#me as the dog hanging out in the crook of his elbow

[ballpitwitch]

KEANU REEVES ✦ Ride with Norman Reedus

[bettysupremacy]

hi! I love your writing and was wondering if you could write a little something for eddie munson :) something like steve and reader having a brother/sister relationship but eddie doesn’t know that. and steve buys reader a lot of things bc he can and likes to, but eddie gets insecure bc he can’t buy reader as many things. so he feels like reader might not like him as much even if they’ve been hanging out and flirting. thank you so much!

Hiii, thank you!! and I hope u like this! 1.2k words

When Eddie sneaks through your window at nine thirty on a school night, he half expects you to be asleep already. It’s cold, he can feel the warmth of your home loosen his cold stiff fingers as he climbs the trellis to your window, but as he pulls himself in, he knows it’s not his lack of stealth that has you awake.

You lay on your bed, resting breezily on your back, fidgeting with a shiny new Walkman. It’s no question where you’ve gotten this to Eddie. Steve. You told Steve your Walkman was ruining your old tapes, and he bought you a new one. A gross wave of jealousy washes over him as his dark boot hits the white of your soft carpet.

“Hi, handsome.” You smile up at him. He smiles back, tight lips pushing into something meagerly convincing.

“Hi, bug.”

“Miss me already?” Your head tilts to your shoulder, flashing your prettiest eyelash bat to the older boy. He doesn’t bother with his boots, walking to stand over you.

Hands resting on his hips, he looks down to survey your face. “Now how did you know that?”

“Wild guess.” You wait for a kiss, smiling almost dejectedly when he plants one to your temple. You won’t bring it up though, opting to move your legs up so he can sit.

He makes himself at home.

“Cute socks.” His eyes wander from the funny graphic of your socks, up to your calves.

“You think?” Your toes wiggle sillily in his face. He pushes them down.

“Totally,” He beams at you. “Where’d you find them? You know I love a pair of silly socks.”

You pick the discarded Walkman up from your tummy and drop it on your nightstand. “You know that record store off Melvin?”

His eyes squint. “You’re too scared to drive that far alone.”

You nod. You are too scared to drive that far alone. “Steve took me.” You shrug, reaching to twirl his inky curls around your finger.

“Oh,” Eddie breathes. “That was nice of him.”

You shrug again. “He owed it to me.”

Eddie reaches up to flick you in the cheek. “Owed it to you? What’s he? Your lap dog?”

You give him a halfhearted kick. “I drove the kids around for him when he didn’t feel like it.”

“And then you made him drive you?”

“Exactly!” You smile at his crooked grin. He scoffs, picking a thread from your worn comforter, propped up against his elbow so that it digs into the mattress below the both of you.

His energy is off. A brazen assumption on your part, but a true one nonetheless. His smile slowly fades as he thinks your attention is away, but you see, and it knots your stomach. You frown, his lack of eye contact, and lack of smile concerning you. This is not the Eddie you’ve gotten to know over the summer.

“What is it?”

“Hm?”

“This,” You wave your hand over his face. “What are you thinking?”

He looks up. “How pretty you are.”

“You do that with a frown?”

“Not usually.” His head shakes. “No.”

“Than why are you doing it now?”

He pauses, heaving a tired sigh. It startles you, the quick change of emotions, and embarrassed weight to his shoulders. Your hand comes out to grab his own fingers. He looks down at the conjoining limbs.

“Are you..” he pauses, contemplating the words on his tongue. “out of my league?”

Your eyes furrow. “What?”

“I can’t give you the things Steve gets you.” He grimaces. A new Walkman, socks, a never ending list of treats and trinkets. Eddie can’t help but to feel inferior to the boy with money. “You know I’d like to, but I can’t help it.”

You chew his words slowly before swallowing. This is news to you. You’d never once questioned his undoubted infatuation for you because of his lack of money driven gifts, but now that you think, you can picture a sad look or two when Steve’d get you something shiny.

“And,” he starts again, shying his eyes away from your own. “It’s not that I want you to ask him to stop, cause you deserve these nice things, I just,” he sighs, hand coming up to the back of his neck. “I’m a little embarrassed”

“Of what?” You frown, not unkindly. Not to rub salt in the wound, but to understand where he’s coming from.

He struggles with his answer. “That I’m not enough for you?”

“Eddie-“

He breathes out heavily. “That- that you deserve more than what I can give you, like what Steve can get you.”

You don’t know what to say, how to console him in his insecurity. You are enough is medial at best, and I like you, not him, doesn’t feel like enough.

“I didn’t know you felt like that.” You start slowly, taking the time to choose your words carefully. “And I’m sorry, because I never would’ve wanted you to feel like that.”

“It’s not your fault.” He laments. “I just- I don’t know. I wish I could buy you the little things, you know?”

You nod, looking down at your comforter quietly. He frowns, reaching up to knock your chin. “What are you thinking?”

“I never meant to make you feel like that.”

“I know-“ You cut him off.

“And I’ve never once felt anything more towards Steve than you because he spoils me with these things.” You look up. “Hell I’ve never felt anything romantic for him ever.”

“Babe,” He starts, “it was silly, let’s forget it.”

“But it wasn’t silly,” Your head shakes. “you felt awful and I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t feel awful,” He tries to cajole. “I was just embarrassed.”

“Not much better.” You look up meekly.

He grabs your wrist pulling you to lay over his warm body. “I know.”

You settle, arms around his broad chest, feeling each breath. “I’m sorry.” You murmur.

“Don’t be.”

“Still am.” Your eyes close. “You’re more than enough for me.”

Eddie quietly basks in the attention that is your appreciation.

“I don’t care if you can’t get me expensive things.”

“I know,” His hand comes up to hold your head as he stares at the ceiling. “but I’d still like to get them for you.”

You think. You want to remind him of what he’s done for you. It doesn’t matter If it’s inexpensive, or homemade. He made it for you. He thought to put in this labor to physically make you something.

“Teddy is my favorite bear on my bed.” You say finally.

“So much that you named him after me.”

“Yep.” You nod. “And I wear that wire ring you made me everyday.”

It’s a simple little thing, twirling wire around a colorful rock he’s sure to have found outside his house. But it’s pretty, and you’ve never thought less of it because it was handmade.

“You do?”

“Only take it off to shower.”

He reaches down, warm hand closing around and your wrist and pulling it up to inspect your knuckles. “I don’t see it.”

“And sleep.” Your sheepish smile squeezes his heart. “Don’t want it to break.”

“Excuses, excuses.” He tuts, smile bright as it shines down on you.

“Whatever,” you brush him off with a smile and a foot nudge. You pause long enough to inhale all the way. “just know you can talk to me about these things, yeah?”

His eyes close, a slow nod following. “Yeah.” he breathes. “I know.”

“Good.” You nod curtly. “Cause now I need to figure how to get Steve to buy you a matching pair of these socks.”

[eagerbby]

Linger | Part 1

pairing| Eddie Munson x older!female reader

synopsis| A unknowing game of cat and mouse with your younger neighbor, who can't seem to hold on to his house key, leads to feelings you don't want to admit and actions you can't take back. Not that you'd want to, anyway.

an| admittedly I've been working on this far too long, since October to be exact. I wasn't seeing a lot of older!reader fics and as a 26 year old I wanted to explore a dynamic between Eddie and someone older. I hope you enjoy and be ready for part 2 which will be even more filthy than this!

warnings| 7k, eddie is 20-21, female masterbation, eddie is persistent as fuck, stubborn!R, drug use (weed), reader is kinda bitchy but eddie likes it. MDI

“Eddie?” 

“Hey, princess. It’s fucking freezing out here.” He smiles at you as a cold gust of wind blows past him and straight into your bones. Behind him the sun is setting into a tangerine colored, cotton candy sky. 

“Lose your key again?” You ask, shivering in only a shirt and shorts, huddled behind the screen door with your arms wrapped tight across your chest. 

Eddie shrugs sheepishly from the other side of the screen door, but his crooked grin tells you everything you need to know. 

"Yeah," he rubs the back of his neck as he peers up at you through his lashes with puppy dog eyes. "I think I forgot it at The Hideout last night."

With a sigh and a halfhearted roll of your eyes you motion him in, smiling to yourself as you walk back to the sudsy dish water you had been wrist deep in when he'd first knocked.

"Starting to think maybe you should tie that key of yours around your neck." You quip as he settles himself at the little dinner table tucked into the corner of your kitchen. 

It’s not a very big kitchen, smaller than your bedroom even, which means the ‘corner of the kitchen’ is only five feet from the L shaped counter. If you took two steps backwards you’d be in his lap. The thought has your stomach fluttering.

"Uncle Wayne said the same thing." He chuckles. "Says I'm costing him a fortune in key making." 

"This is a common occurrence for you, huh?"

"No, not common... maybe like the sixth time…this year." 

"Jesus Christ, Eddie." You laugh, wiping your hands off on the dish towel as you turn towards him. "Remind me not to ever hand you my keys." 

He smiles at you with this cheesy grin that makes your stomach flutter like a teenage girls, heat rushing to your face when you notice the way he's sitting. 

He’s leaned back in the walnut stained wooden chair, legs spread wide. His already tight black jeans stretched taut over his thick thighs and his worn Black Sabbath shirt has ridden up against the pale skin of his stomach, the dark line of his happy trail catching your eyes. It takes everything in you to look away, to not allow your eyes to stay glued to that sexy tuff of dark hair. 

You turn back to drain the sink, willing the heat in your face away. 

"Guess who's graduating this year?" He sounds jovial and you just can't help but tease him- just a little. Maybe it’ll ease the tension settling in the air of your kitchen. 

"Hello, Eddie. I'm fine, how are you?" You say while you begin wiping the counters down, stepping over his long outstretched legs. 

"Come on! Guess!" He urges, leaning forward to bump your elbow with his knuckles. You clench the rag in your hands tighter as you wipe down the stove. 

"Well, I don't know any high school boys, other than you, so I'm gonna need a list of names to run through first." 

"You're so mean to me." He says with high dramatics, taking the leather jacket he'd left here a couple days ago and tossing it over the back of a different chair.  

"Eddie, I let you hang out, smoke you up, and I feed your gangly ass. God, I'm such a horrible, evil person." Your voice runs an edge of seriousness as you tease him, throwing a look over your shoulder in the process. 

And, God, maybe you shouldn’t have looked back at him because he’s sitting there with his legs spread wide looking at you with that heavy simmer of his that you've started to notice and ignore. He's become a temptation, one you just can not fold to. It'd be wrong. You're older than him and he's still in high school, anything more than hanging out would leave you feeling dirty.

Unfortunately, you're not quite sure if it's a good kind of dirty or a bad kind. 

"You're the worst." He drawls, fiddling with his trusty zippo. "You devilish woman, you." 

The way he says it makes your spine tingle, makes you clench your thighs a little and hope he doesn't see. 

"You hungry, kid?" Maybe a change in subject will evaporate the building tension in your small kitchen. You dig through the fridge as he sits silently behind you. 

"You know I hate it when you call me that." His words mumbled when he finally speaks, sad almost, but he knows what you're doing. It wasn't like he couldn't feel the tension that was building between the two of you.

It starts off innocent enough. Three in the morning, dressed in only your silk robe and a pair of rain boots you'd found by your front door, you had trudged across the small gravel driveway between the two trailers and banged banged banged at the blue painted door. You didn't know your neighbor. You’d only lived in Hawkins a couple months at the time, but you did know that every night from 9 to 11 the sound of a wailing guitar was bound to rattle the fake crystal chandelier hung in your living room. Usually you could manage, put your tape deck on -drown it out- but that night the tinny punch didn't stop when the clock struck eleven or even at midnight. In fact it seemed to get even louder, like the person had turned the amp up, and you were fuming mad. 

The door swung open so hard and fast it startled you and before you could chastise the person for making such an unnecessary ruckus, they were already apologizing.

"I'm so sorry, I-I didn't realize how late it was." 

"You've been playing for hours, kid. Some of us have to work in the morning." 

That anger you had as you stomped over dissipated quickly as you looked at his frazzled expression. He was young, obviously a metal head considering the long hair and all black attire, but his big chocolate brown eyes begged for forgiveness as they blinked back at you.

"I really am sorry, Miss. I'm learning a new song and… I guess I just got carried away." God, poor kid looked like he was about to get cuffed and loaded into the back of a cop car.

"S'fine, just go back to your normal hours. That I can deal with." You start to step down the rickety porch steps before you turn quickly and point your manicured finger at him. His eyes widened. "And don't fucking call me Miss, my name's y/n."

After that he seemed to make it his mission to run into you whenever you weren't locked inside your trailer. From meeting at the mailbox, to offering to mow your grass -which you really didn't have much of- to sitting next to you as you tended to your garden. It wasn't until a stormy cold evening that you invited him in. He said he lost his key and his uncle worked at the plant all night and into the morning. You made him dinner, watched a movie, and set him up on the couch for the night. 

“Only this one time.” You'd said. “What do I look like letting a high schooler into my home?” 

Eddie loathes when you do that to him, even now, level him down to simply a high schooler. 

“I'm twenty.” He'd corrected, going as far as to show you his license. Sure enough he was, but you knew you couldn't let it go past a friendship. The town would think you'd corrupted him, they'd surely run you out with torches and pitchforks. Shit, they'd probably burn you at the stake. 

But something was starting to grow between you two. You thought at one point it was merely fondness for the strange kid who spoke in codes half the time and made a show out of everything he did. It didn't take you much longer after that, though, to realize what was really growing. Sprouting the weeds in your chest.

You wanted him.

God, did you feel horrible about that one.

It didn't matter that he was twenty, legal, an adult, there was such innocence inside him. Heart on his sleeve, kindness in his smile. Anything other than friendship was a no go. You'd ruin this kid, you just knew it. You didn't have the best track record with men and the last thing you wanted was to take this young man and break his heart before he could even experience what young love could feel like. 

Wasn't happening. It's what you kept telling yourself. It's why you'd call him kid, which he hated passionately and made sure to let you know. Why you wouldn't let him hug you like he begged and begged to do. Shit, it'd probably be easier to put on a chastity belt and call it a day. Every time you pushed him away, he'd barrel back head first. He was incredibly determined. 

You were playing a losing battle. 

"Sorry, bub. Forget sometimes." You toss halved tomatoes in a bowl of chopped lettuce, moving to place the cutting board and knife in the sink before going back to the fridge. 

You could feel his eyes boring into your ass as you bent to look through the crisper, hair standing up on end as you tried your hardest not to look back at him. You know what you'd see if you did and the last time you'd caught him staring the tarry blackness of his wide pupils almost knocked you to your knees. 

"Are you hungry, though?" You ask again, clearing your throat as you straighten your back and shut the fridge door. You make it a point not to look at him as you head back to the counter, an onion in one hand and a small pack of steaks in the other.

"Steak? Okay, I take back what I said before. You're an angel sent from heaven to save me." 

"Ha, maybe in your dreams." You try to joke back but you can feel his body heat again as he squats down beside you to grab the cast iron skillet from the cabinet. He puts it on the stove and smiles up at you. You hadn’t even heard him stand from the chair.

"Always in my dreams, sugar." 

His words send that sickly sweet rush of heat down into the pit of your belly. Your body so starved for a release it actually hurts. 

Why does he have to make this so hard? 

"So you're gonna graduate this year, huh?" Change the subject. Ignore the stupid fucking glint in his pretty brown eyes. It's starting to become a routine, really.

"I got a C in Mrs. O'Donnell's class, which isn't great I know, but it's enough for me to walk the stage." He raises back to his full height, looking down at you with that little smirk of his, watches as you peel the pale skin of the onion. "Will you come to graduation?"

You can't hide how his question surprises you, hands freezing against the clean cutting board, eyebrows furrowing together. 

"I really want you to." He adds, closing in on you. 

"Won't your uncle think it's weird some stranger is coming to watch his kid cross the stage?" 

"He knows about you." 

You drop the onion onto the board and it rolls off the counter when you turn to him.

"He knows about me? What's that mean?"

Eddie shrugs, so much closer than you expected him to be. You can smell the hint of smoke on his denim vest, see the deep vines of brown swirling his eyes. "I told him where I was that night I lost my key. He has this weird thing about me sleeping in my van, he hates it for some reason, so when he asked I just told him the truth."

"And?"

"And nothing." He laughs. "Why are you worried about what my uncle thinks?" 

"Uh, because he's your guardian and I don't want him to think I'm taking advantage or-or corrupting you."

Eddie bursts out in laughter, head falling forward into your shoulder before he's leaning back and wiping under his eye as if there's a tear. 

"God, sweetheart, you should be worried about the opposite. You haven't heard?" He leans in and narrows his eyes menacingly. His breath wafts over your cheek as he speaks. "I'm the town pariah. The town freak. Nobody is worried about ‘The Corruption of Eddie Munson’." 

“That’s not true.” Your voice is a hush whisper as you answer back, trying your hardest not to choke on your own damn tongue. You’re locked onto his unwavering gaze, his body unyielding as he steps closer somehow. Fuck, he’s so close, if you just lean up a couple inches your lips could capture his. 

No. Nope. Not happening. 

You lean away as his hand comes up to brush a stray hair behind your ear and the simple touch -the simple intimacy of the gesture- sends shivers across your hot skin. 

“Eddie.” You warn softly and he grins sheepishly. 

“Sorry, I can’t help myself.” His breathing is still a little shallow.

“Eddie.” 

