how much they admired your determination to get him to relax. Slowly but surely, you chipped away at his excuses, all while reminding him how much this time together would mean to you.

By the end, you were ready to pull out every persuasive trick in the book if you had to. You weren't just fighting for a vacation—you were fighting for a chance to reconnect, to remind him (and yourself) that there's more to life than work. You loved him too much to let him keep running himself into the ground, and you were determined to prove that this getaway wasn't a luxury—it was a necessity.

As the two of you got ready for bed, you decided it was time to escalate your efforts to convince Tom. You had tried every rational argument, every heartfelt plea, but nothing had managed to crack his resolve. Now, standing there watching him pull off his shirt and climb into bed, looking both exhausted and irresistibly handsome, you realized it was time to deploy your ace in the hole—a very dirty trick.

Sliding under the covers, you waited until he settled in, propped up slightly against the headboard, flipping through his phone with that furrowed look of focus that never really left him. You shifted closer, the movement catching his attention. Before he could ask what you were up to, you straddled his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. Tom glanced up at you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, his hands instinctively moving to rest on your thighs.

"Babe," he started, his tone light but skeptical, "what are you—"

You cut him off with a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth, your arms slipping around his shoulders as you leaned in closer. His breath hitched slightly when your lips trailed down to his neck, brushing against his skin with a teasing gentleness. "Shh," you murmured, your voice low and sultry. "Just relax."

You could feel the tension in his body start to melt away under your touch as you peppered soft kisses along his neck, lingering in all the spots you knew drove him crazy. His hands tightened slightly on your thighs, and you smiled against his skin, knowing you had his full attention now. Tilting your head so your lips brushed his ear, you whispered, your voice dripping with seduction, "I've been thinking... We've been so busy lately, we haven't had time for ourselves. No time to unwind, no time to really... connect. Don't you think we deserve a little escape?"

His breathing grew heavier as your words sank in, your fingers tangling gently in the hair at the nape of his neck. "A few days away," you continued, your tone promising and tempting, "just you and me. No schedules, no distractions. Just us... making up for all the time we've missed. You know, we haven't had a night like that in weeks."

Tom let out a soft groan, his resolve clearly wavering as his hands slid to your waist. "You're not playing fair," he muttered, his voice low and tinged with a mixture of amusement and surrender.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, giving him your most innocent smile, even as your fingers traced lazy circles against his shoulders. "I'm not trying to play fair," you admitted, leaning in to kiss him again, this time with more intent. "I'm trying to remind you how much we need this. How much you need this."

For a moment, he said nothing, his hands tightening around your waist as if debating whether to argue or give in. But as his lips found yours again, and the tension between you melted into something far more enticing, you knew your plan was working. This vacation wasn't just going to happen—it was going to be unforgettable.

After finally convincing Tom the night before, you wasted no time putting your plan into motion. By the time morning rolled around, the sun streaming faintly through the curtains, you were already perched at the edge of the bed with your laptop open, typing away with a victorious grin on your face. Tom, still half-asleep, shuffled around the room, pulling on his usual work clothes—his favorite pair of oil-stained jeans and a simple gray t-shirt—while glancing at you with a mix of amusement and resignation.

"You're really not wasting any time, are you?" he teased, his voice still a little raspy from sleep as he combed his fingers through his messy hair.

"Absolutely not," you replied, barely looking up from the screen. "If I wait too long, you might change your mind, and I am not letting that happen."

Tom chuckled softly, shaking his head as he reached for his boots. "I already said yes, didn't I? I'm not going back on it. Besides," he added, his tone softening as he glanced at you, "you're right. We could both use this."

That little admission only fueled your excitement. You scrolled through the options for flights, carefully comparing departure times and prices, wanting everything to be perfect. Within minutes, you had selected the ideal tickets—just enough time for him to take a few days off without feeling guilty, but long enough for the two of you to truly unwind. With a quick click, the flights were booked, and you moved on to the next task: excursions.

You could hear Tom moving around in the background, the faint clink of his belt buckle as he fastened it and the shuffle of his boots as he laced them up. Occasionally, he'd glance over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow at your excited mutterings about snorkeling tours, hiking trails, or couples' massages. "What are you looking at now?" he asked, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.

"Excursions," you said brightly, turning the screen toward him to show a list of options. "What do you think about ziplining? Or maybe a sunset dinner cruise?"

He smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. "Whatever you want, babe. This is your thing—you're the planner."

You stuck your tongue out at him playfully but couldn't hide your excitement. "It's our thing, Tom. I want it to be perfect for both of us."

With that, he grabbed his keys and headed for the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at you. "Just don't forget to pack my stuff, okay? I'm trusting you to handle all this."

“Oh, don't worry," you called after him with a laugh. "I've got it all covered. You just focus on work, and I'll take care of the rest."

As the door closed behind him, you turned your attention back to the screen, your heart racing with anticipation. The flights were booked, the itinerary was coming together, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you and Tom had something to look forward to—something that was just for the two of you.

After carefully packing up your clothes and Tom's, you took a step back to survey the neatly arranged suitcases, making sure everything was perfectly in order. You'd spent the better part of the afternoon methodically folding and organizing, making sure no detail was overlooked. Tom's favorite worn flannels and comfortable jeans were folded neatly alongside the dressier outfits you'd picked for special evenings out. You even tucked in the t-shirts he always insisted on bringing, despite your protests that they weren't "vacation material."

Your own wardrobe was just as carefully selected, with outfits planned for every scenario—sun-drenched mornings, adventurous afternoons, and romantic dinners under the stars. Each piece was neatly rolled to maximize space, and you couldn't resist slipping in a couple of matching outfits for fun, imagining the two of you strolling together in perfect harmony.

Next to the clothes, you double-checked the small toiletry bag, making sure you'd packed everything from toothbrushes and deodorant to sunscreen and after-sun lotion. You even included a first-aid kit, knowing Tom would roll his eyes at the extra precaution but secretly appreciate your foresight if it came in handy.

In the side pockets of the suitcase, you stashed smaller essentials: chargers for your phones, Tom's favorite pair of earbuds, a paperback novel you'd been meaning to finish, and a travel-size bottle of cologne that always made your heart skip a beat when Tom wore it.

Finally, you zipped the bags closed and placed them by the door, double-checking your checklist to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Passports? Check. Plane tickets? Double check. Hotel reservation confirmation? Safely saved on your phone and printed out as a backup. You even made sure to tuck a surprise gift for Tom—a sleek pair of sunglasses you knew he'd love—into one of the outer pockets.

Standing back to admire your handiwork, you felt a wave of satisfaction wash over you. Everything was perfectly planned, packed, and ready to go. Now all that was left was to convince Tom to stop double-checking his work schedule and fully embrace the idea of relaxing for a few days. You smiled to yourself, knowing that once you got him on that plane, he'd realize you'd thought of everything—and you couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he finally let go and started enjoying the vacation you'd worked so hard to make special.

The plane ride to the island passed in a blur of excitement and anticipation. The steady hum of the engines blended with the soft chatter of other passengers, but your focus was entirely on Tom. Seated next to you, he had finally started to unwind, his gaze fixed on the view outside the small airplane window. The turquoise ocean stretched out endlessly below, dotted with tiny islands fringed by white sand beaches. You caught the way his lips curved into a faint smile as he took it all in, his shoulders relaxing just a little more with every passing mile.

By the time the plane touched down and you stepped onto the warm tarmac, the reality of your getaway began to sink in. The air was rich with the scent of salt and tropical flowers, and the cheerful sound of island music greeted you as you made your way to the car waiting to take you to the villa. Tom, ever curious, rolled down the window almost immediately as you drove, leaning out slightly to get a better view of the island. Palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze, and colorful markets flashed by, filled with locals selling fresh fruit and handmade crafts. You couldn't help but smile as you saw the light in his eyes—a rare moment where he wasn't thinking about work or responsibilities but was simply enjoying the moment.

When you finally pulled up to the villa, even you were struck by its beauty. Nestled in a secluded part of the island, it looked like something out of a dream. The villa's white walls gleamed in the sunlight, accented by soft blue shutters that mirrored the ocean beyond. A wraparound porch offered a breathtaking view of the private beach, and an infinity pool sparkled invitingly just steps away from the front door. Tom climbed out of the car, taking it all in with wide eyes, and for a moment, he seemed completely at a loss for words.

That moment didn't last long, though. As the driver helped unload your luggage, Tom turned to you, his brows furrowing slightly. "Okay, this place is amazing, but... how much did this cost?" he asked, his tone both curious and concerned, his practical nature kicking in as usual. "This doesn't exactly look budget-friendly."

You stepped closer to him, slipping your arms around his waist with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about that," you said softly, your voice steady and calm. "This is our time to relax, Tom. I've got it all covered, and I promise, it's worth every penny."

His expression wavered between skepticism and gratitude, but you could see him starting to soften. "Are you sure?" he asked, his tone quieter now.

“I'm absolutely sure," you said, squeezing his hand for emphasis. "You work so hard, and we deserve this. Let me take care of you for a change, okay?"

He finally nodded, letting out a small sigh as he pulled you into a hug. "You're too good to me," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel the tension starting to leave his body.

With his concerns temporarily set aside, you led him inside the villa, watching as his eyes lit up again at the sight of the spacious living area, the luxurious bedroom, and the stunning ocean views from every window. As he wandered out onto the porch to admire the beach, you couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. This was exactly what you had envisioned—a chance for both of you to escape, recharge, and enjoy each other's company without a single worry in the world.

The day was warm and golden as you and Tom set out to explore the island, the excitement of being in such a beautiful place pulling both of you from the comfort of the villa. With a map in hand and a sense of adventure in your hearts, you set off, eager to see all the island had to offer. The winding paths led you past lush greenery and vibrant bursts of tropical flowers, their sweet scent hanging in the air. Birds sang softly in the trees, and every now and then, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore reminded you that paradise was all around.

Your first stop was a charming village tucked away from the main tourist areas. The cobblestone streets were lined with colorful markets and cheerful vendors selling handmade jewelry, woven baskets, and fresh fruit that smelled so sweet and ripe you couldn't resist buying some. Tom was fascinated, picking up trinkets and asking the vendors questions about how they made their goods. You snapped candid pictures of him, capturing the way his face lit up when he tried on a handmade hat or laughed at his own attempts to haggle over a carved wooden figurine.

From there, the two of you ventured to a historical lighthouse perched high on a cliff, its weathered white facade standing proud against the bright blue sky. The climb to the top was steep, but the breathtaking view made every step worth it. The entire island spread out beneath you, a stunning mix of emerald greenery, sparkling turquoise waters, and soft sandy beaches. Tom couldn't stop snapping pictures, alternating between capturing the scenery and stealing moments to take photos of you when you weren't looking. "You're the real view here," he said with a wink, making you laugh and roll your eyes, though your cheeks warmed at his words.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, you returned to the villa hand in hand, both of you pleasantly tired from the day's adventures. The scent of the ocean grew stronger as you walked up the path, the sound of waves lapping gently at the shore greeting you like an old friend. Inside, you both took a moment to rest, sipping cool water and scrolling through the pictures you'd taken, laughing at the silly ones and marveling at the more artistic shots Tom had managed to capture.

Then it was time to prepare for the evening—a romantic dinner that you'd been looking forward to all day. You showered first, letting the warm water wash away the salt and sand from your skin, while Tom lounged on the porch, enjoying the sunset. When it was his turn, you laid out his clothes—a crisp button-down shirt and lightweight slacks you'd packed specifically for the occasion—and slipped into your own outfit, something simple yet elegant that you knew he'd love.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and looking effortlessly handsome in the clothes you'd picked, you were ready, standing by the window and admiring the last rays of sunlight. His eyes swept over you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "You look amazing," he said, his voice low and sincere, as he stepped closer to take your hand.

"And you clean up pretty well yourself," you teased, though the warmth in your voice betrayed just how much you meant it.

As evening fell, you and Tom made your way to the villa's elegant restaurant, a hidden gem nestled along the edge of the property with breathtaking views of the ocean. The path was softly lit by flickering lanterns, and the sound of waves gently crashing against the shore set the perfect backdrop for the night ahead. Tom held your hand as you walked, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin, a quiet smile on his face that matched the relaxed atmosphere you both felt after a day of exploring.

When you arrived, the hostess greeted you warmly and led you to a private table on the outdoor terrace. The table was beautifully arranged with a crisp white tablecloth, a centerpiece of tropical flowers, and candles that cast a soft, golden glow against the surrounding darkness. Overhead, the stars were scattered across the sky like diamonds, and the moon's silvery light reflected off the ocean, making it seem as if the water shimmered just for you.

Tom pulled out your chair for you, earning an affectionate laugh and a playful comment about how chivalrous he was tonight. He grinned as he took his seat across from you, his hazel eyes glowing in the candlelight. "Only the best for you," he said softly, his voice carrying that genuine warmth that always made your heart skip a beat.

The menu was exquisite, filled with fresh, locally sourced dishes that celebrated the island's flavors. You both took your time deciding, chatting about the highlights of the day as you sipped on chilled wine that the waiter had recommended. Tom couldn't stop talking about the view from the lighthouse, how beautiful it was, though he teased that it didn't compare to how you looked standing there in the sunset. You rolled your eyes at his cheesy remark, but the way he said it—completely sincere—left you smiling.

When the food arrived, it was nothing short of perfection. Tom had opted for a dish of freshly grilled fish, seasoned with island spices and served alongside roasted vegetables, while you chose a decadent seafood pasta with a rich, creamy sauce. The flavors were bold yet comforting, each bite better than the last. Between bites, you stole glances at Tom, marveling at how the soft candlelight accentuated the sharp lines of his face, the relaxed smile that hadn't left his lips all evening.

As the meal went on, the conversation shifted to lighter topics—dreams of future trips, funny moments from the day, and inside jokes that left you both laughing until your sides hurt. At one point, Tom reached across the table to take your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in that way that always made your heart flutter. "I'm really glad we're here," he said quietly, his voice low and full of emotion. "I didn't think I needed this, but... I did. Thank you."

His words melted any lingering doubts you'd had about convincing him to take this trip. You squeezed his hand, smiling back at him. "You deserve it, Tom. We both do."

For dessert, you shared a decadent chocolate mousse garnished with fresh berries, laughing as Tom tried to swipe an extra bite with his fork when you weren't looking. The night ended with another glass of wine, the two of you lingering at the table long after the other diners had left, simply enjoying the moment and each other's company. As you walked back to the villa hand in hand, the stars lighting your path, you couldn't help but feel like this night was a dream come true—one you'd never forget.

As you both stepped back into the villa, the warm, dim lighting of the space greeted you, creating a cozy and intimate atmosphere. The gentle sound of the ocean waves outside the windows mixed with the soft hum of the villa's ambiance, wrapping the moment in serenity. You barely had time to set your belongings down before Tom turned to you, his hazel eyes dark with a mix of affection and desire.

Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall carelessly to the back of a nearby chair. His hands, calloused but gentle, found your waist, pulling you closer. Before you could speak, he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of featherlight kisses that sent a shiver down your spine. His touch was deliberate, slow, as though savoring every second.

"You looked so beautiful tonight," he murmured against your skin, his voice low and slightly husky. His words, combined with the warmth of his breath, made your heart race. His hands tightened slightly at your waist, anchoring you to him as he pressed another kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your jawline.

"Tom," you whispered, your voice catching slightly, both a question and an invitation. He responded with a soft hum, the vibrations resonating against your skin as his lips continued their journey. The day's adventures, the romantic dinner, the playful teasing—all of it seemed to culminate in this moment, the world outside fading into nothingness.

His kisses grew more purposeful, and one hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair. "I couldn't stop thinking about this all through dinner," he admitted softly, his tone laced with sincerity and want. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"

A soft laugh escaped your lips, though it quickly dissolved into a quiet sigh as he continued his affectionate assault on your neck. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. It was a moment of pure connection, his touch conveying everything words couldn't—love, passion, and the need to simply be close to you.

As his lips trailed upward, brushing against your ear before capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and electrifying, you felt yourself melting into him completely. The villa, the ocean, the stars outside—it all seemed to exist solely as a backdrop to this moment, a perfect evening shared with the person you loved more than anything.

Your fingers moved instinctively, sliding up to the buttons of his shirt as his lips lingered on yours. One by one, you undid them, the fabric parting to reveal his toned chest beneath. Your hands brushed against his warm skin, feeling the strength in his muscles, the subtle rise and fall of his breath quickening under your touch. Tom's eyes darkened with intensity as he pulled back just slightly, giving you a small, teasing smirk that sent a rush of heat through you.

The sound of shoes being kicked off echoed softly against the villa's polished floors as you both shed them without thought, too wrapped up in each other to care about anything else. The elegant space around you—the plush rug, the glow of soft lanterns, the gentle sound of the ocean beyond—seemed to blur into the background. All that mattered was him, his touch, and the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

Without breaking contact, Tom guided you backward, his hands firm yet gentle as they rested on your hips, keeping you close. The back of your knees hit the edge of the couch, and with a shared laugh at the sudden stumble, the two of you sank down together, the leather cool against your skin. Tom hovered over you for a moment, his shirt now hanging open, framing his perfectly sculpted body. His hair was slightly tousled, his lips slightly swollen from the kisses you'd shared, and he looked at you with a mix of mischief and unspoken adoration.

"You're absolutely irresistible, you know that?" he murmured, his voice low and gravelly as he leaned closer, one hand sliding up to cup your face while the other braced against the couch beside you.

Your heart raced as you met his gaze, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "I could say the same about you," you replied, your hands wandering to his now-open shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. The fabric slipped down his arms, revealing the full expanse of his toned chest and strong shoulders, every inch of him a testament to the hours of hard work he put in at the garage. The shirt fell to the floor, forgotten, as he leaned in to kiss you again, his lips warm and insistent.

The couch became your world as the two of you moved together, the weight of the day melting away with every touch, every kiss. It wasn't just passion—it was love, the kind that made everything else seem insignificant compared to the connection you shared in this moment.

As Tom's lips found their way back to your neck, his kisses grew slower, deeper, and more purposeful. Each press of his lips sent waves of warmth coursing through you, making your breath hitch as he lingered on the sensitive spots he knew so well. His hands, warm and steady, moved to your waist, his fingers deftly working to unbuckle your pants. The soft click of the buckle and the gentle tug of the zipper echoed faintly in the quiet villa, the sound mingling with the distant crash of waves outside.

He pressed a kiss just beneath your jawline, his breath warm against your skin as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your briefs. His touch was firm yet deliberate, his fingers curling around your dick with a confidence that sent a shiver through your body. The sensation was electric, making your heart pound as his hand began to move in slow, measured strokes that left you breathless.

"Relax," Tom murmured against your neck, his voice low and filled with a mixture of affection and desire. His lips brushed against your ear as he added teasingly, "Let me take care of you."

His words, combined with the way his hand worked you with perfect rhythm, made it impossible to focus on anything else. You felt the tension leave your body as you melted into his touch, your hands finding their way to his back, clutching at the muscles beneath his warm skin. Every movement, every kiss, every touch was filled with a tenderness that reminded you just how deeply he cared for you.

As his lips continued their trail along your neck, and his hand skillfully worked you into a state of bliss, it became clear that tonight was about more than just passion—it was about love, connection, and the kind of intimacy that only the two of you could share.

Tom pulled away from your neck, his lips lingering for just a moment as his eyes met yours, dark with intent and desire. His hands slid down to your hips, tugging at the waistband of your pants and briefs in one smooth motion. The fabric slid down your thighs, cool air brushing against your now-exposed skin, heightening the electricity in the room.

He sat back slightly, his gaze traveling over you with a mixture of admiration and hunger, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "You're gorgeous," he murmured, his voice low and thick with sincerity, as though the words couldn't stay unspoken.

