#in my mind he has longish hair
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His name is Jean Moreau. I will not be able to draw his hair properly.
#monsieur#tes cheveux sont impossibles à dessiner#in my mind he has longish hair#like slightly past his ears#but it didn't look good#and I tried 5 versions#jean moreau#aftg#the sunshine court#usc exy trojans#aftg fanart
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has never went to oovoo javer
pairings ⇢ uber driver!hyuck x afab!reader
warnings ⇢ strangers???, protected sex (kinda), car sex, thigh riding, fingering, oral (m receiving/slight f receiving), voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation (f), mentions of being high, squirting, lip ring hyuck OFC, also big fat cock hyuck agenda, roleplay
word count ⇢ 4.1k
a/n ⇢ i dreamed this or something i swear, also thank u hua my bestie for letting me talk about this as always 🤭🤭
masterlist
you didn’t take uber’s often, usually opting for carpooling with friends or using public transport, but when you did you always got the same driver. he was pretty nice all of the times you met him, not bothering you with talking unless you started the conversation and even handing you candy after the third time you rode with him.
he was really attractive too, at least from the backseat and from his uber profile picture he seemed to update regularly. he had longish dark hair, plush rosy lips with a pretty silver lip ring, and he wore an insane amount of rings that suited him.
you always wondered if he had some sort of other job or if he was just an uber driver. he seemed like someone who would be in a band or work at a grocery store. there was noi-between. you were nosy but never wanted to pry since he was just your always uber driver.
today was different for you though you had left your friends late so you couldn’t take the bus and your friends were high just like you. so you got on your little uber app and waited to see who it was. it would almost be surprising if it wasn’t haechan, but his face popped up on the app and it made you a little giddy.
you could overthink and let your mind wander to why he was always picking you up and somehow always right around the corner but you didn’t. you liked seeing him with decorated fingers gripping the wheel while he played music you had said you liked.
so you bid your friends goodnight and hurried down the stairs to the front of the building. looking left and right to see if his familiar black suv was pulling up. you waited a minute rocking on your heels and shivering slightly when you finally saw him pulling up flipping his lights to get your attention. you scurry over to his car gripping the handle and sliding into the back seat and fixing your hair with your hands before looking up to see him staring back at you.
“hi,” you mumble, scanning his face to see his lip ring glinting in the car light.
“hi, pretty, how are you?” he responds, lips pulling into a slight smile. you don’t remember what ride he started calling you pretty on but it made you want to giggle and kick your feet.
“high and horny,” you blurt, making him throw his head back laughing. you cover your mouth quickly mortified at your confession. “fuck sorry.”
“you’re good, pretty, just don’t make a mess on my seats,” he winked before turning back around to face the front. you throw your head back to hit the headrest while heat floods your body. from both the embarrassment and the heat between your legs and his little comment didn’t help. you squeezed your legs together, the fabric of your dress riding up as you did.
the drive to your place was about 15 minutes and it was going to be complete and total torture but once you got home you could hole up in your room with a hand between your legs and release the pent-up feelings.
you had forgotten how getting high made your panties insanely wet and your body vibrate. but you remembered now staring at haechan who was tapping his ringed fingers on the steering wheel and letting his tongue swipe his lip before tugging on his lip ring with his teeth. you wondered how that would feel against your hot skin. the cool metal against your thighs while his head was between your legs teasing your cunt.
your legs pressed together again and gripped your knee with your hand. you didn’t realize a whimper had slipped out from your throat as your fingers drifted up your knee to raise the hem of your dress and make the skin of your thigh tingle.
you looked out the window hoping something could distract you from the ache between your legs and the hot guy in the front seat. you never felt his eyes floating to you through the rearview mirror, or the way he scanned you, watching the way your leg bounced and your dress rode up your soft thighs.
he could tell you weren’t being funny with your horny comment. you were on the edge of your seat needing to be touched. he wondered what you thought about maybe him touching you, fingers trailing over your skin making you twitch beneath him. now he was working himself up and letting his mind wander. he shook his head concentrating back on the road instead of your panties peeking out as the dress rose even more.
one little touch won’t hurt, right? just something to press against your pulsing core. you side-eye haechan to see him focusing on the road so you let your hand slide further up your leg. using your nondominant hand hopefully to deter you from flicking your wrist like you liked. each touch feels like something deeper and more intimate than normal, the slide of your fingers before they touch the fabric of your panties has your breath hitching.
the panties feel so soft and delicate and so damp and hot practically dripping in your arousal. your chest was almost heaving when you pressed your fingers against your center. you could feel your clit pulsing under your touch but the pressure of your digits wasn’t enough to relieve it.
haechan was still peeking back at you, gawking when your hand slipped between your legs as you leaned your forehead against the car window, your breath fogging the glass. he could feel his jeans growing tighter when you finally rocked your hips ever so slightly. he wanted to watch you, stare at you while you ground against your hand, but he was driving and he had to get you to your destination safely.
once you started moving you couldn’t stop yourself letting your hips do the work bucking perfectly against your fingers. the hot ache between your legs only felt like it was growing. chasing the relief you knew you would get when you just let yourself have it, legs shaking, the mind-numbing orgasm you craved. but you were in the back of haechan’s car so you stopped moving and huff against the window resting your forehead on the cool glass taking some of the heat from you.
taking a minute to breathe, moving your hand far away from between your legs you try to collect yourself. what the fuck were you doing? trying to get off in the back of an uber like a weird porn intro. then your mind started drifting to porn - no. focus. no dirty nasty porn brain.
“you good?” your eyes almost bulge out of your head. had he seen you? did he know you were getting freaky in his back seat?
“yeah just, yeah,” you mumble, still a little brain foggy. you look up to see him staring back at you in the rearview his eyes are darker but still as sweet as ever.
“your temp okay?” you nod knowing he can see you but still mutter a yes as your head lulls on the headrest.
“there’s a lot of traffic tonight, might take longer than normal,” he mentioned and you groan in response making him smirk to himself. it only made you want to cry. you can’t wait much longer you’re already trying to cum in the car and now there’s traffic. a cruel and unusual world to live in.
“it’ll be okay, baby, i’ll get you home safe,” he says, reaching his hand back to pat your knee. you felt like you were on fire from his pet name switching to baby and the skin-to-skin contact. you wanted him to slide his hand higher and touch you where you needed it.
you pout while you whimper mostly to yourself and grip the hem of your dress now suddenly aware of how it lays almost at your hip exposing so much skin. you don’t even recognize your hands lingering, smoothing over the fabric you relax into the feeling. closing your eyes leaning back and your hands move on their own.
it doesn’t even feel like your hands that are pulling your panties to the side letting the cool air hit your heat. your other hand finally making contact and making you sigh at the touch. your fingers swirling around your pulsing clit collecting the slick that's filled your panties. you can already feel yourself getting close, the touch finally providing what you need.
you don’t notice the boy in the driver's seat staring back at you through the mirror watching the way your face twists and mouth falls open as you flick your wrist. he’s almost drooling seeing your cunt glisten as you bring yourself closer. he watches closely but still flicks his eyes back to the road catching your hole flutter and begging to be filled.
he brings his hand to palm his jeans matching your timing, but he wants you. needs to feel you around him while he fills you up. he can only imagine the way you would wrap around him perfectly. but he can't, he really can't, you're his sweet little frequent rider who gives him the best reviews. but also you’re in his back seat cunt dripping onto his leather seats. what’s a man to do?
your hand isn’t enough so your hips start to buck against your fingers slipping and sliding against your clit and your hole. you want to slip your fingers inside and fill yourself but you need to be fast don’t savor the moment just get off.
suddenly you remember you aren’t so alone and you flutter your eyes open and see him staring back. it makes your breath hitch when you make eye contact through the mirror but you’re in too deep to stop. you almost want to go harder with how his dark eyes stare into you unapologetically looking down at your pussy.
“can you pull over,” you almost whimper and he looks back at you expression flipping between dark to concerned. wondering if you’re going to beat him up or if you want more like he does. but he doesn’t hesitate to go down a side road and find a parking lot for some privacy. he can see your fingers still moving in his peripheral vision.
when he finally pulls in and parks you waste no time unbuckling before leaning forward to tug his sweater and attach your lips to his. he doesn’t wait to reciprocate, pressing hungrily into you. his lips are just as soft as they looked at the cool metal of his piercing had your head spinning.
“is this okay?” you pull back breathing heavily and staring up at him.
“so much more than okay,” he responds, smirking over at you, and you smile back tugging his collar and making him scramble out of his seat clumsily crawling into the back with you making you laugh. you tug him to you again gripping the soft knit of his sweater as your lips find him again.
you push him to sit back but follow his lips keeping you attached to him before straddling his lap. the ripped denim covering his leg is pressing against your core and his hands are kneading your hips over your dress, but you want him closer. you grind into him and whimper into his mouth and his tongue chases your lips lapping up at them.
“more,” you whine and his hands grip your hips tighter, rocking you against his leg.
“so needy,” he breathes, sitting back to look at you with heavy eyes. your eyes are closed but you can feel him staring at you and each move you make. you lift the hem of your dress pulling it up to reveal your panties to him and the source of your moans.
he groans leaning forward to kiss your neck as his hands slide over your exposed flesh. fingers grazing under the waist of your panties, snapping them against your skin. his hands keep you from moving against him as fast as you want to and it’s frustrating but his tongue suckles your neck distracting you.
“slow down, pretty, let me make you feel good,” he whispers against your skin before blowing cool air against your neck, making you shiver.
“need more,” you whimper, but his hands slow you down before stopping you with a pout on your face. he smirks up at you before kissing your lips and turning to lay you back against the seat.
he presses against you, his body encompassing you and you feel him all around. one hand holding himself up on the seat and the other gripping your thigh fingers smoothing the skin as his lips desperately meet yours.
his lips mold to yours and you whimper against him opening your mouth to slip your tongue out sliding over his lips. he chases your tongue sucking it into his mouth. the sucking sounds filling his backseat as your saliva mixes and smears against your mouths. and you love it the messy and needy way he kisses you feels so raw and real.
your breathing is heavy in his mouth and so is his. he releases your lips letting his wet mouth roam down your face to your neck licking against the warm skin and your hands comb through his hair clinging to the strands. he's flipping your dress up again gripping higher on your thigh.
“touch me,” you whine, grabbing his wrist and moving it to graze your panties. you hear and feel him groan, vibrating against your neck making you shiver. he doesn’t hesitate to do what you say, gripping your panties and sliding them down before pulling away to fully remove them.
“fuck you’re soaked,” he moans lifting your soiled panties and swirling them around his finger to tease you.
“shut up,” you groan, covering your face with your hands but your lower half is still completely exposed to him.
“stop you’re fucking cute,” he pulls your hands away staring down at you. “can i keep these?” he smirks, nodding to the panties.
“only if you do something in the next 5 seconds,” you whine at him bucking your hips for something. he just coos down at you teasing your neediness, but he touches you, fingers pressing into your thighs dragging closer to your core. you don’t see him toss your panties into the front seat.
“you’re so fucking needy. can’t believe you were getting off in my backseat.” you mewl at his words you can’t deny it. “so fucking wet.” he whispers fingers touching your cunt and making you twitch. his fingers slide over you collecting the juices dripping out of you before bringing his fingers up in front of his face scissoring them curiously staring at the slick clinging to his digits and it only makes u more embarrassed.
“what’s got you shy? you weren’t shy earlier with your hand down your panties.” he teases before swirling his tongue around his fingers staring right at you while he does it. you try to avoid his eye contact as he tastes you on his digits.
“hmm? what is it, pretty?” you shake your head as he leans closer to you licking at your lips while his spit-covered fingers slip between you and find your core again. your mouth falls open when he uses a finger to fill you up. he watches you intently the way you try to close your mouth and bite your lip but he stops you licking over your mouth distracting you.
“don’t be quiet. let me hear you.” you nod harshly in response, moaning when his finger curls inside of you. you want more, you need more.
“more haechan, please,” you plead looking up at him and bucking your hips against him.
“huh? can't hear you.” you want to roll your eyes but you want him to fill you up more.
“more need more of you please.” you croak louder this time and he doesn’t waste time adding another finger making your legs tremble when his digits immediately curl inside of you. he leans back between your legs watching the way your cunt swallows his fingers. his hand that was holding him up is pressing your thigh backward showing you to him completely.
“so fucking pretty, take it so well yeah?” he coos staring down at you watching the way your mouth is open and fingers slide over your lips. his fingers are moving skillfully inside of you and his thumb swirls over your clit.
“is good. so good,” you manage breath caught in your throat you haven’t felt so good in so long. the pleasure taking over and swirling in your stomach tightening with each thrust.
“yeah, pretty? gonna cum huh?” his words make you cry so close to the edge. “tell me.”
“so close.” you whimper, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him to you. he’s sucking your neck instantly, keeping his hand thrusting into you.
“cum, pretty girl,” he says, and you can’t stop letting the knot in your stomach release as you do. arching into him as he works you through it, releasing on his hand and the seat beneath you. your legs close around him but he doesn’t stop until you're pulling on the hair at his nape.
he pulls away looking down between you dipping his fingers into the mess you made.
“you’re a squirter? cute,” you shake your head and want to melt into the seat. since when are you a squirter? “liar, you made such a mess.” he teases before leaning down to lick over your cunt.
“nuhuh, so much,” you whine, pushing his head away but he just smirks up at you, swirling his tongue lower to collect you on his tongue.
“you just taste so fucking good.”
“wanna taste you,” you say boldly leaning up and catching him off guard. your hands find their way to his belt fiddling with the leather.
“want to be inside you.” he counters, staring back at you gripping your wrist.
“please just-“ he cuts you off with a kiss and releases your wrist letting you unbuckle his belt and quickly tug his zipper. his lips are distracting you but you try to push him backwards to give you room to settle between his legs.
you take his clothed length in your hands and leave wet opened mouth kisses while looking at him to see his reactions. he’s staring down at you, one hand laying over his stomach and the other resting on his thigh. you sit back on your heels pulling his waistband down to let his cock slap against his stomach.
you don’t waste time leaning back down to take him in your mouth. he’s hot and heavy on your tongue and it makes you squeeze your legs together at the idea of him inside of you. you swirl your tongue and take the rest of him in your hands pumping his length.
“so pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he whispers, fingers pushing your hair out of your face mainly to see your eyes while you swallow around him. you push your head down to take even more of him hearing him groan and his fingers curl into your scalp.
“take me so well,” he moans, legs shaking beside your head when you moan around him. you want him to fuck your face but you decide not to ask maybe that’s too much for the back seat with your uber driver.
“fuck fuck fuck,” he says trying to push you off of him. you release him with a pop smiling up at him spit sliding down your chin.
“what?” you giggle at him using the back of your hand to swipe at the saliva.
“you’re a fucking minx,” he grins back before dragging you to him to kiss you again. he brings you close to him pulling you onto his lap you whine when you feel his cock against your folds.
“do you have protection?” he asks looking over at you.
“i’m clean but i have some,” you lean back, grabbing your long-forgotten bag.
“i’m clean too but,” he trails off when you lift the packet and tear it open. hurriedly you take it out and slide it down his length making him sigh.
“just fuck my brains out please,” you look at him with doe eyes before kissing him and lifting over his length before pressing it to your hole. you moan in unison as you sink down onto him, filling you up.
“so fucking tight,” he groans as his fingers dig into the skin of your hips. you’re speechless you feel so full and overwhelmed you can barely move just have him inside of you.
“you good?” he asks, grabbing your cheeks to look at him and you nod. “tell me.” he doesn’t demand this time asking softly for you to tell him how you feel.
“so good i can’t think. ‘m so full,” you whimper, falling into his chest and you can almost tell he’s smiling when he soothes over your back and coos at you.
“poor baby,” he coos, thrusting into you. “too much?” you whine and he bucks again. “can't take my fat cock can you?” you shake your head and he thrusts with each word punctuating it.
“ha- chan,” you mewl, lips pressing into his neck. he reaches around you holding you up as he lays you back again. his hair falls in his face as he leans over you thrusting into you deeply. he keeps his pace slow but steady, not letting you miss a single drag of his cock inside of you.
he kisses the side of your open mouth before sitting up between you moving his hands to press your thighs against your chest. he stared down at the way your cunt swallows his length with each thrust completely sucking him in.