“I’m sorry.” He takes a step back, far enough that he’s not almost pressed against you anymore but still close enough to feel the heat radiate off his body. 

“Can you rinse the onion for me?” 

With a nod he ducks to pluck the runaway vegetable from the floor before heading for the sink. He flips the tap on with a long finger and the hum of running water does nothing to drown the racing of your brain.

After a quiet dinner you find yourself sitting next to him on the couch, a rerun of Murder, She Wrote playing on the TV. Your brain is fuzzy from the weed he’d brought to share with you and you find yourself leaning against the backrest of the couch, eyes glued to him as he takes a big bong rip.

“You really want me to come?” You ask, voice soft and airy, and Eddie hacks as his head whips toward you. He looks like a cartoon bull with the way the smoke shoots from his nostrils.

“Huh?” He manages as he splutters, clutching the neckline of his shirt as if that would fill his lungs with air. 

“Do you really want me to come to graduation?” You ask again, handing your drink over to him and patting his back. He chugs the whole glass of Coca Cola, panting when he’s done. 

“Fuck, I hit that too hard.” 

“You’re about to be comatose off that hit.” You laugh, taking the glass as he hands it back to you. He settles back into the cushions with a lopsided grin on his face. 

“Just what I wanted.” He chimes, his black lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his eyes close. “What’d you ask me?” 

You go to repeat yourself before noticing just how soft his features have become, sleep inevitably pulling at him. You’ll talk to him tomorrow, you think as you stand from the couch.

“Go to sleep, Ed.” You whisper into the dim lit room, covering him with the blanket that had become balled up in his lap. 

“M’kay, nightie night.” He tucks his knees to his chest, nuzzling his face into the fabric of the couch and then he’s out, soft snores fluttering the stray string clinging to the blanket. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy, like most nights. You spend hours laying there in the dark, watching the way the moon light reflects off your crystal window chime and sends arcs of purple candescent rays across your walls and ceiling. The tossing and turning comes next, an hour spent tracing the rays with your eyes has become boring and the lack of sleep makes your eyes heavy. Of course they aren’t heavy enough to allow you to succumb to the sleep you desperately long for.

Usually you’d reach for your little friend tucked away in your bedside drawer but with Eddie just down the very short hall, you don’t want to chance your noisy little friend waking up the meddlesome boy sleeping on your couch. 

Eddie. The reminder of him shoots through you like an arrow, mind hastily rewinding to the way he all but cornered you in the kitchen earlier. The way your heart stuttered in your chest and your fingers ached to pull him by the collar of that stupid ripped Black Sabbath shirt until his lips were pressed against yours.

Okay. Stop.

You can’t think about him this way. He’s young, a good couple years younger in fact, there was no way you could allow these thoughts. 

But if they are only thoughts, who do they really hurt? You won’t act on them, you know better than that. Know you can’t get wrapped up with the twenty year old super senior, not when you came here to specifically get away from the drama of your past. No. You have to be good. Have to resist his infallible charm. You need to turn over, close your eyes, and be good. 

Yet your hand still wanders past the hem of your panties, down across the silky skin that lays underneath them. Your fingertip finds your clit immediately and your body jerks at the sensitivity of that little bundle of nerves, a surprised gasp leaving your lips in a rush. 

Down the hall, bundled on the couch, Eddie coughs. 

In your bed you lay frozen, heart pounding and ears listening intently. There’s no way you woke him up, not with just a gasp. You continue to listen for any other noise for a minute or two, heart steadily thumping and your fingers twitching at the anticipation of what you’re about to do because let's be real here. If you don’t come soon, you might actually implode.  

Feeling safe to move forward in your little quest, you guide your fingers back down, teasing a trail through your wet folds. 

His fingers would feel so much better. It’s not a helpful thought, not when you’re trying to think of anyone but him.

Fuck, okay. 

Patrick Swayze in that tight black shirt in The Outsiders. No. Scratch that. Matt Dillion as Dallas in The Outsiders, all rough and tumble. Just what you like in a man. A little rough around the edges but a good soul.

You press tight circles on your aching bud, arch your chest into your hand as it slips under your loose nightie, pulling at your pebbled nipple. You can’t help the soft moan that floats out, can’t help the rut of your hips into your palm as you slip two fingers into your heat. You imagine Matt Dillon laying you down on the bed, burying his face between your thighs.

Oh, fuck, that’s so good. This isn’t a marathon; it’s a sprint.

Your body so pint up and begging for some sort of release you’re on the precipice in no time at all. Your body is on fire, hips canting wildly, you think maybe your bed is squeaking but you don’t care. Fuck, you can’t care. Not when you’re so close. Just a little closer. 

Your imaginary scenario shifts suddenly and unexpectedly in your mind. Sexy Matt Dillion erased as Eddie’s face engulfs your vision completely. His beautiful face, those big strong hands of his, the tattoos, that little strip of black hair that leads down down down into his pants. 

You come with a cry, shocking and loud, and you clamp your hand across your mouth as your eyes screw tightly, brow pinching together almost painfully. 

His words from earlier replay as your body rocks through your orgasm in one vicious wave after another. 

"You devilish women, you.” 

Your thighs, trembling and slick, clamp around your own hand when you’ve had too much. Body relaxes into your silk sheets as you breathe slowly. But you’re filled with this zing like pins and needles from your fingertips to your toes and your mind is racing, and why the fuck did your brain betray you like that? 

You feel it then, the soft call of sleep. The flutter of your eyes as you fight to keep them open. The trailer is silent besides the rough Illinois winds as they beat a lone branch against the roof. You roll over in your bed, nuzzle deep into the blankets. You’ll deal with whatever that was tomorrow or the next day. Or never. You take one last peek at your room, still a soft lavender hue, purple moonlight, before sleep takes over. 

You don’t even notice the fact that your bedroom door had been left open just a crack. 

Eddie is gone when you wake up the next morning, the sun casting its early morning rays into your windows. The only proof he was even there is the blanket he slept with the night before sloppily folded on the arm of the couch. You don’t think much of his earlier departure. He’s a busy guy running full steam ahead towards his graduation. So you go about your day as normal. Coffee made, a small breakfast of yogurt and some berries you wished you’d grown on your own. You tidy up from the night before, washing the dinner dishes and making a list you shove into the depths of your purse. You need to stop by the store after work, get dinner for the next couple nights. 

The day goes on like so; slow and laborious. You try your hardest not to think about Eddie, try to place him at the back of your mind. You go through work at the Hawkins Journal mindlessly. Walk the colorful aisles of the grocery store with glazed eyes.

By the time you get home, you’re exhausted. It’s late, nearing seven, and the place where Eddie’s van calls home is empty. You assume he’s off doing ‘Eddie Things’ as you called his extracurricular activities that were not of the legal kind. 

You decide to start dinner instead, talking to your friend from back home as you cook. 

“Any new love interests?” She asks at one point, voice giddy with hope. It’d been a year or so since you broke up with your toxic ex and about nine months since you’d arrived in Hawkins with no interesting suitors. 

“Nope, not one.” You rattle off as you stir your boiling water and pasta.

“Bullshit.” She says under her breath before she repeats herself, louder this time. More accusatory. “That’s bullshit. Nine months and not one guy you’re interested in? Did moving to that Podunk town automatically make you a nun?” 

You laugh at this, rolling your eyes as if she could see. 

“No, it didn't make me a nun. But most of these guys are married. Or boring. Or married and boring. Or..” 

“Or?” She catches your avoidance, the tone you held as you trailed off from your former sentence. 

“Or… nothing.” You avoid it as you strain your pasta. 

“Babe.” She says sternly. 

“Fuck. Or they're too young.” You plop the strained pasta unceremoniously in the pasta sauce and throw the white plastic strainer into the sink.

“Young? How young are we talking?” Her voice is fully scandalized and you can only imagine the bright smile she's wearing. 

“20.” You sigh, leaning your hip against the counter as you stir with one hand and hold the phone against your ear with the other. “My neighbor. He’s…. He’s trouble.” 

“Oh, so he’s your type, is what you’re telling me.” She chimes and you roll your eyes once again.

“No. He’s trouble for me. He’s a good guy. Kid. Person.” Another sigh from you as your friend chuckles. 

“Oh, you are so bad off.” A giggle, then, “He’s legal, just go for it. You know, the world would be better if you got laid. You’d be less tense.” 

“No. He hasn’t even graduated high school yet.” You say. 

“He’s 20 and he hasn’t graduated high school?” 

“He’s not stupid.” 

“I didn’t say he was.” Her tone makes your skin crawl. She can tell -over the phone, miles away- just how defensive her question made you. 

“He’s just a kid.” You say again, mostly to yourself. 

“Babe, he’s twenty.” 

“So what, I should just fuck him?” Your voice is getting higher, temper is starting to build. There’s no reason to get so worked up, you know your friend means well, but you know you can’t go there with Eddie. You’d just ruin him. You weren’t good at relationships. 

“Calm down. I’m just saying. If you want it and he wants it and you are both legal consenting adults, what's the issue?”  

“It feels wrong. Like I’m taking advantage of him.” You mutter, abandoning your bubbling pasta to look out your window towards Eddie’s trailer. The van is still gone but now his uncle Wayne’s truck sits out front. 

“Jesus, babe. You’re clinging on to this warped moral high ground you have with your pinkies. Just let go. Live for once. I thought that's why you moved out there anyway. To live your own life however you want.” 

“It is.”

“Then fucking live it.” 

Your friends' words worm their way into your brain, spreading like a disease. You get high to quiet the voice but that doesn’t work like you want. You end the night curled up on the couch with your book, not even reading the words on the page. No. All you can do is think about Eddie and those four damned words. 

Then fucking live it

The days fade into even colder nights. You don’t see Eddie as much as you normally do, but he comes over every now and then to catch you up on how busy he’s been. He’s looking at you differently now, eyes lingering for too long. You don’t notice it at first, his constant heavy stare, more intense then his usual playful one and always on you. 

He’s touching you more. Something your brain noticed after the fifth time the back of his hand grazed across your arm or hip or thigh. It made your whole body light up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

His birthday whirls around. 21. He gets so drunk you find him laid out on his porch on your trip to the mailbox the next morning. His uncle sits on the steps smoking a cigarette, a fond smile on his face. 

He’s back to losing his key and hanging around your trailer by the time graduation comes around. You watch him walk the stage in his green cap and gown, sitting right next to his uncle who sheds a silent tear. Eddie flips his principle the bird after snatching his diploma from his hands. A group of kids cheers rowdily to the left of you, whooping and hollering, and Eddie stands at the edge of the stage with his arms spread wide soaking it all in. 

You don’t expect to see him that night, figured he’d be too busy partying with his friends, so it comes as a shock when there's a knock at your door quarter past eleven. 

“Hey, princess.” He says when you answer the door. He’s leaning against your porch railing with a distinct smile on his face. It reads trouble and you are absolutely smitten. 

“Hey, you. What’s up?” The screen door between you two does nothing to block the early spring breeze from invading your trailer.

“Lost my key.” He says simply. 

“Oh, you did, huh?” You bite back the smile that wants to break across your face. You can tell he’s lying. Can see the little twinkle in his chocolate buttons eyes. 

“Misplaced the damn thing again.”

“You have a problem, Ed.” 

“I need your help, Miss.”

It nearly knocks you off your feet, the tremor in his voice, the desperate pleading cut with a playfulness that short circuits your brain. Eddie smirks, hand reaching towards the door handle. You beat him to it, locking the screen door as he goes to pull it open.

“What do you want, Eddie? I’m about to go to bed.” The tension is too much. If you let him in… 

If you let him in, nothing will be able to stop you. 

“You’re just gonna let me freeze out here?” He whines, dramatically shivering in his leather jacket, vest, and red flannel. 

“Nice try.” You step back, starting to close the inner door when his hand slaps against the aluminum siding of your trailer, trying his hardest to catch your attention before you fully shut him out. 

“I'm starving. I-I’ll sleep in my van but can I just borrow some bread, and peanut butter, and maybe some jelly?” 

And just like that, you finally feel some semblance of control over this boy who makes it his goal to drag the desire out of its dark hidey hole deep within your chest.

Except, it’s not that deeply hidden. Not now. Not after all this time fighting to not feel this way for him. You know you shouldn’t let him in. He’s in a mood, you could tell the second you saw him, and you’re so pent up and horny you're destined to snap. To give in to this unholy feeling that's slowly suffocating you.

But he’s hungry and he’s pouting and giving you those lost puppy eyes…

You unlock the screen door and walk to the kitchen, knowing he’ll trail behind. He always does. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. I thought my stomach was gonna eat itself.” 

You slam through your cabinets and fridge as he stands in the center of your small kitchen. You carry your small load to the kitchen table, dropping the food into a messy pile. Bread, lunch meat, lettuce and tomato, a jar of mayonnaise and a bottle of mustard. 

“You can make it yourself, ya?” You ask and Eddie nods happily. 

“So much better than a PB&J.” He says excitedly, sitting down at the table. You hand him a plate and a knife and decide now would be a good time to finish washing your dinner dishes. 

Time passes quietly. The steady voices from the TV, Eddie’s soft groaning as if this sandwich is the best thing he’s ever eaten. It’s not as difficult to control yourself as you thought it was. But of course, you two aren’t speaking. The mood changes when Eddie opens his mouth. 

“Can I have a drink?” He asks hesitantly, mouth half full and a piece of lettuce hanging out the corner of his mouth as he chews. 

You pop open the fridge and grab one of the sodas you’d bought for him a couple weeks ago. You set it in front of him with a gentle smile. 

“Thanks.” 

It’s a quiet dance, the way his hand somehow brushes your bare leg as you walk back towards the sink. You know he hears the way your breath hitches. Know he has his eyes on you even with your back turned.

He’s cleaned up his mess by the time you’re done with the dishes, wiping your hands off on a dish towel when he makes his way back from the bathroom. You can faintly smell your mouth wash on his breath as he leans next to you to place his plate in the sink.

“I’ll wash it.” He says, looking down at you with a brazen look. The control you felt earlier instantly dissipates. 

“Okay.” 

“You look nice.” 

You roll your eyes at this, partially because it didn’t take him very long to fall back into his flirting but also because these little words really do something for you. All bets are off. If he pushes again there's no doubt you’ll give.

“Just a shirt and shorts.” You say back as he rinses the plate off. 

“Still,” When he’s down he collapses in the kitchen chair with a grunt, digging for his cigarettes he knows he can’t smoke in your house. “I think you look beautiful. Always.” 

“Are you full?” You decide to change the subject. 

“Very. Thank you.” He's quiet for a minute, flicking the wheel on his Zippo as he stares at you. And then, “I’d make you feel better than anyone ever has.” 

You hoist yourself up onto the counter, bare feet kicking against the pale yellow cabinet door, eyes lingering on him from where he sits. His legs are splayed wide, the muscles in his thighs straining against the overly washed black denim. 

“Getting ahead of yourself there, bud.” 

“Am I?” He asks as he sits up slowly, moves as lithe as a snake sizing up its prey. In an instant his whole demeanor has changed. He settles his elbows on his knees, levels you with a pensive look. His dark eyes narrow, but his grin widens and the contrast between the two makes you shiver. 

“You are.” 

“I’m not a virgin.” He says back quickly, a bite to his voice that doesn’t go amiss and you chuckle. He doesn’t like that, you can see it in the way his eyebrows wrinkle at the bridge of his nose. 

“Never said you were. You’re just young, Eddie, and I’m not a high school girl who doesn’t know any better.” Okay, so maybe you weren’t going to allow yourself to give in so easily. Where’s the fun in that?

He chuckles dryly as he raises from his seat. He steps in front of you, not touching, but his hands fist at his sides like he wants to. Like he longs for it. 

“Bold of you to assume I even mess with those high school girls.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, the groupies that hang out at The Hideout? Wait at the stage to tell you how good you are with your fingers?” There’s more bite to your words than you intend but if it fazes him he doesn’t seem to show it. His hot rough palms find the chilly hills of your kneecaps, his eyes flickering down to the exposed skin as he smooths his thumb there, before he’s locked back onto your withering gaze. 

“You sound jealous, Sweetheart.” 

And you laugh at this, a quick belly laugh that has your head falling back against the cabinet behind you. You laugh because you are fucking jealous and you hate yourself for it. You shouldn't be jealous of your freshly twenty-one year old neighbor burying his cock into a pussy that isn't yours. But fuck, it sears through you like a hot knife, made even worse as he eclipses the space that's left between you two. 

“I’m not jealous.” You scoff while your body is ravaged with the flames of his touch. “I’m sure you’ve fucked any girl that let you put your hands up her skirt. But I’m not some easy little girl.” 

“A woman.” His voice is entirely mocking as he ignores the hateful crassness in your words. 

“Yeah, a woman, and it takes more than some sloppy head and eager dick to make me come.” 

He settles himself between your legs, hands sliding up the expanse of your thighs until his fingertips dig into the flesh right below the hem of your little sleep shorts. He leans in, the smell of the weed he must have smoked before he came over lingering on his clothes and hair; the smell strong enough to have you feeling intoxicated. 

Or, maybe that was all him. 

“You have no idea what I’m capable of, sweetheart.” You want to wipe that smug grin away, slap him across his pretty face so he stops this before it goes too far, but one quick intrusive thought sends your mind into a tizzy. 

He’d like it. Little fucking masochist. 

“I’m not some innocent little kid, baby, I’d fuck you so good you wouldn’t remember your name.” 

