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whirlpool-blogs · 3 months ago

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whirlpool's personal MOTA fic recs!

I've actually been dying to put this together for a while now...today is as good an excuse as any! I might not know everyone's tumblrs vs ao3 names so I will NOT be offended if you tell me to correct something!! <3

the big list = going alphabetical order in my folder because YES I do download my favorites, it's like having your own little bookshelf!!

non-clegan fics:

nine mothers' sons by @reallylilyreally (truly beautiful, breathtaking, and **THE** John Brady bible for the fandom so make sure you pray to it every night)

at your heels by @reallylilyreally (this one is Ev Blakely, another really beautiful story that helps you understand just why Crosby's memoir speaks of Blakely with such love and affection)

clegan (or gale-centric, or john-centric) fics:

A Direct Solution by @sweaterkittensahoy (Gale & Marge proposition Bucky...so cute and so hot)

ain't it easy? by @stereobone (dom/sub with john as the dom but ohhh man it's so much more than just that!!!!! this fic is so full of FEELS. and it's also HOTTTT. and also the FEELSSSSS.)

all the rest of what I want with you by @london-cowboy (the level of care that went into writing this fic is insane and impeccable. down to its own internal timeline, little egan kiddos, and the ANGST. but it's all worth it, I promise!!)

back home where you're from, that's the measure of a man by wolfhalls (nice little oneshot of the bucks, I love the back-and-forth of their dialogue in this one, it really does feel like two people who know each other well)

bittersweet between my teeth by @blixabargelds (post-war adjustment...love when the two majors are a little messy and a little sad and also john calls gale the prettiest thing he ever saw so there's that <3)

bluebirds singing a song by ourdarkspirits (Marge jumps Bucky's bones. Then Gale joins. Super fun, super hot!)

Close and Yet Closer by Anonymous (LITERALLY THE MOST!!!!!! FIC OF ALL TIME!!!!!!! Gale is a little bit mean and John is a lot bit sweaty. Like all the time. it's amazing and you should read it and it WILL change your life.)

Corpse Song by birdwif (oof. john is miserable in the stalag he's scratching at the door he's gnawing his own leg off.)

deep breath baby by @defnotanarc (um FISTING. yeah. intense and delicious. side note sometimes the world isn't fair and people who are really talented and amazing at drawing are also really good WRITERS too LIKE WTF!!)

DOG DINNER by @wompire (super interesting writing style, extremely poetic and striking. hits you right in the gut.)

everything and the kitchen sink by @swifty-fox (YEAH THIS ONE WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE TOO. modern au where gale is a professional dom and john is a journalist who hornily consents to both (1) fucking around, and (2) finding out. in top ten fics of the decade in general tbh)

Freed From Desire by @feyd-meowtha (yoooooo such a fun and free and sexy fic!!! such a great writing style and such a cool remix of all the characters we know and love!)

He wears his love around his neck by kasugayamaisforlovers (Gale character study, he tries to run his little gay thoughts away which is always so fun to see)

hold me like a knife by storm_warning (tw: self-harm, this REALLY gets into John's self-destructive stalag spiral and it's super visceral and wet and heart-wrenching and written with such, such care and precision)

Hound Within the Heart by Anonymous (fairy-tale esque, gets super crazy and pushes the limits of reality but in the best ways possible)

I Don't Wanna Be Alone Tonight by @johnslittlespoon (cuddling for warmth <3 and then a little more <3 <3 so sweet and intimate!!)

I Like A Bad Boy by @nicijones (modern college AU and bucky is a fratty fuckboy type & in this fic he DOES punch a guy for Gale and it's all very hot and sweet and a delight to read)

i wish you wouldn't tell me (about your hawaiian party) by @whitetrashjj (when the fuckbuddies thing gets messyyyyyy because gale catches feelingsssssss, so delicious and meaty!!)

if that isn’t love, it’ll have to do by @irregularcollapse (ALWAYS such incredible character reads from this author, never misses. also facefucking. also FACEFUCKING <3)

i'll be seeing you by @puffanities (a quick 1.6k oneshot but still packed with some really great characterization and powerful language!! 'when the numbers of planes don’t match...')

i'll find you before the dust settles by butidontreallycare (a Westworld AU!! super cool)

in our bedroom after the war by @stereobone (one of those fics that's just like. a pillar of the community, y'know? iconic. classic. eternal.)

Into the Unknown by Melanie_Mikaelson (big win for john whump enjoyers. BIG win. like 20+ chapters of winning)

it ain't for meatball by @meyerlansky (Curt/Bucky. Curt puts the dog collar on Bucky....and it's HOTTTT arf arf i'm barking just like bucky is in this fic...)

It's Not Love, but It's Fun by @sweaterkittensahoy (Curt/Bucky, 500 words so it's short and sweet just like Curt ahahahaha, ANYWAY still such an interesting little read regardless!)

judgment by the hounds by @puffanities (PG, very visceral and tender apology after the stalag fight scene <3)

level-off maneuvers by wormringers (sweet little oneshot of the Bucks in London)

little fix by ForASecondThereWedWon (Algeria <3 <3 you just kNOW those two gay pilots were sniffing and huffing and licking each other's sweat.....this author GETS it)

love means nothing (in tennis) by @irregularcollapse (fics that make you go WEEEEEEEE!!!! every word, every physical action that these characters take is SO precise and well-written. truly like wrapping a soft bathrobe around yourself and also the bathrobe is incredibly sexy and also they're sucking each other off post-game but PRE-shower. also gale's dad!! also margie!! truly such a well crafted AU)

make you feel alive by @sig-nifier (really sweet little oneshot of gale being a little protective of john. and i am ALWAYS a sucker for the 'call off your dog' trope... and it's done perfectly here!)

meet me at the chapel by @swifty-fox (still in-progress and SUCH a creative, inventive universe!! outlaw john you will always be famous to me!!!!)

my kingdom for a kiss upon your shoulder by @swifty-fox (swift can really weave a story like no one else. so many lines that pack a punch. and in the end, they make it <3)

my type by @spaceshipkat (this one is SOOOOO well-written, I always go so crazy for the dialogue!!! such a great push-pull dynamic in this fic)

night terror by @antiquitea (hot! and sweet! and HOT! and angsty!!!!! highlights include: gale gives john a literal countdown deadline to get off)

Obligate Mutualism by bowhuntress (Gale-centric story of trying to get John through the stalag, then returning the England without Bucky, a fic very obviously written with a lot of care and love)

obsessions, and other things by @sig-nifier (the Bucks cope. really great pacing and dialogue, and I always love when fics take the care to delve into john's struggle with alcoholism as well)

of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world (he walks into mine) by @whitetrashjj (really fun parallel universe where Buck owns a bar, just a great read all-around!)

Oh, I do, do I? by @defnotanarc (DIRTY TALK, like the most delicious, incredible dirty talk you can imagine, this fic nails it!!)

One of your Girls by @soliloquy-dawn (9k oneshot and it's great all the way through, Gale is jealousssss of John fucking around, don't worry they resolve it <3, definitely captures that innocence of pre-Bremen MOTA episodes)

peacetime like a liminal space by @spaceshipkat (this one is PHENOMENAL. post-war, John goes to New York City and turns out it doesn't fill the emptiness. luckily Gale shows up. <3)

Putting Words to It by @impalachick (YEAH THIS ONE IS REALLY HOT. John is a snoop and reads Gale's letters to Marge <3)

Reunited by Flowersandthings (PG, cute & funny oneshot of the Bucks being reunited after Gale makes it over from Greenland!)

Reverie by @avonne-writes (REALLY creative, well-crafted story. Gale and John are soulmates and can visit each other's dreams since adolescence. INCREDIBLE journey and arc in this story, the stalag part is just wow. truly such a gift to the fandom!!).

Rugire by Anonymous (umm omegaverse-ish but with deer dynamics. messy. and SO good.)

SHOTGUN. by pornogirl (YEAH this one is awesome, it's not safe it's not sane but oh boy it is consensual)

Song of Songs by @swifty-fox (sweaty sex sweaty sex sweaty sex)

Spin, Sit, Roll-Over by @glumbabie (Gale is a little mean to John and it's VERY sexy of him tbh. 'DOGS DON'T TALK'???? 'YOU CAN EAT'???????? yeah. read this.)

the chimneys hardly ever fall down by @redbelles (another Gale/Marge + John, and it's HOT. it's SEXY it's awesome!!)

the hand of a good man by @stereobone (John rewrites Gale's daddy history <3)

the jacket by @dogmetaphors (REALLY great sense of dialogue and characterization even in 1.6k words, also shamelessly horny and SO yummy)

The Major’s Wife by tryingmyhandatwriting (John/Original Female Character but like. give this one a chance, I'm telling you!! I'm always soooo compelled by sex scenes that like. are actually a little bit unhappy. and this one SERVESSSSS.)

this must be the place by @blixabargelds (BIG win for Gale whumpers. broken bone and LOTS of blood and super well-written)

To be alone with you by Damn_Illusive (THIS ONE IS SO, SO SPECIAL AND CREATIVE!! freaky army experimentation gives gale and john telepathic communication. incredible separation arc while gale is in the stalag. really, really unique story that is such a staple in my mind as one of the the most incredible clegan stories ever. I think about this one A LOT!!!)

To the Moon and Back by @rambleonwaywardson (iconic astronaut AU, written with SUCH care and love, it's so obvious!! and BIG win for john whumpers. who said that -)

Tough And Sweet (Like You And Me) by @johnslittlespoon (sooo fun and creative and inventive, Bikeriders-esque!Gale and a sweeter, more innocent John. really well crafted)

trading paper dolls by ForASecondThereWedWon (Alex draws Gale pinup girl style in the stalag.....John swipes it.... super great fic!)

two slow dancers by everywordnotsaid (unrequited love, John for Gale, through their journey. I genuinely, actually sobbed for a long time at the conclusion of this fic. I am always thinking about this fic. I think it really captures something about the experience of watching the show and realizing in that hopeless, lovesick kind of way that there's no way to go back in time and save all of them. I still get teary whenever I think about this story or hear the song. It's one of those fics that's not just good, not just great, but somehow also really fucking IMPORTANT. this story MATTERS. you should absolutely read it and save it and imprint it onto your heart. I know it's imprinted onto mine.)