“take me so fucking well,” he groans and you feel tears slipping down your face. “letting your little uber driver fuck you such a dirty whore.”
“hyuck,” you whine, slipping from the space.
“who?” he stops his movements staring down at you. you can see he’s trying not to break but his teasing eyes almost give him away.
“haechan, harder,” you whisper, he grins at you following your instructions. deepening each stroke and pushing you into the seat.
“like that, baby?” you nod sloppily and feel the familiar feeling coming back, the sweet release so close you can almost taste it. haechan notices bringing his finger to swirl around your clit.
“pretty baby, gonna cum on my cock?” he moans looking down at you.
“so close,” you whimper back, gripping his arm tighter. he moves his arm from your grasp to lock your fingers together as he plunges into you.
“gonna let your uber driver fuck you and have you a dirty mess in his backseat, huh? little slutty thing just fucking anyone.” his filthy words are all it takes to have you clenching tightly around him mumbling incoherently as you cum. he groans at the way your pussy squeezes around him and grips him so tight.
“cum on me,” you whisper to him, head still full of pleasure but you know he’s close to his own.
“so nasty.” he groans, his hand still holding yours and the other still grips your thigh, bruising the supple flesh. you slip your hand between you pulling the condom off in one motion just as he releases, coating your messy cunt with hot white cum. “fuck.”
he slides his cock against your cunt smearing his cum and letting it mix with yours as you both catch your breath. you look down between your legs watching him grinding his cock against your clit seeing the mess you’d made.
“you’re such a freak.” he chuckles looking up at you, catching you staring.
“shut up,” you whine trying to cover your face again but he doesn’t let you. gripping your wrists and kissing you tenderly.
“we gotta divulge in your little kinks more often baby. you’re so filthy.” you want to look away because it feels like he’s staring through you.
“you’re still my uber driver, remember?” you tease him.
“oh sorry miss, we’re definitely going to have a late arrival.”
“hyuck,” you whine trying to push him away.
“you slipped with that earlier baby, so cute.” he teases again, reaching over to the glove box to grab some napkins.
“it’s hard not calling you that. you’re my hyuck,” you pout at him.
“i know and you’re my filthy slutty whorish girlfriend,” he grins mischievously, but still diligently cleaning you both up.
“and so are you.”
“i’m keeping the panties by the way.”
“like you haven’t already stolen 10 other pairs.” you roll your eyes playfully.
“it’s because i’m disgustingly obsessed with you.”
©️ tddyhyck
#haechan smut#haechan x you#haechan x reader#nct dream smut#nct smut#nct dream x reader#nct 127 smut#haechan x y/n#haechan hard thoughts#haechan hard hours#donghyuck x reader#donghyuck smut
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Tangerines
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader
Summary: Eddie can’t get enough of how good the reader tastes.
Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), oral (f receiving), fingering, slight dirty talk, spanking, hair pulling, use of pet names, overstimulation, squirting
WC: 923
(just a longish eddie blurb that i wrote last night, enjoy!)
Remember to reblog and support the author!
The slurping sounds of Eddie sucking your swollen clit between his plump lips echoed off his bedroom walls. For hours he has been eating you out, making you cum over and over again. He was like a starved man needing to satisfy his hunger.
You were overstimulated, sore, and a sweaty mess, but god, that didn’t stop you from craving more. Your makeup is a mess, mascara running down your face, and your lipstick smeared.
“E-Eddie- oh!” You placed a hand on the wall above you, trying to sturdy yourself as Eddie had you sit on his face. Your shaky thighs were pressed against his head, leaving him nowhere to go, though he didn’t mind at all.
“Right there,” your other hand grabbed his hair, “right fucking there.”
Eddie gripped the supple skin of your ass, trying to push his face deeper into your pussy. Your taste flooded his tongue, his face soaked with your past orgasms. He was savoring every moment he had you like this.
“I can’t get enough,” his voice was muffled. He was practically suffocating himself in your pussy. “I want more- need more of you.”
You felt his tongue slide inside you, reaching deeper than you knew a tongue could. Instinctively, you rocked your hips back and forth, riding his thick tongue. “Oh my god- Eddie! Feels so fucking good.”
Eddie moaned against you, the taste of you enough to have his cock twitching in his pants. He was leaking precum could, he could feel the wet spot form in his pants, but he didn’t care at all. His main focus was you, tasting you.
He was painfully hard, and needed to cum, but not until he was satisfied that you had enough, not until you had cum so many times on his tongue that you couldn’t anymore.
His nose nudged at your clit while his tongue expertly swirled inside you. You saw stars behind your eyelids, and your skin felt as if it was on fire from how close cumming to again.
Eddie swatted your ass, feeling it jiggle under his rough hand. You let out a choked gasp from the pleasurable sting and pulled on his hair harder. He groaned against you, the vibrations sending a shock through your body.
“Fuck!” You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “I’m so close, please…”
He pulled away for a moment, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. “You sure you can handle another one, sweetheart?” His thumb swiped over your clit, and you jumped at the touch. “I know I want more, but what about you?”
You nodded repeatedly, trying to find the words to tell him just how badly you needed it.
Before you knew it, Eddie had the two of you flipped over. You were now on your back, your legs bent towards your chest.
“I need your words.”
You spread your legs further apart for him, a silent beg for him to keep going. “Yes, just- please! I need more! I’ll take whatever you give to give to me. You know I will.”
Gently, he kissed up your thighs, stopping to blow cold air against your exposed pussy. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”
His eyes were dark, but glazed over from being so drunk on your pussy, his lips swollen, and his chin glistening from how sopping wet you were as you watched him plan what to do next. Your heart was thumping in your chest, and your face became red under his gaze.
“I wanna hear you say you’re mine,” his thumb circled your clit, barely making any contact.
“I-I’m yours, Eddie.” You bit at your lip, watching him drink every bit of your body in. “All yours.”
Your words soaked into Eddie as he licked a stripe over your slit, slowly spreading your lips with your thumbs. He spits on your pussy before he went back to devouring it.
“Shit!” Your back arched off the bed, and you looked down, making eye contact with him as his tongue dove back into you. “You’re so fucking good to me.”
Eddie shook his head back and forth, making sure his nose was still nudging at your clit in time with the thrusts of his tongue.
Your chest started to heaven with each breath you took, and you knew you were about to cum. You could feel it in the curl of your toes and the hairs standing up all over your body.
Eddie knew it was coming too, he could feel it in the way you clenched around his tongue.
He pulled out his tongue and replaced that empty feeling with his fingers, curling them up. “C’mon, baby, just one more.”
You could hear yourself gush around the three fingers that were inside you. “Yes, yes, yes!” You couldn’t manage to say anything else, words suddenly escaping you.”
“That’s fucking it, sweetheart. Keep coming for me.” Eddie took his other hand and rubbed harsh and fast circles against your clit.
Your orgasm felt never-ending, dripping out of you and making the mattress more of a mess than it was before. You couldn’t take it anymore.
Eddie noticed just how spent you were, pulling his dripping fingers out of you.
You whined at the sudden feeling of being emptied and not touched.
Your eyes focused on Eddie as he brought his fingers up to his mouth, licking them clean and moaning when your taste hit his tongue for what might be the millionth time tonight. “Mmm, juicy and sweet. Just like tangerines.”
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Just imagining what it would be like for you and Eddie to both drunk and looking for each other. You don't realize you've been talking to one another the whole time.
Steve's party had been going on now practically all night. You and Eddie arrived hours ago, and now you can't seem to find each other. He went off with his friends, and so did you. You mingled and stayed close together when you first got there. But soon, you unintentionally drifted away the drunker you got.
Your face was tingling, and your head felt so heavy. Your whole body just wasn't corporating. Your limbs felt like they were in a constant battle to keep you standing or even walking straight. You kept calling out for Eddie.
You wanted to go home but knew he wasn't driving. Not in the condition he was probably in. He got drunk way before you did. You saw him throwing back shot after shot. Then chasing it down with his favorite beer, a pbr. The thought of the taste is already making you gag. He was a lightweight no matter how much he tried arguing against it.
You were stumbling and kept calling for your boyfriend. "Eddie!"
You even grabbed some random dude just because he had longish hair. He was definitely not your Eddie. You made a face of diagust and mumbled "ew" under your breath when the guy turned around.
The party kept getting louder the drunker you became. Everyone kinda started looking a like. Your vision was nothing but a blur. You even confused Nancy for Steve at one point. All because she had on his jacket.
The funny thing is that she never even bothered to correct you. If it wasn't for Robin speaking up to tell you, it was actually Nancy you were talking to. You would still be calling her Steve the rest of the time.
The killer hangover you're destined to have in the morning made you wish you never started drinking tonight. Too late. You knew you were screwed by the fifth shot of tequila. You and Eddie were going to be in misery.
You stumble again and flop down on the couch next to someone. A man who you really can't even focus on any distinctive features. He's just there slumped back with his legs spread open holding a candle that he assumed was his beer can.
You may be drunk off your ass but not drunk enough to mistake a candle for a can of beer. You look over, and he's nothing but a blurry figure to you. You blink and blink, trying to figure out who he is. Your drunkened mind comes up with nothing. He is another stranger to you. Little did you know that's actually your boyfriend. Who you have been on the hunt for all night long.
You heard him mumbling something in coherent over and over again.
"What you say?" You slurred.
He burped before repeating. "I said you have seen my girlfriend? She's cute. You can't miss her."
"Oh no havent seen her...m'lookin for my boyfriend actually. He's a nerd you can't miss'em" you giggled and sat up a little.
"Haven't seen any nerds around." Eddie quipped and went to take a drink from the candle.
He made a face when nothing went into his mouth. He still has yet to notice his actual beer is on the table.
"Been lookin' for her all night. I even cried at the beer keg." He sounded like he was about to cry again. "Guys out there forced me to come sit down to calm myself."
You put your hand on his shoulder to comfort him. He sounded so sad you couldn't help but feel bad for him. "She's around here somewhere."
"My boyfriend is missing too, startin' to think he's in a bush passed out." You rubbed your eyes and laid back against the couch.
Eddie snorts and goes in his pocket to grab his pack of cigarettes.
"All I know is when I find that little shit I can pass out in peace." He slurred and practically ripped open his pack of cigarettes to get one out.
"Yeah, me too-- When I find my boyfriend, I'm passing out too." You hiccuped, and your eyes slowly got heavier. The party started to die down a lot. People were falling asleep or walking home.
"When you'd get here?" Eddie turned to face you. "Been lookin' for you all night!"
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#joseph quinn#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson concept#eddie munson x reader fluff#eddie munson x blurb
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Since I see Darlin’ as having longish shaggy hair, my hc is that Sam always has a hair tie. (Get y’all’s minds out of the gutter. I mean for things like cooking or it gets too hot on their neck.) I see you. 👁️——👁️
Sam definitely has a first aid kit in his truck.
Milo found an old photo of Darlin’ in his mom’s house and showed it to Sam, who proceeded to ask if he could keep it and it’s in his wallet.
Angel silently comforted David when he got home from the police station after Quinn told Sam everything. He felt raw and conflicted. He was beyond pissed at Quinn, he was distraught about everything his pack member went through, and he was both at how little he could do for them.
When Darlin’ learned what Sam’s favorite food used to be, they would make it to make the house smell like it knowing Sam would love it.
The Mates and Darlin’ (eventually) go out for drinks, dinner, or shopping every now and then. Asher likes to tag along sometimes.
Vincent likes to hustle people at anything. Sam will get in on it if they play pool.
Sam had never been beaten at pool until he went with the pack and played Sweetheart.
Sam likes to kiss Darlin’ nose.
#asmr roleplay#redacted asmr#redacted audio#redactedverse#redacted listener#headcanon#redacted sam#redacted david shaw#redacted asher#redacted milo#redacted darlin'#redaced sam#redacted baabe#redacted angel#redacted sweetheart#redacted quinn
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I’m On Fire, But I’m Trying Not to Show It || Chapter Five
Pairing: Angus Tully x fem!reader
a/n: Omg… I survived finals and all those unit exams. So here is chapter five after a long wait lol. It’s also a longish chapter because you guys are nice and deserve it.
Word Count: ~6.2k
Find: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Enjoy!
Day Eight - Christmas Day, 1970
Angus had retreated to the auditorium once again. He supposed he did so because it reminded him of simpler times. Like when he was nine and his biggest worry was if he would mess up on the sonata he was playing in front of his piano teacher. All because he could feel you in the other room, waiting for him to be done.
He was playing aimlessly and with no particular tune in mind. He just let his fingers glide wherever he felt like. It felt different to be there during the daylight, almost illegal. When he heard the creak of the auditorium doors, he had thought he had been caught. But it was just you, carrying that lavender plant you seemed to be so fond of. You held your potted plant close to your chest and walked up to the stage. He stopped playing to watch you and smiled a little at the sight.
“I kept my promise,” you show off the plant you had improvised decorations with. Little ribbons used for your hair are used as tinsel. There are small pieces of balled up color paper with a paperclip through them that work as ornaments. He could tell you tried not to be overzealous, trying to keep the plant from collapsing from the weight. You place the lavender on the piano and take a seat next to him.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” he says back.
You sigh, “Weird party.”
“Yeah. Very weird.”
“I hope Marys alright.”
“Me too,” he sniffs.
He sees you pause to fix your hair. It sits unruly on you, and he can tell you just rolled out of bed. You still look beautiful.
“Um. You never answered my question. Last night…”
He stiffens, “Oh well. You didn’t either.”
You pressed your lips together, “So did you?”
“Did I what?”
You roll your eyes, “Did you feel, I don't know… Did you care? About Joseph?”
Now it's his turn to roll his eyes, “I don’t care about Joseph.”
“Okay. Fine. Then did you care about seeing me with him.”
Angus swallows thickly. He tries to find that sudden rush he felt during the party. The rush that had him so close to just reaching out to hold your cheeks in his hands and collide your lips into his.
He finds the rush in the way you squeeze his hand, encouraging him to continue.
“Yeah, I was jealous,” he prays you won't rip your hand away from his. “Because I care about everything you do.”
You smile and almost look pleased. “I was… a bit too,” you admit, avoiding the word and tugging at the sleeves of your sweater.
Because you think of me that way too, because you think of me that way too, Angus chants in his head like a mantra.
“Because we’re friends?” You cross your arms and hug yourself tightly, gazing up at him through your lashes.
He thinks now that the rush must have been beaten into silence because his mouth stays close, unable to argue back.
“Yeah. ‘Cause we’re friends,” he nods affirmatively, although he has to pinch the side of his thigh to stop himself from crying. He drowns out the ache in his chest and turns into a physical manifestation. There are glass marbles running wild in his head, and they crash against it like a steel floor. They shatter into little bits and prick his mind, berating him for being so stupid, for falling into Elises false optimism, and believing for a second that anything he ever felt would be reciprocated.
A small sigh slips past your lips and Angus suspects it must have been out of relief. He pinches himself harder.
“It all felt like deja vu don’t you think?”
“Hmm?” An odd sound emerges from his throat.
“You and me, begging one another to not be replaced. We’re still the same as when we were fourteen.”
Still the same as we were. The words echoed around, bouncing off the walls of Barton. He can settle with being friends for the rest of his life, as long as it meant he kept having you. If he had to watch you be with someone else, he would suck it up. Like sinking his teeth into a slice of lime without wincing.
He would be fine with you treating him like a wildflower in your garden. He would come around each year, and grow over your tulips, competing for your attention. Practically shouting at you to deal with him. He could wither but come back year-round when you needed him the most. You could harvest him, prune him, press his petals against pages.
The point is you would need him as much as he needs you. …
Paul Huham woke up sick, but not in the way he had expected. He had expected a grinding headache and incredible vertigo. And after five glasses of Jim Beams, he also expected to slip on the ice of the sidewalk as he led Mary to the Nova last night. But he supposed that by now he must have built some sort of tolerance towards it.
Instead, this morning he felt void. He was completely depleted and unable to take his mind off what Miss Crane had said to him at the Christmas party. Mary’s words had definitely brought him back to earth. And although the night had ended… oddly, he still realized that what the two women had said was right.
Angus and Y/n were just kids. Nearly adults in terms of age sure, but still immature and sharing the behavior of one, nonetheless. Miss L/n undoubtedly seemed to deserve a proper celebration. It would be as a thank you of sorts for her ability to rein Mr. Tully in. And Angus Tully needed a moment of distraction from the treacheries of the holiday season. Paul could certainly relate to that.