As sexy as he sounds, as good as it sounds, you roll your eyes at his self assuredness. This sweet boy, the same boy that's confided in you about his past with tear filled eyes and spent hours blabbing about his DnD campaigns, saying he’d fuck you like an animal just feels so absurd. Yet it arouses you just as much, has your panties damp and sticking to your slick folds.

“You say that to all the girls you fuck?” 

“See; jealous.” He hisses back, eyes so dark and blown wide you can barely see their beautiful umber color.  

“Not jealous.” You shake your head, eyes begging to look away from his intense stare down, but you can’t. You’re trapped in his hypnotic slow blink as his eyes flash to your pursed lips. 

“I think you’re lying.” He argues, a harsh whisper as his head tips against yours. Your breath leaves in a choked rush when he nuzzles his nose into the side of your head, teeth nipping your earlobe. 

“Eddie.” You warn weakly, your hand splayed against his firm chest as you go to push him away, but Eddie has other ideas. He snatches your wrist up in a tight grip, guiding your hand slowly down his stomach until you're cupping his hard bulge. He’s hot under your touch and you both gasp in unison when he squeezes your hand against the heavy ridge of him under his denim. 

“Eddie…” You try again halfheartedly, head knocking against his as his cock twitches at the breathy whimper of his name. 

“Do you see what you do to me? You make me so hard." He rolls his hips up, drags his hard cock over your palm. His moan rumbles like thunder in his chest. “Want you so bad, I know you want me too.” 

“It’s not gonna happen, Eddie.” You whisper back, try with all your might to steel yourself, to make your words sound steady and sure. You want to. Fuck, you really really want to. But there's still that part of you attempting to resist the burning flames of desire. “You’re a kid.” 

“I’m not a fucking kid.” He growls, grips the underside of your knees to drag you further into him. You can feel him against the inside of your thigh, hot and pulsing and begging to be touched. 

“It’s wrong, Eddie, please.” Your hands are braced against the counter as he presses his forehead to yours, pushes against you until your back is arched. Your core presses against his cock in the most agonizing way in this new position, stealing the breath from your lungs as he hovers his lips over yours. 

“But it feels so good. Stop pushing me away. I’m a grown ass man, sweetheart.” His teeth drag quickly against your bottom lip and as he pulls away you chase after unconsciously, needing his touch -his taste- as much as he needs yours. 

“Fuck, you’re not making this easy for me. I have morals, you know.” You’re whining, head rolling to the side as he slowly starts to grind his hips into yours. 

“Oh, your poor morals.” His hand is gripping your jaw in an instant, fingertips digging almost too roughly into the soft hollow of your cheeks. “You’re so sure you’re gonna corrupt me, which is laughable. Don’t you see, baby?” Eddie soothes his thumb across your bottom lip, drags it down till it bounces gently back in place. 

“I want you to corrupt me. Use me. Teach me everything you know, everything you want, so you’ll never need anyone but me.” 

His words hit you square in the chest but he doesn’t give you a second to interrupt. He has a point to prove and nothing will stop him now. 

“I know you feel it, this thing between us that I felt the moment I saw you in that sexy little robe and your muddy rain boots. That night changed everything for me. You’re the only person who really sees me. I know it. Just like I know how hard it’s been for you. Resisting me, telling yourself how wrong it is and then moaning my name when you touch yourself in the dark of your room while I’m right down the hall. You can’t deny the cold hard truth, Sweetheart.” 

Your eyes widen as you pull away from him. He lets you create space, lets you digest the bomb he just dropped on you. He’d heard you that night. You’d been so careful, so quiet. At least you thought you had. 

“Tell me you want me. Let me make you feel good, baby. I know you need it. It’s been so long, hasn’t it? Since someone has touched you; since someone made you come.” He’s so sure of himself. So sure that he’s hit the proverbial nail on the head. That he’s got you all figured out. You’re torn between giving him credit for being so observant and being pissed that he’s using it against you. But he’s not wrong. It’s been so long since you’ve allowed yourself to be swept off your feet by someone. So long since you’ve felt a touch other than your own and here he was offering himself up on a silver platter with the promise of rocking your world. 

What was the use in fighting something that you both equally wanted? Two consenting adults giving in to the burning flames of desire. 

“Eddie-” He cuts you off quickly, his hips still against you, his hands digging into your fleshy hips. 

“Please, give me a chance.” His voice begs, thick with need and worry. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone if you say no. He’s well aware that the words leaving his mouth and the grip he has on you changes everything. 

“Eddie.” You grab him by the tattered collar of his flannel, pull him in until your lips brush his. “Shut up and kiss me already.”

He wastes no time slamming his lips to yours in an eager sloppy kiss. You kiss him back, waiting for him to slow his pace, to calm down a little, but he just presses himself closer and grips the back of your neck in a shaky hold. The blunt crescent of his fingernails digs into the sensitive skin of your neck. His other hand leaves its bruising grip on your hip to hold you tight to him, chest to chest, hearts pounding in tandem against one another. 

You let him lead, let him find his groove. Sloppy wet kisses turn slow and true, his nose bumping yours, his tongue licking into your mouth tantalizingly. The first time he does it you whimper, sure that if you had been standing you would have been weak in the knees. But you’re still locked onto the counter top, thighs clenched tightly around his waist, the heel of your foot digging into the backs of his thighs. You fought this for so long. One taste and now you’re not sure if you can let him go. 

But that’s something to think about another time and not when Eddie has a handful of your breast, thumb rolling tight circles around your pebbled nipple that pokes through the fabric of your shirt. 

“I knew you fucking wanted me.” He teases once he pulls away, a string of spit collected against kiss swollen lips. His breathing is heavy and his cheeks are ruddy and he looks so god damn beautiful in the soft lighting of your kitchen. 

You know there's no stopping you now. No going back. You were always just preventing the inevitable. You want him, you always have, and here he is serving himself up on a silver platter.

"Shut up and fuck me already, you punk."

[ghostchems]

More getting stoned with Terzo please

He's just so funny and it's so cozy whenever I read them.

You settle your head on Terzo’s chest, trying to get comfortable in the new position, letting your legs dangle off the side of your bed. The idea of you being this close to him would have felt like a pipe dream not long ago, but the two of you bonded quickly over a shared interest - getting high and acting dumb. A joint hangs out of his mouth as he runs his fingers lazily through your hair, his mismatched gaze miles away. His touch is intimate, making your eyelashes flutter and you struggle with your breath. Somehow he could always make you melt. There’s a faint smell of vanilla in your nostrils, the wood-wicked candle burning on your nightstand to give the illusion of helping mask the smell.

“Hey, hey — “ He uses his large hand to gently grab the top of your head and lift it up so you’re able to look at his handsome face. Terzo’s hair is perfectly disheveled, a few loose strands brushing his forehead, and he gives you a lop-sided grin, some of his paint smudged off his lips. “No wandering of the mind, tesoro. You are only allowed to focus on me, si? Isn’t that what you asked for?” His accent is much stronger while high, rolling some of his r’s and being extra dramatic about it. He’s starting trouble, just like he always does. Terzo is always one to poke fun, whether it be as Papa or in a less formal capacity, but none of the siblings ever raise hell back. Except for you but only when you’re high.

“What I asked?” You snort and lift yourself from his chest, sitting up and looking at him over your shoulder. “You came here because you specifically wanted my attention.” An elbow pokes into his ribs and he squeaks before lunging for you, his strong arms curling around you, capturing you in his grasp. You fight back valiantly and squirm in his arms until he starts to giggle and loosens his grip. He leans his body weight on you, arms draped across your shoulders and his nose pressed against your neck.

“Shhh, let me pretend.” Terzo mumbles into the crook of your neck and then blows a raspberry into it. You scream and try to fling yourself away from him only for him to come with you. He lands on top of you in a heap, his body completely dead weight which would be incredibly annoying if it were anyone else. You give a theatrical groan beneath him and manage to shove him partly off of you so that you can breathe more comfortably. “You like it, amore. I know you do. See? You are blushing, eh?” A hand snakes up to your cheek, brushing it lightly with his thumb as he lifts his head to look at you with puppy dog eyes. You sigh and then leaf your fingers through his impossibly smooth hair, brushing the loose strands out of his face.

“Maybe just a little bit.”

send me a drabble request here!

[bowieandqueen11]

Just A Second / Tommy Miller Imagine

Request: Just saw your post about Tommy requests!! Could you please please please write something with him and Joel doing some construction work for the reader and Tommy’s barely working for flirting with the reader instead? Thank you so much 💜

Awww please this is too sweet I love it!!

Also sorry I’ve included ma’am, if you’d like it to be g/n please let me know and I’ll change it/ post a separate one without it!

If you enjoy this one, please let me know as it really does help to keep me creating, and please send in your own ideas for the Last of Us!! 

Warning: some language and sexual allusions!

(I do not own the Last of Us or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @acecroft.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Joel didn’t think his sighs could get any louder, but he was about to prove himself wrong.

From where he’s leaning hands and knees on the floor, pulling up old patches of fraying moth-damaged cream carpet by himself, he has an extraordinarily good view of his brother. He peers underneath the side of his elbow and emits a sigh loud enough to be heard in the high heavens at the state of him. Ever since the two of them had signed onto this minor contract a few days ago, the man had hounded your side like a panting dog every chance he got. Even now, more than six hours into his workday, he was leaning as flirtatiously as he could against your kitchen doorway, letting out one of his ‘charming’ throaty laughs at something you had said. With his boot resting against the frame, and his hips pushed out so the top of his back is slammed awkwardly against the wall, he looks as if he’s holding the whole world in the palms of his hands.

As bitter as Joel wants to feel, the resentment can’t quite reach the inner chords of his heart. The Miller brothers were notoriously terrible when it came to love: with his wife gone, and Tommy often away too often for romance to even come into the picture, most nights usually ended with Sarah sandwiched between uncle Tommy and Joel on the sofa, the three of them watching cheesy 80s action movies and sharing round a carton of ice cream. Tommy had never been one for really getting onto the dating scene, but by god had Joel never seen his brother look so delirious. So giddy. So lovestruck. In all honesty, it kind of scared him. It was the same overjoyed look he had when he held Sarah for the first time: that same hopeful glint that seemed to drown him from the inside out, the kind that promised nothing else in life would ever matter as long as he got to love this person till the end of time. It was thrilling, and electrifying but also overpowering. All consuming.

He supposes he just doesn’t want to see his brother hurt if he ever loses that look.

The sweat beads on his forehead as his face contorts and he comes back to himself, cursing his brother with all the chance words he could think of in his head. He swears to god, he doesn’t think Tommy has even looked anywhere except at your eyes, or down to your lips and back, within the last hour or two. Every single time Joel quickly jogged past to chug some water and get back to it, or to rummage through the tool box to find the right size nail, Tommy would swat his brother in the stomach if he thought his mouth was opening to interrupt him. Joel sighs again when he looks up at the clock hanging up on the wall at the start of the staircase, nestled in between slightly crooked pictures of you, and what he could only guess to be your family, on holiday at some shore. The hands read 3:15.

‘Shit’, he murmurs to himself. He bites his bottom lip as he speeds up, fast enough that his fingers start to shake red with the effort. ‘If I’m late to pick up Sarah one more damn time she might just move in with those nutso neighbours. At least they got cookies. All I’m bringing home is a dumbass.’

Sadly for Joel, you had retreated back towards the front door to collect the mail, leaving Tommy alone and swinging his wrench around in his hand for a moment. For a second, he was too busy smiling giddily to himself and watching the back of your head walking away to notice the fuming sentiments of his brother. Only for a second, though.

‘Hey, I can hear you!’ 

Joel waves a hand at him, leaning back to rest on the heels of his feet. ‘Oh, spare me- if I have to hear one more damn joke about how you spend your days doubled over and ‘drenched in sweat’’, he brandishes the crowbar he’s using generally towards his brother, whose hands are out at his sides in mock outrage, ‘I swear I might just lose my goddamn mind.’

‘Far too late for that’, Tommy manages to mutter to himself. The suave fudger, as soon as he sees you turn back towards him the mockingly bitter look on his face is straight back into the sunniest smile, bright enough to rival the warm glow of a thousand fireflies on a blooming spring night. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand.

‘Well ma’am, as I was saying, this here you see... uh, this one here is a pry bar. If you get it in there it can, uh, it can really remove the trim, but you got to get right there - right in the action. Right down on your knees, down and dirty with it-’

Joel tears up another edge of the carpet a little too roughly, and both your heads swivel round to look at him: yours, a curious glance, as if you’d forgotten he was there. Tommy’s was more of a... well, let’s just say, it was more of a stern glare than a brotherly look. Joel ignores him, shaking his head and leaning back down heavily on his knees to shake his wrists out.

‘Tommy, you wanna give me a hand here?’

‘Uh... yeah, in just a second. Anyway, if you want me to teach you how to use this thing and save a little money in the future with some good ol’ fashioned DIY, I’m sure I have a second or two-’

‘Yeah, just a second is right. Tommy, we gotta go. Excuse us ma’am.’ Joel stands and makes to tap at the watch on his wrist, looking down in confusion at the bare skin, forgetting for a moment that he had left on his bed side table last night as it had begun to run slow. He clicks his tongue, walking over to his brother to grab his arm and nearly haul the poor dopey fool away from your side. He manages to shake him off, not wasting any time in coming to linger in front of you again; his chest puffs out, rising with a sombre breath past the edges of his rust coloured denim shirt, as if he’s about to say something desperate. Yet the words seem to catch him in the back of his throat, jamming up and trying to claw their tendrils out past his teeth, and yet he just freezes. For the first time in his life, he looks terrified as he stands there with mouth agape and whiskey eyes widening in front of your bewildered face. In the end, he seems to droop, and instead resigns himself back to a night of sitting up with Sarah and Joel if he was lucky, or out prowling around the downtown area if he still felt so disconsolate and out of sorts.

‘Well, some other time then ma’am.’ He smiles fondly down at you, wistfulness in every word despite not having even left your line of sight yet. He tips his head down in a courteous, yet sorrow filled half nod before he tries to saunter nonchalantly over to join his brother in collecting up all the tools he had barely even touched that day. Joel manages to stack up his boxes into the cradles of his arms before his brother’s even done talking, and is already heading off towards the door with a final nod goodbye at you; whether he was really done first, or his brother was just lollygagging to spend more time with you, well - oh heck, he knew rightly Tommy was dawdling around, pretending to fiddle with a few wrenches and checking his measuring tape was still extending just because he didn’t want to leave your company. If he couldn’t muster the courage to just ask you out right there and then, well, maybe luck would find some other way for these things to come about.

Eventually, though, he did have to leave, if only to stop Joel from honking the truck horn for the hundredth time. He seems to be leaning on the horn now, and even you were peering anxiously outside and scanning your neighbours’ houses to see if any waving fists had erupted from front doors yet. Taking the queue, he heads to make out, but before his foot can even step onto your porch you’ve run up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. 

‘Mr Miller! Mr Miller! Wait a second- please!’

Joel can’t see much from where he’s leaning against the steering wheel; from what he can gather, you seem to have gripped onto his brother’s shoulder and turned him back around to face you. He looks surprised, but it takes pretty minimal persuasion for hun to be led back to your torso. Without letting go of the bunched fist against his bicep, you seem to be shoving a folded note into his hand, and Joel snickers at the way Tommy pounces on the opportunity to run his pointer finger delicately up and down your open palm. You whisper something, and he nods so enthusiastically Joel’s sure his bobble-head is about to snap off.

Before he can blow the horn again, you really manage to surprise the heck out of both Miller brothers. Stepping up on your tippy toes, you press a quick kiss against Tommy’s cheek, before shyly letting him go and shoving him back out onto the porch. He pretends to trip over his feet, legs crossing as he dreamily parades down the front steps. His eyes roll back in his head as the rest of his body flushes, his hands coming up to rest against his vest where he heart lies: to anybody else, his reaction may look a little ostentatious, but Joel knows it’s as real as day. When Tommy Miller gives his heart away, even past the little teasing and flirting, he really does give his whole damn heart away. And it looks like you’ve got his caged up all nice and tightly, burning to charcoals in your hands.

He clambers into the car, waving a crumpled piece of paper in his hand with your phone number printed on it. As he slides in, bucking his belt up and fidgeting his shoulders back into the seat, he licks his bottom lip and whistles lowly through his teeth.

‘I have a date tomorrow.’ Joel scoffs, busy fiddling with the gears to even notice the flash of anger that quickly passes through his otherwise euphoric looking brother. He looks forward, taking one last glance towards your house and waving cheerfully as he spots you lingering near the front door. ‘On your birthday too. Huh, guess I might be too busy seeing my girlfriend to come to your surprise party’, he jests with a wink at his older brother, clipping in his seat belt and snorting through one nostril.

‘Okay - one, she’s not your girlfriend yet buckaroo, calm down.’ Joel rolls his eyes at the childlike glee that brightens his brother’s face at the word ‘girlfriend’ and turns the ignition. ‘And two, I have a surprise party?’

‘Well I haven’t planned anything, since you’re not five years old, but I’m sure Sarah’s doing something. Poor kid really loves your pissy ass, you know that?’

‘Yeah, I know’, he sighs out, beginning to reverse. He flicks up pieces of gravel from your driveway as the two of them slowly begin to recede into the distance.

‘Damn, that just reminds me, you really are goddamned old now. You’re getting so wrinkled, next year they’re gonna ‘ave to put you on display in some kind of museum for extinct dinosaurs.’