Without breaking eye contact, he brought his hand to his mouth, his tongue slipping out to wet his palm. The deliberate motion sent a shiver through you, your breath hitching as anticipation coiled tightly in your stomach. His fingers glistened as he lathered his hand, the simple act so intimate and unhurried that it made your pulse race.

Tom leaned forward again, his hand finding its place against your dick, the warmth of his touch heightened by the slickness of his spit. His movements were slow at first, testing, teasing, his thumb brushing lightly over your sensitive tip before beginning a steady rhythm. "Better?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a playful edge, though his eyes held nothing but care and focus.

Your head tipped back against the couch, a soft sound escaping your lips as you surrendered completely to the sensation. Tom's free hand rested on your thigh, grounding you, while his touch continued to work its magic. Every stroke was deliberate, every movement sending waves of pleasure through you as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he could reach.

It wasn't just the physical sensation that had you trembling beneath him—it was the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, as if every moment was dedicated to showing you just how much he loved you.

Tom's hand slowed, his gaze flickering up to meet yours with a teasing glint in his eyes. Without a word, he leaned down, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your length, his breath warm and tantalizing against you. His tongue darted out, delivering a slow, deliberate lick from the base to the tip, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through you.

The soft, wet heat of his mouth was almost too much to bear, and before you could stop yourself, a low, breathy moan of his name escaped your lips. Hearing it seemed to spur him on, his lips curving into a small, mischievous smile against your skin.

"You like that?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with playful confidence. He didn't wait for an answer, his tongue flicking over your tip in a way that made your fingers grip the couch beneath you. Every movement was precise, designed to elicit the sweetest sounds from you, and the way he watched your reactions—his eyes dark and full of affection—made it all the more intoxicating.

He took his time, savoring every inch of you, alternating between slow, teasing licks and firmer, more purposeful strokes of his tongue. His hands rested on your hips, steadying you as your body responded to him, every nerve alive with pleasure. With every flick of his tongue, every gentle kiss, he seemed determined to unravel you completely, his name falling from your lips in broken, breathless gasps.

Tom paused for a moment, looking up at you with a smug grin. "You're so responsive," he said, his voice filled with both admiration and amusement. "I could do this all night."

The promise in his words sent another wave of heat through you, leaving you completely at his mercy as he leaned down again, his lips and tongue returning to their task, drawing you closer and closer to the edge with every deliberate, loving movement.

Tom continued to work you with expert precision, his hand gliding along your dick in a rhythm that kept your body humming with pleasure. His lips occasionally brushed against you, teasing you with gentle kisses and flicks of his tongue, as if he was savoring every moment. The warmth of his touch, combined with the wet heat of his mouth, had you gripping the couch beneath you, your breathing uneven and shaky as you struggled to keep yourself grounded.

Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, Tom paused, his hand stilling for a moment as he leaned back slightly. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and intense, a small, knowing smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Don't worry," he said softly, his voice low and almost a purr. "I'm not done with you yet."

Without breaking eye contact, he lifted two fingers to his mouth, slipping them past his lips. His tongue swirled around them, coating them thoroughly with his saliva in a way that was deliberate and impossibly seductive. You watched, completely captivated, as he pulled them out slowly, the slick sound sending a shiver through you.

His free hand resting firmly on your thigh as he settled closer to you. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his gaze steady, filled with affection and a hint of mischief. "Relax," he murmured softly, his voice low and soothing, a gentle reminder for you to trust him.

He traced his fingers teasingly against your hole, the sensation sending a shiver through your body. The cool slickness of his touch contrasted with the warmth of his hand on your thigh, grounding you in the moment. Slowly, carefully, he pressed forward, letting his first finger slip past the tight resistance. The sensation was intense at first, but his movements were patient and deliberate, giving you time to adjust.

"Doing okay?" Tom asked softly, his tone full of care as his thumb brushed against your skin in a comforting gesture. When you nodded, he smiled, his confidence growing as he gently moved his finger in and out, his motions slow and exploratory. It wasn't long before he added a second finger, the stretch a little more pronounced, but the way he worked you—gentle and methodical—helped ease the tension.

His movements grew more purposeful, his fingers curling slightly as he explored, searching for the spot that would send you over the edge. When he found it, the jolt of pleasure that shot through you was electric, your body arching involuntarily as a moan of his name escaped your lips. The sound made him grin, a soft chuckle escaping as he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. "There it is," he murmured, his voice warm and teasing.

Tom's fingers continued to work you with precision, his touch filled with a mix of passion and tenderness. Every movement sent waves of pleasure through you, building steadily as he watched your reactions, his eyes filled with admiration and love. Each sound you made seemed to spur him on, his fingers pressing and curling just right, making it clear that his only goal was your complete and utter satisfaction.

His other hand moved to the waistband of his pants, and with a practiced ease, he began to push them down, his movements fluid and unhurried.

He shifted slightly, the fabric of his pants and boxers sliding down his hips and pooling at his ankles. The muscles in his toned body flexed with every motion, the candlelight from the villa catching on his skin, highlighting every sharp line and curve. Yet, even as he undressed, his fingers never faltered inside you, maintaining that perfect rhythm that had you teetering on the edge of bliss.

"Keep your eyes on me," Tom murmured, his voice low and rough with desire, his lips curling into a small, teasing smile. He stepped out of the discarded clothing, completely bare now, and the sight of him only added to the heat coursing through you. Every inch of him was breathtaking, from the sharp lines of his jaw to the strength in his frame, and the way his confidence radiated made it impossible to look anywhere else.

His free hand returned to your thigh, his touch grounding and warm as his fingers inside you pressed deeper, curling just right to hit that spot that made your vision blur and your breath catch. "You're so perfect," he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to your parted lips, his voice laced with adoration. "I could do this forever."

Tom's body hovered close to yours now, his bare skin warm against you as his fingers worked with a precision that left you breathless. The intimacy of the moment—the connection between you—was overwhelming in the best possible way, a perfect mix of passion and love that left no room for anything else but him.

Soon his fingers slowed their motion, his touch deliberate and teasing as he watched your face with a soft smile. He pressed one kiss onto your lips before pulling his fingers out carefully, leaving you with a mix of emptiness and anticipation that made your heart race. His hands moved to your hips, steadying you as he shifted his position, his body close and warm against yours.

His dick, already hard and flushed with arousal, brushed against you, sending sparks of heat through your body. He reached down to guide himself, the tip of his length pressing against your entrance with just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Relax," he murmured again, his voice low and soothing, his eyes locked onto yours. "I've got you."

Without hesitation, Tom pushed forward, sliding into you in one slow, fluid motion. The stretch was intense, a mix of pleasure and pressure that made your back arch and your breath hitch. He paused for a moment, giving you time to adjust, his hands tightening on your hips as if anchoring himself to you. His head dipped to your shoulder, and you could hear the low groan that escaped his lips, the sound vibrating against your skin as he fought to keep himself steady.

"God," he murmured, his voice husky and strained, "you feel incredible."

When he felt you relax beneath him, he began to move, pulling back slightly before pressing forward again, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, each one designed to build the pleasure between you. His hands roamed your body, one sliding up to cradle your face while the other held your hip, his grip firm but tender. "Look at me," he whispered, his voice full of affection and desire, as his eyes searched yours. "I want to see you."

The connection between you was electric, every movement drawing you closer to him, every sound he made sending another wave of pleasure through you. As his rhythm grew more confident, his thrusts deep and purposeful, it became impossible to think about anything but him—the way he filled you, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word was a testament to the love and passion you shared, the moment so intimate and consuming that the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

Suddenly, Tom shifted his position, his hands firm but gentle as he grabbed one of your legs, lifting it effortlessly to rest on his shoulder. The change in angle sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, pulling a gasp from your lips. He held your other leg securely with his free hand, steadying you as he pressed forward, his thrusts deeper and more deliberate now.

The new position intensified every sensation, the depth and rhythm of his movements driving you to the edge. Tom's lips brushed against the skin of your ankle resting on his shoulder, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. "You're amazing," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of admiration and desire, his gaze fixed on you with unwavering intensity. "So perfect."

You couldn't help but laugh breathlessly, your hands gripping the couch beneath you as you adjusted to the stretch. "Guess all those yoga classes paid off," you teased, your voice catching between moans. You were grateful that flexibility was something you hadn't lost over the years, and now, in this moment, it felt like the best decision you'd ever made.

Tom grinned at your comment, his expression softening for just a moment before his focus returned to the connection between you. His thrusts grew more confident, his grip on your leg tightening as he leaned forward slightly, his body pressing closer to yours. Each movement sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, the stretch and the angle hitting spots that left you utterly undone.

"You feel so good," Tom groaned, his voice low and husky as his pace quickened, the intensity between you building with every motion. The sound of your name falling from his lips, mixed with the rhythm of his body moving against yours, was almost enough to send you over the edge. His free hand slid up your thigh, caressing your skin in a way that was both grounding and electrifying, keeping you completely lost in the moment.

Tom's movements slowed for just a moment, his grip on your leg tightening slightly as his forehead rested against your ankle. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, but his eyes found yours, soft and full of unspoken emotion. "I've missed this," he murmured, his voice low and husky, tinged with an honesty that made your heart ache. "I've missed you—this."

His confession sent a wave of warmth through you, the intimacy of the moment deepening in a way that made everything else fade away. You could see it in his expression, the longing, the love, the way he was holding on to every second as if trying to make up for lost time. Despite how strong your bond was, you both knew how his demanding work schedule often pulled him away, leaving precious little time for moments like this. And even though your spark had never dimmed, it was rare to have the space to truly reconnect—not just physically, but emotionally.

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch. "I've missed this too," you admitted softly, your voice filled with the same vulnerability. "Not just this... but being close to you like this."

Tom's lips curled into a small, wistful smile as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your calf, his hand caressing your thigh with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. "I hate how work takes so much time away from us," he said, his tone laced with regret. "I don't ever want you to feel like I'm not here for you. You mean everything to me."

Hearing those words, feeling the sincerity behind them, was enough to make tears well in your eyes. But before you could say anything, Tom leaned forward again, adjusting his position to press his body closer to yours, his thrusts resuming with a deliberate slowness that conveyed just how much this moment meant to him. Every movement was filled with purpose, a silent promise that he was here, with you, fully present.

As the rhythm between you built again, the connection deepened, every kiss, every touch, every whispered word reaffirming the love that had always been there. This wasn't just about intimacy—it was about remembering what mattered most, about finding each other again in the quiet space away from the world's distractions. It was a moment that neither of you would forget, a reminder that no matter how busy life got, your love would always bring you back to each other.

By the time you stirred awake, the afternoon sun was already pouring through the villa's large windows, casting warm golden light across the room. You stretched lazily, sinking deeper into the soft sheets as the unmistakable aroma of food wafted through the air. Something savory and buttery mixed with the faint sweetness of tropical fruit and the rich scent of coffee. Your stomach growled in response, and you smiled to yourself, savoring the peaceful quiet of the moment.

Glancing toward the open doorway, your curiosity was rewarded with the sight of Tom in the kitchen. He stood at the stove, dressed in nothing but his black briefs, his toned body on full display, glowing in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. His hair was slightly messy, still tousled from sleep, and he was humming quietly as he cooked.

But what really caught your attention was the way he moved—swaying his hips in time with a beat only he could hear, adding an occasional spin or exaggerated shoulder roll as he worked. His little dance was carefree and playful, a side of him that you didn't always get to see in the hustle of daily life. You bit back a laugh as he shuffled over to the counter, grabbing a bowl of something with an almost theatrical flourish, then turned back to the stove with an exaggerated spin that nearly caused him to drop the spatula.

Your soft laugh broke the silence, and his head shot up, his hazel eyes meeting yours. A slow, mischievous smirk spread across his face as he placed the spatula down on the counter. "Well, look who finally decided to join me," he teased, resting one hand on his hip as he gave you an amused once-over. "Good afternoon, sleepyhead."

Still half-buried in the sheets, you reached for your phone and glanced at the time. Your eyes widened when you realized it was late into the afternoon. "Wait... it's already this late?" you murmured, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. "I didn't realize how tired I was."

Tom chuckled as he turned back to the stove, expertly flipping something in the skillet. "I'm not surprised," he said over his shoulder. "After last night, I figured you'd need all the rest you could get." His voice was casual, but the cheeky tone underlying his words made your cheeks flush as memories of the previous evening came flooding back.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, wrapping yourself in a robe as you padded toward him. "And what's this?" you asked, nodding toward the spread of food on the counter—eggs, fresh fruit, toast, and even a small carafe of freshly brewed coffee. "You're cooking now?"

He glanced at you, his smirk widening as he turned off the burner and slid the contents of the skillet onto a plate. "I figured you deserved breakfast in paradise after last night," he said, his voice low and teasing as he set the plate down on the counter and stepped closer to you.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms in mock skepticism. "Breakfast? At two in the afternoon?"

Tom shrugged, leaning in slightly, the playful glint in his eyes impossible to miss. "Hey, good things take time. Besides," he added, brushing a quick kiss against your temple, "I'm not letting you lift a finger today. You're on vacation."

His words made you smile, and you shook your head fondly, leaning into him for a moment before glancing at the spread again. "Well, I could get used to this," you teased.

Tom laughed, giving you a wink as he grabbed a cup of coffee and handed it to you. "You'd better. It's not every day you get a shirtless chef who can cook and dance."

You couldn't help but laugh, the warmth of his affection and the ease of his teasing filling you with a contentment that made you feel truly spoiled. As the two of you settled down at the small dining table on the villa's porch, the world seemed to pause in serene perfection. The warm island breeze danced around you, carrying the soothing sounds of waves gently crashing on the shore and the occasional rustle of palm leaves swaying in rhythm. The view before you stretched out into endless turquoise waters that sparkled under the late-morning sun, creating a postcard-perfect backdrop for the intimate meal Tom had prepared.

The breakfast was simple yet thoughtfully crafted, a reflection of Tom's care for you. Fluffy scrambled eggs, golden and steaming, sat next to a plate of fresh tropical fruit—slices of juicy mango, sweet pineapple, and perfectly ripe papaya. The toast was lightly crisped, accompanied by a small pot of locally made jam that glistened like tiny jewels under the sunlight. In the center of the table, a pot of freshly brewed coffee sent up wisps of fragrant steam. Tom poured two cups, the dark liquid filling the mugs with comforting warmth, before taking his seat across from you. His movements were unhurried, his expression relaxed—a rare sight compared to the usual work-driven intensity he carried back home.

As he sat, the light seemed to catch on his features in a way that softened them further. His hair was a mess of waves, still slightly tousled from the bed, and his jaw held a faint scruff that added to his effortless charm. For a moment, you simply watched him, marveling at how different he seemed here—untethered from the constant demands of his job, entirely present in this peaceful moment with you.

Tom took a bite of his eggs, savoring the meal for a moment before setting down his fork and leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze met yours, steady and filled with a sincerity that made your chest tighten. "I meant everything I said last night," he began, his voice low but brimming with conviction. "I've missed this—missed us. And I hate that my schedule makes it so hard for us to have moments like this."

His words hung in the air, the honesty behind them striking a chord deep within you. Your fork paused mid-air as you absorbed what he was saying, your heart both warmed and heavy at the same time. Tom reached across the table, taking your hand in his own, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over your knuckles. "I know I get caught up in work," he continued, his tone tinged with a vulnerability he didn't often show. "I know I push myself too hard, and it takes me away from you—takes time I can't get back. But last night... it reminded me why I need to do better. I promise, I'm going to let up on my work schedule. I don't want to keep missing moments like this with you."

The weight of his words hit you fully, a blend of tenderness and regret woven into his every syllable. His eyes, warm and earnest, searched yours as though seeking reassurance. You could see the struggle in him—the balance between his overwhelming sense of responsibility and his love for you. Just as you felt the swell of emotions rise, Tom added, his voice quieter but no less determined, "But I also need you to understand... I'm not going to stop working toward our dream home. I know I can get a little obsessed with it, but I'm doing it for us. I just want to give you everything you deserve."

Your heart swelled with affection, even as a pang of concern struck you at how much pressure he placed on himself. Squeezing his hand, you let a soft smile curve your lips as you held his gaze. "Tom," you said gently, your voice steady but filled with emotion, "I don't need a dream house to be happy. I just need you. Moments like this—us, together—that's what matters most to me."

Tom's lips quirked into a small, sheepish smile, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "I know," he said after a moment, his voice almost a whisper. "And I'm going to work on finding that balance. For you, for us."

The unspoken emotions between you lingered in the air as you returned to your meal, savoring the flavors and the quiet connection you shared. Tom's promise wasn't just empty words—it was the first step toward a future where your love and connection wouldn't have to compete with the weight of life's demands. The sound of the ocean played softly in the background, the breeze carrying the faint scent of salt and flowers, and as you sat there with the man you loved, sharing this rare and perfect moment, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

#x male reader #tom holland x male reader #tom holland smut #tom holland x male!reader #tom holland #gay #smut

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denim-devil · 1 month ago

Text

✫ Emerging Adulthood | R.G ✫

Summary - Whilst learning how to drive, Rick has other plans once his temptations kick in…

| DBF!Rick / Blowjob / Facefucking / Swallowing |

Nervous wasn’t the only way to describe how you felt.

The van, cold yet lacked space, you were crammed shoulder to shoulder with Rick, the neighbour who became close friends with your dad, not just for any reason though.

It was going smoothly although you could hear the slightly creak of the dark van’s metal exterior every time you began to break, it was new to you but travelling hours on end from college to home, back and forth got exhausting from time to time, this way you could see your father…and Rick.

“Thank you for this Rick, it’s gonna make my life so much easier…”

Smiling to himself, he shoots a glance your way, his arms resting against his meaty, spread thighs.

“It’s nothin’ kid, trust me, ya dad seemed pretty happy about it, atleast we can spend some time together, feel like ya’ve grown to quickly…”

Shuffling lead to him leaning over directly into your space, mouth level with your ear, a helping hand slowly monitoring your steering, looming over your own.

It wasn’t something new to you, it had been years, ever since the day you were introduced there had always been a click, with it recently growing into something more, Rick hated to admit how much you had an affect on him, yet that was secreted…for now.

Heat began to rise up from your strained neck, blossoming into your cheeks. Rick could see it, being this close, feeling his skin on yours, he could feel the van wobbly slightly, knowing that your focus was elsewhere.

“C’mon sweetheart, you got it, look at ya go”

His whispers had you actively clutching the wheel, southern accents had a charm and you were certainly afflicted by it, his hand now removing itself from your own and down to your thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He kept it there for a few seconds, testing the waters, you could both feel the tension, thick as a block of butter, head fuzzy with the thought of something happening, something you had been longing for.

He pulls back for leverage, allowing you to make a left turning, flicking the indicator on just before, you could hear the light chuckle and the low, short and huffy “good boy”.

“You really are gettin’ good at this ain’t ya?”

You nod with confidence, evidently ignoring the boner that began to ache between your pressed thighs, how could you possibly escape this situation without embarrassing yourself?

With space to breathe, you begin to get comfortable again, slightly slouching back with a newly perpetuated confidence, with a teacher as good as Rick, which was no surprise, Carl was a big part of his life, even after his divorce with Lori.

He was the biggest distraction on earth, to you, he was everything and more. “Hey…kid? See that over there? Why don’cha pull in for me, give yer legs a rest…”

It was a desolate patch of road, away from the car’s passing by, away from the world, secret and quiet, your heart pounded, thumping in your ears, loud.

Nodding was your only answer as you follow his words, pulling in slowly, turning the car until you came to a stop.

“Good job kid, ya really gonna smash it” He ruffles your locks, now messy and out of place, it catches Rick of guard, nothing out of the unusual yet his cock twitched, the sight of you alone was intoxicating and it took everything within him the sight of you alone was intoxicating and it took everything within him to sit and just pretend he was okay, the look unknowingly had you creeping back in on yourself, a shyness only he was able to bring out.