So, with a groan, he got out of bed. He walked quickly to the bathroom to get his feet off the cold floor and get changed. Afterwards, he went to check in on them in their room.
He saw Y/n buried underneath two blankets. He could barely see her face and it was almost like she was entangled in her own cocoon. Angus however, laid crookedly and clutching a pillow close to his chest, his blanket discarded to the side. There were open drawers, littered pieces of trash on the floor and clothes on the ground. He really ought to remind you both to clean your room.
But confirming you two were asleep, Paul was able to begin the laborious process of getting the ice off his windshield. He then drives into town with the stereo off. He had heard enough Christmas music yesterday and didn’t feel like having jingle-bells grilled into his ear. He slows down as he nears the tree farm. It is empty compared to how it had been mid-November. Vividly he had remembered seeing the town families gathering around and choosing their tree. Kids roamed around as parents debated which trunk smelled the freshest. With the same level of enthusiasm those mothers and fathers had, we trudged up to the nearest worker.
“Merry Christmas,” he smiles awkwardly.
“Merry Christmas. What can I do for you, chief?”
“I’m looking for a tree.”
“Well, you came to the right place. Big fire sale on all remaining inventory.”
Paul hums and tries to find the least scrawny looking pine tree in the lot. He ends up purchasing
one that isn’t nearly as grand as the one Barton had in the dining hall. He then straps it to the top of his car's roof and drives back to the school.
“Mr. Tully, Ms. L/n,” he greets slightly energized by the morning air. He stops abruptly at the sight of the empty beds. There is still a visible dent from where the two had slept. Puzzled, he whirls around the room like they may appear out of thin air. He checks the other vacant rooms shouting out their names.
He stumbles his way into the kitchen where Mary is still in her pajamas, a piece of toast in one hand and a spatula in the other.
“Good morning.”
“Merry Christmas,” she corrects.
“Yeah. Merry Christmas, of course,” he lowers his voice, “How are you?”
“Well, I've got a case of the cocktail flu.”
“Uh, have you seen the kids?” he says with a bit of worry.
“Mm-mm,” she shakes her head and returns her attention to grilling the bacon.
Paul drops his head, “Goddammit, where the hell can they be?”
Hunham takes the search outside, yelling out to the campus quad that has been covered in white. He trudges to the school's theater wing, where he scampers up the stairs.
“Mr. Tully? Ms. L/n?” he pants as he reaches another floor level. He stops momentarily to listen to the music coming from the auditorium and follows the sounds. He had no idea they could do that.
He makes his presence known by slamming the door behind him shut. The piano stops and you both whirl around.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” the two say in unison.
“Where the hell have you two been?”
“I don’t know. Just here,” Angus says.
“Come on. I have something to show you both.” …
You hold Angus' hand as you make your way back to the dining hall. His hands feel clammy. A little shaky too. Although yours weren’t any different. You felt like a ghost floating outside your own body.
When you had asked him the question, you had huddled into yourself. It was the closest thing to holding a shield over your heart. In your head you had thought that if you could just reach out and place your hand against his chest, then you wouldn’t have to ask anything at all. You would just be able to tell by the rhythm of his own thumping heart. You had prayed that he would argue against you. That he would say, ‘No. Not just because we’re friends.” But he hadn’t and now you know never to trust the words of a random man at a party.
But if you were reduced to that status for eternity, you supposed you would be able endure it. Truth was that you felt you felt greedy in ever wishing more from him. He could have brushed you off, labeled you as a snob and never have jumped into the ice-cold pool when you were seven. Yet, he hadn’t and to that you owed him.
Because you think that if he had never spoken to you, you would have spent your entire life watching things from a distance.
When you arrived at the mess hall, Mr. Hunham asked you two to wait before bringing out an irked Mary. She took a seat nearby as Hunham presented you with the bare tree and a few wrapped gifts underneath.
“No ornaments?” Angus frowns, unimpressed.
“Ornaments would diminish the Charlie Brown-esque of it,” you say. “All we really need is one giant red sphere.”
“Oh, I’m sure we can round up some ornaments somewhere,” Mr. Hunham pipes in and picks up one of the gifts, “Uh now… this is for you two.”
He hands you and Angus a rectangular package with a neat bow tied to keep it closed. You’re too surprised to open it but do so after you see Angus shift beside you.
Underneath your fingertips you hold, what you always believed, to be the holy grail of gifts. A book!
“Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. For my money, it’s like the Bible, the Koran and the Bhagavad Gita all rolled up into one. And the best part is not one mention of God!”
“Hmm,” Mary grunts in disapproval.
“Okay. Thanks,” Angus nods.
“Thank you, Mr. Hunham. This is really, really, nice,” you rush to hug him, forgetting you’re supposed to be treating the man like a superior. He doesn’t push you away though, he awkwardly pats your back instead, his other arm hanging out weirdly.
He clears his throat, “Well… I know how much of a voracious reader you are. It’s a rarity that must be preserved.”
“Thank you. I love it,” you hold the book close. You sway a little like you would when you are holding a baby.
“And this is for you,” Hunham returns to passing out the presents.
Mary eyes him suspiciously and unwraps it with ease. It’s another copy of “Meditations.”
“So you just give this to everybody?” She chides.
“And,” Mr. Hunham holds out a bottle of whiskey, smiling.
Mary grins back, “Aw. How did you guess?”
“How indeed,” he laughs. He holds up his finger momentarily, signaling you two to wait. “Also, this came in the mail for you,” Hunham hands Angus an envelope. You watch as he sits down and opens it quickly. The green card is shiny and stuffed with cash. Inside is one of those pre-written messages concocted by marketing companies. The only sign of a personal touch is the scribbled note that reads, ‘Love, Mom and Stanley.’
“Oh, that's nice,” you shrug shyly when Angus turns to gauge your reaction.
“Mary, may I help you with breakfast?” Hunham interrupts the sulking.
She nods, “Yes. Please. Angus, Y/n, clear the table.”
“Okay,” you pick up your abandoned lavender and place it next to the much taller pine. “Look, it's us.”
You snicker quietly, pleased at your own joke. Angus continues to stare down at the table.
You sigh and approach him, “Angus. Are we okay?”
His eyes snap to yours, “Yeah. Of course. It just…”
“It's just what?”
“I-, I didn’t get you anything.”
You exhale shakily. For a second you’d thought you had screwed everything up and he was ready to ignore you and forget of your existence.
You lean over and squeeze his hand, “It's okay. Your presence is worth more than a thousand jewels.”
“Cheesy,” he snorts. The first genuine reaction you'd gotten out of him all day.
“Thank you!” You squeak and tug at a loose piece of his curls. …
It's a group effort to get dinner on the table before midnight. Angus begrudgingly agrees to help you with the vegetables while Hunham and Mary handle the more serious stuff. You are still not to be trusted with anything besides a peeler.
You're scraping the final bits off your plate as Angus wipes his mouth with his napkin.
“Thank you, Mary. That was just lovely,” Hunham gleams.
“Wow, is that an actual compliment?”
“Oh, come on,” Hunham waves off.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a real family Christmas like this before,” Angus recalls, “Christmas dinner, I mean- family style. Out of the oven, all the trimmings. We always leached off of Y/n’s family.”
“Yeah. From Delmonico’s. Fresh from their stoves to ours,” you scoff at the memories of you tipping the delivery driver through the kitchen window so they could remain unseen by guests.
“Well, she’s got the right idea. Next year I’m ordering in from Delmonico’s,” Mary teases.
“Anyway. Thank you, Mary,” Angus says seriously.
“You’re welcome.” She winks at him and smiles.
Mr. Hunham raises his mug, encouraging you all to follow suit.
“I’d like to propose a toast. To my three unlikely companions on this snowy island. And to our absent friends and family,” the glass wavers in your hand, “And I realize that none of us are here because he wants to be, so if there’s any way that I can make the holidays a little cheerier for any of you, just say the word.”
You perk up immediately, hands slamming down on the table and almost shaking your fork off the table, “We want to go to Boston.”
“Boston. Why?” Hunham stares appalled.
Angus catches on and nods his head enthusiastically, “Why not? We want a real Christmas. We want to go ice skating. And I want to see a real Christmas tree with ornaments, not that stupid thing.”
“You said it was nice,” Mr. Hunham says, offended.
“It is nice,” Mary reassures.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here. We want a real holiday,” Angus slithers his hand into yours.
“Well, we’re not going to Boston. It’s out of the question.”
“There's plenty of intellectual-like things there too! We could go to museums or visit statues. Or even go inside Paul Revere's house! Did you know they had that there?”
“Come on Paul, you just told them ‘anything.’ So, take the kids to Boston,” Mary vouches.
“Mary, we’re not allowed to leave campus or the immediate environs,” he insists.
Angus' arm flops down and the grip he had on your hand is loosened. You’re about ready to beg the history teacher to reconsider, and that you’ll stay behind and keep clean every inch of Barton as long as he agrees to take Angus. He must have noticed the flame he blew out from your metaphorical birthday candles as he drops his shoulders.
“But I suppose we could call it a field trip. A field trip would fall under the ambit of additional academic pursuits. There’s even a fund set aside for additional academic pursuits,” he mutters like it's a secret.
“I’ll go pack,” Angus rises, a grin on his lips as he sprints off to the infirmary.
You get up and move behind Mr. Hunham to hug his shoulders and then run to Mary to give her an equal tight squeeze.
She pats your arms, and says, “Alright now. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me! I mean I’ve-, I have always gotten chocolates for Christmas. Pass the age of twelve anyway. But my mom orders them from Stockholm and they’re great, they’re delicious, but even though I ask for a two-dollar book… I always get these ridiculously expensive chocolates. Yet tonight, I didn’t even have to ask-, for the book, umm, I-,” you flail your arms around, stumbling over your words.
“You didn’t have to ask us to not order the overpriced chocolates from Europe?”
“Yeah,” you tug at your earlobe. “So thank you. For not force feeding me copious amounts of sugar and cacao.”
Mr. Hunham smooths out his shirt and swiftly wipes underneath his eyes, “Well… I hear shipping costs are rather high nowadays.”
Day Nine - December 26th, 1970
The entirety of Massachusetts looks as idyllic as a postcard. The colonial houses and snow-covered lawns were so Norman Rockwell that you felt sickly sweet. You had attempted at first, to get the stubborn radio to turn on to no avail. After a while you all managed to chat amongst yourselves about local news. Not that you had any recent access to that information to be able to understand it all. Mr. Hunham had his own fun informing you all about the origins of Christmas traditions. Like how popcorn garlands could be traced down to some colonists in Virginia.
The talking had dwelled down as you reached Roxbury. You had been disappointed that Mary wouldn't be tagging along to Boston, but you knew her going to her sister’s meant more than you could understand.
“Here we are,” Mary sighs as the car stops in front of a large apartment building.
“Boy, that's an awful lot of stairs,” Mr. Hunham comments.
“And probably icey too.”
“Mhm.”
Although you understand the hints, you're not so sure Angus is. You kick his heel to break through whatever trance he is in.
“Mr. Tully?” Hunham calls.
His eyes widened, “Right… Mary, can I help with your bags?”
“Yes please.”
Angus is handed the keys to open the trunk. He gets out and collects a suitcase and a round little box and goes across the street.
“Hey, be careful with the box,” Mary orders from the open car window.
“I’ll help too!” You smile.
“No, that's okay sweetheart. Let him be gentlemanly.”
“I really just want to stretch my legs.”
“You can go,” Hunham says, “don’t wander far.”
“Thank you,” you say.
Mr. Hunham watches you jog across the street and stop at the bottom of the stairs to look up at Angus. He turns towards Mary, “You know you’re more than welcome to a room at the hotel. We’ve got the money.”
“Are you out of your mind? I need a break from you and Angus and all your damn bickering. Besides, I'm looking forward to visiting my little sister. She’s pregnant.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” He cheers and takes Mary’s hand and squeezes it. She scrunches her nose.
“Mr. Hunham. Mr. Hunham!” She pulls away and cradles her hand like it's been broken.
“Oh, I’m sorry. My hands sweat. It’s hyperhidrosis. Sorry.”
You bounce back to the car, crouching down slightly to speak to Mary, “Angus is asking how far to go.”
The two adults peer through the car windshield to spot the boy, “One more flight up!” Mary instructs.
You go back to observing him like a guard dog, one hand on your waist and the other over your eyes to block out the sun. You hear Mary get out of the Nova and wave up at her sister and who you presume to be her husband.
“Mary!”
“Hi!” she shouts back.
You pout as she approaches you, “Bye Mary.”
“Aww,” she pinches your cheek briefly. You don’t have enough time to appreciate the touch. “Don’t be so moody. I’ll see you soon. And look at the bright side. You get a hotel room all to yourself.”
“I’m going to feel all vacant in there.”
“Just do me a favor.”
“Yes?”
“Eat all the fancy snacks in the hotel mini fridge for me.”
“I’ll stuff them in my suitcase for you,” you promise.
“Thank you,” she tucks your hair back to protect it from the harsh breeze tangling it out everywhere.
Angus’s footsteps are loud as he practically skips over to you two. He loops his arm around yours and tries to drag you away, “Bye Mary!”
“Uh-uh. Where are you going?”
“I was just-,” Angus babbles.
“You’re not done yet. You have to help me up there.”
“Yeah, sure thing,” he relents, letting go of you and switching over to Mary.
You whirl around and head back to the car. You wish you could continue glancing at him, and the way the sun peeks through his hair and makes it appear browner than usual. But it's only so long until it begins to get creepy. Only so long until it is noticeable that you’re not admiring him as just a friend.
…
You settle in at the Sheraton Commander. It's a nice hotel with chandeliers in the lobby. Everyone around you looks like businessmen in a hurry or professors with a lecture to attend. Your room is right across from Mr. Hunham and Angus, and already you feel lonely at hearing their squabble across the hall.
You had kicked your suitcase underneath your bed and then went to knock at their door.
Mr. Hunham answers, “Ah, Miss L/n. Good. We were just discussing what to do for dinner.”
The door widens to allow you to enter, and you find a seat next to Angus on the end of his bed. “I thought we would go out to eat?”
“That’s exactly what I said but Mr. Hunham insists we stay in,” Angus says annoyed.
“It’s late! If we went out now, we could be met with frostbite and discomfort. We will get a proper night's rest and then enjoy the wonders of Boston.”
Angus groans beside you and you hop off the mattress. You silently ask for the room service menu which Hunham holds.
You scan through the foods, “They have some good options Angus…”
“Ugh,” Angus tugs at his hair. “Fine. What do they have?”
“You like Fettuccine Alfredo, get that.”
“Not if it doesn’t have chicken,” you know that's not true, and he’s just trying to be unnecessarily complicated. Still, you play along.
“Alright. I’ll get the chicken parmesan and give you some of it. Deal?”
“Deal,” he rolls his eyes.
“What are you getting Mr. Hunham?” You address the man.
“I don’t know,” he puts on the glasses that had been resting on his head. “I haven’t had ravioli in a while…”
“Get the ravioli. It’s courtesy of Barton afterall.”
Mr. Hunham hums, “I suppose you're right… Do either of you have an aching for anything particularly sweet after your dinner?”
You and Angus smile at each other, “I wouldn't mind some cake.”
“I wouldn't either.”
Mr. Hunham chuckles and picks up the phone on the night table. He presses some buttons and listens to dial tone before a staff member picks up.
“Hello, yes can I…”
You drown out the order as you draw open the curtains to their window.
“Holy shit. You can see Harvard from here.”
“Oh yeah. The receptionist mentioned that while you were busy admiring the Greek pillars. I think she thinks we’re on a campus trip.”
“I can only see layered brick from my window.”
“Well, that's Cambridge for you.”
You squint your eyes, “Are you really that bothered about not going out. Everything closed anyway.”
“That's what your brainwashed, rural, New England mind wants you to think. This is Boston. A city. Things here probably don’t close until three a.m”
“I doubt that.”
“Want to bet?” He whispers, smirking.
“What?”
“Let’s go out tonight. After Hunham declares it lights out.”
You shake your head, “We can’t, he's been so nice to us. I mean, c’mon, he drove us here.”
“This isn’t me trying to, like, undermine or disrespect him or anything. I just want to hang out with you.”