Joel scoffs as he turns his attention away from the road behind his headrest to stare incredulously at his brother. ‘All dinosaurs are extinct, dumbass. You’re pretty god damn stupid, you know that?’

‘Well you only know ‘cause Sarah told you-’

You can’t help but let out a bursting laugh as you watch the two of them go parading off into the wispy tendrils of the auburn sunset; the car has begun to stall as the two respectable workmen are too busy slapping each other’s shoulders across their seats like toddlers to notice.

[sionisjaune]

Share your deranged lewis/mick idea with the class babe

Technically Seb/Mick/Lewis but anyway...

“Seb told me to give this to you.”

Lewis blinks, bleary from an hour of staring at glowing data points on too-dark screens. Mick is standing beside him, one hand extended towards Lewis. He’s holding Roscoe’s leash. Roscoe is on the end of it, flopped on his butt on the floor and panting happily. 

Lewis wets his lips. It’s already dark outside the Mercedes hospitality. 

“He told me—” Mick cuts himself off and raises an arm to ruffle his own hair nervously. “He said I’m not your personal dog sitter and I should stop letting you—walk all over me, just because I’m at the track. And I am available, obviously, if you need me sometimes—but I actually have a lot on my plate even if it isn’t obvious, and—”

“It’s cool,” says Lewis. He licks his lips again. It does sound like something Seb would say—shrewd advice that he would give. “I guess I just assumed that since you liked dogs, and since he needs someone to hang out with…” Lewis trails off. There isn’t anything more to say. It’s entirely possible that he’s been selfish. 

“It’s fine.” Mick fidgets in front of him. “I’m just. Busy. You know?”

“Yeah, I know,” says Lewis. “Well. You can tell Seb that I’ll find a new dog sitter. And tell him I said hi.” 

—

“Seb said I should give this to you.”

Mick shoves his hand in the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a handful of colorful glass beads—jewelry. He opens his hand and the chain drops and sparkles under the violet lights of the venue. Each bead is unique—the chunky, hand-blown style that Lewis has been into recently—and the chain is short enough that it should sit close to Lewis’s throat. 

“It’s weird,” says Mick. Lewis watches him drop it on the bartop beside his empty glass. “So, I was visiting Seb and there was this market. And I saw this stall selling little handmade glass things, and then I saw this, and I said it looks like something you would wear, and Seb said I should get it for you if I really thought so.” Mick messes with his glass, sliding the pad of one finger across the rim. “I couldn’t tell if he was joking.”

“Sometimes I can’t either,” Lewis admits. He slides the necklace off of the bartop, and holds it in a cupped hand. The beads are still warm from Mick’s pocket, glistening with a slippery shine. “I like it. You have a good eye.” 

Mick wraps a hand around the base of his glass and glances at the floor. His eyes flick back to Lewis after a long second has passed. 

“Tell him I said thank you,” says Lewis. And then half joking: “And ask when I’m invited around.” 

Mick’s gaze snaps to the floor again, like there’s something very interesting between his and Lewis’s barstools. “Probably anytime,” says Mick. “I’ll ask.” 

-

“Seb told me to—” Mick closes the gap between them and slots his lips against Lewis’s. Lewis turns it into a real kiss, because why else was he hanging out in Mick’s hotel room on a Sunday night anyways. 

Mick makes a small noise and pulls away wetly. Lewis chases him until Mick is halfway reclined in the pillows of his bed and pliant underneath him. His hair is short and spiky between Lewis’s fingers, and his jaw is strong, and his lips are quite red when Lewis pulls away. 

“He said I should—” Mick pauses, breathless. “He told me to show you how I feel. He said showing is better than telling, and I should give you something that makes it obvious.” 

Lewis smoothes Mick’s hair down and settles his weight over Mick’s lap. “I think that’s just Seb. He can’t stand obfuscation. Everything has to be one way, and it has to be the most earnest, honest, bull-headed way.”

“I know,” says Mick. "That's him."

-

“Seb said I should give it to you like this.” Mick punctuates the statement with a short punch of his hips. Lewis muffles a groan in the crook of his own elbow. “He said you would probably like it like this. Hard. Fast. He said I should try to deny you.” 

Mick fucks into him again, drapes himself across Lewis’s back, and digs his teeth into Lewis’s shoulder. Lewis gives up on holding up his head and drops his forehead onto the arm of his driver’s room sofa. The fabric is coarse and scratchy and already supporting his right arm, but it makes it easier to take it in this position and gives him another point from which he can anchor himself. 

“What else did he say,” Lewis gasps. 

“He said that we should both visit during the summer, and he’ll give it to you himself. Soft and slow, until you beg for it. He wants me to watch, and then he wants to watch me fuck you until you can’t fuck anymore.” Mick pants into the side of Lewis’s neck. 

“Tell him—” Lewis groans. Someone definitely heard that one. “Tell him to stop telling you shit. Tell him to tell me himself.” Mick is absolutely nailing his prostate. This is the stupidest idea Lewis has had at a racetrack in years. 

“But I like this,” says Mick. “I like me telling you. I like telling him things from you too.” Mick tips his weight further onto Lewis so that he’s forced to collapse forwards into the sofa, his back curving at an impossible angle.

“Oh fuck,” Lewis says, overcome with the image of Mick telling Seb, telling him about this. “Fuck. Shit. I’m going to—”

Lewis comes on a feedback loop of sensations, Mick’s mouth on his neck, his chest glued to Lewis’s back. Mick cups his hand helpfully underneath Lewis to prevent a stain on the sofa. When Lewis is finished shaking with an orgasm of unexpected intensity, he flops on his stomach on the sofa and comes to the realization that Mick is still hard and half inside of him. 

“Seb said—” Mick catches himself. Lewis can feel him shifting around, tugging at Lewis’s rim. “He said I should come—on your back. That it would look good, with the tattoos.”

Lewis turns his head into his elbow and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Yeah. Just. Do it. Whatever he told you.” 

[nalgenewhore]

hooked

elide x lorcan, apocalypse au, secret relationship + jealousy, word count: 5649

It’s early in the morning as the sun has barely risen, and yet she’s trying to leave him already.

Her protests leave him unconvinced. Elide lays beneath him, her dark hair unbound and wild over his pillow. She has her arms around his head to keep him where she wants. As she runs her fingers through his hair, he can feel the iron claws she let out, and he suppresses a shiver each time they scratch his scalp.

Lorcan’s lips press against her jaw and throat while one thigh splits hers. “Stay, darling,” he whispers. “No one needs you now but me.”

Elide chuckles breathlessly, “You want me, you don’t need me.” She swallows her moan as his teeth nip the spot that drives her crazy. In a handful of seconds, she’ll lose her proper senses and let him take her back to bed. With more strength than she thought needed, Elide pushes her hands against his shoulders. “Lorcan.”

He lifts himself off of her, concern washing over his face. 

“I’m going, I mean it,” she says. “Down, boy.”

Lorcan groans and falls to the side. She cackles as she turns onto her stomach, inadvertently pushing her lush ass in his face. He gives it a smack for her commanding him like he’s a dog. 

Elide gasps a bit, cutting him a dirty glare. Petulantly, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and starts grabbing her clothes. “Just for that,” she says as she shimmies her pants over her hips, “I’m keeping this shirt.”

His eyes drop to the faded long sleeve that hangs on her petite frame. He keeps his smile to himself, faking annoyance, “Darling, I have five shirts. And this is your third.” Lorcan’s gaze traces how the collar falls off her shoulder.

She smirks, “And don’t you agree I look so much better in them?”

Lorcan can’t deny that. He props himself on his elbows as he watches her get ready with a crooked grin.

As she hastily weaves her hair into a braid, Lorcan moves forward, “Let me.”

Elide pauses, looking surprised, “Really?”

“Mm-hmm. You won’t be late..”

She smiles, “Ok.” Elide sits down in front of him, easing herself back between his thighs. 

He combs through her silky hair before smoothing it all to the back of her head. Elide lets her eyes fall shut as he starts twisting three even sections together. 

Lorcan’s finished before she wishes he was. He ties it off with a strip of softened leather. “There. All good,” he tells her, then leaves a small kiss on the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder.

She pulls the braid over her shoulder. Elide smiles up at him, then puckers her lips for a kiss. Chuckling beneath his breath, Lorcan indulges her silent command for a moment. When the time comes, Elide doesn’t pull away and neither does he.

It doesn’t last forever, even if he wants it to. She pats his chest, a silent command he knows well. To his credit, Lorcan holds in his whining and draws back. “You know something,” he muses as Elide sits down on the fur-covered palette to put on her boots. 

“What, love?”

“If people knew about us, you could move in with me. You wouldn’t have to run out of here at the first hint of sun,” Lorcan tells her, his eyes trained on the back of her head. “And you wouldn’t have to sneak over at night.”

Elide looks at him over her shoulder with a teasing grin, “I like sneaking over at night. It makes it exciting.”

He works his jaw. “I’m serious, ‘lide. What do you think about it?”

“About what? Moving in?”

Lorcan nods.

She snorts, “I thought we already talked about this, love.” Elide sits down, seemingly done with the conversation. 

“I want to talk about it again,” he says. He glances around her tent where her things mingle with his. Lorcan can’t even remember the last time Elide didn’t spend the night with him. 

She just shakes her head.

He sits up behind her as she laces her boots. Lorcan curls his body around her and dips his head to kiss her neck. “If people knew, I could do this whenever I wanted.”

Elide gasps a bit, arching her spine. Her hand reaches up to slip around his nape. She laughs breathily, “You could not.”

He slides his hand across her belly. Lorcan drags his teeth over her skin. “Shouldn’t, but I would.”

“You horny pig,” she declares with no malice or bite. Elide hums and laughs, pushing herself up to stand, “Uh-uh, no, you are not distracting me.”

Lorcan works his jaw, stewing over everything he wants to say to her. He knows he shouldn’t pick a fight about this now. He doesn’t stop himself. “Why do you care so much if other people know, Elide? Are you that ashamed of me?” It’s a joke, something he’s said before, but it isn’t funny this time. The glimmer of hurt in his eyes tells her as much. 

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Elide says evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “I’d just rather not have the entire camp know my business.” She takes his jaw to tug him into a chaste kiss, her nails digging into his cheeks. “And that’s all it is.”

He isn’t convinced.

She sighs, rubbing her brow, “You’re really not letting this go, are you?”

“I’m not. Why won’t you move in with me? Baby, we haven’t spent a night apart in, like, three months.”

She pops her hip to the side, “I’ve been staying here because my tent has a tear in it. If it was fixed, like you promised me it would be, then I wouldn’t still be here in your tent.”

Lorcan scoffs, shaking his head, “Don’t bullshit me. I want the truth.”

The tear in her tent is a minor issue, something that wouldn’t take more than an hour to fix. Elide hasn’t mentioned it in weeks, though, which makes Lorcan think she doesn’t really care about it. Trust, when Elide has an issue, she makes sure he is well aware of it.

Elide bristles at the implication that she’s lying to him. “Have you ever thought about why it matters so much to you that everyone knows?”

“Because I want people to know, and that’s all.” His eyes narrow. “I don’t have to have an ulterior motive.”

“Oh, no, I know why,” she bites back. “You want people to know I’m not available.”

Lorcan scrubs his face, groaning. “That isn’t what I want. You don’t always know everything.”

“I do so. I mean, does it bother you that much when they flirt with me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she laughs. “Why does it matter if people flirt with me? You know I’m coming home to you. My love, I don’t care about anyone else.”

“So why can’t they know that?” Lorcan presses. “Are you telling me it doesn’t bother you at all when other people flirt with me?”

She shrugs, now seeming bored with their argument. He can’t believe her or her dismissal. He thought he showed her he’s worth more than a good fuck, that he has thoughts about their relationship that matter. “Not really, Lorcan. Other people can flirt with you all they want. I know I’m the only one you want, and you’re the only one I want. That’s enough for me.”

Lorcan shuts his eyes in defeat. He doesn’t like that she’s suggesting there’s something wrong in wanting more. “Fine.” He stands up, angling himself so as not to touch her.

To stop him, Elide presses her hand against his stomach. “Why don’t you go back to sleep, love?” 

“I need to get started on the jeeps.” He slips past her to his pack of clothes. It isn’t a lie – the hunks of metal they call vehicles require a lot of upkeep, and Lorcan is one of the only members of their encampment that has any knowledge of mechanics.

As he pulls out a clean pair of pants, Lorcan hears the fabric tent flaps rustle. Elide leaves before his next breath. He can’t stop his brow from settling into a deep frown, and Lorcan gets dressed in terse motions.

When he exits, Lorcan ignores Elide, refusing to look across the camp at her. The feel of her solemn stare prickles the back of his neck, and he stretches it out. If she wants to pretend like what they are is immaterial, then so be it.

He’s done trying.

✵✵✵✵✵

Elide takes to avoiding everyone once the camp starts waking up. She cannot handle how she feels. A flurry of emotions overruns her body, and she feels ready to burst at any given moment.

All morning, she sneaks glances at Lorcan. She winces when he hits the wrench against some part of machinery, using more force than necessary. He never looks at her, not once. And Elide supposes she deserves it, yet that does not stop the sting of rejection. 

It isn’t fair. She isn’t being fair. The fact that he still comes to her may be considered a modern-day miracle with how many ways she’s denied him. 

Elide is not an easy person, this she knows. Lorcan doesn’t seem to mind it. At least, he didn't seem to mind it.

She looks back down at her mortar and works out her frustration by grinding the willow bark into a pulp.

By the time the stringy rind is brewing in the boiled water, Lorcan has amassed a small audience. 

Elide watches with sharp eyes. He engages in the conversation of the three girls, leaning against the rover with flirtatious ease. She frowns, and when she looks away, she misses how Lorcan’s gaze reaches to her, pleading for her attention.

An hour passes as they do this dance, sneaking looks at one another and missing each other’s glance every time.

Luca, one of the camp chefs, bangs a ladle against an empty pot to signify that breakfast is ready.

Elide puts a cork stopper in the leather waterskin she pours her brewed medicine in. She meticulously rearranges her supplies before slowly joining the mass queue for food.

In the line, she meets Manon, but Elide does not have the energy to talk with the other witch. She stares glumly at the head of dark hair that pokes above everyone else.

A derisive snort interrupts her pouting. “Trouble in paradise?”

She sighs as she finally tears her eyes away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elide mumbles at Manon.

“Mm-hmm,” her friend crosses her arms, unimpressed.

Elide rolls her eyes and resolves to ignore Manon. The line moves quickly through the mess tent. Inside, lively chatter fills the space. The tables and benches are quickly filled up, save for the table where the camp leaders sit. As the head medic, Elide always has a seat there. Usually, she sits with Lorcan, but as she approaches their usual spots, she sees that her place has been taken up.

She recognises the girl, having seen her around Lorcan several times. But that had been before they were together. 

A lump forms in her throat, and Elide squeezes her bowl of oatmeal. She swallows, then stiffly walks forward.

The girl has Lorcan trapped in what seems to be a very entertaining conversation, given the amount of times a high-pitched giggle leaves her round lips. Lorcan doesn’t react, and Elide hates it.

He glances at her, and there’s a plea in his eyes.

She blinks in shock as she realises this is for her benefit, that he wants her reaction, her jealousy.

Elide stops short. She knows she won’t be able to make it through breakfast with them.

Aelin waves her hand, “Elide, I saved you a spot.”

“Oh,” Elide plasters on a mild smile. “I’m fine, I’m going to eat outside.” Sharply, she pivots on her toe and marches out, her spine fixed like a rod.

Lorcan stares after her, and something has curdled in his gut.

Elide finds a spot at the base of a large tree, enough distance between her and the mess tent that she cannot hear any conversation. This morning, her bowl of over-sugared oatmeal has the same appeal as a bowl of gruel, and she chokes it down. Her treacherous mind turns the image of Lorcan and that girl over and over before morphing into some twisted version of the nights they must have spent together. 

She is well aware of the reputation her lover has amassed for himself.

Groaning, Elide knocks the back of her head into the tree. She reminds herself what he’s done doesn’t matter, because what they are is immaterial. They’ll grow tired of each other, eventually, and it will be easier to drift apart if they aren’t linked.

The rest of her breakfast passes by in a blur as she tries to convince herself of her own thoughts.

Eventually, her bowl and mug lay empty in her lap. She sighs as she gets to her feet. Elide wanders back to the kitchen to put them in with the other dishes. Afterwards, she’ll have to check in with her co-council. 

On top of their larger duties, everyone cycles through smaller jobs like helping the kitchen staff, having an extra patrol shift of the perimeter, or chopping firewood. As the medic, Elide remains in a unique position. Her chore tends to be tied up with her work, and today she’s allotted time for collecting the herbs she’s run low on. She needs an escort, though, someone who can carry weapons if they run into any danger.

Elide slips into the council tent, knowing that she’s a few minutes late. The closest open spot is next to Aelin, so she stands beside her friend. Only after she’s settled does Elide realise that Lorcan stands directly opposite from her. Not only that, but the same girl from breakfast is still hanging off of him. He’s stiff.

She can’t help noticing his discomfort, but she can’t march up to him to claim him.

Rowan’s deep and even voice cuts through her mind to begin the meeting. Elide zones out as he outlines the changes in guard shifts and training regimens.

He turns to her for her input on the medic’s duties. “Elide?”