You twiddle with your thumbs, anything to take your mind off of him, to just escape for those five seconds before he scoffed.

“What’s wrong kid?” His words were the catalyst, looking up into his ocean blue eyes which looked glazed, comforting yet bright and curious.

“Nothing…just, this-�� He shuffled, backing up his seat a little before resting an elbow on the window and spreading his meaty legs wider practically giving you an invitation. “What about it? Somethin distracting ya?” You nod timidly. “I can help with that…”

His southern drawl was thick, soothing to the brain. You turn to look at him, eyes immediately drinking the view in, lowering, settling on the bulge between his legs, you tried stifling the small gasp of air that managed to escape you, it was to late.

“I can explain-“ He tutted, his thumb slowly tracing the outline of his throbbing cock, glued to the way you shuffled in your seat like you had ants in your pants. “Ya don’t hav’ to, I’ve been tryin’ fer so long with ya, waitin’ till I had you all to myself…”

As if time stood still itself you were so focused on him, the way he looked, the way he sat, the way his thumbed at his cock, palm fondling the front of his dark wash jeans, it was alluring, you wanted more.

You yearned for this day more then you would like to say, patience was waning thin on your side, every inch of you on fire just at the single thought of becoming more, the judgment and broken connections that would likely follow had you stilled and confused, it wasn’t enough to withhold you from desire.

“All ya have ta do is nod, then ya can have it and some more sweetheart.”

It felt like a punch to the stomach, like the air in your lungs evaporated within seconds. The heat in your cheeks scorching the skin successfully, succumbing to Rick’s charm.

Your palms were damp, almost sticky as you shakily reached towards his crotch with a wanting hand, nodding in the process, swallowing the spit that had collected in the back of your mouth from salivating just at the thought of seeing it, seeing him.

“Atta boy-“ Reaching for the back of your head sweetly, he slowly lowers it, watching you wiggle into a comfortable position before your nose, now squished up against his crotch, huffs, breathing him in.

Relishing in the smell, musky, thick with masculinity, sweet with temptation. Eager hands search his thighs before you face the ultimatum, looking up into his darkened eyes, lust filled.

Rick knew exactly what you wanted and happily complied, pushing you further into his aching bulge, stuffing your nose deeper.

“That’s it, ya so fuckin’ hungry for ain’t ya”

Hot pants litter the front of his trousers, tongue darting out to lap at the freshly made wet patch. The taste heavy with want scorned the tip of your tongue, fingers avidly searching for the zipper to unleash your dirty fantasy.

Rick watched. His tongue dangerously flicking against his lips as he silently watched, the soft moans that fell from the pits of your chest once you successfully managed the opening, pulling the zipper down, releasing the beast.

Eager finger tips dig into the waist band of his underwear, his bulge nothing short of chunky and big, filling the entire space within the material.

His length flops out against his stomach with a heavy thud. You couldn’t help but look in awe, the tip angry and red, multiple veins, thick and pumping with desire, he was big, scarily big but you expected nothing less from an ex-deputy.

A searching hand wraps around him, engulfing the head with the extra skin that sat there, watching in anticipation once it flicked over the tip, jerking him slowly back and forth.

Rick groaned, head lulling back into his car seat, legs widening even further for you slot deeper into, making space for the casual onslaught that was now set in stone.

This was nothing short of both risky and dangerous, you had no self control, not when it came to Rick, you allow yourself to indulge, inspecting the jizzy head before your mouth wraps around his bulbous tip, wide and wanting.

His hands, full of warmth and protection slowly search the back of your neck, raking up into your locks before grabbing a handle, he tugs you back catching you off guard but it’s not for nothing.

“Been thinkin’ about these pretty little lips wrapped around my cock, ya think ya can take it?” Without a warning your pushed back into him, mouth engulfing what he gave you, a strong hand settling at the back of your neck, warm yet eager to push you downward, watching each inch of him get lost within your wet cavern.

It gave you no time to think, how could you think? His cock reaching the depths of your throat, the tip glued to the back of your mouth once your nose buried itself in the thin layer of hair that framed the beauty and beast.

“Fuck, ya been practicing with them boys in college? Who knew ya were a good cock sucker-“

He holds you down once you start to gag, eyes rolled back into your head, balls pressed heavy against your brow line, you couldn’t do anything yet submit to the man.

Rick wouldn’t ever admit it but watching you struggle to breathe, slapping at his thighs for air was something he’d think about every damn day from now.

You choke before being allowed to pull off with a pop, coughing into the material of his trousers. Once again your back on with a newly found love, tongue flicking over the tip once you sink your throat down again, taking his cock completely, back and forth with the direction of his hand.

That’s when his mobile began to buzz, throwing you both off guard, it wasn’t enough to make you stop though, your other hand coming to cup the base of his balls, rolling both between your fingers.

“Gotta be quiet sweetheart, it’s ya daddy. Keep suckin’ that dick like a good boy”

In which you did, following his lead once he pressed accept, taking the risk. It felt dirty once the conversation started, knowing any slip up could cost you both, yet it had you going faster and deeper, stuffing your mouth full of him.

“Yeah he’s doin a pretty good job, think I outta give him a few more for good measure, gotta give it to him though, he’s very…good” Ricl bit into the centre of his bottom lip, keeping his heavy groans back which were seated deep in his chest, urging to come out.

His hand kept it’s presence known, bouncing his hips upward into your skull, balls freely slapping into your cheek. Dirty. Wet. A small puddle of saliva formed at his base, strings of it latching onto the base of your chin, it would be a miracle if your dad never heard any of it, how you worked him over.

“He can’t talk right now, he’s just parking up, yeah that’s right—“ It was quick yet everything you were searching for, nothing short of filthy. Nothing mattered to Rick more then watching your growing affliction for his cock flourish into neediness, hearing just how much you wanted it by the relentless gags and the hollowing of your cheeks.

Nobody really understood the burning hunger that sat heavy in his gut, only you, the constant lapping at the tip, the frequent squeeze of his balls, he couldn’t hold on for much longer, not when you had every incline of how to make him crumble.

“I gotta go, need to finish up with him, I’m sure he’ll tell ya all about it when we get back…”Your eyes started to well with tears as he fucked into your throat, using your mouth like he would toy, chasing after his orgasm.

Ending the call was the gateway to your freedom, his pace faster then before, delivering harsh blows, his hand holding you down, forcing you to take it.

“Gonna cum boy- can you take it? You taking it?” Nodding with anticipation is all it took for Rick to sink every single inch into your throat, he sat heavy on your tongue, feeling him pulse and twitch, hand keeping you in place once you feel each thick shot land in different places in your mouth, pooling behind your lips.

“Shit— shit” Swallowing every drop you couldn’t let any go to waste, tasting him fully, slightly salty but over-all sweet and tantalising, it lingered behind even after swallowing every drop, tongue cleaning his cock before you pull of with a pop, watching it fall and lay, half hard.

“C’mere sweetheart” His eyelids were hooded, his mouth turned out into a coy smile, he looked faded, lost in his pleasure. Darting forward into him, his tongue flicks into your mouth, over your own, hungrily, learning just how damn good he tasted on you, his beard grazing the skin surrounding your now abused mouth.

“Think ya could try that again?”

#RE-WRITE

#male reader #x male reader #twd #rick grimes #rick grimes x male reader #the walking dead #re-write

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quarterlifekitty · 2 months ago

Note

I've been re-reading your weaknesses series because I love it so much, and I've been wondering if you could maybe elaborate more on Price liking former gifted students?

Mmmmmmmmm always heeeheee

I went crazy a little sorry

I think many of the COD men, honestly, are highly motivated by objectives and tasks— that’s why their careers are as they are. Price loves to have a project. It’s what he lives for. And he sees you as a fulfilling, beautiful, long overdue project.

It’s in the way that he can read you like a book. He can clock you so easily and see exactly what happened to you to make you this way. He’s like an archeologist, the way he’s brushing off the dust and seeing the skeletal trauma of the specimen that is you. The way you push yourself. The way you don’t say no. The way you run yourself ragged and exhausted. The way you’ll never insert yourself, never advocate for yourself— not if it means taking up space. Not if it means compromising the pristine, trouble-free, low maintainence image that you’re prized for.

The world around you is content to use you. To see you made into a husk of yourself. To have you sacrifice every speck of peace and energy you have for yourself in order to be liked and valued by others. You’re a rainbow fish. Anyone can take a scale. He sees your brilliance being used but not appreciated. You’re regarded as a colonized resource— they have no regard for what will happen when you’re kept running in such an unsustainable fashion. That you will burn.

Nothing pleases him more than wordlessly taking tasks off of your plate. Telling you to sit down, that he’ll take care of things. To but in when people are asking favors and say “actually, they have enough to do right now” or “they’re coming straight home with me to rest. Captain’s orders” (whether or not this person answers to him). Tells people, in a playful, scary way (and yet in no uncertain terms) that if they continue taking advantage of your nature (he doesn’t care how supposedly ignorant they are to doing it) that they’ll have him to answer to.

He loves to lay you down at home and take away all of it. All of the decisions, the worry, the selflessness. He’ll take care of all of it. He just wants you pretty and perched in the palm of his hand. He’s your salvation and the architect of your paradise.

To an outsider, it may even seem like he’s the stereotypical whipped husband. Happy wife, happy life and all that. But he knows how long and deeply you’ve suffered, and how you perpetuated that suffering because you were trained to believe it to be the only path to love. You are a martyr saint to him. You gave up your life upon the faith that it would bring approval, acknowledgment, affection. He’s here to teach you selfishness. He’s here to teach you where love really comes from. He’s here to show you what it’s like to receive devotion rather than just give it.

Price is here to take back your scales.

#writing #cod fanfic #John price #captain john price #John price x reader #price x reader #cod

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 1 year ago

Text

A KITCHEN-TABLE KINDA LOVE ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; satoru doesn’t quite know what love is supposed to feel like. but if it means coming home to you, it can’t possibly be that much of a curse.

word count; 4.9k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, satoru gojo vs. the mortifying ordeal of being loved, fluff fluff fluff!!, a hint of angst if you reeeaallyyy squint, gojo’s pov, the babygirlification of satoru gojo, i just think being babied would fix him <33

a/n; i wanted to write something for suguru or shoko but this man is genuinely holding my brain hostage atp so more satoru fluff it is!! physically i could write gojo angst yes but emotionally? imagine the toll…

when satoru steps over the threshold to your apartment, he’s downright exhausted.

it’s a heavy kind of fatigue, a little sickening. the kind that seems to sneak its way into his bones, crawl its way under his skin. dragging him down, down, down.

a yawn slips from his lips.

the mission itself wasn’t too tough — anything is a breeze for satoru gojo, that fact needs no elaboration. this one was just a little more taxing than usual, slightly more important, which meant he had to deal with the technicalities of it all. had to listen to the elders go on and on about the importance of discretion, about finishing things swiftly and efficiently, and something else he didn’t stick around long enough to hear.

and the curse? a small fry, really. nothing worth fussing over. but it was annoying, with that irritatingly effective barrier technique. how long did he have to stay inside that goddamn veil before it let him get close enough to land a hit? satoru doesn’t want to think about it, can’t be bothered to figure it out when all he wants is to collapse into the warm comfort of a soft mattress. all he knows is that when it finally lifted, the night sky was the only thing he could see. a vacuum of stars — taunting in its perpetuity.

so, with all that being said; to say satoru feels a little worn out might be a bit of an understatement.

hair slightly tousled, eyelids heavy with sleep-deprivation, he slumps against the wall and allows himself to simply breathe. a soft groan flows from his parted lips as he stretches idly, a small respite for his stiff and achy joints, his tired muscles. it’s been a long day. but satoru still finds it in him to exhale a relieved breath, to drag his blindfold down to his neck and kick off his shoes.

because it’s been a long, long day — but now he’s finally home.

(not just a house, not just an apartment, but a home. a place of comfort and belonging. satoru didn’t think that was a luxury he would ever be able to afford.)

the moment he lets the door close behind him, a particular scent greets him. soothing in its familiarity, the only thing in his life that never seems to change; a blend between fresh laundry, and watered houseplants, and something that smells a bit like honey. maybe even sweeter than usual, though he chalks it up to his mind playing tricks on him.

it’s nice. so nice. coming back to something warm and real, a respite from his hectic work. a safe haven, of sorts, one that hasn’t been taken from him yet.

satoru likes to think of your front door as a threshold between realms, a gap between within and without. one is dark in its saturation, plagued by that never-fading smell of iron, while the other is simply warm. sacred, in its normalcy. everything looks just as it should, the same as when he rushed out this morning; a fluffy blanket haphazardly draped over the couch, that soft golden light streaming out from the kitchen, your shoes by the front door.

satoru blinks, drowsily.

wait.

(why is the kitchen light still on?)

as if his eyes could ever deceive him, satoru rubs the skin underneath them — blinking once, then twice.

yep — it’s still there. that soft fluorescent glow, a sight he’s come to associate with breakfast and dinner and a mellow kind of love, laughter shared over warm meals made by human hands. food tastes better, satoru has come to realize, when you have someone to eat it with.

ah, but it’s odd. did you forget to turn the lights off? that’s not very like you.

as if possessed by a strange, irresistible longing, his feet carry him to the kitchen in question. undeniably groggy, his uncoordinated steps riddled with fatigue, but the yearning in his chest compels him to move forward anyway — a kind of yearning he only fully understands when he enters the space, and sees you slumped over the table, a familiar flicker of cursed energy capturing his attention.

satoru stills, where he stands by the threshold between the kitchen and the living room.

everything looks the same as always — cookie jars placed on the highest shelf to give him an excuse to help you reach them, origami made from newspapers he never bothers to read anyway, a vase standing proudly on the kitchen counter, stuffed with fresh flowers he bought for you two days ago. the red roses still haven’t wilted, shining in the blue of the moonlight flickering in. good. they’re pretty, but maybe next time he should get you something more original. maybe some sunflowers, something that could rival the brightness of your smile.

do they even sell sunflowers this time of year? if you were awake, satoru would ask you, even though you always tell him to just google it —

but you're not awake. you’re fast asleep, cheek squished against the kitchen table, snoring softly.

satoru feels his mood lift at the sight alone, and suddenly he doesn’t feel as tired anymore. something soft sprouts in his chest, almost otherworldly, as he takes you in, stepping closer. almost giddy, just to see you up close.

you look so peaceful and relaxed, so content. elbows resting on the table as soft little breaths fall from your parted lips; he spots a bit of drool on the corner of your bottom lip, gaze fond as he wipes it away with his thumb. he can’t resist the urge to poke your cheek, and it makes you stir ever so slightly — lips curling up into something like a sleepy smile.

satoru grins.

(you’re so, so cute.)

despite his fatigue, he hears himself chuckle, all soft and amused and a little bit lovesick. it comes to him so easily, when he’s with you; that upturn of his lips, the butterflies in his stomach. satoru is still getting used to it. this cotton candy sweet, light as a feather kind of love. the kind that always feels like spring.

but with every day that passes, the life he has with you becomes a little easier to digest. his future with you becomes a little easier to visualize.

yeah, he thinks. he could get used to this. coming home to you.

a soft smile, as he exhales a breath, laced with exasperation. you really shouldn’t be sleeping out here, though. silly.

satoru leans forward, inching closer to your pretty, sleeping face — he almost feels bad, waking you up like this. but he wants to hear your voice so badly.

so he cups your cheek, cold skin meeting warm, his hands still lingering with the bite of the midnight air. his fingertips tingle, buzzing with the body heat that trickles from your veins to his — one single touch is all it takes for him to soften. the word that falls from his lips breaks the peaceful silence of the kitchen, breathing life into the moment. whispered into your ear, causing your brows to furrow as you gently slip from sleep’s embrace.

“baby…”

satoru is smiling, when your eyelids flutter open. a sincere smile, reserved for you and his students. bathed in the mellow hue of the kitchen lamp’s illumination, a soft glow curls around the strands of his white hair, creating a halo of artificial light.

blinking sleepily, you gaze at him in silence. something shines in your eyes, something satoru tentatively recognizes as adoration. and he gazes right back at you, with heavy-lidded eyes and a lopsided smile. teasing, lighthearted. thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheek.

then he grins, hopelessly endeared. ”hey there, sleeping beauty.”

for a moment, all you do is lean into his touch. a yawn tumbles from your lips, as you lift yourself up, snuggling closer still. “toru…” you mumble, voice a little raspy but still oh so sweet.

satoru doesn’t say anything. he simply takes you into his arms, gently, touch so very delicate — as if you’re made of porcelain. and you just let yourself fall into his embrace, while he tucks you under his chin, safe and secure. it’s warm, he thinks. it feels right. complete, somehow.

and satoru thinks to himself that this must be what love feels like. what it’s supposed to feel like, anyhow, all sweet and light. all good and normal, something you never have to question.

a cornerstone.

“you’re back…” you drawl, muffled into his uniform, arms sneaking around his thin waist to bring him closer. he strokes the back of your head, softly.

satoru’s chest rumbles, as he speaks, voice deep and a little raspy. soothing, a lullaby just for you. “yeah,” he hums. ”were you waiting?”

all you do is nuzzle further into him, into his chest, cheek smooshed right over his heart; breathing out a sleepy little mhm that has him going weak at the knees. lips curling up helplessly.

“i wanted to…” you continue, stretching your arms a little, trying to shrug away the remnants of sleep still clinging to your joints. “… but i fell asleep.”

satoru feels you move in his arms, until your jaw settles on top of his shoulder, followed by a chaste kiss to his neck. an exhale leaves his lips, something tender in the way his breath wavers.

“welcome home,” is whispered, muffled against his skin. a sentence he never wants to go a single day without hearing. “did the mission go okay?”

he plants a kiss on top of your head, speaking in a low tilt, reassuring. “it did. just took a little longer than i thought.” a soft inhale, as he basks in the scent of your shampoo. “i wanted to text you, but the veil blocked my signal. sorry, sweetie.”

another soft yawn, and a shake of your head. “s’ fine, don’t worry,” you murmur. ”i’m just glad you’re okay.”

satoru chuckles. there’s a fondness to it, light, and then there’s something else. something far more heavy — it rumbles through his chest, almost like a purr, or a soothing thunderstorm. he can only hope it’s enough to comfort you. “of course.” he says the words like they’re indisputable, like they’re written down in scriptures old and worn. cradling you in his strong arms, pulling you closer to his chest. hoping you’ll feel his heartbeat against you, feel that he’s there. “i always am, aren’t i?”

no answer. only a tiny hum, absentminded.

and satoru knows, deep down, that his words don’t mean much. that a part of you is always going to worry over him, no matter how many times he tells you that there’s no need. that he’ll be fine.

the thought makes him feel a bit guilty. a little sick to his stomach, at the thought that he’s a source of your anxiety, the reason you can’t fall asleep at night — but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t also make him feel kinda giddy. the thought tastes sweet, on his tongue, even though it probably shouldn’t. having someone to worry for you is a luxury, he’s realized. a luxury he has, now, one he hasn’t had since —

well. that’s neither here nor there.

(“be careful, satoru,” he recalls a kind boy saying.

but that was many, many springs ago.)

“oh, right.”

at the sound of your voice, satoru pulls away, ever so slightly, gazing down at you. “hm?”

with a single step back, you look up at him, tilting your head like a sleepy puppy. hands still resting securely on his waist, fingertips squeezing at his hips. lightly, affectionately. barely restrained fondness. ”have you had anything to eat yet?”

“yeah. got some takeout on my way back.”

satoru expects you to sigh in relief, at his instantaneous answer. you don’t like it when he skips meals, so these days he tries not to. even though he doesn’t always have the time to eat properly, and even though the sweets he chews on between missions make him lose his appetite. but he makes an honest attempt, for you.

someone worries for him. someone wants him to eat well. that’s more than enough motivation for satoru gojo.

but you don’t exhale, and you don’t look very relieved. you look… disappointed. eyes suddenly glancing down at the floor, lips curled down into a barely noticeable frown. “oh,” you breathe. “okay. that’s good.”

one second. then two.

satoru tilts his head.