Un Chant d’Amour by @counting0nit (really intriguing take on the interrogation center time frame!)

unicorns, and other extinct animals by @spaceshipkat (really, really incredible reading experience. something that actually touches other aspects of my life, even now. I see planes overhead and I think about this fic. I see letters on a table and I think about this fic. just. this author GETS IT, you know? just absolutely nails every aspect of this kind of fic: post-war adjustment, the pain, the LOVE. this fic will make you FEEL it. let it happen.)

Up In Our Bedroom by @steeseman (ICONIC. really one of those pillars of the community type fics, y'know? it's funny and it's sweet and it's painful and the hot parts are HOT. clearly written with SO much care, and SO much love, and SO much precision. every single word packs a punch. absolutely one of my top reads of all time, across time, across fandoms)

When the bones are good by @aramblingjay (a really incredible post-war fic, such a beautiful, rich writing style!! isn't afraid to dig at the hard parts - john's relationship with alcohol, their nightmares from the war. stunning visuals -- the author uses setting and place and motion in such a tangible, real way. I can still see the little hideout spot in my mind's eye, even now. one of those fics that's just. such a treasure to the fandom.)

your dreams, whatever they be by @drylite (this one is super new, and it's just SUCH solid writing!)

You're A Dog (I'm Your Man) by @johnslittlespoon (one of those fics that's a pillar of the fandom for SURE!!! definitely a classic)

#mota fic #clegan #john egan #gale cleven #I LOVE U ALL SO MUCH #you're all so talented and creative!!!!!!#post

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macfrog · 1 year ago

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little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou #joel miller smut #fic: sex on fire

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toomuchracket · 1 month ago

Text

witching hour (dad birthday party!matty x reader fluff)

this is my fave promptober fic so far. hanging out with your seventeen year old, referencing practical magic... what's not to love? enjoy <3

the feeling of one of the cats brushing against your bare ankles shocks you out of the little trance you didn't know you’d fallen into, lulled into a stupor while rinsing soap suds off the dinner plates and listening to matty gently play the piano in the living room. looking down, you see it's giselle pawing at the faux fur on your slippers - of course it is, because eloise will doubtless be asleep on top of the piano, as close to matty as she can get.

you can't really blame her for that, though, can you?

giselle mewls, a sound that turns into a purr when you scoop her up into your arms and twirl her around, a poor imitation of the dancers in the ballet amy named her after. “is it dinnertime, baby?” you coo at the cat. “is that why you're bothering me? yeah, must be,” you gently set her down on the floor, wandering over to the cupboard with the tins of cat food and grabbing a couple to open. eloise pads in when you're laying hers and her daughter's bowls down, affectionately head-butting the other cat before they both tuck into their food. you smile as you leave the room. “be nice to each other, girls.”

the music gets louder as you turn corners towards the living room, its increasing intensity matched by a hint of cinnamon scent; you spot the candles matty must've lit on the coffee table as you enter the room, flickering flames working in conjunction with the warm glow from the lamps to make the concrete feel cosy. the light catches the silver in your husband's still-thick hair, curls more grey than they are dark now, and you can't stop yourself from burying your face in them once you reach him - he's stolen your shampoo, again, but you resolve not to bring it up. you've always liked matty using your things like that, glowed at the thought of him going about his day smelling like you, marked as yours; the latter is probably why you find yourself beaming at the sight of his wedding ring, glinting in the candlelight as his fingers dart across the ivory.

“hi, darling,” the smile in his voice is audible even with your face hidden in his hair. you feel it on your temple when you move to rest your head on his shoulder, arms wrapping around his chest as he kisses you. “y'alright?”

“mhmm. song's nice,” you close your eyes, letting the unfamiliar melody wash over you. “is it yours?”

“yeah. just an experiment,” matty nods to the sheet music shelf, where his phone sits recording the sounds. “might become something, might not.”

“i think it should.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. s'pretty.”

“maybe it should be about you, then. pretty melody for the prettiest.”

“oh, shush,” cheeks burning, you hide your face in matty's neck. he laughs, resolving the melody with a final couple of chords, before clicking the recording off and closing the lid over the keys. “did i make you stop? i'm sorry.”

“i'm not. c'mere,” matty shuffles the bench back, patting his lap; you slink between your husband and the instrument as best you can (making a mental note to remember that description and use it as some sort of allegory later), settling atop him and clasping your hands behind his neck. his meet behind your back, and he beams, that same smile you fell in love with. “i love you.”

“i love you,” you smile. “wanna make out?”

matty laughs, your favourite sound in the world. “amy still not left work, i take it?”

“what's that got to do with anything?”

“well, i'd rather avoid another bollocking from our seventeen-year-old about us necking in front of her, if i'm honest.”

“oh, please - she wouldn't even be here without us necking,” you roll your eyes as matty cackles. “but yes, she's still at work. ri's dropping her home tonight.”

“in that case, then,” matty crashes his lips onto yours, sighing into your mouth when it falls open in contentment; you whine into him when his tongue flicks against yours, instinctively grinding down onto his lap. the force almost sends the two of you flying backwards off the piano bench, and matty has to grip the piano itself to stay upright. he laughs against your lips, pulling back - he's wild-eyed and out of breath, and he's maybe never looked more beautiful. “couch?”

you nod, kissing his nose. “couch,” you move to climb off your husband, but he has other ideas; you squeak as he swivels on the seat and stands, lifting you with him and crossing the room to the sofa with ease. admittedly, you're dropped quite unceremoniously onto the cushions, but you're well-used to matty's gracelessness after all these years together, and the way he climbs on top of you and kisses you desperately, fiercely, sloppily… you won't complain about anything as long as he keeps kissing you like that, and he does, until you're forced to break apart just to take in some pesky oxygen. he rests his head on your chest, and you twirl a curl around your finger. “you know, i really think sofa snogging is my favourite type of snogging.”

“sofa or shower, yeah,” matty hums. he turns to look up at you, smirking. “same goes for sex. and we haven't had sofa sex in a while, darling…”

you're unmoved. “yes, but we shower-shagged less than five hours ago, matthew.”

“and? i could go again.”

“could you?”

“yeah! three rounds, non-stop. m'serious.”

“baby,” you giggle, scratching his scalp. “you've never been able to do that with me.”

“s'your fault, that.”

you frown. “how?”

matty smiles, right hand sneaking under your (well, his) jumper and kneading gently at your tit; when his thumb brushes over your nipple, you whimper, and he moans. “you're too fucking hot, darling. can't help giving you everything i've got.”

“i like it when you do that.”

“and you take it so fucking well,” his voice is lower, breathier, sexier, and your resolve is wavering. “come on, sweetheart,” he coos, pushing the sweater up enough that he can flick his tongue over your nipple, humming into your soft skin when you moan. “let me fuck you.”

fuck it. “alright, let's-”

the front door slams. “mum? dad?”

matty groans into you, sorting your top and sitting up; you follow, biting back a giggle as you climb onto matty's lap and position yourself as innocently as possible. “we're in the living room, munchkin.”

“‘kay,” there's a sound of a bag clattering to the floor, fabric rustling, two loud thwacks as - presumably - your daughter kicks her shoes off; she pads into the room a minute or so later, hunching slightly forward in the way she inherited from matty, a surefire sign of their tiredness, and flops onto the armchair opposite you. she sighs, and then her pretty face - are you biased if you say that, given that it's basically the same as yours? - twists in disgust. “eww, you're snuggling.”

matty hugs you tighter. “yeah, and?”

“and it's weird when old people do it.”

you open your mouth, but matty beats you to a response. “my god, you're in the door less than two seconds and you're already being ageist,” he sighs, faux-dramatically, and amy smiles in spite of herself. “old. your mum's still in her forties!”

“not for long, though,” amy fires back; she winces when she sees your raised brows, though. “sorry, mum. let me retract that - you're still young, dad's a cradle robber, etc etc.”

“a five year age gap isn't cradle robbing, amy.”

“methinks thou doth protesteth too much, father.”

“for fuck's sake,” matty facepalms. he flicks your nose. “that's all you, that. sarcasm, and shakespeare talk,” he turns his attention back to your smirking daughter. “why are you so snarky tonight, anyway? that time of the month?”

“jesus, dad, no,” amy shakes her head, shuffling to further curl up on the chair. “work was just a bit shit. m’just frustrated, i s'pose. sorry.”

you wave insouciantly. “we've all been there, munchkin, don't worry about it. was today that big party you were telling us about? for the new exhibition?”

“yeah, it was massive. so much stuff sold that i was just on the desk the whole night putting in orders.”

“really? wow,” matty traces little patterns on your leg. “must've been good stuff, then.”

amy shrugs. “dunno, the stuff i saw was shite. reckon it's more just people jumping on the bandwagon of this guy cos he graduated top of his class at parsons, and that apparently means he's the next big thing,” she rolls her eyes. “just another white guy who thinks he's basquiat resurrected, if you ask me.”

matty cackles, face settling into the proudest beaming smile you've ever seen. he nudges you. “we've really done such a good job raising her, haven't we?”

amy rolls her eyes again; she can't keep the little smile from her face, though. “you're really weird, you know, dad. and sappy.”

he shrugs. “it works for your mum.”

“gonna ignore the use of present tense there,” your daughter peels herself from the chair, stretching as she stands. “and leave you two to your… canoodling. i need a shower.”

“alright, darling,” you hold out your hand as she passes you, smiling when she squeezes it. “there's some dinner left over if you want it.”

“what kind of dinner?”

“lasagne.”

“my favourite!” amy gasps excitedly, running back in and kissing your head. “you're a legend, mum,” smirking, she ruffles matty's hair. “you're alright, too, i s'pose.”

“love you, munchkin,” he calls after her as she speeds through to the kitchen, then rests his head on your shoulder. “she's so cool.”

“well, she's half me.”

“oi,” matty lightly pinches your thigh. “i was there at her conception too.”

“oh, i remember,” smiling, you kiss him, a quick little peck that still manages to make your heart race. “will you play that thing you were playing earlier, please?”