She nods once, launching into her small spiel. “We’re running low on some supplies, so I’ll go foraging today.” Given the precariousness of their peace in the region, nobody leaves camp alone. “Today will be a long day, too. I could use an extra hand.”

“Very well. Salvaterre, you’ll be Elide’s escort. And—”

“I’ll go too,” says the girl next to Lorcan. “I can help Elide forage.”

The witch’s upper lip curls in irritation. Too late to avoid being caught by Lorcan, she schools her features. Rowan asks, “That good with you?”

Elide dips her chin. “Fine.” Her gaze jumps to Lorcan whose face is caught in an uncomfortable grimace. “I’ll need to leave soon so we’re back early.”

Lorcan quickly agrees with her plan. The meeting wraps up quickly after that, and Elide slips out before he can stop her.

✵✵✵✵✵

He stands with Ombriel at the camp entrance, waiting for Elide. Previously, he has greatly appreciated the opportunity to spend a day deep in the woods with his witch. Today he resents Ombriel’s presence and knows Elide will keep up her cold treatment of him.

Elide can tell that he has history with the intruding woman. She doesn’t know that it never mattered to him, that only what they have has ever mattered to him.

A hand slides around his elbow, and Lorcan knows instantly that it isn’t Elide. He shakes his arm, stepping aside. “Don’t touch me,” he says coolly, his voice tight.

Ombriel pouts. “What’s gotten into you? You’ve been so… distant lately.”

Lorcan merely shrugs. He spies a slight figure coming closer. “Elide’s coming.”

“I don’t know how you even see her,” Ombriel states. “She’s horribly talented at sneaking around, don’t you find? She is a Blackbeak though, so I guess I can’t blame her for being so spooky.”

His shoulders tense at the insult driven towards Elide and the other witches in camp. Lorcan turns to face Ombriel. “Don’t talk about Elide like that.”

She smirks, then tuts, “So sensitive.”

Knowing that engaging in any further will be wasted breath, he goes back to ignoring her.

Elide appears resigned as she joins them. She avoids looking at Lorcan, either staring past his shoulder or glaring at Ombriel. After a brief run-down of the spaces they’ll need to go to for the plants Elide needs, they set off, leaving camp.

The witch leads the trio, though in Lorcan’s view her taking on leading them is less because of her knowledge and more so because she can’t stand being around him.

He cannot ignore how much it stings, because it hurts. Elide does not know, or refuses to see, the hold she has over him and how easily she can bring pain to him. Lorcan will take anything she gives to him, will beg for it gladly, on his knees, over a bed of coals and iron, but is it so wrong for him to want something more than scraps?

He doesn’t think so.

After they’ve walked for ten or so minutes, a plant begins to crop up. Elide stops and rests her hand on a tree. Her iron nails flash in the sun. Lorcan winces since he knows she rarely wears them out. Mainly, they act as tools or weapons.

Elide turns to them, gesturing, “Start picking, one bag each.” She’d given them each a collection of bags for new supplies. Without another word, the witch begins to gently gather bright green leaves. 

Lorcan has accompanied her before, so he knows how to follow Elide’s instructions. He recognises the plant as wild mint, which the medics use for a variety of reasons.

He almost forgets Ombriel is here until she kneels beside him to help. It makes Lorcan startle somewhat, then he glances down at how close she’s made herself.

Tense, his eyes skip to Elide before shifting away. Her back remains to him. Lorcan re-focusses on the delicate mint leaves and starts plucking a few at a time. A minute later, the repetition of the motion becomes meditative. He kneels in contemplation, everything other than their material surroundings blocked from his immediate thought. 

Despite the tension between his companions, Lorcan feels relatively at peace in the forest.

And then Ombriel lets out a sigh that makes his hackles raise. “Do you, like, never talk out here?”

“If we have to,” Elide answers in a low voice that reminds him of a sword against stone. She uses the edges of her nails to strip mint from the stem.

Lorcan watches the back of her head. The braid he made for her sways across her back as she moves.

He forces himself to look away. Beside him, Ombriel is ripping whole plants from the dirt, and Lorcan knows that Elide will hate that. The witch prefers taking only what they need, not entire plants, so that they can return to the same crop.

In a lowered voice, he says, “We only need the leaves, not the entire plant.”

“What for? It’s quicker this way,” she shrugs. “I’d prefer to be done with this sooner rather than later.”

“It’s not about being fast, it’s about reducing our impact on our environment.”

A scoff interrupts them. Lorcan looks up at Elide who has cocked her head to the side. She narrows her eyes at him before ignoring him again. His head dips in defeat that he cannot conceal.

Ombriel has said something else, but he isn’t listening.

Elide bids them to move past the mint plants. She hardly looks back to see if they follow her.

✵✵✵✵✵

The sun peaks in the sky as they work near the river. Her nerves are frayed, and Elide feels like she’s on the edge of something explosive for the second time today.

Her hands are beneath the warmer stream as she cuts through hollow tubes with her nails. She could use the knife Lorcan fashioned for her specifically for foraging, but Elide wants to be petty.

She’s balancing on the rock furthest from the shoreline where Lorcan and Ombriel work. Due to the rushing water, Elide remains gratefully deaf to their conversation.

Soon, her legs start to cramp. She shouldn’t have crouched for so long. 

With a grimace, she stands up and carefully hops her way back to shore. On the last rock, Elide miscalculates her step, missing the flatter top and landing on a slick patch. 

A gasp escapes her, yet before she can find herself at the river's rocky bottom, Lorcan catches her. He’s waded in past his knees to steady her. Without fuss, he lifts and places her on the grass, then joins her. “You good?”

Instinctively, Elide has grabbed his arms for stability. Now that she’s on solid ground again, she hastily lets go. She doesn’t say a word, just sort-of nods. Elide steps away from him.

“Woah, that could’ve been bad,” Ombriel comments, “if Lorcan wasn’t here.”

Her anger returns to her like a bolt of lightning, and she wants to rip Ombriel’s throat out with her nails. Before she can give into the urge, Elide stalks a little ways up the river’s edge. She grabs her canteen of water, then sits behind a rock that hides her from Lorcan.

Elide’s exhales shake with anger and sheer possession.

She hates the ease with which Ombriel holds herself around Lorcan. He is resigned to it, but it twists her stomach to know that he is used to Ombriel.

Feelings like these should make her feel embarrassed. A man that waltzed into her life had utterly ruined her capacity for reason and made her so hateful to other women. Elide should feel sickened.

She leans her head back against the rock, sighing. Breathing evenly, she tries to calm herself. 

It takes a while for her to feel moderately like herself again. At least, she thinks to herself, she won’t bite anyone’s head off if they speak to her.

Elide drains the last mouthful of water before standing. She miserably turns back to the others.

The sight that greets her makes her drop her metal canteen. It clangs loudly on the rocks, and Lorcan spots her. His hands squeeze around Ombriel’s wrists, keeping them close to his chest. He lets go like he’s been burned, his mouth opening to say something.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” the witch snaps.

Ombriel looks over her shoulder, smirking.

Elide asks Lorcan, “Seriously?”

“Lee, it’s not like that,” he tells her.

She doesn’t even bother to laugh out her disbelief. Elide pivots and stomps away.

Lorcan swears behind her, then quickly scrambles after her. “Elide.”

The witch pulls herself over the rocks, her anger only pushing her faster. She half-snarls and resists bringing down her iron fangs.

He calls her name again, and once more, Elide only speeds up. She knows this river well, has gathered many plants and basked in the eddies and sun-bathed on its mossy shores. In a few hundred metres, she will reach the falls. There’s nowhere to go from there, so she might jump into the waters if the situation calls for it.

“Lee,” Lorcan says, easily keeping up with her.

Fuck him and his freakish body. Nobody should be that tall, Elide decides.

“Can you stop?”

“I’m busy,” she retorts. 

“Stop walking away from me,” he calls out.

“Nobody said you had to follow.” Under her breath, she sneers, “I’m sure your new whore could lick your wounds.” Elide doesn’t listen to him, of course, and continues marching towards the waterfall. There’s a clearing right above a set of pools that she remembers. Lorcan will know it too, given how often they’ve frequented the falls.

He makes a dismissive noise. “Like hell I’m letting you walk off because you’re pissed at me.” 

Elide nimbly bounds from rock to rock, tearing through an errant branch with her claws. Tossing the debris behind her, she tries not to grin at knowing Lorcan is walking into it.

“Hell- Lochan, can you just fucking - wait,” he tells her, desperation bleeding into his voice.

“I don’t want to be around you,” she lashes out, “and don’t tell me what to do.”

The familiar path to the clearing reveals itself to her, and she sharply pivots, ignoring her lover’s swearing at her abrupt turn.

She can’t escape him in the clearing though. As the sun fully hits her cheeks, and she can smell the mist in the air, two hands firmly stop her.

“Elide,” he says lowly. “Please. Stop walking away from me.”

His voice makes her chest crack a bit. Elide glances at the cliff’s edge. She crosses her arms before slowly facing him, but she does not still lift her gaze to him. They stand close enough that her nose is only a hand-width from his sternum.

Lorcan murmurs, “Baby.”

Something about his voice and that term makes a chord within her splinter, and she shoves him back, her nails cutting through his shirt. “You’re an asshole, don’t ‘baby’ me.”

Elide’s own anger sparks his temper, and his brows crease as he snaps, “Really, Elide? I’m the asshole when you keep pushing me away, and that, I dunno, makes me feel some kind of way?”

“You feeling ‘some kinda way’ does not make it ok to flirt with someone else.”

“I was not flirting with her. I was telling her to get out of my space and to stop touching me,” he explains in a terse voice.

She scoffs, “Don’t lie to me.”

Lorcan looks at her incredulously, “I’m not lying, Lee. It’s the truth!”

“Why should I believe you, Lorcan?” Elide demands. “I knew about you two when you were- together. You have history with her.”

He groans, screwing up his face. “That was months ago, darling, once.” Prior to Elide taking up every waking hour of his, Lorcan had developed a reputation for a short attention span. “Besides, why do you even care if we flirted? You said it yourself. As long as I’m crawling back to you when the sun sets, it doesn’t matter what I do.”

Gawking, Elide can’t decide if she wants to push him over the falls or throw herself into the water at his sheer audacity. “I wasn’t- that’s not what I meant, Lorcan! There’s a difference between an occasional flirt, and you deliberately flirting with somebody you slept with in front of me.”

His jaw feathers, and Lorcan shakes his head. “You can’t have it both ways. You don’t get to change the meaning of what you said when you realise how full of shit you are. Especially when I wasn’t even doing what you say I was.”

She starts pacing from one side of the clearing to the other. Elide weaves her fingers through her hair to tug on the roots. “That’s- fucking hell, you’re twisting it because you made a mess, and you can’t have any accountability.” She stops, exhaling tearily. “I mean, what do you want? Why does it mean so much that people know?”

“Because,” he bites out. “It matters.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, and people should know that. Because I am so sick of hiding you and us like something I should be ashamed of.” Lorcan’s words burst forward from his lips like he has been holding them in for ages. They make her freeze in shock. “Because I am yours, and I want everyone to know it.” He has an ache in his gut, in his chest, to be claimed, for Elide to dig her nails into his heart and wrench it out. Lorcan can’t stop himself now. “I love you, darling, and I need to be yours in every way.”

She doesn’t react immediately. As the silence stretches between them, Lorcan falls back a step, something on his face falling. “Lee, you don’t have to say anything. It’s fine if you don’t feel the same.”

Elide grabs the front of his shirt to tug him towards her. Once he’s close enough, she bids him lean down, so he does. She cups his face before kissing him, so softly. His arms wind around her waist in seconds to draw her frame against his. 

Her thumb strokes the side of his face as they embrace, and Lorcan feels weightless in her touch, though his heart thuds painfully. For a second, no longer than a soft breath, Elide pulls away from him to ask, “You love me?” She thumbs his pouty bottom lip.

Lorcan nods, his breath escaping him. “Mm-hmm. I love everything about you.”

“That’s a lot to love,” Elide whispers.

“Not to me. Not when it’s you,” he tells her.

She surges forward to press her lips to his. “I love you too,” she says. “Everything about you.” Elide grins as he slants his mouth over hers. “And you are mine.” At her claiming, his body relaxes, and the next thing she knows, she’s being laid down on the soft moss.

Instantly, Elide is reminded of how their day started; however, this time she doesn’t tell him to stop. 

He unravels her with his hands and tongue and teeth first until Elide flips him onto his back, and Lorcan is thanking the waterfall for drowning out the sounds of their coupling.

✵✵✵✵✵

When they eventually stumble back down, they find that their companion has abandoned their supplies. Elide smirks smugly at the obvious path Ombriel has left through the woods. The river is close enough to their encampment that they do not need to worry about her getting lost.

Beside Elide, Lorcan chuckles under his breath. She looks up at him, “What?”

He drags his hand down to her hip, then leans down to nip the edge of her ear. “You’re kinda crazy when you’re jealous.”

Elide doesn’t bother protesting his comment. She rolls her eyes, though. “Am I hearing a complaint?” As she looks up at him, her gaze falls to the open collar of his shirt. Red lines peek out, and she idly traces one.

Lorcan dips his head to claim her lips in a slow, dizzying kiss. “Never. It’s fucking hot when you’re insane,” he mumbles.

She tips her head back as she laughs. “I know.” Elide smiles at him, her eyes crinkled shut. 

Laughing, he kisses the side of her head before going to collect their supplies. Ombriel so graciously left her pack for them to take back, which acts as an ineffectual sort of revenge. Lorcan bundles up the crushable canvas bag, tucking it in the bottom of his pack. Before Elide can protest – it should surprise no one that his witch is fiercely independent – he puts half of her supplies in his bag.

They slowly pick their way back to camp, enjoying one another’s company and the sunny afternoon.

“When we’re back,” Lorcan says as he lifts Elide onto a moss covered log she wanted to walk along, “I’ll fix that tear in your tent.”

Elide hums noncommittally, her arms out to the side for balance. “Don’t bother.”

He gives her a look. In the morning, she was snapping at him for not getting to it, and now all of a sudden, she couldn’t care less. “What are you talking about, baby?” Lorcan tugs her so that she stops walking. He tucks some of her hair back. “I should’ve gotten to it when you asked me.” Kissing her cheek, he whispers a soft apology.

“Mmm, you don’t have to say sorry,” Elide replies, her lips curling with a small grin. She strings her arms around his shoulders and scratches the back of his neck. “And I just think that two tents is excessive if we’re sharing, y’know?”

His hand squeezes her waist. “We’re sharing?”

At his questioning, her nerves almost get the best of her. But he’s looking at her with a gaze full of quiet anticipation and adoration, so Elide pushes through. “I thought about, um, well, you wanting me to move in, and I… think it’s a good idea?” His brows crease a bit in the middle. “No, no, I know it’s a good idea. It is, really.” Fretting, she rubs his shoulders and rambling, “I get if you changed your mind, and it’s completely fine if you did, so please just tell me if you have because I’ve been making a complete ass today, and I don’t need to keep on—”

“Woah, woah, darling,” Lorcan chuckles. “Breathe, please?” He rubs his thumb over her rib. She forces her lungs to expand. Elide nervously searches his face as if to read him. “I didn’t change my mind. I want you to live with me in my- our tent.”

A wide grin overtakes her face. “Yeah?” Elide asks, her hands sliding up the sides of his neck.

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Lorcan wraps her in his arms. She leans into him willingly, easily. “Yeah, Lee. I’ve been wanting you to move in for weeks, y’know.”

The weight of guilt settles uncomfortably in her gut. Elide squeezes him. “I know. I just- I needed to be sure.”

“It’s ok,” he whispers.

She feels so silly now – it’s the most obvious thing in the world, her love for him. Elide turns her head to kiss the spot behind his ear, “I love you.”

Lorcan pulls back, only far enough that he can look at her properly. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing her say that. He knows he won’t tire of telling her. “I love you.” Threading his hand through her hair, he presses his lips to her temple. “Let’s go, yeah?”

“Love, show me the way home,” Elide smiles.

✵✵✵✵✵

an: elide deserves to be insane btw ! this is a v random "apocalypse" universe but i think that elide should have iron nails and teeth <3

tag list: @sassyhobbits @empress-ofbloodshed @celestialams @the-regal-warrior @icecream52 @elentiyawhitethorn @goddess-aelin @julemmaes (lmk if u want to be added/removed <;3)

[untaemedqueen]

At Your Service

Escort!Jeongguk x CEO!Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Angst, Fluff, Cold Heartedness, Emotional Trauma, Healing, Smut, Dark Humor

Chapter 7.

"Are you sure it's alright?" you breathe, stepping out of your closet.

Jeongguk looks up from his phone and it takes every single ounce of power for the device to not go slipping out of his grasp.

You're dressed in black from head to toe but that's not really the thing to focus on. The expensive black dress you wear hugs every curve and line of your body so perfectly that it feels like a sin to just be looking at you.

Your makeup is soft apart from the black winged liner that adorns your eyes and your arms are covered to your elbows in white satin gloves.

"Fuck," is the only word that the escort can utter at the sight of you.

You smooth your hands over the dress before propping your hands on your hips. "A good fuck or go fucking change?"

Jeongguk stands up, extending a hand to spin you around.

You do as told, spinning in front of him slowly. He whistles slowly, the sound clenching and strangling your heart sweetly.

"Never fucking change," he breathes, fixing his skinny tie.