“why?” he stops to think. maybe… “did you make something?”

a certain recognition flickers in the depths of your eyes, and satoru thinks he must be right on the money. chewing at your bottom lip, a little, you wait a moment before curling your fingers around his wrist — tugging him away from the kitchen table. satoru follows, pliantly, until you’re standing in front of the fridge.

“well, um… here,” you mumble, somewhat sheepishly. fingers tapping at the handle before pulling it open. “take a look.”

satoru watches as the fridge door opens, slowly.

he blinks.

the first thing he sees is a single slice of strawberry shortcake. the strawberry looks fresh, glittering like a ruby on top of the softly whisked cream — and layers of sponge cake, that look like they’d melt in his mouth.

and that’s not all. there are a wide array of baked treats stuffed into the cramped space, protected by plastic wrapping and containers. everything from cupcakes with too much frosting — just the way he likes them — to chocolate chip cookies that crumble at the corners, satoru never seems to run out of things to look at. colourful treats, lovingly made and sitting right in front of him. it’s like he’s standing in a patisserie. they almost seem to sparkle, in the peripheral of his vision; glimmering softly, tantalizingly, like something out of a dream.

childish. that’s what nanami and shoko always call him, and he always protests, but —

maybe they have a point, after all. satoru certainly feels a little childish, when he realizes his eyes must be wide and bursting with child-like giddiness. a simple kind of joy, at seeing the ample selection in front of him. especially after that tedious mission prevented him from getting any sugar into his system.

”i did my best,” you mutter, sharing the sight with him as your eyes trail over a pretty bag of pink and green macarons. ”dunno if they turned out any good, but… i hope you’ll like them.”

satoru’s gaze flits over to you.

he opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

”did you… make these?” a beat. ”for me?”

a blink. ”.. yeah?” who else would they be for?, your eyes seem to say. a little confused.

for a second, satoru can only stare at you. in complete silence, the tired cogs inside his head turning sluggishly as he thinks about the implications of that answer. and with a soft flutter, he feels his heartbeat pick up, warming him up from the inside out.

you made them. with your own hands. you made all of these and you did it for him.

for some reason, satoru finds it oddly hard to speak, like someone stuffed a bunch of cupcakes down his throat. it’s weird — usually he can’t seem to stop talking, especially not when he’s with you, but…

(something about this is just too tender.)

you must have been baking all day. no wonder the apartment smelled sweeter than usual, when he walked in.

as if itching to curl around one of the macarons, his fingers twitch, but satoru gulps and keeps them still. he wants to say something, anything, wants to thank you or ask why you’d spend so much of yourself on him, but satoru only stays silent.

and maybe it’s because he’s tired. maybe he’s just a little caught off guard. usually this wouldn’t be that hard to handle — he could just throw himself on you and shower you in kisses, show his appreciation with a flurry of dramatics and declarations of love.

but right now there seems to be a disconnect, between satoru’s mind and body. maybe the mission drained him more than he realized. or maybe it’s more than that, maybe there’s nothing he can say or do; what words could he even begin to use to properly verbalize the emotions he’s feeling right now? how could his touch ever begin to measure up to the sweet sensation unfurling in his chest?

the silence doesn’t last long. as satoru stands there and spirals, you speak up, most likely chalking it up to him being too sleepy to react.

”this mission was especially rough, right?” you begin, with a soft tilt of your head. a smile curls its way onto your lips, proud and sweet. sweeter than everything in the fridge combined.

one step, then two. you inch closer to him, until there’s almost no space between you — standing on your tiptoes, one hand on his shoulder and the other reaching for his head. smoothing down his tousled hair, fingers tangling themselves between the soft white strands and getting lost in them. and it’s gentle, the way you begin to pat his head, doting.

then you speak. ”you did well.”

and it’s such a simple thing to say. three words, three syllables, but the words just tumble out from your mouth so earnestly that satoru can’t help but still. his breath hitches in his throat, softly, barely noticeable, but it’s there. that surprise.

he never knows how to act, when you get like this. patting his head and ruffling his hair like he’s something warm and sweet and worthy of love. something delicate, and not the strongest man on the planet.

it’s so weird. you’re so weird.

(satoru leans into your touch without thinking, allowing his eyes to flutter shut.)

it’s perplexing, this feeling, and the fact that he can’t pinpoint why frustrates him to no end. isn’t this wrong? shouldn’t he be the one ruffling your hair, coddling you?

what formula is he supposed to follow here, exactly? should he tease you? pull away from your touch?

satoru wishes his six eyes could tell him the answer, but they don’t. they’ve never been very good with emotions, with things that aren’t directly tied to his suffering or imminent death.

(so ironic. all these eyes and nothing to see. they failed to see suguru’s silence, back then, and now they fail to see what reaction would please you the most.

really, such a worthless ability to love people with.)

no answer comes to him. so satoru doesn’t tease you, and he doesn’t pull away.

it does feel slightly wrong, though. like this feeling isn’t something he’s supposed to have, there must be some mistake, he can’t possibly be allowed to feel so loved — can he? having you bake him all his favorite treats, run your fingers through his hair. praise him for working hard.

really. isn’t he being too coddled?

(… but it feels so nice.)

satoru suspects that there’s a lot to love he might not fully understand, just yet.

maybe tomorrow, when he’s a little less tired, he can try once again to give you the impression that he’s perfect. that he doesn’t need affection, that he doesn’t crave your support or your touch. that he’s above all that, the strongest, someone for you to depend on.

depend on him, while he depends on no one. that’s the kind of existence satoru gojo is. that’s how it should be, that’s all he knows, but…

— ah. it feels really nice when your nails scratch his scalp like that.

and suddenly, that’s all satoru can think. no more pesky what-ifs, or second guessing every good thing he gets. right now, it’s just you and him. your fingers in his hair, his footprints in your life.

satoru allows himself to melt under your touch, almost meekly. leaning down just a little further, to make it easier for you to smooth your hand over his head. he nuzzles into your palm with a happy little exhale, and for some reason he feels sort of bashful.

try as he might, he doesn’t manage to successfully shoo the emotion away, so all he can do is hope you don’t take note of it.

and you just continue your onslaught of affection, now ruffling his hair with both your hands, like he’s a big puppy getting cooed over. satoru has a nagging suspicion that you might be getting a little carried away, but he doesn’t stop you. greedy, in the way he wishes your hands would never leave his hair. the way he hopes you’ll never be too far away from him to reach.

”such a hard worker,” you coo, and he feels himself grow flustered. ”my baby deserves so much love.”

”woah there,” satoru chokes out, grinning, desperately hoping you won’t notice the red tint to his ears. ”are you flirting with me? i have a partner, you know.”

a giggle slips from your lips, sleepy and amused. ”oh, do you?” one of your hands goes to cup his cheek, thumb caressing the edge of his jaw as you gaze at him fondly. ”lucky them.”

the grin you’re wearing is awfully bright. soft around the edges in a way that has him speechless, brain malfunctioning ever so slightly. satoru makes a mental note to scrap the sunflower idea — there has to be some brighter flower out there, one that can actually compete with your smile. sunflowers just won’t cut it.

but then you let go, and satoru gets broken out of his lovesick stupor.

when your hands leave his skin, his lips curl down into a soft pout. one he rushes to smooth away, before you can notice it.

you step back, failing to stifle a soft bout of laughter, but satoru knows it’s not because you saw it — he knows because your gaze is glued to his hair, and he internally winces when he thinks about how messy it must look, after your little bout of cuteness aggression.

(you really are weird, finding him cute of all things.)

he expects you to tease him a little more, but you don’t, turning away and tapping your fingers on the kitchen counter. ”if i’d known you’d be home this late,” you speak, stealing one last glance at the pastries before closing the fridge. ”then i would’ve waited until tomorrow. so you could eat them fresh.”

an apology rests on satoru’s tongue, but as if sensing it, you rush to reassure him.

”ah, but this is fine too! they should still taste good!” you turn away, muttering. ”… hopefully.”

then you nod to yourself, crossing your arms absentmindedly.

satoru looks at you for a second.

then he steps forward, unable to resist the temptation — tapping at your wrist with the pads of his fingers, before gently curling them around it, coaxing you into turning your head towards him.

the kiss he presses to your lips is soft, delicate. his fingers trace along your jaw, cupping your cheek and tilting your face up slightly, just letting his warm lips rest against yours. sweet and chaste. he sighs into the kiss, content, and feels your pulse pick up.

then he moves down to your jaw, slow and methodical — lazy kisses, sleepy but so full of affection. and little pecks, scattered all over your lips, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

you seem to melt a little, against him, and satoru relishes in it; his ability to make you relax. far more valuable than the six eyes, he would argue.

when he pulls away from you, with what takes tremendous self-restraint, he’s smiling. his gaze meets yours, layered over with pure adoration, blue eyes crinkling as he looks at you. as if you’re his entire world. the kitchen light embraces him, cascading down the contours of his face; the bridge of his nose, the curve of his jaw, his barely noticeable dimples.

and there it is, again — that flicker of love in your eyes, that adoration. as if you’re looking at a painting, something too beautiful for words.

(satoru hopes you can see that very same adoration, reflected in his eyes as he looks at you.)

after a moment, he leans forward, to rest his jaw on the curve of your shoulder. you stumble a little under the weight, caged in as his arms hug your midriff.

”god,” he sighs, breathless, heavy with giddy disbelief. almost whining when he continues, nuzzling into your neck as if to hide. ”why are you so perfect, huh? i don’t get it.”

at that, you huff out a laugh, an amused little breath. wrapping your arms around his neck and scratching softly at his nape. satoru shudders just a little, arms tightening around you.

”stealing my line…” you mutter, accusatory, smile laced over with a honeyed affection.

another amused breath, this time from him. this is one battle he won’t let you win. ”nah,” he grins, tugging you closer. ”’s mine.”

this is warm, he thinks. this feels right. complete, in a way that satoru never understood before you.

he could probably stand there forever, just basking in it. soaking up your body heat and the smell of your shampoo. until your warmth is all he knows, until he can never get your scent off his skin.

and satoru thinks that he could get used to this. a cotton candy sweet, light as a feather kind of love, one that smells like spring and tastes like strawberry shortcakes and feels like tight hugs shared in kitchens.

your love makes him feel so human. and it’s scary, terrifying even, but it's also too good to pass up. it’s worth the risk. so worth everything.

a yawn leaves your lips, suddenly. satoru feels you soften in his embrace, nuzzling closer to him, stumbling just a tad; he doesn’t think it’s fair, for such a simple gesture to make him as happy as it does.

”sleepy?” he coos, smile giddy and fond. ”let’s go to bed, okay? no more sleeping on the kitchen table, silly.”

a disgruntled little huff resounds throughout the air, as you let your arms fall to your sides. ”that’s on you,” you declare, poking the plush of his chest with your finger. ”i only fell asleep because you took so long.”

a teasing glint flickers in satoru’s eyes.

”wanted to see me that badly, huh?” he coos. you roll your eyes, and he pulls your cheek. ”that’s cute.”

”so what if i did?”

satoru stills. you’re smiling, a little mischievous, but mostly sincere. and it really is very unfair of you, he thinks — to do this to him while his guard is down.

but he manages to pull himself together, raising an amused eyebrow and booping your nose in a way that catches you off guard. blinking up at him, eyelashes fluttering.

satoru clears his throat. ”well, that’s sweet.”

then he turns on his heel, suddenly, and strolls over to the fridge. ”but you know what’s even sweeter?” he chirps, fingers curling around the handle as he swiftly pulls it open.

licking his lips, absentmindedly, his eyes trail over all the different pastries. so close yet so far, just out of reach; his fingers move forward, towards that mesmerizing slice of strawberry shortcake —

”— no.”

a hand settles on satoru’s waist, and tugs him away from his well-deserved prize. taking advantage of his momentary surprise, you close the fridge decisively, and give him an unimpressed raise of your eyebrow.

satoru whines, loud and grating. pouting sweetly, trying to make you feel bad. ”c’mon, just one bite —”

”no.”

”but they’re for me!”

”they’re for you to eat tomorrow. i was only gonna let you eat them tonight if you were on the brink of starvation, or something.”

”i am!”

”so the takeout was a lie?” you narrow your eyes at him, suddenly suspicious. ”have you been skipping meals, again?”

satoru pauses. weighing his options. ”well, no, but…”

”— then no.”

another soft whine. you turn away from him, when he tilts his head and gives you his best set of puppy dog eyes. in fear of giving in to them, satoru knows, as you have so many times before. ”please?” he tries, to no avail.

”you’re not eating sweets before bed, satoru,” you deadpan, and his smile falls further, exaggerated. ”and no, we are not having that conversation again.”

he can tell you’re trying to sound stern, but a giggle tumbles from your lips nonetheless, at the ridiculousness of the situation. keeping a grown man away from your fridge, knowing that he’ll wolf down every pastry he sees and get himself sick if you don’t. all while the man in question whines at you in protest, frowing so deeply, disappointment evident on his features.

(except satoru really isn’t very disappointed at all. like this, he gets to stare at your smile all he wants, after all; knowing you won’t notice it, too busy trying to keep yourself from giving in to his pleas.)

he tries again, one last time. just because he knows it’ll make you laugh. you do, a little exasperated, and satoru couldn’t be happier.

and he thinks to himself that if this is what love is, if this is what it’s supposed to feel like, then it can’t possibly be that much of a curse.

maybe he should revise the hypothesis, get a second opinion. he’ll have to ask you tomorrow, over pastries and coffee, and hear what you have to say.

as you both stumble to the bedroom, sleepy and a little delirious, satoru thinks that maybe this is enough; the lighthearted banter, the fond laughter. everything good and real and normal, within the space of your apartment, a home he never thought he’d have.

(and maybe, a second opinion isn’t necessary, after all. maybe it doesn’t really matter if love is a curse or not, as long as he gets to share it with you, like this.)

that night, satoru dreams. curled up with you beneath the blankets, limbs tangled together, as if he could never be close enough.

he dreams of kitchen lights, of sweet treats and warm hands. of spring breezes, and a love he’s finally beginning to accept for what it is:

good. wholly and thoroughly.

#i NEED to hold his waist btw idk if i made that clear. i need it like i need air to breathe. like why is it so tiny if not to be held by me #had to hold myself back like a wolf during a full moon from describing his waist in too much detail youre welcome #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk x reader

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diejager · 1 year ago

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What are your thoughts on Stepdad!price (or Johnny) who intentionally get you pregnant

Cw: STEPCEST, DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, forced pregnancy, misogyny, forced breeding, breeding, creampie, mating press, doggy style, office sex, tell me if I missed any.

Price would act different with you than with your mother, something about him knowing what’s best for you because you’re younger and more naive than your mother. She didn’t need his guidance or help, unlike you, who was still so young and pretty, a beautiful gem that was corruptible if handled by the wrong men. So he took it into his own hands, teaching you who was in charge in this family.

He might tolerate your mother working and acting as her own being, he respected her for being the sole provider of her household for so long, caring for you and your younger brother who was still young and impressionable. You might have taken longer to accept him into your home, but your brother was in the phase of wanting - missing and needing - a father figure in his life, seeing him as the most dependable and powerful person in his world as his step-father and a Captain in the SAS. It was something your brother could brag about and feel proud, a turn of a new leaf in a life where he always told people he was fatherless.

Bot your mother and your brother took his sudden appearance so well, perhaps it was her aged exhaustion and your brother’s jovial and receptive mind, but you were still in your peak, beautiful and bright-minded. His only issue with your lifestyle was your brainwashing, mind filled with feminist and liberal thought that went against all the morals and values he grew up with. It was something he had to fix, something he didn’t want to leave alone and fester and rot your brightness.

Your mother worked so much, she flied offshore multiple times a month, leaving you to care for Ethan with the money she wired to you to look after yourselves. She worked and provided, and you watched the house and cared for Ethan’s schooling and life. You cooked, you cleaned the house, you watched your kid brother and you did everything a mother would for her child. You were left with such a big load without anyone to shoulder it with you, and that’s where he came in.

Your mother left him to his own devices, letting have free range of her home and her children, one third teen year old and another in her twenties. He cared for you when no one would, helping you ease the tent in and exhaustion off your shoulder, his hands wandering your body like he owned it, making it’s curves and grooves until he burned it into his mind.

You might fight and struggle, that pretty mouth of yours spewing delusions about not consenting to his advances, the age difference, the women’s rights and humanitarian rights that had his patience running thin. He truly hated what people put in your mind, the crazed and nonsensical ideas that went against familial values and would eventually break the family he envisioned building with you. Despite your thrashing and threats, he moved forward with his plan, splitting you apart on his girth, hips snapping and bottoming out until his tip kissed your gummy cervix.

He filled you up every moment he could, painting your walls with his thick, salty and viscous cum, listening to you mewl and cry, moaning out like a bitch until you milked him dry. He wrestled you in bed, bending you over his desk, paperwork left strewn across the room , then he’d fuck you in the living-room when Ethan was off to school, pressing you down to your knees and ploughing into you with reckless abandon, and he’d take you in your bed at night, folding you in half with your feet hanging off his shoulders and he slammed into your warm cunt. It was a perpetual cycle, a fill and refill schedule that would never tire him out and that would fuck your mind into the right space. He had to right the wrongs and that started with breeding you.

It really shouldn’t be that surprising that he knocked you up after a few months, a new life growing in your little womb that he drowned with cum.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 5 months ago

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In Love and War (8)

Summary: The aftermath of all her family secrets might be more chaotic than Reader bargained for when her powers suddenly start to flare. Good thing her Warlord has more than a few ideas how to help navigate it ;)

Content Warnings: Depressive thoughts, Reader mentions wanting to die; Suggestiveness, Slight SMUT; Canon Typical Violence

Author's Note: To make up for the last chapter being so short, please enjoy that flirty little bastard being a menace! ;)

Chapter 7/Masterlist

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

I don’t sleep at all that night. I lay there, Rhysand sleeping soundly beside me, exhausted from the events of the last couple of days. He’d barely kept his eyes open long enough to eat. I’d barely managed to choke down a few bites myself. The guilt has my stomach in a perpetual knot. I’ve dedicated so much of my life to hating this male, only to be wrong about all of it, and now I’m in too deep to even do anything about it. I can’t go home. There is no home to go back to. My family slaughtered an innocent mother and daughter. Rhys received their heads in boxes like some sort of twisted gift. They were supposed to be allies and my father betrayed them in the worst possible way. He paid for it with his life, with my mother’s life; it should have been the end of it. Tamlin was given a mercy and he should have taken it. He should have abandoned my father’s teachings and become a better lord, a better man. Instead, he perpetuated the cycle of abuse and suffering. He encouraged me to hate these people, to covet everything they had as if they were undeserving of it. All these years I loathed our miserable existence thinking the Mother hated us and was being unjust in giving these people all these things that we were never allowed. But we deserved it! We were the bad guys all along.

I roll over onto my side to look at him. He still sleeps in his armor, knife still strapped to his thigh, sword resting against the tent pole only a foot away. He’s ready to be up and fighting in a moment's notice. Our father’s were so similar, and yet, he turned out to be merciful and kind and somehow, so startlingly gentle that I often forget he’s still capable of intense prowess. He is the only male I’ve ever truly felt comfortable with, because that gentleness came as a response to the violence he’d seen, not because that violence was never there. He’d felt the cold sting of it, and chose to be something gentle instead of returning it.

And here I am, with all that righteous anger that had kept me warm on my coldest days, choosing to return all the violence that had been inflicted on me onto others. Just as Tamlin did. Just as my father did.