“only if you sit beside me,” he kisses back. “i'd miss you if you were all the way over here and i was over there.”

“my sweet little codependent angel,” you coo, laughing when your husband rolls his eyes. “of course i'll sit beside you, my darling.”

that's how amy finds the two of you when she returns to the living room over two hours later - sat as close as physically possible to each other, your body curving towards matty's while he plays, both of you murmuring lyric ideas to each other and editing them together in real-time. most people would find that adorable, you think, but not your seventeen-year-old. she makes a retching sound, plopping herself onto the couch. “you're still canoodling? wow.”

“we're working, actually,” matty retorts, resolving the melody with a final chord and swivelling round to face your daughter; you do the same.

her brow furrows. “on a saturday night?”

you shrug. “why not?”

“s'pose,” she picks a bit of fluff from her leggings with a sigh. “at least you're doing something. i dunno what to be up to, to be honest.”

you move to join her on the sofa; she snuggles into you the same way she's done since she was tiny, and matty smiles. “no parties tonight?”

amy shakes her head. “nobody wants to go out, either,” she sits bolt upright, big brown eyes widening in panic. “not that i ever go out out, y'know, but-”

“chill out, ames, your mum and i both snuck into places before we were eighteen,” matty joins the two of you on the sofa, throwing himself down on amy's other side. “well, i did. mum was probably too much of a swot to bother.”

the two of them giggle, and you stick your tongue out at them. “you didn't know me back then, matthew. i could've been wild.”

“but you weren't, though, were you, mum?” amy pats your arm sympathetically (and only mildly condescendingly).

“not really. but i made up for it,” you swat at both of them in a feeble attempt to stop their giggling. “your dad can testify to that.”

“really?”

“oh, yeah,” matty grins. “your mother's yoshed in more plant pots than anyone else i've ever met. speaking of,” he stands. “anyone want a drink?”

amy thinks for a second, then nods. you nod, too, an idea popping into your head; you tap your daughter on the leg. “d'you remember when we watched practical magic the other week?”

“yeah.”

you grin. “we could do midnight margaritas. well,” you check your watch. “quarter-to-eleven margaritas. if you guys want.”

amy's eyes light up; so do matty's identical ones. “can we actually?”

“yeah, we've got tequila,” you think for a second, looking at matty. “we do, don't we?”

he nods. “i bought that bottle for the boys coming over that nobody actually opened, remember?”

“oh, that's right,” you grimace. “george drank all my fucking vodka, ames.”

she giggles. “did he pay you back for it?”

“yeah, auntie charli sorted him out,” you stand, holding a hand out to each of your loves. “shall we?”

as he stands, matty grabs amy's other hand, yanking her up between you the way she used to beg you to do when she was little. she giggles, swinging her arms as you lead her and her father to the kitchen. “remember when i used to insist that we walked around like this everywhere?”

“of course. i miss it, to be honest,” you smile, pulling her into a half-hug when you enter the kitchen; matty wraps his arms around both of you. “but i accept that it's uncool and a bit fucking weird to be holding hands with your parents in public when you're nearly eighteen.”

matty sighs, the sound muffled by amy's hair. “eighteen. you were a baby five minutes ago. a little baby, trying to tell me that no, then because she goes was not in fact my song, it was mummy's, because she used to sing it to you and i didn't,” he lifts his head up to grin at you, while amy giggles. “why did you go for that one, by the way?”

“she was crying and i was just like ‘oh, please don't cry’ when i was trying to get her to calm down, and then i thought fuck it and started singing,” you shrug. “and it worked, so…”

“aww, mum,” amy rests her head on your shoulder. “that's cute. i didn't know that story either.”

“one of my favourite backstage memories, you pestering your dad about why he was singing my song.”

the man in question leans round to kiss your cheek. “i was mostly just flattered that someone mistook my writing for yours, to be honest. only time that's ever happened,” he leans round the other way to kiss your daughter's cheek. “thanks for that, munchkin.”

she pats his arm. “i wish i could say anytime, but…”

you and matty practically collapse into giggles, moving to turn the huddle into a proper group hug. moments like these are your favourite, spent laughing with the people you love most in the world; of course, there's one thing that would make it better. “right,” you wriggle out of the hug, moving to grab the tequila and glasses. “time for a drink. ames, could you grab some limes and cut them, please? but do it off-centre, they're easier to juice.”

matty protests. “i could do that! why are you getting our baby to hold a knife?”

“statistically, she's less likely to injure herself doing that than you are, darling.”

he blinks for a second, then closes his mouth. “probably true, actually,” he kisses your cheek. “i'll get the ice.”

“thank you,” once you're done salting the rim of the glasses, you plug in the blender and look over to your daughter. “you doing alright, amy?”

“mhmm,” she brings the bowl of lime juice over, just as matty drops ice into the glasses and moves to stand beside you. “wait. do you know the rhyme?”

you beam. “d'you want me to do it?”

she grins cheekily, a expression scarily like one of matty's; you can see him smiling out the corner of your eye, too. “yes please, mum.”

“alright,” you clear your throat. “eye of newt and toe of frog,” the tequila is poured, and you ready the cointreau. “wool of bat and tongue of dog,” in it goes, soon to be followed by your daughter's contribution. “adder's fork and blindworm sting, tesco lime is just the thing,” you smile at matty and amy’s laughter, grabbing the tub of maldon flakes. “cragged salt like a sailor's stubble, flip the switch and let the cauldron…” pausing dramatically after you put the lid on the contraption, you press a manicured nail into the on/off button. “...bubble!”

amy cheers, clapping along and elbowing matty until he applauds too. bowing as best you can while holding the lid on the blender, you laugh. “thank you, thank you. i'm here all week,” turning off the appliance, you take the lid off to look at the liquid - the smell makes your eyes water. “oh, jesus christ, that's strong. apologies in advance, ames.”

she smirks. “will we need to get a plant pot ready for you, mum?”

“less of the cheek, you,” a matching smirk appears on your face, and you nod towards matty. “he's the one who can't hack tequila.”

“liar,” matty pinches your hip, smiling into your neck when you squeak in protest. “pour them, and i'll prove i actually can, then, darling.”

“alright,” nudging your husband to move back, you pour the cocktail into the three glasses, sliding one to matty and amy each. “are we toasting?”

“sure. cheers,” amy clinks her glass off yours, then her dad's, beaming. “let the witching hour commence.”

#mads muses #mads does writing #promptober75 #into the birthday partyverse #birthday baby #amy #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy fanfic #matty healy fic #matty healy fluff #matty healy x reader #matty x reader

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ddoxhan · 2 years ago

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prettiest to me

I'll write the melody, you write the words for me it might not be the prettiest, but it's the prettiest to me

word count : 2k words

genre : fluff & fluff; when minji wrote a melody and asks if you could write lyrics for it; minji's a simp for you; singer-songwriter! minji x uni student! fem! reader

t/w : slightly suggestive(?) ig (idk how to do this we ride or die)

a/n : to commemorate the ending of pr stunt by @silantryoo, here's a minji oneshot to thank bestie silan on making me squeal at 3am with this smau, it was a wonderful journey and I still can't believe it ended :') this marks my first nwjns fics :3 plot has nothing to do with pr stunt and I wrote this in one sitting so there might be errors or just weird flow since I didn't proofread enjoy !!

"babe! come down for a minute!"

"what is it? I'm a little busy with my assignments."

"that can wait, I'm more important here."

"well, you aren't wrong."

just as you reach the foot of the stairs, you don't seem to see your girlfriend anywhere in sight. that's when you figured she was in her mini recording studio. she would always be there if it wasn't the garden, which is her favorite spot for handling her work.

"so, how may I help you, my dearest minji?"

you weren't sure why she needed you in here, when you made it a fact that you weren't exactly musically gifted with that time you tried to serenade her but failed miserably (you practiced real hard and she appreciated your efforts).

"can you cook up some lyrics for this melody I wrote?"

"me? are you sure that's okay? I mean hanni would be able to create a masterpiece with your melodies, better than I could ever."

"sure she can, but this is for us. I write the melody, and you write the words."

"umm, okay? don't expect too much out of it though."

it would be a lie that minji didn't have a slightest expectation because she knew you had a way with your words. that was one of the reasons why she fell for you, amongst hundreds of them. utmost of all, you treat her real good, like she's your world and your one and only, which isn't wrong at all. you do love her more than yourself, and you don't mind throwing yourself in front of a truck for her (which had her smacking you on the back when you told her that).

as much as you don't enter her studio, there was only one chair and of course, it was already taken by the owner. minji saw how your eyes were searching for an extra one, so she just put her hands over your waist before pulling you over onto her lap.

the slight red tint on your ears doesn't go unnoticed by her, making her heart swell at the fact that you still burn bright red whenever she gets intimate. despite being together for years, you still do, and that reassures her that you feel the same for her, just as she does for you.

"I c-could have just gotten another chair from the kitchen."

"yeah, but I like it this way."

minji snakes her arms around your waist, giving you her signature cheeky smile, which you have a love-hate relationship with. it's just so annoying, but endearing because you love her. all you could do is role your eyes at it and pretend you don't like it.

she leans forward to get her earphones before handing you one side, putting the other into her own ear. with a click on the space bar, the melody she had just finished perfecting flowed out in the earphones.

with every stroke of the electric guitar, you found yourself lost in her eyes, and same goes to her. it made you feel so nostalgic as you reminisce the moments you shared with minji. the first time you met her, all the dates you went to, all the hours you spent staring at her eyes more than the scenery, all the times you said 'I love you' (that were three times in total of the 3 years you've been together for).

you just knew, this wasn't just some typical love song. it was your love song. yours only to listen to, which made you so sure, that you were going to spend the rest of your life with this girl in front of you, kim minji.

it made you feel loved by her, and also made you realize how madly in love you were with her. so this was why she insisted on you writing the lyrics. you didn't know how only just a melody could make you feel this way. god are you smitten by kim minji.

"min, you're a genius."

"are you sure? I'm pretty sure you literally just called me an idiot two days ago."

"I take it back, you're a bitter meanie."