You give him a small, awkward smile that lights up your face and Jeongguk resists the sudden urge to tug you against his body and hold you close.

"You look beautiful, seriously," he announces, sliding a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"Your grandmother is difficult to please, I assume," you breathe, grabbing your Birkin and leaving your walk-in closet.

"Incredibly difficult. But you're a force to be reckoned with. I don't think anyone can dislike you when they know you."

Your reply is only a lifted eyebrow, one that makes the escort snort softly at the sight. "Come on, girlfriend."

You're nervous for the first time in a long time. You have no idea what to expect from these rich people but what you do know is that you can't let your guard down, not even for a second.

You don't really care about what they would say about you, you care about Guk and what they would think about him. So now for the first time in so many years, you're attempting to step out of your own skin, your own comfort zone, and help someone else. And even though you're not a good actress, you're going to have to try because you won't be disappointing this man.

"You ever just wanna vomit?" Jeongguk gasps, hanging his arm out of the car to feel the cool air.

"This is imported leather, do not vomit," you reply.

Not too long ago, you turned your car down one of the prettiest streets in the city. It's secluded and full of perfectly trimmed foliage, just a hint at what's to come.

"How much farther?" you inquire, looking over at the escort.

"Not far, the gated community is just ahead," he answers you, putting his forehead to the crook of his elbow.

You can tell that he's vibrating with nervousness and all you want to do is just turn the car around to save him from himself and his family.

"It's just… Chloe's gonna be there and my grandma… and just…" he can't even finish his sentence as he shivers.

Without a second thought, you pull your car over to the side of the paved road.

"Look, I don't normally say this to people that aren't me but you need to breathe," you tell him, taking his hand in yours.

He throws himself backwards, his head hitting the rest behind it with a heady thump. "Fuck, I'm just... Let's just go back to your house, I'll buy you a television and we can watch some mov-"

"Jeongguk," you whisper, leaning over towards him and putting your hand on his shoulder.

He whines softly, something akin to a frightened dog. "Y/N, please, I-I can't do this! I just don't have it in me!"

"I'm here with you. You don't have to be afraid," you promise.

Guk rolls his head to look at you and without a second thought he's unbuckling your seatbelt and pulling you in for the tightest hug you could ever imagine. Your arms freeze and the warmth that radiates through you from his enveloping almost makes you want to shut down.

"Hug me back," he mumbles, burying his face into your neck.

You're so comfortable, so easy to hold that the escort feels all the dread within him slowly seeping through his pores.

Your arms finally wrap around him and he sighs almost too contently against your skin.

No matter how cold and distant you act, you're more comfortable to him than he could ever imagine. If he could hold you like this for eons, he might not want a thing for the rest of his days. Who could bear to eat or breathe when you would take up all the space before him that he'd ever need.

"Why are we both two puzzles?" Guk breathes, hooking his chin over your shoulder.

You can't even utter a response before he's speaking once more. "Should we solve one another? You be Wednesday Addams and I be that… poor nerd kid named Joel from camp or whatever?"

You find yourself giggling then before eventually rolling your eyes at his silliness. "Why am I Wednesday?"

Jeongguk guffaws shortly, pulling back just enough to see your irises shimmering with playfulness. "How could you even be asking me that question?"

There's something friendly in the air, something coating you both with sheer comfort. And yet, something below the surface, something brewing since the moment you met lies hidden beneath it all.

It's wanting.

It's passion.

It's volatile and bright and loud. It wants to tear at you both until you're shreds of being. It wants to eat you both up and spit you out when you're sated with love and desire. It wants to put you into an ethereal state of being where you can only survive off the other.

And somehow, you're both so comfortable with this volatile proposition that it sits palatable on both of your tongues like an unspoken language.

It's when Jeongguk's eyes flit to the petals of your lips that you find your breath all too short and stuck within your throat.

"Hey Wednesday," he whispers, softly threading his fingers into the hairs at the nape of your neck.

"Yeah, nerd kid?" you murmur, letting your eyes flit to his lips.

"C'mere, sweetheart," Guk breathes, tugging you sweetly towards him.

"Wait, Gukkie… I don't know…" you gasp nervously, still moving ever closer.

"C'mon, Wednesday. What harm could it do?" the escort jeers, gently gliding his thumb over your lower lip, "You're my "girlfriend", aren't you?"

Everything in your body screams at you to pull away from his embrace and run away but there's something so hypnotizing about the way his lips move that it feels wrong to deny him of whatever he asks for.

"Just one kiss?" you inquire, allowing him to press his forehead to yours.

"Maybe more, if I'm feeling generous," he quips, leaning in closer.

You can feel the gentle heat of his breath fanning past your cheeks now. His breathing is shorter and ragged as if his excitement is overwhelming him entirely.

You don't know this and Jeongguk doesn't know if he would ever say it out loud but god, he's craved this. He wants this more than any-goddamn-thing in such a long time that it's overtaking him.

It's churning his organs to mulch and making his brain liquify into something gelatinous.

He smells of cedarwood and clementines, something that arouses your senses with hopes of smelling it for many a moon to come.

"Yeah, fuck it," Jeongguk whispers, pressing his lips to yours.

You're shocked stiff at first, not knowing how to respond. You haven't kissed in years, you haven't felt in years. But it's all too easy with this man.

You sigh longingly against him, finally finding the courage to kiss him back.

His lips move softly against yours, letting you dip your toes into the water before dragging you out to the middle of the sea.

Your lips are so soft and so expressive that Guk wants nothing more than to fling his seat back and take you in this expensive car. He can feel all the sadness and all the nervousness bleeding from your kiss but he can feel the excitement too. The escort feels like he can understand every emotion you've ever had with this one simple kiss and it's flooring him.

When you're at your most comfortable, you whimper against him.

The sound is voraciously loud within the silent car and Jeongguk can only groan in response. The noise reverberates through you, leaving the marrow of your bones tingling for more.

"Get over here," he hisses, placing both his hands on your hips and tugging you across the middle console until you're in his lap.

"Guk!" you gasp, pressing both of your hands to his shoulders to steady yourself.

"Attagirl," the escort murmurs, drifting his lips across your jaw sweetly, "God, you drive me crazy."

"In a good way?" you inquire, closing your eyes to relish in the feeling.

"Look at me," he orders, hooking his hand around the back of your neck. The cold chill of his rings sends a shiver over your skin and your eyes snap open to look down at the escort as he pants with wanting, "It's always in a good way with you. You hear me? Even if you don't believe it yourself, I believe it enough for the both of us."

Your heart flutters at the sincerity of his words, it pumps gorgeously fast at the weight they carry.

"Sh-Should we go?" you inquire, clumsily pointing your thumb back at the road.

"No," Jeongguk whispers, tugging you back down to him, "just give me a little while longer with you."

And who are you to deny him?

Finally after your lips were raw and your lungs were out of breath, you continued on your way to his grandmother's mansion.

Now standing just before the large foyer, you can't believe a place bigger than your own home exists.

It's gorgeous if you're being honest but you wouldn't dare utter a word with Jeongguk nervously hooking his arm around your shoulders by your side.

Not even the teenage-like, giddy make out session you had a little while ago can satiate him now.

The only thing he has is you by his side and he prays that you don't leave it for a second. You're his comfort blanket here, you're his protector.

And by God, you will fulfill it.

"Are you ready?" you ask, fixing his tie.

His eyes falter from the beautiful entrance way to you and his pupils shake with uncertainty. "Can't we just… go back and kiss some more?"

You press your hand to his chest with a small smile. "Maybe lat-"

"Jeon Jeongguk!"

All of his muscles clench at the sound and suddenly the sweet arm around your shoulders feels like dead weight.

"Oh no… please… please, I'm not ready!" he gasps to himself.

"Hello?! Jeongguk?!"

You peek over his shoulder to see a woman approaching at a rapid pace. Her hair is in banana curls, pinned on both sides like she's going to send her husband off to World War Two. Her makeup is flawless and her outfit… Well, it certainly accentuates her bust appropriately.

"Hello?!" she hollers, slapping the back of his shoulder with a grimace.

Turning towards her now, she simply blinks at the sight of you.

You know this is Chloe before Jeongguk can even utter anything and you've already decided that you simply don't like her.

You don't like how nervous she's made him and you certainly don't like how she tries to command herself in one's presence.

Raising an eyebrow at her, you look down at your gloved hands.

Suddenly, she's forgotten all about the handsome escort by your side and is now solely staring at you.

"H-Hey, Chloe," Guk breathes, clearing his throat.

She gives him a small, insincere smile before focusing back on you.

"Who's this Jeongguk?" Chloe inquires, crossing one demure ankle in front of the other.

"Y/N, his girlfriend. And you are?" you reply, looking up from your gloves with dead eyes.

Suddenly, you can feel the flames of anger coiling in your gut like you're some sort of wild animal. It's fun to watch her eyes widen in bewilderment.

Jeongguk calls you Wednesday but you're feeling more like Elvira at the moment.

"Excuse me? Jeongguk hasn't told you about me!?" she guffaws, sliding her ringed hand over her shoulder.

You aren't fazed by the giant rock on her hand, nor are you impressed with her little ugly show.

Just because the escort at your side can pull emotions out of you doesn't mean anyone else will. Certainly least of all this woman who just about ruined and abused him.

"No," you deadpan, sliding your hand over Guk's chest, "who is she Gukkie?"

You can feel how fast his heart is beating but when you press the tip of your index finger to his jaw and forcibly turn his head, suddenly he's calmer at the sight of you.

"My ex, Chloe," he breathes, eyes searching your face for any emotion.

"Oh. The boring one. I see," you sigh, tilting your head and looking her up and down.

She scoffs loudly, rolling her eyes. "Excuse me!?"

Jeongguk takes great comfort in how you immediately protect him, he keeps his eyes on you and he's pretty sure Chloe can glean all of the emotions boring from his irises to your face.

"So who is she then?! An escort?! Some woman you pay to get you-"

"I'm the CEO of a wine company," you interrupt.

"Y/N is an amazing businesswoman," Guk breathes, pushing a few strands of loose hair behind your ear.

"Oh really?" Chloe grinds out through her teeth.

You're surprised she isn't stomping her foot on the ground, in all honesty.

"Do you think you'll impress his grandmother?! Hmm? With your out of season clothes and your Birkin that's--"

"This is next season," you interrupt once more, moving away from Jeongguk to slide your hands down your dress, "Alessandro Michele, the head fashion designer of Gucci, is a client of my business and always sends me new releases to wear."

Guk presses his lips into a straight line, trying and failing to hide the proud smirk that's spreading onto his face.

"If anything is out of season it might just be that Balenciaga you're wearing. I saw it last season in Paris at fashion week. It didn't scream couture but with a price tag of four thousand it's affordable, I guess."

If Chloe was a robot she would be short circuiting and simply shutting down at your words.

"What?!" she screeches, stomping her foot.

There it is.

"My Birkin is another story but it's a boring one," you sigh dramatically, lifting the bag, "I don't feel like telling the tale of the creative director flying the bag out to me personally to thank me for funding one of their projects. It's just boring, really."

Jeongguk's ex is thoroughly shell shocked and you're surprised that she hasn't caught a fly in her mouth with how wide open it is.

"Anything else? If not, I'm feeling peckish. Talking about money makes me hungry. If you have any other questions, you can refer to Google. My net worth sparkles on the website when you look it up."

Guk chuckles deeply, pressing his lips to your temple. "I hope Winston is treating you well."

"It's Hamish!" Chloe snaps, crossing her arms.

"Sounds boring," you surmise, "I thought you had good taste, Guk. I'm disappointed."

Chloe scoffs again, narrowing her eyes at him menacingly.

"I do have good taste, angel. I have you," he breathes, putting his hand to your back.

"Chloe, I would say it's been a pleasure but I've gotten nothing out of our conversation besides a headache," you frown, lifting your hand in the air and waving it disdainfully, "What'd you say her family did?"

Jeongguk looks over at you with a smile. "They made the tin can or some shit."

"We made flasks! Flasks!"

"Fascinating," you deadpan, turning on your heel.

"Goodbye, Chloe," you chirp, holding out your hand.

Guk takes it immediately and when the screech of anger breaches past his ears, he feels as if he's floating on air.

"Can I say I love you yet or should I wait?" he jeers, opening the door for you.

"She's fucking boring, what'd you even like about her?" you scoff, widening your eyes at him.

"I honestly can't even remember," he breathes, stepping into the foyer with you.

While Chloe was a cakewalk for you, his grandmother will not be so and you will have to steel your nerves for the next meeting.

"You're incredible, by the way, Wednesday," the escort whispers in your ear.

"Oh, I think it's you that has to see that about yourself," you reply, accepting the gentle kiss he leaves on your lips.

Even still your work isn't done because now it's time to meet the woman of the house. And for that you are truly nervous.

<---- Last Chapter                            Next Chapter ---->

[veryveryverytemporarily]

Thanks so much for tagging me @vacancy90

rules: list the first line of your last 10 (or however many you have) posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

1. There must have been a reason why Robert arrived at the age of twenty-one still a virgin; some half-formed idea that your first time was meant to mean something and then it had gone on longer than he ever intended. Perfect

2. It’s been his safe place, where he retreats when the lights go out, chasing images of green fields and motorbikes, digging up onions, Côtes du Rhône - Aaron’s voice. All My Life

3. Colin - it says in handwriting on the envelope. Aaron picks it up and looks inside, thumbs the crisp fiver, a couple of ones, and a shiny fifty penny piece. Come sail your ships around me.

4. Robert stepped swiftly out of the arrivals lounge at Charles de Gaulle airport, running a hand over his short blond hair, just relieved to be home at last. M’au pair

5. ‘Did you see a storm coming?’ This New Sun

6. Victoria was the first to notice something was up. ‘You haven’t eaten your breakfast, Robert.’ Black Dog

7. They’d both known in the taxi from the airport how it would go, Robert’s elbow crooked over the beaded cover on the passenger seat, his arm hanging down, the back of his fingers tapping against Aaron’s knees. Barcelona

8. It was the sound that drew her attention, like a new born lamb, a bleating carried on the frosty air. Still

9. He’d said I love you for the first time the other day, quietly, with a sweet smile. Not as a weapon, not as a cure, either. The Decision

10.‘You’ve got the work ethic of a sloth,’ Paddy had once said to him. They’d all heard him, his family, standing or perched on barstools at Woolie; it still rankled that no one had come to his defence. Deliver ( New fic unpublished as yet )

I tag everyone who fancies having a go at this, you lovely talented people ❤️

[roosterbruiser]

GIRL i miss jake and filly so bad i will take crumbs minuscule crumbs

I have 8 pages of scraps...here's a few crumbs for you <3

You’re tired--you feel like you’re always tired when you’re at work, especially when it gets so dead in here. You’ve already swept the nasty floors and wiped the sticky counters and counted the register and made things stupidly easy for your coworker who comes into work reeking of sweat and weed. 

Now you’re just buying time until Jake picks you up, tapping your fingers against the counter and seeing how long you can hold your breath. You haven’t gotten past thirty-four seconds. 

This is literally the kind of boredom that kills people. 

It’s been empty in here for a couple hours now--this sad little ice cream shop on Clearview Street, nestled between a shoe cobbler and a dog groomer’s. It’s barely even three in the afternoon--of course no one wants ice cream right now. Even when it’s this achingly hot outside, there’s always a lull in business around this time. 

But that at least means you can turn the radio up. Right now, Plastic Jesus by Tia Blake is playing. It’s the only other sound in the shop besides your chipped nails tapping against the fridge in the back. 

You’re taking your stained apron off when the bells above the door chime. 

Sighing, you slip your apron back on and turn so you’re lingering near the cash registers and glass-lidded freezer. But you’re instantaneously relieved when you find that it’s not another ratty-haired brat waiting for another free sample before you--it’s Jake. He’s leaning over the counter, grinning at you, his eyes heavy but shining in the harsh fluorescents. 

“Well, howdy,” you greet with a huff, mirroring his position so your elbows are pressed together. “Thought you were gonna be another rugrat.” 

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. 

“Disappointed?” He asks. 

He’s trying to take you in without you growing uncomfortable--not that his gaze has ever made you uncomfortable. You’re wearing the ugliest hot-pink collared shirt with the Dairy ‘N’ Berries logo on the breast, a faded pair of blue jeans, and clunky tennis shoes that he thinks used to be white. Your hair is pulled back--as much as you can pull your hair back--and your face is free of any makeup. You look tired like you always do during a morning shift--which is stupid because who the fuck gets ice cream at eight in the morning?--but you look happy to see him. 

“Entirely,” you tease right back. You glance at the clock. Only a few more minutes until your coworker is to come in and relieve you. You have time. “Pick your poison. Quick!” 

Jake glances down at the buckets of ice cream, all six of them, and ignores the fat black fly buzzing around in the glass. Beggars can’t be choosers. He points to the strawberry and you nod at once, grabbing one of the shitty paper cups from beside the register and scooping the ice cream hastily. 

“How was work, honey?” Jake asks, taking the cup from you and leaning against the counter. You don’t hand him a spoon so he simply digs his two fingers in the cup and sucks the ice cream off them. “Make enough money to get us the Hell outta dodge?” 

You shake your head, frowning. You untie your apron again and hang it up on a crooked hook. 

“Someone tipped me in fuckin’ dryer lint today,” you say, pointing to the measly tip jar. “Honestly, maybe they thought that was our trash can. Can’t blame ‘em, I guess.” 