And looking at it I don’t want to be him. He ruined my mother! He took something good and kind and locked it away and used her for his own ends! I don’t even know if he ever really loved her. Why would you keep the things you love in a cage?

I sit up abruptly. Maybe he was as scared of being alone as I am.

I can’t sit in this tent anymore! I can’t-

Rhysand jolts awake as soon as I move, hand twitching for his knife, shadows swirling off his body in response to what his sleep muddled mind thinks is a threat. “What’s wrong?”

I put a hand on his chest, spinning onto my knees so I can kiss his forehead. “Nothing, I just need to relieve myself.”

He lets me push him down onto the mat, body relaxing and pliant beneath my touch. “You sure?”

“Positive.” If he tried to follow me out now I think I really might explode. My stomach feels like it's ripping itself apart. My bones ache, my skin feels like it's stretched too tight over them. There is too much nervous energy bound inside my body. I just need to get out and stretch my legs; get some fresh air and clear my head. I will be fine if I can clear my head.

“Take your knife,” he says, eyes already drifting shut again.

I strap it to my thigh as I slip from the tent, gulping down lungfuls of crisp, mountain air as I go. I just need to clear my head. Is finding a way to survive this fucked up world really me acting like my father? I’ve never killed innocent people. I’ve never withheld necessities or lorded my power over people. I’m just not being honest about my intentions. It’s shitty. I’m using a mating bond I’m still not wholly sure is real as a means to getting food and shelter and, hopefully, a decent helping of mind blowing sex.

Cauldron that sounds really, really fucked up.

But how am I supposed to tell him? Hey, I know that you really don’t like my family and they’ve done nothing but screw you over but I also accepted your offer to try and ruin your life and take all of your land and kinda only just changed my mind about it yesterday. And it would be really super cool if you just let that slide because I have nowhere else to go.

That would go over soooooo well. He’d be totally fine with it!

I ground my palms into my eyes as I walk behind a couple trees to at least make it look like I really did need to go pee. There are men on guard duty, no doubt someone is going to see me wandering around camp.

My brain feels like it’s being squeezed by my skull. There has to be a way to go about this that doesn’t get me tossed out into the coming snow, while also not lying so deeply about it. I do care about him. It was a lie at first but now…

I put my back against the tree and slide down until I’m sitting on the rocky ground, head still in my hands. I don’t know if he’s my mate. There’s something there, I feel it pulling at me, even now, but I can’t give it a name. And I want to be here. Not just because of the story he’d told yesterday. When Lucien tried to get me to leave, I really didn’t want to go back with him. But how am I supposed to live with the truth? How am I supposed to look at him and see that he wants this so much more than I do, despite everything?

Actually, why does he want this, despite everything? He’d asked me why I stayed. I never asked him why he brought me here. There’s certainly enough bad blood between our families to make even a mate hesitate to bring me in.

I lean back against the tree, the rough scrape of the bark against my aching skin a relief. My body feels so strange, being around Rhysand’s magic has made it feel like there’s something beneath my skin.

Tomorrow, in the morning, I will ask him why he still brought me back. Then I will decide what to do.

------

He certainly doesn’t make asking him easy. Rhys wakes me up with his lips on my throat, along the fading marks he’d left a couple days before, trailing them down as his hands hike up my sweater. The heat of him against the early morning chill has my resolve slipping, all my plans slipping through my fingers as he runs his tongue over my peaked nipples.

I can’t think past the roaring in my ears; the ache in my body for more, more, more. There is nothing and no one but him as he trails lower, each kiss more forceful than the last as he heads for the waistband of my pants.

“Rhys,” I moan, voice still thick with sleep, even as my body arches under him. I want him everywhere. I need him everywhere. The stirring feeling beneath my skin is worse today, only quelled by the trail of his hands on my body. For once, my racing thoughts are quiet. If only we could stay like this.

“Hmmm,” he hums into my stomach, just beneath my navel. There’s a bit of stubble along his jaw, the scrape of it against my oversensitive skin makes my eyes roll back into my head. “Did you want something, mate?”

“You,” I groan, hand reaching out to tangle in his hair to try and move him where I need him.

He grins, I can feel the upturn of his lips against my stomach, but he refuses to budge. Just nips at the skin visible above my waistline. “You have me.”

Bastard! My whole body trembles beneath him. I can’t get a breath down fast enough. I need him everywhere all at once. “Need you inside me,” I bite out.

He simply hums again, hands tugging at my waistband with an inhumane slowness that makes me feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin. I use the hand not in his hair to grip the mat, trying to ground myself, trying to find some semblance of control again. I’m gripping so tight my bones ache, fingers feeling like they’re breaking. There’s a tearing sound, a pricking sensation in my palm and then a gush of something wet across my hand.

Even he looks up at that, and when I turn to look, I’m more than a little surprised to find that I’ve grown claws, and I’ve just tore them right through my hand!

“Shit!” He’s gone from between my legs in an instant, all the heat in my body leaving with him.

I can’t unfurl my hand. Can’t retract the claws, they’re stuck through my palm with my fist closed around it. I’ve only ever grown them in anger, how the hell had I done it now?

Rhysand comes back with a towel as I manage to sit up. “I thought you smelled different this morning,” he muses.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I hiss.

“Our magic can be protective. It can hide itself if it doesn’t feel safe. I don’t think you were born with too little, I think you were born with too much.” His fingers massage my wrist, trying to find the right pressure points to help me unclench my fist. “I think that it buried itself inside you to keep you safe. And I think, now that you’re here, it’s manifesting, and like the wards, it has its own scent.”

Fan-fucking-tastic!

“Well I’d like it to un-manifest,” I hiss. “I was doing just fine without it!” There’s blood dripping through the towel, if anything it feels like my claws are burrowing deeper into my palm. I can practically feel them trying to tear right through the back of my hand.

He can’t seem to find the right spot and trying to pry my fingers out of my palm is a no go. He frowns, lifting the towel for a better look. “I’m gonna try something.”

I’m prepared for a blow from his own magic, some form of glittering starlight or shadowy darkness, I am not prepared for him to kiss me again. The sound I make in surprise is somewhere between a growl and a gasp because what the hell is he doing? But even though my head is struggling to catch up, my body is not. On instinct, I lean back to allow him better access, his tongue slipping behind my teeth. The rolling feeling beneath my skin lessens, the tightness in my palm slowly releasing. I thread my functioning hand through his hair as my body gives what I can only describe as a sigh of relief. A moment later, the claws retract and I can finally unfurl my fist.

“Flair ups can be heavily tied to your emotions,” he says, lips barely off mine. “Probably wasn’t the best idea to tease you in the middle of one.”

It takes him all of thirty seconds to find some rags and tie up my hand, even though the blood flow is already lessening. All I can do is stare at it while he does it. This is certainly a new and unwelcome development to this whole mess.

“Is that going to keep happening?”

Azriel pops his head into our tent, unannounced as usual. “Are you two done in here or what? I, personally, cannot live with Cassian if he beats us around the mountain.”

“We’ll be right there,” Rhysand huffs.

“I’m seeing a trend with him,” I mutter.

He smirks, “It’s one of Azriel’s many charms.”

He helps me to my feet, holding onto me like he thinks something else might just burst out of my skin. Truth be told, I can still feel something shifting around, a prowling animal begging to be released from its cage. I’d thought it was my unease this whole time, but maybe it’s worse than that.

“We don’t know how deep your power well is,” Rhysand says. “And if it’s never fully manifested…” He blows out a breath. “When mine first started manifesting, I shredded a whole section of camp with starlight. There was a whole twenty-four hour period where my shadows blocked out the sun. And you’re my equal so, yes I think that will keep happening.”

Cauldron boil me!

“As long as you remain calm, it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“I should think you would know better than to tell a female to be calm, Rhysand.”

He grins, “Well you can also spend the day making out with me, since that seems to be such a lovely little distraction with you.”

I go to hiss an insult at him but the only thing that comes out is an actual, animal-like growl. I clamp a hand over my mouth in embarrassment while he bursts out laughing.

“This is going to be fun!” He declares.

I am not at all inclined to agree.

----

I only manage to ride with him for an hour or two before the pull of his magic makes my skin start to itch. He was right about magic having a scent. Half way through the hour I suddenly become very aware of the jasmine scent of him. It’s everywhere. In every breath. Every brush of his chest against my back, every movement of his hands along the reins. My body is hyper aware of every place we do and don’t touch.

“Getting all worked up again, aren’t we?” He purrs in my ear.

My jaw feels like it’s snapping as a set of fangs tear through my gums, spurting blood into my mouth. Somehow his magic is the catalyst for my transformation and the balm all in one. I can’t be near him and I can’t be away from him, as I soon learn. When I jump off the horse and declare I’m going to walk beside him, my claws return, in both hands this time. At least they shoot out my nail beds and not my knuckles like Tamlin’s.

The thought of him makes another growl rumble through my chest and something that feels suspiciously like fur sprouts from the back of my neck.

“Wouldn’t recommend,” Rhysand warns.

The itchiness of my skin is even worse on the ground. I feel the wards tugging at me like I’ve been tied to the glittering magic that builds them with a string. The jasmine and overripe fruit scent of them is enough to make my nose crinkle. Apparently the transformation heightens my senses as well.

“I’m gonna tear off my skin,” I snarl, fidgeting with my collar. Why is it so itchy? Is it supposed to be like this?

He slows his mount to keep pace with me and I do not miss the grumbled complaints of the males behind us. My ears twitch every time one of them speaks, the sound sometimes like a shout and others like a far off echo.

“Breathe,” he says gently. “The more worked up you get, the worse it will be until we can find a way to safely expel it.”

I draw a shaky breath, then another.

“Good girl.”

A shiver works its way up my spine at that.

“Now come here,” he leans so far out of the saddle he’s only holding on with his thighs, and my first thought is how we can get this little caravan to pause so I can be the one beneath him. He gets an arm around my waist and hauls me back up onto the horse and damn if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve ever seen a male do!

“Let’s get these wards up-” I’m hyper-aware how every word rumbles through his chest, the way his body shifts on the horse. “-And we’ll find a place to camp soon enough, then you and I can work on this.”

“Make it stop,” I gently beg. “I don’t want it!” The itch beneath my skin is becoming unbearable! My claws scratch up my arms, tearing up my sweater.

His free hand covers mine, intertwining our fingers, even as the horse begins to move. “Focus on me.”

I focus my attention on the way his body molds against mine. The way the leather of his glove slides over the back of my hand. I let my eyes drift shut, focusing on the brush of his chest against mine, the swaying motion of his hips as the horse moves over the rocky terrain. It’s not enough. Not like the feel of his lips on mine had been this morning. As if he knows it, he drops his head against my shoulder, nose brushing over the exposed skin of my throat.

“I’m right here,” he continues. “Focus on me, just like you did this morning.”

This morning there had been a lot less clothes between us.

“Breathe for me.”

It is a physical effort to draw a deep enough breath in; another to pull my claws away from my itching skin. He settles our joined hands against my stomach.

“Again.”

I manage to do what I am told, just barely.

“Good. Just like that.” His voice makes a shiver run down my spine as my mind spins with all the other things I want him to talk me through. I think I could do just about anything if he explained it to me in that rich, husky voice he was using in my ear. “Part of learning to control it is finding your center. Find a safe mental space to retreat to.”

“Like what?” There are few places in the world I have ever felt safe. Thinking about how I used to sit in the rocking chair with my mother and listen to her stories only fills me with pain now. Or perhaps a couple weeks ago I might have thought about all those summers I spent at the creek with Lucien, but now it only makes the thing beneath my skin rumble and shake like there’s some sort of animal that lives caged beneath my ribs and is trying desperately to break free. What makes me feel safe?

“A good memory, a happy time,” he lists.

I have nothing. My eyes start to water and my throat starts to close, talons growing longer and sharper at my fingertips. I feel the give of my leather chest-piece beneath them. Everything good in my life has been a lie! Everyone that was supposed to protect me only ever hurt me in the end. None of it was ever real.

And this, this thing that could be something, that could be real, I had ruined it. I have to lie to keep it. I have to pretend that I had every right to hurt him, when it was really the other way around. The only person who had ever told me the truth, who could see me for what I was, and I had ruined any chance of it being real before it had even had the chance to start.

A sob slips out of me and with it, the tree we pass erupts in a flurry of leaves and twisting, screaming bark that makes the horse rear. The earth rumbles, random cracks splitting in the rock face, gnarled vines crawling out of them like tentacled monsters. The itching in my skin won’t stop! The more I try to trap it the more the world around us screams in protest.

“Breathe, Y/N,” Rhysand orders in my ear. “You have to breathe.”

“I can’t!” I choke out.

He slides his hand out of mine and brings it up against the side of my temple. It feels like a shadow unfurling from his fingertips, but the brush of it is not against my face, but inside my skull. Darkness clouds my vision from the inside out. It feels as if my brain is being emptied, piece by piece with shadows until there is nothing inside my mind but him.

“Breathe,” he commands, the voice of a Warlord. “Now.”

I choke on each breath.

“You are safe, Y/N,” he says, gentler. There is nothing in the world but the two of us in this dark little bubble. Nothing but the press of night chilled jasmine and calming, all consuming night. From somewhere far off, I hear music on the wind, the swell of stringed instruments pulling my attention away from the itch running beneath my skin.

“Why is this happening?” My body feels so impossibly small, yet like it’s being stretched beyond its capacity, my bones trying to tear through the confines of my skin all the same.

“Our powers can very easily get tangled with our emotions,” he explains, the hand on my temple drawing shapes into my skin. Somehow, after looking at the stitches in the tent walls, I know he’s spelling something out in Illyrian, but I’ll never know what. “The last twenty-four hours have been a lot for you, I’m sure.”

There is no room to think about it in this headspace, no twisted memories to plague me, only the music and the faint twinkle of stars for company. I let myself fall into it, let it swallow me and fill me until I feel disconnected from the pulling of my skin.

“I don’t want this power,” I whisper into the darkness.

The darkness caresses me, wraps itself around me as surely as his arm around my waist. “I know, but we don’t get a say in what we’re given, only what we do with it.”

When have I ever truly had a say in anything?

“What if I hurt somebody?” What if I am just as bad as my father in both intentions and power? If I am capable of plotting to ruin someone’s life based on a lie, how much more capable am I of turning these claws on someone else? Maybe power is passed from my mother, but that will never change the fact that I now carry the same weapons that were used to scar me, and Rhys, and probably his mother and sister.

“You won’t,” he assures. “I’ll be right here to teach you. You can control it.”

He has far more faith in me than he should.

----

Once we’ve stopped for the night and camp is set up, Rhysand takes me by the hand and leads me out into the empty, grassy plains beneath the mountain. The knee-high yellow blades are brittle this time of year, cracking under our boots as we walk until only the smoke from the campfires pinpoints where we left the others. We’re far enough away that I won’t hurt anyone if I lose control again.

Shame flushes my cheeks. I’ve always prided myself on being the calm one of the family; always able to keep my emotions shoved deep down beneath the surface to keep them from getting the better of me. I thought I was good at it. I was wrong. It’s only been the constant brush of Rhysand’s shadows against my mind all afternoon that have kept me from tearing everything I touch to shreds. Even now, my hands ache from often my new claws have sprung and retracted from my fingertips.

I must feel about as awful as Rhysand looks. The circles under his eyes have not lessened in the slightest, and every once in a while I’ll see him start to sway, like it’s an effort to stay on his feet. The scent of his magic has lessened, the night blooming jasmine fading behind the citrus and salty scent of him. He shouldn’t be out here with me, he should be resting, recharging his own magic so he can be prepared for more warding tomorrow. According to Azriel and the scouts’ reports, we should meet up with Cassian and Mor’s group by this time tomorrow and Rhysand will need all his energy to ensure both ends of the wards are fully meshed together.

We stop once we’re cushioned between two large hills, nothing but the chirp of crickets and the stars to keep us company. The Mountain looms dark and shadowy beneath the small sliver of the moon.

“This looks like a good place,” he says as he finally releases my hand.

I keep my lower lip between my teeth, hands shaking at my sides. I don’t want to do this! Entertaining the idea that I have powers to train and use is foolish. I don’t need to learn to use them; I need to learn to shove them back down into the darkest parts of me where they can’t hurt anybody.

“Let’s start with something simple,” he suggests. “Tell me where you feel your power the most.”

My hand comes up to poke between my rib cage, where the stirring and itchy feeling is the most concentrated. “Feels like something is trying to break out of my skin,” I say softly.

“The claws and the fangs could be a beast form,” he muses. “Or it could just be some shape-shifting powers you inherited from your father?”

The mention of that bastard makes the stirring in my chest feel like a tidal wave, raw energy crackling so hard and fast through my veins that I feel it crest out my fingertips. The grass around me withers and dies, the ground beneath it crackling and rumbling with what feels like the early stages of an earthquake. I can’t have powers like my fathers!

There is no shortage of pity in those violet eyes and I press my palms into my eyes with a groan. I can’t do this! It needs to stop! I need to bury it now before it runs away with me; while I still have some control over it. Because if it goes any further than this…

Maybe Tamlin was right to send me away. Maybe he did know about my powers and that was why he got rid of me. I couldn’t hurt anybody if I was alone in the woods.

Rhysands shadows drift along the floor until they can slither up my calves, rubbing affectionately against me in a way that reminds me of a cat. “It’s ok,” he soothes.

Tears stream down my cheeks. “Make it stop!” I beg. “Show me how to bury it again.”

His shadows trail higher, winding over my hips and waist, even as he steps closer, leaving barely a breath between us. “Y/N…” he shakes his head, trying to find the right words and I feel a strange pang beneath the movement in my chest.

“Please,” I whimper. “I’ll do anything! Just make it stop.”

He cups my cheek and I give myself the briefest moment to fall into the warmth of his touch. “I know it’s scary, and that it hurts, but this is good. It has to be released. You will die if you don’t.”

Then let me. The words freeze on my tongue when a tendril of his power flicks over his shoulder, down his wrist, to brush against my cheek, but that doesn’t stop the spiraling of my thoughts. Let me be free of this pain. Let me go out before I become a monster like my father. Let that awful bastard be right; let me be useless and worthless and incapable of doing anything he could be proud of.

As if spurred on by my thoughts, the grass around me continues to wither, until there’s a whole circle of dead earth surrounding me. The harder I try to draw it in, the wider the circle becomes. Power sizzle through my nerve endings, a fire that digs itself into my veins and when I curl my hands into fists to try and stop it, I pull weeds through the cracks in the earth, the gnarled, leafy branches reaching up like skeletal hands that wrap around my, and Rhysand’s ankles.

“Focus on that spot,” his free hand taps gently against my ribs. “Focus until it feels like you’re holding it.”

I try to imagine the power like a bowl filled with sloshing, dark liquid. I imagine myself reaching for the lip of the bowl, the cracked edges and rough wood a mirror to the one that used to sit on our kitchen table, full of apples I’d sneak when no one was looking. If I make it familiar, it feels easier to focus on. I imagine every crack in the bowl, every worn edge, focusing until I get a mental hold around the edges. Now all I need to do is tip the bowl over. If I spill out its contents, there will be nothing left inside me to unleash… right?

“Once you can hold it, focus on containing it. Imagine it like a bottle, get all that energy into the bottle, and put a lid on the top,” Rhys says like he can hear my plans.

The liquid inside the bowl bubbles and hisses as my conflicted feelings run circles through my head. He hasn’t been wrong this far, I should do as he says, but I can’t help but feel like indulging this is a mistake. I can hear my father’s voice inside my head, telling me that this is not how females are supposed to behave.

I can feel the weeds I’d summoned dying around me. Can feel every blade of grass as if it was somehow attached to my skin. The longer I hold that imaginary bowl, the more aware of this power I become, but it doesn’t feel like control. It just feels like more things pulling at me, trying to move me in directions I’ve never decided I want to go in.