"hey! you can't blame me for having good memory."

your glare seemed so 'intimidating', minji couldn't help but crack a smile at your attempt at being scary. and you followed suit, weak at how her lips would curl up and her eyes folding into crescents.

"you're adorable."

"don't think you're off the hook just because you call me cute."

"didn't think of that but yes, you are cute and I love you too."

she leans forward to steal a kiss on your lips, smiling sweetly at you as she stares into your eyes again. knowing the effect she had on you, minji purposely did so because it was fun to see you flustered, which makes you a thousand times cuter than you already are (minji's words not mine).

and she was absolutely accurate with how the red tint on your ears prolong and your gaze fall to the ground.

"so how was the melody? what makes you say I'm a genius just hearing that?"

you glance over at minji, full of curiosity and anticipation, as if she doesn't know how that melody just made you fall for her further.

"because that screamed 'I love you and no one else'? you just made me remember the feeling of being in love with you, baby."

to be honest, minji's heard countless 'I love you's' and 'baby's' in her entire career. but when it comes from you, it makes her heart flutter and all giggly like a lovesick schoolgirl. she too, remembers when you spell it out for her.

the feeling of being in love, and specifically with you. she could never forget how she fell for you. it wasn't love at first sight, but she did realize she was in love with you at a particular moment. that moment you smiled at her as you pulled her along by her wrist to the arcade. she didn't know what it was, but that endearing smile that tugged perfectly on your lips led her to offer you her heart.

and it was the same smile minji loved seeing every day, the smile you only showed when it came to her. you could very well call it 'minji-exclusive smile' and your friends would 100% agree because there was just a different glint in your eyes and a higher tug against your lips when it was for her. dani mentioned that and was so supportive of you two while hanni gives you her signature side eye. (she secretly likes you two together because you treat her bestie well and vice versa)

"now that you say it, I guess it does sound like that. well then I believe you have your inspiration right there."

"of being in love you?"

"yes, that, and us. this is our song, so it's about us, our love."

"I suppose I can start from there."

you still can't get used to minji using the word 'love' so easily, rolling off her tongue like it meant nothing. but you knew she means it every single time she stares into your eyes, saying it with utmost warmth. she makes you feel at home, as you are wrapped up in her arms. although you two are cotton candy clouds most of the time, there will always be times where you two bicker and argue over something unimportant just like other couples out there. even so, voices are never raised and what more physical.

it was an agreement made at the start of your relationship and it was never once broken, which made you love minji more than you thought you could ever. your previous relationship begged to differ, so you were honestly afraid to start another one. yet this girl in front of you showed you that you were worth every drop of love she could offer, every kiss you shared, every night you spent cuddling with her. the list could go on and on, and she would still have so much to give to you because you deserve it.

"then there's that. now you can attend to your assignments, but make sure to be down here later for dinner."

minji squinted her eyes at you, making you look away as you remember how you used to starve yourself just to finish your thesis. all that was past you when you moved in to live with her. of course it was when she'd make you meals so you never skip, and being the stubborn person she is, she makes sure you finish it. (minji treats you like a kid but she does so because you do act like one at times, and she's not complaining since she loves taking care of you)

"okay, mom."

you lift yourself off from her lap to get back to whatever you were working on, but as you did, she pulled you back down. what she does next catches you so off guard, you push her away, running out of the studio before she can see how you're about to explode from embarrassment.

"I don't think you suck your mom's lips off, do you?"

to top it off, she puts her lips near your ears and whispered, extremely seductively. her breath tickled and lingered against your skin in the best way possible. you couldn't deny though, you quite literally sucked her lips off the other time you spent the last friday movie night, making out with the movie just playing on in the background. if someone were to ask you about that movie, you were sure you aren't going to be able to tell them what it was about. you apologized to her after the session when you saw how red and swollen her lips when you two finally got out of it. (your lips weren't any better either)

"I hate you."

"thanks babe, I love you too."

you were pouting as you made your way back upstairs, but was stopped by your beloved girlfriend before you could take a seat to continue your assignment. minji threw her arms over your shoulder, hugging you from the back as you refuse to look at her. she loves teasing you because you just give her the best reactions, and it's become a routine.

"if you keep teasing me, I'm not writing the lyrics."

"what's that gotta do with the lyrics? you promised, and remember, no breaking promises."

"that's up to me."

folding your arms across your chest, you turn your head to the left because minji leaned forward to look at you from the right.

"babe."

"what?"

just as you turn your head back to the right, kim minji once again steals another peck on your lips. if she thinks she can get you to stop being 'angry' at her with this, she is absolutely right. (she just knows you too well, and also because she knows you love her very much)

when she notices the way your lips become less pouty, minji tightens the hug as she buries her head in the crook of your neck. she takes a seat on the chair with her still hugging onto you like a bear, mumbling against your skin, sending shivers down your spine (in a good way).

"don't be angry with me."

"I'm not..."

when clingy minji shows up, you just know you can never win against her.

"you will write the lyrics right?"

"of course, I made a promise. and I'll make it the prettiest in the world so you won't be disappointed."

"if it's written by you, I'll love it no matter what. you can write me a nursery rhyme, and I'd give you a nobel prize."

her jokes never fail to crack you up, as if her sense of humor was built to match yours. she never fails to amaze you every single day you wake up to seeing her by your side, soundly asleep. minji used to suffer a lot from insomnia but from the day you slept by her side, there wasn't a single night she spent awake.

"whatever you write, I just know it's gonna be the best. even if you think it may not be the prettiest, it's the prettiest to me."

"you're the prettiest to me."

#minji #kim minji #newjeans #newjeans fluff #newjeans imagines #newjeans scenarios #newjeans x reader #new jeans x reader #minji x reader #Spotify

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live-love-be-unique · 1 year ago

Text

But It’s Home To Me

Summary: Eddie was meant to be the next metal god but things didn’t work out and he ended up a mechanic stuck in Hawkins, but with you by his side, that might not be such a bad thing.

This was inspired by a line from one of my favourite songs, Tomorrow by Shakey Graves, that just screamed Older Eddie to me:

Well, you love this heart and this six string, girl, oh

But they've been outta tune yeah for some time.

Parings: Older Eddie Munson x f reader

Warnings: none.

The dull ache that had started in his left shoulder as he drank his morning coffee had steadily traveled its way down into his lower back throughout the day and then, by the time he headed home it had reached his knees. I’m not old enough to have shitty knees, he thought, running a hand over his tired eyes, I’m only in my thirties.

As he drove home he remembers Wayne working the same long hours at the same garage, returning every night to the same trailer park the same ache in his bones and the bitterness returned as it always seemed to do lately, it was a sharp buzzing sound that filled his brain with a familiar doubt.

Eddie reached over and turned the radio up as Metallica filled the cabin of his old van, he could feel his grease covered fingers tapping out the familiar guitar chords. He still played of course as a way to keep connected to his dreams, and to make a little extra money on the side. Tutoring some of the kids in Hawkins was fun but not as fun as being on stage.

Corroded Coffin, his old band had traveled to Chicago to submit their demo tapes to a big music exec, who took their tapes and gave their music to another band without even giving them a chance. The band had broken up a few years later, he still kept in touch with the guys of course, getting together for regular jam sessions, they all had families of their own so those jam sessions were few and far between.

We could have been up there with the greats, the bitter thought invading his brain as the final notes of Enter Sandman die out. I should have put this shithole town in my rear view mirror years ago and never looked back.

He hadn’t though, he needed the money so Wayne had pulled some strings and gotten him some shifts at the garage and he never left. His shoulders felt heavy and the buzzing in his brain got louder as he pulled into the trailer park. Can’t even afford a proper house.

He’d met you on his first day, the world's prettiest receptionist he’d thought, he couldn’t even get the words out when you smiled at him at the end of his first day and asked how everything had gone.

He was smitten, so he went to Steve the next day for advice about how to ask you on a date. He tried to be smooth, he had a whole speech planned out, but when he saw you, he’d shyly stumbled out the words “would you want the movies…with me?” He cringes to this day at the memory. But you just smiled and accepted and that Friday night you were sharing popcorn as you watched Michael Myers disembowel teenagers, and later, when he dropped you off at your house he kissed you and asked you to be his.

You were his for two years, you were his own personal sunshine, he’d pick you up every morning and drive you home every night just to spend more time with you, you were never apart. Things were perfect, but that didn’t stop him from feeling guilty, like he was holding you back from something or someone better, someone like you deserved so much more than what he could offer, so he did what his father had done, he ran.

Fuck, Eddie thought, I was a fucking idiot, letting the best thing that ever happened to me slip through my fingers. He pulled into the driveway and turned off the ignition, he slumped down and leaned his head against the steering wheel, hands still tightly gripping the wheel.

His friends had told him that he was an idiot, he’d agreed of course, told him to get you back and somehow after six long months you had cautiously let him into your life again under the condition that he wouldn’t break your heart again. That was four years ago.

He looked up and glanced towards the kitchen window of his trailer and there you were, cooking dinner and swaying to some music. A soft smile graced his worn out features as he watched you sway along to the music playing.

Dropping his bag by the door as he entered your small trailer, chuckling a little at the familiar strains of your current favourite song playing softly. Eddie made his way to the kitchen. He watched you for a while as you cut up vegetables for dinner, you were wearing that little sundress he loved so much, god, he thought, you’re so gorgeous, he moved forward, wrapping his arms around your waist, he smiled as you jumped in surprise. Eddie pulled you tighter against his chest as his head dropped down to rest in the crook of your neck.

“Missed you baby” Eddie mumbled against your skin. He ran his hands over your swollen belly, your son would be here in a few short months.

You ran your nails along his arms eliciting goose bumps, the shine from the small diamond on your left hand catching his eye. He’d felt bad about not being able to afford anything more, but you didn’t care about that, he remembered fondly that you had squealed with joy when he proposed. You never complained about not having more, you always said you were happy with your life, with him.

Eddie stayed like that while you cooked, needing to feel your comfort. Whatever shitty things happened at work always evaporated whenever you were around.

“Daddy!” A tiny voice came from behind the two of you as your daughter padded into the kitchen in her little Snow White princess dress. Eddie turned and scooped up the tiny little girl with the same unruly dark curls and dark eyes as his.