You fold under his gaze, and look back at Mr. Hunham who is still on the phone. “I don’t know Angus…”
“We’ll sneak out for an hour tops. He’s a heavy sleeper.”
Nervously you nod like he might overhear you even though he’s pretty preoccupied on getting a glass of Jim Beam brought up with the rest of your dinner.
“I guess. But you have to use your Christmas money to buy him a book on ancient Rome or something. As a present.”
“I’ll start marking the map,” Angus picks up a discarded pamphlet provided by the hotel. You smile at his eagerness as he tries to slyly look for places to visit. Mr. Hunham hangs up the phone and sighs contently.
“Food in thirty minutes. Wash up!” …
Mr. Hunham was chewing his last ravioli, and holding onto his half-finished bottle of Jim Beam like it was precious cargo. A Farewell to Arms, had come on TV, leading his current tangent. Even though you were anxious to get your plans on track, you couldn't help the way your mouth widened in awe as you listened to his words. You had no idea why Angus claimed to be so bored in his class. Hunham was better than any history teacher you had ever had.
“Although there is no credible proof, of course, that Hemingway described his hometown as one of ‘wide lawns and narrow minds,’ it would track considering his works. Actually, were you aware that his town was once a single entity? It's called Cicero and as you know, Mr. Tully, he was a very big politician in Ancient Rome. He-,” Mr. Hunham reads the clock on the wall. It's eleven thirty-two.
“Is it that late already?”
“Yes sir,” Angus responds, slightly exhausted.
“I do apologize. Most people tend to stop me once I hit the forty second mark.”
“It was really quite interesting,” you voice, “they don’t go too in depth about the author's life in the inside sleeve of books.”
“Well, uh, I thank you. For listening.”
“No. Thank you. You saved me from buying a biography,” you quip, and he smiles at you. A warm smile.
“Y’know you two are a lot like Hemingway. Maybe you both just happen to be two very large fishes with great minds, born into an incredibly narrow, small pond.”
…
You were kicked out after assisting in the clean-up. You then went to your room and put on your pajamas, along with your shoes. Instead of opting to use your usual sneakers, you put on the black Mary Jane’s your school mandates.
You didn’t know why until you looked Angus eye to eye and said, “I think it balances the rule-breaking out. I sneak out, simultaneously obeying my school's dress code.”
Angus had snorted, before revealing his own tie under his coat, hanging loosely and undone over his neck. You laughed, closed the door behind you and fled down the hotel stairs. It was clear almost immediately your coat, scarf and hat weren’t enough to keep you warm.
“We should turn back,” you suggested desperately.
“We’ve made it down one street.”
“Yes, and I’ve seen three ‘open’ signs. You were right, the world goes on after midnight. Let's go home,” you plead.
“No,” Angus drapes his arm over your shoulder, “we have to do at least one thing. So, think, what do you want to do?”
You mull it over for a second. There was nothing you were desperately wanting to see. The places you did were locked securely by key until tomorrow morning. Boston held no particular memories for you like it did for Angus. However, your parents owned a house downtown that you had been in exactly five times, and you always did like even numbers much better.
“You remember that brownstone on Beacon Hill?”
Angus smirks and nudges you to follow him. The walk to the train is painful with the way snowflakes seem to fall and nip at your skin. The only other commuter in their train car is a lady in scrubs and a defeated salesman. There are plenty of empty seats for you and Angus to hog. Nevertheless, you stand, holding onto the pole, your hands on top of each other. You lift your pinky a couple stops later, having forgotten what limb belongs to you and which was his.
You vaguely recall the address. Really you are navigated towards it through pure instinct. Something deep in your gut telling you ‘Here is the place your father will crash to if he doesn’t want to drive home after work.’
Your quiet walk is interrupted by the whooping of who you assume to be college kids extending their Christmas festivities. They leave, stumbling out of bars and into their cars. You don’t feel inclined to question it until you see them driving towards the brownstone. Your brownstone.
You pick up your pace. You follow the loose strands of streamers and glitter that litter the street.
You stop dead in your tracks at the sight of the house. With its lights on and the windows curtains drawn wide open, just inviting anyone to look inside and envy them. Dead ivy covers its brick walls, and you think back on the gorgeous wisteria that you once saw grow one springtime.
People in decadent clothing filter in and out of the house. Some pass you by and stare you down like your presence is a major disturbance that’s worthy of calling the authorities.
You spot the unmistakable pinned up hair belonging to your mother. She is dressed in silk and pearls. She dances with your father with her eyes closed. She looks at peace. She looks happier than you have ever seen her.
“Y/n…” Angus whispers, trying to get your attention.
But something else catches it instead. The mail slot is full of letters and cards. There are some bills too but that never worried them. They waited until they were threatened to have their light shut off for them to actually pay them with a simple flick of their wallet.
You go through them frantically. You go through the November letters, reaching the early weeks of December until you find the last notice. Sent from your school to them. It looks brand new, untouched. The last fingers to hold them before you were the school administrator and a mailman.
You tear the wax seal off and read the letter.
To the family of Y/n L/n,
This is the confirmation notice that your child will be holding over at Janie Patricks School for Girls for the following next two weeks. She will be supervised under the care of our English Department Head, Ms. Patricia Orchard. Any last-minute changes or concerns must be alerted to her now. Contact information below includes…
You halt halfway through a sentence and let the paper fall onto the dirty snow on the pavement. You want to grab a rock off the sidewalk and hit their window. You want to ruin their fun and embarrass them by asking, “Why did you even bother having me?” Even though you know their answer.
“Because we were expected to.”
To them you’re the anchor tying their boat down. They’re two birds and you just happen to be their cage. You don’t pick up that pebble by your shoe, no matter how tempting. You almost trip as your vision become foggy and you march forward and past Angus. You sit at a bus bench and wish you had a big bag of bird seeds to feed pigeons. Grandparents in parks always seem so content doing that. Angus joins you shortly and uses the end of the wool scarf to wipe your unnoticed tears.
You shakily exhale and white fog floats in the air. ���I thought they wanted me during the winter.”
“What?” Angus draws his brows together.
“Spring and summer I get. People want to have a good time at the L/n’s. And I’m a pest like the bugs in the grass who brings the mood down at just my buzzing. But when it’s cold out, I’m more tolerable. I don’t complain as much about the weather so I’m quieter. My lack of attendance can be brushed off easier because they can just say I’m sick.”
“No Y/n-,”
“Secretly, I hoped they just hated me enough to want me to spend holiday break at school. I didn’t actually think they forgot me. I’m their baby. People don’t forget their babies.”
“Hey,” Angus snaps, holding your face between his hands. “They’re assholes and later, when the tears have dried, I know you’ll try to fight me on it. You’ll come up with all these excuses for them, but you have to remember that not once have they ever tried justifying themselves. You can love them. They’re your parents. But likability is different. And I’m sorry because I have never liked your parents.”
“I’m such a bother Angus,” you weep, “all calendar year long.”
“No, you’re not. I want you if no one else. I love you.”
You trace the outline of his face under the street lamppost like a tourist observes a painting in a museum. You find him doing the same. Although not much has changed. You have him ingrained in your mind. You could forget about him, not think of him for fifty years but still be able to scout him out in a crowded street.
You inch closer to him, filled by the sudden urge to be as close as humanly possible to him. It’s an urge that resurfaces every once in a while. Usually you brush it off, blaming the cold or an uncomfortable situation you want to hide from. But tonight all you feel is the warmth only he can radiate and the inimitable way he makes your heart race. You remove the hand cupping your face and kiss his knuckles.
“How is it that you want me?” You shakily breath.
“I want you in the spring, summer, autumn, winter,” he leans in closer, bumping noses with you.
“Really?” you murmur, using both hands to comb through the curls.
“I want you, all the time,” He spoke into the short amount of space between you. You were practically breathing into each others' mouths, your lips on the verge of touching.
“Angus, I don't think we should do anything. It’s late and we’re tired. We need to sleep.”
“Trust me, I’m wide awake,” he chuckles.
“You’re my only friend,’’ the rational side shines through. Briefly.
“I want you more than a friend.”
“We should go slow,’’ you bargain.
“Okay,” he presses his lips quickly against you. Eagerly you accept and pull him by his hair. You try to cram in all the lost opportunities with him in seconds. You savor the way his lips feel chapped from the bitter weather against yours. He encapsulates your body, practically pressing you down on the bus bench.
“You’re gonna get us arrested,” you murmur through brief pauses when you go to gasp for air.
His mouth parts, his lips red and puffy, “Yeah. I’m sorry, I shouldn't have done that. Are you-,”
You lunge at his lips, and smile into the kiss. You think this is how the rest of your life is supposed to go. Wherever happens with college and adult life, he has to be there. Because otherwise you don’t know how you will manage to breathe properly.
Then as the party rages on behind you. It floods you. The thing you had been waiting for. The reassurance, the sign you were doing the right thing.
Woosh.
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For You [Hanma Shuji]
an: Pure self-indulgence as I've been sick the past few days and I'll use any excuse to continue my soft Shuji agenda...
pairing: Hanma Shuji x female reader
warnings: fluff, self-ship coded, reader has longish hair with a similar texture to Shuji’s, fluff, bit of a sick fic I guess, domesticity, soft shuji, suggestive if you squint, did I mention the fluff?
He didn’t know what to do. That much was evident from the white noise tumbling inside his head and the empty stare that roamed your apartment. Everything was as it should be, and at the same time, nothing was right.
Shuji hadn’t heard a peep from you in almost two days, and that was unheard of before now. He appreciated that you were not overtly clingy. You didn’t need to know his exact whereabouts at any given moment of the day, but you checked in now and then, and for the first time in his life, he looked forward to those moments. So when you went radio silent except for one cursory message in reply to his attempt at humour that you were ghosting him, worry settled heavily.
The smell was apparent the second he let himself in with the spare key you had gifted him months ago. Until now, he hadn’t had reason to use it, but there was no way he would allow another day to pass without knowing what was going on. Sickness–sweet and sour–lingered in the nose, an unmistakable smell.
What he found huddled in a nest of twisted blankets tugged at a heart he had not long grown to realise existed. A mass of tangled hair obscured most of your sleeping face, though he doesn’t miss the scrunched expression etched across your features. Your skin that peeks from beneath your adorable kitty pyjamas was covered in a sheen of sweat, and he could feel the heat radiating from your body when he closed the distance in two quick strides.
You’re sick.
The rasp of your breathing indicated something was sitting on your chest, likely a bad cold or some infection, and he doesn’t know what to do with this newfound information. Turning, he raised his glasses atop his head to pass a weary palm down his face.
Cuts, scrapes and bruises are things he can deal with. He is well accustomed to peroxide on rags to clean wounds and disinfect any dirt that might linger inside split knuckles. A raw steak slapped over a swollen eye might be considered a bit of a health hazard these days, but he still swore that nothing reduced the swelling faster. Hell, Shuji was even a dab hand with a needle and thread. He had lost count with how many of his exclusively short list of friends he had patched up to avoid the inevitable hospital questions over the years. He had even sewn himself up from time to time.
Hell, he needed to act. Standing here doing nothing was beginning to sizzle his blood.
You woke from being jostled, the haze of your fever dream preventing the usual fight or flight instinct from kicking in. Craning your neck, you blinked and scrubbed at your eyes. There was no way you were looking up at your boyfriend. No way that he had you cradled in his arms in the most delicate hold you had ever experienced.
“Shuji?”
“Yeah, princess, it’s me. Need you to sit here f’me, alright?” He rasped, voice affected by some emotion you couldn’t quite place.
Cool porcelain met your backside, your body guided upright until you could manage your equilibrium. Hanma Shuji was here, in your apartment, in your bathroom. Rummaging through your medicine cabinet and looking for god knows what.
A bath. He could at least run you a warm bath and rid you of the smell of sweat and sickness from your pretty skin. Methodically, he worked to fill the tub and added a few splashes of some scented shit that smelled familiar from your cabinet. Shuji dutifully peeled the pyjamas and underwear from your body and threw them in the hamper with a mind to run a load for you if he remembered.
Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe your twisted fever-induced dreams had shifted away from the nauseatingly vibrant images you had experienced only a few hours ago to this muted peaceful scene. It was a nice thought, but no, this was reality and not one you ever thought you’d experience.
A hand from behind your head came into view, a hand you knew immediately, not just by the stark black kanji inked against golden skin but the length of his slender fingers and the slight yellowish stain from the cigarettes he smoked. He handed you a soapy washcloth, which you gratefully accepted, wiping it across your body and sluffing off the grim that had caked you over the course of the last few days.
It was heaven, pure and simple, and when you thought it couldn’t get any better, Shuji surprised you once more. He gently tilted your head back, your eyes met his, and you smiled in adoration at the concentration evident on his face seconds before he began wetting your hair with the jug you kept on the edge of the bath.
“You don’t have to… Shu, I can take care of my hair once I’m better.”
Shuji clicked his tongue against his teeth in admonishment, but he held back from scolding you further for not trusting him with this small task. He washed his own damn hair, so washing yours wasn’t going to be some impossible task. His fingers worked in the suds of your shampoo into a thick lather, digging deep against your scalp and massaging firmly enough to elicit moans of bliss.
Normally such noises would make him hard, but right now it only raised a genuine smile. This was possibly one of the most intimate things he had ever done for you. Never mind all those times he had rearranged your insides or made slow, passionate love to you. No, this was on a whole other level, and he liked it–more than he ever believed he would.
You must have dozed off whilst he shampooed and conditioned your hair because the next thing you were aware of was being lifted from the bath and wrapped in a thick fluffy towel that draped past your toes. Shuji returned you to your bedroom but paused in where to deposit you, his nose wrinkled in distaste at the mess of sheets that most definitely needed to be washed and changed. Eventually, he planted your feet on the plush rug by the bottom of your bed, one which his knees were intimately familiar with and helped towel dry your body from head to foot.
“Put these on, baby. Imma strip your bed, do you have another set?” He asked with a kiss to your temple, handing you a clean set of yellow pyjamas with little ducks covering them from your dresser drawer.
Nodding sleepily, you pointed to the wicker storage box in the far corner before stepping into the pj pants and clumsily covering yourself with the top that bagged just enough that you could truthfully forgo the pants if you wanted.
You watched in amusement as the man known far and wide as both a talented photographer and sometimes enforcer for certain well-connected friends changed your bedding. His tall frame made it easy for him to manipulate the fitted sheet into place and wrangle a clean duvet cover on your kingsize duvet. This shitty task would have taken you nearly half an hour by yourself, but he managed in only ten.
“Need to dry my hair,” you yawned, leaning your face on his bicep and gratefully folding into his body when his arm snaked around your waist. He looked lost again, and you took pity on him. This kind of care was not his forte, but he didn’t know that all of this meant more to you than you could verbalise in your current state.
“I’ll wait for you in the living room. Take your time, alright?” With a final kiss to your forehead, he rounded the door of your bedroom and was gone from sight.
Shuji tried to sit still whilst the sound of your hairdryer filled his ears, but he was never one to sit idly by. He thought back on the times he had been sick as a kid with no one to really care for him and the things he would have wished for. In truth, a hot bath, clean clothes and a full stomach were all he ever wanted.
He was no cook, but he got by. A can of chicken soup caught his attention as he scanned your cupboards and set about warming it up on the stovetop. Your bread was still fresh, and he found butter in the fridge. He could do this. He could be the caring boyfriend when he wanted and though he had never felt inclined before, you were different.
You didn’t blow up his phone looking for sympathy or attention–no–you had tried to tough it out much like he had growing up, and it further sparked the flicker of kindred spirit that he felt about you. He wanted to protect you. There was no sense of obligation, and that made the difference. You were the first person he had loved outside of himself, and you reciprocated unconditionally.
You took the man he was, the boy he had been and loved every part of him, flaws and all. Shuji could do the same for you, and he vowed that the next time one of you fell sick, you’d be living together and there would be no need to guess that something was wrong.
So engrossed in sentimental thoughts that were still rather foreign to him, Shuji didn’t notice the hairdryer cut off nor the sound of your bare feet padding in search of him. It wasn’t until two small arms wound around his waist that he noticed or acknowledged your presence at all.
“What did I do to deserve you, Hanma Shuji?” You sobbed wetly into the shirt covering his back. Your emotions were overwhelming you, head still stuffy from whatever sickness had beat your ass the past few days, coupled with the domesticity of watching him cook for you. Tears streaked towards your cheeks, and you smushed your face deeper into him in an attempt to halt the flow.