The ground rumbles beneath my boots again as my mental grip slips, and when I open my eyes the weeds, dead as they are now, have slithered all the way up my chest, reaching for my throat like some decrypt hand.

The air leaves my lungs in a rush and with it, the dead vegetation crumbles and turns to dust on the wind.

Rhysand should be looking at me like I’m a monster. He should be stepping away, shadows swirling, that giant sword in hand. We are supposed to be enemies and he should be looking at me like I am one. But he’s not. He reaches out and brushes some of the ruined plant off my shoulder instead.

“It’s ok,” he assures. “No one gets it on their first try. Not even me.”

That compassion and understanding makes my chest ache worse than any restless power ever has. I don’t deserve it. I wish he would treat me like the horrible creature I am. He would be better off if he tossed me out into the woods like Tam.

He stiffens and I can’t help but wonder if I accidentally said that out loud because his eyes darken as he closes the gap between us and takes my face in his hands. “Maybe I’m taking the wrong approach.” His voice is clipped, husky.

Good, maybe he can finally see me for what I really am.

I am wholly unprepared for him to crash his lips against mine. My brain short circuits, the agitation I feel morphing into that desperate, needy thing I had felt this morning. Just as I tilt my head back, lips parting to let him in, he pulls back.

“Let’s play a game.”

The power in my chest feels like it’s going to rip out of my skin again.

“Match what I do and you’ll get a reward,” he explains. “If you can’t…” He takes a step back and it is an effort not to chase after him, but the message is clear enough: Matching his efforts means his hands, his lips, his body is on me again, fail to do so, and he puts space between us. It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t make me want to try, but I do. Gods I do!

“Ok,” my voice shakes a little. In the back of my mind I still think it’s a bad idea. Maybe I will regret it in the end, but this thing between us is the only thing that makes sense. There is nothing between us when his lips are on mine. I need that distraction tonight.

He holds out a hand and a ball of shadows emerge, the tendrils of darkness crawling out from beneath his skin to form the swirling shape. “Find that spot in your chest and push it into your hand. It’s a part of you, it answers to you. Make it answer to you.”

I hold out my hand, matching his position and then close my eyes, reaching for that bowl of darkness again. Hesitantly, I tip it sideways, sloshing some of the dark liquid over the edge and imagine pulling it through my limbs. It makes my muscles spasm, my claws shooting out of my nail beds in defense.

“Breathe through it, you’ll pass out if you hold your breath.”

Selfishly, I want to impress him. Want to show him I can. I want the reward of his lips on mine again. Want to not have to think about whether I should be doing this or that, the only thought in my head him and how good he feels. I do as he says, drawing in a breath as I keep pushing that bit of darkness in the direction I want it. It makes my head hurt, trying to focus so intently, but I’m nothing if not persistent.

I feel the rumble of movement beneath my palm, and just when I’m starting to think that maybe I’m more capable than I thought, the tiniest, most wilted looking dandelion grows from my palm. And then immediately turns to ash. It’s the saddest excuse for power I’ve ever seen and I growl out a complaint like a literal beast as even the thing in my chest shows its disappointment.

Rhysand snorts out a laugh too, which makes it worse.

So much for powerful.

He clears his throat as he steps back into my space. “It was a good attempt.”

“Don’t patronize me,” I hiss. “That was embarrassing.”

He wraps his hand around my wrist and places his lips against my palm anyway, never mind that my claws are still out and drifting over his temple as he kisses right where my powers flared. “You still tried.”

I shiver at the contact of his plush lips against my skin, his breath warm against my palm. My senses are still incredibly heightened and even that bit of contact makes my skin buzz with excitement.

He quirks a dark brow as he looks at me from where my hand is still pressed against his lips. “Try again for me?”

I nod, not trusting my voice when he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. His pupils are blown wide, barely a ring of violet left to see. He keeps his lower lip between his perfect teeth as he watches me with an intensity that makes my thighs clench.

Just like before, I imagine myself holding that bowl, this time, I draw a breath and tip it over, letting more of that strange darkness spill into the abyss that is my soul. It is strange to see it like this, to have some parts of it so clear and yet the rest of it is shrouded in fathomless depths. There might be anything living within the confines of my skin. I’d never bothered to look until now.

I push it towards my fingertips, just as before. The same spasm in my muscles returns, a knot forming in my bicep that I do my best to ignore as I keep pushing my power towards my hand. I remind myself to breathe when it flares in my wrist, making my claws retract and pop back out.

“Just like that,” Rhysand coaxes.

Cauldron his voice makes my insides feel like jelly.

Crawling vines emerge one by one from beneath my palms, twining around my fingertips like tiny snakes. In the center sprouts another dandelion, a little taller than the last. I manage to hold it for all of five seconds before the knot in my bicep and wrist become too much and the vines and flower die together. My bones ache. How does he do this so easily?

“Better,” Rhysand praises as he places the next kiss on the inside of my wrist, his fingers massaging the knot forming there.

“Is it supposed to hurt?” I grumble.

“It’s a process,” he murmurs into my skin, lips trailing higher, causing a shiver to run down my spine. “Think of it like building a muscle. The first couple days of using that muscle will hurt. You’ll be sore. But the more you build it, the stronger it becomes, and the less it hurts. Eventually, you’ll be able to perform bigger and bigger feats with less and less discomfort.”

That sounds exhausting!

I’m going to have to do this for the rest of my life? The thought sours my mood, once again turning my thoughts away from this lovely little distraction he’s been offering and back into the darkness that’s been threatening to overtake me all afternoon.

I swear he can hear the thoughts spinning through my head as he suddenly nips at the tender flesh of the inside of my wrist. “You think you can give me one more?”

I have a headache just thinking about doing it again, but he keeps looking at me through those long lashes, the intensity in his gaze making all rational thought fly out the window.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, lips trailing higher. He’s so warm and intoxicating, I think he might be capable of making me do anything, as long as his lips remain on my skin.

I focus on that spot, paying extra attention to breathe as I reach for that imaginary bowl a third time. Maybe if I let myself relax, lean a little heavier into the warmth of his touch, and stop trying so hard to hold on so tight, it won't hurt so bad. It has been like fighting a tide all this time; if I relax, go with the wave, will that make it easier?

I imagine that darkness spilling from the bowl like water instead, letting it flow like a river. The path from my chest to my fingertips is kind of like a stream, right? The water bubbling and rushing through me. There must be something to that thought process, because, when I open my eyes, there are more vines twining around my fingers and wrist, but this time, tiny yellow and pink flowers bloom from them. There is nothing dead or angry crawling out from beneath my skin, but something beautiful and alive. My claws retract as the vines spin around my fingers.

I can’t help but grin as I look to Rhys for his approval. “I did it!”

He grins right back, the sight so dazzling I think I might just stand here for hours summoning flower after flower to see it again. “That’s my girl!”

Instinctively, spurred by the excitement rushing through my veins, I stretch up on my toes and place a quick kiss on his lips. “You’re a good teacher,” and I mean it. Whatever this is between us, I am grateful for him, even if this is all we have. “Thank you.”

He slides a hand in my hair and kisses me back. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

I don’t know what it is I feel about it. It still feels wrong, or maybe it just feels different. Everything feels different these days, I’d rather not think too long about it. “Feels like I can breathe a little easier.”

“Good.” He kisses me again. “We’ll practice some more tomorrow.”

I slide my hand into the silky strands of his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as he rests his forehead on mine. I won’t let myself think about tomorrow, or about these new powers. There can only be this moment.

“Just promise me,” he continues, “that you’ll keep trying?”

“I might need some convincing,” I return, clinging to this distraction with every last bit of willpower I possess.

He grins at the challenge. This is the best I can give him today; the closest to the truth I can admit without laying everything bare.

“I can be very persuasive,” he purrs and the next thing I know I am on my back in what’s left of the grass, the solid weight of him on top of me. “Maybe we should work on some self-defense while we’re at it. That was alarmingly easy.”

“The words every girl wants to hear when she’s beneath a man,” I retort.

“I just want you to be safe, is all,” he says as he kisses the tip of my nose.

I reach up a hand and brush some of the hair that’s falling over his forehead into his eyes out of the way. He is breathtakingly beautiful under the moonlight. I wish I could paint or sketch, immortalize every glorious sharp edge of him in ink and paper. “I’m with you, how can I not be safe?”

Cauldron boil me, I mean that too.

It’s not until later that night, long after I’d fallen apart on his tongue in that field and then tumbled back into camp, nearly asleep on my feet to nestle down against his warm body that I remembered I’d meant to ask him this morning why he’d still let me in after everything between us. By now I’m too exhausted to care; maybe I’ll find the courage to ask in the morning.

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

Taglist:

@judig92 / @randomperson1234sblog /@nyxbranwenn /@lilah-asteria / @barb00235

@landofpetrichor / @hjgdhghoe / @buttermilktea11 / @yourforeveryoungblog / @sassyn

@zoeisdreaming6 / @minnieoo / @girl-math-aint-mathing / @raisam / @inloveallthetime

@blessthepizzaman / @bxtchopolis / @erencvlt / @mylittle-flower-loves

Thank you all for being so patient with this update! As always, let me know if you want to be added to the taglist :)

#rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhysand x reader smut #acotar smut #acotar x reader #pro rhysand #warlord!rhys #warlord!Rhys x reader #rhysand x you #acotar fic #my fanfic #my writing #in Love and war

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ninibeingdelulu · 8 months ago

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“I love you” ✧

Plot: Coming home after being away for a game, he realizes how much he love you.

The dull roar of jet engines faded into silence as Michael dragged his battered duffel through the dimly-lit entranceway - sheer exhaustion weighing down every leaden footfall after the grueling overseas exhibition match.

Only the promise of your embrace drove those rubber legs forward once clearing customs.

Simply picturing your adoring smile thawed the lingering chill embedded in his bones beneath those vibrant stadium lights burning so mercilessly hours earlier.

Because no matter how many towering accolades soccer bestowed upon him, nothing compared to the searing flame your love ignited within his once glacial core.

Pulse quickening with every shuffled stride across the familiar foyer's threshold, Michael's slate grays swept slowly in a silent panoramic - drinking in the subtle remnants of you scattered amidst their shared living quarters with a bone-deep fondness once unimaginable for such a self-obsessed prick.

There laid your threadbare sandals discarded haphazardly beside his scuffed cleats - an arresting vision abruptly grounding the blistering drive singularly fixated on fame and championships only twelve whirlwind months ago.

Until your boundless patience etched itself into his stony psyche.

Shucking off his own sneakers with a tired grunt, Michael pressed forwards through the shadowed hallway - only to be enveloped by the enticing bouquets of your favorite incense and bath oils still perfuming the stale air from earlier that morning.

Like an anchor weighing down each footfall in the richest, most indulgent sensory caress he'd been sorely deprived of over these past excruciating weeks.

Every path converged upon indelible impressions you'd steadily embedded throughout his once purely monastic existence devoid of comfort or fondness for homeliness.

Hanging jackets and the random coffee cup abandoned on that antique oak table you both adored for its simple, timeless charm.

A tangible testament to the irrevocably entwined lives you now shared despite his former staunch resistance to any potential distractions from dominating the pitch above all else.

Yet any lingering doubts or caustic voices hissing perpetual disparagement simply dissolved within the syrupy warmth diffusing through Michael's pounding chest.

Smothered beneath a sudden influx of those once unthinkable saccharine emotions stabbing deeper than any cleats raking across manicured turf.

The profound, blooming realization of exactly how far he'd tumbled down into blissful, all-consuming devotion to you slowly crystallizing. Scorching gratitude consuming any shred of self-loathing or toxicity still clinging to the vestiges of his hardened core.

Because Michael Kaiser - the uncompromising god-idol carved from supremely-arrogant granite - reveled in smothering, doe-eyed adulation for the beautifully empathetic mortal whose guiding compassion inexorably reshaped his innermost being.

Reforging those frigid edges into molten tenderness reflected within that wry smirk gracing his features while ultimately breaching the bedroom's threshold.

There you lay tangled amidst the bedding in utter tranquility, ignorant to the world blazing on without you as the vestiges of daylight shifted into inky cerulean along the horizon.

Either lulled into slumber by the late hour or simply overwhelmed by the very same hopeless longing Michael still battled sating with each fruitless deployment.

Helplessly committing your ethereal silhouette within that cozy sanctuary to memory, Michael simply basked in the sight - content to drink in every rise and fall of your serene figure until his own hammering pulse steadied into a gradually lulling cadence.

Because you were his everything now.

His true north and inspiration amidst this turbulent voyage once solely motivated by quenching an unsatiated bloodthirst for public adulation and trophies.

His beacon in life's relentless madness.

So with the reverent tenderness of a man cherishing his greatest fortune, Michael slid beneath those satiny sheets behind your slumbering form.

Enveloping your smaller contour into the protective cage of his solid embrace, burying his stubbled jawline into the nape of your throat to fully inhale your intoxicating nectar.

As your instinctive squirms melted into the solidity of his chest, Michael's lids sagged with sheer contentment.

His possessive grip never slackening even the faintest degree as those fatigue-glazed pewter irises drifted shut - sealing with a featherlight graze of searing lips across your forehead.

"I love you."

Those forbidden syllables ghosted over your cheek with a nearly imperceptible caress, viscerally shocking even himself with its earnest tenderness as the universe slowly dimmed beyond your tangled, intimate cocoon of devotion.

Yet none of the withering venom or defensiveness once characterizing that callous alpha exterior remained even an inkling.

Only boundless serenity in having you exactly where Michael privately yearned for throughout every globetrotting second spanning continents and lifespans.

Secured within that sanctum for the remainder of your days enmeshed as one blessed, completed whole.

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strawberryshortcake1495 · 2 months ago

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Imagine if Stan and Carla never broke up…

The night that Stan’s kicked out, he gets in his car and lazily drives off, trying to fight the tears that threaten to spill out of his eyes. He just lost everything: his brother, his home, his life. There’s only one person left.

It’s 8PM and Carla is putting her little sister to bed when she gets a call from her boyfriend. She tucks her sister in, goes into the living room, and answers the call. Stan tells her everything, from breaking the perpetual motion machine to being kicked out from his home. Carla tells Stan to go to her house and she’ll meet him outside.

By now it’s 8:32PM and it’s starting to rain. Carla leaves her house wearing her yellow raincoat, with bright pink flowers painted on it which makes it easy for Stan to spot her. She quickly brings him inside and microwaves some leftover soup to warm him up. Then she helps him take a bath. “Your hair looks so soft and fluffy when it’s not slicked back.” She tells him, but he doesn’t smile like he usually does. After, the exhaustion of the fight takes over Stan and he collapses on the couch. Carla tucks him in, kisses his cheek, and tells him that she’ll help him figure this out. “Thanks, babe…y’know, for letting me stay.”

“Always.”

(art is by @hellmandraws)

#gravity falls #stan pines #carla mccorkle #what if scenario #grauntie carla au

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undead-supernova · 1 year ago

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Tolerance Break / Masterlist

Bonus Chapters

Part 4 / Part 5

warnings: mostly warning free outside of alcohol consumption, arguments, a hint of spice, and emergency cigarettes

pairings: bestfriend!modern!eddie x fem!reader

plot: sometimes you just gotta clear the smoke

wc: 5.2k

How the fuck did you end up agreeing to go to another karaoke night?

No, seriously. What the hell was wrong with you?

Okay, maybe you were being a little too mean to yourself. But didn’t you deserve it after everything that transpired between you and Eddie?

There was something that was beginning to float away from the two of you, something that felt familiar. It was exactly what you’d feared, the teetering in and out. No calls, no texts. Nothing there on your screen, left for dead on your bedroom floor most days as you blocked out any and all noise you could. Only listened to the kind of metal and screamo that sounded like fuzz, where their lyrics were practically incoherent from their gutteral screams. Played every goddamn Lego game on your Xbox and, yes, you specifically avoided clicking on Lego The Hobbit.

And to be fair, you hadn’t responded to any of the texts Eddie did send that first week. You had hope that he would show up like a knight in shining armor, taking your silence as a chance for him to be a hero—as if that was a justified response.

Because silence equaled confirmation that you were done. And confirmation that you were done meant that Eddie had to respect whatever boundaries you’d put up. Despite this, you stared at the door whenever you came home. Left a light on in the middle of the night just in case his knock woke you.

Just in case. Just in case.

But this wasn’t coping.

This was your own personal hell.

Because you also knew about the back and forth with Steve, the hopeful glances and longing stares. The missed chances and opportunities and the stupid, stupid mistakes that you thought about making. You also knew that your relationship with Eddie was going to change significantly. Maybe it already had.

You were leaning up against the side of your car, smoking an emergency cigarette from the pack stashed in your glove box. The anxiety was starting to eat you alive as you really came to terms with the fact that you were going to see Eddie for the first time in nearly a month. And, by the grace of God, you were going to be seeing him sober.

He would probably get there late knowing his finicky Tuesday schedule, sometimes having a longer shift than normal. Maybe he’d be all sweaty and grimy, frustrated and unable to talk to you. Or he could be bright and cheery and make conversation, blind to the magic of your lucky fishnets chosen for tonight.

How would he act? Would everything be okay? Did he even want to talk to you after what happened?

What even really happened?

Maybe he wouldn’t show up at all.

Would it even be worth it to stay?

The sound of Robin calling your name woke you from your self-indulgent nightmare fuel. You looked up, watching her wave at you with Steve in tow, sporting a white crop top and a deep green button down left open, bracelets galore. Steve was in his work outfit, sleeves rolled up, button down unbuttoned and untucked. Disheveled wife beater clinging for dear life in this weather. Like he was straight out of a quirky 2000s movie. Except he didn’t look exhausted, just slightly tired.

You met them halfway, giving Robin a side hug to keep her away from the smoke.

But as soon as you pulled back, she grabbed the cigarette and crushed it under her Vans. Even went so far as to stomp on it.

“Rob, seriously?” Steve asked.

“Gross,” Robin replied, shaking her head at you. “So, so gross.”

You just wanted five minutes of unhealthy coping mechanisms—but you knew Robin was right. Getting back into smoking cigarettes just because you were in a perpetual state of sorrow due to your own actions may not be the best course of action. Maybe that’s why you felt better on your two-week tolerance break from smoking weed. It just felt better to have a clear head, especially if it wasn’t doing well in the first place.

Steve gave you an apologetic look, also giving you a side hug. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” you said. “It’s probably for the best.”

“Should we go inside?” Robin asked, pointing at Go Ask Mary.

What you noticed as soon as you sat down was that neither of them even mentioned Eddie. Didn’t tell you whether he was still coming or whether he’d be late. The three of you were ten minutes early to the scheduled time, so it wouldn’t be too bad, right?

Steve started chatting you up immediately, (almost unbearably) asking you how you’d been doing and if you’d seen anything good on Netflix or Max lately. You really didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to even look at him. Because if you did, you’d only see betrayal in his eyes, a mere reflection of your guilt.

As if noticing your discomfort, Robin butt in. “Actually, I was watching this documentary on that new NASA thing and apparently there’s this black hole—"

You were starting to feel sick to your stomach and it only increased when Eddie walked into the bar twenty minutes late.

Despite telling yourself not to, you looked up at him.

He wasn’t grimy or dirty, like he’d showered before coming. Like he felt the need to clean up before, what, coming to a bar on a Tuesday evening? His hair was all volumized and bouncy, face glowing in the dim lighting. A Master of Reality Black Sabbath tee with his jeans and his leather jacket and his chains and his everything…

And despite Robin and Steve greeting him first, Eddie held your eye contact.

You hated how that made you feel. Like you were the only reason why he was here. Like you were the only reason he was being social and staying out late. Like you made it worth it.

But neither one of you said anything to each other.