“Hi pumpkin” he smiled as he shifted the little girl in his arms, holding her on his hip as she wrapped her tiny, chubby arms around his neck.

“I made you a picture” your little girl, Evie, proudly informed him, showing him the finger painting she’d made clutched in her tiny hands.

“You did?” Eddie asked, taking the paper and examining the drawing “I love it pumpkin!” he said, putting it on the fridge.

“Steve called, wants to have us over for a barbecue this Saturday” you mention, placing dinner on the small table. “I was thinking of making potato salad”.

Eddie places his daughter in her high chair and takes a plate from you, “it would be good to see everyone again”

He smiles as he watches you feeding your daughter, the feelings of comfort and warmth of his little family slowly replacing the bitterness he felt earlier.

“What?” You smile up at him and his heart skips a beat, the same as it did the first day you met.

“Nothing” he smiles, maybe not being a rock star isn’t so bad. It’s not much, but it’s home to me.

#eddie munson #eddie x reader #eddie imagine #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson x female oc #eddie munson imagine #older eddie munson #eddie munson x you

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bl3ss3dbyt1amat · 10 months ago

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misc bg3 companion hc

this is so much. i have no idea and im also sorry. all of the origin companions included under the cut

astarion:

i feel like he claps funny. like hes clapping but its that specific way thats meant to be like quieter? like clapping on the palm of his hand. this might be projection but i feel like hes also the type of person to do like a little clap or a spin or his trademark ridiculous giggle whenever hes happy.

i think that hes prone to dramatics like. like pretending to fall on the floor and die if you say hes actually not on your mind 24/7. oh whats that? you dont think im the prettiest princess in the entire world? well astarion has dramatically fallen to the floor

in the early game astarion most definitely practiced his lines loudly and publicly (in camp). he cant even see himself in the mirror but hes trying to look all suave and being like "shall i compare thee to a summers night" while lae'zel and shadowheart both shout "NO" from across the camp. (can be interpreted as bloodiedblade/wyllstarion but i think wyll would be amused and even finish the quote).

wyll:

this man is probably good with basic medicines and ill die on this hill. hes got aloe vera type shit on him at all times. sure, hes not a cleric or healer or even a bard, but he'll stay with you and try his damned best to cheer you up when youre hurt or sick.

on a related note i feel like wyll would be absolutely DELIGHTED by a bard tav. he would just be so amused and filled with whimsy. never gonna complain about playing, even if its like 2am. just occasionally putting in song requests. hes so incredibly enthusiastic like spinning tav around like "THAT WAS BRILLIANT!!!"

wyll probably keeps houseplants. (minor blazingblade but i feel like karlach would accidentally kill one of the plants and actually begin weeping. once she gets her engine fixed wyll tries to teach her how to garden. this goes weirdly) furthermore i think he like goes around his house like humming merrily and watering his plants and crap

gale:

i dont think hes coordinated at all. like this man is tripping down the stairs on a daily basis. he is dropping his tea, his book, his body, ect. to the point that hes got a habit of just hugging the railing for dear life every time he has to go down a staircase. this made traversing shit like the underdark actually literally horrible. every time he falls karlach is so overly concerned and probably offers to carry him. astarion, to everyones dismay, dies laughing each and every time

pretty sure wyll and shadowheart have a conversation about weird book porn. i am here to say that gale was holding back his power while that conversation happened. gale has read so much book porn and if you knew the real scale of it you would be concerned. tara is concerned at least.

shadowheart:

especially during early game, i feel like shadowheart was literally clenching so hard to avoid admitting cute things were cute. like "oh.. a stray mutt... charming I MEAN IN LIKE A GROSS WAY". she was trying to hard to be all scary and into shar and shit but she just really likes puppies and other animals and crap

if she were modern i feel like she would really like pixar movies (inside out comes to mind for reasons i cannot explain) and wear long jean skirts. i cant explain any of this but it is fact in my mind. even in the bg3 setting i do feel like she would wear very long boxy type skirts. sort of plays into her whole "dark priestess" sort of vibe

shadowheart was sitting in her tent with scissors fucking losing her shit with anxiety trying to cut her own bangs without a mirror. it is a literal miracle from selune that they dont look like complete and total shit. no wonder halsin was surprised. (minor silverheart/shadow'zel: when she first like actually properly noticed what shaodwheart did with her hair, since the initial joke is she cant tell what changed, i think lae'zel was very impressed. she even likened it to like a sort of war paint against shar. also we KNOW lae'zel likes silver)

(can be interpreted as bladeheart/,,, do wyll and shadowheart have a ship name yet? HM. well anyway i think that in conjunction with the previous headcanon about wyll gardening, he and shadowheart garden together and he specially grew her night orchids)

lae'zel:

ever since i looked at her stupid little mindflayer training dummie in camp ive had the image of her in my head very angrily and intensly carving up a turnip to look like a mindflayer. draws a little mean face on it like the worlds most violent six year old. every time she messes up on her little DIY project shes muttering curses in tir'su.

lae'zel will take any opportunity to infodump about githyanki culture. specifically red dragons. if she met a red dragonborn or even maybe a follower of tiamat or some shit she would be so hype. in her "i hate everyone SVAH" way ofc. but like. trying to casually slide trivia into battle conversation or party banter with all the subtlety of an owlbear. "yes... the battle preparations are proceeding as expected... as expected a red dragons hibernation cycle..." and everyone just has to turn their head and ask what the fuck shes talking abt

(can be thought of as silverweave: lae'zel and gale talk in draconic about dragon history and the celestial plane. hes so tickled to have a mutual interest with lae'zel)

no one hears lae'zel laugh but when they do its so weird. like its some weird like hissing sort of sound and everyone has to do a double take and make sure theyre understanding what the fuck is going on for a second. lae'zel is incredibly defensive when people notice it but theyre not trying to be mean

karlach:

before her engine gets fixed but like early on to where shes not used to it, karlach keeps trying to touch things and keeps breaking them. this fills her with genuine despair and she will start crying (everyone in camp has to go on a group effort to calm her down). she just thinks the world is so beautiful and is so sad she cant interact with it

she likes to dance but in like a boot stompin way. karlach is probably just an absolute party animal when she gets her freedom back because honestly in her situation who wouldnt be. SHE JUST GOT TO NOT BE ON FIRE LET THE GIRL PARTY

once shes been fixed to the point where she can touch people, she just never stops. manhandling everyone in the party constantly. oh whats that? tav is on low health? dont worry karlach is sprinting over to put tav on her shoulder. literally any problem can be solved by karlach hugs and i wont be taking feedback on this

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 wyll #wyll ravengard #bg3 gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 shadowheart #shadowheart #bg3 lae'zel #lae'zel of k'liir #karlach bg3 #karlach cliffgate #bg3 companions #bg3 headcanons

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tim-shii · 2 years ago

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prologue. love, sae

series masterlist > next

take a deep breath and start at the beginning. tell them how we first met.

itoshi sae finds you weird. he observes how you’re always sat in the back, never talking unless spoken to. perhaps you’re just shy, he deduced. shy enough to constantly divert your eyes when approached. or maybe a little bit too shy that you escape the scene as soon as you pick up on any sign of social interaction.

you’re like a melody that doesn't quite harmonize with the rest of the song, sae mused to himself. nevermind, he’ll just leave you be. after all, he’s going to become the best striker the world has ever seen. he has no time for friendships.

ignoring the weird person in the corner was easy for sae. after all, you don't really do anything. you just sit there. you just keep sitting there. not even bothering to get up during recess, instead you stay at your desk and ponder. peering out the window with longing and loneliness in your eyes.

it was rainy after school. with your mother getting called to stay overtime at work, you had no choice but to wait on the bench under the shed. swinging your tiny legs back and forth as you gaze at the falling tear drops from the sky. sae watches you from inside the car. since his mother was still talking to the principal, he was left alone in the car.

itoshi sae met you at 5 years old. rain boots splashing with every step as he ushers you under the umbrella with him.

tell them that ever since we shared our dreams...

“sae, i dreamt last night.” you told him while you were eating ice cream together at the park. your older brother at the slides, playing with a four year old itoshi rin. sae glances at you, wincing as he saw you bite your popsicle. you took his silence as a sign to continue.

even your weirdest dreams..

“you know a donkey?”

“why? were you a donkey in your dream?”

“kind of but not really. hear this.” you turn to him, popsicle long forgotten in your hand, melting and dripping everywhere under the sun. but neither of you were focused on that. sae was too busy listening and anticipating your dream while you were too giddy to even be aware of your surroundings. “i was its ears!”

for a moment, sae was unsure of what to say. if it were anyone else who said that, he’d reply “that’s stupid!” with a frown etched on his face. but this was you. how could he ever tell you that your dreams were stupid, no matter how weird they are and how weirder they might get.

“well, was there at least a pretty earring adorned in you?” sae asks, taking the stick in your hand, holding to both of them after giving you a tissue from his pockets. he sees your nose scrunch up in thought. “now that you say it… i don’t think there was one. i was just a boring old ear. a donkey’s ear.”

“then, i’ll buy you the prettiest earring out there so you won’t think you’re just a boring old donkey’s ear.” sae smiles at you softly, eyes crinkling at the corners, while locking his pinky with yours. a silent promise. one he could only hope he can keep.

no. keep that as our secret.

“for those i haven't had the chance to say hi to properly, i’m sae.”

a white veil occasion. a union of lovers, a promise to forever. definitely a dream come true for most, but not for sae. no when he’s here at the wedding of his best friend since childhood, giving out a speech that’ll surely make you cry. it would’ve been a dream come true, yes. i mean, he’s loved you for so long.

but it seems like he’s late once again. another fool played around by fate. but he doesn’t dare cry. how can he? it’s your special day after all. he wouldn't wanna ruin it and sae knows well that his brother, who’s sitting beside you, will love you with all his heart.

tagging: @arogiest @kiyohdasimp @hyomagiri

send an ask/dm if you wanna be added to the taglist !