He chuckled whilst continuing to stir the soup. “I know a lot of people that would say you must have been real bad in a past life to have ended up with me as a boyfriend.”
You sniffled and mustered every ounce of strength–barely anything–to smack him for that comment. “Shut up, you ass. Don’t spoil it.”
Shuji turned slowly. The amused expression softening in the face of your soppy, pathetic face that he couldn’t possibly adore any more, and he raised a hand to thumb away your tears. Enfolding you fully into his arms, he cooed softly against your freshly dried hair and smiled at the scent that was uniquely you had returned to your skin.
“I want you to know that I would do anything for you. Not only would I rip apart this entire fucking world if someone dared hurt you.” He enthused before his tone softened with a quiet exhale as if he were about to whisper some unspoken secret. “But I’ll also bathe you when you need the help, and I’ll feed you when you’re hungry. For you, there is nothing too much.”
#delirious writes#hanma x reader#shuji x reader#hanma shuji x reader#hanma fluff#shuji fluff#soft shuji
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[Fic] With Every Nerve Alive
Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 4623 Tags: Human AU, Mechanic Hob, Rich Guy Dream, brief appearance by Matthew, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, class dynamics, as a kink perhaps, sweat is sexy, so is automotive grease apparently, scent kink, detailed sexual fantasies, Dream of the Endless is intense and unhinged, questionable lube choices, within a fantasy don't worry, no one's really getting fingered with engine grease, sugar daddy-sugar baby fantasies, glass sex toys
Notes: Prequel/bookend to Customer Service. I realized that Hot Mechanic Hob needed Dream's pov to get the full effect, so this happened. Also fills my @dreamlingbingo square C1, 'Sugar Baby', a couple thousand words in. Title taken from Turbo Lover by Judas Priest
Summary: Dream Atelíotes is merely seeking car repairs from a reputable shop; he was not expecting to get punched in the libido by the most beautiful mechanic he could have imagined.
On AO3
~ "Alright, and what're we lookin' at her for?"
"The clutch. Is not operating as expected; I fear I may have damaged it. Somehow."
Dream is grateful that the stout American behind the counter at Matthew's Motor Repairs does not pass any obvious judgement on this damning statement.
"Well, that definitely needs checking, then," he says instead, punching in notes on his computer terminal. "Hob'll be runnin' things for the next couple of weeks, lemme see when he can fit your girl in." He turns toward the half-open door that leads to the garage and yells.
"Hey Hob!"
"Yeah! Just a tic—"
"He'll definitely be able to find the problem and fix you up," the American is saying, but Dream pays him little mind, thinking ahead to schedules and obligations; the Porsche is not his primary means of transportation regardless. It had been a gift from Alex that he'd kept after the breakup, primarily out of spite. He will say, when asked, that he drives it for fun, but truthfully the manual transmission does not come easily to him and the car suffers for it. He is considering selling it, perhaps once the satisfaction of knowing how Alex seethes to see him with it has worn down—
"What's up?"
Dream spares a glance for the man who's just entered through the doorway to the garage, and promptly loses his breath.
—Exquisite—
The man is beautiful, average height and slim sturdy build, dressed in grimy coveralls that are split just enough at the zip to glimpse the collar of a plain white tee beneath. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and when he wipes at it, still with a wrench in hand, he leaves a faint smudge of black grease behind. His hair is dark, longish, tied up in a messy bun on the back of his head with wisps straying loose about his face attractively. His eyes and his smile are warm, strong nose and chin, a few days' worth of beard growth giving him a wonderfully soft-rugged cast that sets Dream's mouth to watering.
The coverall sleeves are rolled and twisted up to his elbows; the forearms exposed are liberally covered with dark hair, skin a warm sunkissed golden brown beneath, shapely and corded with the strength that comes of manual labor, of hefting tires and torquing wrenches. Dream considers, quite despite himself, how those hands might fit around his waist, his hips; how easily this man might lift or manhandle him about in bed, and the heat that has risen in his loins stirs approvingly.
"Mr. Atelíotes here's got clutch troubles with his Porsche," the American is saying. "Think you'll have time to check it out?"
"Not right away, I'm afraid. How soon would you be needing her back?" the mechanic asks, directly to Dream, and oh, the full focus of that gaze is divine.
"I am in no hurry," he manages to reply, voice only marginally dipping down toward sultry. He is here to see about car repairs, not to flirt with the hot mechanic in front of an audience. He is an adult. He is well-versed in exercising all manner of self control.
The mechanic smiles, like a ray of sunshine, and Dream's self-control is tested.
"Okay then, I can probably get you looked at and fixed up toward the end of next week, if that works for you? Thursday or Friday, let's say." He slips the wrench that he's still holding into a pocket on his coveralls, drawing Dream's attention to the lower half of his body, how the zipper on the coveralls goes all the way down underneath, and he firmly corrals and muzzles the thoughts that arise. Later. Let him finish his business here before he embarrasses himself.
"Next week is just fine," he agrees.
"Excellent," the mechanic says, beaming brightly, and Dream's mouth goes dry.
He is so unfairly beautiful.
The mechanic is talking now to the American who is entering Dream's work order and Dream drinks in the sight of him greedily, committing every detail to memory—the brush of silver at his temples, the crows' feet blooming at the corners of his eyes with every smile, the dimple in his chin just visible as a darkening of the scruff that adorns his jaw so beautifully. His arm flexes prettily as he points to the screen with a black-stained fingertip and his voice is strong yet soft and warm like honey; Dream sneaks a glance at his backside when he turns to the printer and finds the suggestion of shapeliness beneath the loose fit of the coveralls. Dream imagines, helplessly, buttocks and strong thighs covered in hair to match those exposed forearms, and barely stifles a whimper.
This man is absolutely exquisite, and Dream wants him.
Badly.
"Alright, Mr. Atelíotes, let me get your signature here," the mechanic says cheerfully, oblivious to the tempest he has stirred within Dream as he hands him the printed work order and a pen.
Dream makes certain that their fingers brush as he takes it, noting the smudge of fingerprints left on the paper by the other.
He glances at the mechanic's name on the form as he signs. Hob Gadling. He tucks the name safely into the vault of his mind, hoarding it for later use.
"Give me a call on Thursday next week, we'll see where we're at," Hob Gadling is saying, handing him a business card and leaving another grey-black thumbprint on the corner of the white cardstock. Dream immediately thinks of such fingerprints against the pristine paleness of his own skin and swallows thickly.
"Thursday," he repeats. "I will call then, thank you." It is Monday, currently; a week and a half is quite reasonable for routine car repairs in a reputable shop, he is given to understand, and Matthew's Motor Repairs is consistently rated with four and five stars online. He is confident that he has chosen well, especially when Hob Gadling smiles brightly while bidding him good day.
It is a good day indeed, for having met such a stunningly beautiful man.
~
He takes a cab home to Kensington, trying very hard to put his thoughts in order and focus on the week ahead, on his business meetings and the client proposal he's expecting on Friday. But his mind is full of brown eyes and warm smiles, hairy forearms and grease-stained hands, and his entire body finds these thoughts far more appealing than those of his day-to-day mundanities.
Hob Gadling lingers in his mind persistently, a siren call warming his blood and distracting him at the slightest provocation. Late afternoon finds him abandoning his office and retreating to his rooms, surrendering to the thoughts that have plagued him since his visit to Matthew's Motor Repairs this morning.
Hob Gadling—
He imagines how the smell of the shop might cling to the man, oils and gasoline and the sweat of his labor, intoxicating and inviting should Dream nuzzle in close. He imagines those hands with their black-stained fingertips, their work-roughened texture, sliding over his body. How might they feel against his skin, his chest, his thighs? On his tongue? He imagines the hungry light that might fill Hob Gadling's eyes, if Dream were to take those skilled fingers into his mouth and hold his gaze while sucking on them, tonguing lovingly at every crack and callous. He imagines those fingers dark all over with a thick layer of fresh grease, the mechanic holding them up with a smirk like a promise, turning Dream to lay on the bonnet of his car—or perhaps bending him over a stack of tires there in the garage, yes—and pushing those fingers inside him, deep and insistent and perfect while his other hand holds Dream down at the small of his back. Automotive lubricant is perhaps not sanitary or otherwise suitable for sexual use, but the heat-of-the-moment urgency of the idea appeals all the same.
He groans aloud at the thought of being fingered with the thick warm grease, the slide and drag and the way Hob Gadling's fingers would curve and press exactly right until Dream was shaking apart with pleasure, scrabbling at the rubber tread of the tires he's bent over. He imagines Hob Gadling murmuring complimentary filth above him—"You look so pretty with my fingers up your arse; bet you'd look even prettier speared on my prick"—as he comes and comes and comes.
Of course he wishes to have the mechanic's cock as well. He is certain it is full and glorious, a beautiful specimen that would fill him perfectly, touch every sweet spot within him and set him alight. He wants it in his hands, in his mouth, in his arse; he wants it any way he can have it.
He desperately wants to get fucked by Hob Gadling in his garage amongst his work, by Hob Gadling strong and sweaty and dirty in his element, vigorous and virile.
The car would perhaps be most comfortable for lying on his back, the better to see Hob Gadling's gorgeous face while taking his cock. He himself would be stark naked and the mechanic still in his coveralls, unzipped all the way to let his prick out. Dream imagines him naked beneath the grimy clothing; Dream envisions chest hair to match what was seen on his gorgeous arms. Dream imagines those arms sliding up along the bonnet beside him, bringing his legs with them until Dream is nearly folded double and breathless with the sweet pressure of the mechanic's dick inside him, pistoning deep and perfect.
Would Hob Gadling pick him up, like so much inventory to be moved about the shop? Would Hob Gadling fuck him standing upright, holding him as if he weighed nothing? He fantasizes about the strength in those forearms and biceps, of the way they would flex and hold, Dream's knees hooked in his elbows and those broad hands gripping his hips as the mechanic would bounce Dream up and down on his prick, Dream clinging around his neck and jack-knifed beautifully in his powerful arms.
He comes at the thought, face down on his knees in his bed with a toy vibrating steadily against his prostate as he strokes himself over the edge, and the orgasm is so intense that he loses all sense of space and time for a moment. The toy is still buzzing merrily when he comes back to himself and he fumbles for the remote beside him, turning it off without yet removing it. He rolls over, brings his messy hand to his face and licks. He wonders what difference he might taste between Hob Gadling and himself, imagines that he is licking Hob Gadling's spend from his hand instead of his own, imagines how those dark eyes and that lovely mouth would smile to see him do so, slow and lascivious.
He turns the toy back on.
His fantasies continue as the days progress. He imagines taking Hob Gadling into his mouth, tasting the sweat and the musk of him after working all day in the garage; he imagines lavishing his tongue all over the length of him, sucking and swallowing and milking him dry. He imagines Hob Gadling's work-roughened hands in his hair, combing through it, clenching tight as he spends into Dream's eager mouth.
He imagines Hob Gadling on his back on the low wheeled board that mechanics use for sliding beneath cars—he does not know its proper name, but he imagines opening Hob Gadling's coveralls while he is laid out on this board and riding him like a prize stallion there on the shop floor with the scent of his work and his sweat all around. He imagines the blackened smears Hob Gadling's hands might leave on him, on his hips, his waist, his arse.
He imagines Hob Gadling bending him over the bonnet of his Porsche, fucking him hard and fast and absolutely without mercy until he is screaming his pleasure, until he is so loud that the mechanic will cover his mouth to muffle the noise and simply fuck him harder still. He wants it, aches for it, imagines Hob Gadling's hands planted firm on his arse, squeezing, spreading him open for his pounding cock, leaving dirty smudges on both cheeks as they careen into orgasm together—
Dream comes under the warm cascade of his own rainfall shower, one hand braced against the sleek tiles while the other grips his pulsing cock tightly. He draws great gasping breaths of the humid air, mind barreling on even as his climax peaks and begins to subside. His mechanic in the shower with him after all of that, sudsy and slippery-wet beneath the spray, shedding the grease and grime of his workplace; his mechanic, pulling him in for a kiss, smelling now of soap more than sweat. The idea appeals, on more than one level, and will not be dislodged even as he dries and dresses for bed. He falls asleep at last to the thought of a scrubbed-clean Hob Gadling on his knees beneath the gently-pouring water, freshly-shampooed hair swept sleek and dripping back from his face and his smiling mouth wrapped around Dream's cock.
He wakes to the sun streaming in his window and lies alone in his spacious bed with drowsy thoughts of being kissed awake, of Hob Gadling's stubbled face and warm lips nuzzling against his cheek, of calloused hands with black-stained nailbeds petting down his sides and grasping his hips. Of Hob Gadling's strong shapely arms pulling him close, Hob Gadling's chest hair tickling his nose, Hob Gadling's heartbeat strong and steady beneath his ear.
He thinks of Hob Gadling following him about the kitchen as he fixes breakfast, imagines his mechanic in a borrowed robe that hits him mid-thigh and doesn't quite close over his chest. He does not currently own such a robe, but that does not matter to the fantasy. He imagines Hob Gadling draped warmly over his back in this too-small robe while he cooks, nuzzling kisses into the nape of his neck, purring about how he wants Dream for breakfast while dragging his calloused fingertips up the insides of Dream's bare thighs. Because of course Dream has merely thrown on a long shirt to cook for his lover, and of course his mechanic cannot keep his hands to himself, and of course Dream would like to be fucked over the kitchen worktop before breakfast.
It is a daring fantasy, this stranger in his home, infusing sex and affection into his daily routines, and Dream wants it with an intensity that is frightening.
He spins himself broader fantasies as the days become a week, of showing up to his mother's summer gala with Hob Gadling on his arm, a mere mechanic brought to an Atelíotes event. He dreams of engaging in increasingly indecent public displays with him where all the high society patrons would see, embarassing Mummy Dearest and igniting gossip that would haunt her for years. He would reward Hob Gadling handsomely for his part in the scandal, sexually, financially, both if he should like. Or perhaps he might offer Hob Gadling gifts and incentives without petty family business mixed in, lavish rewards simply for his affections and sexual attentions. The term 'sugar baby' is very much in line with his thoughts, if not entirely accurate; he is only forty himself and his mechanic had appeared to be in his mid-thirties at least. But that feeds into his story; Hob Gadling is well into adulthood and working in trade labor. Perhaps he never had the chance to go to university; perhaps he had grown up poor. Perhaps he might like to undertake a course of study now, if Dream were to offer to pay for such a thing, in thanks for how well-fucked his mechanic would keep him?
Perhaps he might gift Hob Gadling a luxury car like his Porsche, in return for the sexual services he should like to be provided. Perhaps he might buy him tailored suits, expensive clothes in the latest fashions. He is undeniably drawn to the grimy working-class vision that had been branded on his memory when dropping off his car, sweaty and grease-smeared and glowing with life, but he also imagines how stunning his mechanic might look cleaned up and dressed to the nines. Dream would like to wine and dine him at the finest restaurants in London, put him into a limousine after, open his perfectly-tailored trousers and sample his cock on the drive home. To Dream's home, of course, where he would take Hob Gadling to bed and offer up his body for his mechanic's use—which would be delightfully merciless, given how Dream had primed and teased and denied him with his mouth in the car.
Perhaps he might take Hob Gadling away with him on holiday, show him all manner of foreign destinations he would never have seen on his own; at each of them Hob Gadling would fuck him, in sumptuous hotel beds or private beach cabanas or the gleaming toilet stalls of michelin-starred restaurants, with every bit of skill and enthusiasm at his disposal—delighted to be Dream's kept man and eager to show his gratitude for all that Dream could provide.
Dream groans, dragging one hand down across his mouth and arched throat while the other works swiftly over his cock, writhing on his bed with his shirt undone and his trousers open. He is achingly hard, leaking steadily into every rapid stroke; he hasn't even bothered undressing, so caught up in the feverish fantasies of the money and favors he might lavish on this man who consumes his thoughts, of how thoroughly he could expect to be railed and ravished and seen to in return—
Orgasm overtakes him quite suddenly, leaves him gasping and breathless and wrecked, and still he craves more. His fantasies are delectable, but his appetite is insatiable.
He desperately wants the real thing.