The last few weeks had been…quite unbearable if Eddie had to describe it. He spent nearly every night at his phone, talking to Wayne as if he was his therapist. Wayne bit the bullet and comforted him, tried to give him advice about the whole thing. But Eddie was in a fugue state, unable to truly manage his heartache, even with his stashed emergency cigarettes in his glove box. So, when he got the invitation to another karaoke night and Robin promised you’d be there, he made sure to leave work early, take an extra-long shower, and come prepared to talk.

When you said you’d get the first round, Eddie did his best to stay seated.

Because neither of you had said anything to each other and Eddie wasn’t really sure what that meant. He wasn’t even sitting next to Steve tonight because he felt so embarrassed…but what about you?

Because you looked tense, a tight smile on your lips that definitely didn’t meet your eyes. Your grip on your vodka Redbull was starting to concern him, all strained knuckles and shaky glass. Steve and Robin blabbered on, you and Eddie contributing when it seemed necessary, never actually talking to each other.

By the time Robin said she’d get the second and you jumped at the chance to go for her, he’d given up on being polite.

He reached into his jean jacket pocket to find his black Bic lighter, his holy savior when it came to anxiety and fear. You were ten steps ahead of him, refusing to look back. Refusing to even look up, as if the idea of making eye contact with anyone in Go Ask Mary was borderline criminal.

Eddie glanced at Steve and Robin before standing up.

“Ooh, are you going to go talk to her?” Robin asked, taking a final sip of her first Coke and Bacardi to try to hide her smile. Steve mirrored her, taking a long gulp of his beer as he raised an eyebrow at the man.

The two were the definition of the phrase in cahoots.

Eddie only rolled his eyes in response, turning on his heels to follow your lead.

You were in nearly an identical outfit to the one he last saw you in, with your black Joan Jett t-shirt replaced with a black Scene Queen crop top. A leather jacket. And there with it, a pleated black miniskirt that swayed with you as you walked, calling attention to your fishnets and maroon Converse. Red lipstick to match. Fucking hell—

He was utterly weak for you.

And how did he open up a line of dialogue?

“This is awkward, isn’t it?”

You turned to him before looking down, watching the black lighter move between his fingers—always noticing his anxious habits but never truly calling him out.

“I guess,” you replied, seemingly nonchalant.

But he was getting closer and…was that cigarette smoke on your jacket? Had you been smoking? Eddie thought about asking, but there you were beating him to the punch.

“Emergency cigarette, huh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Seems like you’ve been stressed about something.”

“It’s all over you, too,” he countered. “I wonder if there’d be a common denominator if we compared notes.”

He didn’t miss the way you scowled before trying to cover up your frustration. “It’s just been tough at work.”

“Oh, so is that why you haven’t texted me in three weeks?”

“Eddie—”

“Hey, it’s just a question,” he said lightly, throwing his hands up.

Before you could say anything, the bartender was sliding you the drinks.

“You left your jacket at my place,” you said as you handed Robin’s card to the guy. “It’s in my car if you want to grab it before you leave. Or earlier if you’d like.”

But Eddie wasn’t one to back down, was he?

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“And I don’t intend to,” you stated, scribbling on the receipt before turning to walk away. Eddie noticed you left his and Steve’s drinks behind. With a sigh, Eddie grabbed them and followed you back to the table.

After everyone was a bit tipsy, Robin found her way to the karaoke stage, followed by Steve. You noticed that Eddie was opting out, merely sitting there in silence. He nursed his whisky, nodding along to whatever conversation was happening, even if he was directly spoken to. It was already bad enough that he was sitting closer to you than he did Steve.

Was he trying to make you feel better? Was his silence to keep everyone from feeling weird? Did he tell Steve about what happened, and they were trying to play it cool? Lower the awkwardness?

Your anxiety was starting to crawl along your skin resulting in you having to take your jacket off. The alcohol doing absolutely nothing to diffuse it. Even if you drank faster. Not that you would ever feel the need to expedite the process of any form of intoxication or inebriation. Not at all. Nope. Never.

But after another dreadful fifteen minutes, you needed out of there.

Fast.

“I’m going to sing a song,” you announced, interrupting Steve.

Before anybody could respond or react, you shot out of your chair and walked over to the guy by the stage. He sat on a stool behind a podium, his laptop hooked up to a speaker.

“Pick your poison of the night,” he said with a grin. “The Eighties are your oyster.”

“Gladly.”

Eddie watched you scroll through the guy’s laptop, bouncing from side-to-side as you debated your choices. Nodding your head along to whatever he was saying.

And he just couldn’t help himself from being a pest, from ignoring Robin and Steve, from walking over and ending up behind you.

“What’s the song choice?”

You flinched, turning to look at him with quite a nasty look on your face.

“Why do you care?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you being so goddamn mean?”

Like before, you gave no answer.

Instead, you grabbed the microphone and stepped up on the poor excuse for a stage. As you lifted your foot, your skirt started riding up. Eddie didn’t mean to look up your skirt in a moment like this, scout’s honor, but he caught a snippet of…your…garter belt?

Were those your…lucky fishnets? No, he had to be mistaken. You already had a few pairs, there was no way you’d worn the lucky ones when you were being this mean.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” you asked him, your voice sounding much, much harsher than it usually did.

“I’m not looking at you like—”

The track started and you shook your head, turning from him to put on a smile and face everyone else but him.

Eddie didn’t stay, heaving a sigh before walking off to sit back down next to Steve and Robin.

Clearing your throat, you let yourself groove through the beginning instrumentals, shaking off Eddie’s words and the fact that he didn’t stay to watch. Didn’t stay to show any support or be your biggest fan like always. But this wasn’t about him.

“There's a boy I know, he's the one I dream of.

Looks into my eyes, takes me to the clouds above..."

You were met with a few cheers at the choice of song. Trying to play along, you held onto the cord of the mic, twisting it around your fingers, while moving your hips from side to side. Your pleated skirt moved with you, twisting and turning and twirling wherever you moved.

For the first time tonight, you smiled.

“How will I know if he really loves me?

I say a prayer with every heartbeat.

I fall in love whenever we meet.

I'm asking you what you know about these things."

But something began to click in your head.

Because this was absolutely about Eddie. This was exactly how you’d been feeling for the last three years. Every little, tiny thing that had run through your mind whenever you were together. Whenever you were laughing or crying or going on dates that ultimately turned into duds. When you went to the aquarium or the movies or Jailbait Hemp…

When you were sitting with him for the first time in this exact bar, wondering if he was going to be something more in your life, unable to predict where you’d inevitably be.

“Falling in love is so bittersweet.

This love is strong, why do I feel weak?”

You closed your eyes as you kept going, determined to get through this without having a meltdown. If you just powered through it, then everything would sort itself out and you’d sit back down and Robin would tell you that the song was a good choice and Steve would say some dumb shit. And Eddie—

Eddie would say nothing at all.

And at the end of the night, you’d tell Robin and Steve goodbye. You’d turn to walk away to your car and hope that Eddie would run up to you and demand to talk. But you’d inevitably be met with disappointment as you reached your car. He wouldn’t grab his jacket. He wouldn’t say a word. And the two of you would fade without a sound. Without even a goodbye. And you’d know then for certain that he never truly wanted to be with you. He’d made his choice.

“If he loves me…if he loves me not.”

When you opened your eyes, you were shocked to see Eddie near the edge of the stage, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

“If he loves me…if he loves me not.”

He was looking at you the way you hated, the way you secretly loved. Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“If he loves me...if he loves me not.”

He was quiet, not even swaying, letting you sing no matter how terrible it sounded. Just making eye contact with you, watching you. You tried looking away, but nothing else could hold your attention long enough before you were back, trying to make sense as to why he was still there.

And there was something bubbling in your chest, something starting to unfurl.

“How will I know if he really loves me?”

Something was starting to constrict your vocal cords and you had no way of letting it go.

“I say a prayer with every heartbeat.”

Especially when Eddie was still standing there, and you were realizing that whatever you two had was over.

“I fall in love whenever we meet.”

This chapter of your life was coming to a close.

“I'm asking you what you know about these things.”

Nothing was going to fix this.

“How will I know if he’s thinking of me?”

There was nothing you could do.

“I try to phone but I’m too shy. Can’t speak.”

Nothing.

“Falling in love is so bittersweet…”

You started to choke up, sniffling as you looked at Eddie, with his pretty brown eyes and his intense fucking stare and his teeth digging into his bottom lip. Was this the last time you’d ever see each other? Was this truly the end? Was this the last look you’d get of him, forever lodged in your memory as the moment you lost the greatest thing to ever happen to you to someone else?

“I feel weak—"

Without hesitation, you dropped the mic, jumping down and running past Eddie. Robin and Steve tried to call your name, but you couldn’t do it anymore. You pushed open the front door into the tangerine glow of the sunset and felt yourself fall apart.

“What are you doing, Eddie?” Robin asked, shaking her head at him as he sluggishly made his way back to the table. “I mean, seriously.”

“This has gotten totally out of hand,” Steve said with a sigh, swirling a straw in his beer bottle.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Robin said sarcastically. “How do you think she feels?”

Steve nodded. “You literally didn’t want to keep going on dates because you’re into her.”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed. “You said you were okay with it.”

“I am,” Steve said, throwing up his hands. “I get it. You feel how you feel. No shame in that. But I just think it’s kinda annoying when you’re not even doing anything about it. I mean, seriously, dude. It’s been, what, two weeks?”

“Three and a half,” Eddie corrected.

Steve gestured to him. “My point exactly.”

Eddie felt like an idiot. The way he watched you start to crack onstage, as if you were bending. Breaking. Falling apart.

“Are you really gonna just let her leave?”

Eddie turned at the unfamiliar voice. It was the drag queen that seemed to always be there, Luverne Bell, just out of drag this time. He stood there with his hands on his hips, still wearing a killer manicure.

“What do you mean?”

He sighed. “Boy, I watched that poor girl thirsting over you a month ago, jealous as hell of that one with the hair,” she said, pointing at Steve before looking back at Eddie. “She sang to you tonight—fuckin’ Whitney Houston, the queen of all queens—and you’re questioning if you should be a big boy and go tell her you love her? Are you that stupid?”

“No, I…” Eddie gulped. “I guess I didn’t think about it like that.”

“Then go, idiot,” Robin said from the table. “You’re literally wasting time.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Don’t fuck it up.”

They were right. Eddie couldn’t back down. You needed him just as much as he needed you.

It felt odd how simple it was.

Even when he was unsure of your feelings. Even when you had those awkward conversations. Even when he’d be on a date with Steve or talking Robin’s ear off about his frustrations—not to mention Jeff, Gareth, and Grant. (They got much more than they needed to.) Hell, even after you fought and stopped talking for nearly a month. No matter how hard this felt, loving you was simple.

And he planned to keep loving you no matter what.

Eddie nodded before walking towards the door.

He could hear Luverne Bell sigh behind him, saying, “I’m getting that fuckin’ invite to the wedding, so help me God.”

It was all completely hopeless.

This was probably the lowest you’d been in a long time, dramatically running off a stage at your favorite bar in front of the guy who you’d been in love with for the past three years. And now you were too weak to get in your car and drive far away from here, far away from Eddie.

You tried being an asshole to him, tried to get him to push you away and leave you alone. It would be better that way, giving him a reason to never come near you again. At least then you wouldn’t be tempted to tell him that the sight of him with Steve made you want to throw up. Hell, you already did.

Tears streamed down your face as you lightly hit your head back on the brick wall of the building. You needed to distract yourself. Calm yourself down.

With the las bit of strength you had, you shuffled over to your car to grab another emergency cigarette. You caught the sight of Eddie’s jacket in the passenger seat and nearly screamed, wanting to run over the damn thing out of spite.

Maybe act on impulse and burn the damn thing.

As if you’d ever actually do it.

You managed to successfully light your cigarette when you heard Eddie call your name. Turning, you could see him looking around to find you before he finally did. He called your name again.

“Don’t leave!” he said loudly. “Come back.”

With messy makeup and even messier hair, you looked him directly in the eye as you walked back over. If this was how everything was to end, you were ready. No matter how fucked up you looked. No matter how fucked up you felt.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“What’s there to say?” you asked, taking a strong drag.

“You can’t keep playing this game with me,” he said, shaking his head. “You really can’t.”

“Go back to Steve,” you choked out, fingers shaking as you took another drag. “I bet he’s better company than I am.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to go fucking be with Steve right now, alright?”

“Why not?” you asked loudly. “He’s all cool and hot and sexy and a big, hot, sexy hot shot. I’m sure he’s better than me in every way possible.”

This earned you another eye roll. “Oh my god.” He covered his face with his hands for a moment, dragging them down to his chin before giving an exasperated sigh. “I don’t see why you care when you’re the one who didn’t answer any of my texts, nor did you answer me when I asked you why like an hour and a half ago.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you lied.

“That’s just a shitty copout at this point.”

“You’re annoying,” you lied again.

“And you’re acting like a dick!” he exclaimed. “An outrageously humongous cockhead!”

You scowled at him. “Oh, I’m the cockhead? Really?”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Real mature. Nice.” You waved him away, taking another drag. “Go back to your boyfriend already.”

“Stop bringing up Steve, oh my god!” he nearly shouted.

A scoff left your mouth. “You’re the one dating him.”

“Yeah, well, I broke shit off with Steve three and a half weeks ago.”

You paused, pulling the cigarette from your lips. “You did?”

Eddie nodded. “Mhm.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know,” he said with a breathy sigh, fiddling with his lighter. “Just in love with my best friend over here, no big deal.”

“You’re…” You lost grip of your cigarette as everything began to swirl around you.

He was…actually in love with you?

“You’re in love with me?”

His eyes widened. “You didn’t know?”

“I…wasn’t sure.”

“Right, even when I almost kissed you, or…?”

“Well…I just thought when you…you said you thought Steve made you happy…” you trailed, losing steam. You couldn’t continue, only shrugging in response before crossing your arms over your chest.

He tilted his head, trying to catch your eyes. “And now here’s the part where you say you’re in love with me, too, right?” You looked up, watching his lips turn up in a small smile. “‘Cause there’s no way I’m interpreting this wrong anymore.”

You looked at him questioningly, nearly playful in nature now, deciding to push him just a little bit further. “Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure?”

“Because tonight I realized that you have been nothing but jealous this entire time and making fun of Steve who, correct me if I’m wrong, you’ve never had a problem with before.” He drew closer, putting his hands over your crossed arms. “And there’s nothing I want to do more right now than kiss you and make all of this stupid middle school drama go away.”

“Are you not worried we’ll lose everything if it doesn’t work out?”

Eddie smirked. “What if I told you that I don’t care about that and all I want is to take you home and cuddle on the couch and watch Lord of the Rings?”

“The extended edition?”

“Literally what else would I be referring to?”

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose at you, eyes searching yours. “Mm, and why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I’m absolutely, positively in love with you,” you admitted. “That’s why I’ve been looking at you like that for almost four years.”

He grinned. “God dammit, I knew that was what you always wanted to say.”

“And yet you never said anything about it,” you noted.

“Well, I—” Eddie paused before his eyes lit up. “Holy shit. Holy shit! You were gonna tell me that day at the aquarium, weren’t you?” Your mouth opened but you were way too embarrassed to admit to it. He studied your expression before a smirk fell on his lips. “You were! I knew it. I fucking knew—"

So, you kissed him.

Uncrossed your arms and grabbed his face, keeping him from walking away. From running away. From doing anything else than being right here, right now. In your grasp, in your kiss.

And Eddie wasted no time, roughly grabbing your waist and drawing you in, breathing you in. You were trying to process what was happening, but it was all going by so fast. Because his hands were squeezing your hips, fingers flexing as if he was consciously trying not to hurt you.

Instantly, you couldn’t fathom ever feeling this euphoric. This carnal hunger for something so soft and tender. For finally being able to get to this moment, this aching desire having loomed over you for so long.

Despite this disbelief, you needed to push back, not ready to give away your dominance. Did he even know you?

You reached a hand down and grabbed his ass, pulling him against you, earning a gasp from him. When you squeezed harder, he jumped and let out a small yelp.

Laughter spilled from your lips as you watched his cheeks turn red, close to matching your lipstick. And you noticed it hadn’t really transferred to his mouth, saving him from more embarrassment. (You thanked whatever God was out there that you’d worn your sturdy lipstick.)

Even so, your lips were still on his, unable to disconnect. Unable to let them go anywhere.

“You think that’s funny?” he asked, playfully trying to stare you down.

You wrinkled your nose, grinning. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

Eddie wrinkled his back at you. “Yeah?” He mimicked your voice, raising the pitch.

“Oh, yeah.”

Without warning, Eddie pushed you against the brick wall, slotting his thigh in between your legs. You swallowed a whimper, trying to stay quiet. Trying to sustain your dominance. But he had other plans, fingers slowly moving down your side until he grabbed your thigh and lifted it—roughly at first, but then carefully placing it snug around his hip. Delicately, as if the moment was meant to be cherished, as if you were meant to be handled with care. He dragged his fingers down your fishnets before curling his hand around your knee to quickly yank you up juuust a little further.

Eddie was moving his nose against the side of yours, shaking his head. “And what the fuck are you doing wearing these?”

“You don’t like them?” you whispered, pushing him further.

“Are you serious? I’m in love with them,” he admitted. “And you. Very much you.”

“Told you they were lucky,” you responded with a playful shrug.

“God, you’re frustrating,” he whispered before his lips met yours again. But he quickly moved, making his way down to your jaw. You wondered if he knew that you were getting dangerously close to losing your grip on whatever abstinence looked like.

And then he reached the back of your ear and oh—

You let out an involuntary moan, having to lean away from the contact to catch your bearings. If you didn’t, you genuinely thought you were going to faint.

“Maybe we could do some other things while we watch Lord of the Rings.”

Eddie tipped his head back as he let out a hearty laugh. “And what might that be? Watch the first, second, andthird?”

“It’s a—” Eddie quickly dipped back down, nipping at your neck. “Ah, fuck. It’s a surprise,” you finished, nearly moaning again. “Fuck, not for much longer if you keep doing that.”

“You want me to wait until we’re two and a half hours deep into Mordor?” he asked. “Do you know me at all? That shit is important.”

You shrugged. “Well, you could be two and a half hours deep into this pussy—”

“That was unnecessary,” he joked, shaking his head.

Your smile widened. “It was kinda funny.”

“Just a little,” he admitted before moving his lips back to your jaw.

“I could dress up as Sam?” you teased, feeling his teeth carefully grazing your earlobe. Another gasp escaped your lips. “Could call you Mister Frodo if you’d like.”

The vibrations of his laughter made tingles run down your neck.

“An intriguing thought,” he joked. “May I propose a trip to my van?”

Now you fully pulled away from his face, wondering how serious he was.

“I’m not doing it in a parking lot.”

He feigned offense. “Why not? My van’s right there?”

“Eddie, I’m not having sex in your van.”

He tsked at you, leaving pecks on each of your cheeks. “You’re no fun.”

“How about a compromise,” you proposed, pressing a finger against his mouth. “How about you fuck me beforewe watch Lord of the Rings?”

“Does a joint happen to sneak its way in at some point?” he asked against your finger. You giggled as he removed it but continued to hold on. Smoothed his calloused fingertips over your knuckles.

“One before, one after,” you said matter-of-factly.

He smirked. “I think I can manage that.”

You kissed him again.

And it really wasn’t so stupid after all.

#Eddie munson #Eddie Munson x you #Eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #best friend!eddie #modern!eddie munson #modern!eddie x reader #best friend!Eddie x reader #thank you again. I’m feeling so ahhhhh right now! finally finished my first eddie series #can’t wait for the next one #just feeling glad that I can escape and disappear from reality for a little bit #high tolerance series

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radiojamming · 5 months ago

Note

Prompting you for anything with Tartnell

hi i'm DJ and i and i want to write all the missing scenes i wanted to see in the terror.