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #blue lock imagines #blue lock fluff #blue lock angst #blue lock sae #bllk fluff #bllk imagines #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk x you #sae x reader #itoshi sae #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae x reader #itoshi sae fluff #sae angst #itoshi sae angst #tim writes.

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winterhawkbigbang · 2 months ago

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Winterhawk Big Bang 2024 Rec List

1. Not just a Mask 2. Escaping the Mind of the Winter Soldier (And Setting Yourself Free) 3. Surprise Attraction 4. Spring Dawning 5. love song (for a girl) 6. Soul Mambo Jumbo 7. Every Breath You Take (Scars Edition) Summaries and links to all fanworks below!

1. Not just a Mask by 42donotpanic (Teen And Up Audiences, 28k words)

Summary: When Clint meets yet another person from an online dating site he didn't expect him to change his life as much as Bucky did. Not that he's complaining. The man is just too cute...

* two art pieces by ivvic: [link]

* a lookbook (illustrated guide) with a playlist by daisytarget: [link]

* a podfic by 42donotpanic: [link]

2. Escaping the Mind of the Winter Soldier (And Setting Yourself Free) by Iam_giraffe1123 (Explicit, 28k words)

Summary: When an easy job turns south and Clint is captured and thrown into a cell with a man he didn't think he would ever see. Trying to survive with the conditions they are in. With many years later, another mission turns south and Clint has to guide his way out of his captures clutches and save the one person he always wanted to protect.

* a podfic by 42donotpanic: [link]

* an art piece by kissitbetter: [link]

* an art piece by LaguNerd: [link]

3. Surprise Attraction by ivvic (Mature, 27k words)

Summary: Clint ends up with a baby while working at the circus and is not coping well with single parenthood. Bucky steps in and offers them a place to stay.

* an art piece by c_Art: [link]

* two art pieces by OriginalCeenote: [link #1] [link #2]

* a moodboard by endlesstwanted: [link]

4. Spring Dawning by ArtaxLivs (Explicit, 16k words)

Summary: “Two lovers separated by the light, both an animal and a man in darkness,” Clint easily recited, having heard it hundreds of times over the years, “A woman with no past, running in a life that isn’t her own. A god in exile, unable to trust his own strength. A genius whose mind is lost to a dragon. A leader frozen in time in a lake above the clouds. And the bard with no heart cursed to speak the truth but never know it.” OR - Ladyhawke? I think you meant Winterhawk.

* two art pieces by ivvic: [link]

* an art piece by ruinscollector: [link]

* a lookbook (illustrated guide) by daisytarget: [link]

5. love song (for a girl) by daisytarget (Explicit, 39k words)

Summary: Jamie Barnes is a competent sort of woman. She does her therapy, she cooks her meals, she stabs her own enemies. She doesn't need much in the world, because her independence is her greatest treasure. And then she meets Cat Barton, all sweet smiles and butch build and slow drawl and helpful instincts, and all that kind of goes out the window, because while she doesn't need, she certainly wants. She really wants. Cat Barton has no idea what's coming to her, stuck on the prettiest lady she's ever seen who makes her feel - well, not needed, because she'd surely fuck that up. But wanted. Yeah. It makes her, against her life's advice otherwise, really want Jamie Barnes back.

* two anonymous art pieces: [link]

* an art piece by amoredition: [link]

* an art piece by kissitbetter: [link]

6. Soul Mambo Jumbo by ElloPoppet (Teen And Up Audiences, 16k words)

Summary: “Well, to keep it simple, Clint – you know Clint, Barton? – well, I might have accidentally gotten his soul stuck in an Astral Dimension. I could use some help finding him and, ideally, bringing him back.” If Bucky hadn’t lived the lives he’d lived (so many lives in his hundred-plus years), he might have dropped the box of tea in his hands, or let the vortex of confusionconcernshockfearexhaustion that Bruce’s explanation stirred within him show on his face. But he’d had practice at this, at living through moments like these. He placed the box gently on the counter and inhaled deep enough to hurt. “Okay,” he said on the exhale. “And how do we do that?” - Or, Bucky's soul does find Clint's in the Astral Dimension, but the 'bringing him back' part of the mission takes time.

* an art piece by ivvic: [link]

* an art piece by frenchfriedgiraffe: [link]

7. Every Breath You Take (Scars Edition) by Reremouse (Mature, 18k words)

Summary: Scars tell a story about where we’ve been and what we’ve experienced. Soulmates only meet after that life experience has been lived. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’re ready for it. Shortly after the takedown of Project Insight, Steve turns up at the tower with a quieter Bucky looking for a place to recover himself. It’s a solid plan, at least, until Clint walks right into Bucky, triggers their soul bond, and pretty much tosses Steve’s entire Bucky recovery plan out the window. Bucky is probably not ready to further complicate his life with a soulmate, so Clint does the only decent thing and retreats to his apartment in Bed Stuy. Maybe he should have consulted with Bucky first. A story about soulmates, friends in a tower, enemies in tracksuits, Steve looking out for Bucky, Tony looking out for everyone, the Winter Soldier on his own mission, and Clint.

* two art pieces by Rufferto (embedded in the fic)

* an art piece by Wyxan (embedded in the fic)

* an art piece by kissitbetter (embedded in the fic)

#winterhawk #winterhawk big bang 2024 #whbb 2024 #whbb #clintucky #clintbucky #whbb2024

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lucygxybaird · 4 months ago

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i've just a seen a face, i can't forget the time or place where we just met. she's just the girl for me, and i want all the world to see we've met. had it been another day, i might have looked the other way, and i'd have never been aware. but as it is, i'll dream of her tonight. (i've just seen a face - the beatles) Billy treats his mother to a night of live music, thinking she deserves to have a little bit of fun. He doesn't expect to meet a sweet, scintillating songbird named Lucy Gray Baird.

“Oh, Billy, I’m not sure about this—”

Kathleen McCarty hesitates on the threshold of the saloon, her hand tucked into the crook of Billy’s arm as though to restrain him from going inside. The double doors are thrown open to catch the hint of spring in the air, musing spilling out into the street along with the lamplight. It’s already crowded, a band going full swing on a makeshift stage at the back of the cavernous room. The dance floor is so packed that Billy can only catch a glimpse of an elbow here, a swirl of a skirt there, a tip of a hat or tap of a boot.

He desperately wants to go in.

Billy offers his mother an encouraging smile. “Ma, come on, it’ll be fun. Please? Please? We won’t stay for very long, I promise,” he says, unabashedly wheedling. “Just a song or two. You deserve to have some fun.”

God knows that’s true. Between working herself to the bone, taking care of him and Joe, and dealing with Antrim’s special sort of bullshit, Kathleen doesn’t have any time for herself. And Billy remembers well how much she and his father used to love to dance. “I’ll ask the band if they know any Irish folk tunes,” he adds, grinning, and his expression only brightens when Kathleen smiles back at him.

“Oh, well,” she says. “Alright. But only a song or two, do you hear?” She pauses. “Do you think the band knows Téir Abhaile Riú?”

Billy laughs, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll ask,” he says again. “Come on.”

He leads his mother inside, just as the band finishes their song. The young woman standing in center stage beams, and Billy thinks he actually feels his heart flutter for a second. She’s tiny — standing in her heeled boots, she may not even come up to his shoulder, although it’s hard to tell with her standing up there — but she exudes a blaze of energy, drawing the eye the way a fork of lightning will steal all eyes from the stars.

“Thank you, thank you!” She spreads her arms wide as if to embrace the whole room. “My name is Lucy Gray Baird, we’re the Covey, and I promise, we’ll be right back after we wet our whistles for just a minute or two.”

She jumps down with the light, easy grace of a deer bounding through the woods, landing right in front of him. Billy is aware of the other members of the band — there’s a flash of blonde curls, the impossibly sharp angle of an elbow that can only belong to a teenage boy going through a growth spurt, and a young woman hauling a bass at her side — but he can’t take his eyes off Lucy Gray. When she smiles at him, his own smile is tugged from him as naturally as the moon pulling the tides toward shore.

“I think those might be the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, but it’s hard to tell with that hat hanging over your face,” she says. “Let me check.”

Reaching up, Lucy Gray actually picks his hat up off his head, holding it down by her side like it belongs to her. She tilts her head, wrinkling her nose as though considering the depth of color on his eyes. “Yep,” she says, putting the hat firmly back on for him. “Blue, just like I thought. Maybe the bluest. Definitely the prettiest.”

Billy, trying to cover the fact that he’s now blushing furiously, says: “Why don’t I buy you a drink for getting it right?”

Lucy Gray smiles at him again. “What would I have gotten for being wrong?”

“A drink,” Billy says, and she laughs.

She leads the way toward the bar, and slips onto the stool, swinging her booted feet idly. Billy slides onto the stool next to hers, waving down the bartender. “Whiskey,” he says. “And—”

He looks over at Lucy Gray. She raises an eyebrow, grinning up at him. “A whiskey for me, too, sugar.”

As the bartender pours them each a drink, Billy touches the brim of his hat, nodding at her. She giggles. “My name is Billy,” he says. “I brought my ma in to hear the music.”

He looks over at Kathleen, who has found a table near the door. She waves at him, and he waves back. Lucy Gray wiggles her fingers, blowing Kathleen a kiss. “I can see where you get those lovely eyes of yours from,” she says, propping her chin on the heel of her palm.

She picks up her glass and takes a long sip, closing her eyes as if in pleasure. He watches the way her long, dark eyelashes flutter, how her lips purse on the rim of the glass. All of a sudden, he’s desperately thirsty in a way whiskey won’t fix, but he downs half his own order in one go anyway.

Before he even has a chance to ask if she knows any Irish tunes, Lucy Gray says: “Does your ma wanna hear anything special?”

When Billy makes his request, she smiles and hops down from her stool. “You bring her right up front,” she says. “We’ll sing just for her.”

Billy grins at her and crosses the room to his mother, as the band starts to gather up on stage again. “Come on, Ma,” he says, offering her his hand. “Lucy Gray says they’ll play your song.”

“Oh, Lucy Gray’s her name, is it?” Kathleen is smiling at him in the certain way all mothers have when they believe their children to be acting especially endearing. “I could see you two talking over there. She’s rather pretty.”