~
It is Thursday of the next week at last and Dream, fueled by his fading ability to recall the precise brown of Hob Gadling's eyes or the way his cheeks crease up when he smiles, does not call Matthew's Motor Repairs to check on the status of his Porsche as instructed. Instead, he drives out, excusing the trip to himself by visiting a local bookseller first and picking up several selections to add to his personal library. He does not linger overlong among the shelves, however; today he is consumed with much more pressing distractions.
He must see Hob Gadling again, if only for a moment.
When he enters the shop, there is no one at the counter up front and the door to the garage is ajar, raucous music drifting faintly through. "Hello?" he calls, but receives no reply.
It is a warm day outside and quite warm inside as well; Dream imagines how sweaty Hob Gadling must be, to be performing physical labor under these conditions. Such thoughts do nothing to calm or cool him.
After only a moment's hesitation, he rounds the counter and passes through the doorway, at which point he can hear Hob Gadling's voice singing along—"You don't have a clue/If you did you'd find yourself/Doin' the same thing too!"—beneath the music, passably on-key no less.
Yet another appealing feature to this man; it is simply unfair. Dream draws himself up, heart beating harder, and ventures around the large sink and cleanup station until he can see his Porsche, up on ramps, and—
And legs sticking out from beneath the side of it on one of those rolling boards, Hob Gadling's legs no doubt, spread wide like an invitation.
Dream stops abruptly, heat pouring into his belly; he takes a deep breath of the warm stuffy air, the machine-and-metal smell of the garage doing nothing to calm his libido. He stares, helplessly, at the work boots and coveralls, at where they stretch across Hob Gadling's crotch, affording frustratingly little suggestion of what lies beneath. And just above that, he can see that the coveralls are unzipped, not quite far enough to expose underwear but enough that Dream is treated to a glimpse of warm golden-brown belly and the dip of his navel, the dark sweep of hair above and below it.
—Mouthwatering—
It is with tremendous effort that Dream corrals his thoughts, steps forward again, closes the space between them and clears his throat to announce his presence. He nudges one booted foot with his own, not entirely meaning to do so but somehow unable to resist.
"Bloody—" The mechanic scoots out from beneath the car and Dream's knees go weak; he is grateful they do not give out altogether.
Hob Gadling is indeed shirtless beneath his open coveralls, displaying a chest far more gloriously hairy than Dream had imagined, a pelt thick and dark and alluring. He wants to touch, to comb his fingers through and rub his face against it, to lick the trail of hair that leads down to where the parted zipper comes back together. There is a visible sheen of sweat on his skin and Dream would lick that off as well; Hob is smudged with grease in various smears across his torso and forearms and Dream can hardly think for the rushing of blood in his ears, the swelling of want in the pit of his stomach. He drags his eyes back up to Hob's face, trying to school the ravenous hunger from his own gaze; he does not think he is overly successful in that regard but there is discernible heat in the warm brown eyes that meet him, and it is difficult to care about dignity, propriety, with reality unfolding so near to the fantasies that have carried him through the last ten days.
He stutters through some explanation for his presence, barely aware of his own words, barely registering the rundown he is given in return, watching hungrily as Hob climbs to his feet. His car will be finished tomorrow. He will have reason to see Hob again tomorrow. But right now he is unraveling, his self control a tenuous and threadbare thing barely within his grasp. He is watching Hob's mouth as he speaks, captivated, obsessed with the warm color of it flashing among the dark scruff of Hob's beard, and Dream wants to taste. His mouth, his skin, his cock, which is surely as magnificent as the rest of him—Dream cannot bear the thought of leaving without confirming his certainties, but it is one thing to revel in fantasy alone in his bed and quite another to actually act on it when faced with the man before him—
"Is there something else I can do for you today, Mr. Atelíotes?"
Hob Gadling is looking at him, hip cocked and coveralls alluringly open, smile just this side of invitational; there is the strong suggestion of interest and an implied offer in that warm tone and Dream's resolve, such as it is, crumbles.
He reaches. He touches. He speaks his want and follows with a flirtatious tease to mitigate his intensity, is met by teasing agreement in return, but when his mechanic mentions cleaning up first he absolutely cannot agree.
"No. As you are now, please." He steps closer, directly into Hob's space, a week and a half of fantasies clamoring in his mind as the scent of the man wafts into his nose—oil and grease, warm metal, sweat and a faint trace of citrus and a hint of some pleasantly masculine deodorant; Dream's mouth waters, and his prick throbs.
His mechanic hesitates. "I'm kind of filthy though?"
There is a tinge of shame beneath the words, and Dream. Will not have it.
"I am aware, yes," he purrs, seizing the open lapels of the grimy coveralls, and kisses Hob Gadling with ten days' worth of anticipation and want.
~
Dream is coasting on an adrenaline and endorphin high as he drives home, afterwards. He acted. He spoke directly of what he wanted. And he got it. He had spent ten days nursing fantasy and now he has experienced a delightful sliver of the reality of Hob Gadling.
And tomorrow, he will experience more.
Sleep does not come easily that night, keyed up and aroused as he is, but he manages at last. He wakes later than usual the next morning; he eats a light brunch, the excitement in his stomach counterproductive to the task, and makes sure to drink more water than usual. Thoughts of Hob fill his mind, arousing, distracting, enticing; he recalls with a sharp thrill the taste of Hob's pleasure on his tongue, and he is eager to be on his way to their appointment.
But there are things he must do to prepare, first.
He takes an enema, then shaves and showers, lathering everywhere with his sweetest-smelling soap, determined to be the polar opposite of what he lusts for in Hob. He strives for the cleanest prettiest and freshest he can get, the better to be taken and sullied and dirtied by his mechanic; Hob had seemed quite pleased with that dynamic yesterday and Dream is eager to repeat it with Hob's cock in his arse this time.
To that end, he employs a favorite dildo once he is clean and dry, lubing himself carefully and working himself open on the toy, mind blazing with thoughts of Hob all the while. He knows, now, the size and the shape (and the taste!) of Hob's prick, and he is giddy with the anticipation of having it inside him. He is salivating over how Hob compares to the dildo, how Hob will fill him just that much better, what filthy things Hob might say while taking his time over long slow thrusts, how good it will feel when Hob finally rails him without mercy—
He must force himself to stop, hard and panting as he withdraws the toy from his body. He sorts through his glass plugs quickly, finding the one he wants and fitting it carefully inside himself. It's broad enough to stretch him just a little more, perfectly flared to fit just right inside and out, short enough that he can bend and sit without discomfort. It's a beautiful tease, as a matter of fact, keeping him keyed up and aroused as he dresses himself, making him squirm just a little with every step as he gathers his condoms and his pocket-sized bottle of lube and his phone wallet and water, and leaves the house.
He composes himself over the two blocks he walks to the busier streets where he can hail a cab, steeling himself to normalcy in both movement and appearance while pleasure sings in his veins with every subtle shift of the toy within him. He is half-hard, hidden well enough by the loose cut of his slacks, and works to keep his thoughts from heating any further until he has reached his destination.
The cab drops him outside of Matthew's Motor Repairs and he pays, distracted and breathless with anticipation. Hob is there, inside, and Dream is certain that Hob is just as eager as he is for their rendezvous.
He hopes that Hob is just as eager.
Closed for walk-ins due to special circumstances, reads the hand-written sign taped to the glass of the shop door. Ring if you have an appointment.
Dream's heart plummets for half a second, until he remembers their parting conversation yesterday about appointments and showing up and fitting in. This sign is for him, surely, a blatant invitation.
He takes a breath to calm the excited pounding of his heart, squirms surreptitiously on the toy inside him, and rings the bell.
= Started: 5/15/24 Drafted: 7/27/24 Posted: 7/29/24
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Leather and Cinnamon | Wolfstar Bingo
It's that time of the year again! The @wolfstarbingo2024 is here.
I'm supposed to be working hard on my Big Bang fic so naturally I instead spent the whole day writing 13k words of... well, this.
I've had this idea for a long time and I think I started it over a year ago, but now I finally found the inspiration to finish it (while also crossing off one of my prompts). So here it is.
Title: Leather and Cinnamon Pairing: Wolfstar Rating: E WC: 13.2k Prompt: One night stand Summary: Remus hasn't got laid in a while, but that's okay. That's fine. He's been busy raising a son, thank you very much.
Now, however, Teddy is off to university and when Remus goes to Brighton to drop him off, they stumble over a coffee shop in the south lanes. It's a cosy little place with a barista who has silver eyes and pale skin and an arse to die for.
Remus hasn't got laid in a while, but that's okay. That's fine.
Read on AO3.
Snippet below the cut:
“I’ll order,” Teddy said as they entered the coffee shop, nodding towards a table by the window. “You can take a seat.”
“Oh really?” Remus asked, a little amused. “You’re paying too, then?”
“Obviously not,” Teddy remarked casually. “I’m a poor student, remember?”
“Sometimes I think you just spend time with me for my wallet.” Remus sighed wistfully but Teddy merely grinned at him, snapping his fingers.
“Money, please.”
“Maybe I want to order,” Remus said, but Teddy was already snatching the note from his fingers.
“Please,” Teddy scoffed. “Like I’d trust you with my order.”
Remus looked fondly as his son sauntered off towards the bar, unable not to smile to himself. He honestly couldn’t get his head around the fact that he had an 18-year-old son who was now heading off to university all on his own.
It had felt bittersweet, packing up Teddy’s boyhood room. He knew the day would come eventually, and even though he was excited for his son, he couldn’t help but feel a bit sad as well. They had driven down to Brighton together, their old little car stuffed full of (almost) everything that Teddy would need for the coming few months.
They had spent the day getting his room in order before Remus decided it was time for him to head back home. Teddy had agreed to a coffee before he left though, and Remus was set on making the most of the time he had left with his son while he still had the chance.
The café they had picked was in the south Lanes and had a bright red door with rainbow flags decorating the windows. It was the name that had drawn Remus in though, Baskerville’s Hound written in bold letters over the painting of a big, black dog.
The place itself was cosy enough, with paintings decorating the walls together with black and white photographs of Brighton and random people. The walls were painted in a dark blue colour and the furniture was all mismatched and clearly second hand, but still in good shape.
Teddy returned without drinks, pulling out the chair opposite Remus and slumping down on it, shrugging as Remus raised a questioning eyebrow at him.
“They’ll bring it out,” he said, slouching back on his chair.
“Any chance you got a change on that twenty?”
“Sorry.” Teddy grinned at him, pushing a hand through his longish hair, currently a bright orange. Remus had long since accepted that Teddy opted to change his hair colour as often as other people changed clothes, and he enjoyed seeing him explore. “Consider it a contribution towards your only child’s education.”
“Ah, yes, never mind the 9K tuition fee,” Remus deadpanned. “It’s the change on the coffee that’s going to make the real difference.”
“I’ll need pocket money.”
The corner of Remus’ mouth twitched. “You need money for beer, you mean.”
Teddy threw his arms out. “It’s uni life, Da.”
Remus snorted just as the barista approached the table, clearing his throat.
“A latte with a dash of cinnamon and…whatever this monstrosity is,” the barista said, and Remus tore his gaze away from his son to the man standing next to their table.
Remus found himself doing a double-take at the sight of him. He didn’t know why he’d expected a student, but this man looked to be roughly his age. He was tall, muscular, with tattooed arms and wearing a simple white tee-shirt underneath a light apron with a large black dog printed on the front of it.
There was the hint of a stubble over his very chiselled jaw, high cheekbones and long, black hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was his eyes, however, that caught Remus’ attention. They were a light sort of grey that reminded Remus of silver, seemingly drawing in the light around them. They were dancing with something that looked like amusement as Teddy sat up excitedly.
“That’s mine,” Teddy said eagerly, reaching for the tall glass topped with a hefty dollop of whipped cream. “Cheers, mate.”
“I take it you’re the sensible one then,” the man said, the corner of his mouth twitching as he turned his gaze on Remus, placing the mug in front of him with a little wink. “Enjoy.”
Remus couldn’t help staring as the man walked away, gaze taking in the dark jeans and heavy boots.
“Earth to Da!”
Teddy’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he flinched, accidentally burning his hand as his coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug.
“Fuck,” he hissed, grabbing a napkin to wipe up his spill and when he looked back up, Teddy was watching him with a mischievous sort of twinkle in his eyes.
“You alright?”
“Yeah,” Remus replied quickly, clearing his throat as his voice came out weirdly rough. “Fine.”
“I said, are you coming down with Ma next week?”
“Oh,” Remus said, taking a sip from his coffee to distract himself momentarily. “Dunno, mate. D’you want me to?”
“You don’t have to,” Teddy shrugged. “It’s just cause she couldn’t be here this weekend.”
“Right,” Remus nodded. “I’ll be there if you want me to.”
Teddy waved it off, pulling his phone out of his pocket as it made a chirping noise.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, eyes on the display as he quickly tapped out a message. “Aoife says there’s a group heading to the pub tonight.”
“That sounds like fun,” replied Remus as his gaze darted over to the bar, just briefly, catching on the man who was wiping down glasses and humming to himself, the muscles in his arms flexing. “You should go with them, make some friends.”
He only tore his gaze away from the man as he heard Teddy’s snort, and his son was watching him with an unimpressed sort of expression.
“What?”
“Make some friends?” he echoed, pulling a face. “It’s not pre-school, Da. It’s uni.”
“What?” asked Remus, a little affronted. “You don’t make friends at university?”
“No,” Teddy said assuredly. “You just…get to know people. Hang out.”
“Right,” Remus said, giving a solemn nod. “My bad. You should go with them and hang out then.”
Teddy rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath before he turned his attention back to his phone, and Remus pressed his lips together so that he wouldn’t smile. His eyes darted briefly back towards the bar, where the man was now stacking mugs.
It would be in Brighton where a random barista looked like he’d stepped right out of one of Remus’ wet dreams. He looked exactly like the type Remus would have been madly in love with when he was younger, and, it turned out, his taste hadn’t changed that much since then.
Remus hadn’t dated much in the past few years as Teddy was growing up. It wasn’t that it had been impossible, Dora had managed to move on just fine after their amicable split, and her dating life had never affected Teddy badly, he just hadn’t prioritised it. Ever since Teddy had moved in with him full-time when he was fifteen, Remus put his own dating life on a shelf.
Dora had told him he was being ridiculous, that Teddy was more than capable of handling his dad dating, and Teddy had even told him so himself. He’d even encouraged Remus to get out there, claiming that it would do him good to get laid. It wasn’t a lie, Remus knew that, but he had simply prioritised raising his son over hookups.
He knew it would be different now though, with Teddy off to university and Remus alone in their house. They had been joking about it, and Remus was happy that Teddy was starting his own life as a young adult, but he couldn’t deny that it would be strange.
He and Dora had been so young when they became parents. She had still been at university, and he had only just completed his Bachelor's Degree. He’d been a parent for all of his 20s and almost all of his 30s, it felt wild thinking that he was approaching his 40s with more independence than he’d had in a long while.
“Right, I gotta go,” Teddy said suddenly, his voice yanking Remus out of his thoughts. “Sorry, Da.”
Remus shook his head, smiling a little as he stood. “Don’t worry about it. Time for me to head back home anyway.”
Teddy nodded, watching him for a moment, his blue eyes searching over Remus’ face and he looked so serious suddenly.
“Are you sure that you’ll be okay?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
Remus couldn’t help but smile a little at the troubled look on his son’s face, the half-grimace as he gave a brief shrug.
“I’ll be fine, Da.”
“So will I,” Remus replied, smiling a little as he pulled his son close for a hug. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Can’t help it,” Teddy muttered against the crook of his neck before Remus released him. “I worry about you all alone in that house.”
“I think I’ll manage,” Remus said as he clasped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I used to have a life before you, y’know.”
“Barely,” Teddy replied with a snort, the corner of the boy’s mouth quirking upwards as Remus swatted lightly at him.
“Oi, don’t get cheeky.”
Teddy laughed, seemingly unfazed as he leaned a little closer, stage-whispering, “You could always stay and chat up the barista, eh? I can see you ogling him.”
Remus had a horrible feeling as he was blushing as Teddy threw a meaningful look towards the man behind the counter and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Continue on AO3.