---

In a memory with no date, they are children. It is a honey-gold day with sunlight playing on the river, a wood-warm scent in the air from the fences around the orchards. John carries Tom on his back down the road from the Burnt Elm farm, the corner of John's mouth still stained purple from the blackberries they picked out of the hedgerow. Tom's fingers are dyed the same shade, and their mother will surely have a few words to say about the stains on their clothes.

But for now, Tom is full, warm, and happy. There is sweetness in his mouth and the sun on his back, his brother to his front, the sound of magpies chattering in the trees around him.

John hums a tune. He's not a particularly good singer, but Tom likes to listen to him anyway. It's a shanty—one that they've heard at the Dockyard when they run down to see their father and walk home with him. Tom thinks it's about ladies; most of those songs are. He tries to hum along, but the sway of John's gait makes him too sleepy to try.

Instead, he yawns and asks, "Can we do this again tomorrow?"

"Sure," John replies, hefting Tom up a little further up his back. "We ought to bring a basket, though. To take some home."

Tom nods and turns his head so his cheek is pressed against his brother's back. He watches the Danbury farm slowly give way to the Simon orchard, and he counts the rows of trees until he gets to the one that was hit by lightning last summer. Eventually, he closes his eyes.

There's not much meaning to this memory. No lessons learned, no part of Tom's life altered. What's important is that John is there—a child, thin, tall for his age, keeping Tom close and safe. Walking so Tom doesn't have to.

No. This memory means everything.

---

They fight only once. Truly fighting; not just the general struggle of being brothers with only two years' difference between them.

Tom doesn't recall his exact words. All he knows is that he's angry. Angry that John keeps himself cloistered in the same job that's slowly killing him, that he exhausts himself day after day to make ends meet without a care for himself, that Tom's certain he'll come home on leave only to find John's headstone beside their father's in the churchyard.

(He's scared; not angry. But it's so much easier to mask it as anger than to ever admit he's frightened.)

But Tom's words are coarse, scoured over with years on the Volage and deckled on the edges with every gunshot or dying wail of a comrade in his ears. He curses in a way their mother would scold him for, but he can't take the words back even as he sees John go milk-pale at the sound.

He remembers only one sentence. The only one that matters.

"You're so selfish," he snarls.

(It's not true. It's never been true. John doesn't know how to be selfish. His life has always been attached to someone else, for someone else's benefit. His mother's, his brothers', his sisters', Mister Sarge's, Jane's. Selfish people don't lose sleep like John has, don't wince when they move their hands the way he does.

But all the other words Tom wants to say don't come out. They change shape, consonants, vowels. They turn into something awful.)

He sees the whites of John's eyes, and as soon as his brother takes one step forward, straightens himself out of his perpetual slouch, Tom remembers how much taller John is.

"Shut your mouth, Thomas," John says. His voice has always been low, a little scratchy like he's in need of clearing his throat.

And never—never has he used Tom's full name.

John takes another step forward.

(Where they are, Tom can't remember. There's a wall of a building. Home? Church? The Inn?)

And another.

(He remembers John's shirt, stained at the wrists. Shoemaker's black.)

And then John's hands are on Tom's shoulders, and he shoves. Tom reels back, catches himself before he can hit the ground. He knows he should step back and apologise. He knows there's so much more he could do or say that could fix this. But he's a sailor, and there's this awful crashing noise in his head that he simply can't quiet. He balls his fists and before he can think clearly, he swings.

At his fucking brother.

(He remembers crying into John's shirt at their father's grave.)

He has to aim up because John's so much taller.

(Remembers John standing under the lychgate into St. Mary Magdalene's, fist pressed to his mouth, biting his knuckles so he wouldn't cry.)

His fist connects with John's upper lip and nose, causing his brother's head to snap back. Something crunches under Tom's knuckles, and his stomach twists in a fierce knot at the feeling. He sees blood—orchard fruit bright red—on his hand when he draws it back.

(Remembers John in bed, gasping with breath that simply wouldn't come. A bloodstained handkerchief clenched in his fist. Their mother weeping as she watched their father dying of the same affliction.)

John doesn't make a sound. No yelp of agony, or gasp, or curse. Just silence. Agonising silence that makes a minute into an hour. Tom only sees him stagger a little, blood pouring freely out of his nose and onto his mouth, his shirt collar.

(Their mother scrubbing blood out of his shirt.)

It drips onto the ground. Slow. Raindrop-heavy.

(The bed linens on the line. A blossom of blood visible, drying in the breeze.)

He says nothing. Instead, he raises his head and sniffs once. Hazel eyes in skull-deep sockets. Exhaustion bows his back again as he nods.

"Alright, Thomas," he says. Another sniff. "Alright."

And he walks away.

(Where does he go? Where does this happen? Tom wishes he knew, wishes he would have run after him and begged his forgiveness. They never fight again after this, but Tom can't shake the memory of his brother's blood on his hands.)

---

They join up together. It's easier this way—two incomes flowing into their house, right when Charlie's on the cusp of joining up as well.

"I can help," says Strickland. He bounces on the balls of his feet as John signs his name in the allotment book. "Mum says she doesn't need the full amount or nothin', but I think Aunt Sarah would like it."

"No," says John, mostly to the book and to Mister Helpman who's watching the whole family scene with amusement. "Good Lord, Stricks. Why would we make you do that?"

"You're not makin' me do nothin', Harts," Strickland retorts. "I'm contemplatin' doin' a kindness, you joyless thing."

Tom doesn't have to see his brother's face to know he's rolling his eyes.

"Well, tell your mum so," John replies, then steps back and gestures to Tom just as Mister Helpman turns to a fresh page. "You're next, Tommy."

Tom walks up to the book and tells Mister Helpman all the details he needs to know. Where his pay goes, to whom, what's the relation, where does he hail from. He watches Helpman's quick hand neatly record every word.

"Sign here, sir," Helpman says.

Behind Tom, Strickland grunts in a way that suggests John has him in another headlock—his favourite method of subduing anyone. "Lemme go, you big oaf!"

"Come now, Mister Strickland," John says primly. "Is this any way for a member of Her Majesty's Navy to behave?"

"I'll show you Her Majesty!"

"That doesn't make sense. Actually, that sounds right obscene." John pauses, just as Tom finishes signing his name. "I'm just sorry, Mister Helpman. He's usually a good boy."

Helpman stifles a laugh and shakes his head. "Well, you lot will surely keep the ship entertained. Now, please release Mister Strickland so he can give me his details."

"You heard the gentleman, Stricks," John says, releasing Strickland who darts forward, sand-brown hair a mess. "Do we need to remind you how to spell your name again?"

Strickland gives him a very unkind gesture behind his back where Helpman can't see.

Tom returns to John's side and grins at his brother. People often comment how they look nothing alike, save for their smile. John gives him a perfect reflection of it now—playful, tilted up at the left corner, eyes squinting in happiness.

"You gonna behave yourself on this trip?" he asks John.

"Of course," John replies. "I have to be the responsible older brother, don't I?"

They laugh.

As if John's been anything else.

---

John starts to get sick in November.

It comes on slow. Coughs stifled in his fist or elbow. A wheeze he can pass off as simply poor lungs struggling in tight quarters with far too much pipe smoke in the air. Begging off early for bed even when they're deep in a game or a book.

Then he falls off a ladder, and Tom knows something's wrong.

John's never been particularly graceful. Uncle Hoar used to compare him to a colt that wasn't quite sure of its own legs. But in the rigging, he's a different creature entirely. It's as though he's waited his whole life to get off the ground, to see the world from some place higher than the world he'd been relegated to. His grip is always sure and steady, his footing secure. Only a few years in the Navy and he's done well by himself.

But it's the ladder—the damn ladder that does it. Just the one to maintain the lamps on deck. Only a few rungs. A few steps. It's not so very far to fall.

(It is. It's only ice and hard wood under his back when he lands. He's in so much pain by the time Tom, Sullivan, Tadman, and two Marines on duty get to him that he can't speak.)

He recovers for a few days in the sick bay until he can stand without wobbling on a weak ankle again. Doctor Stanley gives him some concoction and a few terse instructions. Mister Goodsir diligently follows up a few minutes later to advise on the dosage and how much rest John should get.

John improves.

And then he doesn't.

December comes in with a howling gale that sings in the lines holding the tent to the deck. And it comes with an awful sound rattling up from John's lungs.

It comes with blood on a handkerchief.

(Scrubbing it out of a shirt.)

---

"They say one of the stokers on Terror's got it, too," Tadman tells Tom in confidence. "He's barely conscious."

Tom stares down hard at the floor.

"You don't think he's been sick all this time?" Tadman asks.

Tom's quick to say, "He hasn't. He'd have been sent back by now."

Outside, on the stony shore of Beechey, two men sent by the captains of both ships make note of a particularly flat spot of land. Good for graves, they say.

"He'll make it through," Tom says.

---

In the doorway, Tom watches as Mister Weekes makes measurements of John. His height, the width of his shoulders, the width of his knees side-by-side. As he does, John sleeps fitfully, a pinch between his brows and sweat beading his top lip.

Weekes doesn't know Tom's there. He finishes his work, penning some numbers down in a little pocketbook. Then, he turns and sees Tom at last. His eyes go wide.

"Ah," he says. "Mister Hartnell."

Tom doesn't reply. Anything polite is caught in his throat. He only nods.

Weekes seems sheepish, apologetic. He fights for his words, but in the end only says, "A good evening to you," before walking by Tom.

Tom silently walks to John's side, looking his brother over now with new eyes. His height (for the coffin's length), his shoulders (for its width), his knees (tied together). But his eyes move restlessly under their lids, his cheeks are flushed, his fingers twitching as he dreams.

Then, he jerks away. He gasps, sputters, coughs. His glassy eyes cast about the sickbay until they catch on Tom's image, and immediately he settles.

"Tom," he croaks. Even sick as he is, he manages to smile. "S'dreamin' of 'alifax."

Tom forces a smile and pulls up his usual chair. He hasn't slept in two days, afraid of sleeping through what now seems inevitable. "Were you now?" he replies.

"Mm."

"Which part?"

John closes his eyes and grins. "You much for guessin'?"

"If it's what I think, then I'd rather not."

"Hah." He coughs out a laugh, and Tom tries his damnedest to ignore the rim of red on his bottom lip. "No. I was dreamin' about 'olystoning a bloody deck."

"You were dreaming about work?" Tom asks incredulously.

"Right?" John cracks an eye open. "I'm dyin' in a sickbay and that's what I dream about. S'awful."

Tom goes quiet then. John's never said anything about dying before. Up until now, it's been quiet reassurances that he'll make it through this again. As a veteran consumptive, he knows all the right strategies. He's made jokes about it.

John looks at him, his expression hard to read. If anything, he seems to try to read Tom's, searching his face for something. He clears his throat and looks away. "They plannin' anything for Christmas out there?" he asks.

It takes too long for Tom to comfortably respond. Eventually, "Yeah. Full-on feast or the like." He cringes, but manages to wrangle it into a weak smile. "Don't suppose there's a Goldner's Christmas Meal in one of those cans, d'you think?"

John laughs again, and it crackles in his throat. "I'd love to see it if there was."

"You will," Tom says. Maybe a bit too fiercely, too defensively. It takes him by surprise as much as it seems to take his brother. But he reiterates it, "You will."

"Sure, Tommy," John says. He nods, and a single drop of blood drips out of the corner of his mouth. He doesn't seem to notice. "I will."

---

By Christmas Eve, Mister Goodsir kindly tells Tom and Strickland that John's not doing well. It's soft sympathy, meant to cushion a blow that Tom's felt continually since November.

"He's not taken much by way of meals," Goodsir says. He fidgets with the cuffs of his shirt, apparently eager to do something with his hands. "I've managed with a little broth and some medicine, but he's gotten... Well, he doesn't seem particularly pleased with it."

He's gotten combative, Tom thinks. He's seen John's reactions lately, the way he strikes out at nothing, snarling at the ceiling like something there personally offends him. Tom can only imagine John trying to hit Goodsir as the man feeds him, like a temperamental, colicky child.

Strickland's hat is in his hands, and he's squeezing it so hard that Tom worries he'll crush it.

Goodsir goes on, saying they'll keep him comfortable, try to keep him fed, medicate him as needed.

Never once does he say John will get better.

---

They bury the stoker on New Year's. Tom doesn't see it—no one sees much of anything from the ships, as dark as it is. But he hears about it from Billy Orren.

That's how he learns about the open grave right next to the stoker's.

---

Tom sews a pillowcase. His hands are quick at this sort of work, learned from years of watching his mother and sisters, his aunts and cousins. He's always had a knack for sewing and mending, which is why some of the men on Erebus come to him for repairs. John was always—

John is good at it, too. Shoemaking and all.

He uses his fingertips to crimp the frills around the edges of the pillow, sewing them firmly into place. He's already got some cast-off rags and such to stuff it with, provided by some of the other Chatham boys who felt they needed to contribute somehow.

They've all been to see John—anyone who knew him in any capacity. Any man who didn't know him directly but who hailed from Kent and felt they needed to see their man off properly. Mister Armitage came the night before, offering his quiet condolences to a fellow St. Mary Magdalene congregant.

They paid their respects.

Tom swallows hard, blinks harder, and keeps sewing.

Then he pricks his finger with the needle, hissing at the contact. It stings, and he immediately sticks the tip of it in his mouth until he tastes copper. It seems to spread in his mouth, at the same time he notices the pin-sized droplet of blood on the pillow.

He stares at it for a long while as the bow of Erebus creaks and groans around him, as the sound of men enjoying the New Year carries down to his ears, as blood spreads across his tongue.

---

He doesn't want to remember this.

The high pitch in his ears, drowning out the ship, the Arctic, the world. His heart rampaging in his chest, throttling itself against his ribs like a prisoner. Tears ember-hot in his eyes.

No.

No, he doesn't want to remember this.

(He remembers it in sections now.)

The grief—

(John, still. Cold. Bloodless.)

Good God, the grief—

(Hands cold in Tom's. Unmoving. Callouses on his index fingers and thumbs from all those years of work.)

The way he cries out to nothing, to no one—

(Lips still, but slightly open. The barest shine of his teeth. Like he got caught on his last breath and forgot to shut his mouth after.)

The way his knees hit the floor—

(The blankets are damp with the sweat of a dead man.)

The way his whole body shudders, wracked with an animal noise—

(He can't look at his brother's face.)

And his forehead in his hands, like he's trying to hold himself together—

(Or the blood on his clothes.)

---

Tom shaves John's face. Orren trims his hair. Strickland cuts his fingernails. They wash him down, quietly trying to find something to joke about.

"God, remember when we were in Plymouth together?" Strickland says. His voice wobbles as though he's caught on a laugh and a sob. "That whole time he was trying to get Betsy off the breakwall. Like watchin' someone try to get a cat out of a tree."

Orren snorts and trims a piece of hair from behind John's left ear. "I heard about that," he replies. "The same time he fell in the water, yeah?"

"Absolutely," Strickland says.

"I'd have paid good money to see it," Orren goes on, brushing the hair off John's gansey. "This poor scrump absolutely soaked like a drowned rat."

It's easy to disguise a sniff as a laugh. "He's hardly a scrump, mate," Tom says.

"Eh, it kept him humble to say so."

They keep working in silence. Tom carefully shaves away the last of John's dark red stubble, the only part of him other than a smile that he shared with his brothers. He's clean-shaven save for some whiskers on his chin that he would no doubt be damned to see off.

Quietly, Strickland says, "I think he looks right proper, eh?"

Orren agrees. "Hardly a sailor no more. Looks more a'like one of those ponces in the high parish."

Tom silently agrees. Something about seeing John like this—shaven, trimmed up, relaxed—it almost doesn't look like him. For a moment, Tom thinks of what his brother would have been like if he'd been born anywhere else, to anyone else. If he'd just had more of a chance to be a child, to have a job he didn't hate and only find one he loved when it was far too late.

He hears Strickland sniffle beside him, and he wonders what he must be thinking. Of all their cousins, Strickland looked up to John the most. Proud to share a name with him, to sign his name alongside his, eager to follow him anywhere.

And now this.

Tom clears his throat. "He's to be buried in the morning," he says. "Sir John wants to say a few things then an' have a proper service."

"Feels wrong to just leave him tonight, though," Strickland replies quietly. "Should one of us stay?"

"No," says Tom. "I need— We need the rest, I think."

"Right," says Strickland at the same time Orren says, "Of course."

---

Fucking Christ, he doesn't want to remember this.

He sees his brother's chest open, blood bright on Goodsir's hands. He sees—

A heart.

His brother's heart.

Gore has to hold him back—

(Graham Gore, handsome and proud and practically glowing on the deck of the Volage. "You're a good man, Mister Hartnell," he'd once said.)

Restraining him by the chest, pinning his arms behind his back. Someone's hands are on Tom's shoulder, and someone else is yelling in his ear.

He feels delirious with it. The sight of Goodsir holding his brother's innards in his hands like he's simply been playing about in his chest. Oh, look what I've found, he imagines Goodsir saying. A liver. Ought we check if he drank overmuch?

Rage now.

(Not fear.)

Pure, bloody fucking rage.

(What could he be afraid of?)

He gnashes his teeth and wails. He snarls. He begs. He tries everything he can just short of clawing his way past all the men holding him back to shove the doctors and surgeons away and let his brother fucking be.

("They say men don't go to heaven if parts of them are amiss.")

Then he's on the floor, half-compressed under Gore's weight as he bodily holds him in place. "Hartnell, I know. I know," Gore says into his ear.

(Which Hartnell? he wants to snarl.)

"It has to be done. You know it does."

The person behind him hauls him back by the shoulders, and only then does Tom see that it's Armitage, his own eyes wide and face sickly-pale. He doesn't say a word to Tom, but Tom knows he's just as appalled. Only he's trying to keep Tom from getting a lashing or worse for acting out like this.

Tom moans in agony, the weight of this crushing him. He's steered away, the last sight of his brother open on the table like he's nothing more than a specimen to be studied.

Blood on the fucking linens.

---

Tom feels nothing on the day they bury John.

He's spent too much of himself. He feels like a candle guttering on its last supply of wax. Just smoke and air, now.

All he thinks to do is help cover John up a little more. His shirt, monogrammed, dated, wrapped around John like it'll keep him warm in the grave. That maybe something will change if he carries Tom's name on him to wherever it is he goes.

("They say men don't go to heaven—")

He doesn't hear Sir John's service, or the words of sympathy the officers give to Tom. He hears them say how John was a good man, and Tom wonders how they could possibly know that. How could men who scarcely leave their comfortable bedrooms and wardroom, who grew up in gilded halls with servants and cooks who made them wholesome meals that no one had to share—how could they know?

That's uncharitable. They're being kind.

But they don't know how this feels. The sensation of a heavy stone in his hand that he has to throw onto the navy-blue coffin lid, listening to the sharp tock as it makes contact, resounding in the half-filled hollow below.

He hopes to God they never have to bury one of their own.

---

Much happens after. Too much, too quickly. The world ends. A gun goes off.

Nothing happens at all. Not in this part of the world.

---

"Go be with your brother now."

---

John is carrying him back up the knoll. The air is summer-sweet, birds singing in the morning air. It rained last night, and John leaps over puddles while Tom shrieks in laughter.

They get to the hedgerow, still dripping with rain. John carefully lets Tom down and hands him the basket. "Remember to mind your fingers, Tommy," he tells him.

Tom eats more berries than he stores away. They stain his mouth and fingers again, and when he looks at his big brother, he giggles at the sight of berry stains on his face as well. They laugh together, their smiles identical.

When the basket is half-full, John pats Tom on the shoulder and motions for him to hop up on his back again. "Let's go home," he says.

#amc the terror #terror blogging #hartnell brothers #thomas hartnell #sorry this got SO LONG #big character study but also a study on love and brotherhood and grief and aughghhghh

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