“Ma,” Billy groans softly, feeling more grateful than he can express in words that Lucy Gray is up on stage, in conversation with the willowy bass player, and she can’t possibly hear this conversation. Otherwise he would just have to hope for a very singular sinkhole to open up at his feet and swallow him whole. “We were just — I mean, I’m sure she has a…”

The words haven’t even left his mouth and already he finds them upsetting. Lucy Gray having a beau has only occurred to him just now, and he finds himself looking around the room, trying to find a a man young enough for her — one sitting alone, maybe, eyes trained on the stage like he can’t bear to look away. But it looks like every man here (apart from Billy himself) is too old, or with someone, or both. He relaxes a little.

They find a place in front of the stage. Lucy Gray catches his eye, and she winks at him. Billy feels his face flush and wonders if the pink in his cheeks is visible with the lights of the stage shining in her eyes.

“Oh, no, I saw the way she was looking at you,” Kathleen says, patting his arm. “If she’s seeing someone, she won’t be by the end of the evening, I’ll warrant.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then music starts to tumble from the stage like a living thing -- drums gamboling and fiddles stepping lightly through the air, the strumming of a guitar twirling after them. Lucy Gray is standing center stage again, keeping time with a hand at her hip.

“Look how the lights of the town, the lights of the town are shining now — tonight I’ll be dancing around, I’m off on the road to Galway now…”

She steps lightly forward, arms sweeping in a graceful circle as her feet tap on the boards, the hem of her skirt belling outward as she twirls. He watches her light up from the inside out, beaming, eyes gleaming.

“Look how she’s off on the town, she’s off on a search for sailors, though. There’s fine fellas here to be found, she’s never been on to stay at home—”

The bass player and the girl with blonde ringlets framing her face like a nimbus of gold lean forward, adding their voices to hers.

“Home you’ll go and it’s there you’ll stay, and you’ll work to do in the morning. Give up your dreams of going away, forget your sailors in Galway.”

All the members of the band join in for the chorus, stamping their feet to the rhythm of the Irish tune. Kathleen is positively beaming at Billy’s side, clapping her hands in time. He keeps stealing glances at her in between drinking in Lucy Gray’s performance, thinking that he can’t remember the last time he’s seen his mother so happy.

“Téir abhaile riú, tèir abhaile riu — téir abhaile ríu, Mherai, téir abhaile riú gus fan sa bhaile — mar tá do mhargadh déanta…”

The crowd around them has started to pair off, letting the fast, heady rush of the music carry them around the floor. Billy turns to his mother, grinning and holding out his hand once more — but before he can take it, he hears a light clatter of boots and turns to see Lucy Gray, grinning widely herself. She bobs a curtsey to Kathleen and puts out her own hand, beckoning encouragingly.

“Come now and follow me down, down to the lights of Galway where there’s fine sailors walking the town, and waiting to meet the ladies there…”

He expects his mother to demure, huddle against him, but instead, she puts her hand in Lucy Gray’s like she’s known the girl all her life. Lucy Gray doesn’t miss a beat as the two girls left on stage carry on the tune.

“Watch now, he’ll soon be along — he’s finer than any sailor, so, come now and pick up your spoons. He’s waiting to hear you play them, whoo!”

Billy can’t stop himself from laughing from sheer joy and pleasure as he watches the years fall away from his ma, her dark curls flying away from her face, her eyes brightening and her feet just as light as her partner’s twinkling toes. Lucy Gray is laughing even as she sings, the sweetness of her voice warming with ripples of joy.

“Here today and she’s gone tomorrow, and next she’s going to Galway. Jiggin’ around and off to town, and won’t be back until the morning.”

He’s aware of a flash of yellow from the corner of his eye, and he looks down to see the little blonde singer, putting out her hands to him. Billy bows, one hand over his heart and the other folding behind his back, and the girl smiles up at him. He takes her by the hand and they whirl onto the floor, finding themselves by Lucy Gray and his mother.

“Téir abhaile riú, tèir abhaile riu — téir abhaile ríu, Mherai, téir abhaile riú gus fan sa bhaile — mar tá do mhargadh déanta…”

He realizes, with a kick to his heart, that his ma is singing along. He can’t remember the last time he’s heard her sing, or even hum. Idly, picking up the girl and spinning around with her in his arms, he thinks he’ll have to ask his mother what the Gaelic chorus means.

“Off with a spring in my step, the sailors are searching Galway for a young lady such as myself, for reels and jigs and maybe more…”

Lightly, with no signal at all except a flick of Lucy Gray’s dark head, she darts to one side and Billy’s partner to the other, with the blonde taking Kathleen’s hand and twirling under her arm. Kathleen laughs, and Lucy Gray snatches up Billy’s hands, tugging him closer.

“Stay here and never you mind the lights of the town are blinding you. The sailors, they come and they go, but listen to what’s reminding you — handsome men surrounding you, dancing a reel around you…”

Singing of handsome men, Lucy Gray leans up on her toes, her lips at his ear, as if the words are just for him. He turns his head to hide his grin, but he catches a glimpse of her dark eyes, and he knows that she saw. It doesn’t really burn him, this idea. It doesn’t burn him at all, actually.

“Home you’ll go and it’s there you’ll stay, and you’ve got work to do in the morning. Give up your dream of going away, forget your sailors in Galway…”

Billy knows most of the people on the dance floor, by sight if not by name — the old woman who works at the inn where they stayed when they first arrived in town; the owner of the Chinese laundry and his wife, neither of whom he’s seen smile this wide before; his mother’s friend Hattie, who is clasped in the arms of—

“Mr. Upson, is that you?” Billy calls to him over the music, unable to keep from laughing again.

Mr. Upson just grins at him and frees a hand from Hattie’s waist to tip his hat toward Billy.

“Téir abhaile riú, tèir abhaile riu — téir abhaile ríu, Mherai, téir abhaile riú gus fan sa bhaile — mar tá do mhargadh déanta…”

As Billy turns again, Lucy Gray still grasping his hands like she’ll never let go, she leans back on her heels. He whirls her around, easy as you please; she’s light as a feather, and in any case, he would sooner drop an anvil on his foot than drop this girl right now.

“Listen to the music flow, I’m falling for the flow of home. I’m home to dance til dawning…”

Her voice warms him from the inside out, song flowing from her lips like the finest of wines, and he knows he’s not the only one getting drunk on the sound of her. Everyone, his mother included, is flushed with exertion and a giddy happiness that drives the years and their troubles away like the gentle mornings of spring driving away all thought of winter’s chill.

“Téir abhaile riú, tèir abhaile riu — téir abhaile ríu, Mherai, téir abhaile riú gus fan sa bhaile — mar tá do mhargadh déanta…”

Lucy Gray keeps one of his hands in hers and reaches for other for Kathleen, who is still dancing with the tiny blonde singer. Kathleen grabs onto Lucy Gray’s hand, looking up at Billy with starlight still caught in her eyes; Billy, for the first time in his life, understands how one can cry for joy. It’s like he’s so happy that he can’t contain it, a sweet ache that starts in his chest and spreads upwards, until his throat is tight and the corners of his eyes sting. Still, he wouldn’t trade the decision to come in here tonight for anything in the world.

For more reason than one.

“Stay a while and we’ll dance together now, as the light is falling. We’ll reel away til the break of day, and dance together till morning…”

The blonde girl reaches for Mr. Upson’s hand, and on his other side, Hattie reaches for someone else. Soon the dancers on the floor have formed a ring, whirling around in a feverish, excited circle, as the song plunges toward the chorus one last time.

“Téir abhaile riú, tèir abhaile riu — téir abhaile ríu, Mherai, téir abhaile riú gus fan sa bhaile — mar tá do mhargadh déanta…”

As the Covey members still up onstage bring the song to an end with a flourish, Lucy Gray jumps nimbly back onto the boards, twirling around and spreading her hands. Kathleen ends up pressed against Billy’s side, giggling like a girl, her hair a mess and her smile firmly fixed on her face. Billy puts an arm around his mother’s shoulders to steady her as the crowd collects itself enough to burst into rapturous applause.

“Thank you! Thank you for comin’ out tonight, and joinin’ me in our final song—!”

The crowd groans, Billy included. Kathleen digs an elbow into his ribs.

“—for tonight!” Lucy Gray insists. “For tonight. I promise y’all, we’re not goin’ anywhere just yet. In case you forgot, I’m Lucy Gray Baird, we’re the Covey, and I swear, we’ll be back to sing for you soon!”

Billy guides his mother over to the bar, the better to escape the crush of people as they start to leave. It seems that with the Covey done for the evening, most of the crowd is done, too. A few stragglers follow them to the bar and occupy the stools, but a few moments later, the place is nearly empty.

“Ready to go?” Billy says, putting a hand on the small of Kathleen’s back, ready to guide her out.

Instead of answering him, she flicks her dark blue gaze to the side of him, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll wait for you at the door,” she says, and Billy turns to see Lucy Gray standing at his side, looking up at him with a scrap of paper peeking between her fingertips.

“Your ma is quite the dancer,” she says, and Billy chuckles. “So are you.”

“Oh, well, thank you.” He tips his hat to her again, and she bobs her head in response. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Ma like that. It’s been…” He falters, thinking of how she used to be, before Pa died. He pulls a smile onto his face from somewhere deep. “It’s been a while.”

Lucy Gray surprises him by taking his hand and squeezing it lightly, once, before letting go. She doesn’t pry, but she says, “Well, you two should come back sometime.”

Before he can say they (sure as hell) will, a voice calls out from the back room: “Lucy Gray! We’ve leaving!”

She smiles and leans up to kiss his cheek. “Maude Ivory,” she says. “Your little dance partner.” She puts a hand to her mouth and adds in a stage whisper, “She thinks you’re cute. So do I.”

With Billy befuddled and blushing, she turns to go, crossing the room in light, graceful strides. As she disappears through a curtained door by the bar, Billy feels the whisper of paper against his palm and turns his hand over. He smiles at the note she’s passed him.

If you want to see me before our next show (Thursday, 8 p.m.), meet me at the meadow by the old Willow Ford farm tomorrow night. I like to watch the stars come out.