Jake is making a proper mess--like he always does. He’s scooping the pink ice cream out and sucking his fingers clean devilishly, making lewd noises when his tongue twirls around his fingernails. He has cream all around his mouth now, doing his damndest to finish the secret cup of ice cream before your coworker relieves you. 

“You poor thing,” Jake tuts, sticking out his lower lip. 

You nod, throwing your hands up. 

“I know. People should just throw their money at me,” you say. “Like a stripper.” 

“Would if I could,” Jake sighs, eyebrows raised. 

That makes you laugh. 

“What’re you implyin’? Think I’m stripper material?” 

Jake snorts, his eyes falling to his fingers dipped in the quickly-melting ice cream. His cheeks are dusted pink, which is strange because you hardly ever see his cheeks get pink. Not unless he’s pissed off or very drunk. But this is a new blush, surely--one that has something to do with the thought of you taking all your clothes off and performing for Jake. 

This is your usual banter, something you’ve probably joked about before. But now there’s something sitting between you two, something that makes your thighs feel weak and your tongue dry. The two of you still haven’t spoken about the night of graduation, even if it’s been consuming both of your thoughts. Even though both of you are tossing and turning at night, replaying every moment from the encounter, neither of you have been brave enough to say something about it.  

So now you’re stuck thinking about it--about you being a stripper. About your naked body in front of his naked eyes. You’re thinking about what lace would feel like covering the meat of your ass, thinking about what it would feel like if Jake touched you through the lace. And Jake is just thinking about you, the heat between your legs, the way you clamped down over him. He’s thinking about the phone call his mama’s gonna get later from Mrs. Odette, too, but he’s trying not to.

“I think you can do anythin’ you set your mind to,” Jake decides on. 

The two of you look at each other for a long moment, watching each other’s mouths. 

“Slap that on a poster,” you whisper finally, biting your lip. 

Jake looks at your face--how earnest and lovely it is, even in this dingy ice cream shop with the awful overhead lighting--and decides that he should say it now. He should say it here and if things don’t go well or they get awkward, there will only be a few minutes until you’re off shift anyway.

“Emma--you remember her?” Jake says, grinning when you pretend to think. He’s glad that landed--glad you’re not running for the hills at the first mention of Emmaline Odette.

“Rings a bell,” you shrug. 

You know where this is going. 

Your heart is racing. This conversation, for all its non-causality, feels like it’s about to get even more serious. You know that Jake sometimes likes to tease and crack pathetic little jokes when he doesn’t want to say something. You’d be willing to be he said something stupid to Emmaline when breaking up with her--and you know, know with your entire aching chest, that is what he is about to tell you. 

And Jake is watching you carefully, noting how slacked your face is and how quickly your chest is moving even though you’re trying to hide it with your hair. He wants to take your hand, but he knows you’d just feel like he’s drawing more attention to it--which is probably precisely what you don’t want. So he just keeps eating his ice cream, letting his eyes fall down to where your hand is gripping the counter. 

“Yeah, well…” Jake says with a shrug, “she’s history. Well--we’re history.”

Biting a small smile, you nod. 

“As of?”

Jake glances at the clock. 

“Fifteen minutes ago,” he answers. 

“Oh,” you say, blinking at him. 

He’s not looking at you as he eats his ice cream. And because you know Jake better than you know anyone else in the world, it suddenly registers on his face that things didn’t end nicely. He’s got that little crease between his brows, the one that is practically the word anguish written across his forehead. And his lips are bitten, his cheeks still a bit pink. 

“How’d it go?” You press very softly. 

Your heart is still racing. You’re worried that maybe he’s realized that this is a mistake--that there really wasn’t a reason for him to break things off with Emma. 

“Bad,” he answers with a small smile. “Told her why people call her butter.” 

Your face scrunches in displeasure. You don’t like Emmaline Odette--you would probably delight in never seeing her again if you had it your way--but you know that butter is a particularly cruel nickname. 

“Wicked,” you say, sighing. “Maybe she needed to know, I guess.” 

“Here,” Jake grins, scooping some more on his fingers and nodding for you to come closer to him. “Ice cream makes everythin’ better.” 

You’ve done this before--of course you have. You’ve ate out of his hands more times than you can count between spilled pudding cups and melting popsicles. But when you open your mouth and he rests his fingers heavy against your tongue, when you sloppily suck that sweet cream off his fingers while blinking softly up at him--it washes over you again. Those fingers were in your cunt a few nights ago. And the two of you still have not talked about it--not fully, not the way you want to talk about it. 

[thatndginger]

From the Soft OC Asks!

For Jay: 💫What is your favourite fact about this character and why?

For Warrick: 🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal? What kind of things are written in there? Could you give an example of a nice entry?

For Kerr: 🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them

--@ceph-the-ghost-writer

Aaa thank you Ceph for the ask! I'm so excited to get to answer these ^.^

💫What is your favorite fact about this character and why?

My favorite fact about Jay is that she is scared all of the time. It might not look like it from the outside, because a scared dog tends to look a lot like an angry one. But she's the posterchild for the "do it scared" mentality.

🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal? What kind of things are written in there? Could you give an example of a nice entry?

Warrick isn't the kind of journals, but you can be sure that if he did keep one, it would be absolutely covered in little doodles and stickers and coffee stains. There are forgotten gum wrappers between the pages. As for an entry.... well I'm gonna channel 16-year-old War, since that'd be the most likely era for him to keep a journal.

"Apparently Carlisle is bringing in strays from overseas now. And turning my couch into a hotel. At least he found someone interesting. This new stray is my age, so I invited him to tag along with me and Jay tonight. We'll see if this Kerr can hang." [on the next page, next to a cartoon-y sketch of three figures standing on a rooftop] "He's awesome. We're keeping him."

🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them

Ok this is a dynamic that's implied in Into the Storm, but not fully acknowledged. Until now. Enjoy? Gabe’s eyes catch on the trio across the bar for the thousandth time that night. No, that’s a lie. His eyes catch on a single person within the trio. Kerr’s smile is brilliant tonight. It’s the soft, crooked one he reserves for friends; the one that spreads through his entire being, pooling in his warm brown eyes and the tilt of his brows, spilling out to infect those around him with every brush of his hand or shoulder or elbow. He reaches up to push his thick, dark curls away from his face as he laughs at something being said, playing at bashful.  In the dirty yellow light of the bar, Kerr’s gilded. Pale skin and a white tee that’s far too threadbare to leave much to the imagination are warmed to champagne; wild hair and shining eyes darkened to the richest brown and edged with gold. He’s vibrant and alive. There’s a warmth beneath Gabe’s skin that has nothing to do with how many people are in the bar now. He looks away again, and tells himself he’ll leave after he finishes this drink. This drink for sure.

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: Rose Daughter

Prompts: Every day. Monster, fear, cold sweat. Celebrity.

Group: B

-

Tomorrow

“You’re late, dearie.”

Belle jolts, whirling around, her feet skidding on the shelf of wet rock. She manages to keep her balance, wobbling on the edge of the crystalline pool. Two dark eyes bob above the water, sharp and observant, unsympathetic to her flailing.

“I’ve told you not to sneak up on me like that,” she huffs.

The creature lifts further out of the water, looking menacing with his mane of matted curls hanging in his face. Then, he shakes his head like a wet dog and grins.

“Your lack of spa-cial aware-ness has naught to do with me.”

The words are stodgy in his mouth, so he pronounces them slowly. These were acquired from the book she read aloud to him yesterday. Rumple’s mind was a funny wee lagoon; when she cast new words into it, they usually resurfaced as ammunition to tease her.

He slithers to the pool’s edge, moving through the water like an eel. He props his elbows up on the rocks.

“You’re late,” he says again.

“How can you even tell?”

His crocodilian eyes shift to a silver pocket watch that dangles from a knobbly finger of overhanging rock. It looks suspiciously like the one that used to hang from a fob on Jefferson’s waistcoat.

Belle’s lips press into a thin line. “Yes, well, it’s becoming quite tricky to leave my house without being badgered about another ‘recovery mission’. I think I might need to start charging for my services. You’re becoming too…popular in the village.”

Notorious is a more appropriate term, but she knows he would enjoy that label far too much.

It is not uncommon to see Finfolk off the coast of the Orkney Islands. It is, however, unheard of to catch more than a glimpse of talon and tail as they steal a fish off the end of your line. They don’t linger near the shore. And they certainly don’t take up residence in a grotto at the base of the headland, transforming the limestone ledges into a personal museum of pilfered trinkets.

“I hear you’ve been tipping rowboats again,” she says.

“Shouldn’t have rowed so close to the cave,” he trills, “Def-ini-tely shouldn’t have been out on the water if you don’t know how to swim.”

Rumple’s behavior has elevated him from overgrown sardine to local celebrity; a spectacle at the best of times and a menace at the worst. And when Belle’s routine visits to the grotto became public knowledge, the villagers thrust a title upon her as well. Hostage negotiator.

She scans the cave, searching for possible new additions to his hoard. She feels like she’s playing one of those ‘spot the difference’ games they print on children’s menus. Ah, there. Coiled around a stalagmite is a heart-shaped locket, its ruby pendant winking in the reflection of the pool.

“You know, Miss Lucas used to have a necklace just like that. She took it off to swim one afternoon and, by the time she’d paddled back to the docks, it had vanished.”

“Extra-ordin-ary coincidence.” His expression might have looked innocent on a small boy or a puppy, but it only succeeds in making him look all the more devilish.

Belle shakes her head and bends down to unravel the locket. She pockets it, ignoring his cry of protest.

“And I’m going to need the tackle box you nicked from Marco’s boat.”

He scowls up at her. She can just imagine his tail flicking with irritation. He must have known she’d come asking for that particular prize, as he’d stashed it beneath the water rather than displaying it above.

“What if I trade you for it?” she offers.

His gaze darts to the basket cradled in the crook of her arm. His furrowed brow gives a faint twitch, his resolve instantly weakening. Hook. Line. Sinker.

With a profane grumble, he ducks back under the water. His vocabulary has been increasing in color ever since he started spying on the sailors at the docks.

Belle watches him disappear into the deep as she sits down at the pool’s edge and begins unlacing her boots. She has learned the hard way that heels have rubbish traction.

Some say that jewelry and fishing gear aren’t all that the Fin like to steal. The villagers tell tales of those that have been ferried away to a kingdom beneath the waves. The legends serve as requiems for the men and women who were dragged to the depths and eternally imprisoned in unlawful marriages to the Fins that snatched them. Belle thinks that’s nonsense. The Finfolk detest humans and – typically – want as little to do with them as possible. It would be like kidnapping a cockroach from the gutter to keep as a pet.

Still, the superstition persists. Even when begging her to rescue his tackle box from the sea beast’s lair, Marco had cautioned, “Be careful, girl. He’ll steal you too, if he gets the chance.”

Belle dips her toes into the cool water. Marco’s words echo in her mind as she feels a clawed hand latch onto her ankle. Her scream bounces off the cave walls. Rumple’s head breaches the water’s surface again, eyes glinting with wicked glee.

“…for…for god’s sake, Rumple,” she gasps, pressing her hand over her chest, trying to work her heart out of her throat.

He laughs, baring two rows of razor-sharp teeth. She’s reminded of what a terror he must be to unsuspecting fishermen.

His grin wanes when it comes time to surrender his treasure. Rumple reluctantly hands over the tackle box, looking so forlorn that she almost regrets taking it from him. She knows how enamored he is with the little lures and bobbers.

He plants both hands on the rock and, lean muscles straining, heaves himself up onto the rim beside her. His tail hits the stone with a wet slap.

No artist has ever truly rendered the ethereal beauty of a Fin. They refuse to be pinned to a canvas and captured in a frame. There is no shade of paint that can reproduce the exact green-gold color of their tails, nor their iridescent quality in the sunlight. Belle’s eyes follow the scales up his body to where they become a smattering over his belly, just about where most human men have a trail of fine hair.

Aware of where her eyes are fixed, Rumple reaches for the basket with both hands like an impatient child. Her reflexes are a tad quicker and she slides it out of reach.

“No. Don’t grab. It’s not polite.”

He gives her a rude gesture – something else he undoubtedly picked up from the sailors. The effect is somewhat less potent with his webbed fingers.

After the thermos of hot chocolate had gone down so well last week, Belle suspects his serrated teeth might be quite sweet. She produces a small bundle from the basket, unwrapping the gingham handkerchief to reveal a crumbly stack of homemade shortbread. Rumple peers at it, captivated as the scent of honey and coriander hits his nose.

“Dry your hands first or it’ll go all mushy.”

Rumple does dry his hands; not on the handkerchief, but on her jumper, his talons snagging the woolen yellow fibers on her sleeve. He swipes a wedge before she can delay him any longer.

He takes a small, suspicious bite. She can tell the exact moment that the butter-rich biscuit dissolves on his tongue. His eyes go wide and he looks to her with such childlike delight, it makes her heart beat wildly against her rib cage.

“There are otters up the coastline. They have pups,” he says suddenly, as though trying to bolster his half of the trade. “I’ll take you to see them.”

“I’m not dressed for swimming.”

He rolls his eyes. That isn’t something he learned from the sailors. That is something he adopted from her.

“You can’t get these clothes wet, but you can put on different clothes speci-fic-ally to get wet?”

He wrinkles his nose indignantly. His derisive ‘urgh, humans’ is unspoken, but is heard all the same.

“I’ll wear something suitable tomorrow. You can bring me then.”

Tomorrow. He loves that word more than anything.

His sullen expression melts away. He leans in expectantly. Now, this is special. This is something he taught her. Belle meets him halfway, resting her forehead against his. His crooked nose presses into her cheek, their faces slotting together like two puzzle pieces. They stare at one another for a long, quiet moment. His lips twist into a lopsided smile and he pulls back.

That means, ‘I’m happy’. It means, ‘thank you’.

It means, ‘love you’.

Rumple’s tail thumps the rock again, splashing water over her legs, the droplets clinging to her calves like a sheen of cold sweat. She watches him examine a second piece of shortbread like it’s made of solid gold.

‘Yes, tomorrow’, Belle thinks, smiling down at where his fin grazes her ankles.

‘Perhaps he’ll steal me tomorrow.’

-

[marshmallowdarling]

♡Puppy Love (Megumi - JJK)

This was requested from my Wattpad! My requests are open so please do send in any ideas you have! I would love to write them!! I'm a huge sucker for soft Megumi so I hope you enjoy bubs! ~Mwah

“Meggie come on!” The (H/C) little girl giggles as she tugs the non-cholent male along. 

He just rolls his eyes and lets the girl have her fun. “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

The two had meet when they were little, Gojo had stumbled across little (Y/N) trying to help a confused small, harmless, cursed spirit. She could see them, that’s where her sorcery stops though. She can’t fight or use any cursed techniques, she’s just a normal girl who can see spirits.

Still, Gojo introduced her to Megumi to try and get the small boy more sociable. It didn’t work, much to no-ones surprise, but the head of the Zenin clan did make a connection to (Y/N). They were almost inseparable, Megumi ripping away from his clan and school to hang out at her house and go on little friend “dates”.  Even when Megumi went through his “tough, delinquent” guy phase, (Y/N) was right there to tend to his wounds (while scolding him) and lessen the amount of beating he dished out.

And how could the female not gush over his wolves, they were so cute! Acting as guard dogs to everyone else but little pups to her. There were even a few times where they would snap at Megumi for taking all of (Y/N)’s attention.

Everyone is shocked when they see how softly he treats (Y/N), sure he may pick and prod and be an absolute ass, but you could see how his body would relax once he felt her presence. 

So then why did this happen? 

A sob racks through (Y/N)’s body as her hands come up to push feebly at Megumi’s shoulders, she kicks her legs out to try and strike anything she can, but he just pins them down with his own. 

“(Y/N) stop struggling, you’re only going to hurt yourself.” He tries to keep his voice calm, but annoyance grips his mind as he struggles to keep her down.  

A small cry escapes her chapped lips as she manages to elbow his cheek, it doesn’t hurt him, but it does manage to make him snap. One of Megumi’s hands come to swipe both of her wrists whilst the other pushes her body down by her torso making (Y/N) grimace as she feels his hand press against her rolls. 

“Enough.” He says through grit teeth. 

Though he can’t stay angry once he sees her face, flushed and eyes puffy with tears streaming down her face along with snot. Betrayal clear in her eyes and he has to keep himself from wincing. 

“I’m not trying to hurt you and I’m not going to hurt you” The tone of his voice is soft, and in normal circumstances it would calm her down, but this isn’t a normal circumstance. “Can’t you see my love? If you marry me, I can keep you safe 24/7 and I can shower you with everything you need, everything you want, everything you deserve. So why are you still fighting me? Didn’t you say you loved me?” 

The female under him sniffles and tries tugging her wrists to no avail. “You can’t force me Megumi! I loved you as a brother, as my best friend! How could you do this to me! You wouldn’t do this if you really lo-”

His hand that was pressed against her stomach comes to slap over her mouth. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” She winces at the action, but his voice isn’t angry, it’s sad. 

A soft kiss is pressed to her right cheek, then her left, the middle of her forehead and then last to the tip of her nose. He nuzzles his face into the crook of (Y/N)’s neck and she swears she can feel the way his eyelashes flutter against her skin and he closes them. 