#wolfstar#sirius black#remus lupin#wolfstar bingo 2024#prompt: one night stand#teddy lupin#muggle au#coffee shop au#my writing
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This is gonna sound like a silly little request BUT Nanami is the type to get cute gifts for reader. She always has cute ribbons, hair pins and scrunchies in her hair, he can't resist thinking how fruit pattern scrunchies he got for while away on mission will look on her. What he didn't expect tho, is that he'd end up wearing one of her frog scrunchies on his wrist - after he presented her with ones he got, she took her favorite of, put it on his wrist and went to try out new ones. And he rarely takes it of, he endures Gojo's (or anyone else's) teasing but the frog scrunchie stays on! In his mind, she always there with him, it smells like her and when he is to stressed he leans his nose into it (and moment is ruined with Gojo's cackling, the headache is back). ALSO, pretty sure he sits drying and combing her hair (after he washed it), even braiding it for her. No way he doesn't end up with a hair clip in his own hair sometimes, like she'll pin his bangs up when they get into his eyes while cooking or reading.
cw: established relationship, fluff, reader has longish hair.
Author’s Note: omg anon, this is SO CUTE, you are brilliant for coming up with this! Not a silly request AT ALL, I LOVE IT SO MUCH! I basically just expanded on what you sent me, so I hope you like it, let me know what you think! You definitely deserve all the credit here for coming up with this one. 🤩
Divider created by @/dividers-and-banners!
“Nanamin, no way you’re wearing that right now.”
Gojo sits across the table from him, the typical cocky smirk on his face, covered eyes staring at Nanami’s hand. Your boyfriend rolled up the sleeves to his dress shirt, forgetting that his cuffs hid the froggy scrunchie on his wrist, exposing it to his annoyingly observant friend. He sighs, prepared for the ridicule he’s sure to endure for the next several minutes. Without taking it off, he responds, “It’s my girlfriend’s.”
“Obviously. The answer I really want to know is why in the world are you wearing it?” The grin on his face grows even wider, irritating Nanami.
Deciding to be honest about it, because there’s no other way to explain it, he answers, “It brings me comfort.”
He’s doesn’t expect the uproar of laughter from his now former friend. While Gojo is doubled over, cackling, Nanami brings his wrist up to his nose, inhaling the faintest scent of you into his nostrils, instantly relieving the incoming migraine caused by his white-haired colleague. He nuzzles his nose against the soft, spongy fabric, picturing your ponytail swinging with it tied around your hair. He misses you, a little too much. But this small trinket is enough to get him through the day. A little piece of you that stays with him, even if it is in the form of a silly frog scrunchy. He’d wear a hundred more of them all along his arm if it meant more of you could be with him.
This all started when he began to buy you different accessories whenever he was out on a mission. Your collection has grown, thanks to him: Butterfly clips, silky ribbons, hair pins with faux pearls on them, scrunchies with different types of patterns. He’s found a use for them himself: you managed to pin a clip onto his bangs while he reads his novel in bed, growing tired of seeing the stray hairs cover his eyes. At first, he protested. After seeing the gleeful smile on your face, he had no choice but to relent. Now, it’s expected of you to slide a bejeweled clip onto his luscious locks every night.
The latest set he got you was fruit themed; he was so excited to see you in it, proud of the selection he chose all on his own. So much so that he offered to do your hair that night. His fingers were nimble and smooth on your scalp as he washed your hair, rinsing it through with warm water, making sure that none of the suds got into your eyes. He wrapped a towel around your dripping mane, massaging until it was damp instead of soaking. He even took the time to blow dry, combing through the tangles with your brush. Finally, he tried every hairstyle he could think of to model his gift for you. A strawberry scrunchy for the classic ponytail. Lemon and watermelon for pigtails. Orange for a French braid. Banana for a top bun. His smile grew each time, seeing the literal fruits of his labor decorated in your beautiful hair. The only outlier that didn’t match with the rest of them was the random frog it came with. So, as a joke, you slid it onto his wrist, claiming it was his to wear forever.
It comes in handy more than you expect. Several occasions, you’ve asked if he could help tie up your hair as you leaned over the kitchen stove, cooking dinner. Each time, it was froggy scrunchy to the rescue. Nanami made sure that it made its way back to him whenever you were done using it. It’s never left him since, either worn as a bracelet or resting peacefully in his pocket for easy access.
Gojo finally calms down from his fit, readjusting his blindfold. “How could that thing possibly bring you comfort?”
Nanami smiles to himself, brushing his thumb over the frog wrapped happily around his wrist. “It lets me carry her around with me wherever I go.”
Even after more ridicule and some incriminating photos, to which he gave up trying to convince Gojo to delete, Nanami makes it his top priority tomorrow morning to stop by the mall and purchase more scrunchies for his sweetheart.
#nanami kento#kento nanami#requests#jjk nanami#nanami x reader#nanami x you#nanami x y/n#nanami fluff#nanami kento x reader#kento nanami x reader#kento fluff#jjk fluff#nanami kento fluff#kento nanami fluff
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ok so this is my self indulgent request; the reader is black mask's girl and he gets jealous and annoyed when the riddler keeps flirting with her. i know that man would be seething lmao.
Easy To Lose
Black Mask/Reader/The Riddler, ≈900 words
A/N: You're speaking my language. Although, while I've been playing with some unpublished Riddler stuff, this is the first time I've posted him in sooooooo long, I hope I still do him justice - even if he is a little shit in this lmao. Also is HoH, I will die on that hill. Anyway, I really hope this scratches the right itch for you 💚
The Riddler takes his opportunity to chat you up when Roman is otherwise occupied. Rating: 18+
CWs: Swearing, name calling (freak, coward, pussy), unhealthy/toxic relationships, jealousy/possessiveness, allusions to (kinky) sex, allusions to violence. Reader is GN but hair longish hair.
Please remember: as long as you're trying, you're probably doing better than you think.
Alerted by the muffled sound of a familiar voice you cock your head up, greeted by the smiling face of Edward Nygma, sitting in the unoccupied side of your booth. Roman who is sitting beside you does not offer the same courtesy, too engrossed in sending an email on his phone. If he’d even noticed Ed at all. The thickness of his mask made Roman hard of hearing at the best of times. Combine that with the loud thrum of the club’s music, and Roman was often lost to the world if he wasn’t looking right at it.
“Huh?” You lean over the table, turning your head to the side, indicating for him to clarify.
“I said;” Ed follows your lead, leaning in until his lips are close enough to press to your ear. His breath is warm, and steeped with the sweet smell of alcohol, something with gin if you had to guess. “What is rarer, and more valuable than gold, but easier to lose?”
Tongue in cheek you glance back at Roman, who remains undisturbed, despite his passive hold on your back having been broken. You wonder how he’ll react when he finally realises what is going on, he’d never been a fan of The Riddler. Ed had never bothered you so much, yes, he could be egotistical and yes, he loved to patronise, but he was also fun, especially when there were drinks involved. Perhaps your time in the bed of Gotham’s underworld had tainted one too many red flags green.
Turning back to Ed you shrug and ask; “What?”
Without missing a beat Ed reaches a hand up and twirls a finger in a stray lock of your hair. He massages it between his thumb and forefinger bringing it to his nose, and inhaling the scent with his eyes closed. You don’t mind the anticipation, watching his coy smile as he eventually drops your hair, and taps his finger to your nose as he gives you your answer. “You, my dear.”
You laugh. You bat his shoulder playfully and laugh, and laugh, and laugh until you feel the smooth, hard press of leather cup the back of your neck. Your body freezes, all for your head which turns slowly to face Roman, who has finally clocked onto Ed's presence, his near-black eyes boring into you beneath the shadows of his mask’s sunken eyeholes.
“What is this?” Unlike Ed, his voice can be heard over the music, likely by anyone in a half mile radius. Although, it occurs to you now that he and Ed had very different intentions.
Before you can answer, Ed jumps in, always eager to hear the sound of his own voice, or to stir the pot. Probably both.
“I simply saw this poor dear looking neglected, and thought to myself, who better to offer them some much deserved attention than myself. You ought to be more careful Sionis, lots of people around who might want to steal this one away. Decent, meritorious people.”
Ed reaches up to your hair once more but before he can make contact, Roman pulls you back by the scruff of your neck until you’re snug beside him again, fingers still digging into your soft skin. He’d never pull or squeeze hard enough to really hurt you, at least not outside the bedroom, but there is enough force in it to offer you a warning, to tell you he’s not happy.
“I can’t hear a word that freak’s talkin’ about.” He informs you. He can tell he’s trying to act calm, but his duel grip on your neck and the wood of the table proves otherwise. His neck is taught and red as he juts his jaw back and forth. “So, I’m gonna ask you this once, you think real hard about what comes out of that pretty little mouth of yours alright? What’s he been sayin’ to you?”
You don’t need to think hard about it. You’re only going home with one of them tonight, and you want to stay on his good side, and if your confession fuels his fire, so be it. Ed wasn’t the only one who could stir a pot.
The wood of his mask is rigid and cool as you press your lips to the spot that covers his ear. “He said I’m rare, and valuable, and that he wanted to steal me away from you.”
“He fuckin’ what.” It’s not a question, it’s an expletive, a threat. In seconds Roman is on his feet ready for a fight, but when you both look over, Ed is gone. Swallowed amongst the sea of clubbers. His bright green attire blending in amongst the ever-changing lights of the club.
“Fuckin coward,” Roman yells, slamming his fists on the table. His chest heaves as he processes his next step, as he decides if he’s going to go after him or not. You help in his decision-making by resting your hand on his wrist and tugging until he looks at you. His eyes dart back and forth between you and the crowd before he gestures to the sea of people. “Is that the kinda man you want baby? A goddamn pussy? Tryin’ to move in on what’s mine and can’t even face me.”
“No…” You coo, shaking your head. When he settles back into the booth you shuffle close to him again. “You know I only want you.”
“Fuckin’ right you do.” He runs a firm hand through your hair until he finds the soft spot at the nap of your neck where he locks his fingers in, using it to pull you even closer. “Guess I’ll have to stake my claim another way. For tonight.”
Request Info || Prompts || Masterlist || Ko-Fi
#the riddler#black mask#roman sionis#edward nygma#edward nigma#the riddler x reader#edward nygma x reader#roman sionis x reader#black mask x reader#gilverrwrites
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This is a request by @asterio14 hope you like it sorry it has taken me so long to write your request.
Another Spencer Reid X Teen convicted reader.
This is not related to all to my other Spencer Reid x prisoner teen reader completely different.
Request: Both Spencer Reid and Reader are serving life sentences at adult prison. Reader has already served three or four years. is a character who doesn't mind being in prison, perceiving it as natural habitat. He is the one welcoming Spencer into his new home. The reader is put in for Arson but accidentally killed someone.
Third person pov...
In Millburn Correctional Facility a H/C teen sits in his cell, the cell itself wasn't very large but he still had a sink, a usable toilet, small plastic mirror hanging on the wall, a small bed with a thin cover and single pillow.
Opposite another bed but with no one staying in it, 18 year old Y/N had been in this correctionally facility for 2 and a half years for arson and accidental homicide, when he was 16 he stupidly played with matches and accidently set a barn on fire and the owner happened to be inside the barn.
He tried to save them but was already dead when Y/N dragged them out. Since he got sent to prison, he has been a model prisoner and was allowed curtain things others weren't, such as books to read and a sketchbook to draw in.
After a couple of months the teen got used to being in prison, as he was a minor he was sent for a juvenile centre then when he turned 18 was sent to this correctionally facility.
Currently the teen was sketching on his bed, humming a song he liked, his back lent against the wall his knees up so prop up the sketchbook for him to sketch.
A guard knocks on the barred door alerting the teen, he glanced awa from his sketchbook then back just as quick. "Prisoner L/N, you've got company" calls a guard, Y/N just gives a thumbs up to the guard but doesn't move, by now the guards know the teen enough that he wont move when they open his cell.
Once the door was closed, he looked up and saw a man. "Guess your my cell mate then" he says, the guy was young looking with longish curly hair with a young but haunted face, he was tall and lanky around 6ft.
The man just stares at the kid, Spencer was first surprised at how young his cell mate was, the kid didn't look older than 20, he had H/C hair and E/C eyes, he was wearing a white t shirt and the prison uniform pants the shirt was hung up.
Y/N gives the guy a friendly looking smile. "Yo! I'm Y/N, nice to meet you" he says Spencer is glad he doesn't hold his hand out for a handshake, Y/N goes back to his sketching.
Spencer then sits down on the opposite bed, he was glad to be moved into these smaller cells and away from the public ones he was first in, Spencer watches the boy before realising he didn't introduce himself.
"Im Spencer Reid, nice to meet you Y/N" He says, the boy only smiles and gives the man a thumbs up. Over the next few days Y/N and Spencer got to know each other.
Y/N tells him why he was in prison and Spencer explains his story about him being an FBI agent and how he got blackmailed and put in prison, 3 weeks later they had bonded like brothers.
Y/N told his tragic backstory of loosing his Mum at a young age and having an ass hole of a dad, who neglected him and didn't tell him what was right or wrong so he went with anything.
Spencer was sympathetic to the kid and told him about his dad leaving him and his mum alone. Y/N laughs making Spencer look over at the teen. "We both had shitty Fathers then" his words makes Spencer laugh as well.
"I suppose we do" he mutters into the darkness of the cell.
12 weeks later, Spencer has been released from Prison but his team and Mr Scratch is no more, for his last day and night Spencer spends it with his new friend and brother Y/N.
After dinner the two sit in their shared cell, Y/Nsat on his bed and Spencer sat on his own, it is silent until Spencer gets up from his bed and sits next to Y/N on his.
The teen currently had their head in their knees not looking at Spencer, he had been secretly hoping the this day wouldn't come so soon, when Spencer goes he would be alone again.
Spencer fidgets awkwardly before breaking thr silence. "I'm sorry Y/N, but I've been found innocent by the Judge I have to go" he tries to reason with the teen.
Y/N keeps his head in his knees not talking, Spencer sighs and sits suddenly Y/Ns pulls him into a tight hug that he couldn't seem to want to let go off.
Spencer frozen physical contact was not his thing, The teens arms shake as they hug the older man tightly, Spencer relaxes slightly and hugs the teen back.
He will miss the young kid alot and will always be thinking of him.
The end!
So sorry for thr wait I didn't have alot for this oneshot so sorry that it is alot shorter than thr usual 1000 + oneshots, I've been busy with my classes and trying not to burn out from everyone and thing.
As usual so sorry for the grammar and Spelling mistakes.
Requests are open!
Worr count: 960
#criminal minds#fanfic#behavioural analysis unit#x child reader#fluff and comfort#oneshot#light angst#x teen!reader#season 12#spencer reid x child!reader#spencer reid#spencer reid x teen!reader#prisoner
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Original Ask: goofy guy who loves life (aka our sweet baby boy kostas) showing a girl he likes his hometown and neighborhood, while she is on vacation and sparks fly 😏 (@findingnemosworld )
Word Count: 725 words
(author's note: nemo requests, i deliver 😉)
Ever since she was little, Y/N had always wanted to go to Greece. The culture, landscape, and food enticed her, strengthening her desperation to go to the country. So naturally, when she grew up and could go, the tickets were booked, and she was on her way.
Landing on the runway in Greece was an unforgettable moment for Y/N. All her memories about her childhood and the plans she had made flooded her mind, reminding her of how grateful she was to be there.
She collected her luggage from the airport and headed to her taxi outside. Sliding into the backseat, Y/N stared wistfully out of the window. She was finally here.
However, when she got to her hotel, dropped off her bags, and left again to explore the small city she was staying in, she realised she had no idea what to do or where to go. As she looked around helplessly, she failed to notice the man walking towards her.
“Excuse me, can I help you, I couldn’t help but notice that you look a little lost?”
“Oh- Hi, yeah I am a little lost. I just landed an hour ago and I’m not really sure what to do.” Y/N laughed awkwardly as she stared at the man in front of her.
He had longish brown hair that faded to blonde at the ends and was tied into a small messy bun. His arms were covered with tattoos, and his gold earrings glinted in the sunlight.
“How about I show you around? I’m Konstantinos but everyone calls me Kostas.”
“Really? You’d do that for me? I’m Y/N.”
Kostas smiled, “Pretty name for a pretty girl. And of course, I’ll show you around, it’s no trouble.”
“Do you always flirt with girls you’ve just met?”
“Nope, you’re the first,” Kostas said, winking at her.
Y/N laughed, and the pair set off down the street. They went into shops, walked along the beach, and finally, Kostas showed Y/N the way to the best food truck in town. He ordered them something to eat, and they found an empty bench to sit at.