- Lucy Gray Baird.

He isn’t sure what compels to do it, but he finds himself lifting the scrap of paper to his lips and kissing her signature on the page, before slipping it into his pocket. Billy goes to join his mother at the door, and he barely registers the way she’s looking at him with that indulgent little smile on her face. He walks her home in a sort of daze, thinking that the sun has only just now set, and he can’t wait for it to do it again tomorrow.

The next time the sun goes down, and the stars start to twinkle in their sea of indigo velvet, he knows that’s when he’ll see her again.

#bonneybaird #billy x lucy gray #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid fanfiction #william h bonney fanfiction #william h bonney x reader #lucy gray baird #lucy gray x reader #tom blyth

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freakroth · 10 months ago

Text

Young Love [Chapter 2]

I forgot to add TW's on the last chapter but i don't think it needs any

TW: Smut, my horibble writen smut, alcohol??, idk tell me if i need to add more ig

You can read all the chapters i've made so far on my wattpad

https://www.wattpad.com/1378942229-young-love-chuuya-x-reader-x-dazai-chapter-2

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Y/N's POV:

After a few hours i finish unpacking my stuff and check the clock on my phone. "its only 16:34?" i say to myself 'might as well go buy myself some food since i don't wanna eat chuuya's or dazai's food'

When i walk out of my room is see chuuya and dazai have changed their outfits 'are they going on a date or something?' "where are you two going?" i ask them.

"Oh! Hey Y/N, me and Chuuya are going on a date so we will be gone for a few hour!" Dazai says happily. "oh nice, i was just about to go get some food for myself" i say and start to put on my shoes.

For some reason when i bend down i feel like someone is watching me from behind but i don't think much of it.

A few hours later

I'm just laying in my bed and listening to music while pretending to be in edits and also singing along to some songs.

When ever my favorite songs come on i start dancing or just walking around in my room. "Bernadette, You are my liberty. I celebrate the day, That you changed my history. Oh, life and death. Will always lead you into love and regret. But you have answers, And I have the key For the door to Bernadette~" i sing praying to god that Chuuya and Dazai aren't home yet, because 1, that would be embarrassing and 2, i don't have the prettiest singing voice in the world.

After the song ends i lay back down in my bed waiting for the next song to come on, but realize that my headphone are dead "aw man.." i say and start looking for the changer to the headphones.

Dazai POV: (3rd person)

Dazai and Chuuya are sitting at a bar drinking. (its around 23:00pm btw)

"Chuuya~ you really shouldn't be drinking this much~ you know you can handle your liquor~" Dazai teases him. "Shut up! i can handle my alcohol very well!" Chuuya says and chugs down a glass of wine. "oh lord" Dazai says and sees that hes starting to get drunk.

Suddenly Chuuya gets up and goes over to the karaoke area of the bar, picks up the microphone and starts singing his heart out.

Dazai is giggling and recording the whole thing for later blackmail.

After a while everyone starts leaving because the bar is closing. "Chuuya, baby its time to get you home" Dazai says and picks up the drunk Chuuya.

Y/N's POV:

When i walk back into my room after getting myself some water from the sink i hear Rasputin playing and a young man yelling "COME ON FYODOR, YOU CAN DO IT!!" from the dorm next mine. 'i guess someone's having fun' i think and chuckle to myself.

I put my glass of water on my bedside table and sit down on my bed and look out the window.

(this what the room looks like with a bigger window and more room + some of you're own thing)

While looking out at the dark street, i see Dazai and Chuuya walking back, or more like Dazai is carrying Chuuya on his shoulders. "he's probably drunk or something" i say to myself.

I put on my headphones and start watching something on my computer.

after sometime i go to the kitchen to get water but stop as my jaw drops 'WHAT. THE. FUCK!?' i think as i see Dazai and Chuuya making out in the kitchen. I almost drop my glass "okay i think its time for me to go to bed, i can't deal with this anymore" i say as i walk back to my room, praying they didn't notice me.

As i walk into my room i turn of the lights and start taking of my clothes, going to bed in only my bra and panties.

As i try to sleep i hear Dazai and Chuuya going into their bedroom to probably have sex or something, i feel myself start to get pretty horny from just listening to them.

I just lay there listening to them. I feel myself get flustered hearing what i believe is Dazai's cute moans and whimpers as Chuuya fucks him.

Dazai POV:

"AH~ hm~ chuuya!~" i moan like a slut as is Chuuya fucks me from behind, and choking me. "fuck, such a slutty boy you are~" Chuuya says in my ear as i cry from the pleasure.

"please~ i'm a good boy!~ please be gentle~" i plead as the pleasure becomes to much to bare "please let me cum..!~ i'm so close chuuya~" i cry into my pillow.

"No~ not yet, little slut~" Chuuya's thrusts get much faster and rougher, and it's hard for me to not cum right then and there. "p-please!~ Chuuya..!~" i cry and feel his teeth bite my neck.

"cum." Chuuya says in a commanding voice and i cum all over the bed. " good boy~" Chuuya says and kisses my forehead. "you did so well little slut~" he whispers "but its not over yet~"

Y/N's POV:

After what feels like forever they finally stop whatever they were doing. I check my phone and see its 5:23 am. "four hours!? damn they are like bunnies in heat.." i say as i try to sleep again.

Next morning: (Y/N POV)

The next morning i come out of my room looking like shit. when i walk into the kitchen i see Dazai hugging Chuuya from behind while he cooks.

"Next time try to not wake up the whole campus with all of your noises" i say to them in a pissed voice while i make myself some coffee. They both turn to look at me in surprise. "what..?" Chuuya says while nervelessly laughing. "if you're gonna have sex don't be so fucking loud" i walk back to my room while they just look at me in shock, they both must have forgot i was in the apartment and didn't think to try to be quiet.

After drinking my coffee i start to put on my clothes.

'looks nice' i smile while looking at myself in the mirror. I'm wearing a white dress shirt, a black jean skirt that goes to my ankles with a slit at the bottom reveling my legs(it can be pants to if you want) a black west with white stripes and black leggings with small heart on them.

When i walk out of my room i see Dazai and Chuuya eating breakfast, 'that looks kinda good' i think to myself as i put my shoes on.

"aren't you gonna eat something before you leave?" i flinch as i hear Dazai talk to me. "a-ah, no i don't eat breakfast, it makes me want to throw up" Dazai looks at me "okay.." he says as i walk out of the dorm. 'phew' i think as i walk down the hall.

"COME ON FYODOR! CAN WE PLEASE GET ANOTHER RAT?! RATATOUILLE NEEDS A FRIEND!" I hear the same young man from last night yell again. 'isn't that the one who yelled "you can do this fyodor!!" last night?' i think.

When i turn a corner i see a tall man with white long hair in a pig tail and a scar on one of his eyes, a man with pale skin and black hair to his shoulders and a man with a Christmas tree looking hairstyle and his hair being half white, half purple. 'What the actual fuck is that hairstyle' i think as i look at the poor man.

All three of them notice that i'm looking at them and the white haired speaks "Oh, hey! you must be new here!" he says and runs up to me "uh.. yeah i am.." i say. "i'm Nikolai, Nikolai gogol!" the white haired man says. "this here is Fyodor, my dear friend!" he says and points at the black haired man. 'the way he said dear seems like they are more then friends'

"and this one here is Sigma!" Nikolai points at the white and purple haired man. 'there's no fucking way is his name Sigma'. "uh.. i'm Y/N" i say. "hello Y/N, its nice to meet you" Fyodor says in a thick Russian accent and shakes my hand with his cold one. "its nice to meet you too" i smile "i think i heard you guys last night, you guys were playing Rasputin" i laugh.

"OH! yeah we were playing just dance!" Nikolai says happily. I look at Sigma who looks a bit nervous. "uhh.. sorry if we bothered you last night.!" he says. 'poor man' i think 'he probably lost a bet to that Nikolai guy and had to get that haircut'.

"Oh, no i didn't bother me at all, it made me happy to know someone was having fun" i smile at him. "oh.. okay" he smiles back.

Nikolai goes back to begging Fyodor to get another rat and i walk up to Sigma. "Y/N" i reach out my hand for him to shake "Sigma" he says while shaking my hand. "not to be rude or anything, but is Sigma your real name? isn't it a Greek letter?" i ask "..its not actually my real name.. i have amnesia and forgot my real name.. so i just use that.." he says while scratching the back of his head. "oh i'm so sorry! that must have sounded rude!" i say while panicking a bit "no! its okay! really, a lot of people ask me that, so i don't find it rude anymore" he says trying to reassure me.

'phew' i think. "uhh.. do you want to be friends or something..? i don't really have any friends at the moment.." i ask him "sure" he smiles at me.''

"so.. how long have you been friends with Nikolai and Fyodor?" i ask "about 3 years" he says. i smile at him. "oh, can i have your phone number? you don't have to if you don't want to!" he says "yeah, here its xxxxxxxx" i smile at him. "thanks mine is xxxxxxxx" he says.

"ooo~ is Sigma getting himself a partner?~ its about time~" Nikolai teases him. "WHAT!? NO! WE ARE JUST FRIENDS!" Sigma starts blushing and he feels embarrassed. "Sure~" Nikolai teases him more. "uhh.." i feel a bit uncomfortable, since i'm not really looking to be in a relationship. All of the past relationships i've been have quite toxic or abusive, so i don't really trust anyone anymore.

"Are you okay Y/N..? you look a bit uncomfortable.. did what Nikolai say make you uncomfortable..?" Sigma asks me "huh? oh, no! not at all! its just that its weird for me to be teased! thats all!" i lie.

"oh okay.." Sigma says and we start walking somewhere. "so do you want to go somewhere today to get to know each other better?" Sigma asks "sure" i smile.

(i hope yall liked this chapter👉👈 i didn't really have any ideas for this chapter lol. also please give me some ideas for the next chapter, idk what to write in it)

#bsd #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #bungo stray dogs #chuuya #chuuya nakahara #dazai smut #chuuya x reader #bsd sigma #bsd nikolai #bsd fyodor #chuuya x dazai #chuuya smut #bsd x reader smut #dazai x reader smut #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #bsd x reader

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