“I don’t care if you love me romantically or not.” He inhales deeply, loving the unique smell of her. Not her perfume, her body wash or sweat, just the scent of her that lingers on everything she owns. “You love me, it doesn’t matter if it’s brotherly or not and that’s enough for me. I love you. So, so, so much that it hurts to see you unhappy, to see you get hurt repeatedly because your just so fucking nice to everyone.” 

Megumi moves his head back so he can stare into her eyes, (Y/N) turns her head to look away so she doesn’t get trapped in his dark blue pools, but his fingers just delicately move her chin to look back to him. 

“I know I’m selfish my darling, but I know that I can look after you better than anyone else can, better than you can yourself.” 

She tries to say something but the hand on her mouth doesn’t budge. 

He sighs before rolling his neck, groaning when he hears that satisfying pop before letting his hand move away from her mouth to back to her soft stomach. In this angle, with the moonlight shining onto his pale face and his black hair soaking up the rays, he kind of looks angelic. Like her Meggie, the one who wouldn’t do this, who wouldn’t do anything of this. Who wouldn’t force the idea of marrying him onto her, who wouldn’t have hands pinning her down as he rambles on how he would lock her away from everyone. But when he tilts his head back down and the shadows come back to his face, she sees a stranger, HER Meggie no-where to be found leaving only Megumi. 

“Sweetheart I promise that I won’t force anything else onto you, but I have to do this.” He brings her hands to his mouth, his lips gazing over her knuckles. The feeling making the female whine and wriggle underneath him. Moving her hands from his mouth to the side of his face, he nuzzles into her palms and almost purrs at the familiar warmth. “Let me be your Meggie, please?” 

(Y/N) breathes deeply to try and ground herself, but the scent of Megumi fills her brain. He smells like ocean breeze bodywash with a hint of woody cologne, it’s not remarkable and definitely not noteworthy but he smells like home. Like comfort. Like a warm safe blanket and it makes her head spin.  

She opens her mouth but her eyes glaze over and a soft chuckle escapes Megumi’s lips as he looks down adoringly at (Y/N). At his (Y/N). 

[sameheart-sameblood]

Pillow Talk (for Nerds)

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: a relaxing evening in bed turns fiery when you and steve argue about star wars

words: 600

warnings: fluff, playful arguing, me projecting my desire for a bf that looks like steve who i can yell at about sw lol

a/n: while im still completely in love with eddie im rewatching s1 of stranger things and im reminded just how far steve has come. and now im soft for him again. ive also been attempting to write something where i dont ramble on for thousands of words so here we are!

“If you were a Jedi, what color would your lightsaber be?”

You pose the question to an amused Steve. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, his bare chest warm and comforting against your cheek. Steve couldn’t care less about Star Wars but he knows how obsessed you are with it, so he plays along. 

“I think I’d go red.”

You shoot up, propping yourself on your elbows as you stare at him in disbelief. “You can’t have red, though! That would put you on the dark side!”

Steve may not understand the space opera but he loves how fired up it gets you. He waggles his eyebrows and stares up at you mischievously. “Maybe that’s where I belong. Me and that mouth breather, Garth- “

“Darth! Darth Vader” you interject. 

Steve grins, reveling in your fieriness. “I’m just saying. Darth and I could make a kickass team. I am very bad, after all.”

That couldn’t be further from the truth. Steve had put himself in harms way countless times just to save you, Nancy, Jonathan and the gaggle of kids you were always hanging around with. He was selfless to a fault. And right now he looked like an angel splayed out underneath you, hair fanned out around his head and crooked grin on his stupidly pretty face. 

You smile down at him nonchalantly, refusing to give in to his cuteness. “That’s fine, then. I’ll just have to duel you with my purple lightsaber.”

It’s Steve’s turn to be outraged. “There’s no such thing! It’s either red, blue or green.”

You settle back down into his arms, your face turned up to his. “I never said it had to be one of those three, Steve. Use your imagination.”

Steve broods for a minute, scrunching his eyebrows together in thought. 

“The fact is, I wouldn’t be a Jedi.”

“Oh no?”

“Why be a space monk who can’t even get laid when I could be a bounty hunter or a pilot?”

Of course he sees himself as a dashing rogue making his way through the galaxy. He’s not wrong. You’re the Jedi type. Steve, on the other hand, is all daredevil with excess charm. 

“You fancy yourself a Han Solo type, Harrington?”

He blushes slightly but nods confidently. 

“If the shoe fits, baby. He’s handsome, he’s always saving the day and he’s great with the ladies.”

On that last note, Steve squeezes your ass playfully. You smack him on the chest, smiling in spite of yourself.

“Nah, I take you for more of a Wookie than anything else.” You run your fingers through the impressive patch of chest hair he’s grown in the past year. “You’ve got the hair to match.”

He feigns a hurt expression and pouts. Those puppy dog eyes of his are impossible to resist. You pull him in for a kiss as an apology. When you break away, you’re breathless and completely under his spell again. 

“All right, I give in. You’re definitely Han. A secretly soft bad boy with a heart of gold.”

Steve strokes your hair, looking at you with a love clouded gaze. “Then that makes you my Leia. A badass chick who’s sweet but tough and smart as all hell. Banging body, too”

You burrow into the crook of Steve’s neck, hiding your dopey grin as he laughs. “And yes,” he adds “in this scenario Leia can have a purple lightsaber.”

Sounds perfect to you. The two of you lay in a comfortable silence for a few moments until Steve bashfully raises his voice. 

“Hey baby? Wookies are the scary little teddy bears, right?”

******

taglist: @padawansubscription

[sylvanfreckles]

"You can't get a cat, you know I'm allergic." "So?"

"So why are we even here?" It was starting already. Dean could feel his sinuses closing up, eyes watering. He'd be sneezing soon.

"You might change your mind," Castiel teased as he linked his fingers through Dean's and pulled him along.

"Change my mind?" Dean raised his eyebrows, then turned away from his partner to sneeze into the crook of his elbow. "Cas, it's allergies. I can't just change my mind."

"I've seen you do the impossible, Dean Winchester. How is this different?"

Dean groaned. It really wasn't fair. Calling him by his full name shouldn't be so...so...sexy. "We can't."

Castiel smiled at him and pulled away. "We can just visit."

"Cas..."

And there they were. The puppy-dog eyes. Damn, but Cas must've been taking lessons from Sammy. He sneezed into the crook of his elbow again and held up one finger. "Ten minutes."

Cas leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then was off into the lines of cages. Dean let out another groan and followed him, accepting a disposable mask from one of the volunteers that he gratefully strapped over his mouth and nose. It was probably too little too late, but it was the thought that counts.

"Dean, this one's named Wasabi," Castiel called. He was at a cage with a gray tabby, poking one finger in to pet it on the head. "She's from a local foster, great with kids and other pets."

"We don't have kids or other pets," Dean said. He sneezed into the mask, but thankfully things didn't seem to be getting worse.

"Hello, Max," Cas was at a cage with a tiny tuxedo kitten, who was shoving paws through to grab at him. "Or are you Sam?"

Dean rolled his eyes. They were not getting a kitten named Sam. They weren't getting a kitten at all! Even as semi-retired hunters, their lives were too unstable to have a pet, even without his allergy.

But still, nothing was stopping Cas as he wandered from cage to cage, reading out their names and their little descriptions. Most of the cats came from foster or rescue groups, all ready to adopt and take home today.

Not that they were taking a cat home.

They'd walked past Ginger, Anakin, Caramel, Poirot, Apple, and dozens of others he had no chance of remembering, when Cas stopped at a cage that contained a large orange cat.

"Oh, this one is named Charlie," Cas said softly. He read the card on the front of the cage, and Dean could see him tense up a little. He glanced back over at Dean, and there was something sad in his gaze.

"Cas?"

"We're not getting a cat," Cas replied softly. He gently rubbed the side of Charlie's cheek through the cage before turning away, but there was something in the set of his shoulders...like an old weight was just hanging on him again.

Dean watched him go, concern churning in his stomach. He stopped in front of Charlie's cage and leaned down to read the little card.

Hi! I'm Charlie! I'm a little bit older than the others, but I promise I still have a lot of love left for you! My old family just didn't have room for me any more, and that makes me a little sad, but if you just give me a chance I'm sure I'll cheer right up once I'm in my new forever home.

"Hey," Dean flagged down one of the volunteers. "What's his story?"

The woman gave Charlie a sympathetic look. "Charlie's owners decided they didn't want to have a cat anymore. They'd had him since he was a kitten; a little over eight years. Then one day they just didn't need him, so they surrendered him to the shelter."

Dean swore under his breath and looked back over to Cas. Cas was watching them, but he'd pulled his emotions in so tightly even Dean was having trouble getting a read on him.

Giving everything to your family, only to be thrown out when they decided you weren't useful anymore.

Yeah...that hit a little close to home.

"All right, what do I need to sign?" Dean said, heaving out a sigh. Damn those blue eyes, they really could get him to do anything.

"Sir?"

"Hey, Cas!" Dean called, waving his partner over. "I changed my mind, let's get a cat!"

(from this ask box prompt)

[chil2de]

hi yes the benimaru fic i mentioned earlier— fire force fandom will you let me in please??🥺🥺 i don’t know what i’m dealing with fanbase wise mmfldjfj sometimes it feels like i’m head over heels for bens by myself so... i’ll drop this here for now.. see how it goes and i’ll continue w/ a second part if ff isn’t dead

nsfw themes throughout, so please read my disclaimer if you’re new. enjoy :)

w.c: 1.7k, characters: 9.6k (incl spaces)

-

there’s a certain sluggish quality that plagues your movements. it’s not fatigue or incompetence. or so benimaru would hope.

his mix matched gaze glosses over your unnecessary movements. that extra exhale you hiss, the additional bat of your eyelashes and the excessive perspiration that drips onto the earth below.

“stop.” he commands, tone low and stern as it pierces through the open air.

“huh? captain shinmon, i’m fine. we can keep going.” you huff through laboured breaths, pausing to gasp and drink in the plentiful oxygen around you.

“it’s one thing if you’re overworking your muscles. it’s another if you’re running a fever. go inside.”

“b-but captain-“

benimaru shoots you a dead stare, keeping his statement rooted deep where he stands.

judging by the bruises that adorn your knees, you know better than to disobey the captain.

“waka! have you seen (l/n)?” konro lingers in the doorframe of the main communal area, gaze scanning for one of his colleagues.

“she’s in her room. why?”

“her room? she has a few errands to run. is she feeling okay?”

“she’s running a fever.” benimaru exhales, shifting to get up from the table. he lightly scratches the back of his neck, adorning that usual aloof facial expression.

“in the middle of summer? how’d that happen?” konro chuckles through a small glimpse of bewilderment. of course he’d be concerned for one of his best recruits.

“hell if i know. what do we need? i’ll head out.”

if anything, benimaru is probably the sole reason why you’re running a fever. why he subjected to railing you underneath water that felt like it was nearing sub-zero was beyond you. it’s not like he’s about to admit he enjoys fucking his special little fire soldier. how he relishes and engrains the sight of your fucked out facial expression deep into his head, burning the image into his retinas. shit, you wouldn’t be surprised if the reason why he sometimes spaces out is because of you.

it’s always been blatantly obvious that you’re the captain’s favourite, no matter how much he denies it and how many glares he shoots at the people from other companies. you’re always left apologising for his behaviour, attempting to keep a straight face.

for the one time you dragged him out to patrol with you, and the amount of incessant whining, complaints and bribes you offered your captain, after a full month of lovely slow burn he decided to come along with you. he just up and left, had the audacity to turn around and ask you why you’re still standing there. benimaru always kept his distance to yours close, in fact the separation was almost minimal. you could feel his shoulders ghost over you.

every time he noticed someone staring at your figure for a little bit too long to be deemed appropriate, he hissed a scoff of distaste. at around the third or fourth person, you were already forced to deal with his short temper.

“what the hell are you gawking at? mind your damn business.”

but sure. apparently you’re not his favourite.

he can scoff and complain all he wants, but that won’t stop him even now from lazily snaking his hand around to his favourite baby girl’s waist. to him, this seems like the most normal thing.

“how else is she going to stand upright? she’s all stick and bones, the wind will knock her right over.”

okay, benimaru. you keep telling yourself that. even when his fingers feel an itch every time they’re not touching a part of your skin. he tends to get a whole lot more mouthy and irritable every time you’re not around, too.

hell, even his own townsfolk pick up on the fact that he’s out and about more. rounds that he always left to the lesser important underlings became more commonplace, especially with you by his side.

but the things that go on behind closed doors?

his peppermint red eyes that haunt your mind, infiltrating your very thoughts. you could be minding your business, going on about your day until you get an abrupt flicker of his mundane tic-tac-toe gaze staring up at you from in between your thighs.

you could be taking care of hinata and hikage, entertaining their antics when you feel the weight of benimaru’s stare burn holes into your uniform.

you could be doing your daily sparring with the captain. in the zone, breath held and blood stream steady until you remember the feel of his hot tongue trailing along the side of your neck. for someone who seems to be stuck in a perpetual state of sadness, you always catch the arrogant smirk that pulls at his lips.

“thinking of something?” he’ll cock his eyebrows, using the distraction to take a jab to your gut.

you groan, stirring around in your bed. you hate him, hate that stupid half lidded gaze of his. you hate how soft his wavy jet black locks are. the way the strands tug and bend whenever you try to yank his face away from your cunt. you run your fingers through your hair in a valiant yet futile attempt to free your thoughts from your captain. it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, and you haven’t done anything but reminisce about your lover for the past hour and a half.

a meek and uneven sigh hisses from your lips. your eyes screw open and you flinch at the hard sunlight that pours in from the window. as you use the inner portion of your elbow to shield your gaze, you catch glimpse of a very familiar figure in the doorway.

“captain shinmon?” you inquire, propping yourself up onto your elbows. he closes the door behind him. you’re certain that you looked like a loyal dog sat panting and wagging its tail upon discovering the return of their owner.

“excited to see me?” he remarks in a flat tone, opening the grocery bag he’s carrying before setting a few things down onto your nightstand. it’s mostly medicine, though he snags a few of your favourite snacks and drinks. there’s also one of those fascinating green tea bottles that you buy at the vending machines, except they’re served piping hot.

“how’re you feeling?”

“i told you i was going to get sick if we had the water that cold.” you huff, averting your gaze in a fit.

“not my problem you can’t take a little temperature difference”

“a little? that shit was freezing! how the hell can you take water that cold?”

“how can you not?”

you chuckle a little, shifting to stare up at the ceiling.

“don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“you know i don’t do paperwork. sure as hell not gonna start doing it now.” benimaru huffs, kicking his boots off by the door. you can hear his clothes rustling and your head snaps to face him. he shoots you a glare, as though to scold you. it’s dripping on his face. ‘really? you’re so eager.’

“move up.” he cocks his head to the side, motioning for you to move over. you shift up, room spinning a little too much for your tastes. the mattress dips with his weight and his right arm (our left) reflexively hangs in the air for you to dip your head into the crook of where his shoulder and collarbone meet. he discards his navy kimono, the article of clothing hangs on one of the hooks at the back of your door. it’s probably not much comfort for him to be relaxing in a bed with half of his uniform still on.

you squish your face against his hard chest, head rising and falling in time with his breathing. the said arm relaxes and his hand rests against your shoulder. subsequently, you realise this is the first time you’ve seen him fully without his kimono on. at the very least, he’d still have the other sleeve on.

benimaru notices your blatant staring at his other arm. he can’t comprehend why you’d gawk at it now, since he’s used it plenty of times to choke you.

he hums a small ‘hm’ in question, asking you what you’re so fascinated about. you can feel his voice thrum and rock against his chest, it sends small shivers licking your body that he doesn’t miss.

“you look so funny without your kimono on. why don’t you wear it like this more often?” you drag your nails softly against his biceps. there’s a small groan that hisses from him. as you await his response, you outline a large vein that runs from his upper arm and trails down all the way to his wrist.

“i get cold easily.”

“then why did you take a shower with me?”

“are you hearing yourself?”

surely a little bit of his body temperature was enough to sacrifice. even if it meant he was sneezing a little bit and shivering afterwards.

“seriously? you can take a tranquiliser but you can’t stand a little cold?”

“you’ll make a shitty wife if you can’t even keep me warm.”

“beni!” you hiss at benimaru in appaul, craning your face up to guffaw at him. the manners on him sometimes are despicable.

you pout, shifting your upper weight to flick benimaru in between his eyebrows. he screws his face in mutiny, lips curled into a scowl.

you and him both know that if it were anyone else flicking him like that, they’d be sent crashing through six different blocks of houses down the street.

“oi.” he warns you, tutting.

“konro come by and work some voodoo magic bullshit on you? ‘cause you’re testing your luck by pissing me off. you’re such a menace when you’re sick, it’s unbelievable.”

you hum in awe, inching your face closer towards his. there’s a wave of mockery that paints your face green and you can only laugh at the unrest that swirls in benimaru’s eyes.

he won’t have his pet talking down to him like that. no, no. that just won’t do.

“oh? really? you want me to do it again?” you flash him a cocky smirk, digits curled into a flicking position. you rest the bridge of your middle finger against benimaru’s forehead, slicking some of his charcoal stained locks out the way.

his left hand flies to catch your hand in an instant. with just two of his fingers, he can wrap himself around your wrist. his touch is assertive, firm. he can drag you the fuck away from him as he pleases, but there’s no real malice or force behind him just yet.

“yeah? try me.” he barks, peering down at you through his lashes.

you just might.