“So,” Kostas began, “What brings you to Greece?”
“Well, I’ve always wanted to come, ever since I was a little girl. Everything about this place just has a certain charm. It’s a bonus that the men here are cute too,” Y/N laughed, staring at Kostas knowingly.
“It’s nice to know that people still appreciate my country, I obviously love it as I grew up here. But it’s refreshing to see others enjoying our culture.”
“Of course! I know I’ve only been here for a day, but I already know I chose the right place to visit. It also helps that I had an incredible tour guide.”
“Well, I can do you one better, how about you let me take you on a date tomorrow? I can show you some more of my favourite places?”
Y/N blushed bright red, “You want to go on a date with me?”
Kostas looked puzzled, “Yes?”
“I mean I’d love to. It’s just, what if it goes well? I have to leave at some point, and I might not be able to afford to come back-”
“You don’t have to worry about that because I don’t live here either.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I work in the UK. I’m a footballer.”
“Are you lying? Is this just you trying to convince me to go on a date with you?”
“No, I promise, look it up!” Kostas insisted.
“I believe you,” Y/N thought for a second, “Okay, I’ll go on a date with you.”
Kostas’ face broke out into a huge grin, “Perfect. I’ll meet you outside your hotel tomorrow at 6?”
Y/N nodded.
The pair cleared away their rubbish and stood up. Kostas walked Y/N back to her hotel and then stopped outside the entrance.
“Thank you for making my first day here so memorable, I appreciate it.”
“No thank you, I’m always eager to show off my home country. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah, Goodnight Kostas.”
“Goodnight Y/N.”
The pair parted ways, and Y/N headed back into her hotel, a small smile on her face. She knew she was going to love it in Greece, she just didn’t know she’d love it this much.
#football#fanfiction#fanfic#hot footballers#request#kostas tsimikas x reader#kostas tsimikas#kostas tsimikas blurb#kostas tsimikas imagine#by ts1m1kas
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Babylon 5 rewatch, S1 E8: And the Sky Full of Stars
IDK if it's how I'm watching it or what, but the lighting on B5 seems dimmer than I would expect in public spaces
Okay okay plot: guy needs money for shady reasons, other guys have Sinclair as a target for who knows what
Oh, it's not notable shady reasons, it's just a gambling problem
The guy with the longish gray hair that's going to do Something to Sinclair has a very 90s energy, I can't define it but it's so notable
I like Dr. Franklin and Delenn's scene here with the practicality of getting information about other species brought up.
Yeah Delenn what DID you do during the war?
The design of that weird chair is good, I definitely believe that they built it out of smuggled in pieces and that it's going to be used for nefarious purposes
Ignoring the plot to wonder about Sinclair's kitchen area not appearing to have a sink or any appliances (I know it's just a set but I think about trying to redesign my tiny apartment kitchen a lot)
Sinclair is in the Torment Nexus
At least it's hard for the commander of an entire space station to disappear without notice
Of course it's a simulation that's what happens to guys in charge of space stations/starships, other weird guys show up to fuck with your head. Notable employment hazard.
Sinclair's Mysterious Day! Yesss let's find out about it (shame the exposition has to come through the Torment Nexus)
Sinclair is 39...I guess that makes sense. (Maybe I just know so many people in that age group with so much less responsibility.)
The angelfish-looking Minbari ships <3
If you believe in yourself you can punch your way out of the mind prison (I mean...it didn't work yet, but it might)
I think B5 as a show does well with naming things. I mean, maybe it's just familiarity at his point, but the Battle of the Line is simple, evocative, and IMO gives you an idea of what it was about
Goodbye Benson we hardly knew ye
Yeah where exactly are these "Knights" from?
I think the guy playing the interrogator would be great to see on stage.
Another human supremacist conspiracy theorist, boooo
"Maybe the universe blinked" I do like that line
"There is a hole in your mind" that was from the pilot movie we missed on the rewatch schedule, wasn't it?
:D :D :D (my reaction to the triluminary [did I remember that correctly?] appearing)
I know who that waaaaaaaas
YES you CAN punch your way out of the mind prison if you love your station enough
Delenn we (the audience) still want MANY more answers about what you were doing during the war
I have a feeling this guy is going to be interrogated by psycops as soon as he gets back to Earth
Secrettsssssss I love this dynamic though
It's an interesting 90s thing that Sinclair is comfortable making a electronic/digital recording of this EXTREMELY sensitive information, these days my perspective is if you want it to be secret it's on paper hidden in your mattress or something
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Fourth
Yesterevening my kids, the 'spare kid' (my son's roommate) and I all went in to town to the big park where the fireworks display is held. We have only done that once before; usually we find a vantage point much further away to watch from. Parking was a little difficult, but it was (ha!) my son's problem; I am no longer the family chauffeur! We doused ourselves in bug spray, I grabbed the denim blanket, and we found a spot amidst the crowds.
I know 'found family' is supposed to be a literary device, but at my house, if people show up a few times, they end up invited to dinners and family events. Guess what, you're one of my kids, now. Not entirely sure how Roommate feels about this, but he sure doesn't mind the dinners.
The half-hour wait before the show passed pleasantly enough; the sky was beautiful for a while and the very hot day subsided into a reasonable, warm evening. Stories were traded; smartass remarks were made.
The actual show was longish but very good. We had settled in near the 'front', if the odd-shaped and amorphous area around the tennis courts could be said to have a front at all. Soon we noticed that we were being lightly pelted by gritty debris from the fireworks. That was a little concerning; nobody wanted to end the evening with burns (although Roommate is a welder, so he might not even notice) and three of us have fairly long hair. Fortunately, everything that fell on us was cooled just enough to be safe. Annoying, but safe. The bursts overhead were lovely, and the ending was one of the best I've ever seen. I've never seen a show from the vantage point of looking straight up, I guess. Hmm. That wonderful black drawing paper of mine. Could I draw fireworks convincingly? Hmm.
After the show we sauntered back to the car. Son was in charge of Very Carefully getting out of the park without hitting anyone's tired kids, wound-up dogs, or any other vehicles. Roommate had the aux. His playlist included 1985 by Bowling for Soup. Ha. I felt a little attacked, and said so. I was gently mocked by the callous youth. Meh. We'll see how they feel about that in the year 2055.
On the way home we took a slight detour to revisit the swimming hole, where my lost watch was FOUND (thank heavens) hiding between a big rock and a small, scruffy plant. I can't believe I picked up my towel and didn't make sure I had everything I wrapped up in it. Searching for things one has lost, an adhd habit I would NOT miss if it was taken from me.
Sleep was a long time coming. The fireworks and good company were worth it, though.
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Chapter 16 - The Ghosts of Babylon
Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete
Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut and violence Series tags: Joel Miller x You, Joel Miller x Reader, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, LGBTQ+ characters, y/n is bi/pan, y/n is ~45, violence, pregnancy, abortion, medical trauma, emotional trauma, panic attacks, sex work, suicide, smut, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romance, no use of y/n, reader has longish hair, Joel can lift you, smallish age gap (~11 years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3
~*~
You haven’t been to the attic in six weeks. The radio stays silent with no transmissions in or out. As each day passes, you feel a cold steel vice inside you begin to loosen its grip. To your superiors, you are a dead woman, and that’s just fine by you.
You can almost imagine coming out of this on the other side.
~*~
You and Ellie are sitting on the floor in the living room playing a game of Boggle when Joel stumbles through the door after patrol.
“Whoa,” Ellie says, jumping to her feet at his entrance, nearly upturning the board in her haste. You turn around and see Joel’s shirt spattered with fresh dark blood, traces running up his neck, threaded through his beard.
“What happened?”
“S’not mine,” he says gruffly. He unbuttons the shirt with trembling fingers, drops it to the floor, shucks off his boots.
“Hate to see the other guy,” Ellie mutters.
“Gonna shower,” he whispers hoarsely, bypassing you without meeting your eyes, socked feet heavy on the stairs. Soon there’s the sound of running water, the pipes groan as the heater kicks on.
You meet Ellie’s eyes, exchanging a silent look of worry.
“Might as well finish,” she sighs, plopping back down on the floor, rubbing at the bandage on her arm. “Your turn to roll.”
“Don’t scratch,” you say absently. She scowls but moves her hand away.
The two of you shake the dice, set the timer, and scribble out the words in a yellowed notebook. Ellie soundly kicks your ass, but you’re both distracted. The shower stays running upstairs, and soon you put the game away.
As you’re cleaning up, she ventures a tentative remark. “Joel seemed weird.”
“He’ll be fine,” you say reflexively. “Just a hard day.”
She snorts, watching as you move to the door and pick up Joel’s shirt, examining the blood stains. You feel her eyes on you as you take it to the sink, running cold water over the fabric.
Ever since the burn, she’s been muted and withdrawn, but Joel’s appearance has shaken her. Part of you thinks you should go to her, try to comfort her, but you know you’re not the one she wants.
When it’s clear you’re not going to be of much help, she huffs a frustrated sigh. “I’m going to bed,” she says flatly. “I have my headphones so I can’t hear you doing anything gross.”
She trudges upstairs, the slam of her bedroom door echoing down the narrow hall.
~*~
Eventually, you find yourself standing in the hallway outside Joel’s bedroom. The door hangs open a crack, an arc of yellow light from the bathroom spilling across the darkened floor.
“Joel?”
No response.
Feeling like an intruder, you approach the bathroom door, easing it open. He’s standing in the shower, back to you, braced on one arm against the wall. The room is damp but not exactly warm. The shower has run cold and he’s shivering under the stream.
“Joel?” Louder this time. He doesn’t stir at the sound of your voice, doesn’t move, save for the shaking of his shoulders.
A dark thought strikes you, makes your heart skip. The blood on his clothes, his face. His unnatural stillness, the jerky motion of his limbs, the sudden lack of awareness. Your mind goes blank with white-hot fear.
He’s infected. He was bit, and he’s infected. Run get out go–gogogo–
You barely hear him over the running water and the sound of your internal panic. He’s turned to you, staring with the same haunted look he brought home. He’s naked; you can see there are no bites, no wounds, just his usual scars, and tired, hopeless eyes.
“Christ, Miller, you’re freezing,” you say dumbly.
You grab a clean towel from the bedroom closet, wrapping it around his shoulders as he steps out of the tub, shivering. He seems to wake up at this, coming back to you as you rub the terrycloth into his shoulders and back, trying to generate heat.
“We got swarmed,” he says through chattering teeth. “Eliot got bit.”
You swallow hard. “Shit.”
He doesn’t have to tell you what he did out there.
“We barely made it out. They’re gonna send a bigger team tomorrow.”
You frown. “How are there so many?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t know. Somethin’s bringing ‘em to the area. Maria says…they’ve never seen anythin’ like it.”
“Will the wall hold?”
“Yeah…yeah, it should,” he sighs, shakily sitting on the bed. “But it’s makin’ patrols a hell of a lot harder. Shit, I can’t…can’t get warm,” he whispers.
“You’re in shock.”
As if to prove the point, his body gives a violent shake. “F-f-fuck.”
“C’mon. Under the covers,” you say. “Doctor’s orders.”
He groans but doesn’t resist when you pull the quilt back and urge him under it, wincing at the iciness of his skin. “Wanna roleplay, d-doc?”
“I don’t need to roleplay,” you say pointedly. “You’ve made yourself a regular patient.”
The bed creaks softly as you lay down next to him, pressing yourself closer to share your body heat over the covers. Slowly his trembling lessens.
“Gotta tell his wife,” he mumbles. “Fuck, we haven’t lost anyone in…f-fuck.”
“Someone from the council will take care of it,” you say, smoothing a damp curl off his forehead. You know the procedures by heart. Even grief is a shared effort in this place.
Joel’s breathing slows, the shaking finally having worked its way out of his limbs. You graze a fingertip over his cheek and find it warm. In the dim light of the bathroom, you can see his eyes are already closed.
~*~
When you wake, the light outside has that dewy, moonlit look of early summer. Joel must have been up, because the room is bathed in darkness and his quilt is pulled up to your shoulders, over your clothes.
You reach out to find him. Your hand reflexively goes to his chest, checking his breathing. It’s steady, but not slow. His hand immediately finds yours and holds it there.
“Sorry…I woke you.”
“S’ok.” You edge toward him sleepily, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, breathing him in. Your eyes drift shut, threatening to pull you under.
He rolls to face you, large hands cupping the bones of your cheeks, your jaw, pulling you in for a long, slow kiss. Asking, wanting. His lips pillowy and sweet under yours, his tongue teasing, stroking, until you’re both breathless.
“Please,” he whispers hoarsely, broken.
He’s gentle in a way you couldn’t have imagined, whispering soft encouragement in your ear as he removes your clothes, peeling off each layer until your skin is pressed to his . The words flow from his lips as he runs them over your body in worship.
He fits himself inside you with practiced ease, one hand splayed at your back, moving with you. His other hand slips between your joined bodies and finds your center, delicious friction coiled low in your abdomen, a sweet release that washes over you like a tide. You moan into his mouth, feeling him grow inside you, pulsing, emptying himself.
Your lovemaking leaves you boneless, sated. You’re drifting in that liminal space when you feel the rumble of his chest, the soft purring of his mouth in your hair, and you become vaguely aware that he’s talking.
“Mmm?”
There’s a deep pause, long enough to convince you you must have dreamed it until he says the words, so soft, so faint.
“She’s immune.”
“...what?”
“She can’t be infected,” he says softly. “It’s…in her brain or somethin’. She was born…with it.”
You pull away, trying to read his face. “Ellie? How do you–”
“You can’t tell anyone,” he breathes, eyes boring into yours. “You can’t…they’ll take her.”
“I won’t,” you say automatically, feeling a dark pit boil in the center of your abdomen as you try to reassure him. “I won’t, but…who will take her?”
“The Fireflies tried to…we thought…thought there might be a cure.”
For a moment you’re so dumbfounded that you don’t even know what he’s referring to. A cure? A cure for what?
“...for the fungus? That’s…not possible,” you say slowly. “Cordyceps–it doesn’t…die. It’s too widespread at this point, there’s no…”
“Not a cure, then, a…a vaccine.”
Silence, the quiet hum of the house around you as you contemplate this.
“There was a hospital. In Utah. They were going to open her up…her brain–” he breaks off, swallowing hard.
Jesus.
“...and I was supposed to just take her out there, deliver her so they could just…carve her into pieces and…”
His hand finds yours, gripping it tightly.
“An’ I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t…let them…take her…even if it meant we’d never have to do this again,” he whispers. “Never have to worry about a bite…”
Your mind fills in the unspoken words.
Never have to shoot your patrol partner. Never have to watch your loved one’s eyes go empty, their skin crawling with infection. Never have to struggle to make each day mean something as the world crumbles around you.
“I know it makes me a selfish asshole…but I wouldn’t change a goddamned thing,” he whispers fiercely.
“And she doesn’t know,” you say faintly, a statement, not a question.
I think he’s lying to me.
A shuddering in-breath. “She needed it to…to mean something. She was so fuckin’ hopeful …and I just…killed it…
“Now she wakes up screamin’ and I can’t… shoot the nightmares away. I can’t… hurt them the way they hurt her, and I can’t…I can’t…she’s been through too much because of me. And now I can’t take it back, I can’t make it…right...”
You watch a tear slip quietly from the corner of his eye and drop into the tender shell of his ear.
“I put too much on her, I know that. But if she was gone, I…I couldn’t–”
And here he is, naked, cracked open and bleeding tears, and you don’t think you can stand it. He shudders, pressing his face into the crux of your shoulder like a small child seeking comfort.
Your fingers trail absently through his curls as you try to absorb everything–his words, his tears, his confession.
It makes sense now.
The scars. His fierce protection. Her blinding anger.
FEDRA’s interest.
That last thought lands heavily in your stomach, curdling like spoiled milk. You think of how close you’d come to serving the girl up on a platter to your superiors, who would no doubt find a way to make use of her. You think of how many secrets you’ve told…and how many lies.
You, of all people, have nothing to offer. Who are you to judge the shape of his cowardice? Save the world or save his girl, there was only ever one path. So you hold him, because there are no more words, and you wait for morning to come.
#fanfic#fic recs#the last of us hbo#joel miller#ellie williams#joel and ellie#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#the last of us
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